Homeland (34 page)

Washington itself is blisteringly hot and muggy—worse than Boston—with unpaved streets, choking dust, and vast, straggling camps of newly-freed slaves spread around its outskirts. The stench of the place alone is enough to make one ill.

And yet—Susanna—I am free! I am paid fifty dollars a month—I am indeed on the government books as a worker in the Treasury
Department—with my board and lodging found. I work hard, as governess and tutor. Yet, to live without constant reproach is a gift beyond belief. I am a stranger and sometimes feel like an exile, but I am not an outcast, and Mrs. Johnson has said, that her husband will surely find employment for Emory, when he returns. I live in peace, and in hope.

Dearest,

Thank you for your letter, both for its comfort at Mother’s death, and its kind wishes for the lovely Miss Mercy. Though my grief still comes and goes, I am better on the whole. Alas, I find that there are a thousand times more perils in Washington and in particular in this rat-ridden, lumber-choked house for my child to get herself into, especially with such enterprising souls as the two younger Andies (ages 5 and 6) to contend with.

At the moment my duties consist of introducing the Two Andies (Patterson and Stover) and their sisters Sarah and Mary Belle (Stover and Patterson) to the alphabet, which I do as I was taught, by means of blocks. I scatter them over the parlor floor for the children to find and assemble into the words which I print on paper for them. Lillie, at ten, is well grounded in French and a little Latin, and will be placed in school in Georgetown in the fall. Young Frank—whom
you tutored in Greeneville—is of course in boarding-school now. Together we read history, and dissect the plants and insects we find in the woods by Rock Creek. The duties also include sewing—what else!—keeping the Two Andies from leading their sisters into the bowels of the White House basement and abandoning the poor things there, and, in the evening, reading to Mrs. J—not a duty at all, but a very great pleasure. The President has been ill, and keeps much to his room. And, how clever of
you
, my dear friend, to hide the present you sent me last Christmas
here
, in the library of the White House:
Waverley, Rob Roy, Persuasion
, and
A Tale of Two Cities
! It seems poor Mrs. Lincoln was a great reader of novels, and was shocked that the White House contained no permanent library for the mental relaxation of its occupants. Bless her, for understanding, and remedying that omission! Although, I have found some rather extraordinary volumes of Spiritualism tucked away in the corners. But after four years—a new book by Miss Austen! Bliss!

Miss Mercy, by the way, can already find the letters for CAT, HAT, RAT (alas), and DOG. I have high hopes indeed, that it may be possible, by 1880, for her to be admitted to her father’s
alma mater
, and may bring him pride within its walls.

There has still been no word of him. He was not, at least, taken prisoner: that much Mr. Johnson’s son (and secretary) Robbie has ascertained for me from the Federal lists. And though records from Richmond are scant, so far we have found no record yet of Emory’s death. I live in hope, and trust in God.

Your words about the Secessionist militia still in residence do not surprise me. Mrs. J and I have talked much about the conditions in Tennessee, and Mrs. Johnson has asked: Would
you
consider removing to Washington? She has always liked you, and says, that she could get you work, either here in the White House helping Martha as housekeeper, or in one of the government departments, where, nowadays, there are many female clerks. You would, she says, be welcome beneath this roof—and I can not but reflect that even with its current rodent population, it surely cannot be worse than your descriptions of Bayberry!

Please consider it, my friend. It would be good beyond words, to have you here.

P.S. You dreadful girl, did you really smoke one of your Pa’s cigars?

Dear Cora,

Of course
there are the biggest rats in the country there! It’s the nation’s capital! Please thank Mrs. Johnson for her generous offer, and the kind thoughts behind it. I’m sure she and you both know the reasons that I can not accept, with matters as they stand here. Julia hopes from day to day—though “hope” is too mild a word for her unshakeable conviction—that Pa will return before summer’s end: “How can we abandon him, to return to an empty ruin?” There are times when I fairly twitch to slap that girl. But, we do not do badly here. I trust that, as the Federal hold strengthens on the countryside, it will even be possible for me to bring in an actual corn-crop instead of losing three-fifths of it to bush-whackers and thieves, may dysentery destroy their innards! Not to mention being able to bring a book down to the house without fear of having it used for kindling—though I’d have to hide it from Julia for the same reason. I improve daily as a hunter, bringing in rabbits and woodchucks, and
a good part of my day is spent at one or another of my hideouts in the woods, stretching and drying hides. Julia has been ill lately, and I have been returning from the woods earlier each evening, to do at least a little of the housework that she is unable to accomplish, and to cook the meals for Tommy and Tom.

Good for Mrs. Lincoln! That is the best thing I’ve heard of her so far, that she understood that Man Doth Not Live By Bread Alone Nor Politics Neither, and took care to make sure the Chief Executive of the nation has, as it were, a nice bowl of cold water to dunk his brain in at the end of the day. What Spiritualist books were these, that she left behind? Did you read them? You behold me agog!

I am so glad you have a chance at last to read
Tale of Two Cities
—though for some reason the number of staggering coincidences struck me as rather higher in this than even Mr. D’s usual. The fact that Charles Darnay would be able to fit into Sydney Carton’s boots quite brought me up short: now that, I decided, is just
too much
to swallow! (Though I accepted without question the whole business about Mme. Defarge.)

You have no idea how good it is, to think about Sydney Carton’s boots, and how you’ll like
Persuasion
, instead of arguing with Julia about how much of our food to give the poor starving militia. It reminds me again that there is a world outside of these silent, beautiful, deadly woods. I await with tingling anticipation the account of the Spiritualist texts. Please give my kindest regards to Mrs. J, and a million kisses to Miss Mercy. (Tom has begun to teach Tommy his letters, too.)

[not sent]

Dear Cora—in your imaginary garret above the Gothic spires of Paris …

And now it’s a real garret above the Gothic spires of Washington! How glad I am, that you are free! How I wish I could be with you—If what? If Julia were dead? If Tom were dead? And then it would have to be Tommy and Adam, as well, tiny Adam who runs about the house and yard and smiles at me with Emory’s golden eyes? Even if (as I pray God daily will happen) the Federals caught Lyle’s troop and hanged the lot of them like the beasts they are, it wouldn’t free me. Julia still adamantly refuses to take “Yankee charity” in town, or to leave this place where she was born and raised. And I can not leave her. Nor will I risk losing the only relief or happiness I have, by telling you how I betrayed you, how I have lied all these months. Forgive me. Please forgive me.

A sickening fight with Julia over this, triggered by the news that she told Lyle about my gun, and he took it, because they are short of weapons in their war against the Tory bands (who, after all, get
their
guns from the Federal government).

More killings in Knoxville. A man who’d fought for the Confederacy had his skull broke by Unionists; another, who’d been
arrested for shooting a Tory, was lynched when a Unionist mob broke into the jail. Lyle and his men have ridden out to “even things up,” leaving their food supplies (newly stolen) in the pit I dug under the wash-house, one of the hiding-places where I used to keep our food hid from the CSA Commissary boys.

I have snares and deadfalls set all over the woods, and these are bringing in something, and the fish-lines still provide enough to keep us all from starving. Yesterday I walked into town with a packet of furs—mostly rabbit and squirrel, and very heavy—and traded them for salt, thread, and some cheap calico, for the boys are mostly in rags. I got paper, too, for poor Justin’s books are pretty much stripped of their end-papers and title-pages. I feel guilty, for getting paper instead of more cloth—enough for an extra dress for Tommy. What do I really need paper for? Why even write these to you, that I know I will not send? Because I can’t not tell you the truth, even though I won’t let you see it after it’s written.

I told Lyle this would happen, if he hid his supplies here. Early this morning Unionist bush-whackers rode in, burned the kitchen, and took them. Lyle—

Dearest Cora,

I’ve seen Justin. He came Monday afternoon, about a half-day after the bush-whackers burned the wash-house; Lyle and his boys had rode out after them, Lyle saying, they’d be back before sunset, though the moon is close to full. What with Lyle being furious, and
another dreadful fight with Julia after he left, I foraged close to home. So I was here in late afternoon when Justin rode in with his dogs, or what remains of Justin. He has lost his right leg almost to the knee, Cora, and most of his right hand, and I knew, as soon as I saw him, that he would be no match for Lyle and his boys. I got rid of him fast and I wasn’t very kind, but at least I got him out of here before Julia or Tom could see him, for if Lyle knew he was in the county, he would go after him.

After he was gone, though it was growing dark, I walked up to Skull Cave. I burned his books, each and every one, to keep him from ever coming back.

Dearest,

Indeed I understand your reasons for wishing to stay in Tennessee, and respect them, though it would be a delight and a blessing to have you here in Capital City. Though I am seldom alone in this place—as crowded as quarters are in this great drafty barn, I must make firm arrangements to set aside my time of meditation in the afternoons—I often feel sorely lonely: ridiculous, given the isolation from which I come. Washington is beyond hellish in midsummer. The dust from the unpaved streets deposits a gritty film no matter how tightly one closes the windows, and the condition of the house—which was virtually looted by the crowds that came for President Lincoln’s lying-in-state—resembles a wretchedly-maintained boarding-house. Even in the summer, petitioners crowd the hallway and straggle in a line down the stair, smoking, swearing, and spitting tobacco, so that
the children and I come and go by the servants’ stairway. I had not realized how accustomed my heart had become, to the woods and quiet of Deer Isle, nor how my spirit had settled into the peaceful routines of milking, gardening, washing. True—I almost hear you saying it, Susie—what my heart longs for is Deer Isle in the
summer
—particularly the summer wherein a sorcerer visited and magically slew every blackfly on the island …

Even so, when I grieve for Mother, and wish she was alive again, I mean, Mother as I recall her in her prime—dark-haired, majestic, drily humorous in her Biblical way—not the pain-wracked shadow of those last six months.

I am sorry indeed to hear that your sister has been ill. I hope it goes better with Julia now? I pray also that you will soon have word from your father. Papa writes me often, very short notes, I think because he looks forward to even the briefest replies, which I am careful to send him, thrice and sometimes four times a week. I smile, computing the number of eggs such a correspondence would cost.

If I were more certain of the status of these Spiritualist tracts I would send you one—Do they belong to the Nation?
Would
the Nation truly suffer, if I were to tuck an issue of
The Spiritual Telegraph
, or “The Grand Harmonium,” into an envelope for your edification? There is among other things the Spiritual re-write of the Declaration of Independence, quite gravely declaring us independent of our bodies: something I wish I could be, on these suffocating nights whereon the whining of the mosquitoes is almost drowned by the scuffling of the rats in the walls. At least, the rats do
eat
such cockroaches as venture up to the attics.

A grand banquet this evening, for such members of the Diplomatic Corps as have returned early to the Capital (Congress does not open until the fourth of December). The bustle and flurry in the house
brings to mind your account of your Aunt Sally’s dinner for Jefferson Davis all those years ago, down to the minute paper crowns on the fish course. Unlike you, I was pressed into service writing menus and place-cards in my most lovely, Hartford-Female-Seminary hand. Martha acts as her father’s hostess, Mrs. J being unable—and, I think, unwilling—to venture farther than the threshold of her parlor. I volunteered to keep her company there, and Dolly brought us, from the kitchen, miniature versions of each course, which entertained the children very much. After the festivities, the President came up to sit with Mrs. J for a time—he is still poorly—and I asked him again, Was there any other avenue that he could think of, whereby I might uncover some word of Emory? The fighting ranged as far as New Mexico and California, and I understand that it will take some time, for all of the men to return to their scattered homes. The days pass in noise, and drown awareness of their passing by occupation with such matters as Congressional gossip—which Mrs. J and her daughters follow with the dry, keen interest of connoisseurs—and paper crowns upon fishes: and then suddenly a letter comes from you dated in August, and I think, September is nearly gone!