Private Hayward had asked his Washington cousin, Charles Chepstow, for postwar employment and Chepstow’s disinterest had clouded Hay-ward’s afternoon. Despite this, he couldn’t be downhearted in this jolly fellow’s company. “Mr. Barnwell,” Hayward began.
“Oh, no!” Eben refused the unmerited honor. “It is for me to call you ‘Mister.’ Your countrymen are eternally grateful. You’ve sacrificed everything!”
“We ain’t sacrificed so much.” Corporal Smithers shook his head. “Some is dead. Some is walking on stumps.”
Eben reproduced the expression he had worn last month at the Sainted President Lincoln’s bier. “Terrible, terrible . . .” Eben murmured.
“We have all made sacrifices,” Mr. Chepstow said, attempting to change the subject. “The great task for which we have labored is incomplete.” His smile seemed to contain more than the usual number of teeth. “Death to traitors!” He emptied his glass.
Eben’s smile faltered briefly. “The daunting task achieved, bright laurels fairly won. That’s all the reason we could want for another tot of rum!” His finger shot up.
When Corporal Smithers shook his head, some of his brain parts weren’t shaking at the same rate as others. The behinder parts came joltily.
“It was grand,” Hayward said. “It was grand. Yes, there was terrible wickedness”—Hayward had been raised a Covenanter—“and often we were wearied or scared, but it was grand too. I don’t believe we’ll see its like again. ”
A VIRGINIA UNIONIST who came north after Virginia seceded, Charles Chepstow became a legislator in the loyalist Virginia government-in-exile. After Lee surrendered, the Confederate legislature was disbanded and the loyalist governor took office in Richmond, but to Charles Chepstow’s dismay, his legislators were not asked to accompany him. Worse, yesterday’s rebels were seeking election to seats in the Virginia Assembly that loyalist legislators had assumed were theirs.
Now Mr. Chepstow smiled. “Thaddeus Stevens believes we should reissue rebel uniforms to inmates of prisons and lunatic asylums.”
Eben winced. “Sir. In business, it is best to let bygones be bygones. Business looks to the future.”
Private Hayward said, “They were wrong to seek disunion, Cousin, but I wouldn’t like to see those uniforms on convicts.”
“We must defer to you, sir.” Eben trampled Mr. Chepstow’s unvoiced objection. “For you have ‘seen the elephant,’ while Mr. Chepstow and I have been cleaning up after the beast.”
Judging by his expression, Mr. Chepstow didn’t find Eben’s analogy as apt as Sergeant Wilson did. “You’re a peculiar son of a bitch, Barnwell,” Wilson said. “I’ll say you are.”
Eben replied more solemnly than the sally required, “I hold that good will, energy, and fixed purpose can improve a man. Yes, sir, that is my belief.”
“After I’m discharged might be I’ll go out West,” Corporal Smithers said gloomily. “They say things is different out there.”
“Didn’t you say you had a wife?”
“Wife and two little ’uns. Two years since I seen Lizzie.” Corporal Smithers stuck a forefinger in his rum and swished it. “It’s a new deal out there. Out West, they don’t give a damn who you are.”
Eben sounded a happier note. “Boys, ours is the grandest century since centuries were invented.
“Soon, when we wish to visit San Francisco, we’ll board that transcontinental railroad and whiz to the Pacific. Want to talk to the Queen of England, or the Czar of the Muscovites? Attach your telegraph machine to Mr. Cyrus Field’s undersea cable and talk as much as you want to. We’re done fighting wars. We won’t have time for wars anymore.”
“Mr. Barnwell, I hope you have the right of things,” Private Hayward observed.
Eben squinted through his cigar smoke. “What do you know about Jay Cooke?”
“I know he’s a rich son of a bitch,” Sergeant Wilson drawled.
“Whereas General Sherman is a general of armies, Jay Cooke is a general of finance.”
“You got another ceegar?” Sergeant Wilson asked.
When Eben shook his head, the sergeant found a lint-covered plug and settled it in his jaw. “What of this Cooke?”
Eben clapped his hands. “Where others see peril, Jay Cooke sees opportunity. Why, you boys couldn’t have fought the war without him. His war bonds paid for this war, every bullet, uniform cap, and button. Ingenuity and capital—drop those ingredients in the pot, give them a stir, and they spell o-p-p-o-r-t-u-n-i-t-y.”
“I don’t spell so good,” Sergeant Wilson said.
Eben pointed his finger. “What you think about the Confederate States of America?”
“Not much. We wrecked damn near everything we couldn’t burn or carry off. Christ, Virginia looks like . . . like . . . ain’t like nothin’ I ever seed.”
Corporal Smithers—whose eyes were crossing from drink—said, “My Lizzie wasn’t but fifteen when we wedded. I’m sure gonna miss that gal.”
“There’s the opportunity,” Eben said. “What do you think the South requires? Why, sir, it needs capital and ingenuity: banks, railroads, ports, plantations. Boys, you musn’t neglect opportunity”—Eben rapped the table for emphasis—“on your doorstep. The former rebel states are a big plum.”
Corporal Smithers said, “Damn, I’ll miss that gal.”
“Well,” Eben said, irritated, “why not go back to her?”
“You ever had the pox? The surgeon looks at Willy and they wash him and then they pump him full of mercury, which hurts like blue blazes, but I don’t pee like I ought and I got a rag pinned in my drawers. I’m gonna go west.”
“The rebels have sown the wind,” Chepstow intoned. “They must reap the whirlwind.”
“Mr. Chepstow,” Eben said. “What would you have us do?”
Charles Chepstow’s smile was so deep his jaw seemed unhinged. “Hang them. Every rebel chieftain: Lee, Davis, all of them. The rebels must repent in sackcloth and ashes.”
Sergeant Wilson drained his whiskey. “Ain’t gonna happen.” He burped and stood unsteadily. “We got no stomach for no more killin’. None of us Billy yanks do. Come on, Smithers. Time you took your Willy back to camp.” The two soldiers pushed through the crowd.
Mr. Chepstow turned to his cousin. “I’m sorry I can’t be of service. I am gratified to have renewed our acquaintance. Give my best regards to dear Cousin Rose.” With a jerky bow, he was gone too.
Private Hayward rubbed his forehead. “Though he is only a distant connection I had hopes for Mr. Chepstow. I thought to find employment with him. Mr. Chepstow publishes a Richmond paper. The New Nation. Have you heard of it? Sir, might you have a position for a discharged volunteer?”
“You know I would!” Eben replied. “If I still had a firm, I’d hire you on the spot. Hayward, the market for one hundred percent virgin wool army blankets has gone. Poof! The United States Army has enough woolen blankets to last until the Second Coming!”
“I don’t doubt it, sir. On behalf of my comrades and myself, I thank you for the pleasure of your company.”
On a sudden impulse, Eben said, “Sit down, sir. Do sit down. Can you post a ledger, copy a letter book?”
“I was second teller at the Bank of Concord.”
“Well, then, Hayward. I know a fellow over at the Treasury Department who fancies he owes me an obligation. Drop by tomorrow and ask for Undersecretary Robert Coalter. I’ll speak to the man on your behalf.”
Hayward’s expressions of gratitude were effusive.
On his way home, in the pleasant twilight, Eben Barnwell reflected on how doing good was its own reward.
CHAPTER 5
INDEPENDENCE DAY
“WE CAN ACCUSTOM OURSELVES TO JUST ABOUT ANYTHING,” Cousin Molly Semple testified
“Yes, ma’am,” Jack the Driver said.
At Cousin Molly’s request they dallied at the turn above Stratford, once the finest plantation in the Jackson River Valley.
“The mill whee
l . . . ?” Molly observed.
Stratford’s mill had ground the neighborhood’s wheat, oats, and cornmeal. It had sawed the ties Samuel sold at the railhead.
Its millrace was stagnant, choked with sawgrass. Here and there, clapboards had pulled away, dangling like broken pendulums. Whitewash, applied sometime before the war, endured in patches.
“Master wants to get her turnin’ again. He surely do. But nobody got anything needs grindin’.” Jack said.
Four years of war had reorganized Stratford’s geometric fields into nature’s softer, curvilinear forms: cedar splotches, tangles of devil’s shoestring, blackberry thickets advancing into unmowed fields. Though this remote mountain valley had been spared armies’ passage, deserters and runaway slaves had burned its fence rails in their campfires.
One small riverside field had been planted in oats, presently knee-high. The field beside it had been plowed in long dark furrows that a man and horse were presently harrowing.The husbandry of these perfectly ordinary practices brought moisture to Molly Semple’s eyes. She dabbed with her handkerchief. “Don’t I remember two barns?”
“Yes’m, Miss Molly. Lightning hit the cow barn. Weren’t no cows in it, though. When it burnt, Miss Abigail, she said she prayed we wouldn’t have to make no more sacrifices, and I said amen to that. Master Thomas and Master Duncan—they wasn’t home yet.”
“Our prayers were answered.”
“We was most as glad to see young masters’ horses as we was to see young masters.” Jack laughed. “Don’t ’preciate no horse until you try to plow without one. Master Gatewood, he hitch Beulah to the plow, but Beulah been a milk cow all her days and weren’t goin’ to be no ox.”
“How does Samuel fare?”
“Some better. In the morning he keen to get out and get doin’ and he go to bed straightaway after supper. Master glad he boys home.” Jack paused. “We glad you here too, Miss Molly. Be just like them olden times.”
On her last visit before the war, Molly Semple had been wealthy, her competence managed by Mr. Jamison of the Planters Bank of Richmond.
Now? Molly Semple had heard rumors that some Richmond banks might receive an infusion of Northern capital and reopen, but apparently the Planters Bank was not to be among them. Molly had spoken with Mrs. Jamison in line for federal rations.
Ordered to burn warehouses before they evacuated Richmond, the Confederates had made too good a job of it and Richmond had burned from the waterfront almost to the Capitol. The fire had burned itself out two blocks south of Molly’s home.
Some of Molly’s acquaintances borrowed from Richmond’s new money changers—the carpetbaggers—and Confederate currency (genteel Richmonders had trunks full of the worthless stuff) could not discharge debt. Carpetbagger courts ordered the debtors’ homes sold at a twentieth of their value. To finance this journey, Molly had sold her last good jewelry, a fire opal necklace and white gold bracelet passed down from her grandmother. Throwing herself upon her Stratford relatives was distasteful, but leaving her Richmond home was the only way she could keep it.
The Jackson River ford had washed badly and Cousin Molly clung to her seat as her portmanteau rocked alarmingly.
Stratford House’s porch railings and columns could have used a coat of paint and oiled butcher paper served for glass in several windows, but its pinkish brick glowed softly and to Molly, Stratford was an old friend whose smile may lack a few teeth but whose welcome is unmistakable.
Abigail Gatewood’s hair had gone completely white and her face was gaunter than Molly remembered.
“Oh, my dear. Oh, my dear.” The cousins were embracing and weeping while Jack, who had a knack for invisibility, shouldered Molly’s portmanteau and disappeared inside.
“Oh, dear Molly, how we have missed you. Thank God you are safe at Stratford.”
“Cuz.” Molly wiped her kind brown eyes. “Some say we have been through a time of testing. What we have been tested for eludes me.”
“You haven’t changed, Molly. You are unalterable as Cheops’s pyramid.”
“I confess to similar girth,” Molly noted ruefully.
“Samuel and Duncan are in the fields. Molly, they work so hard!”
When Jack unhitched the horse and departed for the fields. Molly understood that a good workman and horse had been detached for her during the busiest season.
“Dear cousin, how weary you must be. Come inside where it is cool and have water and a rest. You will sleep in our room. Duncan and Sallie have the old nursery, Pauline has Grandmother Gatewood’s room, may she rest in peace. Thomas bides in town and—”
“Cousin, I do hate to impose . . .”
Abigail touched Molly’s shoulder. “Imposition, dear Molly? We have begged for your visits.”
“My visit may be rather extended.” Molly’s smile didn’t require reassurance but didn’t positively forbid it.
Abigail clapped her hands. “More’s the better. Oh, Molly. We will be happy again. I know we will! Thank God we have Stratford to sustain us. Now you must rest. Your journey must have been frightful.”
Although some Virginia Central track had been relaid, there were countless breaks over which passengers were conveyed in wagons of every description excepting only “new” and “well sprung,” drawn by horses whose prominent ribs and weariness testified to prior Confederate service. In 1860, the trip between Richmond and Millboro Springs had taken two days—including an overnight stay at Orange’s comfortable Depot Hotel. Today, the journey took six days, and if there had been a single easy mile, Molly Semple could not recall it.
Stratford had the pleasantly guilty air of a farmhouse whose inhabitants are outdoors working. The Gatewoods’ bedroom was off the parlor.
“Molly, this shall be your bed. Will it suit?”
The narrow bed was set beside an open window that framed a glistening bend in the river fringed by sycamores. “Admirably, Cuz.”
“There’s fresh water in the pitcher, and soap—lye soap, I’m afraid.”
“Samuel?”
Abigail perched on a love seat. “Samuel is Samuel, dear: unalterable, straight as a die. Do we ever change, Molly? Can we, if we would?”
Molly smiled and continued, “Tell me, dear Abigail, is Samuel reconciled?”
“To our conquerors? Oh, he tries to be. Did I write our Thomas is canvassing for Alexander Stuart? Stuart hopes to be elected to Congress this fall. Thomas believes he will win.”
“Abigail, isn’t it odd that we once celebrated this day as ‘Independence Day’? Since we Virginians have so signally failed to achieve independence, July Fourth has acquired disagreeable overtones.”
“Samuel says we are punished for our stewardship—that every time a master sold a negro family apart, God took notice.”
When an odd look crossed her cousin’s face, Molly knew Abigail was remembering that dreadful Christmas when Samuel sold Maggie and her infant son south. But what else could Samuel have done? Although Samuel had married Maggie to another slave, nothing had cured his son Duncan’s unsuitable affections.
Molly brought her back. “How grateful I am, dear, we females needn’t concern ourselves with such abstruse matters. I’m sure we have enough to worry about already! How is Sallie? She was such a comfort to our wounded boys. Winder Hospital had no better, gentler hands.”
“When Duncan was restored, it seemed as if, like Lazarus, he’d risen from the dead.” Abigail reconsidered. “Like all married couples, they take the rough with the smooth . . .”
Although Molly’s smile invited further confidences, Abigail didn’t offer them. “I have always loved this room,” she said. “I hope you will be happy here.”
Molly Semple believed that unconfronted difficulties would, like rice soaked in water, swell to unmanageable proportions. She glanced pointedly at the four-poster bed in which generations of Gatewoods had been born and died and, prior to those public ceremonies, in private been conceived. “You will tell me, dear, when my presence might be un
welcome,” she said.
The tips of Abigail’s ears glowed fiery red. “Oh. Yes. Molly. Excuse me. I positively must collect the eggs. Our hens are broody and settled on the nest, they take a hardened hand to dislodge them. ” Abigail’s smile was reminiscent. “Did you ever dream things could change so much?”
“No, dear. Like broody hens, I am bereft of imagination.”
When the door shut behind Abigail, Cousin Molly slumped on the narrow bed and the starch leaked out of her shoulders. She repressed a sigh.
Molly’s glance wandered to the beautiful river. The streamside sycamores were graceful and hopeful as young girls in spring dress. No matter what mortal men contrive, God adorns His world.
Cousin Molly Semple would get out of her traveling things, wash, and rest awhile. Then she would see about making herself useful.
THE ANTEBELLUM HARNESS smelled strongly of neat’s-foot oil. With a trace strap borrowed from a unserviceable rig, it would serve. This afternoon they’d dragged chestnut logs into the yard to split for rails. Tomorrow, they’d harvest oats.
Oats were bringing seventy-eight cents a bushel at the railhead. Ready money!
Duncan Gatewood cut a diagonal slice through the strap Jack the Driver held against the stall divider. Jack seemed to know when Duncan needed him and when help might be resented. Sometimes their easy cooperation made Samuel think his son’s amputation was perfectly healed. But after laboring all morning Duncan would disappear for a few minutes and on returning his eyes would be vague from laudanum.
On days they pried rocks from the plowed ground and rolled or levered them onto the stoneboat, Samuel Gatewood thought his son made overfrequent use of the remedy.
Earlier that spring, with no beast to pull the shovel plow but themselves, Samuel Gatewood and Jack had accepted their role as drafters while, dressed in man’s trousers, blouse, and Sunday bonnet, Abigail Gatewood clung to the plow handles. Each cobble the plow sole hit jerked the traces into the men’s sweat-soaked shoulders, but since complaint would have made hard work harder, a false, hearty cheerfulness sustained them. After the last tiny oat seed was tamped into the soil, they stumbled speechlessly out of the field.