Letters in Time

by Reiss Susan

  When we turned our horses away from Waterwood, it was the hardest thing I have ever done. I believe the same was true for your father. Our hearts, our lives, even our blood were part of the land there. Politics and a sense of doing what was right drove him toward the Confederacy. It was my duty to accompany him.

  While we rode, your father was lost in quiet contemplation. When he did speak aloud, I was not sure if he was speaking to me or arguing with himself.

  It was obvious that he was a man caught in a private conflict. He began by reviewing the reasons why he had walked away from the warm comfort of his home, friends, and, above all, the love of his daughter. You were very much on his mind. He talked about the mess of divided loyalties on the Shore. He could not resolve why people would not be considerate of the positions and concerns of their friends and neighbors. The people of the Shore worked shoulder to shoulder over the years, wrestling sustenance from the land, battling the elements, and celebrating the triumphs together.

  The federal arguments had swept us all into the maelstrom. It was confusing, agitating, distressing. For some reason, people couldn’t step away from the political arguments and maintain their friendships. He could not countenance people putting so much energy into hatred and violence, instead of working hard for a compromise that would benefit all.

  I listened carefully to all he said. I too could not understand why these things were happening. Even though the arguments did not directly affect me as the young son of a plantation manager, out of loyalty to your father, to Waterwood, and to you, I followed him South.

  The memory of those hours and each step southward continues to give me grievous pain. I know I did the right thing by riding with him, but my heart begged me to turn around and gallop, not walk, back to Waterwood and you.

  Forgive me, dear Emma, I must pause in my letter writing now. My hand shakes from the memory and from the cold that is seeping into my body. My eyes grow full of tears so that the words swim before me. I pray you will allow me to rest and gather my emotions so that I may continue my report to you about our adventure South.

  With great constancy and affection,

  Daniel

  My hands shook too as I held his letter. In the history lessons about the Civil War, I had read as a child, they emphasized the enthusiastic way Southern gentlemen rode off to war. I guess the wrenching decision to go was not discussed. Now, I could better understand why Emma might not have met Daniel at the Lone Oak. It would have been hard enough to say goodbye to her father. To say goodbye to the man she loved might have been more than she could bear.

  I looked out the window as the wind picked up and moved the leafy boughs in a slow, sorrowful dance. Each branch looked heavy as it nestled against others, content to stay close and just exist. That’s what grief felt like to me. Often, I wanted to sit, just sit, and not move. Too often. But like the wind forced the branches to move, life and Daniel’s words roused me. I needed to quickly capture Daniel’s words in electronic forms before they faded away. I did not want to lose this letter.

  Once I had saved Daniel’s letter on the computer and my gallery, I slipped it into the file where I knew his words would slowly fade away. He’d left me hanging at the end of his letter without finishing the story. Of course, I could wait patiently for his next piece of correspondence, but patience wasn’t my strong suit. I retrieved the inkwell and pen and began to write.

  My Dear Daniel,

  I was filled with sorrow as I read the words of your last letter. What torment you must have felt as you rode away from Waterwood.

  I do not believe that I would have had the strength and fortitude to do what you did. I admire your loyalty to my father so that he, in his pain, did not have to follow the path he had chosen alone.

  I hope these meager words from me bring you some level of comfort and strength so that you may continue the tale of your journey.

  I eagerly await your next missive.

  Emma

  I placed my letter to the side so that the ink could dry. I wondered how the letter I wrote in this reality traveled to the ghostly world where Daniel existed. I'd never succeeded in finding my letters to him in or on the desk. Did my handwritten words fade away in his world the way his words did in mine? Some of the blank sheets in the stack might have once held my words.

  I looked out at the Lone Oak again. Seeing the area under its sheltering branches up close gave me an unsettled feeling. According to Daniel, it was a place of friendship that had grown into love and hope. Taking into account of what had happened recently, it was also a place of murder.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “With infinite sorrow and regret, I have to record the death of the colored woman Cassie. This is a sad bereavement to us, her death, and absence will be long felt.” February 13, 1863

  The Willis Family Journals 1847-1951

  Edited and Annotated by James Dawson

  I sat in the leather chair by the plantation desk, staring out the window at the Lone Oak. It was too early for dinner. I didn't feel like a nap. My eyes were too tired to do any more reading. I was relieved to hear two beeps of TJ's truck horn followed a few moments later by his voice calling my name softly.

  “I’m here in the den,” I sang out. “When he came down the hall, I asked, “Want a cup of coffee?” Then I remembered TJ’s beautiful almost-white Lab. “Oh, what about Ghost? Is he with you?”

  “Always. He’s in the truck. I must admit I brought him in last night while you were sleeping. He stayed in the kitchen.”

  “Bring him in now. He can’t stay out there while we talk.”

  TJ frowned. “Are you sure? He’s a big dog.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Then I had a thought. “But when I’m moving around…”

  “I’ll be sure he stays out of your way. Thanks.”

  I was relieved when Ghost came into the room slowly. He took his time, checking out his surroundings, instead of bounding in and jumping on me like an old boyfriend’s dog always did.

  “Manners,” TJ intoned.

  Ghost sat at my feet and extended a paw in greeting. Though we had spent time in the truck together, I had no idea he was so sensitive and well-trained.

  TJ pointed to a corner. “Go and stay.”

  Immediately, Ghost took up his position. Oh, to have such a remarkable companion. I'd never had time for a pet. Maybe now…?

  "Okay, it's coffee time," TJ announced and I followed man and his dog into the kitchen.

  He whistled softly as he went about the preparations. Soon, a rich aroma filled the room. We went through the normal updates about how we'd each spent our day. For some reason, I conveniently forgot to tell him about Stephani's visit and our trip to the Lone Oak. I wasn't sure what I thought about the girl. There was something about Stephani that wasn't ringing true or maybe it was my imagination. I wanted to make my own decision about her first. Right now, I wanted to know about his connection to Waterwood.

  We sat down with steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of Maria's delicious chocolate chip cookies. I had a captive audience so I raised the subject that had been occupying my mind.

  “I’ve been doing some research about the land around here. I’ve come across some names. I’m trying to figure out how you fit into all the family genealogy connected to Waterwood.”

  He took a sip of coffee. “I don’t know why you’d want to know about that. It’s not that interesting.”

  “Humor me, would you?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Of course, if you don’t want to talk about your family and land, I guess I can understand.” The way I said the last words suggested that No, I wouldn't understand.

  Not entirely convinced, but willing to humor me, he said, "Okay, where do you want me to start?"

  I straightened up in the chair. Maybe now I would be able to fill in some of the gaps. “While working in the Maryland Room, I found a reference that this land was originally part of a land grant to your family before the Revolutionary War, right?” He nodded. “
So, let’s fast-forward to the time just before the Civil War.”

  He gazed out the window, but I was sure what he saw was a farm with many acres under cultivation that supported many people. “That was the glory time. Waterwood was one of the largest plantations in Talbot County, or, for that matter, on the entire Eastern Shore. Waterwood was self-sustaining, like an island unto itself. There was a lot of visiting and interaction between the families of the other plantations. I’ve read that they led a very active social life. It was the family in the main house that had the time for those activities. The farm operation required constant attention. The plantation manager oversaw everything. He consulted with the landowner, my great-great-grandfather, of course, but it was the manager’s responsibility to make sure that things ran smoothly and the land yielded the best crop.”

  “Were there slaves here at Waterwood?” I asked.

  His eyes clouded as he took a deep breath. “Yes, there were slaves. Remember, even though this is Maryland, part of the Union, Waterwood is still south of the Mason-Dixon Line. The economy here was based on the same elements as that of the South.

  "People around here were deeply divided. Very few were in favor of going to war. They wanted to find a way to maintain their way of life." He hurried on. "I've done a lot of reading about this, and I can say with confidence that my family, my ancestors were caring people. They treated their slaves well. You won't find evidence in journals or diaries about ruthless taskmasters or whippings at Waterwood. The black folks were well-housed and well-fed."

  “But they were still slaves,” I interjected. It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. To his credit, my great-great-grandfather Benjamin Ross made sure that families were never split up. When slaves got to the age when they were too old to work, they stayed right here at Waterwood. They were cared for and lived out their days with their kin.” His intensity made it clear to me that commitment to the family honor had been passed down through the generations.

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. “I’m confused. How does the Emma of Waterwood play into your family?”

  His forehead crinkled. “Are you sure you want to know about this?”

  “Yes!” Realizing that I may have sounded a little too enthusiastic, I repeated my answer in a milder tone. “Yes, please.”

  "Okay then. Let me see if I can remember how the family tree works." He rubbed his hand through his hair as if trying to wake up his brain cells. Then he started ticking off points on his fingers. "Emma was the daughter of my great-great-grandfather, Benjamin F. Ross. She was a young woman, about sixteen years old, when the Civil War began. The story of her parents, Benjamin and his wife Elizabeth, has always been a favorite in the family.

  "In the early 1840s, Benjamin was a young, educated man from a fairly well-to-do family. The landed gentry here on the Eastern Shore was very social. They went to Baltimore and Philadelphia for gatherings and balls. On the Shore, they visited one plantation or another for weekend events, like a hunt or a dinner, even a ball. If the portrait at the main house is any indication, Benjamin was handsome and sought after by the young ladies and their mothers.

  “He avoided the clutches of matrimony and enjoyed his freedom while he learned the workings of Waterwood. That is, until he went to a glittering ball in Philadelphia."

  TJ saw the smile that appeared on my face when he said glittering ball.

  "Hey, give the guy a break here. It is the way my mother always tells the story. Do you want me to go on or not?"

  "I'm sorry. It's just that…never mind." It was the kind of detail I wanted to hear. I had to tamp down my reaction to his romantic telling or I'd never hear the end of the story. "Please continue."

  He inspected the expression on my face, suspecting I was making fun of him. After a few moments, he decided to go on. “Now, you have to remember that this is the way my mother always told the story.”

  “Got it. So, what happened at this glittering ball?”

  “Well, dashing young Benjamin attended the ball along with everyone who was anyone. There were even people there from New York and that was a big deal back then. Benjamin walked into the ballroom. The heads of all the young ladies—and their mothers—turned his way. All, except one. She was on the far side of the dance floor, surrounded by several young men who were paying their compliments to her."

  TJ held up his index finger and said, "Remember, I've heard my mother tell this story so often that I can repeat her version word for word. Elizabeth had hair the color of spun gold. Her complexion was the translucent quality of the finest pearl. She wore a silk gown the color of the pink glow of a sunrise. For Benjamin, the rest of the world faded away. He only saw Elizabeth. He had to quickly find someone to make a proper introduction because that's the way it was done. He wanted to be with her, so she wouldn't become distracted and monopolized by the young officers in uniform and sophisticated gentlemen fluttering around her."

  TJ sighed. “I guess he didn’t have to worry. When Elizabeth turned and saw him, it was clear that she too was mesmerized. There was no one else in the room for her, but Benjamin. The next morning, my great-great-grandparents were shocked to discover that Benjamin had proposed to Elizabeth the night before. I guess that wasn’t done back then. He should have gone through the formal process of courtship, asking her father for permission, then presenting his proposal. Benjamin couldn’t wait. He had met the love of his life and he wanted to spend every minute with her. This created quite a problem for my great-great-grandparents. He had violated social conventions and he was only twenty-two years old. True, he came from a well-to-do family, but men at that time established themselves before they proposed marriage. Benjamin knew that he wanted to spend his days at Waterwood, overseeing the land and he wanted Elizabeth by his side.

  "According to the family story, Benjamin made a case to his father that he was born at Waterwood, wanted to raise his family at Waterwood, and wanted to be buried at Waterwood so that his body could nurture the land. He did not want to travel Europe like other young men his age. He wanted to stay at Waterwood with the woman he hoped would be his bride."

  I closed my eyes and moaned. “Benjamin sounds like the answer to every woman’s dream of love.” I looked over at TJ and wondered if all the men in his family were like Benjamin. As much as Benjamin appealed to my girly romantic side, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Better to go to some neutral topic.

  “What was his full name? Benjamin F…?”

  TJ looked away and closed his eyes. It was clear he didn't want to deal with my question.

  “Oh, come on,” I insisted. “You’ve seen me at my worst, learned some of my deepest, darkest secrets. We’re only talking about a middle initial here. How bad can that be?”

  “Oh, pretty bad,” he said with a sigh. “The F stands for Franklin.”

  “Franklin. That’s nice—” I stopped myself. “Wait a minute. Franklin? As in the Benjamin Franklin?” TJ nodded with a pained look on his face.

  “Is the real Benjamin Franklin on your family tree?”

  TJ shook his head and groaned. “Now, you know our family secret. We like to honor notable people we respect by naming our kin after them. It started a long, long time ago.” He held up both hands. “I’m not responsible.”

  I sat up like a shot and paid for the quick movement with a cramp in my leg. "Wait! You go by your initials. If it's a family tradition, then your name must be…"

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Child of a frog is a frog.”

  — Japanese Proverb

  It didn't take me long to figure out my new friend's name. "TJ? TJ! Your name must be Thomas Jefferson Ross."

  “You got it right in one,” he murmured. “I didn’t grow up here, only visited during the summers. People know me as TJ, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread it around.”

  I was so surprised that my words tumbled out in a mess. "Oh wow, oh wow! Your name is Thomas Jefferson Ross! I didn
't think anyone did that anymore. Now, I thought people only made up names that were hard to pronounce or gave boys' names to girls."

  “The Ross family is old-school traditional. Why do you think I go by TJ?”

  I stopped for a minute and realized I had offended him by making fun. He didn’t deserve it. “Come on, you’re named after one of the most important men in American history.” I held my arms straight out from my body to emphasize my question. “How can you not be proud of that? It’s an honor your family bestowed on you.” Then I shrugged. “But with the name comes responsibility and pretty high expectations for anyone to meet.”

  "I know, I know. My dad told me that was the reason the family created the tradition. Every firstborn son is given the name of a famous person, a hero. That way, if the kid ever falters, ever second-guesses himself, he'll remember what the family expects of him and what he should expect of himself."

  “That’s incredible.” I felt a stab of jealousy. I didn’t know of any woman in history named Emma who was notable. Of course, there was Emma Thompson, a creative movie actor, writer, and producer. Not bad, but not exactly on a level of Thomas Jefferson or Benjamin Franklin.

  “Yep, it’s a solid concept, but not easy for a teenage boy to manage when he’s having trouble fitting in. When I was growing up, I was a klutz. I was always the last one left on the bench, the last player picked for a team. My grades were okay, but nothing that would make you stand up and cheer."