Across Five Aprils

by Irene Hunt

  There were no greetings. The family and their guest waited while Shadrach climbed down from the wagon seat. He drew a long breath when he was down and handed the lines to Tom.

  “The Confederates have fired on Fort Sumter, Mr. Creighton. Early Friday morning. I waited till the papers came; they’re full of it.”

  He looked wearily from face to face. No one remembered to introduce Wilse Graham.

  “What air they sayin’, Shad?” Matt Creighton asked earnestly. “How did the thing come to a head?”

  “The papers say that Anderson’s men at Fort Sumter have been on starvation rations for several days, and that the President warned Governor Pickens of South Carolina of his intention to send provisions to them; he made it clear that it was to be only provisions. The Confederates demanded that Anderson give up the fort and all government property in it. He refused. A Southern general—Beauregard is his name—gave him an hour’s warning and then opened fire on Sumter before dawn Friday morning.”

  “And Anderson?”

  “Held out for more than thirty hours, then surrendered the fort Saturday afternoon.”

  “You mean—our man give in?” Tom exclaimed incredulously.

  Shadrach passed his hand over his eyes wearily. “What else could he do? Hungry men can’t hold out long; they hadn’t eaten since Thursday night. More than that, the inside of the fort was in flames. They had to wrap wet cloths over their faces to keep from suffocating.”

  “Was—was there lots of boys bad hurt, Shad?” Ellen asked in a tight voice.

  “It’s hard to believe, but the papers say that no one was killed in the fighting. They say, too, that hundreds of people climbed up on rooftops to watch the fight—as if it was a circus of some kind. And when Anderson’s men marched out, the spectators cheered them. Cannon shells for thirty-four hours and then cheers when it was over.”

  “They kin keep their cheers,” Eb Carron said angrily. “I know what I’m goin’ to do—I’m goin’ to git into this war jest as quick as I kin make it.” He glanced defiantly from his uncle to Wilse Graham, but nobody responded to him.

  “There’s strong feeling throughout the country,” Shadrach continued. “To open fire because provisions are being brought to hungry men...”

  “Mister, I’d like to git a word in right here.” Wilse Graham’s voice was strident with anger. “This is exactly what Ol’ Abe’s bin waitin’ fer—jest exactly what he wanted. He’s worked it so the Confederates would fire the first round, and he’s fixed it so they fired on hungry men. Well, fine! Now he kin set back and look pious at the states that has been blowin’ hot and cold.” He tugged at the collar of his shirt as if it choked him. “Somebody ought to telegraph congratulations to him,” he added.

  Tom glanced at his mother and then leaped into the wagon to drive the tired team into the barnlot. Eb joined him hastily. The rest of the group stood for a moment without speaking, staring at one another from masklike faces. Finally Jenny walked over to Shadrach’s side.

  “And so now it’s war fer sure, is that it, Shad?”

  He hesitated. “Congress is not in session, Jenny, and only Congress can declare war. Still, Mr. Lincoln has asked for seventy-five thousand volunteers—from the militia of all the states.”

  “Not from seven of ’em, I’d guess,” Wilse Graham muttered.

  “It’s war—Congress or no,” Matt said slowly, ignoring his nephew’s remark. He laid his hand on Jethro’s shoulder, and his big fingers clutched so tightly that the boy winced. They turned slowly and walked back into the yard. Ellen asked Jenny to find something for Shadrach to eat before he went on down to his place next to the schoolhouse. Jethro sank down on the ground, weak with fatigue and emotion; someone—he later believed it was Bill—carried him inside and laid him on his cornshuck bed.

  He woke once late that night and heard some of the men still talking in the dooryard.

  3

  Every Saturday night and Sunday afternoon was like the Fourth of July in all the little towns of southern Illinois that summer. Miles of bunting draped dozens of platforms, where speakers, by virtue of their prestige as men of property or of exceptional eloquence, found themselves called upon to fan the wrath of the people. Families packed children and picnic baskets into wagons and drove to a different town each week, where the music of brass bands and the streams of inflamed oratory made a glorious succession of holidays for people long bound to the tedium of isolation.

  A handful of old veterans of the War of 1812 suddenly found themselves reassigned to the role of heroes after years of having been all but forgotten, and their quavering voices added to the din. Pretty girls in their best summer dresses begged for funds with which to equip troops, and they blushed happily at the enthusiastic cheers of the young men for whose cause they pled. The dust and heat, the emotion and noise, became almost unbearable to many; but there were always others who returned the following week, comforting their baser selves with barbecued pork and fowl, while their spirits were uplifted by words of high resolve and confidence from the speaker’s platform.

  They had need for reassurance late in July when word came of the first battle of the war, a battle that had, at first, much the same picnic atmosphere which characterized the rallies being held all over the country. They read a full account of the battle of Bull Run from the Chicago newspapers—how congressmen had driven out in their carriages accompanied by hoop-skirted ladies, all apparently eager to see the spectacle of young men butchering one another; how these carriages and spectators choked the roads when the Union troops were finally turned into a confused, bewildered mob scurrying for safety.

  It was hard news; many people preferred not to talk of it at all. Tom and Eb were sullen and resentful for days that their prophesies of an easy victory should so early have taken on a hollow ring. Jethro noticed that there was no more talk of taking the South “by the britches,” no more confident statements of ending the whole affair in one decisive swoop.

  Word of a fiasco at a place in the East called Ball’s Bluff came while people were still stunned by the news from Bull Run. It was too much; some people began to say the war might possibly go on for a year or longer; others acknowledged that the South may have been right when it boasted that the northern factory workers would be no match for the bronzed young outdoor men below the Mason-Dixon line.

  Bill was silent throughout the turmoil that summer. He went to the rallies, often taking Jethro along; he sat in the dooryard night after night and listened as the two younger boys chafed to be off the minute they could be spared, and as John and Shadrach made their plans to leave at least by mid-winter. Shadrach decided to abide by his contract to teach the winter session of school, which would be over in February; and John felt the need to wait until he could plan for the welfare of his family and to help his father with the harvest which was to provide for both families. Bill listened quietly to all the talk, and his face was troubled as he looked at first one and then another speaker; but when they paused and seemed to wait for what he had to say, he turned away with a silent aloofness that none of them dared to challenge.

  In the late summer shortly after Tom and Eb left, there was news of another defeat for the North; it was closer to home this time—at Wilson’s Creek in Missouri. There were boys from Illinois at Wilson’s Creek, and the war for many people in Jasper County had suddenly become a sorrowful reality. It was at Wilson’s Creek that the Union commander, Nathaniel Lyon, was killed; and it was here, people said, that hundreds of boys died because of General Frémont’s refusal to send reinforcements to Lyon. Jethro heard both angry words against and high praise for General Frémont in the days that followed Wilson’s Creek. Frémont was denounced as the general who had made Missouri a nightmare of hatred and turmoil by his self-imposed role as emancipator of slavery in that state; on the other hand, he was praised for being a dedicated and courageous man who spoke out against slavery while the timid President would not do so.

  The turmoil of Missouri s
pilled over into southern Illinois; Sumter and Bull Run and Ball’s Bluff had been far away; but Wilson’s Creek and the conflicting passions of Missouri were very close to the men who gathered to talk in the Creightons’ yard and to the wives and children who listened to the talk.

  Jethro listened with fascination to the new names of men and places. He heard admiration voiced for a brilliant young officer named McClellan, who had been put in top command of the army in the East. He became aware of such names as Seward and Chase; he knew who Senator Sumner was and old Thad Stevens, what such names as Wendell Phillips and Henry Ward Beecher stood for, what roles were being played by Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee. In later years he remembered that these names had been part of a noisy confusion for him at first; then they had slowly taken an orderly place in his mind among dozens of others as the great drama of the years unfolded.

  After the two younger boys had gone, Jethro took their place in the loft with Bill at night. Sometimes he dreamed about things he’d overheard in the conversations about Wilson’s Creek, and when he awoke, often at the sound of his own cries, there was always Bill sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, talking quietly and pretending that the sound of a nine-year-old boy’s crying was a manly yell of pursuit and aggression.

  “You yelped jest now, Jeth,” Bill said on one such night. “Kind of a blood-curdlin’ yelp it was. You givin’ somebody what-fer in yore dreams?”

  In the dark Jethro could admit his weakness. “I was scairt,” he whispered. “If I’d bin awake, it wouldn’t ha’ seemed so bad to think about. But sleepin’—I was scairt.”

  “Lots of us is scairt sometimes,” Bill answered. “When John and me was tykes, we used to be scairt of witch stories that old Aunt Hetty Walker used to tell us when she’d come to help Ma with the butcherin’ work. You don’t need to feel ashamed of bein’ scairt now and then in yore dreams.”

  Jethro didn’t answer. He lay quietly, still shaken by the terror of his nightmare. After a little silence Bill spoke again in the same quiet voice.

  “I kin set and talk a spell if it will help you to fergit any ugly things that has come up in yore dreams.”

  “If you ain’t too sleepy ...”

  “No, I ain’t bin to bed yit; sleep and me ain’t on good terms these nights. I’ve bin roamin’ the fields since bedtime; there be folks that would call that a fool thing to do, but I reckon it’s my way.” He stooped to remove his shoes, damp with the heavy dews of pasture and field.

  “Do you think better out in the fields, Bill?”

  “I don’t know as I do, Jeth. My thinkin’ is all of a tangle, whether I’m out in the fields or in my bed or settin’ out under the poplars listenin’ to the others talk. Still, the sky is a blessed thing. Much as I keer fer my fam’ly, a crowded cabin chafes me; it allus has. I want stillness and space about me.” In the dim light Jethro could see his brother’s face turned toward him, smiling a little. “Do you have that likin’ fer bein’ alone too?” he asked.

  “I reckon—a little. But I don’t hev thoughts enough to keep me busy; after a while I need comp’ny.”

  Bill sighed suddenly, as if he were very tired, and leaned forward as he sat on the side of the bed, letting his head fall close to his chest. He bore a strong resemblance to his father; even Jethro noticed it as he looked at his brother’s face in profile.

  “I hev plenty of thoughts,” he said, after a while, “plenty of ’em—and all troubled ones.”

  “Air yore thoughts about the war, Bill?”

  “About the war—yes, mostly.”

  “The North will fin’ly win, won’t it, Bill?”

  “I don’t know if anybody ever ‘wins’ a war, Jeth. I think that the beginnin’s of this war has been fanned by hate till it’s a blaze now; and a blaze kin destroy him that makes it and him that the fire was set to hurt. There oughtn’t to be a war, Jeth; this war ought never to ha’ bin.”

  “But the South started it, didn’t they, Bill?”

  “The South and the North and the East and the West—we all started it. The old slavers of other days and the fact‘ry owners of today that need high tariffs to help ’em git rich, and the cotton growers that need slave labor to help ‘em git rich and the new territories and the wild talk—” He broke off suddenly and walked over to the window where a branch of a poplar tree seemed to be trying to peer inside the small, cramped room. “I hate slavery, Jeth, but I hate another slavery of people workin’ their lives away in dirty fact’ries fer a wage that kin scarce keep life in ’em; I hate secession, but at the same time I can’t see how a whole region kin be able to live if their way of life is all of a sudden upset; I hate talk of nullification, but at the same time I hate laws passed by Congress that favors one part of a country and hurts the other.”

  Jethro was awed by his brother’s outburst. He knew that Bill was no longer talking to him, and he felt suddenly desolate and alone.

  “Why don’t you come to bed, Bill, and leave off thinkin’ more about the war?”

  “I kin come to bed, but the thinkin’ goes right on.” To Jethro’s surprise he felt his brother’s large rough hand close over his own with a heavy pressure, as if somehow the owner of that hand felt a desperate need to clutch at something.

  “Pa and John—they air so sure. I mistrust myself, I mistrust my way of thinkin’ when I see how sure they be. I want to be one with ’em, fer John and me is close and Pa is close to both of us. And yet, I git full of anger when I see how sure they be.”

  “Bill, don’t talk about it anymore.” The plea came involuntarily from Jethro’s lips.

  Bill nodded then, and reaching down, tucked the quilt about Jethro’s shoulders. “I hadn’t ought to be sayin’ these things to you, young feller. You go to sleep now. We got a stack of work cut out fer us tomorrow. We won’t be talkin’ about these things anymore. Fergit ’em if you kin.”

  Work was heavy that fall with two hands short, and there was a heaviness, too, that weighed down upon the spirits of those who worked. Jethro labored for long hours beside Bill, and both of them were grave; but no mention was ever made of the things that had been said on the night of Jethro’s nightmare. And the days followed, one after another, much the same except that each was shorter as autumn grew later.

  Autumn was blithely indifferent to the tumult in the land that year. Color was splashed through the woods as if it had been thrown about by some madcap wastrel who spilled out, during the weeks of one brief autumn, beauty enough to last for years. There was yellow gold, burned gold, and gold turning to brown; there were reds blending with browns, greens with grays, and solid browns shining like silk. Jethro stood on the top of Walnut Hill one warm afternoon in October and yearned over the color that was his for the moment and would be gone at the whim of the first windswept rain that came to usher in the bleak days ahead. Oak, maple, and poplar; sumac, wild-grape, and dogwood—they all smiled at him that afternoon, and they said, “What war, little boy, what war?”

  He loved Walnut Hill in spite of the sadness of the place since Mary died. There had been no sadness for Jethro when only the little boys were there; these three had been imaginary playmates for him when he was younger. He had talked with them, acquainted them with family gossip, instructed them occasionally when it had seemed timely and proper for him to do so.

  Once Matthew Creighton, standing concealed among the trees, had heard Jethro explaining a new slingshot to someone very real to him.

  “Bill made this fer me,” he was saying that day. “You ‘member Bill, don’t you? Of course you do. He’s a pretty good ol’ Bill—better’n Tom or Eb. John, he’s good, but he’s got a young’un of his own, and he likes him best. Well, you want to try this slingshot once, little Nate? Sure you kin—I’ll help you. Now you two other boys mind yore manners jest a minute, you’ll have yore turn....”

  Matt had watched Jethro’s whereabouts more closely after that, and the boy realized that for some reason his father did not approve of his going up to play on
Walnut Hill. After Mary was there, he stayed away through his own choice. He knew that Mary was dead, and it made a great deal of difference.

  On that afternoon in the autumn of’61, he made one of his rare visits to the hill, drawn to it by the beauty of the surrounding woods and perhaps by the somber mood of the times. He no longer talked to the children though; a phase of innocence had passed, which would never be recaptured.

  At the foot of the hill, Crooked Creek flowed on its noisy way across the farm, spanned at a point where it was widest by a wooden bridge that had swayed threateningly for as long as Jethro could remember, but had never quite given in to total collapse. Across the creek the brown fields stretched, bounded by staggering lines of gray rail-fences. The crossed timbers supporting the rails had the look of bayonets when they were silhouetted against a twilight sky.

  A line of wild geese flew southward far overhead, and Jethro stood motionless as he watched them disappear from sight. So engrossed he was with the flight of the geese that he did not hear Bill’s footsteps until his brother was quite near. He caught his breath at sight of Bill’s face, which was swollen and beginning to grow discolored from a deep cut and many bruises.

  “What’s hurt you, Bill?” he asked, his voice barely audible, for he was pretty sure he knew.

  “We had a fight, Jeth, about an hour ago. We fit like two madmen, I guess.”

  “You and John?”

  Bill’s sigh was almost a moan. “Yes, me and John. Me and my brother John.”

  Jethro could not answer. He stared at the cut above Bill’s right eye, from which blood still trickled down his cheek. Somewhere, far off in another field, a man shouted to his horses, and the shout died away in a cry that ran frightened over the brown water of the creek and into the darkening woods.

  He had heard cries often that autumn, all through the countryside. They came at night, wakened him, and then lapsed into silence, leaving him in fear and perplexity. Sounds once familiar were no longer as they had seemed in other days—his father calling cattle in from the pasture, the sheep dog’s bark coming through the fog, the distant creak of the pulley as Ellen drew water for her chickens—all these once familiar sounds had taken on overtones of wailing, and he seemed to hear an echo of that wailing now. He shivered and looked away from his brother’s face.