Across Five Aprils

by Irene Hunt

  “It’s two or three horses gallopin’ together,” Jethro said in a low voice. He shivered a little. There was something ominous in the hoofbeats. He heard his parents stirring downstairs; Jenny’s hand clutched his, and he could feel it trembling.

  At about a quarter of a mile from the house, the galloping hoofbeats quieted suddenly; shortly afterward, the two watchers at the cabin could see the dim outline of three horses carrying men who seemed to be crouching close to the horses’ necks. There was a fearful stillness about their approach until they were within a few yards of the gate; then there was a sudden wild shout, and a horse reared as if in fright at the sound. Jethro heard someone shout his father’s name and Bill’s and the word Copperheads.

  Matt fumbled his way to the front door. “Show yore faces,” he called. “Come up and give me a chance to talk.”

  There was only raucous, drunken laughter at his words. A bundle of something was thrown at the gate, and then the riders galloped on.

  Jethro scrambled down the ladder and ran out into the yard. At the gate there was a bundle of switches tied together with a cord, the symbol adopted by local ruffians as a warning of punishment to follow. He tore off the paper that was attached to the cord and carried it inside to the table, where Ellen had lighted a lamp. On the paper in large printed letters was the message: “Theres trubel fer fokes that stands up fer there reb lovin sons.”

  Matt sat down heavily in the chair Jenny brought for him. “This war is a beast with long claws,” he said in a choked voice.

  They were all silent for a minute; then Ellen went to the door, lifted the gun that was held on hooks above the casing, and laid it carefully on the floor beside the bed.

  During the next three weeks someone lay out in the yard with a gun at his hand every night. Israel Thomas came, and his son-in-law, Henry Giles; Ed Turner and his boys took turns; Sigurd Nelson from out toward Old Grandville and Irv Chandler from Hidalgo volunteered a night each week. The greater part of the community was enraged that a sick man should be thus tormented; and they hoped the night prowlers would soon show up to get a taste of what Matt Creighton’s neighbors thought of them.

  That was the feeling of the greater part of the community, but not all of it. Some men turned their backs when Matt’s troubles were talked about in their presence. One man said to Israel Thomas, “How do I know it wasn’t Bill Creighton’s bullet that shattered my boy’s leg at Pea Ridge?”

  “It wasn’t Matt’s bullet,” Israel Thomas retorted, “nor was it young Tom’s or Eb’s or John’s.”

  “No, but like they air a-sayin’ down in Newton, Matt’s young ‘un made it plain that the fam’ly still sticks up fer Bill.”

  Nancy, frightened at being alone, came up with the children to sleep in Jenny’s room each night. The two girls were up at dawn each morning to prepare a hot breakfast for the men who had lain out in the yard on guard during the night.

  When nothing happened during the rest of the month, the men decided that the switches had been an empty threat. It was the peak of the planting season, and the nights spent on the hard ground took their toll of men whose endurance was needed for the hard daily work in the fields. They cautioned Jethro to tie the dog up near the cabin each night so that he might warn the family of anyone approaching, and Ed Turner brought up an old dinner bell, which he attached to a post close to the kitchen door.

  “If there’s any trouble, you ring this, Jeth. Some of us is bound to hear it, and we’ll come,” Ed promised.

  None of the Creightons slept well at night for a while, until exhaustion overcame their anxieties. Jenny’s face was drained of some of its rich color these days, and Jethro’s had a grayish cast under his bright hair. The dark was a fearful thing, but as the hours of the night wore on, sleep came to them anyway. They would just have to meet the attack if it came; they had no strength to lie and worry about it.

  As the days passed, the family’s fears began to be allayed. Not even the disappearance of the big shepherd dog gave them too much concern. Nancy’s oldest boy, Billy, told Jeth that he had seen a man patting Shep, and when the man whistled Shep went running after him. It was not unusual for someone passing through the neighborhood to coax away a valuable-looking dog. Jethro was annoyed at Shep’s gullibility, but not particularly anxious.

  “He’ll be back, Billy, with his tail between his legs,” Jethro told the little boy. “He’ll git homesick and find some way to git back to us—you’ll see.”

  But Shep didn’t come back, and a few nights after his disappearance Jethro was awakened by the smell of smoke and the crackle of burning hay and wood. When he ran to the door he saw the barn enveloped in flames that leaped far into the sky; hay, grain, wagon, harnesses, and plows were feeding them, and they were hungry. There was one condition that must have been a matter of chagrin for the arsonists—all the farm animals were turned out to pasture during the summer nights and so escaped a fiery death.

  Ellen, the two young women, and Jethro stood in the yard and watched silently. Matt wept as he leaned against the door-casing.

  Israel Thomas saw the flames from his home a mile away, and Ed Turner had been awakened by the smell of smoke only minutes before he heard the ringing of the dinner bell. They and others came shortly, and they stayed throughout the night to see that the burning brands were not blown onto the roof of the cabin.

  When the barn was burned to a pile of glowing coals, the men asked Jethro to draw water from the stock well to throw around the edges of the coals. He was conscious of a foul odor when he emptied the first bucketful into the kettle beside the well.

  It was coal oil. That was a kind of punishment favored by mobs and self-appointed judges—coal oil in the culprit’s well. It could cause him any amount of labor and anguish; it took little time or intelligence or skill, and it released most effectively the malice and spite of those who took punishment into their own hands.

  7

  Men from all over the county came to Matt Creighton’s aid that spring. From as far away as Newton, Ross Milton and Sam Gardiner were able to collect enough for a set of double harness and a wagon; one man brought over a plow; others brought in loads of grain and hay for summer feeding. They cleaned his well, and more than a dozen offered a day’s work in the fields whenever they had time to spare it. Immediate neighbors gave Matt their promise of raising a new barn as soon as the pressure of summer work had eased a little, and a dozen men from other communities volunteered their services in the project.

  The great mound of ashes in the barnlot was soon beaten into a hard-packed mass by driving rain and the heat of spring and early summer. Jethro became used to the sight of it after a while, but he could not become used to the fear that lived with him every night during the early weeks of that summer. One of Ed Turner’s boys brought over a dog to take the place of the shepherd that was never found. It was a huge dog, as fierce looking as a wolf, but soon devoted to Jethro after young Sam Turner had taught the boy how to become the dog’s master. It brought some comfort to every member of the family to know that the big animal lay stretched at the foot of Jethro’s bed, his sharp ears alert to every sound outside the cabin. But from Matt down to John’s youngest boy there was a nagging fear that even the presence of the dog did not dispel altogether, an anxiety that lurked in the backs of their minds by day and came out boldly in the night.

  More and more stories of Shiloh came through to the county as Illinois boys who had been wounded in the battle began pouring into Cairo, Illinois, during the months of May and June. George Lawrence from over near Grandville heard that his youngest son had arrived in the river town, and he made the long trip by wagon to bring the wounded boy back home. It was Dan Lawrence who brought news of Tom Creighton.

  Israel Thomas and his son-in-law had volunteered a day’s work in Matt’s fields the day George Lawrence brought his boy over to the farm. They stopped their horses at the end of the furrow and went out to the road to talk to the two in the wagon; later they called to
Jethro asking him to tell Ellen that they would not be up to dinner that day; they would work straight through the noon hour and go home a little early.

  Dan Lawrence was not yet twenty; he was still weak from his wounds and loss of blood, still under the cloud of a horror that only subsequent horrors could make him forget. He walked slowly with his father’s help up the path to the cabin where Matt Creighton stood at the door, and when Dan extended his hand in greeting, his eyes had a tired, haunted look. His father spoke for him.

  “We’re bringin’ you hard news, Matt. It’s yore boy Tom. I’d rather be whipped than be the bearer of sich news, but we knowed we had to do it. I brung Danny over to tell you how it was. He was with yore boy that day.”

  Dan Lawrence told the story quietly. His voice wasn’t as firm as a soldier’s voice should be, but he did his best to control it.

  “Things had bin so fine fer quite a spell—I never seed a part of the country that looked purtier, with the peach trees in bloom and the air so soft and lazy. Us boys was feelin’ good. There was lots of time fer swimmin’ and settin’ around and talkin’ about what we’d do when oncet the Rebs was licked and we was home agin. Tom and me was together a lot them days, and we done a good deal of laughin’ and jokin’—Tom’s spirits was allus high. You wouldn’t ha’ believed in them first days of April that trouble was a-brewin’ fer all of us—ever’ one was feelin’ good, and we was gettin’ along so fine.” The young soldier glanced up at the white faces watching him, and there was still in his eyes the look of wonder that life could have changed so suddenly and ruthlessly. He seemed to waver before the necessity of describing the day that followed the first five of that April.

  “It started at breakfast time, all of a sudden—and terr’ble. I ain’t never heered sich noise, or seed so many boys and men laid low. It was jest one awful roar of cannon and screams—that was the worst. Maybe I hadn’t ought to say these things—” he looked timidly toward Ellen, who sat close to her husband, her great dark eyes staring and without expression.

  Matt finally spoke. “We want to hear everything, Danny; go ahead.”

  “We’d got through the first day, and tow‘rd evening Buell’s reinforcements commenced to come in from across the Tennessee River, and it was a sight that give us courage and joy—fer a few minutes, anyway. Tom was standin’ beside me when we seed the boats comin’, and both of us took off our caps and waved and laughed like we was crazy. We was caked with mud and tired enough to drop, but we fergot everything when we seed Buell’s boys comin’ in to help us. I mind that Tom put his arm ‘long side my shoulders, and he was sayin’, ‘Look at ’em come, Danny; bless ol’ Buell, he’s fin‘ly made it.’ Them was his last words. He—he didn’t suffer; he never knowed what happened.”

  The news spread through the county very quickly. The week after Dan Lawrence’s story had been heard in Newton, Ross Milton printed an open letter in his paper.

  TO THE PATRIOTS WHO DEFILED THE WELL AND BURNED THE BARN ON MATTHEW CREIGHTON’S FARM SOMETIME DURING THE NIGHT OF MAY 10TH,1862:

  Gentlemen:

  In the event that you feel Matt Creighton has not been sufficiently punished by the destruction of his property, be advised that he suffers not only that loss through your efforts, but the loss of his nineteen-year-old son, who died in the battle of Pittsburg Landing on April 6th.

  Has justice been done, Gentlemen? Has an ailing man who commands the respect of those in this county who recognize integrity—has this man suffered enough to satisfy your patriotic zeal?

  May I remind you that Tom Creighton died for the Union cause, that he died in battle, where a man fights his opponent face to face rather than striking and scuttling off into the darkness?

  And just in passing, Gentlemen, what have you done lately for the Union cause? Of course you have burned a man’s property—barn, farm implements, hay, and grain; you have polluted his well with coal oil and terrified his family. Furthermore, you have done it quietly, under cover of darkness, never once asking to be recognized in order to receive the plaudits of the country at large. But, has any one of you faced a Confederate bullet? Well, Matt Creighton’s boy has.

  Jenny cut the letter from their copy of Ross Milton’s newspaper and placed it inside the cover of the family Bible. Then she turned to the pages where the family names were written in a long column with places to the right for dates of birth, marriage, and death. She dipped a pen in ink and carried it and the Bible to her father.

  Matt shook his head. “You write a better hand than I do, Jenny; you set down the date and place for me. I’ve done it so often—too many times.” He would not watch Jenny write, but motioned to Ellen to help him walk outside under the silver poplars in the dooryard.

  Jethro sat at his sister’s side and studied the page to which she had turned. His own name was at the bottom of the long list—Jethro Hallam Creighton, born January 13th, 1852.

  “That was the name of the old doctor that the folks set such store by,” Jenny explained. “Dr. Jethro Hallam. I remember him just a little. He used to hold me on his lap, and once he give me candy because I didn’t cry when he had to swab my throat.”

  Jethro looked at her respectfully. She knew people and times unknown to him. He could not agree with his father that Jenny was so very young.

  Directly above his name were three lines that his father had filled out just ten years ago that summer.

  MATTHEW COLVIN CREIGHTON, BORN SEPTEMBER 7TH, 1850. DIED JULY 1ST, 1852.

  James Alexander Creighton, Born May 3RD, 1849. DIED JULY 4TH, 1852.

  Nathan Hale Creighton, Born February 12TH, 1848. DIED JULY 3RD, 1852.

  The tragedy of that summer had never impressed Jethro so deeply as it did that afternoon when the dates stared up at him with terrible significance.

  “Do you remember them, Jenny?” he asked soberly.

  “Oh, yes. They’re growin’ more and more dim in my mind, though. I can remember that Ma set me to rockin’ little Matt’s cradle once, and I got so carried away with my singin’ to him that I rocked the cradle too hard and the little round baby rolled right out onto the floor. That stands out in my mind—I was so fearful that I’d hurt him.” Jenny smiled a little. “We was always wantin’ to hold the youngest one; lots of times Mary and me and even Nate would fuss over who was to hold you next. Ma would say, ‘Wait till he starts cryin’; then we’ll see who wants him,’ and sure enough, once the cryin’ started, we was ready to hand you over.”

  It seemed very far away and unreal to Jethro. “Sometimes I forget that they was older than I am. I always think of them as the little boys.”

  “I reckon that’s the way it’ll always seem-they’ll never be old.”

  “It seems strange, don’t it, Jenny, that the sickness struck the three of them and passed over the rest of us?”

  She nodded. “It’s a thing no one can explain. I remember that Israel Thomas took Mary and Tom home with him—Eb wasn’t yet with us—and Bill took you and me over to Ed Turner’s. He carried you in his arms and led me by the hand, almost like he was our pa, though he wasn’t much more than a boy then. Some of our folks made the rounds every day to see about us—they was so fearful that the disease might strike more of us. But we stayed well; it was a miracle.”

  Her name was next on the list—Jenny Elizabeth Creighton; then the name Mary Ellen Creighton, with the date of her death, January 12th, 1859, written far out in the righthand column. Above was the line Jenny must fill out: Thomas Ward Creighton, born May 10th, 1843. She made the notation, Died at Pittsburg Landing, April 6th, 1862, with great care and she wiped her eyes quickly lest the ink of the record be smudged.

  The long list climbed on. In the years 1837 and 1838 John Robert and William Taylor were born, the two who had once been closest in affection—cut from the same bolt, Ellen had said. Above these were three other names that belonged to complete strangers as far as Jethro was concerned. The twin girls, Lydia and Lucinda, long since married and moved to Ohio, were bor
n in 1834. The name at the top of the list was Benjamin Hardin Creighton, born in 1832. After his name Matt had written: Left for Californy in 1849.

  “I wonder if he ever found any gold,” Jethro mused.

  Jenny shook her head, and he noticed that her face looked very tired. To cheer her, he pointed to the space for a marriage date opposite her name.

  “Some day we’ll be writin’ in this space: Married to Shadrach Yale—and then your weddin’ date.”

  The smiles and blushes that usually came at the mention of Shadrach were missing that day; Jenny’s dark eyes were very large and grave.

  “I’m so scared, Jeth. Seems I hadn’t known what war was till Danny Lawrence come bringin’ us this awful word of Tom.” She closed the Bible and crossed her forearms on its faded cover. “I used to dream about the nice home Shad and me would have and how I’d keep it bright and pretty, how I’d wait of an evenin’ to see him comin’ down the road toward home. Nowadays I don’t make any plans; I just don’t dare to have any dreams for fear someday a soldier will come home and tell us that he was standin’ beside Shad, the way Danny was standin’ beside Tom—”

  She got up abruptly and put the Bible back on the shelf among the books Shadrach had left. Together she and Jethro walked silently out to the barnlot and got their team ready to go back to the fields.

  They needed recreation and laughter as they needed food. In other years the little house had buzzed with the teasing and squabbling and hilarity of a crowd of young people. There had been dances and cornhuskings and candymakings throughout the neighborhood; there had been afternoons of horseshoe pitching and evenings of charades. Shadrach had organized a singing school for winter nights, and sometimes there was a spelldown at the school followed by a box supper, which was partly a fundraising project and partly an opportunity for romantic developments. Jethro had not participated in these activities, but he had watched the fun from the sidelines, and that had been enough; some of the laughter and gaiety had overflowed to touch him, and he had felt himself a part of it.