by Irene Hunt
“The man is not only without book-larnin’, as I am, but he has a mean and pinched-in mind,” Matt told Ellen. “The boy is right; he’ll larn more by tenfold on his own.”
As Jethro looked about the room that morning of Jenny’s departure, he felt a dull anger at sight of the cluttered filth the old teacher had left. The room had once been a place of beauty for Jethro, a room of color and firelight, of books and singing and a sense of deep friendship, which he was sure he would never have again if Shadrach died in the Washington hospital. He touched the rough-hewn bookshelves, the mantel above the fireplace, the wall where the guitar had hung.
“Maybe I’ll ask Nancy for soap and water; maybe she’ll help me clean the place,” he whispered to himself. “If Shad ever comes back, I’d like for this room to be clean and nice for him.”
Then he shook his head at his own dreaming. He had heard Ross Milton warning Jenny the night before, “We must remember, girl, that there’s only one chance in a hundred that this trip will have a happy ending. But we’re going to concentrate on that one chance.”
Jethro sat down on a bench in the hot, dusty room; there was no comfort in being there, but he could think of no other place where he wished to be.
They lived through many dreary days of waiting. Every day someone—Nancy and Jethro, Ed Turner, even Matt when the others were too busy—would drive into town to see if there was a letter. For many days there wasn’t, and the only slim comfort they could find was to remember that there was one chance—one in maybe a hundred.
Then finally there came a letter from Ross Milton.
.... The boy is still desperately ill, but he will live—I am convinced of that, in spite of all my fears, for if ever a lad seized life and held onto it with both hands, it was young Yale who did so when he opened his eyes and saw that little girl you had sent to him....
There were many letters from both Jenny and Ross Milton that summer, letters that brought hope and comfort to the family at home.
.... The long ride on the trains was like a bad dream to me, the first letter from Jenny ran, but Mr. Milton talked to me with the greatest kindness and he kept my spirits up. When finly we got here I was so tired and my dress was wrinkled and full of dust but the minute I saw Shad it was like heaven for both of us. I thank you pa and ma, and I will thank you all the days of my life that you let me come to him. I feel sure that you have saved his life and my happyness....
Later there came a request from the young couple, a request written and subscribed to by a hard-bitten bachelor, Ross Milton. Matt dictated his answer to Jethro and then signed his own trembling signature.
My wife and I give consent that our daughter Jenny Elizabeth Creighton, age 16, may marry Shadrach Yale, Union soldier, under the witness of a trusted friend, Editor Ross Milton. Signed: Matthew Benjamin Creighton
The envelope carrying Jenny’s next letter bore a self-conscious return address in the upper left-hand corner, a return to Mrs. Shadrach Yale of Washington, D. C. The first paragraph of the letter within that envelope was addressed to Jethro:... and please take down the Bible, Jeth, and in your best hand write this beside my name—Married to Shadrach Yale, August 14, 1863.
Then she went on to describe her wedding day:
.... I wore the white dress you give me in the kindness of your heart Nancy, and it was washed and ironed fresh and pretty. Mr. Milton went out and bought the ring for Shad. It is solid gold, and it has little lines in it that make it look like gold lace. I think I will never take it off. I stood by Shads bed, and there was sick boys all around, but they all smiled at me. So did Aunt Victoria who doesnt smile very often, poor woman, because she works so hard and sees so much of suffering. Mr. Milton had to leave right away to take the train back home, but he kissed my hand before he left and called me Mrs. Yale, and that sounded so nice to me. The only thing that could of been better was if all of you that I love so much had been here....
She told of her life as a young bride in Washington in another letter:I go to the hospital every day and do all I can to ease the pain that is all around me. At first Aunt Victoria said it wasnt right for a young girl to be here, but I made her see that I couldnt set at home when others was needing help so much. I do what the nurses tell me and they say I mind them and dont make trubel like some ladys do here. Some of the things I see would of made me faint a year ago, but now I face them the way the nurses and doctors do. I do all I can to help others because I thank God so much that Shad is going to get well.
Aunt Victoria has a nice big house with a real stove in the kitchen. She lets me make big kettels of soup there, and a man she knows comes and takes it to the hospital in a little wagon. I feed as many boys as I can from it because they sometimes have to eat stuff that we would throw away at home. Sometimes I bake fresh bread and spread it with butter, and Shad and them that is laying near him clap there hands when they see me begin to hand it out.
It is hot in this city, and sometimes at night when I come back to Aunt Victorias house I am tired and wishful for the silver poplars to set under. I see all your faces in my mind, and I wonder how is Jeth getting along in the fields by himself, and I think how good it is that Nancy and the little boys are there to give you comfort. There is so much pain and sorrow here. And the city is bad to. There is filth in the streets and flys swarming and even rats running sometimes right in front of me when I walk home. But this is where my husband is and I wouldnt want to be anywhere in this world except close by his side. But sometimes I wonder if we are the only two happy people in this town....
Jethro took the letters after the others had finished reading them and kept them in his room, where he could read and reread them to himself. He felt a great sense of peace within him as he read. Shad was going to live! Over and over he repeated those words, and in the morning when he woke with a feeling of happiness and wondered at the cause of it, he would remember—Shad was going to live! He felt as if somehow he had been granted a gift in escaping a sorrow that would have scarred his life.
The letter he finally wrote to Jenny with Ross Milton’s book close at hand as an aid to spelling was a simple one. He had no fine phrases to help him convey his feelings; but Jenny found it a good letter, and she kept it all the years of her life.
Dear Jenny,
We are all feeling much pleasure here to know that Shad is better and is going to get well. We are glad that you and Shad are married. It is hard to get used to thinking that you are Mrs. Yale and not just Jenny. If only the war would soon be over and you and Shad could come back here it would be a wonderful happy thing for all of us. The crops are good but we could use some rain. Your pa and ma are well as usual and your sister Nancy is to. The little boys are in good health except that Johnny run a nail in his foot last week but he is allrite now. It is lonesome to work in the fields without you to talk to and to make me laugh sometimes. But it is beter for you to be with Shad. I wrote what you told me to in the Bible and it looks fine. Do you ever see Mr. Lincoln? I would like to see him very much and thank him for the letter he wrote to me. What does Shad think about it that General Grant is the top man in the army now? You ask him for me.
Yours very truly,
Your brother Jethro H. Creighton
11
Nancy had heard from John in June; it was a long time before she heard from him again—early December of 1863. He wrote a long letter then; he had a long story to tell. He began:I gess you heered about Chickamauga.
During the dreary days in which she had heard nothing from her husband, the name Chickamauga had held desolation and despair for Nancy. She had studied the newspaper map with Jethro, the map of Chattanooga down on the Tennessee River, with Lookout Mountain to the south-west, Missionary Ridge facing on the east, and beyond the Ridge, the line of water labelled “Chickamauga Creek.” The newspaper accounts were hard for both her and Jethro to understand; they were stories of chaotic confusion, of bitter fighting and terrible disaster. In September of 1863, the Army of the Cumberland h
ad finally encountered General Bragg, who was soon reinforced by General Longstreet. The Confederates thus outnumbered Rosecrans’ army by as many as twenty thousand, and they handed a terrible defeat to the army that had so cheerfully set out upon its march in June. A terrible defeat, but not quite a complete one, for the left wing of the Army of the Cumberland had held firm under the command of a general named George Thomas.
There were many names in the papers those days—names of men and places that for a time were on everybody’s tongue and then quite often were almost forgotten, while other names gained prominence in the news. The name George Thomas had been a great one at Logan’s Crossroads, when the big Virginian who had decided to remain loyal to the Union had given the Federals their first taste of victory in the West. But that had been before Donelson, and for Jethro, the meaning of the war began with Donelson. Thus he had failed to identify the name of Thomas at first, but after September of 1863 it would never again be either ignored or forgotten by Jethro or by anyone of his time for whom the news of the war mattered. “The Rock of Chickamauga,” the papers called him, after the soldiers under his command had held out against twice their number with a stubbornness that finally forced Bragg to give up, thus leaving Thomas and his men free to go back to Chattanooga.
Other names prominent in that battle were, true to the temper of the times, disgraced and dragged through the mud. Those who fought battles comfortably within their homes or newspaper offices had more than enough mud to spare. Rosecrans, McCook, and Crittenden, who in the bewildering mountain terrain had completely lost control of the men they were supposed to command, were now accused of everything from downright stupidity to traitorous complicity with the enemy.
After the hope and jubilation that Vicksburg and Gettysburg had inspired in July, Chickamauga was a dreadful reversal for the North to suffer; for Nancy it was a name threatening her with “hard news” until the day John’s letter came.
I gess you heered about Chickamauga. It was somethin we didnt like to think about. Its a terrble feelin to be beat and tho some of our boys held out with Gen Thomas the most of us was ashamed and licked. But now I am goin to tell you another story and Im proud of this one. You tell Jeth to save all the papers about this battel that Im tellin you about. When I come home Ill read em and tell you if they be rite....
After that, John’s letter was a long narrative of what had happened in the mountains around Chattanooga during that cold November of ’63. Jethro had read accounts of it in the papers, but John’s story was closer, more immediate. It was a vivid picture, and as Jethro read, he felt as if he were an actual witness to the unbelievable thing that had happened.
John wrote of how near the army had been to starvation after Chickamauga; how the snipers located all along the slopes of Lookout Mountain and Missionary Ridge made it impossible for a wagonload of food or provender to get through to either men or animals.
.... We et things that wood make you sick to think about and the pore horses and mules was as despert hongry as we was....
Then he told of the reinforcements that arrived: Joseph Hooker with detachments from the Army of the Potomac; William Tecumseh Sherman with most of the Army of the Tennessee. And Grant came down in person, Grant with his new promotion that placed him over Hooker, Sherman, Rosecrans, Thomas, and the others in the West.
.... It didnt set good with us, these other armys comin in to help us out. The Army of the Cumberland hadnt done so bad in days gone by, we wasnt licked at Stones River. We didnt like the way they peered to look down on us. The Potomac boys are mitey hifalutin, some of em, and they and the Tennessee boys and us pure hated each other worse than we hated the rebs....
The next paragraphs explained Grant’s strategy of the battle: Hooker would strike at one end of the Confederate line on Lookout Mountain; Sherman would hit the other end on Missionary Ridge. The Army of the Cumberland would attack the center—an easier job, John said, because they were only expected to worry Bragg enough to keep him from sending men from his center to reinforce his ends.
.... It aint that we was so much apantin to fite, wed had aplenty of fitin. Still we didnt like it of Grant to give us the easy post and hev the Potomac and Tennessee boys lookin at us like we was a third rate army. If youve read of Hookers boys afitin the battel up on Lookout you kno that it was fine. They licked the rebs up ther and we had to admit that they done what we hadnt. But you shood a seen Joe Hooker strut....
John went on to say that things weren’t going so well with Sherman’s men, and the Cumberland boys waited with excitement mounting by the minute. Then finally the command came for them to take the frontline trenches at the base of Missionary Ridge, which towered like a steep wall opposite Lookout. That was when pandemonium broke out!
.... We wanted to pitch in like we had never wanted to before. We must of bin a littel crazy becus we didnt stop with the firstline trenches but we started up the slope of the old Ridge and ther was yellin and scree-chin like I hev never heered. Ther was officers alookin fine in ther best uniforms and they went yellin with us. Ther was a short littel Irish officer named Sheridan and he took hisself a drink and shook the bottle at the rebs and went yellin up that slope like he didnt care was he an officer or not. It got to be a race to see what regiment would make it to the top first and I want you to kno that old 104th Illinois didnt do so bad. And the rebs I gess thot we was teched and they begin to give way. After that the center of Braggs line cracked all to peeces. I dont kno what the papers said but I want you to kno that it was the Army of the Cumberland that done it....
Jethro rewrote John’s letter carefully and sent his copy to Shadrach and Jenny in Washington. He made mountains of chips and stones out in the wood lot and showed John’s little boys how their father, along with the boys in the Army of the Cumberland, had scaled Missionary Ridge and had so broken the center of the Confederate line that General Bragg had had to order his divided army to retreat and to leave Chattanooga in the hands of the Federals.
Nancy wrote to John of Jethro’s interest in his description of the battle, and weeks later John spoke of it in his reply:.... What you told me about Jeths intrust made good readin. And it brings comfert to me that the one brother Ive got left is close to my littel boys....
In November of that year the President made a speech at Gettysburg; papers all over the country printed it, but they were not agreed upon its quality. One of the papers Jethro read claimed that “the cheek of every American must tingle with shame at the silly, flat, dish-watery utterances.” Another said that the President’s speech would live among the annals of man. Jethro didn’t know. He loved Mr. Lincoln and felt deeply drawn to him; it angered him to read the mouthings of hate directed toward the President, but as to whether the address at Gettysburg was a great one or just another speech, an eleven-year-old farm boy did not know. He read it aloud to his mother.
“It has the ring of the Scriptures about it, Jeth,” she said.
He nodded. It had, somewhat, he thought.
That winter many people were talking of peace. The end could not be rushed; there would be fighting to the last ditch, but the end was inevitable. A people pushed to the extremities that existed in the South could not possibly hold on, the papers claimed. But they did hold on, and as the war trailed drearily on, vindictiveness toward the stubborn stand of the seceding states grew steadily more bitter in the North. This vindictiveness was urged on by men in high places who resented the President’s spirit of clemency as violently as they resented the tenacity of the South.
In December Abraham Lincoln issued a proclamation of amnesty, in which he promised pardon and full rights to any individual Confederate who would swear to protect the Constitution and the Union of the states, to abide by the government’s pronouncements against slavery. He promised, too, that a Confederate state could return to the Union whenever ten percent of its voters should reestablish a loyal Union government within that state.
“Never hev I loved him so much,” Matt exclaime
d tearfully. And Jethro remembered words in the President’s letter: “There will be much criticism, but if I err it will be on the side of mercy.”
The criticism of his act came with quick violence from all sections of the country. In the South the Confederate Congress cried out that if the Washington government called for restoration of the Union it was merely setting a cruel trap for the deluded; that it would be only a relationship between the conqueror and the conquered; that it would mean personal and public degradation and ruin. And in the North the chant of hate against Lincoln became stronger than ever. His proclamation of amnesty was little better than treason, the President’s detractors shouted, and many people began to consider it high patriotism to talk of the coming wholesale execution of rebels.
The third winter of the war went by with the echoing story of suffering and death. In the early part of the war’s fourth year, General Grant was placed in command of all the armies of the United States. With this promotion another general fell to a lower place—General Halleck, who had never quite risen to his position, was finally relegated to the list of those whose names had soared for a while and then fallen into near-obscurity. Jethro could remember the early days of the war when he had felt resentful upon learning that Halleck was Grant’s superior officer. In March of 1864 he felt a glow of personal triumph that his resentment had perhaps been justified.
In Washington, Shadrach Yale was slowly struggling back to health in the safety of his aunt’s home. Now that Jenny was with him, Shad’s letters were addressed to Jethro. They were like gifts to the lonely boy; he read them over again and again, and then placed them carefully in the big envelope containing the President’s letter.
