It was a couple of hours before dawn and Ike’s bladder kept him from rolling over and going back to sleep. He still remembered some of the dream and thought it was a shadow from the fear he had felt when George had threatened to burn down this house that had become his home or his prison. He felt his way to the chamber pot and sweet relief. His fingers brushed the bottle as he passed the table on his way back to bed. “Ikey……..” Johnny warned, but the desire for the brandy crowded out all his warnings.
A short swig turned into another longer one. The first small burst of warmth fanned the flames of Ike’s desire for the feeling of detachment and separation from the pain of living that he had always found in alcohol. There was not enough brandy left to give Ike the release he sought. “Nothin’ good woulda’ come from this old friend.” Johnny intoned, his voice sounding more like an echo.
“Shut up you red headed bastard! I don’t want to hear you anymore! You aren’t for real, I’m just sick in the head and making you up. I wish there was enough brandy to make you go away. Why won’t you leave me alone!” Ike said out loud as he dashed the now empty bottle against the stone wall by the chamber pot and fell into Todd Pendleton’s feather bed. He dreamed again of a conflagration, this time he thought he might be glimpsing Hell.
He was walking unsteadily down a street that felt familiar even though he couldn’t place where it was or why he would know of it. Thunder had muttered at first and then gained in volume and frequency as lightning flashed and lit up the surroundings. Shabby houses sat close to the dirt and gravel track that could only be called a street with some generosity and would soon be a mire of mud as the rain started in earnest. The earth shook as a bolt struck so close that the white of it nearly blinded him. He smelled the smoke first and then saw the flames. He was drawn toward an orange glow at the end of the street. People were coming out of their houses as they watched the fire. The first Rebel soldier that he had killed that first morning at Pittsburgh Landing stood gaping at the fire. A hole in the man’s chest oozed blood in small rhythmic spurts, pumped by a heart that should have long ago stopped beating. George and Teddy stood pointing at the house and laughing and passed a bottle of Jasper Pendleton’s brandy back and forth. The structure looked like the Pendleton house at first and then it shifted and became a smaller somehow familiar house as it was consumed. Ike staggered and then ran as if his life depended on it. The fire that could only have been a block away seemed to recede. He ran like a man possessed but his progress toward the fire was slow, his legs and lungs ached as if he had run for hours. A skeletal hand grabbed his right ankle and stopped him in his tracks briefly. Looking down Ike saw the corpse that he and Johnny had been dragging to the burial trench in his previous dream. He dragged the corpse for several yards until the rotting fingers separated from the hand and scattered along the road. Pain from the intense heat of the burning structure soon surpassed that of his limbs and breathing apparatus as he finally drew near the conflagration. He put his hands up to shield his face from the fire but he couldn’t help himself, someone was in that house and he had to save them. Just as he was about to plunge into the fire other hands grabbed him and dragged him back, his clothing smoking.
Chapter 3 – The Epistle
For the next two days Marcus brought breakfast before daylight and supper well after dark, lunch was included on the breakfast tray. Ike assumed that traffic to and from the cellar was minimized to avoid drawing attention to his abode. The only comment made about the broken bottle as the shards were swept up and removed was when Marcus shook his head and said “Jasper’s last bottle of ‘Poleon brandy.”
Johnny’s voice was no longer present. Ike felt relieved, believing that it was a sign that he was recovering both his health and his sanity. His memory was still in shambles, but the absence of Johnny’s running commentary gave him hope that they might return on their own.
The third day after the attack Ike heard hoof beats in the yard and booted footsteps in the kitchen above. He sat still and prayed that his presence would remain a secret, as troubling as his situation was; he wasn’t ready to be a prisoner of the confederacy. Marcus informed him later that the home guard had discovered what was left of George and Teddy a mile down the creek. The guard around the house was lifted and Marcus and his mistress could move about more freely. Ike knew that this freedom did not apply to him.
The fourth evening after the incident, Mrs. Pendleton herself came with the evening meal. She had gone to great lengths to prepare the food. There was crisp fried chicken, biscuits, potatoes, and greens fried with bacon and onions and apple pie that was still warm.
The abrasion and bruise on Mrs. Pendleton’s forehead was fading and had been powdered carefully to further conceal it. She smiled at Ike and asked about his well being. After they had eaten she gave Ike the small package he had been eying since she came down to his domicile. He unwrapped his gift and find several sheets of what looked to be very expensive stationary, an envelope, a pen, and a small bottle of ink.
“I have decided to fulfill your request to send a letter to your wife. I can imagine the joy it will bring her and your families to know that you are still alive. I know too well how it feels to have lost someone you love. Marcus can get your letter into the hands of one of the slaves that are continually slinking away and going north. It was his idea actually, but I agree that you have earned our gratitude and this is some small thing we can do. I do intend to read the letter and I do not expect you to be sending a message to the military revealing your situation.”
“That’s fine Ma’am. I appreciate that this might be difficult for you. It will be a comfort to Emma to know that I am still alive even if I can’t divulge the complete circumstances.” Ike said and decided to change the subject. “You’re looking well, I’m glad to see you recovering. I know it must have been awful for you.”
“Yes it was Mr. Lowery, but I believe the incident is just one more sign that you were sent here for a purpose. If you hadn’t been here, I might very well have been killed after suffering greatly from those beasts. You even kept the balance when you killed those two awful men. The two dead Yankees for the two poor youngsters they slaughtered. I have prayed long on these matters and am reassured you are here as a counterbalance for Todd. You and he are linked together…..do you see it?”
“I….suppose so. In some way there is a connection.” Ike replied with caution wondering just how many others George and Teddy must have killed. Part of him wanted to bring that to her attention, but he decided to wait until his letter had been written and delivered first.
“But can you not feel it, Mr. Lowery?” she said breathlessly, leaning toward him and searching his face as if she was looking for a sign.
For a moment Ike found himself wondering if there was really something to the woman’s delusion. After all, he was the one who had spent months in conversation with someone who wasn’t really there. Was her delusion any less believable?
As a way to change the subject Ike thought of a question he had been meaning to ask one of his captors. “What day is it? I am used to putting a date on correspondence and I have lost track of time since I have been here.”
Mrs. Pendleton had to think for a moment herself. “Wednesday, November 18 I believe.” She looked to Marcus for confirmation.
“Yas’m.” Marcus intoned.
The following day Ike devoted himself to writing his letter. He felt at a loss for words for a while and prayed for guidance. He found himself missing Johnny and his interjections. Finally the words started to come. He wrote them down as if he were in a trance. He had much he wanted to say, but didn’t want Mrs. Pendleton to have the satisfaction of seeing too far into his private life. He paid close attention to his handwriting and made sure not to let the pen drip and make blotches on this treasured missal. He was restrained in his expressions due to the knowledge that Micheline Pendleton would be reading every word. He let the ink dry, read it over one more time, folded the letter neatly and placed it i
n the envelope, which he had addressed so carefully. He sat staring at the address and thinking of home and the reaction the letter would cause. Try as he might, there were details of his life that he could not bring to mind. The message seemed too short and sterile to him, but he could think of nothing else to add. He wondered if the letter would really find its way North.
He read it over one last time. It seemed like a letter written by someone else, but it was the best he felt that he could do in his circumstances. He was reaching out to the one person he loved most in this world, but it seemed like she was in some other world so far from him. He pictured Emma’s expression when she drew the letter from its envelope. He held the treasured message in his hand and prayed that its words would bring comfort and hope. Try as he might he could not remember much of what he wrote after he put it in the envelope, he drew it out once more and read it.
Thursday, November 19, 1863
Dearest Emma,
Yes, I am still very much alive. I would expect by now that you might have heard that I was killed in a skirmish. While I was lost to my regiment and suffered a minor wound, I have had the good fortune to be rescued by others and while I can’t divulge the details, I am held captive by a more benign element of the confederacy and will be until the war ends, which I pray will be soon. I am being well cared for and my health is improving. My only suffering is that I am separated from you and our loved ones. I think of you constantly and pray that this letter finds you in good health.
Please relieve the anxiety of both our families by letting them know of my survival and robust health. I particularly want you to convey my thoughts to my poor aged Father. When he and I last parted company there was much unpleasantness, and while I am sorry for my part in it and have the greatest respect and affection for him my position has not changed. I look forward to seeing him again and amiably working out our differences. I fondly anticipate shaking his trembling old hand once more in friendship before he passes on.
Dearest one, my happiest memories are of time spent with you in our home. I often picture you on our porch with dear Freddy at your feet guarding you and our home with his characteristic loyalty. I dream of the time when I will walk back into our yard to see his noble head rise from his paws in recognition. I think often of our desire to start a family and pray we can do so in a more peaceful country, my circumstances for now give me time to reflect on how important family is and what a wonderful mother you will be.
Please pray for me, that I will have the strength to endure my exile. I pray that you will take comfort in knowing that the worst part of this ordeal is my separation from you. You are always in my most fervent of prayers and the anticipation of seeing you again is what makes this life endurable.
Your loving Husband,
Ike
Mrs. Pendleton read the letter that evening after supper and nodded approvingly. She stared at Ike for a long time. “I believe Marcus will get this into capable hands. He knows how to do many things well. I do not know what I would do without him.” She said looking distant.
“I take it that Marcus has been with you for a long time.” Ike said, trying not to seem as if he was prying.
“Marcus has looked out for me since I was a baby. He came with me here when Jasper and I married and looked after my sons as if they were his own.”
“Do you ever worry that he might run away?”
“You people from the north just don’t understand our Negroes. Marcus has always been more than just property, he is family. He will not leave me. He has had papers that said he was a free man for years, he was never technically a slave, but he insists on staying.”
Ike thought of the many slaves who had greeted the Union army as their liberators. He had heard stories of mistreatment that rivaled those in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”. What he heard the most was the simple desire of human beings to direct their own lives. He supposed that in his own way Marcus was using his freedom in the way he wished.
Life in the cellar returned to a routine of sleeping, exercising, eating, and reading. Ike looked longingly at the sky through the knothole in the cellar door. Mrs. Pendleton had informed him that the confederacy was still in control of this part of Mississippi and that the home guard kept a close watch on the area around her farm. He had been allowed to keep the clothing he took from Todd’s room on the night of the attack and wore it during the daytime as the weather became cooler.
Ike could hear the chimes of the clock in the kitchen above him. He had seen the clock when he was in the kitchen on the night of the attack and it reminded him of the clock that Emma had brought with her when they were married. He had paid attention to when the clock stuck and on sunny days he scratched marks on the first wooden step with the tines of his fork that marked the position of the bar of light from the crack in the door to correspond with the hours. Within days of his imprisonment he had improvised a primitive sundial and could tell the approximate time by the location of the beam. His treasured pocket watch had been damaged when he had plunged into a creek on a foray to try to find a short route to Corinth, Mississippi a few days before the attack at Pittsburgh Landing. He had mailed the watch back home in hopes that he could one day have it repaired. Emma had often chided him for being so obsessed with knowing what time it was. Time seemed to stand still sometimes during his stay in Mrs. Pendleton’s cellar and seeing the hours progress was reassuring. He told himself that every hour brought him closer to freedom.
He used one of the remaining sheets of writing paper to make a calendar. It had been May the 20th when Ike had first set foot on Micheline Pendleton’s property. He had spent six months of his life in this cellar. This was the longest span of time he had spent in one place since his childhood, and as it had been in childhood, the days seemed to stretch out forever. Having a calendar might make it seem longer, but something in Ike always wanted to know what time it was, and what day.
On clear nights he watched the stars through his small private portal. Orion strode across the sky in pursuit of game. The old hunter’s endless search reminded Ike of how he and his brother had watched the sky with their Pa when they were children. He hadn’t thought of Jimmy much since he had been in the cellar, and still could not remember his face or many details of their childhood, but seeing the same stars they had loved to watch as children brought back a lost memory of their childhood and re-opened the wound that had been gouged in his soul when Jimmy died back at Shiloh. Loneliness nearly overwhelmed him as he looked at that night sky. He mourned the loss of his brother and for the first time he was able to begin to mourn the loss of Johnny, who had become like a brother to him.
Ike sat looking up at the sky and thought back to the day Jimmy died. His brother’s face became more distinct to him as he recalled the last day he saw it.
The camp was just coming to life that morning. Bacon was frying, coffee was boiling, men were complaining about all the little things there are to complain about when you spend the night in the open with only a ground cloth and a wool blanket between your body and the ground. They had been ordered into line back on Friday and had stood, sat, or lain on the ground to sleep a little since then. Their pickets had been hearing noises and seeing movement in the woods and had claimed to have exchanged fire with Rebels just to their front. Ike would rather spend the day drilling and watching the woods and fields of Tennessee come to life as spring brought about its countless miracles than to remain in line waiting for an enemy that General Sherman and the rest of the high command seemed to believe was not there.
Ike had been to the latrine trench and was walking back to camp. Johnny had just stood up and was scratching his behind when they heard noises to their front. At first it sounded like children with firecrackers. One or two pops were followed by a sound like a large string had been set off. Then there was a ripping sound like someone was tearing heavy cloth. Then came the long roll of the regimental drum. Men grabbed their clothing, cartridge boxes and other things they would need to perform the duties the
y had been preparing for most of the previous year but never really expected to do in earnest. Men looked at each other with eyes that had been drowsy and half lidded moments before. White showed all around on most and everyone was quiet as they went about their preparations, even Johnny O’Donnell.
Jimmy was the last to make it into position, he had been long at the latrine. Sarge growled at him as he was dressing the line and went on. Ike heard his brother take a deep breath and looked his way in time to get a forced grin, a grin that he could now remember. “Well Ike, I think that elephant is about to arrive”
“Wish he’d waited until after breakfast.” Ike replied. Both were trying to get their spirits up.
“Stand up there O’Donnell!” Sarge barked at Johnny. “Oh, you are standing up, I forgot.” He said chuckling, trying to help relieve the tension by picking on Johnny.
“Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of death rode the six hundred.” Jimmy quoted the Tennyson poem that he and Ike had memorized. As if to punctuate his sentence three booms from artillery could be heard to their south.
“Cannon to the right of them, cannon to the left of them, cannon in front of them, volleyed and thundered!” Ike said quickly before Jimmy could respond.
Johnny stood between the Lowery brothers, looking first at Jimmy and then at Ike as they recited their lines of poetry. For once he was speechless, the only poem he had memorized started out “There once was a lady named Cager,” and somehow it didn’t seem appropriate so he squared his shoulders and looked forward and tried not to shake.
The Cellar Page 7
