Libbie

by Judy Alter

  * * *

  "Libbie?" A tentative, scared voice woke me from my sleep.

  "Mama? What is it?" Awakened suddenly in the night, anyone is subject to a quick flash of fear, and I sat upright in bed, clutching at my heart.

  "Your father," she said, poking a night-capped head around the door. "I'm afraid he's ill."

  "Have you sent for the doctor?"

  She gave me a pained look. "I've no one to send."

  I was too used to army life, where there were always soldiers available to run errands and do needed chores. A shake of the head brought me back to the reality of Monroe. "Of course. I'll go myself."

  "Libbie, you mustn't. It's three o'clock in the morning. Oh, if only Eliza were back."

  Throwing the covers aside, I thrust my feet into shoes. "She's not," I said, "and we must do what must be done. I'll go for Dr. Jameson. Let me see Papa a minute first, so that I know what to tell the doctor."

  Papa's color was bad, and though he tried to wave away my concern, I could tell that he was somewhat alarmed himself. He was suffering from both nausea and diarrhea, sometimes doubled with pains in his belly, though he tried to deny any pain in our presence.

  "Papa, I'll be right back with Dr. Jameson. You rest." My heart was in my throat as I spoke. Papa had been unwell for some time—just old age approaching, I thought—though this was different, a more acute illness that seemed to have struck him suddenly. Still, I thought a man of his age—sixty-eight years old—hardly had the strength to resist a major illness.

  Dr. Jameson, routed out of bed and hurried into his carriage by my impatience, confirmed my worst fears. "Cholera," he said. "We'll do the best we can."

  Mama wrung her hands and wept aloud, until I was forced to lead her from the room. For the next two days I lived on faith and black coffee, served by Betsy, who still worked for my family. Mama lived on air, as far as I could tell—air and sobs, until I wanted to hush her however I could. I longed for Autie but could not reach him, and the only word I had from him was the letter about the baroness and her low-cut, cleavage-revealing gown—hardly the reassurance I sought.

  Papa weakened each hour, and I spent long stretches sitting by his bedside, holding the thin hand that began to feel like tissue paper. Much of the time he slept, a restless sleep punctuated by deep gulps as he sought to catch his breath. I found myself more alarmed by his sleep than by his waking state.

  "Daughter," he said in the wee hours of one morning, "you have done well for yourself." He motioned for me to lean closer to him. "Armstrong is a good man. Follow him wherever he goes, for he'll take care of you. Forget yourself. And remember, he is a born soldier."

  "Yes, Papa," I whispered.

  Those were the last words I heard from my father, for he died at dawn that morning. I knew he was gone, and yet I sat by his bed, still holding that limp hand, for more than an hour. The strange thought came to me that I had lost the one person in the world who would take care of me. I remembered what Papa said about Autie taking care of me, and yet the thought lingered and left a feeling of desperation hidden in the back of my mind. At long last, I went to waken Mama and tell her the news.

  Autie made it to Monroe in time for the funeral, and he was kindness itself. "Libbie, I can't believe you had to endure this without me. I should have been by your side."

  Truthfully, I replied, "I wished for you many times, Autie. And Papa... he spoke of you."

  He slapped his hand hard against his forehead. "I should have known.... I should have sensed that you needed me." Autie had long had a belief in mystical communication between us, though it had never yet been tried. Now, tested, it had failed dismally.

  "Autie," I said, reaching a hand for him, "you would have been here if you could. That is enough for me." I told him neither about my strange feeling when Papa died nor about Papa's last words to me. Though I wondered why I kept silent.

  Papa's funeral was large, with dignitaries from all over Michigan and plain folk from Monroe coming to pay their last respects. Mama and I greeted the mourners afterward at the house on Monroe Street, and I thought perhaps I should never sit down again, never stop smiling and saying, "We appreciate your kindness." Mama bore up as well as she could, but not being strong, she was given to fits of weeping, which discomforted those who had come to offer their sympathy. Twice I caught Autie's eye and had him lead her aside until she recovered herself.

  There was the matter of the will, a matter that neither Autie nor I wished to bring up between ourselves, given the unpleasantness of our earlier conversation about it. As I predicted, there was no money save the bit set aside to draw interest and provide for Mama. I was left owner of a house on Monroe Street in which I knew we would not live.

  "Libbie, you mustn't wear that black!" Autie swept me into his arms. "It depresses you even more to dress in mourning. Please... for my sake... wear your everyday clothes."

  I remembered the trauma of wearing mourning for my mother and instantly agreed with Autie, though a time or two I thought I saw townsfolk frowning at my conservative brown or blue or gray outfits.

  "What others think is no matter, Libbie," Autie counseled. "We know you mourn for your father, and we know he wouldn't want you to be any more unhappy than necessary."

  I lifted my chin and walked proudly beside him through the town.

  Somewhat to my discomfort, Autie became a less cautious lover once the threat of Papa hearing us was removed. We were still in the guest room—we could hardly budge Mama out of the parental suite so quickly—but Autie made light now of the gulf between our beds.

  "I think I'll take the Mexico offer," he said one night while I lay with my head on his chest, still spent from our lovemaking. "What with your father gone and your having no security, I've got to have an income!"

  I sat upright. "Autie, I can't follow you to Mexico!"

  "I know, my love, but it would not be for long. Sheridan thinks it could be accomplished in six months."

  "Six months!" I wailed. "Autie, I was barely able to stand two weeks in Monroe without you."

  "You'll appreciate me all the more when I return," he said wickedly.

  Papa's words returned to me. "Forget yourself. He is born to be a soldier."

  "If you think it's best," I said softly, but inwardly, Papa or no, I rebelled in anger.

  Within days Autie told me that General Grant and Secretary of War Stanton had both written their approval of his temporary appointment in Mexico, and it seemed as though we should be preparing for a year's absence from the regular U.S. Army. I began to think in terms of a year in Austin, as close to Mexico as I thought I dared go.

  But then one day Autie came home from the post office with a defeated look. "Seward has refused my application for a year's leave of absence. Even that would offend France—since I'm still officially an officer in the army. He's told me he'd grant any other reasonable request for me."

  I saw Autie's disappointment, and I hurt for him, but I was also relieved. What I didn't see was that Autie was already pondering the latitude covered by "any reasonable request."

  My relief was short-lived, and my concern soon took another turn. Autie was invited to take a "swing around the circle" with President Andrew Johnson as he made a whistle-stop campaign for his policy of appeasement toward the South.

  "Autie, you can't!" I cried. "You have always supported Reconstruction. I know you've said we should not give the vote to those who did not support the Union cause."

  "No... Libbie, I meant we should punish those northerners who did not support us, even put obstacles in our way. I think we must consider clemency to those who opposed us in good faith, or this country will be at war again."

  I could not believe that war could come again—the South could not possibly fight—and the whole argument did not sound like Autie to me, though I knew he still valued some of his southern schoolmates from West Point. Perhaps that explained his new, lenient attitude, though somehow I doubted it.

  "Besides
, Libbie, it's politically sound for me...."

  "You've sworn off a career in politics, said it wasn't for you," I reminded him, and held my breath, for I thought politics the most dangerous and uncertain of arenas, far worse than the army. And I could see that building a political career might doom us to years in Monroe, when my feet itched to be gone on new adventures.

  "Libbie"—his voice was cold—"I'll handle my own career."

  We parted on that unfriendly note, he to join the President, who was beginning his tour in New York State. After several stops in New York and Ohio, the presidential train backed off the main line onto the spur leading to Monroe, and Autie, with great pride, introduced President Johnson to our own community. I stood in the audience, swelled with glory for him, and thinking perhaps I had been wrong about this tour. Then, from nowhere, came a raucous cry.

  "Custer! You got that commission yet? Isn't that what you're on this train for?"

  Autie, with superb control, ignored the heckler and went on with his introduction of Johnson, though I, standing close to him, could see the muscles in his cheek twitch. I was reminded of the former Confederates who had heckled us at the small hotel in Texas, and of Autie's refusal to sink to their level. Apparently the same control was going to carry him through now.

  The crowd heard Johnson politely, though without distinct enthusiasm—the wounds of the war ran deep in Monroe, as in other cities, and forgiveness could not easily be given that soon. But The Monroe Commercial, an admittedly radical paper, was less polite, calling Autie an egotist and accusing him of fawning to receive a commission:

  The President was marshaling his forces in opposition to the policy of Reconstruction, which General Custer had declared to be the right one, and needed every man he could get. A set of political demagogues flattered General Custer that by going into support of "my policy" he could either get the nomination for Congress in this district, or secure a promotion in the army. Either the bait was too strong for the general; or the general was too weak for the bait;... the general ungloriously yielded, and we now find him doing all in his power to prevent just what he declared under oath ought to be done.

  "Blast and damn!" Autie exploded when he read the paper in our compartment on the train, for I had joined the presidential party and was to continue on to Chicago and back to Washington with them. "Some yellow-bellied reporter who knows nothing of war dares to criticize my position! I spoke for Reconstruction before I had spent time in the South." He grew red in anger, and I thought it a blessing the yellow-bellied reporter was not in front of him at that moment.

  The tour continued that way, with respectful crowds in Detroit, but wild and rowdy hecklers in Chicago, St. Louis, Terre Haute, and Louisville. The President, his patience worn to a nub, often made the mistake of trying to answer these radicals.

  Autie slumped in the chair in our compartment. "Johnson should know better. You cannot argue with irrational people. He ought to just keep quiet."

  Rising from the bunk where I sat in our cramped quarters, I went to stroke his head and said, gently, "Politics is not for us, Autie. It's too brutal."

  He pulled back the curtain and watched the Ohio landscape speeding by for a long, silent moment. Then, pressing my hand to his mouth, he said, "You're right, Libbie. We'll leave the train at Steubenville."

  "And then what, Autie? You still have no position, and we have no income." Despair crept into my voice, much as I wanted to be supportive.

  With a triumphant grin he rose, dug his hand into his breast pocket, and unfurled before me a commission in the United States Regular Army for Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer. "Do you remember that it was my policy never to comment on political matters as a soldier, and therefore a paid employee, of the government? It is by far the safer policy, and I shall never again abandon it all the length of my days."

  I smiled. "That's a long promise, Autie. Perhaps you should make one you're more likely to keep." But my mind was whirling—Autie did have the commission. How long had he had it? Was there—no, I could not bear to think it—was there a hint of truth in the charge of fawning? I never asked how he came by that commission.

  Late that night Autie whispered, "Custer's Luck protects us again, Libbie. You are happy to be going on assignment, aren't you?"

  "Yes," I answered, "I guess I am. But I'll reserve the full answer until I see where your assignment is."

  He was first posted to Fort Garland, and diligently prowling over the map, he finally discovered the fort in the space given over to the Rocky Mountains. "There'll be deer... and trout fishing." Autie began to wax eloquent at the prospect of a veritable hunter's paradise. I, who cared nothing for fishing and was still afraid of guns, found that my veins didn't bound as his did at the prospect. To me Fort Garland meant a small, obscure post several hundred miles from any railroad, with only a handful of men to command, and little prospect of an active campaign, for the Indian troubles were another world away from this remote post. I thought the latter a mixed blessing. I feared Indians more than I had any Rebel mini ball that might have cut down my husband, but I also knew that he thrived on action and grew testy and unpleasant with inaction.

  Before we could come to grips with the good and the bad of this assignment, Autie received new orders to Fort Riley, a good-sized, well-established post in Kansas, with the Kansas Pacific Railroad tracks no more than ten miles away. I breathed an enormous sigh of relief.

  Mama was beside herself with grief that we would be leaving. She had visibly shrunk since Papa's death—I swear she'd lost an inch and a half in height—and she seemed incapable of making any decisions.

  "Miss Libbie, what are we to have for dinner?" Betsy would appear before me with a quizzical expression on her face.

  "Why, I don't know, Betsy. Did you ask Mama?"

  "I most certainly did"—her head would bob emphatically—"and she just shook her head. I wasn't sure she even knew what I was talking about."

  "What can you fix easily from what's on hand?" I asked, and we settled the menu in those practical terms.

  In the days following Papa's death, I had taken charge—cleaning out his desk and closet, dealing with bankers and lawyers, doing what I knew needed to be done, because Mama seemed too uncertain. Struck down with grief, I thought. But now Papa had been gone more than six months, and she showed no recovery.

  "I cannot leave her," I told Autie.

  "Do you intend to stay behind when I go to Riley?" he asked coldly.

  "No... no, not for anything!" My voice rose passionately, for I was terrified at the thought of being left in Monroe to wither. "But what shall I do?"

  In the end we sent Mama to a sister in Ohio and closed the house on Monroe Street, a task that was bittersweet for me, made more so by the memory of this house closed once before, years ago, and of a young girl who'd escaped her prison to build a fire in the fireplace... and the young man with long blond curls who had rescued her.

  Tom was a more thorny problem. As Autie and I sorted through pots and pans in Mama's kitchen one day, I finally gave vent to my exasperation. "Autie, Tom must stop this disgraceful behavior!"

  He sat on the floor, stretching his arm into the far reaches of a cabinet. "What disgraceful behavior? Carrying on with the Widow McAnally? Libbie, do you want to take these pots with us?"

  "Of course I mean Lydia McAnally. The whole town's talking.... Autie, you know she expects him to marry her."

  "Tom's only a boy, barely twenty-one. Tom isn't going to marry anyone. Now, Libbie, about this cast-iron skillet..."

  "Bother the skillet, Autie! Tom is disgracing the family, running around with that woman.... She's thirty if she's a day, older than you and me."

  "They say older women are good for young men," Autie said softly, a wicked grin appearing. "Of course, I wouldn't know...."

  "Autie!"

  "All right, Libbie, I give in. I'll speak to Tom, though precious little good that will do. What if Tom had spoken to me about the impropriety
of my courting Judge Bacon's daughter?"

  "That was entirely different, and you know it." I stamped my foot in impatience with his attitude.

  "Libbie, you don't like Mrs. McAnally, do you?"

  I bent my head, searching through a drawer of napkins. "She reminds me of Fanny Fifeld."

  He was across the room in a flash, scattering pots and pans with his leap. "Aha! I knew it! You're jealous of her!"

  "Tom is our younger brother," I said righteously, "and I feel honor bound to look after his welfare."

  "Of course," Autie said, smiling knowingly at me.

  I swatted him with a cup towel and went back to my sorting. In the end we simply closed the house on Monroe and left the pots and pans in their places, figuring that transporting them was more trouble than buying new when we got to Kansas.

  "Can we afford that?" I asked.

  "Libbie, I'm a lieutenant colonel," was the answer.

  Eliza returned from her "Ole Missus" to accompany us, along with Diana, a pretty Monroe girl whom we took to brighten our lives and those of the officers at Fort Riley. It had not been easy to find a girl whose mother would let her accompany us. One mother had looked right at me and said, "Why, Libbie, she might marry an officer!" and another whispered behind my back until I was sure she was saying, "Look at Libbie's skin. It is hopelessly darkened and thickened by exposure. I shall not let my daughter suffer the same fate!"

  But Diana's mother had consented to let her go with us, Diana of the bright eye and curling hair, who talked delightedly of going among the "brass buttons and epaulets." She would, we knew, beautify our quarters more than all the bric-a-brac we were leaving behind on Monroe Street.

  Once again we left Monroe by train, this time headed to St. Louis.