Mattie was tired, too; and as outraged as he. ‘The men, you mean?’ she asked, remarkably calmly.
His already perilously empurpled face darkened further. ‘Who else, child?’ Even in her anger Mattie could not resist a certain helpless amusement that in the past few moments she had regressed from a young woman to a girl and now back into childhood. ‘What would you have? A world run by petticoats and poke bonnets? Tell me this, girl –’ his hand shot out again, a finger pointing to where the pearl of dawn showed through the window ‘ – can you till that land? Can you handle those field hands? Could you take up rifle and sword to defend your rights? To defend your life and the lives of your children? Pah! Of course not!’
‘That doesn’t mean I can’t think,’ she said, not unreasonably.
‘Think? Think? Satan’s whiskers! There isn’t a woman I know who doesn’t think with her – with her –’ he caught himself, shaking his head ‘– with her heart. Charmin’ I’m sure, an’ God bless the ladies for it. But it’s no good in this hard world, young Mrs Sherwood. No good at all. You just get yourself a batch of children and spend your time bringin’ ’em up. That’ll keep you occupied.’
‘And in my place,’ she supplied, smoothly.
‘And in your place,’ he agreed, placid now, and sure of himself. ‘The place where you belong; the place where you’ll be happy. What more can God give you?’
She opened her mouth. Closed it again.
‘Nothin’ to say?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve something to say.’
He contemplated her with repressive gaze. Only the faint twitch of his mouth indicated, infuriatingly, that tired anger had demonstrably slid into equally tired mirth. ‘I had a feelin’ you might have. Go on, then, Mrs Sherwood. Fire away. Don’t let an old man’s sensibilities stop you.’
Mattie gritted her teeth.
He laughed outright then, by no means unkindly. ‘Go to bed, my dear. You’re exhausted. Joshua –’ he jerked his head towards the door of the library ‘– old Logan must have nodded off. Go wake him up and open that danged bottle.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Impassively Joshua moved towards the study door.
Doctor Morrison bowed courteously to Mattie, eyes still twinkling with laughter. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Sherwood. Sleep well.’
She watched him almost to the door before she found her breath and her tongue. ‘Doctor Morrison?’
He turned, waiting. Joshua, his hand on the doorknob, waited too, watching her with suddenly disconcertingly interested eyes.
‘It seems to me a very great pity,’ Mattie said, with stubborn calm and clarity, ‘that a man of such sensitivity and intelligence should hold such barbarous views. And I say again; you’re wrong to treat Robert so.’
There was a moment’s fragile silence. The little man stood, tired, dishevelled and thoughtful, watching her. ‘There is the remote possibility, Mrs Sherwood, that you could be right on both points,’ he said at last. ‘But don’t take heart from that, my dear. As soon try to teach that scruffy hound of yours to be a scented lapdog as try to change the ways of a stubborn old fox like me. To say nothin’ of takin’ on the world. We like things the way they are.’
‘That doesn’t mean that things won’t change.’
‘No. It doesn’t. But we’re sure ready to fight like hell to make certain they don’t.’ He nodded affably. Joshua pushed open the door. Beyond them Logan Sherwood was seated in an armchair, nodding. As the door opened, he woke like a big, raw-boned cat, lithe on his feet. He held out a hand, his greeting lost as the door closed behind them.
Mattie stood alone in the big hall, fighting exhaustion and contemplating the firmly shut door. ‘I’d noticed,’ she told it, drily. ‘I had noticed.’ And turned to meet Joshua’s eyes, in which for a fleeting moment she thought she detected something close to a gleam of subversive laughter.
* * *
Cissy’s convalescence was long, slow, and trying for all concerned. The first week or so was the easiest time; she was too weak, too sleepy, to be any trouble at all. At the lift of a finger she was calmed, cosseted, soothed to quiet. Later, things became more difficult.
‘You-all tryin’ to poison me?’ Pettishly she pushed Prudence’s lovingly made, nourishing broth from her, slopping it over the bedclothes. ‘Tastes like the water the dishes were washed in! Mattie, for goodness’ sake! Can’t you do better than this?’
‘It’s what Doctor Morrison recommended –’
‘Oh, for cat’s sake! Doc Morrison? What does he know? Mattie – Mattie! – get me somethin’ nice? – somethin’ I could fancy?’
‘What do you fancy, Cissy? What can we get you?’
The thin face, surmounted by its cloud of silver-blonde hair, had taken on the haunting beauty of a fairy child’s. ‘I don’t know. How do I know? I’m too ill to think of such things. Liddie, let me have some of the medicine that stupid man left. Yes, that one. No, you silly fool – the blue bottle. That’s it. Oh, Mattie – Mattie! – when will Will come? He’s comin’, isn’t he? Robert said he’d come.’ She pulled restlessly at the stained bedcover.
Mattie took the thin hand, stopping its feverish movement. ‘No, my dear. Robert said he’d written to tell him what had happened. Robert said he’d come if he could. And he will, of course he will. But, Cissy, no-one knows when he’ll be able to come. There are – things happening – Will isn’t a free agent.’ She shied from telling the sick child that all the signs were that the battle of which everyone had spoken with such certainty, towards which everyone had looked with such determinedly convinced optimism, was about to take place. Even less could she tell her that the news that had begun to filter through from Virginia was less than reassuring. The Federal army was on the move towards Richmond. A number of relatively small but strategically important engagements had taken place, and in most of them the honours had gone to the North. The situation was, by any measure, a strange one. Two inexperienced armies were mustering against each other; in one, the lowest bugle boy obstinately expected his democratic rights to be observed, and reserved his right to be regarded as an equal to any leather-booted colonel when it came to the giving and the taking of orders. In the other, an able officer would find it difficult to impose discipline upon young men who had little time for, or experience of, such restraint and who, in that other life, so soon to be resumed, held higher social station than his own. The crucible of battle had not yet done its work; Northern columns broke to pick berries and to swim in a calm pool, Southerners at a reckless whim would put their horses to the highest fences, drop out from line with no thought to visit cousins and the cousins of cousins. But the feeling was abroad that an accounting was imminent. ‘He’ll come when he can, Cissy,’ Mattie reassured the fretful girl. ‘He’ll come when he can.’
He came with a bare twelve hours to spare with them. ‘The Colonel said he’d have my hide if I was longer. Cissy – Cissy darlin’, just look at you – you’re skin and bone!’
‘She’s looking much better,’ Mattie said, cheerfully. ‘If she would just eat a little more –’
‘Cissy, sweetheart, I can’t stay. Truly I can’t. But I’ll be back. I promise I will. Soon, and for a proper stay.’ Will left his weeping child-wife with tears in his own eyes. ‘Mattie – God, but she looks so poorly!’
‘She’ll be all right, Will. Leave her to us. You look after yourself and the others. We’ll take care of Cissy for you.’ Mattie hesitated. ‘Is it true? Is there a battle coming?’
‘Sure looks that way.’ Will swung into the saddle. His horse, well rested and fed, danced in a tight, excited circle, anxious to be gone. Mattie could not help but feel that the animal was doing nothing but reflecting her rider’s own impatience to be away, despite Will’s genuine concern for his young wife. There was a high-strung and expectant edge to the man; his thoughts as he saluted her were patently already elsewhere. ‘Will, give my love to Johnny,’ she called as he left, but was far from sure he had heard her.
Five days lat
er, by a stream called Bull Run near the town of Manassass, the Creole General Beauregard’s green Southerners opposed an equally inexperienced Federal army led by Beauregard’s old West Point classmate General Irvin McDowell in an attempt to prevent a Federal march south and an attack on Richmond. The site was less than thirty miles from Washington, and the politicians and socialites of that city rode gaily to the heights about the battlefield on horseback or in buggies and gigs, their picnics stowed safely beneath the seats, the ladies’ fair skins well protected beneath parasols or fringed canopies, to watch the fun. This, after all, would be their only chance to see the arrogant Rebels taught the lesson they so richly deserved.
The gods of war, however, decreed otherwise.
In a battle notable more for confusion and chaos than for strategy and discipline, for singular and independent displays of courage than ordered tactical successes, it was, in the end, the Confederacy that took the day; though not before coming heart-stoppingly close to losing it. It was a day upon which reputations were made, and lost, and a famous nickname bestowed; it was the Georgian General Bee, leading his men on his own authority into the fiercest and most perilous of the fighting, who observed the staunch defence being put up by General T.J. Jackson and his Virginians. ‘There’s Jackson, boys, standing like a stone wall! Let us determine to die here, and we’ll conquer!’ And die, indeed, he did, whilst the name he had unwittingly bestowed lived on.
It was, too, on that day, at the turning point of battle, when a Federal army that had so nearly broken through the grey lines of the South was itself broken and scattered in panic that the savage, keening sound that became known as the Rebel Yell was first heard. ‘Yell like furies!’ Jackson had told his men and, like hounds baying at the heels of the quarry, they did; a sound to haunt the nightmares of those that fled the bloody field in disorder and defeat, overrunning the civilian gigs and carriages as they went. And as a drizzling darkness closed upon that field and the inevitable grim accounting was taken, the scales of pride and of victory were weighted for the South. The numbers of dead were relatively light; three hundred and eighty-seven Confederates had given their lives against four hundred and eighty-one Federal troops. Despite the Southern victory, her wounded outnumbered the enemy’s, fifteen hundred to eleven hundred. It was, however, in the number of prisoners taken that the greatest triumph lay. No less than fifteen hundred Yankees had thrown down their arms and surrendered; the number of missing Confederates was eight, and no-one believed for an instant that a single one of them had been taken anything but fighting. In Richmond that night, and in the South itself in the next few days as the news spread, there was joy and relief; independence was assured. The war was won.
* * *
News of Bull Run came to Pleasant Hill on the day following the battle, and it was Doctor Morrison, paying one of his regular visits to check up on his patient, who brought it. Mattie read the news to Cissy from the paper that the doctor had given her. Still frail and fractious, Cissy could see the news in nothing but a personal light.
‘Does it mean that Will and the others will come home? Does it mean we can stop all this silly war talk and doing without things and go back to normal?’
Mattie had noticed months before that all Cissy’s bold enthusiasm for the war had evaporated speedily once Will and the others had left and boredom and loneliness had set in. Now it seemed that the girl had lost her taste for it altogether. ‘Perhaps.’ She did not think it helpful to share her own worry, that the casualty lists had not yet come through to Macon, and that this victory, great and welcome though it was, would bring sorrow and bereavement to some. Try as she might, she could not rid herself of the thought of Johnny dead or dying upon the field at Manassass. Knowing him, knowing them all, she could not but believe they would have been in the thick of the fighting.
The first lists came through the following day. Logan Sherwood himself, accompanied by Joshua, made the trip into town, and came back sombre but openly relieved. ‘Young Morrison’s gone. An’ both Dickson boys are hurt bad. But our lads seem to be safe.’
‘Well, of co’se they’re safe!’ Cissy, much encouraged at the thought of the menfolk of the house coming home, had made considerable improvement over the past twenty-four hours and sat tucked into a rocking chair on the front porch. She looked fragile as glass and very beautiful in a day dress of pale silk. The air was hot and almost unbearably humid. Beside Cissy, upon a low stool sat Liddie, stoically patient, fanning her mistress with a large palmetto fan. ‘What would you expect?’ Her eyes, unnaturally large and bright, shone with excitement. ‘My, what times they must have had! I’ll just bet they were the bravest!’
‘Morrison?’ Mattie asked. ‘Howard Morrison? The doctor’s son?’
‘Yes.’ Logan Sherwood sat heavily upon a sturdy chair. ‘Whisky, Sol.’
‘Yes, Sir, Mister Logan.’
‘But – that’s awful –’
‘Yes.’ The big man leaned back, the shock of his long white hair bright against dark cushions. He rubbed the back of a brown hand thoughtfully against a tanned cheek.
Mattie watched him. In the trees beyond the clearing the crickets chirped in monotonous harmony.
‘When do you think they’ll be home?’ Cissy smoothed the flimsy silk of her skirt, little hands restless as ever. ‘Will it take them long, do you think? If the war’s over, there’s nothin’ to stop them –’
‘The war isn’t over, Cissy.’ Logan Sherwood stood and walked to the balcony rail. The summer screening had been put in place. The world beyond it was drawn in soft focus, smudged and shadowed. ‘At least the Yankees don’t think it is.’
‘You mean – ?’ Cissy’s mouth set in a familiar line. ‘You mean they won’t be coming home? You mean this – this stupid business is goin’ to go on?’
‘’Fraid so.’ Logan took the glass that Sol had proffered on a tray and took a long, slow mouthful, his back to the two young women.
‘How very vexin’.’ Cissy’s voice was small; miserable.
Mattie felt an unbidden surge of sympathy. She reached to take the other girl’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, Cissy. It won’t be for long.’
Cissy suffered her hand to be held for the very briefest of moments before extricating it. ‘Any time’s too long. Liddie, what are you about? Isn’t it time for my medicine?’
‘Not yet, Miss Cissy. Not till bedtime.’
‘Don’t be such a fool, girl. Four times a day, Doctor Morrison said. Can’t you count? Go get it, at once.’
‘Yes, Miss Cissy.’
Logan Sherwood turned. ‘My hat, Sol. There’s work to do. I’ve time to check on that field down by the brakes. Tell them to bring Dancer round.’ Most of the Sherwood horses, together with some of the mules, had been, with no small heart-wrenching, surrendered to the Confederate army. Only Dancer, Logan Sherwood’s own big black stallion, was still safe in the stables, kept company by one old mule, a couple of workhorses and one ageing carriage horse.
‘Yes, Sir, Mister Logan.’
Mattie searched her father-in-law’s face. ‘Mr Sherwood? There – there isn’t anything else?’
He hesitated for a telling moment; realizing it, he nodded. ‘Bram Taylor’s missing,’ he said, flatly. ‘It seems pretty sure he’s dead.’
Mattie said nothing at all.
‘Liddie!’ Cissy called, her voice strengthened by petulant exasperation. ‘Where’s my medicine?’
* * *
It was a couple of weeks later, six or seven days into the enervating heat of August, that Shake appeared, mounted upon a Sherwood horse, skirling up the drive in an ostentatious and unnecessary display of red dust, well aware of and well pleased with the drama of the occasion. He brought with him letters, messages and news. The Sherwood brothers were indeed safe. Will and Johnny had both been offered commissions in other regiments, which they had turned down in favour of staying together, and Russ had been threatened with a court martial for seducing a brigadier’s daughter. Questioned
about the battle, Shake averted his eyes and became a little less loquacious. The young masters would want to tell their own stories. It had all been very noisy, very confusing.
‘Will thinks he’ll be able to come home for a while,’ Cissy announced, perusing her letter. ‘At the end of August. For a whole month, he says.’
‘Good.’ Logan Sherwood was crisp. ‘That’s just when I could do with an extra pair of hands.’
* * *
Will arrived unexpectedly, well and in good spirits, just a couple of weeks later, his furlough having been brought forward for compassionate reasons. He looked leaner, somehow tougher, than when they had last seen him, and his skin was tanned to the colour of mahogany. The uniform that had been so smart and elegant when he had left Pleasant Hill showed some signs of wear. He took the steps of the porch two at a time, made straight for the little figure of his wife, picking her from her feet and spinning her dizzily around, her skirts flying free in the air. Logan watched, smiling. The hands gathered, talking excitedly.
‘Will! Will!’ Cissy was beside herself with excitement. ‘What are you doing here? We weren’t expecting you for at least another two weeks!’
‘Couldn’t wait to see my sweetheart.’ Will kissed her soundly, as the onlookers cheered, and then set her upon her feet, to turn to his father and brother, big hand outstretched. ‘Pa. Robert. How’re things?’
They trooped indoors, Will sweeping off his battered plumed hat and using it to beat the red dust of his journey from his clothes. ‘Joshua! Good to see you!’ Grinning, he clouted the tall, smiling man on the shoulder. ‘You still growin’, boy? I swear you get bigger every time I see you! You still courtin’ that little gal over at Brightwell’s place?’ Joshua smiled a little and shook his head, but Will was looking around, smiling still, enquiring, ‘Where’s Johnny? That son of a gun still in bed or what? He sure swore he was goin’ to sleep for a week.’
Freedom's Banner Page 17
