Sarah's Ground (9781439115855)

by Rinaldi, Ann

  Suppose they find out I am only eighteen? Will they think me dishonest? Will they put me in jail? What rule have I broken this time?

  Oh, I mustn’t think of that. Miss Cunningham says I remind her of her daughter. We had a high tea in Willard’s ladies’ tearoom. The waitress whispered that a colored woman came to the hotel this morning who is named Elizabeth Keckley. And she is to be a dressmaker for Mrs. Lincoln. She came at the behest of a Miss Whitney from New York, to take that lady’s measurements.

  Oh, it’s exciting being here.

  Miss Cunningham asked me what I think of Mr. Lincoln. It was part of the interview. What do I think of him? Why, I hadn’t really given him much thought yet, though I think he will be a good man. He seems honest enough, I told her. And humble. And then I gave her the proper answer, the one I knew she wanted to hear.

  “I have no feelings one way or the other,” I told her. “I have vowed to remain neutral in the coming fray.”

  She was pleased. Don’t forget, I told myself, she is a Southerner. For the moment, of course, I knew I was violating one of Miss Semple’s commandments, which is never to give an opinion just to please somebody. But oh, I did want the job. But right or wrong, I really do not have an opinion of Mr. Lincoln. How could I? He came to us from the wild middle states and nobody knows him. He is a stranger amongst us.

  Then she said she had one more question and we would be finished. But I never found out what that question was. Because at that moment there was a commotion in the room. Whisperings, which quickly became an excited buzz.

  All started by the waitress. “Oh dear,” said one young woman, who let her cup clatter into her saucer. She looked at us and said loudly, “The waitress says Virginia has seceded! Oh, we are from Virginia. We must go home! Where is my husband? Oh, I am in a foreign country!”

  And she knocked her teacup off the table in her rush to stand.

  I went to help her. She looked about to faint. I succeeded in quieting her. There were tears in her eyes. “I no longer belong here now,” she said sadly. “Oh, I have never been to a foreign country!”

  When I got back to our table, Miss Cunningham looked at me. “I suppose I don’t belong here either,” she said. “We will leave first thing tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I asked.

  “We must shop first. So many things are needed for the house. Why, it doesn’t even have kitchen utensils! And we need curtains for the parlor and library. I was thinking red. What do you think, dear?”

  “Curtains?” I was starting to sound like the village idiot. Shop? Virginia had just seceded and people would be wild on the streets outside, and this lady wanted to shop for red curtains!

  And then I pulled myself together and looked the problem in the eye. Miss Semple would have been proud of me. “Of course,” I said, “I think red will be fine.”

  You could see the flowering Judas trees along the riverbanks from the street outside, and because it was spring, there were vendors selling fresh shad from wagons. Everywhere you looked there were soldiers and people scurrying to and fro. Newspaper boys shouted the headlines about Virginia seceding, so the papers must have printed extra editions. There seemed to be a buzz of excitement on the street. The militia was drilling in open spaces. A man in ragged clothes was playing “Listen to the Mockingbird” on a flute. Everything had about it a sense of unreality.

  I wondered if people would take Miss Cunningham for a South Carolinian because of her accent. I worried for her. Then I saw two baggage wagons, piled high with trunks and boxes, rumbling through the street. “Virginians are already leaving,” Miss Cunningham said. But she was not worried.

  With a hand wearing a white kid glove she hailed a hack and we got in. She knew where to go. Our trip took us past the Capitol park, where the horse chestnut blossoms gave out a fragrance, where more militia drilled and regiments of soldiers lounged around on the grass as if no one had ever heard the word secession. Another regiment, whose banner said RHODE ISLAND, was watching a wedding.

  “The Star wrote about it,” our driver said, slowing down to get a good look. “Says the bride refused to be left at home and came along with the regiment, so they’re getting hitched.”

  The girl wore a cherry-colored satin blouse, blue pants like the rest of the regiment, and a felt hat turned up on one side with a white plume.

  “The world has gone mad,” Miss Cunningham said. “Driver, take the next left. The shop I want is right down that street.”

  The shop had a lot of wares on the walk outside. Some people were buying with a haste that bespoke panic, as if there would be no more goods left when this day was over. We found the red curtains we wanted, and the kitchen utensils, and then Miss Cunningham got some worsted fabric, and the owner told us the store down the street was selling Brussels carpets for a dollar a yard and ingrain carpeting at seventy-five cents. So we went down the street, and she ordered the carpets and had them shipped to Mount Vernon.

  “Immediately,” she said, “lest traffic become dangerous on the river. Or they stop the boat to Mount Vernon.”

  There was about the whole affair an air of Christmas. We shopped all afternoon, taking the smaller items with us. To think that I’m shopping for Mr. Washington’s home, I thought. And still I could not believe it.

  On the way back to our hotel our driver told us that if we had a spyglass, we would be able to see the Confederate flag. He pointed across the river to Virginia. “On top of a tavern in Alexandria.”

  When we got back to Willard’s on Fourteenth Street, we found it becoming crowded. Uniformed attendants were busily welcoming guests, helping people out of hacks, grabbing portmanteaus. The slaves of the planters who had come for political reasons were waiting outside on the sidewalk. Bewhiskered, loudmouthed men and soldiers were all over the lobby.

  It was late and we were glad to get back, and after bringing our purchases upstairs in the hotel, Miss Cunningham found we were just in time for the seven thirty tea, which wasn’t a tea at all but boasted such delicacies as fried oysters, pâté de foie gras, blancmange, and dessert. The hotel was really filling up now.

  “There will be many an agreement made over juleps in the bar this day,” our waiter told us.

  From my bed this night all I heard was the tread of men marching and the sound of fifes and drums. The moon made a white light on the Potomac. We’d heard that on the Virginia shore Southern regiments were establishing outposts.

  And today we’d bought kitchen knives, a sieve, and a rolling pin for George Washington’s kitchen.

  “It is to be a place of neutral feeling, Mount Vernon,” Miss Cunningham had told me at supper. I didn’t think there was an ounce of neutral feeling anywhere in the Federal City, or anywhere this night. Under me I thought I felt the earth move.

  I slept.

  Three

  Somehow the next morning we managed to get out of Washington. After breakfast, which included steak and onions as well as more fried oysters, we hailed another hack and piled our purchases in it. The attendants and clerks in the hotel were so filled up with themselves and their own importance in the crisis, you would think they had voted for secession of Virginia. They paid no mind to two ladies with packages. They obliged the important-looking gentlemen first.

  But we got into our hack and made our way through the turmoil that was on the streets to the Sixth Street Wharf, to get the boat for Mount Vernon. There was a considerable tie-up in traffic right around the unfinished Washington Monument.

  “What has happened?” Miss Cunningham asked the driver.

  By now we had both figured out that hack drivers know more than Congress.

  “Cattle fell into the canal,” he said.

  “Cattle?” I asked.

  “The government had a whole herd grazing around the monument. They’re to feed the army. Something frightened them. Maybe a stray dog, and they made for the water. Had to be fished out. Some drowned.”

  Now the cattle were being herded through t
he streets, apparently ahead of us. So we didn’t get to the wharf until noon, and the morning boat had already left. We had to wait two hours for the next one, but Miss Cunningham wouldn’t leave. She paid a small Nigra boy to guard our possessions on the wharf, then we made our way to an enchanting park nearby and sat down under some trees. A vendor came by with ices and we bought some.

  Soon the park began to fill up with soldiers, detoured in their journey as we had been. Within a short time they gave an impromptu regimental concert, and visitors wandered over to sit on the grass and listen. Young women flirted with the soldiers, children ran amongst them, and it soon became a grand celebration. Some of the men had a great cast-iron gun that they fired at targets in the river. Everyone became very excited. On the heels of all that came a group of women handing out coffee and cake to the soldiers, and I was able to buy some for us.

  “It’s like a holiday,” I said, “all over this city. Nothing but flags and music and marching.”

  “I wonder if they all mind what it is for,” Miss Cunningham said.

  We finally boarded the boat for Mount Vernon. Our goods were stored, and except for some men bound for Alexandria, whose Southern accents were very soft and thick, we were alone. They cast suspicious glances at us and we at them. Everyone is suspicious of his neighbor now, I thought. Is that part of what makes war ugly? Nobody trusts anybody.

  We arrived at Mount Vernon at sunset, and I couldn’t believe the sight.

  The sun went to rest in back of the house, away from the river. There was now a pattern of broken-up purple clouds, through which the reddish orange light cast its glow.

  The outline of the great house was black against the purple red sky. I knew it was in disrepair, but you couldn’t see that from our boat. All you could see was the outline, the cupola on top, the great pillars, the chimneys and dormers, the trees, like a black-and-white sketch done by someone who loved the place.

  I felt moved and stunned to inertia at the same time. The silhouette of General Washington’s house against the brilliant red-and-purple sky was like a blessing on us. And we stood there staring at it like one would stare at the Sistine Chapel in Rome. Unfathomable, I thought. That house is holding close its secrets. And then I thought: Those secrets need to be held now, and guarded, and at the same time shared with all the people. Maybe if we knew them, we wouldn’t be so ready to fight one another.

  Then the captain rang the boat’s bell. “Since 1812,” he explained to us, “when the British burned the White House, then came downriver past Mount Vernon and rang their bell out of respect for General Washington, every boat that passes or stops rings its bell.”

  I was exhausted, yet I felt things coming together for me. As if I belonged here. As if i’d been away too long and come home.

  Four

  Mr. Upton Herbert was a voice in the dusk to me, a strong hand to help me onto the half-sinking wharf, before he was a face or a person.

  He’d seen our boat and come down to the wharf with a lantern, but wouldn’t let the Nigra servants behind him stand on the wharf. “It’s near falling in. One of the things I must repair as soon as possible,” he said.

  The lantern glow blinded me to his face, but his voice was firm and reassuring. As was the homey sound of frogs beeping, the smell of honeysuckle, and the sight of wild grapevines around the water’s edge. Then we were going up the rickety steps to the lawn, and the servants were bringing our purchases.

  Candles glowed in the windows of some rooms in the house. As we approached, it looked haunted.

  “A room has been prepared for you,” Mr. Herbert said to Miss Cunningham. “The downstairs bedroom that opens into the library. I figured we could furnish the library as your sitting room without compromising its purpose.”

  He was well spoken and educated. His voice had that tinge of musical Southern graciousness.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Tell the servants to be careful with that box. It holds my records and correspondence.”

  “The servants are Dandridge, Jane, Priscilla, and Emily,” he said, introducing us. “And you are Miss Tracy?”

  “You can call me Sarah.”

  We looked at each other. And I thought, Why, he’s as handsome as any of the men I’ve had as partners at dinner parties or soirees in Philadelphia, New York, or Maryland. What is he doing here? And in workman’s clothing. But I felt at ease with him because we had not been thrust on each other by well-meaning adults looking to make a match.

  I can treat him as I want, I told myself. I don’t have to be sweet and charming. I can be myself.

  It occurred to me then that I did not know who myself was when it came to talking to a man. I had never been allowed to be myself.

  “I have a room ready for you. It belonged to Jackie Custis, Mrs. Washington’s son,” he said.

  “I’m honored,” I told him.

  “How did you find Washington City?”

  “A bedlam,” I told him. “Especially today.”

  “What happened today?”

  “Why, Virginia seceded.”

  “Oh.” He was silent for a moment. “Well, that will complicate things now. I won’t be able to go to Washington City anymore. We don’t get much news here until the Collyer comes.”

  “The Collyer?”

  “The boat you were just on. As you can see, Captain Baker brought me the newspapers and mail, although I also get mail from Alexandria.”

  I had a question on my mind, but I couldn’t ask it. The servants had brought our things inside the house, the first impression of which overwhelmed me. Candlelight flickered in the detached kitchen, from where the fragrance of coffee came, and beyond where we stood, the darkened rooms and stairway beckoned and loomed.

  I felt small, lost, and unworthy. Had I done the right thing coming here?

  “I’ll show you to your room,” Mr. Herbert said to Miss Cunningham. He was full of deference to her. I went into the kitchen after Priscilla.

  “Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

  “I’d love a cup,” I said.

  “I do it,” another servant said. I think she was Emily. “I to be her personal maid.”

  “Mr. Herbert say no personal maids. Too much work for that,” Priscilla shot back.

  I could see immediately that they did not get on. They were both immaculately dressed and wore head turbans and had thick Southern accents. Were they slaves? Or paid? There was my question.

  I could not have a servant who was a slave. Why hadn’t I thought of that and brought my own girl? I’d left her at the Maxwells’ to help with the children. Travel made her physically sick, and besides, I hadn’t wanted to upset the delicate balance of another’s household.

  “Jus’ ’cause you the older don’t make you smarter,” Emily argued.

  “I is older, an’ Mama always say you’re to listen to me.”

  So, they were sisters. That was all I needed to cast me down. People to remind me of home. “Anyone can give me the coffee,” I said.

  Mr. Herbert came back into the kitchen. “I’ll have some too,” he said.

  I noticed the change in them when he came into the room. Right off they quieted down. Jane had gone to bed apparently. I’d seen her go up the stairway, to rooms above the kitchen. And Dandridge was still bringing our purchases into the hall.

  “You two aren’t fighting again,” Mr. Herbert said.

  “You said I to be her personal girl,” Emily told him.

  “I don’t recall saying that, Emily, but if I did, is it a problem?”

  “She jus’ wanta hang around a fancy Northern lady and get notions,” Priscilla told him.

  I smiled. “I’m not fancy,” I said.

  “You is to me,” Emily said.

  Mr. Herbert sighed. I could get a better sense of him now. His face was pleasant. A strong nose and jaw, a firm chin, piercing blue eyes. He was clean shaven, no beard. He managed to exude a gentle, cultured manner, yet you knew he was in full charge of things. “We
’ll discuss this in the morning. Emily, you may help Miss Tracy upstairs with her things. Everyone is tired.”

  Behind his back I actually saw Emily stick her tongue out at Priscilla. And I knew exactly how she felt. Then she started to bring my things up the stairs. Priscilla was indeed older and more mature. She looked as if you could depend on her. She shook her head sadly and went up the stairway in the kitchen.

  I was left with Mr. Herbert.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Mr. Herbert, I’m afraid I’m about to add to your woes.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Are the Nigras unpaid?”

  “Up to now they have been, yes. Mr. Washington left them here. Or to be more accurate, they refused to leave the place.”

  “Refused? Then, they are not slaves.”

  He smiled. “They consider themselves the children of Washington’s slaves. It is a position to which they cling. As to your original question, I’m afraid they are unpaid.”

  “Then, how could they refuse to leave?”

  His smile deepened. “I wouldn’t expect you, as a Northerner, to understand.”

  “Well, as a Northerner, I can’t have an unpaid Nigra waiting on me.”

  He sipped his coffee calmly.

  I had heard that his great-grandmother was a daughter of William Fairfax, General Washington’s neighbor. And that her sister married Lawrence Washington, the general’s older half brother.

  He stood so straight he might have had a sword at his side. Yet his hands had graceful movements. For one insane moment I saw him with a wig, breeches and a coat with buff facings, and a tricorn hat.

  He sighed and ran a thumb across his brow. “They aren’t paid, no. However, they are anything but slaves in the true sense of the word. They run the place. They make me crazy. They tell me what to do, for heaven’s sake. And they are better clothed and fed than half the people in Fairfax County.”

  “That’s the Southern way of thinking. Can they leave if they want to?”