“Terrible.” The stranger rubbed at one thin shoulder. “The ropes under my bed were so loose, whoever slept in it before me must have been a horse.”
“Hmm, yes. I’m terribly sorry about that. I’ll look into the matter directly.”
“And the water in my room has turned brackish.”
“It is rather difficult to keep anything fresh in this heat, but I’ll see to it that your pitcher is refilled immediately.”
Mr. Carver saw Hannah looking on. “Mr. Covington, may I introduce you to Miss Hannah Wallace? She lives on a farm just outside town. Hannah, Mr. Elijah P. Covington.”
“Hello.” Hannah smiled. The man didn’t look up but grimaced and waved her away with a flick of his fingers.
“Mr. Covington is an artist from New York City who plans to stay here with us for some time.”
“Only until more suitable arrangements can be made,” he grumbled in a voice as dry as road dust. “Can I get some breakfast? Or do I have to make it myself?”
Mrs. Carver called out cheerfully from a few tables away, “I’ve got hot flapjacks on the stove. Coffee?”
He gave one abrupt nod.
While she was gone, Hannah tried polite conversation. “You don’t look as I fancied an artist would, Mr. Covington. But then I’ve never met one.”
“Well, I’ve met plenty of impertinent girls in my day, and I’ve no use for another.” But when his glance finally fell on her, he fixed her with a keen stare, narrowing his eyes as he studied her face. “On second thought, you just might do. A farmer’s daughter, you say?”
Hannah didn’t answer. She grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
“Yes, yes,” the artist continued, standing to view her from another angle. He took in her braids, her bare feet, and her worn, patched dress. “A bit plain, skinny, freckled, but I could work around all that. Those eyes! They’re just the shade of blue! Cadmium, I’d say. Yes, yes, I believe you’re just what I’m looking for.”
Mr. Carver cleared his throat meaningfully. “Hannah, why don’t you run along in back and see if Wes is done with his chores yet.”
But before she could move, Mr. Covington grabbed her chin and turned her face, studying it in the light from the windows. “Never mind, Carver. I plan to do a series of paintings while I’m here. Family farms, tranquil settings, the sort of rubbish folks idealize in time of war. I believe this girl might be just the subject I’m looking for. Think her father would grant permission?”
Irritated, Hannah slapped the man’s hand away. “Mr. Covington,” she asserted, “you are an arrogant, conceited old man, and you smell like an ape. I would not help you if you got down on your knees and begged me!”
Chapter 4
Hannah stormed through the hotel’s kitchen door and immediately regretted her words. News of her outburst was sure to get back to her mother, and that meant a guaranteed appointment with Old Hickory. But Mr. Covington deserved every insult. The way he had handled her—why, she steamed just thinking about it!
She was startled by the sound of wood dropping onto a pile. “Hey, Hannah, you’re all red. You just been kissed?”
She whirled around. “Wes Carver, you’re about to kiss my fist!”
“All right, all right! Sorry,” he laughed, raising both hands. “Jiminy, what’s got your dander up?”
“Oh, it’s that Mr. Covington! He’s a horrible old man!”
Wes rested one haunch on the side of the wood box. “He’s a crotchety old thing, ain’t he? Some folks turn lemons into lemonade, but he can turn cherries into pickle juice.”
He peered into the egg basket. “Breakfast?” he asked, indicating the crackers.
“Of course not. They’re for Maddy.”
“Oh, I forgot the prodigal has returned. How is her royal highness?”
Hannah grimaced. “At least she’s one more body who can pitch in and work.”
“Busy?”
“I’m stealing time right now.”
Wes grinned. “Then I’m flattered you’d risk your mama’s wrath just to catch a glimpse of my handsome mug.”
“You idiot,” she chuckled. “I came by to see if you wanted to take Ol’ Joe out next week.”
“Sure. Can you sneak away?”
“I think so. And Mama couldn’t argue if we came home with something for the pot.”
They chose a day, and Hannah crept out the back door to avoid Mr. Covington. She was soon out of town and leaving the planks for the rutted wagon track that led home.
She passed the Burgess farm on her right. Mr. Burgess was a kindly old man who ran a small dairy. He had three grown sons who trotted off to war at the first bugle call. The youngest had promptly died at Bull Run, but that hadn’t discouraged the other two from reenlisting when their terms were over. Mama sometimes called on Mrs. Burgess. She said it was her Christian duty.
Their nearest neighbor was Mrs. Patton. Her son, Peter, was good friends with Justin. Her husband had been deployed with the cavalry somewhere in Tennessee. Mr. Patton kept a herd of small, sturdy quarter horses that he worked diligently to improve. He was always trying to talk Pa into selling the north pasture, but Pa never would oblige. The herd was smaller now, with many of the animals sold to the army.
Hannah climbed the rise that overlooked her own farm. Golden wheat stretched in waves to the tree line beyond. She could see Mama and Joel forking hay into the wagon in the pasture. Justin was on top stomping it down as fast as it was thrown up to him. They had cut it last week and left it to dry in the sun. Now it was nearly all stacked in huge piles by the barn door.
The pumpkin field lay beside the barn, dotted with hundreds of swollen fruits already beginning to turn orange. Beyond them, the brown, wilted foliage of potato plants marked a wealth of food hidden just below the soil. She could see the milk cows grazing at the edge of the woods and a handful of chickens milling among them, pecking the ground. Several outbuildings ranged across the yard, and in their center, like a mother hen gathering her chicks, was the farmhouse.
As Hannah strode down the hill, she passed under the shade of a huge maple tree standing like a sentinel above the farm. Mama came here a lot, but Hannah hadn’t visited since last year. She stopped now, her eyes coming to rest on the small wooden cross pounded into the ground and carved with the name Jeremy Tyler Wallace.
Hannah’s earliest memory was of the day her brother was born. She didn’t remember his birth, really, just his passing. Though she wasn’t quite three at the time, she could still see Pa sobbing into the tiny bundle of cloth. It had frightened her.
She had tried to bring back her old Pa, the one who laughed and played with her. She had placed her arms around his neck and kissed his wet cheeks, but for the first time in her life her childish caress had no effect. And for the next several days, her beloved Pa was lost in a world she could not penetrate.
Hannah couldn’t comprehend his grief. Her young mind understood only that the baby had been mighty important to Pa, that he must have wanted that little boy even more than he wanted her. She was older now, but it was a thought that never quite left her.
Maddy was sitting in Mama’s rocking chair sewing on a loose button. An empty coffee cup sat beside her on the floor. She didn’t look so high and mighty today. In fact, she looked as rumpled as a fox-chewed hen. Hannah tossed the parcel of crackers into her lap and scampered upstairs to don her trousers.
Out in the yard, the huge metal washtub waited for her. She filled it with steaming water, added clothes and lye soap, and stirred the mixture with a wooden paddle. It was hard work dipping, scrubbing, rinsing, and wringing alone, but her ears were free of Maddy’s nagging and her fingers were free of the mending needle. In just a few hours, the laundry hung in rows straight enough to please any disciplined regiment.
Mama and the boys came in from the fields at noon, sweaty, tired, and itchy with chaff. Hannah cared for the big work horses while Joel drew water from the well to wash. She could hardly wait to surprise them with Pa’s letter. They
clattered into the kitchen, drawn by the thick smell of cooking food.
Maddy had made biscuits and fried up thick slices of ham. The table was loaded with fresh green beans, fat tomato slices, cabbage slaw, and giant lettuce leaves rolled up with vinegar and sugar. Hannah’s stomach rumbled louder than a dray cart on the Plank Road, and she could hardly let up drooling over the fixings long enough to bow for the blessing.
For several minutes, there was only the sound of chewing. Then Justin piped up, “Maddy, you don’t cook half as bad as Tommy said.”
That earned him half a biscuit flung in his direction, but it started the family talking.
“I saw Mrs. Carver in town this morning,” Hannah volunteered. “She sent her greetings.”
Mama looked up with interest. “Is she well?”
“Seemed so.”
“Has she heard from Marcus?”
Hannah had forgotten to ask, even though Wes’s older brother was a great favorite of hers with his quick wit and good-natured teasing. He’d been wounded recently at the Second Battle of Bull Run. “She didn’t say.”
“Me, Joel, and Mama got two loads of hay hauled,” Justin stated proudly, “while you were jabbering in town.”
Hannah pulled a face at him when Mama wasn’t watching. “Bet they weren’t as big as Pa’s loads.”
Mama shot her a warning look. “Hannah, the potatoes need digging this afternoon. Hitch up Rounder to the small cart after lunch and you kids get a start on it. Maddy can help Joel and me finish the last of the hay.”
Joel spoke up. “I went around to Yancy’s yesterday evening. He’s coming this way with his thresher at the end of next week. If we’re going to be ready for him, we need to start cutting and shocking the wheat tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Mama agreed.
“I could sure use a strong team of hands for the harvest,” he continued, “but there just aren’t enough men around.”
“I can help!” Justin piped up.
“We’ll all help,” Mama said with a look around at the girls.
Maddy and Hannah both groaned.
Joel looked apologetic. “We’ll need everyone. If we can cut it and get the use of that machine, I think we can pay off the bank with plenty to spare.”
The last five years had been tough everywhere. Thousands of banks and businesses had failed. Hannah hadn’t really understood when Pa explained that the depression was caused by a war between faraway England and Russia. She just knew the wheat her father worked so hard to grow sold for such low prices he could barely cover the expense of growing it. Twice he had to borrow money. But this year, because of the war at home, prices had risen dramatically.
“That reminds me,” Hannah said. “Mr. Lawson told me there’s a meeting on Thursday about all the foreclosures.”
“Did he say what’s being suggested?” Mama inquired.
“No, just that the community wants to pull together to help.”
“Tommy’s pa says Lawson’s a crook and a cheat,” Maddy said, tossing her hair.
Hannah snorted. “Mr. Stockdale also thought he saw Jefferson Davis in the Wayland House last week. He’s just sore that Mr. Lawson beat him to those forty acres Mr. Brewster was selling.”
“He snatched them up right quick,” Maddy pointed out, “and he bought the Nash place.”
“So what? They’re next door to each other.”
“How’d he get the money, smarty?”
“Maybe he sold a farm back East like everybody else.” Hannah had no patience for her sister’s or Mr. Stockdale’s suspicions.
“Tell me, what does he need all that land for when he runs a store?”
“Maybe he plans to farm it,” Mama suggested mildly.
“He hasn’t done it yet, and he’s been here eight months.”
“And in that time he’s taken a leadership role in the community, become a deacon in the church, and he treats people with respect and fairness. I won’t hear ill spoken of him in this house.” Mama put an end to the subject. “Joel, you and I are going to attend that meeting. As soon as we pay off our own debt, we’ll be in a position to help others.”
Joel grinned. “We’ll have enough left over for shoes.”
“And candy!” Justin piped up. “And I want a jackknife!”
“I’ll buy a length of that new lace in Mr. Van Volkenburg’s store,” Maddy added.
Mama smiled and ten years melted from her face. “How about you, daughter?” she asked Hannah. “What would you like?”
Hannah glanced at the empty chair and shook her head. “I just want Pa home.”
The joy in the room deflated like a spent bellows, and Justin glared at her accusingly. In the silence Hannah pulled the letter from her pocket. “I stopped by the post office.”
Chairs scraped backwards and three bodies lunged at her, grasping for the precious envelope. Hannah jerked it away and handed it to her mother. Mama fingered the torn flap questioningly.
“I didn’t read it. I almost did, but Mr. Briggs was standing there waiting to hear.”
Mama pulled out the letter and drew a shaky breath.
August 18, 1862
Dear Amelia, Madeline, Joel, Hannah, and Justin,
It does me wonders just to name all of you. I miss you terribly. Soldiering is a completely different world for a lifelong farmer, and I confess I haven’t taken to it easily. But Seth thrives on the routine, the discipline, and the drilling. He is all energy and enthusiasm and already a great favorite with the men.
We have officially mustered into the 17th Michigan Infantry, company D. We picked up several fellows on our way to Allegan. Do you remember Eli Wallington out Hopkins way? His son Wilber joined, along with a few fellows from Dorr. In all, there’s thirty-two of us from home. Tommy has kept us in stitches with his stories and antics, and Walter eggs him on.
We caught a train in Kalamazoo. It’s a marvelous fast way to travel, smooth as a duck on water, though I suspect the accommodations might be better for civilians. We arrived in Detroit overnight. Then it didn’t take much to pass the physical. “Lift up one leg, then the other. Throw up one arm, now the next. You’re healthy. Here’s your uniform.” A few fellows tried to fail the exam. I suspect a good many others joined up just to beat the draft that Lincoln will certainly enact.
I dearly miss your cooking, Amelia. I’m getting heartily sick of beans and boiled potatoes, though I know there may come a day when I remember them with fondness, so I try to keep my complaints to myself. Most of the fellows shore up well, too, though we have a few grumblers, especially after guard duty in the rain. But mostwise the boys make the best of things, and there’s plenty of jokes and songs and music. But even at its best, barracks life cannot compete with home.
I love you all.
Most affectionately,
Henry Stanton Wallace
Chapter 5
Hannah plunged the iron fork into the ground, leaned her weight against it, and popped up a handful of potatoes. She carefully placed them in the cart. Behind her she could hear Justin working in the next row, grunting each time he speared the soil. Between them, waiting patiently, stood Rounder. Occasionally the sorrel horse would shake his head at the hovering black flies and his harness would jingle, or he’d paw a furrow in the dirt, gently chiding the slow children.
More than any other object on the farm—except, perhaps, for the empty kitchen chair—Rounder reminded Hannah of her father. He was Pa’s horse, a Morgan Pa had raised from a colt, and there wasn’t a finer saddle mount in the county. Beautiful, with a proud head and expressive eyes, the gelding was gentle, dependable, and so intelligent he often knew what was required of him before he was asked.
Hannah remembered riding double through the woods with Pa when she was only five or six years old. There had been a windstorm the day before, and Pa was checking for new deadfall and marking damaged trees to cut for firewood. Rounder had been picking his way down a trail they often used when he turned off for no apparent reason.
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“Hi there, Rounder,” Pa said, turning him back. “It isn’t time to go home yet.”
Unexplainably, the horse turned in the opposite direction. Pa set him straight again, but after a third time, Pa stopped and searched carefully in all directions.
“What’s wrong, Pa? Why won’t he go?”
Pa sounded apprehensive. “I don’t know yet, Peanut, but if Rounder doesn’t want to go down this path, neither do I.”
Hannah remembered scanning the woods with delicious shivers tickling her spine. She wasn’t really afraid with Pa sitting behind her, but she half expected a bear to come pouncing out of the shadows.
Suddenly a crack like a rifle shot startled her out of the saddle, and a tree as thick around as Rounder’s chest toppled across the path ahead of them. It groaned as it fell, smashing the underbrush around it.
Pa sucked in his breath. “I reckon you earned your oats today, boy,” he praised, patting the horse’s neck. He nudged Rounder forward, and the horse went willingly, stepping lightly around the quivering branches.
Thud, thud, thud. A handful of Justin’s potatoes tumbled off the cart and plopped in the dirt. He scooped them up impatiently and tossed them back on the pile.
“Be careful, you big oaf! They’ll spoil quicker if they bruise.” Hannah grabbed up the reins to drive the full cart to the cellar. “That’s exactly why I told Mama not to let you into my garden,” she muttered. “You don’t know how to handle anything carefully.”
Justin made a face. “Gardening is for women. I’d rather do a man’s work, like stacking hay.” He looked longingly to where Joel worked in the distance.
“Mama’s doing that just fine without you, and she’s no man. Neither is Maddy. Neither, in fact, are you.”
He raised a stubborn chin. “I will be someday, but you’ll still just be a dumb girl, no matter how much you wear those silly trousers.”
Hannah turned scarlet with anger. “One woman is worth ten men. Without women, men would go extinct.”
“Without women always telling them what to do, men coulda conquered the whole continent by now, all the way to the Pacific Ocean.”
Blood of Pioneers Page 3
