by Jeff Mann
“Well, you boys stumbled on the right place. The master of this house—he’s off fighting in that terr’ble siege in Petersburg—Mr. Martin—he’s left me well provided for while he’s off killing Yanks. Plus folks comes up the creek e’er so often with provisions, folks from New Castle heading for the river, and Newport folks too. They’s all promised Mr. Martin to take care of me while he was off a’fighting the war, and so far they have, bless ’em.”
The big lady reaches over, brushing snow off the shoulders of my jacket. “Why don’t you git over to that fire? I gots some cider a’brewing on the stove with spicery. Would you favor a cup of that?”
“Lord, yes.”
“Set down then. Make yourself to home. And y’can put your weapons on that bureau there. Lord, boy, that Bowie’s nearly as long as you are.”
I unbuckle both pistol holster and knife sheath, then sit on the hearth’s ledge, luxuriating in the heat after hours of riding up the creek in the cold. The dog sidles over, sniffing my trousers. My dusky hostess shuffles into the kitchen and ladles steaming cider into two mugs. When stomping begins on the porch, she pulls out a third mug and fills it too. The door opens and Drew steps in, loaded with our belongings and ducking his head to avoid the low lintel.
“It’s a proper blizzard out there.” He pushes the door closed behind him and grins at me. The dog barks once before scuttling behind a heaped wood box. Drew’s glance ranges over the cheery room, his bright smile expressing clear delight at finding such a cozy space waiting for him. Then he turns toward the kitchen and stiffens, staring down at the big woman’s face. “Oh. Oh, good evening.”
“Lordy, you a big man. And look at that yaller hair and those blue eyes. Wide as the sky. You look as startled as your friend here was.” The solid woman chuckles, gazing up at him. “I’m Tessa. You must not have run across many Negroes, have you?”
“No. No, ma’am. Not really.”
“But you wouldn’t shun Virginia hospitality, would you?” She offers a hand.
“No, ma’am.” Drew manages a faint smile. “I’d be a pure-born fool to do that.” After only a second’s hesitation, he takes her hand and gives a little bow.
“Fear not, son. You boys are welcome here. I ain’t seen a butternut soldier in many a week, though some Yanks come by a few days back. They tried to take a ham from the smokehouse. My rifle showed ’em the error of their ways. Mr. Martin, God save him, left me with loads of ammunition. Well, here you go, son.” She proffers the mug, which Drew takes with a puzzled grin. “It’s cider. Ever so slightly hard. Wish I had me some liquor to strengthen it for you. All God’s children could do with spirits in foul weather like this. Lord, almost April, and we gits a blizzard. That’s what comes of living so high up.”
“Ma’am, we have applejack.” Drew slips my haversack off his shoulder, along with our rifles and other possessions, all of which he stacks in a corner. “Would you care for some? It’s the least we can do, considering this wonderful refuge from the storm you’re sharing with us.”
“Applejack? Where’d you git that from? Yes, I’d savor some for sure.”
“Down in Eagle Rock,” Drew replies, pulling out the flask. “Here you go.” He adds a slosh to her mug, then his, before joining me on the hearth-ledge and enriching my mug as well. “Ian, our steed’s all cozy in a stall, munching on sweet feed and hay. The barn’s got a nice little loft we could spend the night in as well.”
“Loft? Mr. Martin would scold me something awful if I let the South’s soldiers sleep outside. You boys can stay upstairs. In my room. It’s the little one in the back. The front bedroom’s Mr. Martin’s; I’ve closed it off till his return. The ceiling’s low, so you, son”—she says, indicating Drew—“will have to watch your head. I sleeps down here on this cot in cold weather.”
“You sure, ma’am? We don’t want to be a bother. The owner wouldn’t mind you putting up two strangers in his absence?”
Our hostess pulls a quilt from the cot, sits heavily in the rocking chair, covers her lap with the colorfully patterned blanket, and takes a sip of her mug. “Lordamercy, that tastes good. No, Mr. Martin would be mighty pleased y’all came by and I could hep you. He been fighting that war from the beginning. I miss him awful much. I don’t s’pose y’all ever met him? Loren Martin? ’Bout my height, lean, clean-shaven, with pretty ash-blond hair?”
“No, ma’am,” I reply. “I’m sorry. What was his regiment?”
“He went down the hill and joined up with the Montgomery Mountain Boys. That was Company K of the Fourth Regiment.”
“No, ma’am. My band of men aided that brigade in many a battle, but I never met him.”
“Ah, well. Haven’t gotten a letter in ages. I pray for him every night.” Her big bosom heaves a melancholy sigh. Taking a long sip of cider, she stares into the fire. “He’d regard boys like you as comrades and would urge me to do all I can for y’all. And, considering the weather, you might have to stay over a few days. I’d enjoy the company. Not many folks come by this way—too high and wild. Lord, listen to the wind in the trees.”
The dog, visibly shivering, runs across the carpet and leaps into the woman’s lap. “Missy don’t much like men. Not used to ’em, since Mr. Martin left. She bit one of them Yanks on the ankle when he tried to come inside. Well, that pot on the stove’s a chicken I kilt this morning and started a’simmering just before you got here. Got some carrot and onion in it, some dried peas too. You boys like chicken ’n dumplings?”
Drew takes a slurp of cider, his eyes gleaming. “Can you spare us some? That would be wonderful.”
“Got lots to spare. It’ll be ready directly. Meanwhile, I think I’ll just set here and savor this cider. It’s improved considerably by your flask’s contribution. So where you boys from? From the bruises and black eyes, you both look like you seen brutal times.”
“West Virginia, ma’am,” I explain. “Our band of boys, the Rogue Riders, we were pretty much decimated by Yankees down around Purgatory Mountain. Now we’re on furlough, trying to get home. We’ve come up past Eagle Rock and through New Castle. Isn’t the New River not too far from here?”
“Not terrible far. We’re almost at the crest of the mountain. You keep on a ways up the creek road, then you’ll get to a broader way that’ll take you west up over a ridge—it’s the very ridge that divides out the east-flowing streams from the west-flowing streams. Bottom of that ridge is a run that’ll lead you to the New River. You planning on taking a boat from there?”
“Yes, ma’am, if we can find one to borrow, and if the river isn’t too high.”
“Not sure about that. River tends to be rough and wild this time of year. I knows a man, James Harman, down that way, near Newport. He’s one of the men Mr. Martin hired to drop by and see how I’m faring. Might be y’all could borry a boat from him.”
“Oh, a boat, Ian? But what about Walt? We can’t leave him behind.”
“I don’t know, Drew. I hadn’t really figured that out.”
“Who’s Walt, gentlemens?”
“Our horse, Miss Tessa.” Drew’s face lights up. “He’s a beauty.”
“Drew here used to be in the cavalry and is quite the horseman. He’s grown mighty fond of that stallion of ours. Maybe we could ride Walt to West Virginia, though that’d be slow, rough going over pretty harsh hills. I’m thinking a boat would be faster. It’ll take us right to the confluence of the New and the Greenbrier, and just up the Greenbrier is my parents’ farm.”
“Oh, I’d hate to leave Walt.” Drew gnaws his lower lip and takes a swig of cider.
“We’ll see, buddy. How long you been living here, Miss Tessa? Reminds me of where I grew up, except my parents’ place isn’t so high. This farm’s nearly in the sky.”
“Law, yes, it is remote. Heard a wildcat th’other day. ’Bout scared Missy to death. Well, I grew up in South Car’lina, but Mr. Martin, he bought me in Savannah. We lived in Richmond just before war broke out, but he wanted to get back to the h
omeplace—his family’s from these mountains, down in Newport. So he brought me ’long. We’s been settled here for nigh onto four years.”
“So you’re a slave, ma’am?”
“Mercy, you boys are mannerly. It’s a ‘ma’am’ a minute. Call me Tessa. No sir, no sir, ain’t no slave. Mr. Martin, he gave me my freedom before he left for the army. I’m free as y’all.”
“And you didn’t leave? I know lots of black folks have run off when the Yankee army’s come through. At least down in the Valley, where both Drew and I have seen a lot of fighting.”
“Leave? No, no. I’s content to spend the rest of my days on this mountainside. I likes the solitude. I loves the woods, and the way the high clouds rush over. And I loves my garden; I had a fine harvest this past autumn. Don’t want to go back to them crowded cities. I just pray Mr. Martin comes home soon. He’s the soul of kindness.”
“You sound mighty devoted to him,” says Drew, rising. “May I fetch you more cider, Miss Tessa? With another splash of applejack?”
“For a big boy who just about swallowed his tongue when he first saw me, you’re shaping up mighty nice. Yes, sir, Mr. Drew, I’d like that,” she says, handing her mug to him. “Freshen your own mugs while you’s at it. And Missy? I feel you tensing up to nip his ankle. Git over there to your bed.”
The dog appears to understand, for she leaps to the floor, skitters across the room, climbs into a blanket-lined wooden box near the fire, makes three tentative circles, then curls up, chin on her crossed paws, and watches us with doggy dubiousness.
“She’s real old, poor thang. Hope she doesn’t pass before Mr. Martin comes home. He’d regret that terr’ble. Thank you, young man,” Tessa murmurs as Drew returns with her mug. “I’ll requite you with a hot supper directly. Are y’all partial to rice pudding? I gots some leftovers on the stove. We can have that for dessert later. It’s even got raisins and a little vaniller.”
“We’d love some dessert. Ma’am, you sure have a lot of books,” Drew says, returning from the kitchen with our own replenished mugs. He bends to examine a bookcase before handing me my drink and taking a seat on the hearth beside me. “Is Mr. Martin a scholar?”
Tessa nods. “Yes, Law. Both of us reads a good bit. Fine way to spend these long dark nights, ’long with that dulcimore there. In the summer, we’s outside on the porch, taking in the breeze and having us a sip of something sweet and strong, listening to the bugs and frogs a’singing, but winters are hard up here, so, come evening, while I’m sewing or cooking—Mr. Martin praises my cooking to the high heavens, bless his heart, and I hate to think of him reduced to soldier’s rations—he’s reading, sometimes out loud. That’s how I learnt to read, thanks to his instructions. I have a decent education, thanks to him.”
“Ian here is a big reader, ma’am—he’s read me some very pretty poetry during our time together—but I can’t read real well at all. My messmates always had to write my letters home for me. The last one Ian wrote. You still have that, Ian?”
I pat my jacket pocket. It’s the letter addressed to his family that Drew dictated on the last afternoon in camp, when we so feared that he’d soon be executed. “I got it here. No need to send this one. You’ll have to recite another.”
“I had Ian write it when we were in some fearsome peril, ma’am. Fortunately, we were able to flee those circumstances. Did you call that thing a dulcimore? It makes music?”
“Yes, son. When Mr. Martin was here. I may be able to fill your bellies, and fill ’em well, but I can’t play it. Its strings need tuned. Last time I strummed it, it sounded nasty.”
“I can tune it,” I say, taking a swig of cider and rising. “My Aunt Alicia taught me. May I try? Once it’s tuned, it’s easy to play.”
“Why don’t you do that, Mr. Ian, while I pick that chicken—it smells done—and mix us up some dumplings? Come on, Missy, and I’ll give you a few smidgens.”
Tessa heads into the kitchen, followed by the jittery dog. There she fishes the chicken from the pot of steaming broth, sets it aside to cool, then pulls a big bowl from a cabinet and ingredients from shelves. Missy waits patiently, her rheumy eyes wide.
I lift the dulcimore from its perch atop the trunk. It’s in fine condition, an hourglass-shape the rich dark of black walnut wood, and polished to a gleam. When I stroke the four strings, they indeed sound discordant. For a second, a terrible aching for home grips me. I see my father’s and my mother’s faces, the golden-green hills of spring looming over the farm. I have a painful yearning for Aunt Alicia: her fine features, blue-black hair, the songs she sang, the big meals she made me. Sarge used to call her a heathen. If she hadn’t sent me those jars of salve and those bags of red rose hips, I might have fallen prey to scurvy, and the many cruel wounds Drew received during his captivity would have festered and poisoned him by now. I hope to God my family’s all still safe and hale. If all goes well, my big Yank and I will reach home in a few days.
I return to the hearth, sit on the ledge, rest the instrument across my lap, and fiddle with the tuning pegs. I cock an ear, tightening and loosening strings till they resonate in the harmonious manner I remember. “Here you go,” I say. “It sounds right now.”
“Play something for us, buddy. I miss music. I miss Jeremiah’s banjo.”
“Well, I know ‘Aura Lee.’ ” I strum a few bars, then sing a verse.
As the blackbird in the spring
By the willow tree
Sat and piped I heard him sing,
Sing of my Aura Lee.
Aura Lee, Aura Lee, maid of golden hair,
Sunshine came along with thee,
And swallows in the air.
“You have a beautiful voice, Ian,” Drew says, patting my leg. “So deep and clear. Any others you know?”
“Well, here’s ‘Shenandoah.’ ” I pluck the melody. “Jeremiah used to play that one. And here’s ‘Loch Lomond.’ My father’s forebears came from the Western Isles of Scotland, so that’s one of his favorites. It’s awful sad, I think.” I sing the chorus.
You take the high road, and I’ll take the low road,
And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye.
For me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond.
“Can you play ‘Lorena’?” says Tessa from the kitchen. “I loves that tune.” Her voice drops into a sad register. “ ‘Lorena’…it reminds me of…Mr. Martin. He used to play that one.”
“I believe so.” It takes me only a minute to find the melody. Aunt Alicia always said I was born with her ear. “The music’s the only reason to go to church,” I can hear her saying now.
“This sounds right, isn’t it, ma’am?” I ask, fretting and plucking the high strings.
“Yes, that’s it.” Tessa’s mixing batter with a wooden spoon, her dark face shining. “Sing it, son.”
I clear my throat, start on the wrong note, apologize, and try again.
The snow is on the grass again;
The sun’s low down in the sky, Lorena,
But the heart throbs on as warmly now
As when the summer days were nigh;
Oh, the sun can never dip so low
A-down affection’s cloudless sky.
“That’s mighty pretty,” murmurs Drew. “I believe I’ve heard that before.”
A hundred months have passed, Lorena,
Since last I held that hand in mine,
And felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena,
Though mine beat faster far than thine.
A hundred months—’twas flowery May,
When up the hilly slope we climbed,
To watch the dying of the day
And hear the distant church bells chime.
From the kitchen, Tessa’s rich voice joins mine:
We loved each other then, Lorena,
More than we ever dared to tell;
And what we might have been, Lorena,
Had but our loving prospered well!
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But then, ’tis past; the years have gone…
“Oh, Lord, stop. You’s driving me to tears,” Tessa says, wiping her eyes. “These dumplings will be ready soon. If one of y’all would be kind enough to put more wood on the fire, and one would hazard the weather long enough to fetch some water from the well, we can all wash up. By then it’ll be time to eat.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Tessa and I stop with seconds. Drew soldiers on with thirds. The chicken’s moist and tender, the broth rich, the dumplings plump, white, and chewy. “Now these are the kind of dumplings I love,” Drew announces with gustatory enthusiasm, spooning the last bite into his mouth before sitting back with a contented groan. “I like ’em dense, the way those Dutch in Pennsylvania make ’em, not those fluffy airy things that don’t stick to your ribs.”
“Have you seen much of Pennsylvania, Mr. Drew? I’s never been out of the South.”
“Well, ma’am, I have. It’s…a very pretty place. Had kin up there before the war broke out.”
“I don’t know what to think of Yankees, boys,” Tessa says, carrying our plates to the sink, then spooning out bowls of rice pudding. “Some of ’em are kind to us black folks and I think they’s honestly fighting for our liberation, but some of ’em…well, they’s invaders, thieves, and pillagers. And rapists. Rare is the day that they take bodily advantage of a white woman, but I’ve heard stories… A little maid I knew down in Edinburg…when the Yanks came through a’burning things last fall…she was ravished. Mr. Martin told me about it.”
“I heard about that too.” That grim, gray look always seizes Drew’s face when he remembers the Burning. “I was through Edinburg. Where ladies begged Sheridan’s men not to burn the mill. Some of the Union men did abuse Negro women.”
“They’s all left me alone, for the most part, all through these years of war, both the Yankee raiders and the renegade Rebels. Those bluecoats in the smokehouse the other day was a rare exception. We’s so high here there’s little traffic over the mountain. And I’m mighty good with Miss Laurie.”
