by Jeff Mann
“Call me Green, friend. The company would be most welcome, though I have next to no provisions to share.”
Drew pats the saddlebags. “Your friend Loren has the best damn cook in the world for a housekeeper, and she loaded us up with provisions. We’d be glad to share. We got bacon, cornbread, biscuits. In fact, here.”
Drew pulls the bottle of brandy out, takes a swig, and passes it to me. “Here’s to Southern courage and eternal remembrance. And the end of hostilities. My guess is,” he says, giving me a sideways smile, “that Yanks are as glad as Rebs are to see such suffering end.”
“Hear, hear,” I say, taking a swallow from the bottle and handing it to Green. “To the end of suffering. And to General Lee!”
“Yes. To General Lee! God bless him, we would have followed him anywhere.” Green enjoys a big gulp before returning the bottle to Drew.
“Those Yanks, they were brave fighters, got to admit. If we’d just had their numbers and better rations, we’d have whipped ’em sound. Those last few days, marching from Petersburg toward Appomattox, all we had was water and some parched corn left, though the Yanks, soon as the surrender was official, showed true Christian kindness and fed us all. We were starving, boys. I don’t know how we held out as long as we did. Lord God, the last of the South’s defenders reduced to breaking horse corn between stones, trying to chew it and choke it down…
“Well,” Green says, “that’s all done now. We did the best we could, endured more than any fighting men have done since the dawn of time, but they were stronger and, seems like, towards the end, five of them for every worn-down one of us, so…”
He pats my shoulder and ruffles my hair as if we’ve known one another since childhood. “Tribulation comes, don’t it? An abundance of it, wracking and maiming body and soul. It’s God’s test of a man’s mettle. It comes uncalled for and sometimes undeserved. But eventually it ends, like a hailstorm that strips the fields of provender and then moves on. Well, Lord, I sound like a preacher! What I mean to say is that those hellish years are over. There’s the future yet. We got futures, gentlemen, unlike all those thousands of poor souls who perished. I got a farm to return to, and a pretty wife. Y’all got family waiting?”
“Yep. My father and mother, God willing, are still alive, and my favorite aunt, Alicia.”
“I got parents, brothers, and sisters. My family’s further off, though, so I’m going to stop with Ian for a time.”
“All right, boys. We all got folks to get back to. Let’s ride up the road. After four years of misery, Good God, we’re only days from home. With luck, some sympathetic citizens will let us borrow beds at the most and barn lofts at the least. I’m damned weary of sleeping on the soil, and so is my spine. If we keep a good pace, we’ll make Narrows by nightfall.”
We mount up. I cast a last glance at the road leading down Craig Creek, where Federal riders almost shot me for a spy, where Drew and I were nearly hanged. I try to count the number of times I came close to losing my life since I first left home in ’61 with that confident crew of hill-boy volunteers. I try to count the number of battles I’ve seen, but I lose track. I cling to Drew as he spurs Walt Solomon into a trot and we follow Green Carden up over a high ridge toward the west.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Newport is tiny, a hamlet of solid farmhouses and spacious porches. Riding as a trio makes us far less anxious about being harassed by anyone who’s heard of our New Castle debacle and the notorious duo of sodomites. We continue west, along a road winding through broad valleys and high gray mountains. Along the creeks, shrubs are leafing out.
Near nightfall, the road descends into the valley of the New River. Soon thereafter, we make it to Narrows, a small community scattered upon both banks of the stream. The first citizen we hail, a farmer fetching well water, offers us his barn as shelter for the night. In the loft, Drew and I share the biscuits and bacon Tessa gave us with our new companion, then, weary after the long ride, we three bed down early in soft, musty hay. Stars twinkle through the loft’s open door. The spring air is moist and cold. Somewhere distant is the silvery cheeping of peeper frogs, a delicate music heralding spring.
Drew and I curl close beneath our blankets, my back against his chest. He holds me in his arms, occasionally stroking my hair, doing his best in an unspoken way to comfort me. He knows, better than anyone, how much I grieve the end of Lee’s army, the cause I abandoned in order to save his life. After a time, apparently accustomed to such Rebel-camp sleeping practices, Green joins us, nestling against Drew’s back to keep warm.
For a time, I lie awake, staring into the dark, breathing in the scents of hay, brooding on my country’s defeat. Where is General Lee sleeping tonight? Or President Davis? What will become of them in the aftermath of defeat? Imprisonment? Hanging? Part of me knows without a doubt that fleeing with Drew was the only right choice, and part of me is choked with regret, wishing I’d been with my fellow Rebels to the end. Rolling over, I cry again, quietly, one arm locked around Drew’s waist, face pressed against his chest. Drew holds me and rocks me, whispering low words of consolation.
“Ian, I’m so sorry. We’ll be all right. We’re almost home. Oh, buddy, I’m so sorry. I know. I know.”
If Green notices my suppressed sobs and the intimacy Drew and I share, he’s too polite to say anything. He simply clears his throat and rolls over. The man understands, I feel sure. Many a soldier has solaced another. And, as he said, he’s already taken his turn at tears. Men who have suffered great losses are rarely the ones who find others’ sorrow unseemly. When I try to imagine being there, at Appomattox, at the surrender, laying down my arms with all the others—where I might well have been, had I not met Drew—that vision only makes me sob harder. Finally, I fall asleep, cheek resting against Drew’s tear-damp jacket.
In the morning, we thank the farmer, share sorghum-sweetened cornbread for breakfast, mount up, and continue our journey. The New River, broad with spring rains, pours in frothing white water over stones, parting the long wall of Peter’s Mountain, rushing through a great steep-sided cleft the road wends along. On the chasm’s far side, the hills are jumbled, lower, less intimidating. We pass greening pastures, barns of faded-gray wood, and scattered homesteads that seem to have been spared the ruthless fires of the Valley. As the day declines, as Green draws closer and closer to home, he grows more animated, telling us battle tales, describing the charms of his wife Elizabeth, and praising the fine points of his family farm.
The sun’s red in the west when we reach a landscape of round hills and rolling meadows I’ve seen before. Taking a right off the main road, we trot down a long declivity, into a narrow valley—chilly and dark, with a purling creek—and up the other side. On the crest of the hill is a white house surrounded by huge trees. As we trot closer, we smell wood smoke. We see grand chimneys, a big double porch, and windows bright with lamplight.
“Oh, Jesus, boys.”
Green comes to a stop halfway up the hill. He lowers his head, murmurs a few words we can’t hear—most likely a prayer of thanks—and strokes his big beard. Then he lifts his head and laughs. The sound’s as much disbelief as it is delight.
“Oh, Jesus. I’m home! I made it home!”
With a shrill whoop, Green gallops up the slope. Drew and I follow close behind. Green pulls up in the backyard, by a huge maple tree. Behind the house are several outbuildings, then a green field sloping up into pine-covered hills.
“Mama,” he bellows. “Paw.”
Swinging down from the saddle, he throws open the back door of the farmhouse and lunges inside. There’s a high scream, a gleeful shout, and a woman’s sobbing. Uncertain, Drew and I dismount. Inside, laughter resounds, then more shouting. Suddenly Green appears at the door, face flushed. His cheeks are streaked with tears. He’s grinning from ear to ear.
“Git in here, fellows! Sun’s down. Y’all are spending the night!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
It’s clear that the Carden
farm is prosperous, even after years of war. The place is downright stately for a mountainside home, with a big kitchen, a dining room, several small parlors with hearths, and a number of first-floor bedrooms. Candles and oil lamps add a festive light as Green introduces us first to his wife, a winsome auburn-haired girl named Elizabeth, and then to his family: his father, Isaac, and his mother, Rebecca; his two sisters, Mary Jane and Amanda; and his two brothers, Allen and John, fellow artillerymen who arrived home only the day before. Wine flows; a big fire crackles; the men joke and drink and smoke and swap stories, while the ladies prepare a meal. Drew and I, exhausted, sprawl side by side on a couch, sipping wine, sharing Drew’s pipe, savoring the smells of cooking and the happiness of the Carden family reunion.
The meal turns out to be a feast, with punch, a ham, a roast chicken, mashed potatoes, stewed tomatoes, deviled eggs, dried corn pudding, an apple pie, and a spice cake. All five of us soldiers are drunk and uncomfortably surfeited with food by evening’s end, unused to such farm-family abundance. The fire fades, and the talk grows somber. The brothers discuss comrades who fell in the war, hypothesize about the fate of our defeated country, and speculate about how stern or lenient Lincoln might be in the war’s aftermath. Eventually, the Carden elders head off to bed. Green and his wife snuggle by the fire, whispering together. Drew, Allen, and John nod off, then so do I.
“Come on, boys,” says Green, nudging Drew and me awake. “Y’all look like you’re fit to collapse.”
Our new friend shows us up the steep stairs and into a front bedroom with two twin beds. “Elizabeth and I will be right across the hall, if you boys require anything,” says Green before leaving us.
Too tired to resent having to sleep apart for the first time in weeks, Drew and I groggily strip down to underwear, climb into the beds, and within minutes are fast asleep.
I wake at dawn, my arms wrapped around a pillow in place of Drew, with the sharp realization that today is the day I come home. I dress, leaving Drew to sleep a bit, and head downstairs. Mrs. Carden, gray-haired and elegant, obviously a beauty in her time, is pulling biscuits from the oven. Her daughter Amanda gives me a shy smile as she breaks eggs into a bowl.
“Good morning, son,” says the elder woman. “Help yourself to coffee. Green’s out back.”
“Thanks, ma’am. Those biscuits sure smell good.”
I pour a cup, add some cream, and step out into the backyard. Dew glitters in the grass. The sun’s rising over wooded hills. There’s Green, in brown trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tossing feed to chickens. He smiles, fixing me with the burning intensity of his eyes.
“Good morning, Ian. Ready for a big breakfast? I hope so. My mother’s so excited to see her boys home that she’ll be cooking huge meals every chance she gets.”
“Soldiers are always hungry, friend. Though I guess we aren’t soldiers anymore,” I say, plucking at my uniform. “After four years of wearing the gray, it’ll feel odd to wear anything else.”
“Yep, not soldiers but veterans. I’m a veteran at age twenty-three? Lord.” Green shrugs his shoulders. “Civilian clothes do feel odd, though I’m certain to grow used to them speedily, just as speedily as I’ll reaccustom myself to sharing a bed with my wife. I hope Elizabeth and I didn’t disturb you. We were, uh, up late.”
Lord, he’s handsome. If I weren’t in love with Drew, and if the world were drastically different, I’d pursue him. “Elizabeth’s a lucky woman,” is what I’d like to say. Instead, I say, “We slept like the dead, Green. Wonderful beds. And we much appreciate your kindness. But I’m eager to get home. My parents haven’t heard from me in months, and I’m sure they’re concerned.”
“Let me show you around first. As close as our farms are, I’m hoping you’ll return and visit with us occasionally. I think Amanda has taken a fancy to you. Or are you spoken for already?”
Lord, Lord. Drew and I will be sidestepping young ladies for the rest of our youth. “Well, I…I do have someone in mind.” I take a long sip of coffee to keep from saying more.
Green smirks and doesn’t press further. “Here’s the apple tree where I found my first robin’s egg. What blue. The color of Elizabeth’s eyes. Odd the things you recall. Got drunk in that shed there, when I was only ten, after sneaking some liquored-up Presbyterian punch from a party. That’s the smokehouse, and up there’s the blackberry patch, and the field where my brothers and I learned to shoot, and the family graveyard. I’ll end up there one of these days, but not for a long time, God willing. I intend to father a mighty passel of children before I go. Hell, maybe I’ll even end up sheriff.”
In another hour, Drew and I have enjoyed a big breakfast of scrambled eggs, biscuits, and sausage, hugged Green hard, thanked him and his hospitable kin, said our goodbyes, and saddled up Walt Solomon. The morning is sunny and warm, the way more and more familiar. The road descends gradually, past more small farms and down a narrow glen where a stream burbles noisily between rocks. Then we crest a rise, and there, far below, is the Greenbrier River, high and fast with recent rains. My throat hurts now. My fingers tingle. My heart’s beating harder and harder as the road veers down a long slope, skirts broad bottomlands and begins to follow the river toward the west. Another hour, and we’re passing the Talcott Bridge.
“Close now,” I whisper, hugging Drew in happy anticipation. “Just a few more miles.”
The river valley is narrow here, and wild, the wood-thick slopes steep. High above, cliffs rear, and outcroppings of rock. Across the water, the riverbank is strewn with occasional boulders. In one place, a huge flat stone rears from the waters, left there by some primeval landslide long before my ancestors reached this continent. In the woodlands around us, spots of color flash here and there in carpets of fallen leaves, wildflowers I remember: the snow-white bloodroot, bluebells, Mayapples, and yellow dog’s tooth violets.
“There, look, the swimming hole where Jeremiah and I used to swim in summers.” I fight back yet another round of tears, wondering where my friend is, if he’s been lucky enough to make it home.
Then the valley opens out, into a thin strip of bottomland beside the river. And there it is, in the distance, the little clapboard farmhouse where I was raised. “Oh, Drew! There! Oh, my sweet boy, we’re home.”
Drew clicks his tongue, and Walt Solomon shifts from a trot to a gallop. The last mile flashes past. Now the war is done, and with it all the years and distances that separated me from this land. My God, there’s my father, bareheaded, nearly bald, bent over the garden plot with a hoe.
“Daddy,” I shout.
He raises his head. He straightens, staring. He rubs his eyes and tugs at his gray beard.
“I’m back! The war’s over!”
The front door opens, and my mother steps out onto the porch. With one hand, she’s clutching a dishcloth. With the other, she shields her eyes from the sun.
“Ian?” she screams.
“My God, son?” Daddy shouts.
Drew draws the stallion up before the house. I’m on the ground in an instant, in another instant in my parents’ arms.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The three of us cry for a while. Drew sits in the saddle, clearly unsure of his place in this scene of reunion. Then I wipe my face and beckon to Drew. He dismounts, only to stand awkwardly, one hand holding Walt’s reins.
“Get over here, buddy!” I beckon again, impatiently.
Drew shambles over, face set in an anxious smile.
“Drew, this is my mother, Frances, and my father, Earl. This is Drew Conrad. We’ve fought together and we’ve traveled together. He saved my life.”
“And Ian saved mine. Good to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell.”
“Oh, we’re so glad to know you, Mr. Conrad,” my mother gasps. Her hair, pulled back into a bun, is more gray than black, and her face has many more lines than when I last saw her, but her brown eyes are just as bright. “Will you stay with us for a time?”
“Yes, ma’am
, if it won’t be a bother.”
“I never would have survived the war without Drew. After all we’ve been through, he’s become like a brother to me.”
My parents interlock hands and nod. The sadness in their eyes makes clearer than any words that they’re remembering my lost brother Jeff.
“Drew and I, we’re…thinking about farming together. If we can find a few acres, to rent and eventually to buy.” I shift my haversack off my shoulder and hug my mother again.
“You already own some acres, son,” Daddy says. “That’s a piece of good news that sprung from some bad.”
Oh, no. What can he mean? “I have some grievous news too, Daddy. About the war, and about Uncle Erastus.”
“Ah.” My father’s face falls. “Well, we heard that Lee surrendered, thanks to the nigh-hysterical rider who rode up the river from Hinton’s Ferry and told everybody he passed. As for Erastus, I fear I know what you’ll be saying. He came to your mother in a dream a month or so back, and she took it as a sign. Tie your mount up there, Mr. Conrad, and y’all come on into the house.”
We obey. Inside, we sit around the kitchen table over glasses of buttermilk. “Your Aunt Alicia has passed to her maker,” Daddy says, retaking my mother’s hand.
“Oh, no. Oh, no.” My eyes, still wet from the earlier bout of joyous tears, grow wetter yet. “I didn’t make it home soon enough. Oh, no.”
“She didn’t suffer, son,” Daddy assures me. “It was a weakness of the heart. Very sudden. She’d been growing thinner and thinner. But you know how private she was, living up on the mountain, keeping to herself. No one knew how ill she was.”
“When?”
“Only last month. I rode up the mountain to give her some produce and found her dead in her rocking chair, that dulcimore in her lap. She lived alone, and she died alone, but I’m pretty sure that was the way she wanted it. She left you her property. It’s all up there for you to claim, son. Much of it’s forest, you know, but there’s the little house, and some pastureland, and a big garden plot.”
