The Mirk and Midnight Hour

by Jane Nickerson

  “If she’s a Federal horse, then she’s contraband. I bet Pa will say we can keep her. Heaven knows, the Yankees stole Rush’s Lady.” I didn’t mention the fact that the owner might no longer be living anyway. I stroked the mare’s shoulder and knelt beside the bags, pulling at the buckles. “Do you think Michael’s looked through these?”

  “Nah. He’d be in too big a hurry to get the plowing done.” Cubby gave a short, impatient whine and Laney patted his bottom. “I’m fixing to go on in.”

  “Don’t you want to see who these belong to? They look elegant for saddlebags. Maybe they belong to General Ulysses S. Grant.”

  “Ha.”

  “Or maybe—”

  “We’re going in, Violet.” The gate into the kitchen yard squealed loudly when she opened it.

  Laney had never been fanciful; instead, it was she who had always figured out clever ways for us to realistically carry out our schemes. As a child, I had been the imaginative one; nowadays my feet were usually much more firmly planted on the ground. They had to be.

  Inside the bags was the usual soldier’s gear—extra clothing, a toothbrush, a pocketknife, a ground cloth and twine, a small Testament, a housewife, and a packet of folded letters bound with string. Usual, except that everything was especially refined. The shirt was of soft, almost silky linen instead of homespun, the toothbrush was ivory, and the housewife’s needles and thimble were silver. A niggle of discomfort squirmed through me as I handled this soldier’s personal items. I suppressed it; he was the enemy. If the saddlebags had been marked CSA, we would have turned everything straight over to the Confederate regiment camping on the grounds of my old school. As the intruder, this person deserved no such consideration.

  Some hard objects lay within the folds of the shirt.

  First I unwrapped a photograph in a sapphire velvet case. A young lady gazed inquiringly out. She was pretty, with elaborately arranged fair hair and pearl earbobs dangling. A Northern girl close to my own age. Next I withdrew two intricately carved wooden figures, rubbed smooth and polished. Both were slender and elongated and whimsical. The male had a curling beard and wore a sort of tunic; the woman, a narrow, graceful robe. Fantastical characters, perhaps, from some tale. The wood was nearly black. Something about them reached out, clutched at me; it was hard to stop looking at them.

  The mare let out a soft nicker, breaking the spell. I stood, stroking her neck and gazing into luminous brown eyes. “What happened to your master?” I whispered. I almost expected her to open her mouth and answer. I gave her a quick pat and then repacked the bags, leaving out only the figures and the letters. Those I slipped into my deep pocket. Of course I had no business reading this soldier’s correspondence, but I was curious. If I could even learn the man’s name …

  Three big geese rushed at me, necks stretched, wings flapping, beaks hissing, as soon as I opened the back gate. Hardly noticing them, I snatched up a handy broom to sweep them aside, left my muddy boots on the porch, and entered the kitchen.

  Laney was still feeding Cubby. “You find anything good?”

  “A nice shirt that’s too small for Pa. It might would fit Michael.” I didn’t look at her as I washed up at the tin pail on the washstand. Someday I would show her the figures, but not until I had held them to myself for a while. It was my habit with things I needed to think about.

  “Now,” Laney said, buttoning her blouse and handing me the baby, “you know the routine, girl.”

  The routine was that I put Cubby to sleep while Laney prepared supper. After my mother died, when I was ten, and Aunt Permilla a few years later, I had tried to help Laney with the cooking, until she kindly but firmly told me to leave it to her. Cooking should be simple—you followed the receipt and were rewarded with successful results. Evidently, though, there was a knack to it I didn’t have. Instead of baking teeth-breaking biscuits, I now concentrated on other chores—housework, sewing, and farmwork. It was labor that needed to be done, and I did it adequately. There were too few to do it now.

  Laney removed her wedding ring, formed from a bone button Michael had hollowed out and polished smooth. She plunged her hands into biscuit dough in the big yellowware bowl while I dropped into the rocker and rhythmically patted the baby’s back until he laid his head against my shoulder.

  Our kitchen was just as a kitchen should be shortly before suppertime, smelling of savory cooking and burning logs in the fireplace. The walls were a rich, darkened pine, with hardened sap dripping from knotholes. The ceiling was crossed with whitewashed rafters, from which hung sides of bacon, hams, and various black iron cooking utensils, the uses of which I did not know, since I never intended to use them, but probably Laney did. The floor was sanded white, the calico curtains and tablecloth were all Turkey red, and the braided rag rug in the center of the room made a bright splash. The final touch of coziness came from Goblin, who snoozed contentedly upon the rug. She was a hard, bony, narrow-faced black cat with a tail like a snake, but when she was indoors, she had the cuddly soul of a fat, fluffy feline. Outdoors was another story. Outdoors she was a panther.

  The rocker creaked softly as I crooned the lullaby Aunt Permilla had sung to us children long ago. As I did so, I could almost hear Aunt Permilla’s deep, throaty voice joining in. She had been our slave, blood kin only to Laney, but I thought of her as my mother as well. And now, as I sang to her grandchild, the love had come full circle. The tension and troubles of the day seeped from me like water.

  “Mammy went away—she tell me to stay,

  And take good care of the baby.

  She tell me to stay and sing this a-way.

  Oh, go to sleepy, li’l baby.

  We’ll stop up the cracks and sew up the seams,

  The boogerman never shall catch you.

  Oh, go to sleep and dream sweet dreams,

  The boogerman never shall catch you.

  The river run wide, the river run deep,

  Oh, bye-o, sweet li’l baby.

  That boat rock slow, she’ll rock you to sleep,

  Oh, bye-o, sweet li’l baby.”

  Obediently Cubby slumbered, soft and limp and heavy. I laid him in the cradle near the hearth.

  Laney was dipping chicken parts in cornmeal and dropping them, sizzling, into the frying pan on the rack. As I watched my friend, who was laboring in bondage, for the millionth time I wondered what her thoughts were about the war. And for the millionth time I couldn’t ask, although for the past year that subject had loomed unvoiced between us. I had seen the flash of hatred in the lowered eyes of some Negroes when they dealt with white people, or the patient, ironic twist to the smiles of others. But I’d never seen a sign, however subtle, however I looked for it, that Laney resented me. The more I worried, the more I couldn’t ask, for fear of what I might hear. For fear that nothing would be the same between us if she uttered her feelings. Or if I could tell she lied.

  She and Michael knew all the ins and outs of current events. They weren’t kept ignorant, as the servants were on large plantations, secluded from the world. What would my own feelings be if our positions were reversed? If I were the slave and Laney the mistress?

  Full of hope. I would be hopeful about the war no matter how friendly I was with my master’s family. I would watch and wait and plan for freedom.

  Michael burst in. He washed his hands and, as he dried them, stepped behind Laney and breathed into her neck, “You sure looking good, little wife.”

  Laney glanced over her shoulder, saying, “And don’t I know it,” before swooshing under his arm to check the pie in the brick oven. She was a pretty girl, soft and curvaceous, with big, expressive eyes, a shapely mouth, and dark brown skin. She always wore a snowy white head wrap and bright gingham dresses. Michael could never get enough of her.

  As Laney straightened, he kissed the back of her neck.

  I felt invisible, which caused me to quickly lean over Cubby’s cradle and set it rocking frantically. I liked to think that the five of us—Pa, Micha
el, Laney, Cubby, and me—were a family, but at moments like this a gap widened between us. They made up their own little world. Perfect without me clinging to the edge. If the Union won, Michael, Laney, and Cubby might leave Scuppernong.

  In the old days, it was Laney, Rush, and me who were the threesome. Since my mother had been an invalid, dying slowly, dreadfully, of consumption all the years after we were born, Aunt Permilla had given suck to us all. After we grew from babyhood, we frolicked about the countryside together, wild and free, ignored by the adults and taking care of each other. The fun ended when Aunt Permilla started making Laney work in the house and my father made Rush labor in the fields after his hours at school. I was sent away to Wyndriven Female Academy. My father respected the Stones, who were the proprietors of the academy, and wanted to support their efforts.

  When my father prospered enough, he bought Michael. Michael courted Laney and the wedge was formed. They had been married on our porch by a black preacher, with the bride all in white beneath a veil sewn from a net curtain and with me playing my harp. Then Rush went off to war, Laney became a mother, and the wedge widened. But at least my friend—sister—was still here on the farm.

  She might not be if the Union won.

  For a moment I stared at the flames snapping on the hearth, at the curls of blue-gold licking and the lines of orange writhing among the coals, devouring. Fire was like so many things—a burst of something beautiful and then all was gone.

  I stood abruptly and left the kitchen as Laney turned to twine her arms around her husband’s neck.

  Up in my sloping-ceilinged bedroom in the eaves, I pulled everything out of my pocket. The wooden figures lay in my lap, each detail adding to their whimsy. With one finger I traced the carved woman’s intricate curls. The creator of these had an interesting mind; Yankee or not, I would like to meet him.

  Now I slipped one letter from the packet and unfolded it. The handwriting was round and childish.

  August 10, 1861

  My dear darling Thomas,

  I have just received your letter of the tenth of July and do not blame you for thinking you were forsaken after you had written two letters and received none from me. Let me clear myself. I have been dreadfully ill! You cannot imagine how I have suffered! Why, I have had three doctors (enough to kill any common person)! I lived on lemons and ice, and they shingled my hair, which is such a shame when it was so long and so becoming braided and tucked up. You must remember me as I appeared in the picture you carry.

  You would not believe how warlike we have become here! The military look is all the fashion with the ladies. I have a new black velvet Zouave jacket with the prettiest gold trimming. And the men in uniform on the streets are as thick as the flies in the dining room of my old school. You remember me telling you how uncomfortable it made me to eat with so many of them buzzing around?

  In the newspaper was a photograph of army tents spread out in a field. They looked so pretty! I intend to write a composition about it. “Dotted like daisies on sunny grass.” Then something about their inhabitants awaiting fate. The contrast, you know.

  I met a young Englishman at a reception the other night. He was polite, smooth, and innocent-seeming. Too innocent-seeming. (I am convinced he is a spy!) So you see, we do get some excitement even around here, far from the front lines!

  We had a sewing circle the other day, made shirts, and also rolled bandages. Delia Edmonds was there. I know you always admired her, and we’ve been friends forever, but she is one of those friends I don’t actually like. Or don’t gentlemen know about such things? She acts so high and mighty about coming from one of the first families of Bethel—most annoying.

  How is sweet Star? Is she keeping you company since I cannot? I hope when you ride her, you remember our adventures together. Kiss her long, bony head for me—how I miss you both!

  I hope this letter finds you well. Teach those Seceshes a thing or two!

  Much love,

  Addie

  The Yankee girl’s life seemed to have been made more entertaining by the war.

  I considered the rest of the letters lying on the bed and fought temptation. It simply wasn’t honorable to read another’s mail. Examining one was excusable—after all, I had to discover the name of the owner of these possessions—but two … Unless …

  No, no more, Violet.

  I replaced the letter and looped the string back around the packet. After I wrapped the figures in a scarf, I tried to think where to place these objects for safekeeping. It was silly to imagine I had to hide them from Laney, but we lived so close that sometimes secrets from each other were amusing; certainly Laney kept things from me as well. I grinned when I remembered my old hidey-hole beneath a loose floorboard in the corner of my room. When I was little, that was where I had kept items that were no one else’s business.

  I pried up the board with my buttonhook. I hadn’t looked there in years. In the cavity still lay a cigar box full of my little-girl treasures, as well as a very old book with a mottled cover. Mostly it told how to care for beehives and collect honey, but also there was one important section about talking to bees. I picked it up and blew the dust from it before I tucked the Yankee’s things away beside it.

  As I lay in bed a few minutes later, I thought of the Northern girl who had written the letter. Such a spritely note with so many exclamation marks. Obviously Addie was a stimulating young lady. No wonder she had interesting Thomas-the-soldier-and-wood-carver for a beau.

  I hoped he still lived.

  Late that day a rising wind keened a high, wild note in the piney woods outside and rattled the uncurtained windows of the dining room. The panes reflected the lamp I’d lit already due to scowling clouds.

  “We’re the only folks I know who’ve gained a horse because of the Yankees,” my father said over supper. “She can be yours. She’ll be a good mount for you when Michael doesn’t need her for labor. What will you name her?”

  “Star. Her name is Star.” Just because my father proclaimed she was mine didn’t make it so. Possibly I could forget she actually belonged to a Union soldier, but I doubted it.

  “Someone in town told of a mother harnessing her young’uns to a plow, having no horse or mule,” my father said, looking grave and shaking his head. “What have we come to, a year into the conflict, with so few menfolk around to do the work? Just last week a bushwhacker gang attacked Joe Jepson’s farm, out past Holly Springs. Shot his fifteen-year-old son and like to wiped the place clean of everything they could steal.”

  My father was always looking grave and shaking his head these days.

  “The government should send troops after them,” I said.

  “They have too many other problems to deal with. A war, for instance. Deserter outlaws are not the most pressing issue. We need to get that old rifle in the barn repaired, and I aim to leave my pistol with Michael when I go.”

  “Why can’t you leave it with me?”

  “Because, Violet, you happen to be a young lady, and young ladies rely on men to protect them.”

  It was useless to argue. I set down the fork beside my untouched plate. “Pa, can’t we talk about something besides war? When Rush was here, we used to chat about books and history and ideas. Can’t we do that again?”

  A shadow passed over his face. It was because I had mentioned my twin. My brother had been the mediator between my father and me. Without him, we were at a loss with each other.

  My father stroked his short beard. Everyone said I looked like a female version of him, with the same honey-colored hair, the same pale, pointed face and gray-blue eyes. Nondescript. I had always wished that, like Rush, I resembled my striking, dark-haired mother instead. “As a matter of fact, some other subjects do need to be discussed. I have two pieces of news.” He shifted in his seat. “I know the past year has been lonely for you, Violet, but your quiet life is fixing to change.”

  There was an ominous pause as I squared my shoulders, tensed to hear what unplea
sant thing he was about to spring on me.

  “First of all,” he said, drawing an envelope from his pocket, “I’ve had a letter from your mama’s aunt Lovina on Panola Plantation, out Richmond way. You know she’s had charge of your cousin Seeley since his parents died last year. Even with the help of his nurse, Aunt Lovina says she’s gotten too frail to care for a lively boy. She’s also worried about the approaching battlefront, so she announces that your cousin Seeley is coming here to stay. No asking involved.”

  “Surely you’re mistaken. Whatever are we to do with a child during times like these?”

  “I promise, I’m not mistaken.”

  “How old is he? Isn’t he still in skirts?”

  “Not that little. He was born that summer when they sent us your cousin Dorian to get him out of the way for a few months. Let’s see, that would make Seeley almost nine. As I said, things are about to liven up around here. He’s traveling with a group who’s coming through in the next few weeks, taking their household yonder to Texas.”

  “Where will we put him?”

  “We have extra bedrooms.”

  I twisted my hands in my lap. I won’t put him in Rush’s room. I shan’t let a wild little boy destroy all I have left of my brother.

  “She also tells me Dorian has lately been running the blockade off the North Carolina coast.” My father gave a dry chuckle. “Not surprising. It’s exactly the sort of thing I would’ve expected from that boy.”

  During the one long-ago visit we’d had from my older cousin, I had liked him very well, even though he had seemed to be forever laughing at everyone and taking all the world lightly. Or maybe that was precisely why he had held a fascination for me. Rush had been a quiet, solemn boy, so Dorian had provided an amusing addition to our household. “Well, then,” I said slowly, “we need to make ready for Seeley whether we want him here or not. And what’s your other news?”

  My father reached over to take my hand. This did not bode well. He never touched me.