Agnes Canon's War

by Deborah Lincoln

  “If you’re driven out, then half the town must go with you,” she said. “It appears to me the town’s evenly divided.”

  “I seem to have a propensity for offending both sides somehow,” he said, arching an eyebrow at her.

  “Maybe it won’t come to that after all. It’s been quiet this summer. We may be over the worst of it.”

  “It’s the quiet that precedes an earthquake, I think.” He took her hand. “I wish you were right, Agnes, but I wouldn’t stake the farm on it.” They sat there as dusk fell, not speaking, holding hands, rocking in the sultry evening.

  24

  Late Summer 1857

  The hush of a September evening surrounded her—the first, tentative calls of cicadas and crickets, the last, sleepy trill of song sparrows and cardinals. The willow trailed languid, yellowing fronds while the brook, exploring its banks and sheltering its trout, moseyed along, indifferent to human troubles.

  “Agnes.”

  She jumped and whirled, taken by surprise. He’d been gone for weeks, and she’d missed him.

  “I brought you a few things from New Orleans.” Jabez held out a basket filled with packages: oranges, pralines, the newest book by Melville, a glorious flowered shawl.

  “Doctor Robinson.” She looked not at the gifts but at him, knowing full well her face showed everything it shouldn’t. “How very kind of you to think of me.” Foolish thing to say.

  “Miss Canon.” His smile softly mocking, his dark eyes laughing. “I have been thinking of nothing but you.” He set the basket down, took her hand and drew her into the shelter of the willow.

  

  They married in November, a few days before her thirty-third birthday. She traded her new house for a husband. Independent as a hog on ice, she thought, as she closed her front door and surrendered the key to the young man who bought it. But she knew in her heart it was time—she was ready—to move on.

  The ladies of the town took over the creation of her bridal costume. She refused to be decorated in white silk and rows of lace and instead fell head over heels for a pattern featured in Godey’s in rose tarlatan, with skirt flounces edged in black velvet and guipure lace. Nancy and Mrs. Norman cut and measured, Elizabeth and Mrs. Watson stitched and fitted. Most of the town turned out for the wedding dinner, whether invited or not, and the bride and groom both delighted in their company. When they slipped off in the late afternoon for St. Joe, they left their guests dining on roast goose with sauerkraut, venison steaks and potato balls, corn pudding, sweet potatoes, brandied cranberries and raspberry pie. And drinking their fill of ale and cider and the last of the lemonade.

  They cruised to St. Louis by steamboat, Jabez apologizing that it was not New Orleans or Chicago, but Agnes didn’t care. A city with shops and theater, restaurants, even a mediocre opera thrilled her. They settled in the Planter’s House Hotel at Fourth and Pine, and made it their object to discover the sights. As the weather favored them with unseasonably warm days—termed Indian Summer for reasons Agnes could not fathom—they explored Washington Square, Hyde Park, and St. Louis Place. They traveled an hour by carriage to the new fairgrounds to see the vast amphitheater, the racetracks, grandstands and water features, the fine arts hall, the mechanical hall and the three-story Chicken Palace, all quiet now and empty of fairgoers, but magnificent even so. They rode omnibuses and marveled at the length of the levee and the number of steamboats, and shopped and dined above their income. Agnes convinced Jabez to escort her on a tour of Lemp’s Brewery, the limestone storage cave, and the tavern on the riverside where they enjoyed their first glass of a new beverage called a “lager.” Agnes developed a decided taste for it.

  Jabez laughed and joked, took Agnes coffee in the morning and chocolates in the evening, forsook all newspapers and pamphlets and public speakers, and concentrated his attention on her. They browsed the booksellers and argued vehemently over Smollett’s work—she couldn’t abide satire, he loved it—and purchased an entire set of Walter Scott’s books to replace those she had sold to come west. Her husband’s ease and lightheartedness gratified her, and she understood, finally, how it felt to love and be loved. And by January, she sensed new life growing within.

  

  The pregnancy had progressed smoothly, and Jabez assured her that as her water broke before pains began, labor would be eased. After the first racking pain, she invited him to trade places with her, and he promptly left to fetch Dr. Norman. Big as a barrel of fall apples, she lay for a few precious moments in solitude, thinking she wouldn’t go through the next few hours if she could choose, knowing she had no choice. A woman facing birth resembled a man facing imminent battle: no way under heaven to avoid the inevitable. A man, of course, could cut and run. For a woman about to birth a child no such option exists.

  A spasm seized her, and she screeched. As the sultry September evening progressed, Jabez encouraged her to use her vocal cords as often and as loudly as possible to relieve the pains. She took him at his word and later, she came to understand, the neighbors gathered up and down the street to listen and place wagers as the evening wore on. She remembered Rachel buzzing in, her work-worn hands comforting, stroking, Sarah following her with a basin of cold water. She remembered hours of bearable pain and a single hour of almost unbearable wretchedness. She remembered the lamplight on Jabez’s tense, frowning face, and Doctor Norman’s peaceful, amused expression. Agnes had insisted on Doctor Norman’s attendance—if anything went wrong, Jabez would never forgive himself—but Jabez adamantly refused his colleague’s suggestion that he wait in the front parlor throughout. Agnes recalled someone’s hand on her belly, and Doctor Norman counting with her, and Jabez saying impatiently, “My dear, you’re not pushing right.” She snarled up at him, asking how in the blue devil he knew whether she pushed right or not; he’d never done it, had he? And as she was doing the best she could, he had no call to be so high-handed. And she remembered Jabez chuckling and Doctor Norman choking back a guffaw. Then someone said “There’s the head” and blackness, then Jabez, a smile wide as the Missouri splitting his beard, held high a wet and wriggling body, still attached. And her husband said, “A boy! Agnes, we have a boy!”

  Much later, toward dawn, she lay propped against the headboard, the babe nestled to her breast and sucking with vigor. Jabez, washed and filled with coffee, dropped next to her, a look of supreme contentment on his face. Agnes laughed, adrenalin running high.

  “You can be proud of your accomplishment, Papa,” she said, kissing his cheek.

  He wrapped her with an arm and squeezed. The baby wriggled, mewed, waved his fists in the air at his father and smacked his lips. Jabez took him, tightened the blanket around the tiny limbs and tucked him into the crook of his arm. “No, my love, I know who did the work here.” One long finger stroked the wrinkles from the child’s forehead. “I’ve delivered so many of these, but this one is mine.” He leaned his cheek against the top of her head. “And yours. It’s very different.”

  They christened their son Charles Wetmore, after Jabez’s mentor. Agnes suggested the name and Jabez was pleased, knowing that it honored both Eliza and her father. He proceeded to plan for Charlie’s medical education, beginning with a recitation to him of the Latin names of medicinal herbs in their garden. Charlie gurgled and laughed and grew like a healthy puppy.

  25

  November 1859

  Jabez spooned a dollop of mashed butternut squash into Charlie’s dish. Charlie immediately dropped his spoon and clutched a handful, cramming it mostly into his mouth. His eyelashes wore orange goo. Agnes tore off a piece of bread, took a sip of wine, and pushed away her plate. Her stomach roiled at the smell of roast pork. And roast turkey, beef, and ham, to say nothing of vegetables.

  “Only you, my dear, could turn morning sickness into dinner-time sickness,” Jabez said, swiping at his son’s face with a napkin. “I believe you’re going to be very uncomfortable for the next few months.�
��

  “Very funny,” she glared. “You are now in charge of both feeding and diapers.”

  “Papas don’t do diapers,” he said solemnly. “Papas are in charge of playtime. And maybe lessons.”

  She looked at their child and shuddered. The moment passed. “I do believe this confinement promises to be more of a trial than the last.”

  “Well, then,” he said, moving the plates to the sideboard. “I have a suggestion.” He poured her more wine and filled his own glass. “Let’s give you a little vacation now while you’re still of a size to be mobile”—she threw a napkin at him—”and get you away from this monster for a time.” He lifted Charlie from his high chair and set him on his lap. Charlie grabbed a waistcoat button and rammed it into his mouth. Jabez disentangled him.

  “And where did you have in mind? With the weather coming on winter.”

  “How about a week in St. Joe? You can shop, we can see the new railroad, enjoy restaurant meals. A second honeymoon. What do you say?”

  “In St. Joe? Second prize is two weeks in St. Joe?” But she smiled at him.

  “Now, Agnes, don’t be cranky. There’s a new hotel. We can leave Charlie with Sarah Jackson, and it won’t be too far for you. Besides, there’s a political speaker scheduled just across the river that I think you’ll enjoy hearing.” He rubbed his nose into the back of Charlie’s pudgy neck, making the boy giggle.

  “Who is it this time?” She retrieved her napkin and wiped Charlie’s tray.

  “That lawyer from Illinois we’ve been reading about, Abe Lincoln. He’s speechifying in Ohio and Illinois for the Republicans. Remember? He ran against Douglas for the Senate last year.” He deposited Charlie on his special blanket in the corner and handed him his stuffed dog.

  “Oh.” She stopped what she was doing. “You know he’s a cousin of mine. Our grandparents were related.”

  “I understand he resembles an ape.” He slipped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, still small enough, thank goodness. “It’s a good thing you don’t look like him.” He nuzzled her neck. “He might even run for president next year. How would that be? Your cousin in the White House?”

  She turned in his arms. “That would mean the abolitionist Republicans in charge, wouldn’t it? And that would mean secession.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt his playful mood die. He released her and dropped into a chair, lit a cigar and sipped from his wineglass.

  “Yes, and probably war.”

  

  They traveled to St. Joseph the following week, leaving Sarah installed in their home with Charlie, and took a room in the Patee Hotel on Penn Street, a luxurious place with velvet settees and an indoor water closet, bell pulls for the maids and flocked wallpaper. Jabez suffered through a day of shopping, carrying Agnes's parcels, treating her to lunch at O’Brien’s.

  On the second evening, they dined at the home of Will Hall, whom Jabez met back in ’56 during the presidential campaign. To Agnes’s delight, the Widow Rawlings, tiny, white-blond and delicately complexioned, and once her imagined rival, held court at table, acting as her brother’s hostess. She displayed a quick tongue, a sharp intelligence, and a deep knowledge of music, drama and literature. She spoke not a word of politics, however, which dominated the evening’s conversation. She and Agnes were the only ladies among the diners.

  Their host, Mr. Hall, a short, stout lawyer with pronounced ears jutting from a mass of gingery hair, welcomed Jabez with warmth and obvious affection. He seated Agnes to his right at table and she found she liked their host very much, especially since he spent much of the evening extolling her husband’s talents as a pamphleteer.

  “The work of European agitators.” The gentleman to Agnes’s right said to Jabez. The man worked as an aide to Governor Stewart, but Agnes never did catch his name.

  Doctor Lowry, a physician from Jefferson City, paused in his dissection of orange-glazed roast duck. “Pah,” he said. “Ain’t agitators at all. It’s the whole North. They want to kill our cotton trade with tariffs and make us pay for their railroads.”

  “Us, sir?” Mr. Hall asked. “You align Missouri with the cotton growers? I continue to maintain Missouri must be neutral. We arm ourselves, but we keep our head down.”

  “Impossible,” said a diminutive aristocrat named Jo Shelby. “Hiding your head under the covers won’t be helpful to Missouri or anyone else.” His mustache collected bits of food as he ate. He wiped long fingers on a linen napkin. “War’s the answer and we’re to be in the center of it.”

  “You’ve certainly done your part in dragging us all into the fighting, Shelby,” Jabez said. Agnes noted that that her husband and Shelby were obviously already well acquainted. “Your adventures in Kansas got the blood flowing.”

  Shelby’s smile was not pleasant. “No, sir, those northern invaders began the argument and my men did only what was necessary.” He set down his knife and fork and leaned on his forearms. “Don’t tell me you think John Brown’s a hero?”

  Hall stepped in. “Now, Jo, no call to insult the man.” He surveyed his guests. “Do you know,” he said, “that Waldo Emerson likens that man to Jesus?”

  Jabez reddened. “I saw what Brown did. Saw it with my own eyes. Brown and his boys are killers and deserve to hang, but pray God that’s the last of the killing. The north and the south should agree to separate and go in peace.”

  “Won’t happen,” Stewart’s man said. “The abolitionists are on a mission. They won’t stop until slavery’s vanished from the face of the earth.”

  “I still say slavery will die of its own accord, given time,” Jabez said, “though I fear time’s running out.”

  “You’re wrong, sir,” Shelby said, pointing a forefinger in Jabez’s direction. “Slavery is the African’s natural condition, the best thing for him. Our entire society rests on that truth, the Negro isn’t the equal of the white man.”

  “I don’t claim equality for the Negro,” Jabez said, “but it doesn’t follow that slavery is his natural state. Or the natural state of any human.”

  “Do you mean to say, sir,” Agnes jumped in, turning to Shelby, “that slavery is actually a social good?”

  Shelby appraised her coolly, as if considering whether to respond. Then he bowed in her direction, awkwardly, as his short stature put him chest-high to the table. “Madam,” he said. “I do indeed believe slavery is the right thing for the African race. Hence my support for the current legislation in the statehouse.” He turned away from her.

  “And what legislation is that?” she asked.

  Doctor Lowry set down his wine glass. “A bill that requires all free blacks in Missouri to be seized and sold back into slavery.”

  Agnes drew back, eyes wide. “Surely they’re considering no such thing?”

  “Yes, Madam, they are,” Stewart’s man answered. “The Governor, however, is not supportive. If it passes, he’ll exercise the veto.”

  Mrs. Rawlings, serving potatoes from a silver dish held by a Negro steward, stepped in. “My dear Mrs. Robinson, you can’t have lived among them.” She nodded to the serving man, and he moved on to the next diner. “They’re like children, and a condition of servitude is the only way they’ll survive.”

  Agnes bit her tongue. Mrs. Rawlings had the right of one thing, Agnes knew nothing of the race.

  Jabez smiled at her through the flower arrangement between them, but the other men appeared discomfited, either with her opinions or simply because a woman had spoken up.

  Mrs. Rawlings smiled. “Try the baked eggplant, Mrs. Robinson, do. It’s a recipe Mrs. Davis gave me. I’d be happy to share it with you.”

  Mr. Hall turned to his left. “You mentioned tariffs, Lowry. I believe you’ve hit on it. The North’s business is to prop up New England manufacturing and that means driving the South’s cotton trade into the ground.”

  “Ta
riffs aren’t all that bad,” Shelby said. “I can support the hemp tariff.”

  “Can’t have it both ways, Shelby,” the Stewart man said. “If the southern states break away you won’t have the power of the federal government to back your tariff.”

  “We don’t need them to prop us up.” Shelby sipped his wine, and his face bloomed red.

  “I fear we do,” Hall said. “The north has monopolized the shipping, the manufacturing, the banks—the southern states need to start from scratch if they want to compete.”

  “So where does that leave you, sir?” The Stewart man turned back to Jabez. “Still think the country can split itself in peace?”

  Jabez set his knife diagonally across his plate and leaned forward. “I hold little hope of that, I assure you. I believe there was a time when the two sections might have negotiated their differences peacefully, either as one nation or two. I think self-interested men with a greed for power have put us all in a position where negotiation is an impossibility.” He rubbed a hand over his beard and stared at Shelby. “My only hope now is that the fighting ends quickly.”