American Struggle

by Veda Boyd Jones

  I seem to pray for the men as much as I doctor. Perhaps I’m part chaplain and part doctor.

  Many of the boys are ill. I treat many cases of dysentery, typhoid, and flu. Then, of course, there are the fistfights that break out here and there due to the short fuses of some men’s tempers. I mend a few broken noses and split lips as well. But as of now, no war wounds. Much as I, too, hate the long wait, I am thankful for that!

  Papa closed by giving his love to every one of them. He said nothing about the boardinghouse. Had Mama not told him?

  The first boarder arrived three days after the advertisement appeared in the Gazette. Daria happened to be at the house when the knock sounded, so she answered the door. There stood a short, stooped man with a thatch of white hair and thick, white chin whiskers. His eyes were gray blue and steely hard. A permanent scowl was etched into his brow. He held his stovepipe hat in his hand. A satchel sat at his feet.

  “Good day,” Daria said politely. “May I help you?”

  “I’ve come to rent a room,” the man said, mumbling his words. That said, he picked up his satchel, moved through the door, and set his satchel down in the hallway as though he owned the place.

  So, Daria thought, this is what it will be like to have boarders.

  CHAPTER 9

  Boarders

  Daria stared at the stoop-shouldered man, wishing it were possible to order him out of their house. Instead, she waved the man toward the front parlor. “Have a seat, sir. I’ll fetch Mama.”

  Mama was the picture of gracious hospitality as she swept into the parlor and greeted the stranger. Daria waited in the hallway—partly so she could listen and partly to see if Mama might need her.

  The man’s name was William Martin, and he was a teacher in one of the neighboring school districts. “Thought I was retired from that sort of stuff and nonsense,” he told Mama in a low, raspy voice. “But this foolish war has whisked away all our young teachers. So they take us old geezers out of the pasture and put us back to work again. This location will be closer to the school than my room downtown.”

  “You’re the first to answer our advertisement,” she told him. “Let me show you the rooms available. You’ll have your pick.” Her voice was cheery and kind. But Mr. Martin just grunted and got to his feet after a slight struggle. Daria suspected he suffered from rheumatism.

  She stepped back out of the way as the two came into the hallway. “I brought a few things with me,” Mr. Martin said, holding up his bag. “If I like the place, I’ll have the livery bring the rest of my books and clothes later.”

  “A fine idea,” Mama said, still maintaining her cheeriness.

  Mr. Martin preferred the guest room that faced the front of the house and paid Mama a deposit.

  From the first moment Mr. Martin moved in, he began to complain. This was something entirely new to Mama and Mirza. Papa never complained about anything.

  “Who swept my room today?” Mr. Martin asked one evening at supper.

  “I did,” Daria answered in a meek voice. She was trying hard to follow Mama’s example. I’m helping Mama, she reminded herself.

  “Cobwebs in the corner,” Mr. Martin growled between bites. “Even with my failing eyesight, I can see cobwebs in the corner.”

  Daria glanced at Mama. Mama gave a weak smile and nodded. “I’ll be more careful next time,” Daria said.

  “See that you are,” he snapped back.

  Fortunately, Mr. Martin spent the evenings in his room grading papers, so the family still had quiet evenings in the parlor. Daria was thankful the old man wasn’t her teacher. She wasn’t sure she could bear it.

  After a week or two of his continual complaining, Daria had had enough. There was only so much a body could stand. Mirza was pouring coffee one morning when Mr. Martin asked, “What did you do to these eggs?”

  “Why, I scrambled them, sir,” Mirza said.

  “Well,” he said, not looking up from his plate, “they’re terrible. I prefer my eggs just like they come out of the shell. No need beating them all together in a blob.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir,” she said.

  Daria could see the look of hurt in her eyes. Then Mirza bolted from the room in tears.

  “If you like your eggs as they come out of the shell,” Daria retorted, “we’ll serve you raw eggs tomorrow morning.”

  “Daria Ann Fisk!” Mama said with a warning tone to her voice.

  “Well, she’s right.” Andrew stood to his feet. Mr. Martin looked up at him. “When my papa left for the war,” Andrew told their boarder, “he told me to look out after this family. And I won’t have my mama, my sisters, nor our dear friend Mirza being treated in such a manner. They’re ladies and should be treated as ladies.”

  The room was quiet. Daria had no doubt she and Andrew had just chased off their first and only paying customer.

  “You young rascals are all alike,” mumbled the old teacher. “Hot-tempered and spoiling for a fight. It’s no wonder we’re in a war.” He wiped his mouth on his napkin, folded it neatly, and said, “I believe I’m nearly late for class.” With that, he left the table.

  “Daria, Andrew,” Mama said softly, “how could you do such a thing? He’s old and set in his ways.”

  “Well, he can learn a few new ways,” Daria answered, her heart still hammering in her throat.

  “I think they were great, Mama,” Jenny said, her eyes gleaming. “I believe Papa would have been proud of them. Mr. William Martin is a bit more irritable than he needs to be, Mama.”

  “Well, at least he pays his rent each week,” Mama said. “That’s what’s important just now.”

  Although Mr. Martin never said anything about Daria’s and Andrew’s outbursts, he stopped complaining as much. Then Mrs. Ryan arrived. Her presence worked to balance things out. The slender, well-dressed lady appeared to be only a few years younger than Mama. Portia Ryan was a lady of means who hailed from Cleveland. Her father and her husband were in business together and owned a packet of canal boats. That is, they had until the war disrupted everything. She told Mama about her officer husband, Ambrose, who lay ill and wounded in the military hospital.

  Mrs. Ryan, to Daria’s great relief, was the opposite of William Martin. In spite of the fact that she was a paying guest, she was appreciative and offered to pitch in and help with clearing the dishes and preparing the meals. It was a simple matter to clean her room, and Daria didn’t mind at all that she had come to stay at the Fisk Boardinghouse.

  Mrs. Ryan caught the omnibus each morning to go to the hospital and be with her husband. Mama instructed her to look up Martha Burton, who continued to work at the hospital. “Martha will make sure you have every comfort during your time there,” Mama told her.

  Before January was over, the family had fallen into a fairly comfortable routine. Daria and Andrew gritted their teeth and performed every job Mama asked of them. But Andrew told Daria he prayed no boys from his class ever came by while he was outside shaking rugs!

  Before going to sleep each night, Daria and Andrew spent time in the stable with Bordeaux. Afterward, Andrew would go to his room, open the window and whistle, then call out softly, “Good night, Bordeaux. Good night, boy.” Bordeaux would thrust his head out the window of his stall and nicker his reply. Daria couldn’t help but feel jealous. She was getting used to sharing a room with Jenny—but she would rather have had Bordeaux nearby the way Andrew did.

  One Friday night, Daria and Andrew sat on his cot, whispering until the house was quiet around them. Daria was relieved to share her thoughts with Andrew the way they always used to, but she realized that Andrew wasn’t telling her as much as she was telling him. She fell silent, hoping he would take the opportunity to talk. Then, in the midst of the silence, both children heard noises outside the door. They turned toward each other, holding their breath.

  There it was again. Noises right at the door. A sliver of moon hung in the sky, giving a little light, and Daria could see a shadow moving. “Is
it a burglar?” she whispered, her heart pounding. She’d read in the paper about desperate people who’d been financially ruined by the war. They were ready to steal in order to survive.

  She watched as Andrew slowly crawled out of bed and crept over to the stove. He picked up the poker. Grasping the cold metal rod in his hand, he froze as the noise sounded one more time. This time the knob rattled.

  Raising the poker above his head, Andrew stepped cautiously toward the door. He placed his hand on the glass knob, ready to yank it open and bring down the poker on whoever was out there. “Be careful,” Daria breathed. Holding his breath, Andrew turned the knob and yanked it open.

  Daria let out a gasp that was half scream, half giggle. Her brother had only just stopped himself from giving Bordeaux a crowning blow with the poker. The huge hulk of a horse stood with his nose right at the door.

  Andrew burst out laughing. “Bordeaux, you scared me plum out of a year’s growth.” Dropping the poker, he reached out to pet the sleek neck. “You silly old piece of horseflesh. Do you know how close you came to getting a hard conk on the noggin? Do you?”

  Daria couldn’t stop laughing. “How in the world did he get out?” she managed to say between giggles. “Did we leave that door open?”

  “Wait just a minute till I get some warm clothes on,” Andrew said, “and I’ll go check.” Leaving the door ajar, he went back in to pull on his coat and slip his bare feet into his shoes. When he turned around again, the front half of Bordeaux’s body was inside the door.

  Daria was giggling even harder now.

  “Hey, you silly thing. You can’t come in here, much as I’d like to have your company.” He put his hand on Bordeaux’s white blaze forehead and pushed him back. “Out with you now. I have no hay or oats for you in here.”

  There was no halter or bridle, but none was needed. Daria watched from the window as Bordeaux followed beside Andrew like a puppy as the two of them strolled through the cold January night back to the stable. She sucked in her breath when she realized the doors to the stable and stall were standing open. Daria was sure they’d closed them. They always closed them. She snatched up one of Andrew’s quilts, wrapped it around her shoulders, and dashed out to the stable.

  “How did the doors get open?” she asked her brother.

  Andrew looked up at the horse and asked him, “Did you do this?” Andrew moved the sliding wooden bolt back and forth. Bordeaux nodded.

  In the dim moonlight, Daria looked up at the kind brown eyes. “You are one incredible horse,” she whispered. “You truly are.” The children put their arms around the great neck.

  Daria heard her brother whisper to the horse, “You miss Papa, too, don’t you?”

  Children and beast stood quietly for a moment, as though their presence soothed each other. Daria wished she could always feel this close to Andrew.

  At last, Andrew sighed and stepped back. “You can’t be out roaming around,” he told Bordeaux as he put the horse back into the stall. “Someone might steal you away. You can’t trust anyone these days. Especially with Rebel spies roaming the city.” He closed the stall door and shoved a little stick into the hole so the bolt wouldn’t slide.

  The next morning at breakfast, Andrew told the others how Bordeaux had opened the doors in the stable.

  Mr. Martin just snorted. “You probably left them open. Just like a young striplin’ like you to do that and then blame it on a dumb animal.”

  “Bordeaux is not a dumb animal,” Daria protested. Mama gave her a look.

  “Horses are smart,” Mrs. Ryan put in, smiling kindly at Daria and Andrew. “Very smart. God gave them a wonderful sense that humans know very little about.”

  That morning it was Daria’s turn to do the job she hated most—serve breakfast. “Our uncle Jon trained Bordeaux and raised him from a foal.” She set the platter of ham and eggs on the table. “He and Aunt Ellie give their horses tender love and affection.”

  Mrs. Ryan nodded. “My Ambrose says if you treat a horse right, it’ll save your life if need be.”

  “I think,” Jenny said to Andrew and Daria, “that Bordeaux wants you to know he understands how you feel.”

  Another grunt came from Mr. Martin. “You been feeding him apples. I’ve seen you two. He was just wanting another apple.”

  But it didn’t matter what Mr. Martin said. Andrew and Daria knew better. Daria glanced over at Mama. There were tears in her eyes. Mama knew, too.

  The third room was empty for a time, then filled, then empty again. Mama thought perhaps Jenny could move back into her own room again, since they didn’t seem to have any more nibbles. But Jenny said she was fine and that they should wait awhile longer. The two girls had learned to take comfort from each other’s presence at night. And the rent paid by Mrs. Ryan and Mr. Martin was helping the budget a great deal.

  The first week in February brought another letter from Roy. He was still with the Army of the Potomac. Just as Daria had suspected, Roy had spent a miserable Christmas in the cold, eating terrible military food. The letter was fairly short.

  We don’t do nothing but eat, sleep, and drill. While I don’t mean to talk bad about a friend of your fokes, I have to say slo-poke McClellan is making the war stretch out intolerably long. We was all feeling hepped up about how many troops he has brought together. But for what? We just set and set and set. I hear tell even Old Abe is mad at him.

  In spite of all, I do tolerably well. The soljers here say I’m a right good drummer. It stays awful cold.

  Tell Daria I’m learning more to pray. The chaplin here is helping me.

  Yore fren, Roy

  At twilight a few days after Roy’s letter arrived, Andrew and Daria were in the stable taking care of the tack. Knowing how fussy Papa was about the harnesses, they were determined to keep them ready, just as though Papa might be coming home any day.

  Cold, gray rain had been drizzling down most of the day. Daria figured it would turn to sleet or snow by morning. Suddenly, church bells began tolling loudly throughout the city. Her heart sped up.

  Mama came out the side door from the kitchen. “Children? You hear that?”

  “Yes’m, I sure do,” Andrew said. “Want us to go see about it?” “We’d all be obliged.” She stepped quickly back inside to get out of the chill.

  Andrew saddled Bordeaux, Daria scrambled up behind him, and they headed for town. In spite of the nasty weather, a crowd had clustered around the office of the Gazette. People were saying something about Fort Henry.

  The children dismounted, and Andrew led Bordeaux through the crowd. “What is it?” he asked an older man. “What’s happened?”

  “Happened? Grant’s just taken Fort Henry, with nary a shot fired; that’s what happened! It’s a pure miracle. That’s what it is!”

  Daria knew from her maps at school that Fort Henry was in Tennessee on the Tennessee River. This was an important victory. It was good to ride home to tell Mama and Jenny the good news.

  But less than a week later, the news wasn’t quite so heartening. Less than eleven miles from Fort Henry, on the Cumberland River, was Fort Donelson. The officer holding the fort surrendered it to Ulysses S. Grant, but only after many lives had been lost. Daria knew Papa was in Tennessee. She tried to imagine how difficult it would be to care for so many wounded men.

  The paper reported that when the commander of the fort asked about surrender conditions, Grant sent back the message that nothing less than unconditional surrender would be accepted. Relieved that someone in the Union army was ready to fight, the citizens of Cincinnati began to cheer for “Unconditional Surrender” Grant.

  “God bless Grant!” the crowd cried. The bells rang long into the night hours. With both of the forts in Union hands, the way was clear to move in and take Nashville, the capital of Tennessee. Surely this news meant the war was nearly over.

  Daria worried a great deal about Papa’s safety. Nearly three thousand men were dead, wounded, or missing after that terrible battle. A
nd the paper said the Confederate losses were much greater. She could not imagine that much death and dying all in one place.

  On a Saturday late in February, Mama had them all cleaning the house. Mama had turned almost every Saturday into a cleaning day ever since their home became a boardinghouse. There was plenty of scrubbing and sweeping. Daria could never remember Mama doing so much cleaning.

  The air was still chilly, but the sting of winter was beginning to wane. Mama decided the porch needed a scrubbing, so that’s where Daria was when she saw a young man walking up to the house. Not walking exactly. Limping was more like it. He was dressed in a rumpled blue uniform with corporal insignias, and he leaned heavily on a cane as he walked.

  Daria sat back on her heels and stared as the man approached. He came right up to the porch steps. He was not very tall, but he had a broad chest like he’d chopped trees or rowed boats all his life. He politely removed his hat, displaying his long, wavy chestnut hair. It was the same color as his mustache.

  Nodding toward the sign, the young man asked, “This here the Fisk residence? Family of Dr. Kevin Fisk, captain in the Union forces?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. My papa is with Grant’s men in Tennessee.” “I know.” “You know?”

  “He helped treat my leg. I just wanted to stop and pay my regards.”

  Daria jumped to her feet, nearly knocking over her bucket of scrub water. Sticking her head in the door, she shouted, “Mama! Mama! Come quick. Here’s a man who’s been with Papa!”

  CHAPTER 10

  Corporal Philip Harnden

  At Daria’s call, Mama came running to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. She stepped out onto the porch and extended her hand to the stranger.

  “Welcome, Corporal,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Fisk, Pamela Fisk. This is my daughter Daria.”

  The corporal had to place his hat in the hand holding the cane before accepting her handshake. “My pleasure, Mrs. Fisk. I’m Corporal Philip Harnden.” Then he reached over to shake Daria’s hand, as well. “Daria. Pleased to meet you.”