by Karen Hesse
Please, I thought then, please, I have thought all day, do not let Father enlist in the army. Please do not let that be what he is doing when he leaves like this.
Perhaps I have lost Mother to her politics and her pain. Perhaps I have lost Daniel to his politics and the War. Must I lose Father, too?
There are things a father and daughter cannot discuss. But there are things a father and daughter must discuss. Tomorrow I will ask Father where he was today.
Friday, October 25, 1861
Clear. Wind N.E. Moderate.
Inspection at 4:45 P.M. Condition very good.
When I asked Father about his trip to the mainland, he grew angry. “Why can’t you be a proper girl, Amelia? Why must you always question me?”
He might have tossed me over the balcony and dashed me to pieces on the ground below. But Keeper Hale came upon us and I pushed the hurt down deep where no one could find it. And that is where I shall keep it, as God is my witness.
Keeper Hale, Father, and I were briefed on precautionary measures during inspection today. We were told we must be vigilant throughout our watches for ships flying foreign flags.
There is a smell to the air on the mainland. Long ago I gathered chestnuts with William when the air smelled just this way. William will not gather chestnuts again. I would have liked to gather chestnuts with Daniel. Perhaps Daniel would have found my hurt and soothed it for me. But Daniel is not here. So I gather chestnuts alone. I once might have asked Reenie O’Connell to come with me, but Reenie will not speak to me now, because of her father. Is Reenie the proper kind of girl Father wishes me to be?
Thursday, October 31, 1861
Cloudy. Wind S.E. Moderate.
The frosty mornings of the past week have hastened my trips across the Ditch. I always row faster when I am cold.
I brought pumpkins back from Bayville as Mrs. Hale requested. Because the pumpkin crop is large this year, I was able to buy quite a few at a very good price. The skiff was so heavy with the enormous orange globes, it is a wonder I did not sink.
As I played with the Hale children, Mrs. Hale mixed a teacup of grated pumpkin, a pint of good milk, an egg, a little salt, two large spoons of sugar, some cinnamon, and some nutmeg. She lined a tin with pastry, filled the shell, and set the pie in the oven to bake. I asked if she would mind if I took some pumpkin to bake a pie or two of my own.
Mother loves pumpkin pie, almost as much as she loves peach. Father loves pumpkin pie, too. I am so angry at the two of them, tonight, after my watch, I shall bake two pumpkin pies and I shall eat them both myself.
Friday, November 1, 1861
Clear. Wind W. Fresh.
When I returned from Bayville today, Napoleon met me on the beach. He rubbed against my legs and mewed. Each time I started for the house, Napoleon ran toward the woods, then turned and ran back to me again.
I worried that perhaps one of the Hale children had gone to play in the woods and met with some mischief. But all five children were accounted for.
I threw myself at my house chores, for the dark comes quickly now and my shift at the Light comes early. When I headed to the Light at dusk, there was Napoleon, waiting for me, mewing, catching at my skirts and playing his game of running to the woods and back.
I had not time to go after him before my watch, but I promised myself I would follow him if he still waited when my watch ended.
Keeper Hale relieved me at nine and I had almost reached the house when Napoleon shot out of the darkness and yowled at me. Lifting the lantern, I followed him into the woods.
We had gone quite a way when I heard cursing, cursing such that I have heard only once before, and that from a sailor during a rescue. How he apologized for his language later when he found I was a girl.
I held my lantern aloft and continued toward the sound. To my astonishment I found Oda Lee Monkton leaning against a small tree. I knelt beside her and saw her face was bruised.
“What has happened?”
She stared at me, her face a mix of anger and pain.
“The girl looked white to me. Talked like she had money. I thought there might be some come my way if I helped her. Dang slave catchers caught me. The leg’s hurt.”
I did not understand anything but the last.
I fashioned a crutch for her from a green branch and with the crutch on one side and me on the other, we slowly made our way out of the woods to Oda Lee’s.
I had never been inside Oda Lee’s house. She was not happy to have me there now. Supplies were stacked everywhere. There was no place to walk, no place to sit, no place to lie down.
Oda Lee steered herself toward a pile of boxes.
The room was bitter cold.
I started a fire for her.
“I will row across and bring Dr. McCabe.”
“Don’t you dare.”
She cursed at me and told me to get out. I stopped at the door, looked back at her. She was licking her hand and rubbing it over and over across a bruise on her cheek.
She screamed at me to leave.
Keeper Hale was still on second watch. I woke Father and told him about Oda Lee. I handed him the lantern and one of the pumpkin pies. He thanked me, sent me to bed, then left.
Oh, my diary, I don’t know what to make of anything anymore.
Saturday, November 2, 1861
Fair. Wind N.W. High.
Father said Oda Lee helped an escaped slave last night and was beaten by the slave catchers as a reward.
I do not know what possessed Oda Lee Monkton to help a fugitive slave. But then I do not know what possessed her to help me last summer with the supplies for Keeper Hale’s party, either.
Monday, November 4, 1861
Cloudy. Wind S.E. Fresh.
Father arrived at Grandmother’s today while I was there. He stood in front of Mother and handed her a sheaf of papers. Mother took the papers, read down the first page, then shut herself in her room.
When after awhile Mother did not reappear, Father turned and left and I followed him. In silence I shadowed him across the Ditch, he in the rowboat, while I took the skiff. Once we had landed, I caught up with him and asked about the papers he had handed Mother.
Father kept his head down as he dragged his boat up out of the Ditch. He would not look me in the eye.
Oh, my diary, I think not knowing will drive me out of my mind.
Tuesday, November 5, 1861
Stormy. Wind S.E. High.
One of the highest tides I have seen in all my life. The marsh embankments have overflowed and fences have washed away. A number of houses along the Ditch are flooded by the invading tide. At least Mother and Grandmother are far enough inland that they are in no danger.
Father has checked on Oda Lee twice. She, too, is safe for the moment. He still says nothing about the papers, and I dare not row the Ditch today to see Mother and ask her myself.
Keeper Hale and his family have moved in upstairs with us until the storm and high tides run their course. We have given them Mother’s room. Our quarters have never been so full of life. The children’s sticky fingers and noisy activities are everywhere.
The sea has managed to get into the cistern. It was unavoidable, and now our water is salty. But the Lighthouse has weathered the storm so far, and though we lost our fence, the house remains undamaged and the Light continues to burn.
Here on the island, when a storm hits, nothing protects us from the mighty Atlantic. We have no barrier to buffer us the way we protect the mainland. We have only one another.
We must stand and take whatever the sea throws our way. And we do.
Mother could not.
But we do.
Thursday, November 7, 1861
Fair. Wind W. Moderate.
Mother was sleeping when I came. Grandmother said I was not to disturb her with any of my nosy questions.
Nosy questions!
I carried water and firewood in, but I did not do one lick of housework. Not one lick!
&nbs
p; Thirty victims of the battle at Ball’s Bluff were found Monday in the Potomac River near the Chain Bridge. They were much mutilated. No sooner did we have news that Daniel was at that very battle, fighting with the 71st Pennsylvania, but we had word he was one of the survivors. Daniel was not the only one to survive the fight. It seems the boys who were good swimmers managed to escape. I taught William to swim two years ago, after he nearly drowned. William must have taught Daniel. It makes me wonder why things happen as they do. I am filled with gratitude. I am filled with awe.
The beautiful Indian summer has come, with its soft and melancholy days. After the brush with winterlike weather, which set everyone to making provisions for the coming frost and snow, the mild temperatures and balmy breezes have returned. This afternoon, the sunset blazed with a thousand hues.
Thursday, November 14, 1861
Cloudy. Wind S.E. Moderate.
A steamer wrecked on the shoals today. She was badly stove, with four feet of water in her hold. The Hale children wasted no time when I returned from school in describing to me in great detail how the steamer hit square and broke in two. Father and Keeper Hale took all aboard into the house and, because it was still early, delivered them across the Ditch, where they made their report. The insurance company will continue its interrogations here tomorrow.
The steamer struck in full daylight. Father and Keeper Hale saw her coming, saw there was nothing they could do to stop her. All that was left for them was to be ready for her. She was loaded with provisions. The cargo was strewn all along the shore. Oda Lee, still limping, has been busy all day. My guess is, she is still at it. She will be provisioned for a year on what she can take until an inspector arrives. I wonder where in those rooms she will stuff it all?
The army is now requesting woolen mittens, an article almost as useful to the soldiers as stockings. The mittens should be fashioned with a forefinger, otherwise they would be very unhandy in actual service.
I have found that cast-off woolen clothing, usually cut into carpet rags, is an excellent material for making mittens. I have been cutting mittens out from discarded cloth in every free moment I have had, and stitching them up in no time. I have finished three pair already. It is only want of material that keeps me from making more.
About 5,000 blankets for the army have been contributed by the people of the North. I have sent my own blanket along.
I sleep just as well in my cloak.
Thursday, November 21, 1861
P. Cloudy. Wind N.W. Fresh.
Daniel has written and asked for a likeness of me.
There are few more homely on the face of the earth. My ears are too big, my chin too small, and my cheeks always raw with the weather. I have never been one to dwell on appearance, a trait that has driven Mother and Grandmother to distraction. I do not intend to start dwelling on appearance now.
Daniel is a better friend than I imagined, to request a likeness of a face uncomely as mine. He says if he could look on my face each day it would bring him comfort. If having such a likeness brings him comfort, then I suppose I had better go to Frankford and have one made. But I would think such a thing would give him a start when he looked upon it. It certainly would me.
Thursday, November 28, 1861
Stormy. Wind S. High.
We had a fall of snow.
It gets dark so early now that we must kindle the Light in the afternoon and keep it burning well into the next morning.
Uncle Edward and I finally had a chance to talk yesterday. I have not had much time to spend with him. We caught up on events close to home. I asked after Daisy. She was away again, for a week. I asked if business had improved any. It had not. I did not mention the papers Father gave to Mother. It seemed disloyal to speak of them somehow. What do I know to speak of, anyway? Nothing! And besides, it was clear Uncle Edward wanted to talk about war. He said the rebel capital has been removed to Nashville, Tennessee.
Then he got onto the subject of slaves and cotton. He said the value of a field slave has always been measured by the price of cotton. When the price of cotton goes up, so does the price of a good field hand. When the price of cotton goes down, a field hand can be bought for a pittance.
With the blockade there is no way to ship out cotton, and no need for the slaves to grow more.
“Wickie, it is becoming a burden to be a slave owner. If we only persevere in our purpose for a year or two, no Southern man will be found rich enough nor foolish enough to wage war over the keeping of slaves.”
I hope Daisy comes back soon. Uncle Edward seemed sore lonely yesterday with her gone.
Because of the weather, I was not able to cross the Ditch to see Mother on this day of Thanksgiving. After some consideration, I pulled on my storm clothes and ran to Oda Lee’s shack and invited her to share the meal with us, but she chased me away.
I left a pumpkin pie on her step.
Keeper Hale led our prayer of thanks in the lantern room this afternoon. He said that all at sea on this day had taken their day mark from us, from the white column rising to the black tower topped by the lightning rod. He said all at sea this night would take their mark from our bright and steady flash.
We gathered at dusk for the lighting of the lamp.
Sarah and Alice entertained us in the tower, reciting a poem called “The Knitting of the Socks.” I shall not forget the way Alice looked to Sarah with each line and the brightness of their eyes as they stood at the center of our attention. In that moment I understood the bond between loved ones. Why can it not be that way for my family?
I am standing my accustomed watch, first watch over the Light. Napoleon is here with me. Earlier, I fed him scraps from dinner and he licked the tips of my fingers.
I stroke his soft head and gaze out to sea, missing Daniel, missing Uncle Edward, missing Mother, missing the feeling of family after being with the boisterous Hales.
Wednesday, December 4, 1861
Stormy. Wind N.W. High.
December has come in raw and cold; the clouds are dark and threaten snow. Ice grips everything; the sides and decks of passing ships shine with an icy crust. The clapper on the bell has frozen again, and soon Father or Keeper Hale will go out to loosen it.
The conditions tonight are some of the worst. The windows of the Lighthouse rattle incessantly. They are encrusted with ice. I have come down again from scraping the glass surrounding the lantern room.
Just as I finished scraping this last time, I foolishly forgot to shield my eyes from the flash. In that moment of carelessness I was blinded. Suddenly I could see nothing as the wind tore at me. It howled and grasped at my cloak and my hood. I clung with desperate hands to the side of the Light. Such a wind, it fought to throw me from the balcony. I could not see at all. Blindly I crawled to the opening in the floor of the lantern balcony, groping for the top rung of the ladder. With the greatest care I struggled to make my way down to the safety of the watch room. As I descended, using only my numbed hands and feet to feel my way, the wind in all its fury plucked at me.
My legs and arms, my hands and feet, my face and ears are bitten through by ice and cold. But I am safe inside the watch room now and my sight has returned.
I must be more careful next time. The Light is not without pain. Life is not without pain. This I have learned.
As I sit here, my hands cramp with the cold and I struggle to hold my pen. I look at these hands, so miserable, so raw. I am humbled by the knowledge of the pain Mother must live with every day.
Friday, December 6, 1861
Clear. Wind S.W. Fresh.
Uncle Edward and I talked about the ending of slavery and the freeing of the Negro people. I have made it a practice never to speak politics at school. Everyone from the littlest Osbourne to the new teacher would turn from me. They all sympathize with the Southern states. I have yet to resign my position, but I grow increasingly unhappy at the school with each passing day.
This afternoon, Uncle Edward asked, how is slavery to be exti
nguished? By act of Congress? By edict of President Lincoln? How do you make a country stop such a habit, forsake such an institution? How do you legislate a people to give up not only its slaves, but the very concept of slavery?
Uncle Edward makes me think. While I am up here in the Light each night, I ponder his words of the day.
What he said today made me think of Father, when he was a captain. He could not discard all thought of winds and currents and intervening rocks and shoals, and simply steer by the North Star. Such a voyage could end in no other way but disaster. Nor can the Government simply declare an end to slavery and expect the country to sail safely through the shoals and rocks and currents along the way.
Nothing is simple, nothing is simply done.
Uncle Edward said, the real battleground of this rebellion is in our states, the border slave states. It is upon us that the burden of this War has fallen the heaviest. It is here that families are divided, that households are broken, that hearthstones are wet with blood and tears.
Father has become a ghost. He lives in the Lighthouse. He comes to our quarters only to eat or wash or change his stockings. I think he cannot stand the sound of the Hales any more than Mother could stand them, though I think their reasons are quite different. But in the end they are the same. Mother could not tolerate their joy, nor can Father. For one the sound is too much an imposition, for the other the sound is a reminder there is not imposition enough.
“I don’t want Father to go to war,” I told Uncle Edward today. Suddenly the words spilled out of me. I simply could not hold them inside anymore. And if I could not discuss the turmoil in my heart with Father, I had to discuss it with Uncle Edward. “Father has given Mother some kind of papers. I do not know what they mean. Either Father is going to war, or he is going to leave Mother and me. I do not want Father to leave. Not for war. Not for anything.”
