by Marian Wells
Slowly Matthew got to his feet. “Mother, Father, that’s exactly why I came down here. I wanted to tell Father what I’ve been thinking. It is time for this fella to begin making decisions and sticking with them.”
“Matthew,” protested his mother, “the decisions you’ve made, I’m just grateful you haven’t stuck to them. Take for instance—”
“My marriage? That is the principal reason I wanted to talk to Father. It’s taken a lot of pondering, but now I’m certain, I want—”
“A divorce? Of course, Matthew.” She touched his hand and looked into his face. “I’ve talked to Pastor about that. No reason, in this day and age, that it can’t be arranged speedily.”
“Mother.” Matthew tried to calm himself with a deep breath. For one moment he waited, and the sureness of his decision made him grin. “I’ll not bore you with the details of my marriage, but I am absolutely certain that if I can possibly convince my wife I still love her, and if she will have me back—well, that’s what I want.”
“Son,” Cornelius said softly, “we want your happiness, but I think it will be best for you to wait until all this is over.”
Matthew faced him. For a moment he was silent. Slowly he said, “Sir, deep down you really do expect this action of secession to escalate into war, don’t you? I’d guessed that was the mindset of the South. But then, I suppose I agree that’s the only possible solution.”
“I don’t see how it can be avoided. Son, we—the South—need you desperately.”
“It won’t take long,” Sally Ann said brightly, “and then you can get your bride and bring her home.”
“Mother, Father, you don’t understand this whole situation. My wife is Creole, and I know that offended you. But you have not yet begun to be offended. You see, her father was a slave, sired by his master!”
****
The next day Matthew left the house at dawn. The January mists were still heavy and cold in the Mississippi valley. Just a few degrees from freezing, they lay like spun cotton close to the ground. From the distant river came the monotonous toot of boats, weaving a melancholy farewell through Matthew’s mind, and that message made him shiver.
He threw one last glance at the dark, silent house. His heavy heart echoed the forlorn message of the riverboat whistles, and he tried to remind himself that the dawn would bring hope. He turned his mare and headed down the trace toward Natchez.
It was midmorning when he reached the city. On the bluff overlooking the water, he studied the line of fashionable inns and businesses with a shudder. His heart was still sore from the final conversation with his parents, and he found the city held too many memories. For Matthew, even his growling stomach made the risk of meeting an acquaintance at the inn out of the question.
He dug his heels in the mare’s sides and turned down the lane to the shacks bordering the edge of town. There the prostitutes and river thugs would present unfamiliar faces.
At a smelly gray shack, Matthew ordered his breakfast and settled back with a mug of coffee to warm his chilled hands.
An old man with a toothless grin sidled into the shack and sat down beside Matthew. “Got some nice wine I’ll share with you for the price of victuals.”
“Not interested, old dad, but I’ll buy you some breakfast.” Matthew waved to the barmaid.
“Where you be off to?” his guest asked.
While Matthew hesitated, another man came into the shack. “Busy place, Tillie,” he addressed the woman. Matthew eyed the coarse woolen jacket and greasy cap as the fellow nodded and sat down at the table. “Looks like you’re traveling,” he said to Matthew. “I suppose you’ve passed the last kisses around at home and are heading for the Army.”
“Army? So it’s getting that bad?”
The toothless wino dug into his breakfast and spoke around his mouthful. “It’s that Mr. Lincoln. Brung us all into war. Best thing the country could get is fer him to stop a shot.”
“Don’t blame Lincoln for the troubles,” Matthew said heavily. “I saw the newspapers. His platform states he’s for free soil in the territories and noninterference with slavery. What more can you ask of a fellow? Seems to me we ought to give the man a chance.” Matthew slanted a glance at the burly fellow at the end of the table. “I don’t go along with this jumping the gun on the man and getting all hotheaded when there’s no reason.”
The fellow turned and rested his arms on the table. “Seems fer a man that looks like he has a lick of sense and a bit of book learning, you’re just a bit too free with your opinion. I say Lincoln stinks and I back my friend here.”
“Mister, you’ve a right to your ideas,” Matthew said through tight lips, “but so do I. I say give the man a chance. Might even be that he can teach us a few good things if we give him a following. I hear he’s not the least namby-pamby, and that counts with me. If we go pushing out front with the idea of fighting, I have a feeling we’ll get set back on our heels.”
The stranger hunkered into his coat and quickly finished his breakfast. When Matthew finally detached himself from the bleary-eyed talker, the sun was pushing toward noon.
Turning down the alleyway to his mare, Matthew nearly collided with two men ranged on either side of his skittish mount. He stopped and studied the pair. “Well, fellow,” he addressed his breakfast companion, “so we meet again. Admiring my mare?”
“No, waiting for you.” There was a click. The fellow grinned and waved his knife. “We take exception to your talk about Lincoln, but we’re inclined to give you a chance to repent. Don’t like cutting up a lad, especially one who’s going to be a first-rate soldier in the Confederate Army. I’m Lieutenant Clark; this here is Sergeant Adams. Like I said, welcome to the Confederate Army. That is, unless you’d rather be cut up a mite and dumped into the river.”
He waited until Matthew nodded. “Come along, then—we’re headed for Texas.”
Chapter 3
“Matthew Thomas! Old buddy, I’ll be whipped for a nigger if I’m mistaken.” The ocean of gray uniforms around Matthew shifted slightly. A few curious faces turned toward him as Matthew wilted into his uniform and allowed his gray cap to slip forward on his nose. With the supply wagon still in front of them, the crowd surrounded him, carrying him forward. Even as they shifted and passed around him as they pressed for the supply wagon, the call came again. “Matt!”
Matthew shoved his cap back and looked at the escape route opening in front of him. He considered, then muttered, “There’s no escape in an army camp. Better face the music.” With a sigh he turned.
The gray crowd rippled and Matthew watched the cap swim against the current. Coarse, reddened features backed by steel-gray eyes surfaced in front of him. “Herm Wadle,” Matthew said slowly. His guess had been correct. The voice hadn’t changed; neither had the hungry, cunning eyes. The crowd carried them along, pressing too close for a handshake.
Herm gestured with his chin. “Let’s get away from the supply wagon. They ain’t got nothing. No letters this trip. Newspapers are long gone. Didn’t say nothing anyway. News travels faster on the wind.” He paused for a chuckle.
He studied Matthew carefully with questioning eyes as he said, “We oughta know all about that. Our esteemed President Lincoln was elected on November 6 and by the 7th, everybody in the country knew it. ’Twas nearly that fast when we found out our gang fired on Fort Sumter,” he crowed. His thick shoulders shoved an opening in the advancing pack of soldiers. He edged in front of Matthew, eyed him and said, “Long time no see. Heard you’d come home.”
The crowd thinned and Matthew led the way to the one spot of shade on the riverbank. Overhead the oaks twined their branches, creating an oasis of muggy shadow. It was only slightly cooler than the sun-baked parade ground, but they had escaped the clamor of the troops.
Herm shoved his cap back and asked, “How long you been here, old buddy?”
“Since February. Just after Texas seceded from the Union.”
“So you didn’t get in
on the big battle to take over the Union forts.”
He was still chuckling as Matthew said, “Guess that was the whole idea of our being shipped this direction. All the way over we were being pressed with battle plans. Our captain had it all laid out. First we were to head north to Fort Arbuckle and seize it in the name of the Confederacy. Got there and found out they were more’n willing to hand it over and go along with secession. Next we headed for Fort Wichita, just over the hill and a little northwest. They were mighty glad to join up, too. We marched here to Fort Lancaster.”
Herm nodded, “Same here. I understand they’re startin’ to move regiments out. Sending them back across the river. I figured on being sent too, but for some reason—”
His voice trailed away as he studied Matthew with a puzzled frown. “What’s next?”
“Just rumors. Heard we might be going to Fort Bliss.” As Matthew lifted his cap to mop away the perspiration, he met Herman’s amused grin.
“Hard life fer a fella like you,” Herm drawled. “Now, us poor whites cut our teeth in the middle of the cornfields, gnawing on wormy cobs—”
“Cut it out,” Matthew said roughly. “I’m sick of hearing about how tough you’ve had it. It’s all I’ve been fed since I joined the Army the end of January.”
“Give me a chance to ask you why ya didn’t come around waving banknotes and offerin’ to give me the privilege of taking yer place in front of the line—fer an honest price, of course, the going rate.”
Matthew resisted the urge to push his shoulders straight as he looked up at the loose-featured lad. Despite the uniform, the familiar lock of hair still hung in his eyes. Softly he said, “Herm, seems impossible time’s gone so fast. Was it more’n yesterday we hunted squirrel and ’possums on the trace?”
Ruefully Herm nodded. “’Twas a sight more fun pretending to be river pirates running away from the law than totin’ guns across Texas now.” He stopped to grin before adding, “We’re kinda forced to keep on with the game here, even when we’re tired of it.”
The two men were silent, lost in their separate reveries. Matthew’s thoughts were filled with the gentle memories of plantation life. Back then, the days Herm had referred to, the most arduous tasks Matthew had known were grooming his horse and keeping the setter’s hair free from burrs. Glancing at Herm’s sober face, he guessed the memories his boyhood companion was having.
For the Wadle family, home was a weathered gray shack that scarcely blocked the path of wind-driven rain sweeping through the Mississippi valley. They were called the poor whites back then. In those days the rich river bottoms were prized by the tenant farmers. But more often than not, the small farms were scratched out of the sections deemed worthless by the plantation owners.
Matthew reflected on the poor living the small plot of land provided the Wadle family as they struggled to support themselves and their children.
As he studied Herm’s weathered face, he saw that time had stamped a new cast to his features. It seemed, since their young days, the carefree expression on his friend’s face had grown into a mask of defeat. What had happened in his life to mark out a permanent cynical twist on his face?
In the moment Matthew found himself wondering, he was ashamed. Somehow it seemed he had stepped across forbidden boundaries. He could nearly hear his mother’s gentle voice reprimanding him for asking the prying personal questions. Matthew, one must not ask. We take care of our people. However, there are limits. You mustn’t forget you are a gentleman. Some will take advantage of your position.
Matthew spoke huskily. “Herm, you know I look back on the times I spent with your family as being special. I remember your mother always had a word for me. And chitlins or dried apples. Back then us young’uns always seemed to have time for fishing. I must admit the schoolhouse down the hollow looked like the greatest of fun.”
“With a teacher who couldn’t hardly write her name and didn’t know sums?” While Herm questioned, Matthew saw the sharpness in his eyes had been replaced by shadows.
When Matthew turned to go, Herm said, “I heard tell most nearly all the foot soldiers are poor boys. It’s the plantation sons who are officers.” He paused again. “Most paid out to have us fellas take their place. How come you didn’t?”
Matthew shrugged. How could he explain that the words he had poured out in defense of President Lincoln had been responsible for his abrupt induction into the Confederate Army? And that some inner code of conduct that he didn’t quite understand made him more comfortable with being a soldier than an officer?
But the man’s question had plunged him back into the differences. Looking into the gray eyes, he knew Herm wouldn’t understand. For him life was simple, a matter of money and land and pigs.
They parted and Matthew walked slowly back to his regiment. He was still thinking of the differences and was uneasy. He muttered, “What is it in me that demands more than land and pigs? There’s a great deal to be said for the simple life, one circumscribed like Herm’s, by acreage and stock.”
“Sergeant Thomas?” The clipped words were delivered in the direction of Matthew’s left ear. They were sharp with distaste and impatience, and he knew the reason.
He turned with a salute. “Colonel Peters?” The man’s eyes narrowed with the same old questions, and Matthew met the look by setting his face in expressionless lines. He waited.
“You will stand guard last watch.” He waited for Matthew’s question while his mouth slowly twisted down in scorn.
Matthew offered a small smile and nodded, “Yes, sir.”
The man’s curiosity surfaced. “I cannot understand why a Harvard educated gentleman would choose to be aligned with tenant farmers and jailbirds when he could be commissioned with honor—or could he?” Before Matthew could formulate a reply, Colonel Peters added, “Seems a design for suicide, so honorably cast as to appear as martyrdom.”
“That’s right, sir.” Matthew watched the man turn away with a snort of exasperation.
He grinned at the fellow standing in the tent opening, who said, “If yer thinking up ways to get the colonel’s goat, you’ve dun it.”
Matthew squinted up at the youth. “Tim, what he doesn’t know yet is that colonels get shot, too.”
Tim nodded. “Guess you heard we’re moving out. That boat ride down the Mississippi was the nicest part of army life. Rumor has it we’ll be heading out in a day or so. Going to join Baylor at Fort Bliss. It’s going to be action for us, and they ain’t telling us what or where. Matthew, did you hear of any fighting goin’ on in Texas?” Matthew shook his head. As Tim turned away, Matthew saw the white line around his mouth.
“Tim, I don’t think you like the idea of fighting any better than I do.”
“I don’t. But they were saying back home that the best way to get this job done is to push as hard as we can. Only thing I can’t understand is what we’re doing in this end of the country. I expected to be sent east.”
Matthew shrugged, “I don’t know, but I had heard we were coming this way. Don’t know that I had much choice, but I am mighty glad to be heading west.”
“How come?”
Matthew hesitated. Speaking carefully, he said, “I’ve been wanting to see the country for some time. Might want to settle here when it’s all over—the war.” He paused, adding, “It seems our movements are being kept quiet.”
Tim was still watching him with that strange expression when Matthew went after his mess kit. The sun was setting, and the muggy heat began to ease. As evening quiet moved through the camp, supper fires mingled their smoke with the mists rising from the river.
While he worked preparing his meal, Matthew became conscious of the sounds unheard during daylight hours. There was the distant clink of metal coming from the corrals. Matthew recognized it as the sound of horses’ harnesses backed by the music of Spanish spurs.
The river whispered past, nearly hidden by the counter melody of dipping oars and the clunk of rafts loaded with hogsheads gentl
y drumming against each other.
Matthew finished his meal and carried his pan and coffeepot down to the river. The cooking fires burned low. He watched soldiers surround the rings of fire like gray boulders, silent and unmoving. The picture of apathy caught at him as he stepped away from the circle of light.
Between Matthew and the river the larger tents of the officers had been pitched. Tonight their flaps were up to catch the evening breezes, while smudge fires smoldered out their smoky threat to the mosquitoes.
Cutting behind the tents to avoid the smoke, Matthew pushed into the tangle of bushes. He had nearly reached the river when his boots crunched on a rotten piece of wood. He heard the crack of wood, but his attention was on the dark spot that suddenly set the bushes to dancing.
Reaching for his knife, Matthew moved sideways, peering into the shadows. “Please, Massa, don’t! I’s just getting scraps they threw out,” the voice murmured up from the bush beside Matthew’s boots.
Sheathing his knife, he pulled the branches apart. Keeping his voice low, he asked, “Why are you doing that? Don’t they feed you?”
The ebony shadow nodded. “I jest can’t see food being wasted, there’s always—” Matthew squatted down until his eyes were on a level with the black man’s. He could see the man was trembling. Matthew touched him and the fellow pleaded, “Please, couldn’t you just keep this secret?”
Matthew deliberately made his voice heavy with meaning as he said, “Aren’t you the fellow who works for the colonel? I don’t know many slaves as scared of a whipping.” The man’s head dropped, but he didn’t answer. Matthew said, “Could it be there’s more at stake?” The man’s body jerked.
Slowly Matthew got to his feet. “Perhaps we’d better go see the colonel. You’re Amos? You know there’s talk—”
Amos dropped his head and Matthew waited. He heard the desperation in the man’s voice as he said, “Massa, possibly—you wait until morning to say such as you must?”
Matthew pushed. “So they can get away? Amos, it’s strange to have a black man volunteer to cook for an army officer who’s in this war to ruin your chances of freedom forever. How many are out there?” He felt the man wilt. Quickly Matthew said, “Go. If you’re coming back, make it during the third watch.” The man hesitated and Matthew added impatiently, “Get the food; I’ll watch.”
