Me and Annie and Joybell went to the creek to take a good wash, as Joybell had upturned a cupful of cider on us. Since it was as hot as August, I says to Annie, “Let’s go for a dip. Mother Bullock’s not around, and Joybell can’t see, so it’s just me and you.”
Annie replies, “I don’t care none to look at you.” So we took off our clothes, Annie faster than me because she doesn’t wear drawers. When I asked her why, she replies, “Them I hain’t got.”
Then us three jumped into the creek. Dressing naked to swim is the best time there is. The creek not being deep enough for regular swimming, we laid on our backs in the water, then splashed each other. Joybell had the most fun of all, jumping so much, she tired herself out, so she stretched out on a rock in the sun, naked as the day she was born, to dry herself, then fell asleep. She looked like a little fairy child, her skin as pale as buttermilk and her hair like gold in that bright sun.
After Annie and I dressed ourselves, Annie went off, and I chanced to look up into the trees on the hill—right at a man on horseback, who was watching us! I do not know for sure who he was but think he must have been Mr. Samuel Smead, who I told you has trespassed on our place before. I have not seen him in several weeks, but he, it appears, has seen more of me than is proper! I do not know what possessed me to do so—perhaps I wanted him to know he had been caught snooping or maybe I chose to shock him. Probably I am just wicked. Whatever the reason, I raised my arm and waved it back and forth. Don’t know if he saw me, because in an instant, horse and rider were gone. Well, Lizzie, I was much cheered that someone wanted to look at this old form, but I doubt he saw anything more tasty than Mother Bullock’s cider cake, which had nutmeats, a nutmeg, and half a pint of juice. It turned out so nice, Mother Bullock said she would make another tomorrow to send to Charlie.
We have been mailing all kinds of treats to him, because Charlie got himself hurt, the silly fool, but not from the war—and not bad. He wrote it down in a little poem, which I quote to you:
As Me and Harve were cutting wood
We were doing the job and doing it good.
I was splitting a block
And I cut my foot and also my sock.
So pard Harve got some piece goods, you see
And I am piecing a quilt for Alice and me.
Did you ever hear anything so clever? Charlie sent along a quilt block he had made. He said his fingers were as stiff with the needle as if he’d been shucking corn and that I would have to make the rest of the quilt, unless I wanted to trade places with him. “You can soldier, and I’ll stay home and patch,” he writes. Well, I would if I could, but I’m the one who’ll sit by the fire and sew.
Charlie’s square is a cunning design, a twelve-patch, with pieces the size and shape of dominoes—which is what he used as a template. He said he’d seen me trace around a china plate; he didn’t have a china plate, but he did have a domino. I’ll hang the twelve-patch squares on the diamond, alternating with setting squares of a nice black-and-white shirting pattern, and call the whole Dominoes. Oh, I wish it was done and me and Charlie were under it. Lord, I miss him.
Your ever-loving sister,
Alice
October 7, 1863
Dear Lizzie,
Why of course you may come for a stay. You could board a steamboat for Keokuk, then take a coach on to Slatyfork. If you came for the winter, we would have the best time ever. But I wonder if Bramble Farm would please you. First off, Lizzie, the house is small and not fancy. There is no sofa, only shuck-seat chairs, straight and rocking. You would sleep with me, and we could put a mattress in the big room for the girls. We have good linen ticks that we fill with straw, and pillows the same, so we would all sleep finely. But it is not such a good place for children. There is the open fireplace that we use for cooking and another at the other end of the room. And when the snow is on the ground, the girls will have to stay inside, since we have no yard for play. I think you would find it hard living, as we have no gaslight and no pump. All the water must be hauled in from the well. This place is not so nice as Papa’s farm in Fort Madison, and Slatyfork is not so nice as Galena. The shops are few and poor, and we have not a single millinery. What’s more, the customs here are queer. We do not make the round of visits you enjoy. Most times, we have no need for bonnets and hoops, even small ones. Worst of all, you would be under the thumb of Mother Bullock, for she is the rooster in this henhouse. I paint a bleak picture, but I want you to know before you start what you are in for. There are good things, too. We eat all right and are warm, and though Mother Bullock is not friendly, she is fair. Lizzie, if you choose to come, you would be welcomed by me, and even Mother Bullock, I think. And I would have the gayest winter since you and I were home in Fort Madison.
While you consider, I want you please to be particular to think of consequences. It is right for me to speak of this, since you are always so outspoken with me. Would people not think your place is with your husband and that by coming here you have deserted James? They might conclude you think him guilty. I know he does not deserve you there after the way he has treated you, but I fear you would only make things worse by leaving. James is a drunk—everybody knows it; Mama has wrote her disapproval—and you are his only steading influence, and your enemies would say your leaving had caused him to fall even more under the influence. It is the way of the world, as you have oft told me: A woman is to blame for both herself and husband. There is no question but what James would be better off with you there, but I don’t care a pin for James. I care only for you, and if you want to come to me, I should be the happiest girl in the world. But, Lizzie, here is the thing of it: Would you yourself believe you had taken the coward’s way out? You were always one to stand and fight. Remember how you defended me against James and everyone else in the incident of the poor dead Carter boy?
Now if you come, Lizzie, I cannot help you with the passage. I would send it to you if I had it, but our money is tight. Charlie sends what he can but has to buy things for himself, and the sharpers skin the poor soldier. When I told Mother Bullock I might need the money to buy tickets for you and the girls, she took out the book in which she keeps accounts and said she did not know how we could manage it, since we do not have enough for ourselves for the winter. Charlie’s enlistment money was used up a long time since, and he sends as much of his pay as he can spare, but Father Abraham’s cashier is three months late. Mother Bullock says Charlie takes care of Uncle Samuel, so Uncle Sam ought to take care of us, but families are not considered in this war. Except for apples, and there is little market for them, our crop was poor this year, and we bartered most of it. Mother Bullock says we have barely twenty dollars, and we must buy winter clothing for Annie and Joybell, and even Lucky, because we don’t pay them a red copper for helping us on the farm. Annie and Joybell don’t have shoes, and Annie has just one dress—my dress, which she, at last, has admitted to stealing.
“I had but a rag when I come here, and it wasn’t proper. It got tore up on the way, and I didn’t have no fabric to take ravelings from. All’s I had to mend it was thread that was spun at home, which was too big for the needle. Then I lost the needle,” she says. “Then I had but the use of a Confederate needle.” When I inquired what that was, she replied, “A thorn.”
I was angry with Mother Bullock for not telling me how things stood.
“You are young, and I wanted to spare you the worry,” she replies.
“Then you do me an injustice. You treat me like a child.”
“Sometimes you act like one,” she says, then looked away. “It’s not easy for you here, I know that, Alice. I’d hoped you and Jennie Kate Stout would be close, but I see you’re not, and there’s none your age except Annie, who’s not our kind. Well, it’s hard for all of us, and you must bear up until the war is over, for Charlie’s sake.”
There is one more thing—we are concerned for our safety, and you would be, too, if you came here. A group of raiders was so bold as to ride into town, wh
ere they ripped down the American flag hanging in front of a store, then thrashed the shopkeeper and burnt his building. They had come up from Missouri, and while they did not attack any of the farms, we all worry they will come back. Mother Bullock says it is a good thing she doesn’t have silver, else we would have to bury it to keep it from them. It is not known if they are the ones who have done the other deeds, or if there are other groups of bushwhackers afoot, too. Maybe the man I saw watching us by the creek the day we made cider wasn’t Mr. Samuel Smead after all, but a guerrilla. Annie saw him, too—and before I did. That was why she ran off as soon as we dressed, in hopes of catching him. But he disappeared before she reached him, and she said she disremembered to tell me. Of course, I never mentioned who I suspicioned him to be. Lordy, no. I said he must have been a horseman passing along the creek, who heard us making noise and came to have a look.
She gave me an astonished look, then mutters, “A body’s foolish to think such.” But she has said nothing more and knows better than to tell Mother Bullock.
Now that the harvest is over, except for our little patch of corn, we have gone to quilting again. It is good weather, quilting weather, warm enough to stitch outside. I am almost done with the patches for the Dominoes quilt. Annie quilts real good, and here’s something strange: She quilts with either hand. When I remarked on it, she laughed and says, “Well, that’s because I can’t hardly write with either hand.” I asked did she piece, and she says, “I piece, but I’d rather patch my coverlids. I take natural delight in it.” She makes laid-on quilts, the kind we call applique, but I never liked the look of them as much as patchwork.
Charlie writes that his foot has healed nicely, good enough for dancing, and if he doesn’t get home soon, he may try to find him a Secesh girl as partner. “Well, Charlie Bullock, two can play that game,” I wrote him.
Lizzie, think hard if you really want to break up housekeeping, and I know you will find the right course. No, I would not ask for advice from Mama and Papa. You know they do not trust our decisions, fearing one day we will bring dishonor on the Keelers. They will advise you to do only what would cause the least gossip. Billy writes me in secret now and says they had such a good harvest that he asked Papa to buy little Judah a pony. Judah is a timid boy, still afraid of horses, although it has been a year since he was stepped on by Charger. Billy thought Judah might ride a pony, but Papa said he could ride Charger or walk. The only thing Papa will give his children is a Bible, which is why I do not care much for church.
With a great deal of love to you and the girls and not much left over for James, I remain
Your ever-true sister,
Alice Bullock
October 15, 1863
Dear Lizzie,
For myself, I am disappointed you will not come, but I believe you have made the best decision for yourself. You are right to think of your reputation. As Miss Densmore admonished us, once lost, one’s reputation is not easily regained. Oh, don’t I know it, but Charlie never knew about the Carter boy, so it turned out all right. You must have been much cheered at Mrs. Grant’s remarks. What a lady she is. Now why couldn’t her husband have finished up his business at Vicksburg earlier so he could have put things to rights with James. But if you change your mind and want to come to me, why then, do it. Your life is worth more than your reputation (Mama would not agree, I fear), and if James threatens you again, then you have no choice. You are dearer to me than anything in the world but Charlie. I would ask him to write to James, but I think Charlie has forgotten his pledge of abstinence. He wrote in one letter that he got into a scrape, “but if I was drunk, I didn’t know it.” Besides, I never thought preaching at a person did much good. All Mama’s preaching never helped me.
The little quilting group met again today, and I am so sick of Iowa Four-Patch that I am sorry that ever I thought it up. It serves me right for being so proud. Since the quilting was here on Bramble Farm, I invited Annie to join us. Some wonder if she is really Secesh, since Kentucky is on both sides in this war, but myself, I think even if she is (which I don’t believe,) what does it matter whose hands stitch the quilts that keep the Johnnies warm? I know the men like the quilts. Charlie has told me they look forward to bundles of blankets and food from the Sanitary Commission but don’t care so much for what comes from the churches. “Preaching with porridge,” the soldiers call the church bundles that contain more Testaments than food. Bibles are as common as dogs in the army. Every soldier was sent off with at least one, and they don’t want any more. Many employ the pages in uses God never intended. And they blaspheme something terrible, Charlie says.
Annie was pleased to be invited to quilt and asked if I wanted her to set up the quilting frame.
“The frame we use is at Mrs. Kittie Wales’s house, and I don’t care to go to the trouble to take it down and put it up again.”
“I mean to say yourn,” says Annie.
“I haven’t one.”
“You got you one out back of the barn.” She led me to a shack where the Bullocks keep worn-out farm equipment, and under a broken wheel was a quilt frame—cherry it is, with cunning little wooden cogs. We got it out and set it up, and it’s steady and solid as can be. Not one of the cogs is broke.
When Mother Bullock saw it, she says, “I never thought to ask if you wanted that old thing.” If she had, I could have had an easier time of quilting this past gone year.
Because the day was warm, we set up the frame outside and had ourselves a jolly time. Jennie Kate came with her baby, but I don’t know why she bothered to, because her mind appeared somewhat bled, and she took just one stitch to my ten. “Slowness comes from God, hurry from the devil,” she said, when we had to wait for her to finish before we could roll. Then she examined her stitches and pronounced hers the smallest of all. Self-praise does not go far here, however, and no one was as taken with Jennie Kate as she was with herself. With her fine house and furniture, she thinks she is grand and mighty, when all she is is lucky. Even her baby, called “Piecake,” ignored her, playing instead with Joybell, who ran her little fingers over the baby’s face, both of them laughing. I think it is a shame Joybell cannot see what a beautiful child she is, but blindness will keep her from being vain. That being the case, I suppose it’s a pity so many of us were born with sight.
I gave Jennie Kate the Ducks and Duckling quilt I made for Piecake, but she did not seem to care for it.
“Tokens of affection are always much appreciated, but why did you make it of that bright color?” asks she.
It was no token of my affection, but I did not say so. “I thought it would cheer you.”
“It cheers me,” says dear old Mrs. Kittie, who then launched into the latest letter from her soldier correspondent. She never answered him, and he has written twice more, once proposing to visit after he is mustered out. So she was forced to reply, writing that she was to be married as soon as her intended got out of the jailhouse, where he had been locked up for horsewhipping a man who had insulted her. “He didn’t really insult me,” Mrs. Kittie wrote. “He only wished me good morning, but my fiance is a big, mean man who is crazy jealous.” She added she was all but certain the injured man would walk again, so no harm done. And she hoped the soldier would visit, because she’d always wanted to meet a man who would stand up to her intended.
Nealie stayed behind after the others, to wait for her husband, who arrived in due time with his brother. Only Nealie and me were in the yard, and she climbed up on the horse in front of Mr. Frank Smead. Mr. Samuel Smead told them to go on ahead and he would catch up. Something was wrong with his saddle, he said. I do not think he fooled anyone, me most of all, but Nealie and her husband agreed, and they cantered away.
“What is the matter with your saddle?” I teased, as Mr. Smead made no move to remove it or to refasten the straps.
He cocked an eyebrow and looked around. “Where are your two swimming companions?”
I turned as red as a maple leaf. “You are not a gent
leman.”
“Never said I was. And I don’t believe you are a lady, either. But you sure are a pretty girl.” At that, he gripped my arms and pulled me to him and kissed me. I would have slapped him, despite his threat of last summer, but he held my arms tight.
“You have no right,” I hissed. I was mad as a yellow jacket.
He just laughed at me. “I take any right I please. Besides, you wanted me to kiss you. Now, don’t deny you liked it.” He tightened his grip on my arms.
Well, I didn’t like it, but I was a little afraid of Mr. Smead, so I cocked my head and said, “Oh la, Mr. Smead.” At that, he let go of me. I knew better than to smack him.
“Come down to the creek with me.”
“I will not.”
“Tomorrow, in the early afternoon. I’ll be waiting for you.” When I did not reply, he said, “You mind me, now.”
He frowned when I wouldn’t answer, and I was afraid he would take my arms again, so I said, “There’s Mother Bullock.” There wasn’t, but he spun around to look, and I took my leave. By the time he realized I had tricked him, I was halfway to the house.
Mr. Smead presumes too much, and if he comes around tomorrow, he will wait all day, for I won’t be there. I will teach him not to trifle with
Your sister,
Alice Keeler Bullock
October 16, 1863. P.S. I wonder if the presumptuous Mr. Smead is at the creek waiting for me. I would check tomorrow for hoofprints, but there is a drizzle starting, and I think any prints would be washed away. What if he didn’t come at all? Now, Lizzie, wouldn’t that be a joke on me? I stand him up, and he doesn’t know it because he has stood me up, too!
October 22, 1863
Dear Lizzie,
Nealie stopped on her way to town and asked me to spend an afternoon with her. I said we were awful busy on Bramble Farm, although we are not. She gave me a long look and started to ask me something, then looked away. I felt terrible, because I like her so, and I took her hand and says, “But you can come here. I’ll have Mother Bullock make a cider cake, and we can piece and talk. We’ll have us a good time.”
Alice's Tulips: A Novel Page 8
