I have got to studying on why I am fighting in this war. When I volunteered, I guess I wanted to kill Rebs and have me a good time, which I have done both. I did not care overmuch about ending the bondage of the colored race, although that seemed as good a reason as any to fight the Secesh. I have got to know one or two darkies and do not think slavery is any way to treat a yellow dog. So it is not good for any man, either. But that is not the reason I am here. I am fighting for my country, the grandest there ever was in the history of the world. I think it is worth a war to preserve it. I had not thought much about that before, but now I have met men from almost all the Northern states, and I believe we cannot break apart this country like the halves of a walnut. We have to stand for something bigger than any state, and that is the union of the states. Saving the glorious country is more important than losing a few soldiers, even if those soldiers are me and Harve. The same God that has took me through one storm of leaden hail can bring me safe home, and I believe that He will do it. So I don’t fear the Rebel ball, nor I don’t fear the Rebel cannon. But, Doll Baby and Mother, at the Jubilee, if you find I have not marched to war but to the grave, you can rest easy knowing I was glad to die for the Union, the most righteous cause that ever widowed a woman. I think you would not want to give a man to the cause who did not hold such high ideals.
I never read a thing that stirred me so. I cried and cried. He’s a perfect brick, Charlie is, one of the best men that ever lived, and the horrid Mr. Frank Smead is a cur dog beside him. Mr. Smead is worse than the Rebs, for they are not afraid to fight for what they believe, wrong as it may be, but Mr. Smead is only an outlaw.
Of course, I waked up feeling finely, with no sign of a cold, and Mother Bullock marvels at my constitution.
From the proud wife of a Union soldier,
Mrs. Charles Bullock
P.S. Forgive me, dear, for I have got so caught up in the problems of my life that I quite forget to remark on your own. I am sure the season at Galena was poorer because of your absence.
That no invitations at all were extended to you and James is not to be believed. As was made clear to me yesterday, there are vipers abroad. The vipers at Galena wear fine clothes and pretend to be the cream of society. Oh, I should like to introduce Mr. Frank Smead to them.
February 26, 1864
Dear Sister,
Fly to me as soon as the river thaws. James is a brute, and I believe he is more dangerous even than the ice that floats in the Mississippi this time of year. He beats all for worthless men. Of course, you must take the money he hid to buy your passage, and do it fast, before he knows you have found it. How could he put you through such poverty when he had money all along? You would not be stealing. James took control of your little inheritance from Grandmother when you married, and where has it gone but with the wind? If a husband has the right to his wife’s money, then a wife by rights should have access to her husband’s.
I believe you can book cabin passage to Keokuk for the sum of about $8.50. Whether the girls pay as much or less is unknown to me. When you arrive in Keokuk, stay at one of the hotels there. They are not as nice as the DeSoto in Galena, but quite acceptable. Then you can inquire about passage on a stagecoach to Slatyfork. It runs three or two times a week, but not at all if the roads have thawed and are hub-deep in mud. Frozen roads make for a rough trip, but at least they are passable. You and the girls must sit with your backs to the horses to stay out of the wind. The stage fare is high, costing as much as a half-eagle for the three of you. It’s a pity a nice railroad doesn’t come here, so that you could ride comfortable in the cars. Still, I am not as fond of railroads as a steamboat, for the last train I rode was so slow, they must have put the cowcatcher on the rear. Your leaving may shock James into behaving, as you say, but I would not bet even a Confederate dollar on it.
Bring sensible clothing, and do not worry about the style. In Slatyfork, it is fashionable to be unaware of fashion, as many believe a woman who is too concerned with the styles of the day is selfish, spending on herself money that ought to go to our fighting boys. Don’t worry about pocket money, either, for where is there to spend it? Mother Bullock was wrong when she said we would starve in the winter; we still have a plenty of potatoes and root vegetables, apple cider, and one smoked ham, so you will eat good, if plain. Nealie paid me twenty dollars for sewing, and as I did not deserve it, I am sending you ten dollars. It will pay the hotel bill, or if the money you take from James covers your stay, then spend this on a treat for the girls. (You do not need to mention it to Mother Bullock.)
I have told her you will be arriving. She does not know the particulars but has an idea, because I have complained on many occasions about James. “She’ll be welcome,” Mother Bullock says. “She is family.” She went into the old shed where she stores castaways and found a red top and a broomstick horse that Charlie and Jo played with and has set them in the house for Eloise and Mary. Mother Bullock has not been so well of late, but she utters not one word of complaint. It is a lesson to me, if I should choose to learn it, which, of course, I do not. Complaining has always been one of the things I do best.
But then, what do I have to complain about at present? I have only joy because I am expecting a visit from the person in the world I love best but Charlie. Oh, Lizzie, I can hardly wait. I am making a special trip to town to mail this, and when I get back, I shall clean the house from top to bottom, then whitewash the walls, so all will be in readiness. Write me your plans—or just come. You can send word from Slatyfork when you arrive.
Oh, here’s another thing: Would you please bring any new templates you have for quilts, as well as the tin patterns for laying off the quilt. No tin is to be had here, and I have tired of chalking around a dinner plate and have been using leaves for the quilting pattern.
With hugs and kisses to you and
the girls and not one kind word to James,
Alice Bullock
March 4, 1864
Dear Lizzie
I hope you are already on your way. But if circumstances have held you back and you yet remain in Galena, then leave at once. I cannot impress upon you enough the importance of leaving James before he learns of your plans. I know he would try to talk you out of it, and you have ever been a fool for his words. For you and the girls to stay longer is as giving pearls to swine.
Now, if there is time, please to consider these suggestions and a request.
Bring oiled-cloth cloaks and overshoes, because the sleet and mud are troublesome now. You’ll have no need of fine slippers and other accessories. Do you recall how I looked all over Fort Madison for lace mitts and a blue beaded bag for my move to Slatyfork? They have never been unwrapped from their tissue. Life here is not what I expected, but it is tolerable, and with you here, I would not wish to be anywhere else. And I shall endeavor to make it as pleasant for you as I can.
But bring your jewelry, for I do not trust James to keep it safe. That craven man would sell it and spend the money on whiskey. Now that you have made the decision to leave, I can tell you outright that I despise him, and I suppose I always have. At least I have ever since he went against me in that incident over the Carter boy. Oh, James is handsome and he can turn a phrase like nobody I ever heard, but he is selfish and a cheat and does not have a moral core like Charlie, else he would have joined up, and that’s a fact. I think you must be convinced of the truth of what I say by now. We’ll talk of it more when we’re together, to keep you from backsliding.
Many things are scarce here, so if time permits, please purchase a paper of needles and some good flax thread. I think they can be readily found in Galena or Keokuk. I would be grateful for any bits of fabric from your scrap bag that you can tuck into your trunk, for all that’s available here in the way of yard goods is tarlatan and shoddy, and I do not like to put them into a quilt. One fades in the first washing, and the other wears out in the second. Some here are setting up their old looms and going to weaving, just like their old mothers,
but I never favored it and would rather acquire good factory cloth, even if it is dear. If you have a pair of stout shoes in good repair that you no longer want, I would like them, too. Decent shoes aren’t to be found in Slatyfork, and I have patched the old ones until they look like a quilt. Annie says the Southern women no longer have leather for soles, and they have gone to making wood ones. If I don’t get a pair soon, I’ll make them out of a leather book.
If you can find it, I would like you to bring a bottle of Wistars Balsam of Wild Cherry, for all we have for sickness is calomel. You will remember Mama used Wistars for her pains. Mother Bullock will not discuss what ails her; in fact, she claims she feels tolerably well. She is tougher than mule meat, but she is inclined to rheumatism, and it rains all the time. She keeps a buckeye in her pocket for it, but the Wistars would work better. Keep a list of charges, and I will settle with you when you get here. You see, hiring out has made me a woman of means.
Lizzie, you never saw me work so hard to clean as I have done in the last few days. The weather was good, for a change, so I have washed the ticks and blankets. Me and Mother Bullock made soap, too, as we are low, and she threw in a handful of dried rose petals. I think that was for you, because she’s never added them for me. Annie says we have done it wrong, because soap can’t be made in the wane of the moon, but we could not wait. I think both Annie and Joybell are looking forward to your visit. Annie asks if your hands and feet are small like mine. She says small feet come from wearing shoes all the year around, but she doesn’t know the source of small hands. Joybell asks if she will be allowed to play with Eloise and Mary. In Kentucky, some would not allow her around their children for fear that being blind, she was cursed.
Oh, I am longing to see you, and I fear for your safety if you stay even one more day with James. Lizzie, don’t even dare to hint to him that you are leaving, for James will tell you lies to make you stay. (And you are so good, you would give him another chance.)
Nealie stopped on her way to town yesterday in her high-wheeled carriage, which can straddle a stump or cross a creek four or three feet high. When I told her you were to come, she said she would have a tea for you. We’ll see about that. I think we are safe as long as her husband is away. I would like your opinion of Nealie.
May God keep you safe until I can
is the earnest prayer of your sister,
Alice
April 6, 1864
Dear Lizzie,
I cried and cried all week after you left. I never had such a good time in my life as I did on your sweet visit, and now I am miserable. I cried because I miss you and because I feel sorry for myself and because I misdoubt James will keep his pretty promises. He vows to both of us that he is a changed man, and I know you believe him, but myself, I don’t. The only promise he is likely to keep is the one about not opening your mail. I have never seen you so mad about a thing in your life. (Are the scratches healed? It serves him right.)
Of course, I was a goose to have wrote a letter that arrived after you left, and especially to have called James a pig. I should have thought, Well, of course, he will open it, looking to see where you have gone. But even if I hadn’t written, he would have figured it out pretty soon anyway, since where else could you run off to if not to me? Mama and Papa would not want you at Fort Madison for fear of the gossip, and there is no one else in the family to take you in. So he would have come to Slatyfork in search of you on any account. As foolish as I was to say what I did about James in the letter, I suppose that was what made us talk over the old Carter affair whilst he was at Bramble Farm. I was surprised he never knew how I felt about his part in it. And I did not know he believed he was standing up for my honor—probably because nobody ever protected my honor before, including me. So we cleared the air on that. And I was relieved that he promised never to tell Charlie. (If he ever breaks that promise, his face will become as scratched as a bread board.)
Lizzie, I pray it was worth the trouble and expense of coming here to make James take stock of himself and to renew his pledge of abstinence. At least, you made him realize he could lose his family if he did not righten himself. And he told me when I opened the door to him at Bramble Farm that his family means more to him than anything in the world. Well, we shall see. Mother Bullock has not said a word about James. She is not much taken with men’s charms. But she minds her own business, I’ll say that for her. If she suspected what went on with you and James in the barn, she hasn’t said as much, so you can rest your mind on that account. I told her you had slipped on the hay and fallen headfirst. Of course, that wouldn’t explain the misbuttoning. If your romping produces issue and it is a girl, you must name her Temperance.
You were not gone an hour when Nealie stopped to invite us for sewing again. That is the only good that will come of your leaving, for I don’t know how I could have turned her down without hurting her feelings. She asked whether I would sew for her again, but I said we are behind on the farm because of your visit (which is not so, of course, since you were so much help). I told her that I could not socialize for the longest time. Maybe I’m not such a good liar as I think, because she says, “Frank is took to Missouri, and Samuel with him. They won’t be back for a fortnight, maybe more.” But already having said I was needed on Bramble Farm, I had to turn her down.
You are wrong to say Mother Bullock does not like you. It’s me she doesn’t like, but I think she dislikes me a little less than she did. She is gruff, and her way is to criticize, not praise, but I have gotten used to it. She is in poorer health than she lets on, and possibly some pain. This morning, I found her bent over, but when I asked the matter, she said it was only a stitch in her side. I disbelieved her, however. She does not perform her chores so good as she once did. She pretends she does not notice that I have taken over many of them—for if she took notice, she would have to thank me, and that she cannot do. If she needs me to undertake the hard work, I am willing it should be done. Only I wish she would not tell me I do a poor job of it.
The quilt we started comes along nice, and I am taking credit for your good sewing. I can tell by turning over the squares which ones each of us did. The stitching is just like a signature, with yours ever so much nicer than mine. But others think all the stitches are mine, and I do not disabuse them of the idea. I wish you were here to do the quilting on it. I never enjoyed anything as much as when we were girls, sitting together at the quilt frame. Now here is a funny thing, Lizzie: When you gave me the templates, you called the pattern Country Husband, but when Nealie saw it, she says, “Oh, you are making a Drunkard’s Path. So now I call the quilt Homage to James.
I wrote Papa to send Billy to help me on the farm. Billy smarts more than ever under Papa’s hand. I have not received a reply.
Your very lonely sister,
Alice K. Bullock
April 15, 1864
Dear Lizzie,
It is good you went away, because we have had us a bushel of troubles, and I would not want you and the girls here when there are those who wish us harm.
Somebody has got into the root cellar. It happened yesterday, when me and Mother Bullock had gone to quilting for the Soldiers Relief at Mrs. Kittie’s. Annie and Joybell came along, too, for we are behind in our stitching (partly because I am working on the Drunkard’s Path we started instead of on that damnable Iowa Four-Patch). We agreed that when we have finished quilting this one, we will tack the work, making comforts instead of quilts. The work will go faster, and the soldiers would rather have a tacked quilt than none at all. Lucky was left in charge of Bramble Farm, and he was way off in the north field clearing brush and did not know a thing was wrong until Mother Bullock told him, or so he says. I think Lucky is an honest man—as honest as his kind can be, with all the natural resentment they harbor against white folks. However, Lucky knows more than he lets on.
When we came home, I had a queer feeling, the kind I get sometimes with a prickling about my ears, that mischief was going on, but everything looked a�
��right, and so I paid no attention to the itching. But that evening, when Mother Bullock went to the root cellar for potatoes, she discovered the damage. Jars and bottles were smashed; cider, conserve, jam, sauerkraut, and all else we had preserved had been poured over the root vegetables, so the whole is spoilt. Only the cherry bounce is saved, and that because me and you took it into the house for a nip when you were here.
But that is not all. As Mother Bullock stood on the cellar steps surveying the damage, a rattlesnake, the biggest she ever saw, slithered through the spilled food toward her, its eye fixing her, its tongue sliding back and forth like a whip snapping. It was the evilest snake since Eve.
“Oh, Alice, come a-running,” Mother Bullock calls in a voice of such fear that I went a-running all the way from the house. That snake was holding her eyes with his, and she was paralyzed to move. I think the rattler would have climbed the steps to get at her if I hadn’t come along and chopped off its head. It was the snake’s bad fortune that a spade was in the ground right by the dugout.
As we stared at the damage, I ask what we both thought: “Do you reckon the wicked person who did this put that snake in here?”
“It occurred to me. And if there’s one, might be there’s more.”
“No,” I tell her a little too fast. “A man could pick up one snake and bring it along, but I doubt he could fetch two. Likely, he came afoot, since no horse would let a man ride it with a snake in his hand.”
“We’ll keep a sharp watch while we clean up.”
Alice's Tulips: A Novel Page 11
