Annie did not think it so funny and says, “I saw a pianna once, too.”
He is a good man, Lizzie, and very smart—much too clever to have married Jennie Kate, but I think I will never know his reason for that. Joybell is beginning to take a shine to him, and Piecake loves him already, I think. She wakes before dawn now and waits for the sound of Harve’s team. Then she rushes to the door, to be lifted high into the air. I have decided not to dwell on Harve’s taking her away from us, but to cherish the days that all of us, including Harve, have together. Last evening, just before he left, Harve told us a story of a Wolverine who inspired his fellows to run like greyhounds into the enemy lines with the call, “Come on, brave boys. Don’t let the Tenth get ahead of you! Well, Alice, that Wolverine was Charlie Bull-head.” I did not tell him that Charlie had wrote me the same story, only his ended, “That Wolverine was Harve Stout.”
I had better stop for the present.
Alice Keeler Bullock
April 10, 1865
Dearest Lizzie,
Oh cow, Lizzie! It’s done with! Late in the afternoon, me and Annie heard gunshots. We looked at each other a long time, not knowing what to make of the noise.
“Border ruffians?” I asks at last. “Perhaps it’s guerrillas.” I shivered, for Harve had left early to take the plow to the blacksmith. Then in the far distance, we heard the church bell and what sounded like cannon fire, although I do not know how a cannon came to be in Slatyfork.
“Annie will see, lady,” she says. But at that instant, Harve arrived on a tear.
“It’s over!” he cries. “The War of Rebellion is finished!” He jumped down from the wagon and grabbed me in a fierce hug, then squeezed Annie, swung Joybell about, and threw Piecake into the air. “We’ll do the milking and go to town,” he says. Me and Annie took off our aprons, and I grabbed that old red-white-and-blue-ribboned hat for myself and Mother Bullock’s little flag for Joybell. Then we raced for Slatyfork.
By the time we got there, a happy crowd was hurrahing the Union. There were tall cheers, speeches, and musicians playing in the little bandstand. Tables were set out with gingerbread, ice cream, and striped candy. After a torchlight parade, fireworks were shot off over the town. The church held a thanksgiving service that opened with a prayer and ended with a blessing, but more chose to give thanks at the saloon. I think Mrs. Kittie might have been one of them, for she pranced about the street with a young man on her arm and appeared to be drunker than twelve dollars. “We have won,” she cries, as if she had played a part in the victory, but perhaps she has. We all have in our way, for I think the women who sewed the warm quilts for the shivering soldiers did every bit as much as the man who makes nails. (I do not mean to take away from James’s contributions, but only to say that we women worked for victory, too. Oh, you know what I mean, Lizzie.)
Harve tried to buy toddies for me and Annie and himself, but was not allowed to, for everyone wanted to pay for drinks for the soldier boy. We sat on the grass and sang “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” and “Battle Cry of Freedom” and “Yankee Doodle.” And tears rolled down my cheeks when we sang “The Vacant Chair.” But oddly, they were for Mother Bullock, who should have lived to see this day, and not for Charlie, who I believe will come home at last.
The girls were asleep when we reached home. We put them to bed; then Harve left, and me and Annie went outside under the stars, for we were too excited to sleep.
“Might be we should tell the old lady,” Annie says, and we linked arms and went to Mother Bullock’s grave. “You tell her,” Annie says, suddenly shy.
“I think she knows already,” I says, then whisper, “Mother Bullock, I wish you could be here to see it. You deserve to be, and I want you here.” I stared at the wooden marker Annie had inscribed and asks, “You want to tell her anything?” When Annie didn’t answer, I turned to her and found her down on her knees in Mother Bullock’s flower garden. “What is it?” I asks.
“I been looking every morning till today. I swan, they must’ve bloomed this evening, after we was out. The old missus ordered ’em for you, ordered ’em special, then had me to sneak off to town every day for a week to see had they come. We waited till you wasn’t around, and I got her out of bed, and me and her planted ’em to surprise you.” Annie glanced at me shyly. Then she smoothed down the grass and carefully picked a yellow flower and handed it to me, and I held it to my nose for the smell of it. “She tells me, ‘When they bloom, hand one to Alice and say they’re her’n.’ They’s tulips. She says to me, ‘Tell her they’re Alice’s tulips.’ ”
11
Alice’s Tulips
Until recent times, few women were encouraged in serious artistic pursuits. So instead of become painters and sculptors, they turned their everyday work into art—women’s art. They used their needles to create beauty in utilitarian objects such as bedcovers. A quilter might search her imagination for original quilt designs, but more often found inspiration in the simple world in which she lived. Then she chose the colors and executed the design as carefully as if she were painting on canvas. Still, she did not consider her work to be real art and rarely signed it. Most quilts are anonymous.
April 17, 1865
Dear Lizzie,
We heard the church bell again two nights ago but paid little attention, as we assumed it was another service of rejoicing for the war’s end. So we did not know its real meaning until the following morning, when Harve arrived. I was outside, making butter, and put aside the paddle and bowl and stood up to greet him. Most days, Harve is in a hurry, but that morning, the team moved as slow as if pulling a funeral wagon, an apt comparison, I discovered, when he told me the news. Harve did not even wave, but slowly climbed down from the seat and wrapped the reins around the rail. Then he came to me and looked up with eyes that were red from crying.
“What?” I asked, steadying my legs against the bench, for I thought he must have information about Charlie.
“Mr. Lincoln has been murdered, shot by Southerners, the damned cusses. He expired yesterday.”
Annie came up behind me in time to hear the words and commenced to weep and moan, and my tears were unchecked, too.
“He is the greatest man that ever lived,” Harve says. “Now what will the Union do?”
Piecake rushed from the house to greet Harve, but instead of throwing her into the air, he picked her up and held her close; then we went inside for breakfast, although none but the girls could eat the buckwheat cakes. We worked until midday, then quit and went to town, where the scene was as forlorn a one as I ever saw. To think, the last time I had been there, we had celebrated the Jubilee with songs and huzzahs. Now flags were raised only halfway up their staffs, and several stores were shuttered. The street was as quiet as death, and people did not greet each other or talk, but clasped hands and shook their heads. Oh, how unfair that Mr. Lincoln led us bravely through this terrible time, only to perish at its end.
You must tell me how it is in Galena, where so much effort has gone into winning the war. I think we must all turn to General Grant to lead us through our great sorrow. It was as sad a day as I ever had, and I shall always remember where I was when I heard the dreadful news. If President Lincoln cannot survive the war by more than a few days, how can Charlie?
Yours in sorrow,
Alice Keeler Bullock
April 21, 1865
Dear Lizzie,
I have done what women always do in times of sorrow—I have picked up my needle. At first, I thought I would make a mourning quilt, to show my respect for the president. But Annie says, “He already knows he’s dead,” and I cannot argue with the logic of that.
So I decided to make something to show I am alive and went outdoors in the twilight to consider the pattern. I walked as far as Mother Bullock’s garden, where there are half a dozen yellow tulips in bloom now. And as I knelt down to smell them, I thought what a fine woman she was to plant flowers she knew she would not live long enough to see bloom. Right
then, I knew what quilt I would make, and it was the most obvious thing—a tulip quilt, with the name Mother Bullock gave the flowers: Alice’s Tulips. I picked one of the yellow flowers and went back to the house and pressed it flat, then traced around it on brown wrapping paper. I cut out the shape and folded it and recut and divided it into sections, and now I have the templates. The overall design will be like your peony quilt, large squares with twining leaves and buds. Oh, I know, tulip leaves don’t twine, but it’s my quilt, and I can do as I please. I am so proud of my design that I intend to quilt my name into it, the first time I have ever done so. Why is it sewing makes women feel better?
Write me of James’s plans—and yours.
Love from,
Alice Bullock
April 26, 1865
Dear Lizzie,
Oh, such wonderful news to know you are pregnant again! I wonder you did not write it sooner, or perhaps you thought I would disapprove. Well, I do not. Two years ago, things were going poorly, but now they are going finely, and I think a baby would bring gladness to your little family. Only if he is a boy, please be so good as to not call him Abraham. Or Ulysses. With that happy event to anticipate, I think James would be wise to stay in Galena, especially since I do not agree that a supervisory position in a nail factory is beneath him. Is he really as well enough acquainted as he thinks with General Grant to ask for an appointment in Washington? Of course, you are right in saying that General Grant is in need of James’s talents, but, Lizzie, is it not foolhardy for him to quit one position before he is certain of another? With the rebellion over, so many soldiers are returning home, and the competition for jobs will be keen, with the boys in blue getting first choice. Of course, I know nothing about the situation, so I shall concern myself with advising you what to wear when you call at the White House.
Oh cow! Lizzie, I don’t mean any of that. Why would General Grant care a pin for James? Your husband has too high an opinion of himself, and if he quits his job, you will have to move into the poorhouse.
No, there is no word yet of Charlie. Harve says that even if Charlie set out at once from Andersonville, it would take him two weeks to arrive in Keokuk, but two weeks is up, and we have not heard. Harve checks every day for a telegram before coming to Bramble Farm.
Nealie called yesterday with young Tom, who is a pretty boy, although he does not have Piecake’s sweet disposition. He is beginning to look more like Mr. Frank Smead, who looks like Mr. Samuel Smead, so the truth of that situation will never be known. Nealie and husband have planted oats, wheat, and timothy. I am surprised, because I thought that now that the war is done with, Mr. Smead would move to one of the Southern states. But Nealie says that he never was a true Southerner.
“I will tell you something that will come as a surprise,” says she. “You may have wondered that Frank was away so much during the war. Well, he was on intelligence missions.”
I looked up sharply. “Frank Smead was a spy?”
“For the Union,” Nealie adds quickly. “My husband was as loyal a Union man as your Charlie.”
“Oh” was all I say, for I remembered his angry outburst when the Negro spoke in Slatyfork.
Nealie seemed to read my mind. “Don’t you see? He spoke against the Union and the Negro so people would think him a copperhead. It was all part of the plan.” She lowered her voice, although no one was around to hear. “He knew Samuel was one of the ruffians, and he believed people would think him no better than his brother, so it was all a perfect ruse. I could not tell you before, for if Samuel had found out the truth, he would have harmed Frank for sure.” Nealie asked me to keep the information in confidence, and I was glad to agree, for I have not decided the truth of it. “I will tell you another secret,” she says. “It was old Mrs. Bullock who asked me to come to church that morning in October and ask if you would care for me when the baby was born. She said you had been a friend to me, and I must be one to you.” Then Nealie adds, without further explanation, “I am grateful to Mrs. Bullock that she told the sheriff she killed Samuel.”
“Do you believe it?” I asks.
“Do you?”
The day was not done with Mr. Samuel Smead. Harve has been studying the farm to see if we might plant hemp, as there is talk of a ropewalk going in at Slatyfork, and in the evening, he came to the house with an ax he had found in the woods. “I wonder what fool would come to lose such an ax,” he says. My knees buckled, and I grasped hold of a chair, saying my foot had given out. That was not the cause of my weakness, of course. The ax was the one I had taken the day I met Mr. Samuel Smead by the currant bushes.
Now, Lizzie, heed the words
about James from your hard-spoken sister,
Alice Bullock
April 27, 1865
Dear Lizzie,
My letters are not so long these days, but there are more of them, thanks to Harve’s journey back to Slatyfork each night. I am glad I can trust him not to snoop, although I shall seal this letter with extra wax.
After supper, whilst Annie put the girls to bed, Harve and I went outside, where I sat on the bench and watched him walk back and forth. He is a big man and moves as if it is an effort, putting his whole body into every step and turn. We have planted corn, oats, wheat, and Indian corn and had talked at supper about putting in peanuts, what the Southerners call “goober peas.” They are popular in the South, and many Union soldiers developed a taste for them, but I’d said the decision was Charlie’s.
Harve paced with such deliberation that at last I asked if something troubled him.
“That talk of peanuts made me think what if Charlie don’t come back.”
“I have it in my mind he will.”
Harve sat down on the bench beside me, and I could feel the weight of him. “He’s got sand, Charlie has, and if anybody could make it, he would. But it’s been two weeks and then some, with no word. Charlie’d have sent a wire if he was alive. I don’t want you to give up hope, but I’m just asking, what if he’s dead?”
“I don’t believe he is, Harve.”
He sighed. “Here’s the truth of it, Alice. You got to think of the future. I’m not saying you have to decide right now or nothing, but I want you to think if he don’t come home, what would you say if I offered myself? I’d be willing if you was.”
Lizzie, I didn’t know whether to laugh or to smack Harve for his impertinence. But I could see he was dead serious, and I did not want to give offense, so I says, “You have caught me by surprise.”
Harve took that as encouragement and presented his case. “I don’t dip nor chew nor nothing, and you could sit on my lap and pull my whiskers. I wouldn’t mind.”
That had little appeal to me, and I wanted to tell him to pull his own whiskers, but I would not be so unkind.
“I’m a worker. Jennie Kate didn’t complain about that. You’re pert. Charlie always said so, and I can see it for myself.” He took a deep breath. “I got to have somebody to take care of Piecake.”
Well, there it was. Harve doesn’t care for me any more than I do for him, but he needs a mother for his child.
“I mean, we ought to wait a bit, because maybe Charlie will come back after all. But if he don’t, would you have me?”
Well, I wouldn’t, Lizzie, even with Piecake in the bargain. I tried to think of a nice way to let Harve know, but just then, Annie came out the door and walked to the well. She set down the bucket and ran her fingers through her hair, then threw back her head and looked up where the stars were just coming out. She drew the water, then took a dipperful and drank, spilling on her dress and laughing. “Harve,” I whisper. “There’ll never be any man but Charlie for me, but I think there’s someone else who’d make Piecake a good mother and you a fine wife.”
“There is?” Harve reared up his big head and looked at me.
I nodded at Annie.
Harve looked at her, then back at me and grinned. “Do you think she’d have me?”
“I do.
A
t that, Harve jumped up and took the bucket from Annie and carried it into the house, leaving me alone. Now I wonder if I should have kept him on my string. What if Charlie doesn’t come home? Harve could run the farm, and I could have Piecake as my own. It doesn’t seem such a bad bargain. But when I think about being in bed with Harve, I believe I’d rather have the hairbrush.
Love from
Alice K. Bullock
April 29, 1865
Dear Lizzie,
Harve made his intentions known to Annie that very night. I thought she would jump at such a match, which is far more brilliant that she ever could have hoped for. She likes Harve finely, and he is the only man who has, come to Bramble farm who doesn’t scare Joybell. When she told me Harve had offered himself, she said slyly that he did not need a dose of wild comfort. When I asked the meaning of that, she says, “It’s manhood medicine. I don’t reckon he’ll have the need of it.”
Then she slumped down beside me and says mournfully, “But it don’t matter. I told him I cain’t. I just cain’t.”
“You won’t marry him?” I asks, surprised.
“There’s things. . . . I told him there’s things. . . .” Annie put her head in my lap and began to sob.
“You don’t like him?” I asks, lifting her head.
“I like him right well,” Annie says, sniffing back tears. “Joybell, too.”
“You don’t have a husband, do you?”
“Oh, no.” Annie wiped her eyes on my apron and sat up. “I ain’t worthy of him. That’s what. I done a terrible thing.”
Lizzie, she has had a hardscrabble life, and who would criticize anything a mother did to care for her blind child? “Harve’s a good man. He would understand that you had to scratch out a living as best you could,” I says.
“You know it’s worse than that.”
“Coming to Bramble Farm? The stealing? Why, that’s between me and you and Mother Bullock, and it was forgot long ago. Besides, Harve has told us all about the reconnoitering he did in the army. He wouldn’t blame you.”
Alice's Tulips: A Novel Page 24
