Ashton's Bride

by Judith O'Brien

  My mother will have my full address soon and give it to you and Tom. Until then, I am your obedient friend,

  Ashton Johnson

  P.S. Cousin Lizzie Giles sends best love and wonders why you don't answer her letter.

  The sudden wail of the tea kettle jolted Margaret out of the chair, and she looked around selfconsciously, as if someone had been there to witness her surprise. Smoothing her hair with a deliberate hand, she walked slowly into the kitchen and fumbled with a bag of herbal tea, unwilling to admit how glad she was to get away from the letters.

  There was something about these letters that she found disturbing. Perhaps it was the tone, so warmly casual, as easy as an old friend ruffling her hair. Margaret didn't have any old friends. She deliberately let friendships slide after the accident, unable to face familiar faces, the worried looks of well-meaning neighbors carrying casseroles and banana bread.

  She picked up the tea kettle, careful to use one of the pot holders that looked like a fourth-grade craft project. Her mind was on the letters, and she tilted the kettle too far, splashing scalding water on the hand holding the chipped teacup.

  "Mag!"

  Margaret jumped, the kettle clattered into the sink.

  "Who's there?" she shouted, her own voice high-pitched and unnatural, the sound of someone who had not spoken for a couple of hours. A man. It had been a man's voice, deep and rich and urgent.

  But there was no answer, no noise other than the soft whisperings of a branch against the kitchen window. Her heart was slamming against her ribs, and she saw her reflection in the window, stupid and frightened. The sight made her laugh, and she stared at herself, giggling and smiling as if sharing a joke.

  "I didn't want tea anyway," she said defiantly to the reflection. She ran her burned hand under cool water for a few moments, then wiped up the spilled water with a paper towel.

  Part of her wanted to pack the letters away and give them to Brad. But it was only six-thirty at night, and she had read just two entries. After fighting hard for the right to index these, it would be ridiculous to give them up so easily. With confidence she didn't feel, she grabbed a pen and notebook, and began to index. West Point. Entrance examination. St. Louis. The Oaks. Lizzie Giles. A friend named Tom.

  And Tom's sister Mag.

  Margaret left blank dashes next to their names, for she had to do a little research to find out what their last names had been. She looked over the letter again, and wondered, fleetingly, if he had been using his gold pen.

  "Yes."

  It was the same voice, but soft and close, right next to her ear. A strand of hair ruffled. Her arms were suddenly covered with goose bumps in spite of the sultry evening breeze.

  She sat very still and stared at the letters, their faded ink betraying nothing.

  "Why are you doing this to me?" she pleaded quietly, her eyes still focused on the open volume before her. But there was no answer, no response.

  Straightening her back, the very picture of strident efficiency, Margaret lifted the book. A piece of cardboard fluttered out of the leaves, twirling to the floor before she could capture it. She stared at the card before picking it up, for there was writing on the back. It was in Ashton Johnson's handwriting, a few brief words scrawled in haste.

  Mr. W.T. Sherman of St. Louis, class of '40, who wrote me a letter of recommendation for West Point.

  A.P.J.

  Margaret flipped the card over and gasped. It was a photograph of a young man with searing eyes, a face that would, in maturity, grace the pages of newspapers and history books both North and South. Her hand clasped over her mouth.

  "Oh, my God," she said out loud, stunned by what she saw.

  It was Union General William T. Sherman, still in civilian clothes, the man who devastated the South, staring benignly into the camera. It was Sherman who recommended Ashton Powell Johnson to West Point.

  And it was Sherman's own sharpshooters who killed General Ashton Johnson.

  Margaret stood before the freshman survey class, wondering how they could look so fresh at the ungodly hour of 8:00 in the morning. She hadn't been able to continue working on the index after the photograph of Sherman came tumbling out of the volume, too disturbed by the knowledge that General Johnson had been educated at West Point and had been killed through the efforts of the same man, the very same individual that Margaret had studied and revered.

  The young students gazed at Margaret with expectant eagerness, and she smiled at their willingness to learn. From what she had seen of Magnolia, that eagerness would soon be replaced by an overwhelming desire to party.

  "The first work of literature we will be studying is called Beowulf, and it was written . . ."

  Margaret frowned, noticing the class exchanging wary looks.

  "Is there something wrong?" she asked, trying to hide the irritation in her voice.

  One brave hand shot up, a young man with a clip-on tie. She nodded and he began.

  "Well, you see, Dr. Garnett." He glanced at the other students as if looking for support, "most of us have already read Beowulf."

  "You're kidding?" she said, and by their nodding she knew he was right. The semester outline seemed like a joke now, and she grinned at the class. "Okay, I'll make you guys a deal. I want each of you to write me a paper on Beowulf, on its importance to literature, on the story, anything. Just let me know you've read it. If I'm satisfied you have a grasp of Beowulf, I'll let you off the hook, and we'll study something fun. Deal?"

  There was unanimous applause, and Margaret adjusted her academic gown, surprised by the enthusiasm of the class. They seemed so, well, intelligent, she mused. Let's see how they can write. She dismissed the class and ordered the papers in at the next session on Wednesday.

  They were chatting excitedly as they filtered out of the room, and Margaret had a brief twinge of regret. She hated the thought of actually grading their papers. It would be a shame to break their spirit.

  That night, with no class to teach the next morning, Margaret returned to the letters. After a sunny day and no teaching blunders, she felt refreshed. And instead of a lonely dinner in the cottage, she had gone to the student pub for pizza and beer with Emily. They shared a delightful meal, with Emily giving her a complete rundown of the available males on campus.

  Surely the weird feelings she had experienced the night before, the detached voices and creepiness, had been due to simple exhaustion. After all. she was in a strange place, with strange people, away from the security of the Northeast for the first time in her life. It was only natural that her mind would become distracted. She was facing reality for the first time in twelve years.

  "Okay, Garnett. Let's get to work," she said aloud, slipping off her sandals. The floors at Rebel's Retreat were smoothed to a silky gleam from years of footsteps and careful polishing, and it was a delight to feel the wood under her feet.

  The letters were still on the dining room table, the photograph of General Sherman marking her place in the volume. She was jittery, as if she'd polished off a half dozen cups of coffee, yet she knew caffeine was not to blame. Absurd though it was, she was nervous about the letters, frightened at the prospect of getting to know General Ashton P. Johnson, C.S.A.

  Roughly pulling up a chair, she sat down, clipping her hair back. This time she didn't wash her hands. These were simply old letters, nothing more, she angrily tried to convince herself. They were of little historical value and would probably reveal no startling insights into the Civil War.

  The third letter. Pen poised on notebook, she began to read.

  Camp Cummings, near Mobile March 13th, 1862

  Dear Mag,

  I just received your letter of the 2nd inst., and decided to use you as an excuse to delay ploughing through the regimental paperwork. Should Mobile fall to the enemy, the Confederacy will point to the lovely Mag, who distracted this general from the dull duty of war.

  Your visit is still the talk of my men, who found your presence more beguiling than
three weeks' leave. My young aide-de-camp, Sam Walker— formerly a student of mine at Magnolia—seems especially smitten and walked into a water trough last evening. He confessed that he was staring at the lace handkerchief you left at headquarters, handling the cloth with the reverence of a sacred relic. I removed it from his person, simply to avoid further danger, fearing he would march into the Gulf if he became more distracted. It is now firmly planted in my own pocket, and I am determined to return it to you in person. Your fragrance still clings to the delicate cloth, my dear Mag, a soft scent of flowers and springtime.

  We have several dozen new recruits, fresh-faced boys who should be in school, not training for battle. They were on review for the first time, each very aware of the young Mobile ladies watching them from under bonnets and parasols. Unfortunately, they were so intent in impressing their rapt audience, the fledgling soldiers failed to take note of an early hornet's nest on the field and marched directly into the angry swarm. The ladies were hardly reassured as to the future of their country when they saw the bold men in gray drop arms and flee for no apparent reason.

  "General," asked a young woman from behind fluttering lashes. "Is that sound the rebel yell?"

  I maintained a composed expression until I reached headquarters, followed by Colonel Morris and Captain Delancy, where we were at last able to give way to laughter. It was good to see Colonel Morris smile, as he has worn a sour expression ever since some anonymous but steady-nerved individual shaved his horse. It's difficult to appear commanding on top of a maneless mount with a naked tail.

  Write soon, my dear Mag. If you only knew how much your letters mean to me, how I cherish each one, you would put pen to paper twice a day.

  Your affectionate, A.P.J.

  Odd, thought Margaret. This did not seem to be the letter of a general, there were no hints of coming battle, none of the bravado seen in other military missives, especially given the flowery language of the nineteenth century.

  Instead, this letter seemed to be from a man more interested in people than in campaigns. She jotted down items to index. Camp Cummings. Sam Walker. New Recruits. Colonel Morris. Captain Delancy.

  And again, Mag.

  Curious, Margaret flipped slowly through the remaining pages in the volume, each page smelling of age and stale air. And each letter was written to the same person. Mag. There were no envelopes to give her last name. Chet mentioned that they had been pilfered long ago by some stamp enthusiast eager for the valuable Confederate stamps.

  Margaret carried the book over to the living room and curled up on one of the old couches. She left her pen and notebook in the other room, for she was no longer in a mood to index. She simply wanted to read, to lose herself in the letters of Ashton Johnson.

  Near Williamsburg Yorktown Road May 7th, 1862

  Dear Mag,

  I am told you were recently ill, and have been quite concerned. On many occasions I have myself witnessed the disorder that overtakes you, and am convinced that if you could somehow remain calm, the attacks would be less severe. How I wish I could be there to help you, my dear one. But I do not write to scold or advise you, only to tell you how you dominate my thoughts. Any wishes and prayers on this quarter concern your own well-being.

  There was a battle here two days ago, and we rode close to the College of William and Mary. That beautiful place was well nigh deserted, and I could not help but stare at the very walls where Jefferson received his knowledge, wondering how different my life might be now if I had been educated there rather than at the academy. Little did I realize what an important decision that was, Mag. I realize now the academy was my first choice mainly because of the smart cut of the cadet uniforms.

  General Jubal Early reluctantly spoke to me, mostly on matters concerning battle and procuring provisions. As you know, he has little use for the cavalry, feeling we are but small improvement over cutthroats and thieves. He is a surprising character, stoop-shouldered with the voice of an irritated schoolmarm.

  "General Johnson," he said in his reedy tone. "A rascal tells me you are courting Miss Mag of Seven Pines." I admitted that I was indeed the fortunate fellow, and he looked at me with undeniable annoyance. I could not take my eyes from his hat, which was a wide-brimmed crushed felt thing with the most ridiculous plume I have ever before seen. He spoke well of you, having met you some years earlier, and asked if you are as beautiful as you were as a young girl. I admitted that you more than fulfilled your early promise of beauty, and he sighed.

  My aide-de-camp then appeared with my horse, curried to a high gloss, and he expressed admiration for my mount.

  "What is this fine animal's name, sir?" he asked. I mumbled the name, hoping he would not ask me to repeat the unfortunate appellation. You know, Mag, how I have tried to change the beast's name to something more suitable to a warrior's horse, but he stubbornly refuses the change.

  "What did you say, General?" he repeated cordially.

  "His name," I confessed, "is Waffles." And then young Sam Walker, ever helpful, added, "But he also answers to Daisy."

  The general's mouth dropped opened, as if convinced this must be but a poor jest at his expense. But when I said "Waffles," my gallant horse nodded and whinnied, as if unwilling to be left out of the conversation. Then General Early began to laugh, a hardy, infectious chuckle, and we have been on friendly terms ever since. When I saw his action on the field before he was wounded, I was mightily impressed.

  My dear Mag, this letter must end, as it is time for us to leave this place. Please write to me soon.

  Love as always, Ash

  The other letters had a similar tone, very little battle information, personal accounts of men and places, but no talk of the war itself.

  As she read on, she became used to his easy words, lulled by his calm humor, savoring every word. Margaret began to forget that these were the letters of the enemy, a Confederate general who had been dead for over a century. They seemed to speak directly to her, to Margaret.

  By six the next morning she had read two of the three volumes. Her fingertips were darkened with flaking dust from the paper, but she didn't care. She had discovered the most wonderful of men, and the hours flashed by with astonishing speed.

  She saw a man of unfailing good humor, who found himself in a position of military power he had tried to avoid. The letters to Mag touched briefly on his childhood, and she gathered that Mag was five or six years younger than Ashton. His family's plantation, The Oaks, was in Petersburg, Virginia, although he spent much time with his cousins in St. Louis, where his mother's sister lived. Margaret became familiar with the names of Ashton's cousins, old names such as Giles and Peyton and Branch came to life with fresh vigor.

  He had been against war, arguing that the election of Lincoln was not cause for secession but for compromise. He left his position as an English professor at the newly founded Magnolia to plead for Virginia to remain in the Union; and he left eight weeks later a reluctant colonel in the Confederacy and was soon promoted.

  From what Margaret could garner, his dear Mag wasn't much of a letter writer, but was something of a first-rate flirt and a tease as well as a hypochondriac. Letter after letter asks for her to write, with humorous but increasingly sarcastic references to other men. There must have been an understanding between the two, for he mentions keeping a promise about glancing at the moon at a specific time each night, knowing she is doing the same and thinking of him.

  But by 1863 the letters became slightly angry, as if even-tempered Ashton could keep his cool under enemy fire, but not under Mag's silence. The last letter Margaret read was different in tone from the others.

  Richmond

  April 28th, 1863

  Mag,

  Under the circumstances it is appropriate for me to return the enclosed. They are the letters you have written to me these past years, and for once I am pleased by how paltry they are in number, as it will save me considerable postage.

  Good luck to you, Mag. And remember, sho
uld you ever require friendship, if you are in need of a hand, I will come directly to your side. My pride lies in shreds, but never my love for you.

  Ash

  Margaret blinked at the brief note, only vaguely aware of the early morning sun streaming through the window. What had happened? What had Mag done or said to cause such a response?

  Rubbing her eyes, Margaret thought of the importance of the date and place of the last letter. That was about the time that Jefferson Davis called his leading military men, including Robert E. Lee, to the Confederate capital to discuss Lincoln's new commanding general, Ulysses Grant. So, Margaret mused, Ashton must have played a vital enough role to have been called to Richmond.