3
w hat unmitigated nerve that invading woman had today ! she hired two burly
fellows to haul away the parlor’s grand piano. they cussed and sweated, inching its awkward
bulk through the doors, chipping off bits of the black varnish. ma would have been beside
herself to see the long scratches and to hear the splitting wood as the piece was upended and
shoved down the porch steps. maybe the instrument did take up half the room, as the woman
complained, and maybe never could be properly tuned again. but its music had given life to the
house.
my beloved ellen would pound the keys as she worked the brass floor pedals. mary would stand
with her hands on ellen’s shoulders, as they warbled their hearts out. “rock of ages” soared
through every room, as well as “onward christian soldiers.” i can also see little cara biting her
lip in concentration, practicing for miss marley’s recitals and then making us proud. the house
will not be the same again.
that stout-legged instrument was ma’s last sizeable purchase—in march 1861—before the
war and the pinched aftermath. pa proudly hauled it home in time for the saturday social to
which ma had invited most of the bethel neighbors and the new jerusalem minister.
after sufficient gossip was shared over tea and ma’s lemon pound cake, the guests
congregated in the parlor to view the new acquisition. “play something, christiana. let’s hear
what this marvel sounds like,” said mrs. calliston, with barely concealed envy. tight rolls of
curls bobbed beside her cheeks while she spoke. she wiped her plump face with a lace
handkerchief and gave the group a coy smile, revealing yellowed wooden teeth. another
neighbor begged mary to sing “the first rose of summer” accompanied by her mother, and
soon everyone joined in. their sweet voices led by ma’s and mary’s harmonizing soared
through the parlor.
when the men’s impatience to discuss the current political crisis became unbearable, they
moved to the library. there would be a heated discussion, but only after they filled their pipes
and clipped their cigars. i followed and settled inconspicuously against the wall. no one had
commented on my itchy new beard. “is there news this week from the state capital on the
secession debate?” asked mr. lucas, after a long draw on his pipe. “it’s been going on too
damned long.”
mr. beard watched with hands jammed in his pockets, but now he spoke with frustration in
his voice. “our delegate will never change his mind. he’s dead set against secession, like so
many in this county.” his bald head reflected a square of light from the window, and he rubbed
his hand back and forth, polishing its surface.
“our delegate is damned right,” said portly mr. hogshead, his jowls wobbling. all eyes
turned to him; the group respected his opinion because he was the wealthiest farmer among
them. “for god’s sake, beard, what are you thinking? this is treason!” his face was tomato red.
“do you believe the federal government is going to stand by while the states secede, one after
another?” scarlet splotches now bloomed above his collar. “you secessionists aren’t being
rational about the consequences. we’ll have a war on our hands, i guarantee it.”
reverend mcintyre had studied the floor during this exchange, but his hands had clenched
into tight fists by his side. he’d been minister at new jerusalem presbyterian church for at least
a decade and was well regarded by the men in the room. now he couldn’t hold back any longer.
“gentlemen, you’re missing the point.” he paused and his eyes traveled the room, looking to
engage each man. “be certain you are clear about something. this is not a theoretical debate
about the federal government interfering with states’ rights. it’s about whether one man can
keep another in bondage, keep him uneducated and without property, and sell his wife and
children away in real life. and why do the slaveholders in our state legislature want to secede?
so they can protect their wealth built on this heinous practice.” he pounded his fist on the table
and roared, “they’re all slave holders! the southern position is about monumental greed,
nothing more. a greed that flourishes because of a vast evil.” the room was silent, with only the
uncomfortable shuffling of a few feet to be heard. in a lower tone, he acknowledged that none of
the men in the room owned slaves, but those who did would be damned in the eyes of god.
“you can bluster all you want about states’ rights, but the debate is really whether virginia’s
wealthy, and their kind farther south, can persist with this abomination. we are at a profound
moral crossroads.” several men turned their heads away, unable to meet mcintyre’s challenging
eyes, and the room was quiet.
mr. beard finally spoke. “there won’t be a war, even if virginia secedes. seven states have
already seized federal forts and left the union months ago. what did president buchanan do?
nothing! sure, slavery is outlawed in new territories, but when they’re states and they send
representatives to congress, who’s to say they’ll pitch in with northerners to overwhelm
southern interests? that’s what scares these slave owners. but nobody can guarantee that’s
going to happen. these people are letting nonsense sicken their minds, splitting off from the
union.”
“well, a threat to slavery seems inevitable to me and a lot of other people. important people,”
muttered one man.
mr. beard’s voice drowned him out. “and lincoln has promised he won’t mess with slave-
owning states. i’m betting he won’t do anything more than the last fellow.” several listeners
nodded in agreement.
reverend mcintyre’s face paled. “don’t be so cock sure of yourself there. no question about
it, secession is treason, and virginia may be the tipping point. we already know lincoln’s view
on the matter. and then what? war.” he pointed his finger at the closest man. “and make no
mistake what it’s about. not this states’ rights nonsense. do you really want to risk your boys’
lives to perpetuate slavery?”
mr. beard cleared his throat. “i don’t think anyone in this room wants to go to war,” he said.
most of the men murmured agreement. mr. beard was wrong about one of us. i wanted to go to
war. i’m profoundly ashamed to say i hadn’t given the plight of slaves much thought. the only
encounter with a slave that had made any impression upon me was at tayloe’s house years
earlier, and i was merely curious for the short time she appeared at his family’s door. to tell the
truth, at this moment, i only hungered for a change.
mcintyre then quickly moved toward the door, grabbing his hat from the hook. some later
said they heard him say, “if it takes a war to end slavery, then i’d be for it.”
when his footsteps sounded on the porch steps, pa said, “look here. we lose nothing if
slavery is outlawed. no investment, no lazy manner of living we’d have to give up.” pa then
gave me a hard look. “and the idea of fighting to protect the wealth of a bunch of slave owners
far away in eastern virginia is preposterous. these rich men in richmond want to drag all of us
toward disaster with them.”
a chorus of “hear, hear!” and “amen” followed, as the neighbors, relieved, agreed on that
one thing. they hadn’t been convinced by reverend mcintyre of slavery’s evil, a practice which
they simply accepted, but none of older men in the room wanted to take up arms or have their
sons do so. it seemed as if bethel and the entire nation were holding their breath those early
spring months.
several times a week in march and early april, sam and i joined the other militia volunteers
who marched left and right in ragged rows behind the house. looking back, i wonder at our
innocence, at how little the militia leader, imboden, knew. a few hours of shooting family rifles
at targets nailed to trees was no preparation for real war. most of the boys were restless youths
like us, but we were joined by a few older men—pro-slavery fanatics, every one of them. after
drill practice and when they were out of sight, sam would mimic a fellow named harris who
hated lincoln. using two fingers to squeeze his nose, he’d capture the man’s thin, venom-filled
speech, while i’d double over laughing at his perfect impersonation.
finally, before breakfast on april 17, john hite, a fellow of my age who lived two miles
north, charged up the farm roadway on his horse. barely knotting the reins to the fence, he
bounded onto the front porch, skipping plank steps two at a time. ma heard his boots thudding
and was at the door before he could knock. his voice reached me in the upstairs hall, “tell tom
that imboden dispatched a telegram from richmond to all west augusta guard officers late last
night. he ordered them to gather their men. they’re to meet at the train station before noon
today.”
her brow wrinkled. “what’s the meaning of this? surely you can come in for a moment and
tell us more.”
he thanked her but refused. “i can’t tarry. anyway, that’s all i know. the message didn’t say
where they were headed. just tell tom to get to town double-quick.”
as he flung himself off the porch, he hollered back over his shoulder. “and tell him to bring
whatever weapons he has!” by the time i yanked on my boots and tore down the stairs with
laces flapping, his horse was receding in the dust.
pale as the moon, ma met me in the hall, wringing her hands. “i feared this was going to
happen. imboden is up to no good, and you’re being dragged into it. now the man orders you to
run off to some unknown destination, with weapons, no less. it makes no sense. that boy didn’t
say one word about a vote in the state convention to secede.” she hurried toward the kitchen
without giving me a chance to respond.
i found her at the scarred pine table with a butcher knife in hand, ready to slice smoked ham
for my travels. but first she prayed, with no concern that i had entered the room. “oh, lord,
praised be thy name. watch over my son and let this trouble pass quickly, whatever it may be.
he may not be one of your flock, but he’s a good boy, the only one i have, and he deserves your
protection.”
“ma, stop that rubbish! for once, leave god out of it.” she startled and dropped the knife on
the table. her lips quivered, and her slumping shoulders tugged at my heart. hoping to soften
the harshness of my words, i wrapped my arm around her and stooped to give her a quick kiss
on the check. under my fingers, her shoulder blades pressed through the thin fabric of her linen
blouse.
“you’re forgiven.” she managed a wan smile, but her eyes were wet. she then gently pushed
me out of her way.
the previous week, when i returned from drill in the afternoon, ma had met me at the door
with a wooden cooking spoon in hand. she’d been so kidnapped by her thoughts that she hadn’t
remembered to put the spoon down. she waved it at me as she spoke. “i’m worried sick about
this soldier business, even if you aren’t. you should be more concerned, tom smiley, about the
state of your soul before you go endangering your life.”
“for cripes sake. i’ll be fine.” i knew that she believed my lack of faith guaranteed she would
never see me in heaven. when gabriel blew his trumpet, my soul would be chained to the
cemetery headstone.
she was absolutely right about my not being one of god’s flock. if my parent’s oversight was
unbearable, the idea of an omnipotent spy in the heavens was even worse. ma’s moral lectures
got under my skin, and now that i was old enough to have a say in the matter, i kept my distance
from sunday services. i left her bustling in the kitchen and went upstairs to gather my
belongings.
for weeks, i’d been considering what i would carry if the militia were called up suddenly. a
sketchbook, pencils and stationery, my mother’s kitchen table oilcloth for rain- garb and
protection for the rolled blanket, a volume of longfellow poetry, two pairs of thick wool socks,
and three changes of clothing bulged the sides of my sack. i tucked in a moth-eaten rabbit’s foot
and mary’s pressed four-leaf clover for luck. after removing the book and extra clothing, the
sack was light enough for marching—considering i’d also have to haul a rifle, ammunition, and
supplies.
proudly eyeing that lumpy haversack propped at the ready by my bedroom door, i had
allowed myself to daydream. waves of men herded captives off the battlefield, as my
courageous actions led to yet another victory. an officer’s commission and a horse would soon
follow. but that was nonsense. the first months of the war quickly taught me that only wealthy
highborn men could become officers, not tradesmen’s sons like sam and me.
now pa’s voice drifted up from the kitchen below. “don’t fret so,” he told my mother. he
reminded her of how imboden and his useless militia ran off to western virginia to protect
citizens during john brown’s hanging when they had some lunatic notion of a slave revolt. it all
came to nothing, and the militia came home in two weeks.
“that was different, william. the nation wasn’t in such turmoil. my worries won’t be shooed
away, although i know you mean well,” ma said. the tremor in her voice told me she was
probably dabbing at her eyes with her apron corners as she returned to her tasks.
while i checked my knapsack’s contents one last time, mary and tish joined my mother in
the kitchen. silent in their worry, the women prepared a basket of provisions, neatly tucking in
ma’s sliced smoked ham, dried beef, apples, biscuits, corn bread, and slices of minced meat pie
that might last for several days, all wound up in flour-sacking. that evening on the train, i found
a religious tract that ma had poked in, and mary had scribbled a message reminding me to take
care. tish had contributed nothing.
all three gathered in the front hall to say goodbye before i trotted up to join pa at the barn.
my oldest sister leaned against the wall with her arms folded and muttered, “take care of
yourself,” but mary was bursting with demands.
“be sure to write, tom, the very minute you know where you’ll be going. and don’t leave
anything out. promise.”
“i will write, don’t worry.”
“you didn’t promise. swear that you’ll let us know everything. write every day. and tell us
what sam is doing, too.”
“i said i’ll write. i promise.”
“that’s better.” and then she pushed into my hand a small, rolled rectangle of paper tied with
a ribbon. “a going away present,” she whispered and gave my earlobe a gentle tug.
i tucked the paper carefully under the flap of my haversack without unrolling it. later, on the
train, i untied the knot and saw the meaning of her gift. it was her most treasured and skillful
drawing, a page of eastern june bugs marching in rows, their brilliant green and brown bodies
colored in glowing ink. the sweet smell of the farm’s field grass and the excitement of our
discoveries would come back to me every time i unfurled it.
ma had been waiting solemnly until mary finished, but then she stepped toward me and
pulled me wordlessly into a tight hug, just as she did when i was a small boy. she stepped back,
touched my face with the back of her hand as though she could feel the excited fever coursing
through me, and hastily retreated to the kitchen. mary rolled her eyes and then shoved me
toward the door.
“pa’s waiting, so get going. come home soon as you can.”
when i arrived at the barn door, i saw that pa had fetched wilbur, one of his two plow
horses, for the long ride to the staunton train station. i’d be astride behind him with my
haversack over my shoulder. pa was a man in his fifties—he and ma didn’t begin a family until
they were in their third decade. he groaned with the effort as he threw the leather saddle over
wilbur’s back and bent to fasten the straps under the horse’s broad belly. withholding judgment
after john hite’s arrival that morning, he now straightened up, scowled through his wire-frame
glasses, and said, “you know i’m a more cautious man than you. i wouldn’t have rushed to
enlist, even when i was your age.” he shook his head, “i wish there was something i could do to
change your mind.”
“it’s too late for that, pa. but don’t worry. i’ll be fine.” i put my hand on his shoulder.
“how can i not worry, if we have a war on our hands? you know ma and your sisters will be
powerfully upset if that’s the case. especially ma.”
there was a long, uncomfortable silence between us. slowly, he pulled a wad of money from
the small leather bag at his belt and said, “here, son, you might as well take these bills for your
train fare. you can’t pay for such a trip yourself.” then he awkwardly clasped me to him.
“there’s some in the pouch for the way back, too.” his words were partially muffled by my coat
collar. we broke apart and pretended nothing had happened. i couldn’t bear to look at him. i
worried my resolve might crack, and, worse, that pa might detect my impatience to leave and
would be hurt by it.
in a defeated voice he said, “i suppose there’s some consolation if those boys, sam and
tayloe, are headed off with you.” he turned toward wilbur to tighten the stirrups one more
time. as we trotted down the barn lane, i saw that my mother and mary had come into the yard.
mary put her arm around ma’s waist, and they leaned into one another. both raised their hands
and waved. veering onto the road to staunton, i heard ma’s farewell fade away.
bewildered by imboden’s telegram, pa counted on passengers from the overnight richmond
train to provide clarification. he urged poor wilbur to a feverish gait, forcing the big beast to
sweat and strain forward with his double burden. there was no news. there was no war. ma
proved to be dead right about that scoundrel imboden. we were traitors and then became the
state’s first cannon fodder.
