Alice's Tulips: A Novel (21 page)

August 7, 1864

Dear Lizzie,

We know only a little more about Charlie. Mother Bullock and I had gone to town, leaving Piecake with Joybell and Annie. Whilst I went to post your letter and collect the mail, Mother Bullock walked to the newspaper office to read the list of dead and wounded and captured, just as we do each time we are in town.

As I reached the post office, I was waylaid by Mrs. Kittie. She grasped my arm and says, “There is someone for you to greet.”

Behind her was Mr. Howard. “We meet again, and I hope to see much of you,” he says, bowing as if we were the best of friends. “I am installed in the home of poor dear departed Mrs. Stout,” he says. “That is, until such a time as I may hope to find a more permanent home.”

He turned to Mrs. Kittie, who beamed at him, but his pretty words did not impress me, for I know he carries a high head, and I thought what a fop he was. Still, I vowed to be civil, and I reply, “If you stay, you will be an ornament for Slatyfork.”

We exchanged pleasantries, and I was about to go on my way when Mrs. Kittie was distracted by an acquaintance, and Mr. Howard leaned toward me and says, “I blame you entirely for the unpleasantness between dear Kittie and me. You tried to poison her mind against me.” He sneers, “That you will pay for it, you may be sure. I shall make you chaw your words.”

That was the end of my vow to be civil, and I reply, “You must take the credit for her poor opinion of you, as I had nothing to do with it. I never told her what I thought of yourself. But if she asked me now, I would tell Mrs. Kittie that as she is buying a husband, she should shop for better value.”

Mr. Howard steamed like a kettle on the boil. “Someone ought
to tie up your tongue,” he spits, and he would have said more, but Mother Bullock called my name and came running toward me, tears on her face.

I forgot Mr. Howard at once, because I knew the news was bad. “Not dead. Oh, please, not dead,” I cry.

“Captured,” she says quickly. “He is on the list of captured.”

Mrs. Kittie and others gathered about with words of sympathy and support, but Mother Bullock and I wanted to be alone, so taking time only to post the letter to you, we left Slatyfork. We told Annie and Joybell when we got home, and although they never met Charlie, they grieve, too. We try to find solace in work, but there is none, even for Annie. She took up her knitting last night but dropped the stitches, so she lay it down and sat looking at it.

I sent off a letter the next day to the army asking please to send particulars, but we have got no reply. We were frantic to know what had become of Charlie, when we received a letter yesterday from Harve. It was written to put the best face on the capture, but it reassures us nonetheless.

Here is what he writes: Charlie was on a scout in Secesh country with three other soldiers, when they ran across the Johnnies. There must have been a lot of them, for Charlie would not be taken easy. One Yankee was killed at the outset, and another escaped and hid out. The Rebs and their two prisoners walked right by the hidden man, but he had lost his gun and was useless to help them. He thought Charlie was all right, because he was cursing the Rebs so bad, they threatened to club him if he didn’t shut up. Charlie is lucky, since, as he expected to be gone several days, he took his blanket roll with him, strapped to his back. If the Rebs don’t steal it, Charlie will have him a quilt, bowl, spoon, and personal effects, which is a good thing, since the Confederate prisons don’t stock them. Harve believes Charlie will be exchanged for a Reb prisoner, or else he might be let go with the promise he’ll go home and not fight for the Union again. In any case, he is likely to be free before we know it. If Charlie behaves himself and minds the Reb, says Harve, he will be all right, for he is tough as a pine knot.
Well, that is not much assurance, for, as you know, Charlie Bullock is as independent as a hog on ice.

The letter cheered Mother Bullock a good deal. She has took Charlie’s capture hard, although she tells me an all-wise Providence will keep him safe. If Providence were all wise, it wouldn’t have let Charlie get caught in the first place is my opinion, but I keep it to myself. I do not think Mother Bullock cared mightily when her husband was took, but she was hard hit when Charlie’s brother, Jo, died, and Charlie is all she has left. It would be a sad life indeed if she ended up with no better than a daughter-in-law to care for her. She leans on me even more now and takes little interest in the farm.

I will let you know when we hear news. Do not feel you must write in reply; it comforts me to send a letter to you, for I can’t write Charlie. I know you put in many weary hours clerking at the store and with the girls to care for, you have no time for writing. It is enough that you keep me and Charlie in your prayers.

In haste, for I am behind in my work,

Alice

August 17, 1864

My kind, affectionate Sister,

There still is no official news of Charlie, beyond the notice of his capture. Nothing. While we pray that he arrived safe at a Secesh prison, we do not know for sure. There are stories of soldiers who surrender, then are shot because it is too much trouble to transport them to the stockade. Reb soldiers are without honor, and I do not believe Charlie would go easily. Still, until we know his fate for sure, I will believe he is alive, although most likely under dreadful conditions. Confederate prisons are said to be the most miserable places eyes ever beheld.

You are the best sister ever to write me such a good, long letter, especially since you had to rob yourself of sleep to do so. You must not tax yourself so. Lizzie, even though you have quit
the job at the store, do NOT take in a boarder. That is entirely too much. Your health would suffer; then what good would you be to the girls? Surely with all the war work in Galena, James could find a job worthy of him—or even one that isn’t. Well, I will say for Charlie that he never held an exalted position in commerce like James, but he never held such an exalted opinion of himself that he would turn down honest work. Nor did me or you. Only James. While I admire you beyond all others, I think James to be worthless. But I’ll write no more about him, for, as the saying goes, the less said, the sooner mended. Remember the words of the Bible, too, Lizzie: “This, too, shall pass.”

You tell me to be of good cheer, and I try so to be. What good does it serve to be downcast? Yesterday, our sorry group of womenfolk put aside earthly care to search for wild grapes. “We have grieved enough,” says I, “and we deserve to go alarking.” I don’t care for grapes so much as sweet little currants, but not for a five-dollar gold piece would I go back to that old trail where the currants grow.

Mother Bullock made a Persian apple pie and hard-boiled eggs for our outing. We took corn bread, a piece of cheese, and cold boiled pork and walked along the path to where the grapes grow thickest. There, we found a shady spot and spread out our feast. It was as nice an afternoon as I ever had. When we had finished our dinner, Mother Bullock and Piecake napped whilst me and Annie and Joybell went to picking grapes. You would not think Joybell would do much of a job of it, but her fingers can tell the ripe ones from those that are too green and hard to pick. She enjoyed herself finely when her mother was close, but Annie went a few steps across the road and was silent for a time, and Joybell grew cross. Then when Joybell heard a noise—it was only a raccoon in the underbrush—she went distracted and spilled her basket of grapes.

“Hain’t you got nothing better than to upset your pickin’s?” Annie says to her as she ran to gather up the spilt fruit. But Annie wasn’t angry, and after that, she jabbered whilst she worked so
Joybell would know she was about. When Annie went to our picnic site for another basket, she told Joybell she would return in a minute. “Lady be here,” she says. They call me “lady”; Mother Bullock is “missus.” When we had filled all the baskets with grapes, the three of us were hot and sticky, but I did not suggest a swim because it made me recall the time Mr. Samuel Smead had spied on us. Every thought of him sickens me, and I know I will never forget that evil day. Thank God no one but you will ever know what happened.

We sat in the shade to wait for Mother Bullock to wake up, and Annie shyly drew a letter out of her pocket. Lizzie, she wrote it to you! She said she did not want it sent until it was letter-perfect, and she asked me to read through to make sure there were no mistakes. It begins (as you yourself will see soon enough), “I rite this misef.” Annie was so proud of her work that I would not spoil it by making a correction, and I hope when you answer, you will praise her for her spelling. She has begun reading the Bible aloud of an evening. Last night, she sounded out
begat,
and I had to explain the meaning of the word. When she was finished with the chapter, she says, “Don’t them Bible people do nothing but begattin’?” Annie told us she dreamed about clear water the night before she came to Bramble Farm and so knew she was in luck. She likes it here and says she is well used. We are well used by her, too, and I do not know what me and Mother Bullock would do without her.

Mother Bullock has taken charge of our grape harvest now. She baked a grape pie for dinner today and has used the last of our sugar to make grape jelly. She made juice, too (but not wine). Joybell sits the day long seeding grapes, which Mother Bullock dries in the sun for raisins. Only Piecake does not help, but she is such a happy, placid baby that all of us are glad she is about. Every now and then, Joybell puts her fingers on Piecake’s face to find her mouth and slips a stoned grape inside. They both laugh, and Mother Bullock, too. Piecake is good for all of us. Both Mother Bullock and I try not to dwell on Charlie and always look on the good side of things. This evening, as we put away
the supper dishes, she says, “Did you ever notice there’s less housekeeping with no man about?”

“I guess that’s some kind of good, missus,” Annie says.

Sometimes we share a good joke that keeps us laughing all the day. One morning, Jennie Kate’s uncle arrived at the farm and said in a solemn voice, “I have brought a valuable remembrance of Jennie Kate for the babe. You must guard it until she is of an age to have it.” He handed me a box, and I thought it would contain Jennie Kate’s jewelry, as she had much of it. But when I opened the box, there lay—Lizzie, you will not believe this—a large hank of Jennie Kate’s hair! The man had cut the hair from the corpse and saved it. He supposed we would want to make a hair wreath or a brooch from it, as if we had no better way to employ our time. As soon as he was gone, Annie and I exploded in laughter, and even Mother Bullock smiled. I put the box in my bureau and told Annie that if we ran short of money, we could sell the box to Mrs. Kittie for false hair.

Only late at night, when I am alone, do the dark thoughts consume me, and I lie awake for long hours, dwelling on the terrible events of this summer—of Charlie and of Mr. Samuel Smead. But at the dawning of the day, I am able to make such thoughts return to their hole. Lizzie, we have both come a long way since we were girls in Fort Madison. I wonder sometimes if we would be better off if neither one of us had married. Then I remember how happy I was in those months when me and Charlie were first man and wife. And if you had not married James, you would not have had Mary and Eloise, who bring you such joy. It seems that our happiness demands a price, however, and we have no choice but to pay it.

That is enough heavy thinking for now.

With a prayer for both of us, I remain your sister,

Alice Bullock

August 27, 1864

Dear Lizzie

Me and Annie are good friends, especially now that I don’t see so much of Nealie.

I was thinking about Nealie when Annie asks, “How come the sewing lady don’t come around?”

“I suppose she’s busy on her farm. She’s going to have a baby and can’t ride a horse.”

“Do you like her?” Annie asks.

It was an impertinent question. “Why?”

Annie didn’t answer, just watched me.

“I like her finely,” I says. “But I am not so fond of her menfolk.”

Annie slid her eyes away from mine. “There’s meanness to them. They’d give a hog the colic.”

We picked the corn and stopped by the creek for a good wash, then went to the house. A horse was tied to a tree, and as we had been talking about Nealie, I wondered if she’d come for a visit. But Smeads have fine horses, and this one was a nag. When Annie saw the horse, she dropped the corn and ran toward the house, calling for Joybell. But Joybell was sitting in the dirt, playing with Piecake.

I picked up the corn and set it on a bench, then went to stand beside Mother Bullock, who was talking to a heavy, ugly man as dark as a gypsy. The set of her face made me uneasy. “We have been brought bad news,” Mother Bullock says to me. “There is death.”

I reached for her hand and whisper, “Charlie?”

She shook her head.

Annie, who had crept up beside me, says, “It don’t surprise me. Hain’t you seen the rooster in the door when it crowed this morning? It was standing right in the doorway. That means death.”

I looked from Mother Bullock to Annie, then at the man.

He started to talk, but Mother Bullock spoke first. “There’s a
body found, down partway to the creek. This is the sheriff, Sheriff Couch. Then she turned to him and says, “This here’s Charlie’s wife, Mrs. Charlie Bullock.” She paused whilst the sheriff touched his hat to me. “Sheriff Couch says a boy out fishing found the body.”

Both Mother Bullock and the sheriff turned to me. My knees grew weak and my hands clammy. Annie gripped my arm.

“Was it a tramp—the body, that is? It could have been a tramp. They come across our land all the time. Soldiers, I think they are.” My words seemed to come from a long way off.

The sheriff took off his hat. His face was tanned, but his forehead, normally covered by the hat, was as white as chicken flesh. He shook his head. “You can’t hardly recognize him because he’s been dead three, maybe four weeks, and he’s rotted bad. Why you could almost have smelled him from here. But we knew who he was from his clothes and his hair. Hair don’t rot like flesh. His name’s Smead.”