Alice's Tulips: A Novel (23 page)

I am well in body at present and hope you are the same. As for my spirit, I cannot say.

Alice Keeler Bullock

September 12, 1864

Dear Lizzie,

Charlie is at Anderson ville Prison. We have had a letter from him, dated August 22, which I copy to you:

Dear Mother and Alice

I was captured on July 18 and am held prisoner at Andersonville Station. I caught a minie ball in my leg, and the surgeon tried to cut it off, but I says he could not have it, for my wife won’t let me through the door without two good Yankee legs. I worked the ball out myself and think the leg is some better now, and I am not a-going down. I’ll be sounder than a hickory nut in no time. Don’t believe what you hear about Andersonville. I would welcome good Yankee hardtack and desecrated vegetables, but eat all right without them. Me and two boys live in a shebang. It is as good as an India-rubber blanket for keeping out the rain—which is a regular Baptist downpour when it comes. You would not recognize me, for my face is speckled as a turkey egg from the sun, and my clothes are black with smoke from the sappy green pine logs we burn. The Rebs let me keep my bedroll when I came in. I bought a spoonful of vinegar with a three-cent piece and traded the fork for two onions, but have the spoon and the watch you sent, which I have carved with pictures of soldiers. I lost the watch key, but as there’s little use to tell the time here, I don’t miss it. Doll Baby, don’t be mad when I tell you I made a coat out of the quilt, for that is the best way to keep it from being thieved, and if winter comes, I will need it bad. But I expect to be exchanged before that. And when I get out, I am never going back to the army, for war is all hell broke loose, and I have saw enough of it. So I have done with soldiering and will be a farmer. Write to me a cheerful letter like you always do. I know things aren’t easy at home, but you never complain the way Jennie Kate did. But don’t send nothing, for the thieving here is awful, and you can’t blame the Rebs for all of it. A gang of Union soldiers called “raiders,” the worst
band of drunkards, gamblers, horse racers, lawyers, and Irish that ever lived, robbed and murdered their fellows, but the Rebs cleaned them out. Don’t worry about me, for I am not licked by a good deal.

Hail Columbia and please do not forget your

Charlie K. Bullock

It’s as cheerful a message as could be under the circumstances, but it is told that the Reb guards read our soldiers’ letters and will not mail them if they say a bad word about the Confederates or their jails. We can be sure that Charlie is alive but can only guess at his state. But that is good enough for now. Mother Bullock says her greatest fear when Charlie went to war was that he would be kilt and the remains never found. Oh, Lizzie, I hate myself for telling Charlie not to come home if he lost his leg. Though it was said in jest, I am ashamed of it. I don’t care if he has to sit in a chair the rest of his life, I just want Charlie to come back.

My writing has got tottery, for I am very tired, so I will close, having told you the good news. Mother Bullock is much cheered by Charlie’s letter. Annie says, “If missus could see her boy again, hard times would leave her on the run.”

I hope that is so and that

hard times will also leave you and your sister,

Alice K. Bullock

September 20, 1864

Dear Lizzie,

Yours of September 8 at hand and grateful am I to have it and to hear of your news. Hurrah for James for his new position! Of course I do not believe it beneath him to take a job in his old factory; after all, he did not believe it beneath him to let his wife work in a dry-goods store or to take in a boarder. Besides, since
no charges were ever filed against James, preventing him from clearing himself in the courtroom, what better way of showing to all that he is innocent than by working at the very factory he was accused of defrauding? It shows he is trusted and valued by the new owners.

No, I don’t believe it makes one bit of difference that he works in the factory instead of an office. An office man does not produce a single nail, and James turns out hundreds, so he is of much greater use to the war effort. I view an office a little like the War Department in Washington, staffed by cowards and shirkers; the factory is the infantry, doing the hard work and operating under danger. There is nothing wrong with starting out in a humble position, and I am sure James will rise. Now, you had ought to get rid of that boarder. I know you are above reproach, but few men can be trusted far, and it does not look right that he is there alone with you and the girls all day. You know the gossips are just waiting for you to give them a good reason to talk.

The root celler is filled with potatoes and other vegetables. The fruit is pretty plenty but rots before we can pick it, for there is just me and Annie. Mother Bullock tries to help, but she is weak, and while Joybell can feel for the grapes, she can’t climb trees for apples. We dry as much fruit as we can, but even some of what we gather is spoilt, for Mother Bullock works slowly, and we won’t let Joybell cut the fruit for drying. So Me and Annie work at it of an evening and put the quilting aside. I think we can stay out of the almshouse this winter, although we did not get so much as we had hoped for the wheat.

We have heard no more from Mrs. Kittie about the seven dollars she promised to pay each month for the rent of Jennie Kate’s house. If she can buy Mr. Howard lemon-colored gloves (he has become quite the dandy since moving to Slatyfork, and gloves are his especial passion), she can meet her obligation to Piecake. Still, Harve sends us money when he can. I do not know what we would do without that, for we are in need of clothes. My shoes have give out, so I am barefooted, but it will be warm weather for some time yet. Thanks to Providence, the cow is
good and gives a quart or three pints at a time. We still have one horse, too; I do not know what we would do in the spring without it, for neighbors would not give us the loan of one—for fear I should murder it, I think. There is much shunning of me in Slatyfork. The quilting group—
my
quilting group—has begun meeting again after a summer repose. Others have joined, but I was not invited. I would not have known, except that Mrs. Middleton called on Mother Bullock and let slip that two new quilts have been finished.

“They are in the Iowa Four-Patch pattern that dear Jennie Kate designed,” she says.

“
I
designed,” I tell her. “I designed the Iowa Stripe.”

“Oh, no, dear. Mrs. Wales herself says it was Jennie Kate’s idea, and the others say it must be so.”

“I wonder they did not invite me to join them, as I was appointed to head the quilting. You know it yourself. You were there at the first meeting.”

Poor Mrs. Middleton looked flustered. “Perhaps you are not used to our ways. Slatyfork has never taken much to outsiders. People do not mean to be cruel.”

“They do mean it,” I says, leaving her with Mother Bullock and going outside to do chores. Lizzie, I am not the best person in the world. You know it better than anybody. But I do not deserve such treatment. When Mrs. Middleton left, she did not know I was in hearing, and she told Mother Bullock, “She is God’s cross, Mrs. Bullock. You are indeed a Christian for not sending her away.”

Well, I wish she would send me to you.

Alice K. Bullock

September 25, 1864

Dear Lizzie,

All hell has broke loose, and some believe I am the very devil. We had not been to Slatyfork in some time, so me and Mother
Bullock went there yesterday, stopping off first at the post office.

As we went in, Lavinah Bothwell was holding forth, her feet wide apart, leaning forward and shaking her finger. Half a dozen listened. “I have seen her buck wood,” she says. “She handles the bucksaw as good as any man.” Mrs. Bothwell is a cousin to Aunt Darnell’s husband and a member of the Soldiers Relief, but not a very good one. She came to a quilting at Bramble Farm once and ate more than she sewed, and at last summer’s Soldiers Relief Fair, she donated a peach pie, and not a very good one, for the man who bought it said he could knock down a full-grown steer with a chunk of it.

Mrs. Middleton, who was amongst the crowd, glanced our way, and she says to Mrs. Bothwell, “Oh, do be still, old woman. You talk too much entirely.”

But Mrs. Bothwell would not be stopped and continues. “I tell you she is terrible to flirt and flatter. If she was married to my husband, she’d get a strapping, that’s for sure.” The room grew still, except for a little grumbling and foot stamping, and at last, Mrs. Bothwell glanced at us. “Well,” says she to the room. “I know what I have saw.”

They had been talking about me, of course, and I would have taken leave right then except for Mother Bullock’s hand gripping me about the waist. “And what did you see, Lavinah?” she asks, as if we had missed out on a pleasant conversation.

Mrs. Bothwell didn’t reply, but mutters stubbornly, “I never was one to back down.”

“No indeed, even when you are wrong,” says Mother Bullock. “Especially when you’re wrong.” Never before had Mother Bullock defended me so vigorously, which causes me to fear I was hated indeed.

Mrs. Bothwell glared at me, then stomped out, while the others became very busy examining their mail and moved aside so we could go to the postal window. “Nothing from Charlie,” the postmaster says as he took down two envelopes and squinted at the return addresses before handing them to us. “One from your sister, Miss Alice. I can’t make out the other’n, but it’s from
Fort Madison. Now who might that be?” I only stared at him and did not reply, and he says to Mother Bullock, “I’ll send word if there’s one from Charlie, but I think the Rebs burn our boys’ letters for fuel, durn ’em.” Then he says to the room, “Them Secesh burn murderers, too.”

As I left the post office, I did indeed burn—with shame—and, Lizzie, I never felt so close to you in my life, for I know how it must have been for you, with Myrtle Lame spreading her lies. I have not been the subject of so many tongues since the incident of the Carter boy, and that was quickly done with.

Mother Bullock held on to me until we were outside, then let go and said she would read the lists posted at the newspaper office whilst I stopped at the dry-goods store for a spool of thread. They have got a good supply now, or so we had heard. “I should like to go home instead,” I tell her. “I don’t care to be the subject of people’s tongues.”

“And if you run away, what will people think?” Mother Bullock asks, trying to peer into my face, but I was looking at my toes. “Lavinah Bothwell and hers are the last run of shad. Do not stand on such small matters as gossip, Alice.” For a moment, I thought she was telling me she believed me innocent, but then she adds, “Remember that you are the wife of Charlie Bullock. You must not let them think you guilty, for Charlie’s sake. I shall never forgive you if you bring disgrace upon him.”

Well, I wouldn’t, either, so I held my head high and walked to the mercantile, where I was about to go inside, but the door opened and out came Nealie. I did not give her a chance to snub me, but says, “Well, hello, Nealie. You are looking fit, as always.”

She was surprised to see me. “Oh, Alice,” she exclaims, clasping her hands together. It did not appear she would say more, so I started past her, but she reached out and took my arm. “Stop a minute with me. You and me haven’t had a good talk for the longest time, and I have missed it.” I told her I would like nothing better but was on an errand and couldn’t keep Mother Bullock waiting.

“What are you here for?” Nealie asks quickly.

“Thread,” I says. “I hear they have got in a shipment of good linen thread.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the store. “Overpriced,” she says. “And gone, too. But I have more than I can use at home. I shall be glad to give you a spool, two if you like. I’ll bring them myself.”

“I wouldn’t want to rob you,” I says in way of thanks. I did not care to be beholden, but our money was tight, and I was grateful for the savings of a few pennies. Then it came to me what Nealie was about, and I glanced through the window of the shop. “Who’s inside?”

Nealie sighed. “Mrs. Bothwell. She is such a troublemaker. I thought I would save you an unpleasant encounter.”

“I already had one.”

“She will tire of it quick enough, and so will the others, as soon as there’s another subject to jabber about.” Nealie chuckled. “Do you remember Quintus Quayle, that mean old man that whipped his young wife and drove her off, then said he would kill her if she did not come back?”

I nodded. Nealie and I had talked about the incident and said we would have offered a refuge to Louise Quayle if we had known where she went. But after a night in the woods, she had gone back to her husband, and we were some disappointed in her for doing it.

“Well, Quintus was drunk and took sick and was buried Friday. On Saturday, Louise married again. So you see, here is your new subject for twaddle.”

I smiled but knew Louise was only a little extra for the gossips, like a spoonful of sugar sprinkled on a piecrust—me being the crust. “I don’t think Louise will replace me as a subject of conversation. From what you say, it appears no one is blaming her for Mr. Quayle’s death.”

We looked at each other for a moment, neither speaking. Nealie looked so forlorn that I decided then and there to give her at least a part of the explanation. The truth could not be any
worse than what she had heard said about me from Mrs. Both-well, Mrs. Kittie, and the others, and besides, me and Nealie were fond of each other. The unpleasantness had rent our friendship. So I led her a few steps away from the mercantile, to a bench that couldn’t be seen from inside the store. “I will tell you what happened,” I says, not yet knowing how much of my story I would reveal.

“You don’t have to,” Nealie says, sitting down on a bench. She looked heavy and tired. Her pregnancy weighed on her, and I wondered if she had any women friends to help her through it. Certainly I had not helped, for I had not been to her farm in many months. I was relieved she would know soon enough the reason I had deserted her.