The Cellar (4 page)

“They are a gift from God…… a gift he
sometimes takes away.  In my case I think he took my sons as a punishment.”

“A punishment?”

“You see, my husband actively promoted
this war.  He helped raise a regiment and donated money for arms and uniforms. 
He encouraged our sons to enlist. 
i
His
belief in the glorious cause brought us nothing but grief.  Being a dutiful
wife, I went along with his wishes, although I had reservations.”

“So you believe that God is against the Southern
cause?”

“I did for a while, but as I read and
comprehended the news I came to the understanding that young men on both sides
are dying in virtually equal numbers.  God is punishing us all for our pride
and foolishness…..in
equal numbers
!”  She accentuated the last two words
in a tone that startled Ike.

“You said you were shown a sign.”  Ike
said. 

“Yes dear boy, yes!  It came to me so
clearly and gave me great hope.” She said, looking at the sky beyond the open
cellar door.  “The numbers……the numbers….”

“You saw numbers?”  Ike asked, half
thinking that if he could see the patch of sky the woman was gazing at he would
see strings of numbers writ in cloud.

“Four dead boys in my side yard….four
Union soldiers…..to atone for my poor lambs slain in the struggle.”  She turned
her gaze from the sky back to Ike. “My four beautiful sons are buried in lonely
graves far from home and I have been sent four others to bury in their stead.”
She said, taking a breath and looked back up at the sky as if she were
addressing it.  “And one living, left for me to minister to, to care for so
that God will keep my last son alive.”  She quickly turned to Ike and moved her
face close to his, searching his expression for understanding.  “Mr. Lowery,
you have been sent here by God!  Can you not feel it?”  Her face glowed with
animation that Ike wouldn’t have thought possible moments before.  “Todd’s last
letter came day before yesterday from a field hospital where he is recovering
from a head wound and a minor fracture almost identical to your own!  I intend
to keep you here and care for you until this foolishness is over and Todd
returns safely to his home.  Marcus and I will care for your every need, we
have food stored safely away in a well hidden location and Marcus is a skilled
gardener and hunter.  You will be kept comfortable and well fed as my assurance
to God of my intentions.  I believe that in return my Son will be safe in spite
of this horrid war.”

Mrs. Pendleton
gazed into Ike’s eyes and her expression of joy intensified even further.

“Mr. Lowery, your eyes are the same shade of blue as Todd’s! 
If I wasn’t convinced before that you were sent here purposefully, I am now!”

“Well, I……..”  Ike said, finding himself
at a loss for anything else to say.  The cellar had started to warm from the
sunlight shining down through the open door but Ike felt chilled, he swayed in
his chair and closed his eyes to think about all he had just heard.

Ike heard the laughter again, this time he
recognized Johnny O’Donnell’s cackle in his head “Hey Ikey, you look like
somebody just walked across your grave!  That big nigger just walked over mine!” 
Ike flinched and looked around to see if anyone else had heard Johnny.

“Mr. Lowery are you alright?” the woman
said with a sudden concern in her voice.

“Just a little chill, I think……” Ike said,
despairing that he was losing his sanity.  He was also convinced that Mrs. Pendleton’s
mind had been damaged by her losses.  He wasn’t sure which bothered him the
worst or put him in the most peril.  He closed his eyes and tried to make sense
of it all.  It came to him that he might still be dreaming.  He looked up and
saw that Marcus had come back down the stairs.

“Ikey, you’re the luckiest guy they is!  Them
purty blue eyes of yours are just the ticket! You get to sit out the rest of
the war in that there cellar.  I’m stuck out there in the side yard feedin’ the
flowers.”  Johnny’s voice continued in a nasal snicker.

“Mr. Lowery, I think you should lie down
for a while.”  The woman said, taking Ike by the arm.  “Marcus, please help Mr.
Lowery to his pallet.”

The light from outside was eclipsed as
Marcus descended the steps.  Ike noted how quietly he moved for someone his
size.  Graceful, graceful like a cat, something in the big man’s actions
reminded Ike of the huge black Tom that his mother had once fed.  The cat was
gentle with Ike and his brother, but would kill any other cat that dared come
close to the house.

His head still swimming, Ike was gently
placed back on his pallet on the floor.  The finest feather pillow he had ever
come in contact with was slipped under his head and he was covered with a
handmade quilt.  Ike puzzled about where they came from and decided that Marcus
had been in the process of bringing them already.

The woman’s hand rested on his forehead
for a couple of seconds.   She looked relieved not to find him feverish.  She
turned and said something to Marcus that Ike couldn’t hear and then returned
her attention to him.  “You are still suffering from being overheated and from
blood loss due to your head wound Mr. Lowery, rest now and we will talk more
later.  I believe we have much to discuss.  Rest assured that you will be well
cared for and returned to your loved ones as soon as this war is over and my
son returns safely to me.” Her smile was radiant, but it did not comfort the
man on the floor.  Behind that smile lurked something that Ike could not put a
name to.  He closed his eyes partly from exhaustion and partly to avoid looking
at Micheline Pendleton’s disturbing countenance.  Consciousness began to drift
away as the woman and her companion exited up the steps.  Johnny O’Donnell’s
voice brought him back awake when the door was closed.

“Fine pillow there Ikey, beats the dickens
out of the ole’ tree root my skulls a layin’ on.  I think you’re a gonna have
you a nice easy spell……unless somethin’ happens to her boy.”  Johnny trailed of
giggling.

“Shut up Johnny!”  Ike’s mind retorted. 
He looked up to make sure he hadn’t spoken out loud in the hearing of his
hostess.  Hostess…… was that the proper word?  Was Mrs. Pendleton his hostess
or his jailer?

“Is she your hostess, your jailer, or your
new Mama?”  Johnny chortled.  “She might just take care of you in all sorts of
ways old pard.  She’s still mighty fine lookin’ woman wouldn’t you say?”

“Johnny, please don’t torment me like
that.  I was about to pray for your soul, but I’m beginning to think it’s no
use.”

“Oh Ikey, you was always the serious one. 
Don’t worry so much, I’m just one of them waaaaaanderin’ sheep the preachers
always talk about.  The shepherd’ll be by to get me sometime but for now I’m
supposed to watch over you.”

“Wonderful!  Emma always talked about
guardian angels watching over us.  It stands to reason that I would get a
guardian angel like you.”

Johnny laughed raucously and replied. 
“Nobody ever give me a harp or any wings yet.  Don’t know if I’ll ever be an
angel but so far bein’ dead’s kinda’ entertainin’…. like a stage show where I
can watch you and your lady friend and old ‘Uncle Tom’ a follerin’ her around a
steppin’ and fetchin’.”

“I hope the shepherd comes to get you
pretty soon, I need some sleep.”

“Well, I can be still for a while, maybe I
oughta’ sing you a lullaby.”  Johnny’s voice crooned and then burst into a gale
of braying laughter. 

“Teacher!”  Johnny blurted out as if he
had just thought of something important.  “You was a schoolteacher.  Maybe
that’s part of what I’m here for is to help you remember stuff.  I never did
think you was a tellin’ me everthin’ but you said you was a teacher.  You was a
‘headmaster’ at a little school there in Florence.  You taught the little ‘uns
readin, writin’, and ‘rithmetic.  You even taught me some, an’ I never was much
of a student.”

“Are you sure Johnny?  I don’t remember.” 
Ike was disturbed by this revelation.  He couldn’t remember being a teacher,
but somehow it seemed like Johnny knew.  The snatches of poetry in his dream,
recited by children seemed to connect to what Johnny was saying, but Ike could
not remember actually teaching. It was disturbing how real his invisible
companion seemed.  Ike despaired that his head wound might have done serious
damage.

Mercifully Ike drifted off again, worn out
by his conversations with the living and the dead.

Sometime in what Ike imagined was early
afternoon the door creaked open and woke the slumbering soldier from a restful
near dreamless sleep.  Again Marcus was carrying the tray with the pitcher and
cup and a bowl with eating utensils.  The bowl contained a rich stew with
chunks of chicken and vegetables.  Ike sat and ate with relish as the big man
watched with apparent satisfaction.  When Ike was halfway through the stew
Marcus turned and started up the stairs.  “Be back.” He said over his shoulder
as Ike discovered that the folded cloth at the side of the bowl contained a
biscuit that had been split and buttered. 

“You’re a gonna’ get fatter’n the old
chaplain there Ikey!  That ol’ gal’s a gonna plump you up right good for
somethin’.”  Johnny chortled.

Ike was eating and ignoring Johnny when
Marcus returned with a bucket of  warm water, more soap, towels, and a
nightshirt. 

“Missy want me to get you cleaned up.”

“Do you think I might need it?” earned Ike
a small smile from the brown giant.

Ike cooperated and helped as best he could
as Marcus removed his uniform, which was rank from days of marching in the
Mississippi heat.  The big man gently scrubbed him from head to toe without an
unnecessary word.  The splint was removed temporarily and replaced after Ike
had been clothed in the nightshirt that Marcus said “useta’ b’long ta’ one of
Missy’s boys.”

“You just sit here and rest a bit.  Be
right back.”  Marcus said, bundling up Ike’s clothing, the tray and its
contents and the bucket effortlessly as he headed back up the steps.

“My my but you smell good Ikey!  Cain’t
say as I’m a smellin’ too good myself right now.  Gettin’ kinda’ rotten out there
in my hole.”

“You always were kind of rotten Johnny.” 
Ike responded in his head.  The ongoing conversation with his dead comrade was
becoming natural to him.  Whether Johnny was a figment of his imagination
caused by the trauma to his head or a genuine guardian angel the familiar voice
was becoming a strange comfort .  He was chatting internally with Johnny when
Marcus returned with the tray which now carried shaving implements and a
mirror. 

“Don’t slip and cut your throat with that
there razor, Ikey!  Mama Pendleton needs you alive so she can trade you to God
for her boy.”

Ike did manage to nick himself at the
thought Johnny had put in his head.  Marcus automatically put a cloth soaked in
witch hazel to his neck until the small wound was stanched. 

“Careful ‘dere sodjur, Massa’s ole’ blade
still purty sharp.”  Marcus said as he examined Ike’s neck.  Satisfied that his
charge was not bleeding to death, he actually smiled at Ike as he took the tray
and implements back up the steps.  “Missy be down shawtly.”

Marcus’ shadow had barely cleared the top
step when Micheline Pendleton’s form glided down them with still another tray. 
A pot of tea and more biscuits along with some excellent jam resided on this
smaller tray which appeared to be made of silver.

“My boys loved my muscadine jam.  It
appears that it agrees with you as well.” The woman said with a smile.

“This is very good.”  Ike said swallowing
carefully so as not to speak with his mouth full.  His hostess seemed to be
genuinely pleased to see him eat well.  Ike saw what an attractive woman she
had been and still was when happiness softened the stern set of her features.    

“I was just remembering how Todd looked
with jam all over his face once when he sneaked down here and gobbled up an entire
jar before Marcus caught him.”  She looked quietly around as if she could see a
young boy getting up to mischief.  “The poor child was sick for two days from
having gorged himself.”  She said barely holding back a girlish giggle.   

“I received a letter from Todd today.” 
The woman said, her tone more sober.  “He has recovered from his wounds and is
riding with General Forrest and seems to be having a splendid time.  A few days
ago that news would have been devastating, but now I know he can have his fun
and come home safely to take his rightful place here.”  Her smile remained
pleasing, but her eyes seemed to be dilated to the point that the pupils were
pools of black.  Ike thought she was trembling slightly.  He began to feel a
tremor of his own.

“Toddy will surely be safe with Nathan
Bedford Forrest!”  Johnny gushed.  “Why I hear he puts all his boys to bed just
after dark and reads them a story ever night!  Yep, ol’ Forrest takes gooooood
care of his boys……. when he ain’t havin’ em ride into artillery!  Remember how
cautiously he charged into us back at Fallen Timbers?   But now that you’re
here that boy’s bullet proof!  Why he can catch cannonballs and jus’ throw ‘em
back!”

The biscuit and jam seemed to coalesce
into a small hard lump that sat stubbornly in Ike’s midsection, refusing to
digest.  The formerly pleasant aftertaste soured in his mouth.  He took a long
sip of the hot tea to wash down the taste and settle his stomach.  He was
afraid he might be as sick on the jam as Todd had been. The action of drinking
the tea also bought him a few moments to reflect on how he should respond to
Mrs. Pendleton’s last statement.  He was at a loss for words and Johnny’s
contribution was of no help.

Ike thought of how Forrest’s cavalry “had
their fun” back in Tennessee.  The General had recklessly charged his men into
the teeth of an infantry brigade and nearly lost his own life in the process. 
Bedford Forrest’s idea of fun got people killed.  In spite of being shot in the
back at close range Forrest had managed to grab a hapless infantryman and swing
him across the back of his saddle for a human shield of sorts.  The big man
rode off with his screaming hostage bouncing behind him like a rag doll.  When
they were out of range the young soldier was flung off the horse like
unnecessary baggage.  The victim’s neck was broken when he slammed against one
of the scattered tree trunks that the engagement would be remembered by. 
Forrest himself had incredibly recovered, but people around him were not
usually as fortunate.  Forrest left a trail of blue and gray clad corpses
wherever he rode, and the man rode often.