CHAPTER THIRTEEN

November 20, 1865

Eliza slept little that night. Her mind wandered from joy that Davy’s fever was gone and worry about whether he could use his arm, to confusion over Daniel’s proposal. Before dawn, she awoke and quietly built up the fire. Then she ground coffee, mixed it with water in a pot, and set the pot in the coals. While the coffee boiled, she moved silently to Davy’s bed to see if he was awake. But he slept soundly, so when the coffee was thick and black, she poured it into a tin cup and went outside to watch for the dawn.

While Daniel’s proposal had shocked her, Eliza realized now that she should have expected it. He had been leading up to it, perhaps for weeks. Of course, she should have made clear she was not interested in marrying again, asked him to leave before the harvest or to go off with the threshing crew. Marrying a Confederate was out of the question. Davy would not stand for it. Her neighbors would not. How could she marry a man who had fought against the Union, against her husband? Besides, Will had not been dead a year. What would people think of her marrying again so soon? And then she smiled, remembering how pleased she’d been when both Missouri Ann and Mercy had found new husbands so quickly.

Eliza had been leaning against the porch post, the cup warming her hands, and now she lowered herself to the step where Daniel usually sat. She watched a bird land in the barnyard and peck at something in the dirt, then fly away. She had considered how others would respond, but what about herself? Could she love a Southerner? Did she love him already? She hugged her knees, for it was cold, and she had gone outside without her shawl. Yes, she thought at last. Yes, she did care for him, and in time perhaps, she could care for him as much as she had Will. Theirs could be a good life together, maybe even as happy a one as she had had before. She and Daniel were more alike than different. Both of them loved the earth and the things that grew in it. They had already worked together in harmony. They’d shared laughter and joy, and both had had sadness and loss. Yes, it could be a good marriage, Eliza thought, if only Davy would accept it. Luzena would, but Davy … she wasn’t sure.

She sipped at her coffee, turning to look at the soddy and through the window saw a match flare, and then a candle flicker. Daniel was awake. Eliza did not want him to see her on the porch. He might think she was waiting for him. So she rose and entered the house, going about the business of making breakfast. As she took salt pork from the larder and mixed batter for flapjacks, Eliza heard Davy stir and then call to her softly. Eliza set down the bowl and went to her son, smoothing the quilt. “You are conscious at last.” She could hear the gladness in her voice.

“I feel as if I’ve slept a week.”

“And so you have.”

Davy grimaced as he moved in the bed, then looked down at his arm. “I remember the thresher knocking me to the ground, but after that…” He looked at her, bewildered.

“You broke your arm in two places. You’ll have to be careful, wear it in a sling until it heals.” She felt his head, but the fever had not returned. “Mr. Judd picked you up and carried you back to the house. He set the bones.”

“Mr. Judd?”

Eliza nodded.

Davy thought that over but didn’t say anything. He was looking at his arm when Daniel knocked on the door, then entered. “You are awake then,” Daniel observed.

“You set my arm,” Davy said. He dipped his head at Daniel in acknowledgment. Eliza wished he would say more, would thank Daniel, but it was a start.

*   *   *

As soon as he was out of bed, Davy resumed chores that could be done with one hand. He had to be careful of the broken arm, Daniel told him. If he tried to use it, he might jar the bones, and they would have to be reset, which would be as painful as the original break. So Davy let the others do much of his work. In the evenings, he and Daniel talked about chores for the next day, about the things that needed doing before winter set in. Davy did what he could, but most of the work fell on Daniel. “Will you stay until I’m healed?” Davy asked Daniel.

Eliza heard the request and smiled to herself. She was sorry Davy had broken his arm, but the accident had drawn the two men together. Davy seemed to resent Daniel less now, and he’d stopped making remarks about Rebels. He had even asked Daniel to stay on. Perhaps he would approve of her marrying Daniel after all.

“I’ll stay as long as I’m needed—or wanted,” Daniel replied, and Eliza turned away, her face flushed.

*   *   *

Eliza and Daniel did not speak again about marriage. Then one afternoon in December, as she was feeding the chickens from a basin tucked under one arm, she saw Daniel put the hay fork aside and come toward her. She turned away as she scattered scraps, calling, “Here, chick, chick, chick.” The chickens flocked to her as she spread the feed. She ignored Daniel beside her until he told her the basin was empty and took it from her.

“Davy is well,” he said, “well enough for me to leave.” He set the basin on the ground.

“Is that your intent?” For a moment, Eliza wondered if Daniel’s proposal had been a fleeting impulse. Perhaps he hadn’t meant it at all and this was his way of telling her.

“You know it is not. But I believe this thing between us should be settled. I will not stay on if your answer is no.”

Eliza sat down on the stile and looked out over the farm, at the stubble in the fields that shone gold in the early winter light. There was frost now and perhaps snow in a day or two. Already the weather had turned cold, and she shivered with only her mended shawl to keep her warm.

“You’re cold,” Daniel said, touching her arm. “I should like to buy you a warmer shawl.”

“That would not be proper.”

“It would be if I were your husband.”

Eliza smiled at him. “Yes, you are right. Do you think I would marry you for a new shawl?”

He grinned back at her. “It’s as good a reason as any and better than some.”

“Would it be a paisley shawl, a red one from Scotland? I have always wanted one.”

“Two if you like. A dozen.”

“And how would we pay for seed for spring planting?” Suddenly, Eliza felt lighthearted. She remembered how she and Will had teased each other, had laughed together at their silliness.

“We would find a way,” Daniel said. He put his foot on the stile and leaned over her.

“I believe you could,” she said. After all, he had found a way with Davy. “Then I will say yes to your proposal, Mr. Judd.”

“I had rather you say, ‘Yes to your proposal, Danny,’” he told her. He raised her until she stood close to him, and Eliza thought he would have kissed her if they had not been standing in the barnyard in plain view of Luzena.

*   *   *

That night after supper, Eliza told the children she had something to announce. She glanced at Daniel, then reached across the table and took his hand. “Mr. Judd and I are to be married.”

Davy and Luzena looked from Eliza to Daniel, and back at Eliza. Luzena’s mouth dropped open, and then she grinned. “Mama, that’s fine. Just fine,” she said.

Eliza turned to Davy then, hoping he had been so easily won over. But her son stared at her, his face strained, and it seemed to Eliza that he was not breathing. She was holding her breath, too, Eliza realized, and so was Daniel. “Davy,” Eliza said at last.

Suddenly, Davy’s fist came down on the table, hitting it so hard that milk spilled out of the pitcher. “I won’t have it,” he said.

Shocked, Eliza stared at him. “You won’t have it?”

“I won’t let you, Mama. He’s a Rebel. He fought against Papa. You know how Papa hated the Confederates. You would dishonor him.”

“But you know Mr. Judd. He isn’t a soldier anymore,” Eliza said. “We could not have gotten along this fall without him. You work with him as though the two of you were a team in harness. I thought you had put your hatred behind you.”

“He’s not so bad as he was. I’ll give you that. But he’s a Southerner. You can’t marry him, Mama. You would shame us. Papa hated Johnnies. He’d hate you, too, if you married one.”

Eliza, embarrassed to be holding Daniel’s hand, released it and put her hands into her lap. The joy she had felt that afternoon was gone. “Your papa is dead, Davy. We have to go on.”

“Not with him. He can stay on as a hired man, but if you marry him, I’m leaving.” Davy rose from the table so suddenly that he knocked his chair to the floor. “I got milking to do.”

“You can’t milk with one hand,” Daniel said, rising. “I’ll do it.”

“Don’t need help from a Reb.” Davy clomped out. Snow had begun to fall, and cold air rushed into the room before Davy could slam the door.

Eliza slumped in her chair, while Luzena rose and began clearing dishes.

“I’ll speak to him in the morning after he settles down. He’s got no right to talk to you like that,” Daniel said.

“No, he’s my son. I’ll speak to him. He’s come this far toward you, Daniel. Perhaps he won’t be so hard tomorrow.”

“And if he is?” Daniel asked.

Eliza shrugged. “We’ll see.”

*   *   *

Davy did not soften. In the days ahead, he refused to speak to Daniel, refused to let Daniel help with his chores, and Eliza worried that Davy would reinjure his arm as he struggled to assert himself. She talked to him. She had the right to marry, she said. Davy nodded in agreement, then told her he wouldn’t oppose her marrying a Union man. Daniel had saved Davy’s arm and maybe his life, she argued. Then the two men were even, Davy insisted, because she had saved Daniel’s life with the quilt. The war was over. It was best to move ahead. But when Eliza told Davy that, he remained firm. How could they move ahead with a Johnnie in the house? His presence would remind them every day that the Confederates had killed Will. “I will never change my mind, Mama. Marry him, and I will leave the next day. I hate him, just as Papa hated the Rebels.”

A little more than a week later, Daniel followed Eliza into the barn and said they must talk. She seated herself in the undertaker’s sleigh and looked up at him in the dim light. The day was dark, and snow had begun to fall.

“We can’t go on forever like this. It tears at me, and you, too, I think. I do not believe Davy will change toward me,” Daniel said.

“No.”

“Then you have a choice to make.”

“Davy’s my son.”

“And nearly a grown man. He may leave you one day whether you marry or not.”

Eliza ran her hand over the words EMBALMERS OF THE DEAD written on the side of the sleigh. She had never gotten around to painting them out. “This is the only home he’s ever known. How can I make him leave?”

“Then you’ve made your choice.”

“Have I?” Eliza looked up at Daniel. “I don’t want to choose.”

“Then I will. I love you, Eliza, but a marriage between us would have no chance if your son is opposed to it. I think we could have had a good life together, but that seems impossible now. It’s best I leave.”

“Leave?” Eliza stood and brushed straw off her apron. “When?”

“Now. Tomorrow, today even.”

“So soon?” Eliza felt tears in her eyes. “Couldn’t you wait? You could be here until spring. If Davy hasn’t changed his mind by then…”

“And leave my heart out there to be stepped on? No. If it’s not to be, then I’ll go now.” He reached into the sleigh, took her hands in his and pulled her toward him, then kissed her. “I have loved you,” he said.

“And I you.”

Daniel looked at her a long time. Then without another word, he left the sleigh and went out into the snow, the barn door swinging shut behind him. Eliza stared at it a long time, stared at the light that came through the cracks between the boards. Then she wrapped her tattered shawl around herself and went out into the storm. She felt the snowflakes sting her face as the wind swirled the snow around her. Maybe the storm would keep Daniel there one more day, she thought as she went inside the house to help Luzena prepare the evening meal.

Supper was as strained as it had been on Daniel’s first days on the farm. Luzena chattered, but Davy refused to speak, while Daniel and Eliza tried without much luck to keep a conversation going. The meal was conducted in silence, punctuated only by the wind blowing against the house.

“The snow should stop by morning,” Luzena said.

Daniel and Eliza looked at each other, but were silent, and Luzena, not understanding, ceased talking. As soon as supper was finished, Daniel rose, saying he had things to do before going to bed. “I’ll check the chickens and the animals,” he told Davy.

“Suit yourself,” Davy replied.

Daniel did not look at Eliza as he rose, but when he opened the door, he turned to her and she saw a look of longing on his face. Was that same look on hers?

After the door closed, Davy looked up and said, “Riddance.”

“Be still,” Eliza told him.

*   *   *

The next day, Daniel was gone. He left no note. In fact, there was no trace of him at all in the soddy. Eliza wasn’t sure when he had left, but she knew it was after the snow stopped, because she could see his tracks, which went from the soddy to the barn and then down the lane.

“Most likely he took the mule,” Davy said, when Eliza told him that Daniel had moved on.

“He was only checking the animals a last time. He is an honorable man—just like your father,” Eliza told him. She said she would do the milking and went out to the barn herself, thinking Daniel might have left some word of farewell for her there. The mule and the cow and the horse had been fed. Daniel had forked fresh straw into the stalls. The tools hung from the wall in rows where he had left them. Eliza glanced around and took in the work Daniel had done. He had repaired the buggy top, replaced the seat on the wagon, rebuilt the manger. This was Will’s barn, but Daniel had left his mark on it. She placed the stool behind the cow and began milking, watching the warm liquid stream into the pail, thinking that only the night before Daniel had sat on that stool, milking the cow.

In a little while, Davy came into the barn and said, “I can do the milking now, Mama.”

“You’ll hurt your arm. I’ll do it until you’re mended.”

“We don’t need that old Secesh. You’ll see. We can manage just fine. I’m glad he’s gone. Think of Papa. Remember how he hated the Rebs.”

Eliza did not respond. She had a great desire to be alone, to lie down in the hay and cover herself with it. But in time, she picked up the pail and went out into the gray of morning.

*   *   *

When she returned to the house, Eliza took out her piecing. Sewing had always soothed her, so she removed the square that Clara had left and laid it on the table. She had been holding it when she first saw Daniel, and she had not picked it up since. She had thought then to use it as the center of a quilt and surround it with squares and triangles. Now, Eliza took scraps out of her bag and laid them around the quilt to see which colors went best with the square. But she could not concentrate, and the house oppressed her, so despite the cold, Eliza went back outside. She fed the chickens and broke the ice in the water trough. She went into the barn, climbed the ladder to the hayloft, and pushed hay down onto the barn floor. Then she stood at the haymow door, looking out across the white fields, looking in the direction Daniel had taken. But he had left hours earlier, and there was no sign of him. She stood there while her hands and feet grew cold, and her face was red from the wind and the blowing snow.

In a little while, Davy came out of the house, and Eliza watched him as he looked around, at the fields, the chicken coop, then hurried toward the barn. He did not see Eliza standing in the open doorway in the loft until he was halfway there, and then he held up a paper and shouted something, but his words were lost in the wind. Perhaps Daniel had left a note after all, maybe in the soddy, but what did it matter? He was gone.

Eliza did not leave her place. She stayed in the doorway, still staring out at the white fields, while Davy climbed the ladder, then came up next to her. “Look, Mama,” he said. She glanced down at the paper in his hand, a letter. Daniel had indeed written something to her, but she did not care.

“The letter,” Davy said.

“Yes,” Eliza replied, but did not take it. Instead, she reached for a piece of hay and shredded it. What could Daniel write that they hadn’t already said to each other?

“It’s Papa’s letter.”

“What?” Eliza’s head jerked up, and she felt tears come into her eyes.

“His last letter, the one Papa wrote just before he died.”

Eliza looked at the letter that Davy had unfolded. “You read it? You read your father’s last letter? How dare you, Davy! It was mine. I never intended to open it. I could not bear to read his words, knowing he died only hours, maybe even minutes after he wrote them. How could he have known he’d die that day?”

“But he did,” Davy said. “He knew. Read it, Mama.”

Eliza snatched the letter from her son and clutched it to her breast. “No, I couldn’t.”

“Please, Mama.”

Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head.

“You have to.”

Eliza looked down at the writing. In the gloom of the barn she could not make out the words. She turned toward the light, and holding on to the door frame, she held up the paper. But there were tears in her eyes, and the words were blurry. “Read it to me then if you must,” she said.

Eliza thought she saw Davy’s eyes glisten, too, but the light was dim, and perhaps she was wrong. Davy took the letter and cleared his throat.

December 19, 1864

Beloved Wife

They say we will do battle tomorrow & I cannot sleep. No, I do not fear the fight. At first, I worried that I would not be up to the mark & would turn coward. But I believe I have proved myself in the past weeks.

Davy looked up at Eliza, who said, “I had no such doubt. He was always a brave man.”

I have got so I can sleep pretty well anyplace, but tonight is different. Sometimes the soldiers have a premonition that they will die, so spend the night before the fighting writing their last letters. I myself have not felt that way before, but tonight is different & so I sit by the campfire writing to you.

Eliza, if I die, they will tell you it was for a noble cause, that I was happy to make the sacrifice. Do not believe them. I do not want to die for any reason & I no longer believe in this cause. In the beginning, I thought that ours was a God-ordained undertaking, one that was worth my life, if it came to that. I believed there were things worth more than life & peace. But now that I have seen war & the suffering it brings, I am not so sure of myself. Those of us fighting are just men who want to go home & I believe now that the Johnnies are no different from us & perhaps more honorable, because they are fighting for their homes. One thing I know is that war is not noble. When I joined up, I hated all Southerners, hated them for a long time & wished you & Davy & Luzena to hate them, too. But now I know that hate is wrong. It is not God’s way. It is forgiveness we need. I want the Johnnies to forgive me for invading their land, as I forgive them for fighting against the Union.

Davy stopped and looked up at his mother, but Eliza was staring out at the snow.

Two days ago, after we camped, I went into the woods, believing I had spotted a black walnut tree & thinking the nuts would be a treat, for I remember your candy made with the nutmeats. I took my gun with me, because I knew the enemy was about. So when I heard a noise, I raised my gun & turned & there was a Rebel, holding his gun on me.

“Hello, Billy Yank,” he said & I replied, “Hello, Johnnie Reb.”

“Well, I guess I have got you,” he told me & I told him back, “And I have got you.”

We stood like that for a time, our guns pointed at each other, until the Reb said, “I propose we call a truce & have us a confab.” Before I could answer, he put down his gun & grinned at me.

Eliza blinked back tears. “I can just picture him,” she said.

Now, Eliza, I could have laid him aside right there, shot him through the heart & some would say it was my duty to do it, but I am not made that way. It would not have been right. So I set aside my gun & we squatted down & talked.

“This is better land for a farm than a battle,” he told me.

“Any place is better for farming than fighting,” I said.

“You got that right, Yank.”

Why, we sat there & talked for a good half hour. He was just an uneducated sandlapper & I doubt he could read or write, but he was a good fellow & he took out an apple, shined it on his pants & we shared it. He showed me his wife’s picture & I showed him yours. After a while, we shook hands & wished each other good luck. I suppose I should have held my gun on him & backed away for fear he would use me up, but I trusted him. It bothers at me now that I might face him on the battlefield tomorrow & have to kill him. I do not want to ever kill a man again. Now, you will say I have soldier’s heart & perhaps I do. But I want to be done with killing as I am with hating & I want you to be done with hating, too.

If I fall in the battle tomorrow, I do not want you to live out your days with abomination in your heart. Don’t, don’t be sad, Eliza. Remember me as a husband who loved you as much as my life, but do not live the rest of yours like a bird without a mate.

It is nearly dawn & there are other campfires now & soon there will be furious drumming, so I must end. I hope you never see this letter, for if you do, it will mean that I am no longer with you. But if you receive it—when you receive it—know that I love you deeply & that I count our time together as blessed. I am sorry only that we will not live out our years together. And that I never bought you a gold ring with a ruby in it.

Davy’s voice was ragged, and tears streamed down his face—and Eliza’s—now. “Is that all?” she asked when he did not continue.

“Only a little more.”

Davy is nearly a man now. Keep him from this war. I do not want him to know the hardness that comes of it. Raise up our children to be worthy of you & I would like to think worthy of me, too. My final wish if I do not return is that you put aside grief & find happiness.

God help me now.

Your Loving Husband

William T. Spooner

Davy folded the letter so that it was as an envelope again and held it out to Eliza, who took a step away from the haymow door and reached for it, holding it in her cold fingers. “I should have read it before,” she said. “What made you open it?”

Davy shifted, rubbing the toe of his foot on the floor and scattering hay. Then without looking at Eliza, he said, “I thought Papa had written something that would make you glad Mr. Judd left.”

“But he didn’t.”

Davy shrugged. “It’s my fault he’s gone.” He said in a raw voice, “I think Papa would have wanted him to stay.”

“It’s a pity we didn’t read his letter before. Things might have turned out differently.” She touched the letter to her cheek.

“They still can.”

“What do you mean?” Eliza asked.

“I was wrong.” Davy glanced at Eliza, then stared past her to the barnyard. He seemed to struggle with himself. “Papa told you to be happy. He said not to hate.”

“But you still do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to now.” Davy turned away from his mother and slammed the fist of his good arm against a support. “Damn!” he said, hitting the post again. Then he shook out his arm to get rid of the sting. “Do you love him, Mama, Mr. Judd?”

She nodded.

“As much as Papa?”

Eliza shrugged. “I’ll never know. But I believe he is as good a man as Papa.”

Davy stared at her for a long time. Then he hurried down the ladder.

“What are you doing?” Eliza called.

“He can’t have got so far, walking that way. I’ll fetch him. Me and the mule will make good time, better than with the buggy.” Davy picked up a saddle blanket and fitted it on the mule’s back, doubling over the back of it so the saddle would rest higher, just as Daniel had told him that first day on the farm. Using his good arm, he swung the saddle over the mule, and in a moment, he led the animal out of the barn. “I’ll be back,” he called. “Me and Mr. Judd will be back.”