Chapter Sixteen

NOVEMBER 1863

Confederates constantly searched the hills and hollows, barns and corncribs for deserters as well as foraging every mile of the Piedmont for hidden stashes of grain and livestock. General Lee was on the warpath, not only with the Yankees, but to reclaim deserters from his own army.

Tom lamented the state of affairs in a letter to his mother:

Morale is low among the men. Some of our troops, ill clad and near starving, march barefoot. They battle frostbite and dysentery, but the fiercest war wages in their hearts and minds. Letters from home eat at their souls —mothers and wives desperate in their own need for food and cash and medical care, desperate for seed and help to plow and plant and manpower to harvest crops. Women plead, fearful of marauders and deserters, raiders and even our own and despicable Yankee troops foraging for supplies and things no woman should be subjected to, certain their children will die if the men do not return home to help.

I’d be a hard soul indeed if I did not pity them. But we’re at a turning point in the war, Mother. Without troops, we cannot fight, and so I must deny leave, all the while knowing I’m cutting the heart and soul out of men as good and better than myself.

How I will look in the mirror by war’s end, I do not know, only that I must do my duty now.

Tom wrote nothing of Elliott and I didn’t really expect him to. He was a Confederate officer, after all, and my brother was a prisoner.

We’d heard nothing of Elliott from anyone for the longest time, and then in late November Emma received a letter in his own hand, sent from a hospital in Raleigh earlier that month.

My Darling Emma,

I have no idea if or when this letter will reach you, my wife. A nurse here has been so kind as to offer me pen and paper to write you and has promised to mail it for me.

Since leaving you I’ve been shuffled from place to place and told that ultimately, I am to stand before Old Jeff himself. But time has stood still while I was taken with measles and sent to this hospital in Raleigh. They plan on releasing me from medical care tomorrow, but what that means or where I’ll be sent, I do not know.

I don’t expect justice in these times or before this tribunal, only in heaven. Whether I see you soon, my beloved Emma, or first meet our Lord is up to Him. Each day I do my best to rest in His will, and I pray you do the same.

I am sorry most of all that I was not able to give you our child to raise, to provide companionship for you now and to care for you in years to come.

I know that Minnie and Father —as best he can —will stand beside you. I pray for Grayson, that he will become the man you all need at home if I am not there to care and provide.

One last request, my beloved. Urge Father to free our slaves now and not to trust that this task will be accomplished upon his demise. Before my arrest we had begun to map out plots for the portioning of land to be awarded after his passing and upon their freedom. He must not wait. Father will need help to complete that task. I know you are capable, dear wife. Trust Minnie and Obadiah to help you. Their hearts are true, and they are able.

Give my love to the family and our people. Let them know that I think of each by day and pray for them in the night watches, as I do for you, my dearest wife. I do not know if or when I will be permitted to write more. If we are not to meet again in this life, we will have a joyous reunion in heaven.

My love forever,

Elliott

To say that Elliott’s letter was a comfort might be too much, but word in his own handwriting was a relief and gift beyond measure to Emma’s broken heart. Knowing he was alive and being cared for in a Raleigh hospital —not far away in Richmond or somewhere impossibly deep in the South —meant everything.

Despite the gravity of his words, his request gave Emma resolve and a purpose —one she set about with a vengeance.

Father, on the other hand, proved more difficult.

Things came to a head in mid-December, just as we prepared for our first Christmas without Elliott.

Martha and I were draping the parlor mantel in vibrant green monkey grass that Alma and I had pulled from the woods nearby that morning.

“Let’s double the strands —make it thick as thieves.” I loved Christmas and though we were shrouded in sadness, I was not going to let the season slip by unnoticed.

“Obadiah picked me a bright bouquet of bittersweet —berries red as that velvet bonnet you wore last Sunday. What do you say we tuck some in here and there?”

Martha’s generosity overwhelmed me. “Won’t Obadiah wonder when his bouquet’s gone missing?” I teased.

“That handsome man will just have to pick me some more. I reckon that won’t test him too bad.” She winked.

Our girlish laughter felt good and clean but was suddenly interrupted by Father’s tirade from the library.

“I tell you no! I won’t do it! You can’t make me!”

Martha’s brows rose, surely as high as my own. “Miss Emma?” she mouthed.

I figured she must be the cause. Ever since Elliott’s letter came, she’d dogged Father with the issue of freeing the slaves —her own personal mission, which I applauded and one I knew was dear to Martha’s heart.

But it wasn’t Emma who shouted back. It was Grayson.

I pulled Martha closer, listening.

“Father, you must hear me. Elliott’s not here to advise you and I am. I spend time in town and have been to the county seat. The war is not going in our favor. If you’re going to reap any reward at all —if you want to save Belvidere Hall for our family —we’re going to have to turn a profit. The crop hasn’t brought what it should, and foragers have stripped us nearly clean. I’m not sure we have enough to pay the taxes, let alone feed our people. Now is the time to sell, I tell you.

“I met a trader over in North Wilksboro. He’ll take three strong bucks and a woman —a good breeder.”

Martha’s eyes went wide, and my mouth went dry.

“If we sign the contract before Christmas, he’ll wait until the new year —give ’em their Christmas week first.”

“I’ve never sold a slave in my life, Grayson. I can’t begin now. You must understand . . . ,” Father pleaded, as if weakening.

“You’ve no choice, Father. If we don’t raise the funds, the house, the land, and all those slaves will be taken from us and sold who knows where. You —”

I didn’t know the truth of our finances, but I couldn’t let Father be bullied. Just before I stepped from the parlor, Emma’s voice came cold and fierce from up the staircase.

“That’s not true, Father Belvidere. Grayson, you know that is not true.”

Emma’s steel gave me courage. Knowing her presence would only inflame Grayson, I urged Martha to return to the kitchen and joined the battle. “We’ve never sold slaves, Grayson; you know that. Mother would turn over in her grave at such a thought.”

“I thought you believed Mother in heaven.” He smirked.

Horror at his sacrilege caught me off guard. I wanted to slap him. Father wilted a bit more, but Emma took up the sword. “I never took you for a bully, Grayson, or a bearer of untrue tales.”

Grayson’s color rose to crimson, fury filling his eyes. “This has nothing to do with you, Emma.”

“It has everything to do with me. You know the wishes of your parents —the determination of your mother before she passed. You know Elliott’s expectations as heir of Belvidere —”

“Elliott is not here, and though it pains me to say so, Sister-in-law, is not likely to return. That leaves me as Father’s adviser.”

“Elliott is firstborn, heir to Belvidere Hall, and has committed his wishes in writing. You have no right to —”

“Stop! Stop this at once!” Father bellowed, covering his ears. For all his sudden rage he looked a broken old man, pale and bent under the strain of family feud.

I took him in my arms and led him back to his chair by the fire. “A brandy. Emma, get him a brandy.”

“You can’t mollycoddle him out of taking action, Minnie. You’ve seen the stores in our pantry and barns. You know —”

“I know we’ll make do, Grayson,” I whispered, massaging the rigid muscles of Father’s neck as he all but whimpered. “Just as everyone is making do.”

“We can come out of this war with our home and land intact or we can —”

“Lose ourselves and our vow before God! We are Belvideres, Grayson. Have you forgotten?” I tempered my urgency, hoping he’d listen. “We founded this land on principles of freedom.”

“We are slavers, like everybody else.”

“And we shouldn’t be. Father has always claimed it is only to maintain a standing in this community so we can help those who run, give them sanctuary and help them to freedom.”

“Well, they don’t need that anymore, do they? There’s freedom for any slave reaching Federal lines —contraband of war, or haven’t you heard?”

“Then Emma and Elliott are right. Now is the time to free the men and women loyal to us all these years —long past time.”

“Free them! And leave us paupers!” Grayson fumed. “It won’t be done. Father’s no longer fit and Elliott’s not here. It’s up to me now and I —”

“Not while I draw breath.”

We turned as one to the voice embodied by the near specter framed in the library doorway. Filthy, missing one shoe, skin and bones clad in little more than rags, we didn’t immediately recognize him. But Emma did.

“Elliott? Elliott!” She flew into his arms, catching him as he collapsed.

To Grayson’s credit he was there in a moment, lifting our brother to the settee.

“Water! Get him water,” Emma ordered, stroking the face she loved, then stroking his arms and legs as if making certain they were all of a piece.

I raced to the kitchen. Martha met me with a pitcher. She’d heard everything.

“Towels. A basin,” I gasped, my eyes filled with tears of gratitude.

“Anything you need,” Martha swore and pressed my arm. “Tell him, when he’s able to hear, that we’re mighty glad he’s home.”

By the time I returned to the library, Father was by Elliott’s side, on his knees, stroking his son’s matted hair. “My son, my son. You’ve come home. Home at last.”

“How?” Grayson’s voice cut the tender moment. “Have you run?”

“Not now, Grayson,” I insisted. “There’ll be time later.”

Emma took charge. “Grayson, help me get him upstairs. Minnie, call Obadiah from the barn and have him carry up the washtub. Get Martha to boil water —pots and pots. There are lice and who knows what. We must get my husband clean and comfortable. Father, you’ll be able to visit all you want once we get him into bed.”

That was the Emma I’d known before the loss of so many children, the strong and resourceful woman Elliott married. She was the true mistress of Belvidere Hall.

Grayson’s eyes smoldered. He grimaced as he pulled our brother to his feet, wrapped his arm around Elliott’s rib cage and half carried him up the stairs. I prayed that Emma and Elliott would take charge and step into their roles before it was too late . . . for all of us.