Chapter Seven

MAY 1861

Elliott returned home late the next evening and found me filling Father’s pipe with fresh tobacco. When he stepped into the library, his angular face shone pale in the lamplight, as haggard and drawn as Father’s. Unshaven, his uniform askew, unlike the professional and conservative Elliott we both knew. Still, seeing his son brought light to Father’s eyes and a lift to my heart.

“Son.” Father clasped his hands around Elliott’s. Elliott returned the grasp and sank to the chair beside him.

“Have you eaten?” It was not the question I most wished to ask.

He shook his head. “Emma. How is she?”

I hated to tell him, to heap more worries on his head. Emma had already lost two children before their birth. “She’s had some bleeding. Dr. Hendrix was here this morning.”

Elliott’s eyes registered alarm, then resignation. “I must go to her.” Wearily, he pulled himself to his feet.

“What will you do, Son?” Father’s even tone belied his anxiety.

“See to my wife.”

“About the Confeder —”

He glared. “What I’ve always done: drill the militia formed under our governor, protect our homes.”

“But it’s all changed now, Elliott,” I burst in. “It’s —”

“Nothing’s changed, Minnie. Not for me. I accepted Governor Ellis’s commission when he reorganized our militias in anticipation of this war. I swore an oath to our country, to the Constitution. I’ll take no part in destroying it. You should know that.”

It was all I’d ever known of my brother, but before this week his words had rung with truth and honor and instilled great pride in my bosom. They still sang true, and still I was proud of him, but now that North Carolina had seceded from the Union, his actions clanged dangerously of treason in this world turned upside down.

I turned away, knowing I possessed as little means to persuade Elliott as to reason with Grayson. A sister caught between meant nothing to either of them. I shook Father’s stray tobacco leaves from my apron into the fire with worry and a vengeance.

Tom was right about one thing. President Lincoln’s April call for troops to suppress the rebellion was a death knell to our state’s loyalty. I’d seen it in the burning eyes of the men in town, in the set jaws of the women. Didn’t Elliott understand that North Carolinians would never fire on their brethren or neighbors, that such a belligerent demand would mark the state’s turning point? Our neighbors north and south had already seceded. As Grayson had said, What choice do we have?

Such views would smack of heresy to Father, to Elliott, even to Mother, God rest her soul. But how could we fight a tide as relentless as the sea? Wouldn’t we all be swallowed up and drowned?

In the days that followed, Grayson took to staying out late. I knew he was up to no good, carousing with men half again his age, men afire for war, swearing they’d be “free or die.” Sober, they weren’t much threat, not yet. Drunk, they terrorized every soul out after dark. The saloon in town was bad enough, but every holler and nearly every home produced its own brand of moonshine. There was no trouble finding it, even for a boy.

Father didn’t confront him. Still grief-stricken, he hardly distinguished day from night but spent hours in the darkened library poring over account books, land deeds, and I didn’t know what all. I hoped for good reason but feared for his mind.

Elliott ignored Grayson, staying away with his militia more than he used to after Emma lost their third child, the baby we’d all so hoped would be born alive. I was unsure if he and Emma planned that for her recovery’s sake or if Elliott was planning insurrection. From all I heard through Obadiah, whom I prodded daily for information, Elliott continued to drill his men, just as he’d vowed. He sparked no feuds with local Confederate recruits, but how long could he continue without rousing the powers that be?

I understood Elliott, more than he knew. We Belvideres were proud of our service to our country, of our patriotism in the Revolution, of our fight for freedom. To turn on the country we helped to birth was unthinkable.

But I understood Grayson, too —at least in his claim that we were doing nothing more than fighting a second war of independence, that we couldn’t allow anyone to dictate our way of life or invade our country, our state. And I understood Tom, determined to protect the home and families he loved. I wonder if he truly loves me . . . and I wonder what I feel about that, how I feel about him. They can’t all be right, can they?

I knew so little of the world beyond No Creek, but I read the newspaper and listened to the talk. What would the North do without the South’s cotton and tobacco and rice? What would we do without the manufacturers of the North? There was talk in the newspaper of ports being seized and fear of trade with England coming to a standstill. What then? How could we get the goods we needed when trade with the North stopped?

I cared about our economy and the right to govern ourselves, but wasn’t the conflict over slavery the core issue, the thing that drove men gathered in Washington City from the many states to throw down the gauntlet?

Contrary to Father’s belief, I saw no sign that slavery would die a natural death —not when girls like Rosalee were raped and beaten by their owners and when men as strong as Obadiah were brought to their knees in fields by the horsewhipping of overseers. Not when children could still be yanked from their mothers and sold away as chattel at a master’s whim. Owning land, casting a vote into the say of their government or their lives here in the South was a dream no slave spoke of. But to own themselves, to live and breathe free —I saw that desire in the eyes of every man and woman who labored in the house or fields of Belvidere Hall, and I was too often ashamed to meet those brave eyes.

The war I saw brewing in my own home was a small picture compared to the storm raging in the outside world. Both, I feared, could only end in blood.

I knew that I should not fear, for Father God was at the helm, but we were so cruel to one another. Sometimes I wondered why He left us to our own devices, and more, why He loved us at all.

Months passed, and by the summer of 1862, more than a year into the war, we began to feel the pinch of supply. Most of our needs we grew in our own fields and gardens. In a weaving house set behind the barn we spun wool from our own sheep. One of No Creek’s few freedmen ran a tannery close to the Yadkin River, and it wasn’t until the Confederates took it over that we feared want of shoe leather.

Confederate foragers roamed the hills and hollows, sometimes offering bare-bones prices for bushels of corn or livestock. If farmers refused, the foragers took them anyway or scattered good corn across the ground, promising someone would follow to reimburse with a lower price yet. They rarely did.

Because of the size of our estate and the hope that our crops could continue to supply the army throughout the war, we were generally better treated by the Confederates, as long as Father met their demands. Little did they know how much we held back, how much was hidden away in burrows beneath the ground, how often we fed deserters and supplied their families against starvation.

So many secrets, each one dangerous for someone. I limited my trips to the store and post office, fearful something might show in my eyes, that some slip of my tongue might bring disaster —to Father, to Elliott, to our slaves, to the men and women we clandestinely aided.

Sometimes, before I fell asleep at night, I recounted who knew what and who must never know, praying that would keep me sharp, discerning. Conflicting images haunted my dreams —Confederate cavalry brandishing swords and riding crops, Rosalee’s baby dying in our attic safe room, Elliott and Emma torn from the child they never bore and, it seemed, never would.

It was in late September, after just such a night of mixed-up dreams, that I woke near dawn, heard Elliott’s footsteps pad the hallway, heard him set his boots outside his and Emma’s door, heard the door open and close. Snoring came through the wall in minutes. I knew he’d sleep till noon. If I got to the kitchen early, I could ask Martha to save back some biscuits and gravy for him. Anytime, that was Elliott’s favorite meal.

Half an hour before breakfast I found Obadiah in the outdoor kitchen with Martha —nuzzling her neck behind the half-closed cupboard door. So entrenched were they in each other’s arms they never noticed me, so I quietly stepped back outside and sneezed as loudly as I could before entering the room and chattering away, “Martha, I hope you’re planning biscuits and gravy this morning. Elliott’s home just now and likely to be starving.”

The two sprang apart like quail at the blast of musket shot. It was all I could do to keep laughter from my lips. I did not succeed with my eyes.

“Miss Minnie!” Martha, a little breathless, half admonished, half scolded.

Obadiah grinned, not sorry in the least.

“Caught in the act,” I chided. “Whenever are you two going to stop this nonsense and tie the knot?” I couldn’t help but prod, desirous as I was for their happiness.

“Just as soon as we get those freedom papers in hand, Miss Minnie.” Obadiah sobered, his grin gone.

My smile fell with my heart. “Obadiah. I’ve begged Father. He —”

“I know what he says, Miss Minnie.”

“Then why wait? You two clearly —”

“I won’t have our babies owned by another man. I won’t have Martha or our children sold away.”

“Father would never do that. You know he wouldn’t.”

“Massa Horace won’t live forever. No tellin’ what happens then.”

It wasn’t my place or privilege to tell him. I’d been admonished by Father that I was not to share his plans to have Elliott free our slaves at his death, either with them or anyone else. Such talk ran more dangerous now than ever before. Few in our end of the county owned slaves, rarely more than two or three. But those that did feared uprisings in ways they never had before, and that too often resulted in crueler treatment.

“Where there’s possibility there’s temptation,” Father’d said. Such talk infuriated me. As if any of our people would harm a hair on his aged head.

“Since the battle at Sharpsburg there’s talk that President Lincoln might issue emancipation . . .” It was all I could freely say, but my words cut short as Obadiah shook his head, leveling me with his eye.

“Talk —they’s lots of talk from lots of folks. None of it matters unless bluecoats win this war.”

“When they suppress this rebellion,” I countered. It could be no other way. “The idea of the South winning the war and continuing slavery forever is inconceivable.”

“Inconceivable, maybe,” Martha whispered. “Not impossible. Time goes by, then where will we be?” She nodded beyond the door where we saw Grayson jump from his mount, toss the reins of his stallion to Rex, our blacksmith, and without a word stomp toward the house, acting every bit the master of a great plantation.

Hairs prickled on the back of my neck. For the first time I realized the possibility, far-fetched though I prayed it was, that both Father and Elliott might die before this war’s end. The image of Grayson as master of Belvidere Hall loomed very much like a nightmare.