CHAPTER 27
The summer of 1862 brought with it unprecedented drought, following the equally unprecedented floods and snow that had characterized the winter and spring. The arbor gate of the cutting garden needed repair. Three overhead slats hung at precarious angles. Emily looked over her shoulder at Benjamin. He pursed his full lips and shook his head. Her mother’s wild climbing rose, which had scrambled untended through the years, was wretched, long canes of it bare. Here and there, an odd plant with a wilted blossom struggled to grow, and hollyhocks flagged against the back fence. In one corner, a handful of foxglove had seeded. Emily cried out and wrenched them from the earth, roots dangling, as she crushed them and flung them away. Benjamin stooped to retrieve the pile of them.
“Get these poisonous things out of my ground,” Emily said. “Don’t you ever let one sprout here. Never, do you hear me?”
Benjamin nodded and threw them onto a pile of weeds to be burned.
Emily shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun. The undisturbed blue of the sky dispirited her. Weeks had gone by since the last rain and the ground was hard in spite of desperate hauls from the well. Jessie’s older children helped, hauling three buckets to Emily’s two, balancing an extra on their heads. She must give this up as a waste of time and water.
“Benjamin,” Emily said, “let this garden go. What we need is food. Just leave it be. We’ll put our energy into getting water to things we can eat.”
Resolute, Emily turned her back to the garden. Jessie’s older children scuffed their bare feet in the dust nearby. Aimee clung to her big sister’s arm. Clearing his throat, Benjamin scratched his beard. From behind the smokehouse, Nathan approached in long, easy strides. He nodded to Emily, but spoke to Benjamin.
“I been pondering this here garden,” Nathan said, “and all this water hauling. I’s laying in bed a night or two ago and it come to me, just out of the dark there. I’m thinking, how about us dredge up a ditch here, not real deep, from the well to this garden. Then cut little gullies between the beds and dump water right out from the well, without no hauling, chunk the water over and let it run in amongst the flowers there, just by dumping, see? What you think, Ben? Sure would save some hauling.”
“Nathan,” Emily said, “I believe you have a plan.”
“Well, yes’m.” Nathan looked at her direct now. “I reckon.”
“But to the vegetable patch, not here,” Emily said. “Nasturtiums and roses and whatnot won’t keep any fat on our bones, even if they are edible. We need to focus our efforts on vegetables and corn.”
“Well, Miss Emily”—Nathan turned his shoulder, inserting himself a bit in front of Benjamin—“I been pondering that one, too. It’s a lot longer way to the vegetable patch than here. Heap more dredging and dumping. I’m thinking we could take that fence down cross the back here and till up a plot right back yonder.” He pointed with his remaining hand. “It ain’t too late to plant, get us a fair crop. We could still mix a bit of flowers with the vegetables. Plant beans and cuke on the fence all ’round, squash blooming in with everything else. It’d cut the work, for sure. Wouldn’t take half a day to till it up.” He turned to Benjamin. “We got plenty manure in the pile, cured and not too hot. Excuse me, ma’am. I kind of forgot myself.”
“Never mind that, Nathan,” Emily said. “I’m in charge of this farm now and I can’t be delicate about surviving.”
“We could be planting by tomorrow.” It was almost a question. “I reckon the corn’ll have to do what it can by itself. Ain’t nothing but prayer and the weather gone help that corn now.”
“Nathan,” Emily said, “we’re behind the season as it is. But you give me hope that we could make it. And maybe—” She paused, caught her breath. “Maybe this bloody war will end before we lose ourselves completely.”
* * *
As the mist burned off, Nathan’s mellow voice filtered through the morning air, talking to the mule, Old Joy—singing really, coaxing, praising. Emily had never heard such carrying on with a mule. How many years Old Joy had worked this hard earth for them. Emily did not recollect why she had named that mule Joy.
Never heard anyone sing to a mule, Emily thought. And that mule is about the only joy around. Her dish towel discarded, she stepped out to the porch door, entranced. A pile of rescued cypress posts lay to the side of the present fence. Benjamin and Lucian were rimming the expanded garden. Old Joy, hitched to the straight stock, plodded clean and straight under Nathan’s one-handed guidance, the dark earth rolling out from the blade. The mule’s heavy body swayed on her narrow legs, her long ears flicking. The mule stepped in time to Nathan’s voice. Or perhaps it was he who adapted his impromptu song to the slow staccato of her hooves.
By late morning, Emily sat churning yesterday’s milk, on which the rich cream floated. The rhythm soothed her, quieted her, as she anticipated the weight of the butter to come. Outside, she heard the clink of the chains as the mule pulled the slider, spreading manure across the fresh-turned earth. Emily inhaled the edge of its raw scent, the comfort of the cycles of the farm. She smiled to herself as she skimmed the butter from the top of the churn, rinsed and patted it out on a plate, absorbing the excess liquid in a clean towel. As she tapped the butter into corn-shaped ceramic molds, Emily heard Old Joy’s clomp again, pulling the turning plough. The plot was too small to warrant a section harrow or a middle buster. The little field would soon be ready. Emily turned the last mold over, loving the shape as the butter slid out. We will live, she thought.
* * *
Emily licked the butter from her fingers, pulling them one at a time through her mouth with her eyes closed. She heard a horse approaching. Wiping her hands on her apron, she stepped onto the porch to see Mason Johnson dismounting.
“Sheriff,” she said, her throat constricted, her muscles gone tight.
“Morning, Miss Emily,” he said, his discomfort as poorly disguised as hers. “Just making my way around to keep the folks outside of town apprised of the war.”
“Neighborly,” Emily said, an edge to her voice, “if you can call war news neighborly.”
“I know folks need to keep themselves prepared,” he said, “physically and mentally, though things change so fast these days I’m not right sure that’s a possibility.”
“And what is the situation then, Sheriff?”
“Memphis is defeated and fallen into Union hands. That puts the fate of the river at Vicksburg now. Only thing left in the way of the Union. Well, not the only thing, but maybe the key thing.” Mason brushed his hat against his leg and looked across the field. “Look like you got a pretty good crop making, given this drought.”
“We’ve set up a system from the well to deliver water. Nathan’s ingenuity to thank.”
A long silence ensued.
“I know Jeremiah’s somewhere ’round Vicksburg. I thought I’d best tell you the war was headed his way. Got a lot more folk to bring up to date.”
Emily did not speak for several minutes. Mason was remounting his horse when she said, “Perhaps Vicksburg will topple and we will have this whole insane enterprise done with. And perhaps the war will bring its own justice.”
* * *
The black dirt spread open in front of Adeline, the plow grating against rock now and then. The mule trudged before her, leading her even as she guided, his head dipping and rising in a hypnotic rhythm. She raised her eyes and muttered, “Whoa.” The mule stopped and Adeline stared at Lucian standing at the end of the turn row, waiting. She flicked the reins and proceeded toward him, her pace unchanged. He stepped aside as she turned the mule and the plow, and halted.
“Morning, Lucian.” She raised the corner of her apron and wiped her forehead.
“Morning, Miss Adeline.”
“What can I do for you? Not bad news, I hope.”
“No, ma’am. Good news, I hope. Daddy and me been talking over what we might can do for you, Miss Adeline.”
She studied the long lines of his narrow face. “Well, Lucian, that’s mighty kind of you, but far from practical, it seems to me.”
Lucian scuffed his feet and seemed to be speaking to the ground. “We got to thinking I could come and lend a hand now and then, whenever we got caught up. Do a little plowing, seeding, picking—whatever be needed when.”
“Lucian, you are needed at your own place. I assume Miss Emily can hardly be aware of this plan you and Benjamin have hatched?”
“No, ma’am. We just come upon it by ourselves. We got plenty hands at the place and we letting a fair mite of land go untended now. Ain’t gone be hard to find a bit of time to slip off over here. Me or one of the other hands. Might be somebody you don’t know, but they every one good for trust.”
“Lucian, you and Benjamin are fine men and I am most appreciative, but this is an offer, no matter how kind, that I am not going to accept.”
“But, Miss Adeline—”
“I will not have you here without Miss Emily knowing. And approving. Now move aside so I can finish this field before dinnertime, Lucian. You just head on home now.”
Lucian lowered his head and turned away. Adeline took up the reins and the mule jerked forward, the plow cutting into the hard dirt.
Over her shoulder, Adeline said, “Tell your daddy thank you, Lucian.”
The mule took up his plodding gait, head nodding. Adeline’s face set in blank determination toward the opposite end of the field.
Sometime in the night a week or so later, Adeline heard the old hound barking. With the desperation wrought of fatigue and interrupted sleep, she rose and went to the window. Moon shadows lay across the floor. Nothing moved in the yard but a brief sway of the trees and their long shadows across the ground. The hound barked once more. Then only the familiar sounds of cicadas and tree frogs filled the semidark. Must be Thomas, she thought. God knows what he’s up to. Adeline returned to her bed and fell straight asleep.
As dawn spread evenly through the room, Adeline rose and slipped into yesterday’s dress. She lifted a clean apron to her face and breathed in the scent of fresh air before she tied it around her. She loosened the thick braid of her hair and twisted its heavy mass atop her head without looking in the mirror. She readjusted a pin in her bun as she went out to the kitchen and loaded wood into the fireplace. Once she had her biscuits in the Dutch oven and ham warming in the skillet, she wiped her hands and walked out toward the shed to find Thomas. The Lord only knew what he was up to in the night, but she had long since ceased to care.
She turned the corner of the kitchen and halted, her mind working to assimilate what she saw. A narrow trench sloped from the well halfway to the edge of her vegetable garden. What crazy thing had Thomas been at in the night, she thought. As she opened the shed door, the reek of whiskey halted her as if the air had substance. She stood at the edge of the odor and studied him, his body tangled in the quilt, arm hanging from the edge of the mattress, one hand hanging limp above the whiskey bottle, its partial contents spilled and drying on the floor. She took another breath, turned, and shut the door, harder than she intended. She was hungry and the biscuits would be done.
When she had eaten and the kitchen was clean enough to satisfy her, Adeline walked back out to examine the trench. Her mind was filled with resentment at Thomas’s wasted and crazy drunken exertions when what she needed was real work. I’ll just have to fill it in again, she thought. More wasted effort. But not today.
* * *
For days Adeline studied the trench. Her puzzled resentment grew. When he was half sober one morning, Thomas asked her what the hell she thought she was doing, wasting time digging that nothing business out there. She assumed he had been too drunk to remember doing it. “Just don’t fall in it,” she said. For a brief, irrational moment, she imagined him lying in that trench, imagined his having dug his own grave, imagined tossing the heavy dirt back over him. “I don’t have time to nurse a broken leg,” she said. “I’ll fill it when I have the crop laid by.” Wasted time and energy was right, she thought. Leave it be till then.
Adeline had two fields plowed and planted late: one for corn, one for hay. The vegetables were in the ground and working hard to survive—beans, cucumbers, okra. The potatoes had sent up straggling shoots, and she was waiting daily for the turnips and carrots. Adeline was also watching the hard blue sky for signs of rain that did not appear. She hauled two buckets at a time from the well, balanced across her shoulders on a pole, one trip after another to wet the struggling plants.
At night she boiled water and sat by the fire wringing hot water from a towel to lay across her aching shoulders. This is how Thomas saved Belinda, she thought, wrapping her in those hot towels, breathing into her frail lungs, saving her when I walked away, so sure that she would die. Adeline dropped the towel back into the water and lifted it to wring again. Belinda had not died. How different would it be if she had? Would I still have living sons? She shook her head, shamed at the question, and arched her neck. Belinda had lived, though delicate and ever unstable. Adeline muttered under her breath as she laid the hot towel across her shoulders again. She had not seen Belinda since that terrible day with Emily. So typical, she thought, the wild dramatics, then nothing from her daughter. Adeline sighed and spread the towel on the hearth to dry. This was her nightly ritual now. She banked the fire and eased herself onto her bed. Outside the frogs and katydids trilled their lullaby.
As dawn cast its light across the land, Adeline rose to her morning routine: the fire, the biscuits, the salted ham, the trip to the shed to check on her husband. When she rounded the corner of the kitchen, the ever-present trench stretched now to the edge of the garden and down along its edge. Its center was mud, though the earth around was dry. Adeline followed the trench, step by step, puzzling over it as she followed its careful length. At the edge of the garden, she saw small tributaries among the rows. Her plants had been watered in the night. Lucian, she thought, with a realization that she no longer needed to bear the heavy buckets on her shoulders. She put her face in her hands and pressed her eyes. She dared not cry.
She said nothing to Thomas as he ate the eggs she fried on this rare morning he had managed to come inside. He returned the plate without speaking, but grabbed her wrist and growled, “You renting niggers? Who dug that ditch out there?”
Whirling ’round, Adeline studied the cragged face of her husband. “I don’t know,” she said. “I had a crazy notion it was you.”
Thomas swayed to his feet. “Somebody dug a ditch to the garden and you don’t know who? How the hell you don’t know a thing like that?”
“Because someone chose to help me in secret.”
“In secret? You hanging on some man I don’t know about?” He shuffled toward her, but his face was menacing.
“No, Thomas. I’m suspecting someone else’s slave did it out of charity for me.”
“Charity? Goddam it, woman! Goddamn! From some goddamn nigger? Sneaking around my place at night. I’ll shoot the fucking bastard.” Thomas stabilized himself with one tight-knuckled hand, shook his fist at her. “I’ll kill his black ass, do you hear me?”
She backed away, erect, and walked out the kitchen door, her eyes on the barn. She would make it that far. She must.
“I’ll kill him. Do you hear me?” Thomas hurled the words like stones. “And I’ll collect the bounty on his goddamn nappy head. Then we’ll see how much charity you need.”
Thomas lurched away toward the back field. Adeline patted the mule on his muzzle and walked past him. “You have a day of rest,” she said to the mule. She led her horse from his stall and hitched the wagon. When she drove out, Thomas was lying propped against the shed door, his head hanging loose to one side.
Town was crowded, but Adeline maneuvered the wagon through the streets and stopped just past the jail. She stood for a time, breathing hard and slow. She waited. Her breath quieted and she dropped to the ground. Hesitating at the door, she put her hand out and pushed it open. Mason looked up and then was on his feet. She stood without entering and he came toward her.
“Would you walk with me, Sheriff?” she said.
He nodded, retrieved his keys from the desk, and closed the door. He leaped from the stoop and held up his hand to her. She ignored the gesture, picked up her skirts, negotiated those three gut-wrenching steps down which she had dragged her dead son. On the ground, her gait was swift, and he matched her until they reached the edge of town.
“How can I help you, Adeline?”
“I need you to make a trip for me. Something I cannot do for myself.”
“That would be a rare thing, Adeline, but all right. Whatever you need.”
“I need you to go to Emily’s place and find Lucian.”
“Lucian?”
“Yes, I need you to tell him he must never again set foot on my place if he plans to live.”
“You’ve got me right puzzled, Adeline.”
“This is crucial. I would try to go myself. But I can’t go hunting after Lucian.”
“Lucian been bothering you, Adeline?”
“No, Mason. The very opposite. He’s been coming in the night to help me. Dug a trench from the well to water my garden, part one night, part another. Thomas is fit to be tied, even drunk. He doesn’t know who, but he went into a wild rage to think some black slave had pity on me. Says he’ll kill him if he can. Who knows? Says he’ll send for bounty hunters and collect on a runaway. He has to hold on to something just to stand up most of the time, but it is not worth the risk. There are times he might be able to shoot. And he would. I need you to forbid Lucian to come again. What he’s done is more than enough. It will spare my shoulders through this drought. I won’t have Lucian’s blood on my conscience, too.” She turned toward her wagon, leaving Mason staring after. “You tell him, Mason.”
Adeline mounted her wagon and passed him without looking down.