Virginia, August 1862
At the end of the first day of her journey, Ellen had no idea as to where she was. Apart from that she was lost.
She had decided to make her own way to Richmond, board a train there to take her South as far as the war and damaged tracks would allow.
She had generally borne east. That much she knew. Kept out of the path of all military, lest they think her a spy.
At first gotten a lift on a farm-wagon, along roads rutted by armies and their cannons. The land was beautiful, the gentle plains, the forests of beech and birch and black tupelo. Everywhere wildflowers – lowland laurel and flowering dogwood, the State emblem. She would cross first the James river, then the Appomattox, then on through the Piedmont region to Richmond, capital of Virginia.
Virginia, named after Elizabeth I of England – the Virgin Queen.
Then, towards evening, the horse appeared. Stood waiting for her … riderless … beautiful … pale by moonlight.
She approached it cautiously, fearing it would flee. But like a deliverance from some other world it allowed her to talk to it, run her hand along its flecked forehead … and mount its back. It whinnied when she clamped her knees to its flanks and then set off at a leisurely canter, until it brought her to the old man.
‘Something told me I’d have a visitor tonight,’ was the greeting from the thrown-back door of his cabin. ‘Come in, lady, supper’s on the fire,’ he said with no more ado.
Quince was his name. ‘Abel’s my Christian name – but that’s a kind of unfortunate name to be kitted with, so folks just call me Quince. And I don’t want to know nothing ’bout you, miss … nothing at all. Long ago gave up on being curious ’bout people.’
Quince sat her down, gave her a bowl of some corn and meat stew and a chunk of sourdough bread for ‘swabbin’’ the stew.
He was old, well into his seventies, she guessed. His eyes seemed to be half closed all the time – as if asleep or thinking. Above them snow-clad eyebrows stretched to the edge of his face … and then some. The remainder of his face was creased with age and an expression that told of an inherent understanding of frail humanity – some indelible kindness there. He shuffled when he walked – a tracker over uneven ground, uncertain of the next step.
Ellen didn’t know why but she sensed he played at seeming older than he was, more decrepit than the fertile mind he possessed – betrayed when later they talked.
‘We come into the world with longing and we go out of the world with longing. It is the only fixed emotion,’ he began. ‘Night longs for the day, day longs for night. The sea longs for the shore, a flower for the light. The heart hungers for love, the soul for God. It is in every step, every breath, and every glance of an eye. Longing is never-ending,’ Quince said matter of factly, as if he knew her life, the hooded eyes taking in its effect on her.
‘And what of war?’ she asked.
‘War? War fulfils a longing – to kill,’ he answered. ‘A longing to explore our darkest nature, to put us on a footing with God, power over death. But it is a false longing. For no man who kills another, whatever the imagined cause, will ever be free of it. He becomes dead to himself, but …’ he added, almost sorrowfully, ‘… I think I would do it.’
‘You would?’ she asked, surprised by his answer and wondered if he had.
He smiled at her. ‘Have you not yet learned, Miss Ellie, that reason is only skin deep. It is our emotions that drive us … protect us … betray us – not reason.’
Again, she felt as if he was talking directly to her – as if he knew. It bothered her. Was her true nature writ so large upon her face that this old man could see it?
‘Consider it,’ he said, ‘the great minds, the philosophers of old, whose wisdom has been sent down through the ages. Put a sword in their hands. Clad them in blue or grey, with the mad generals shouting at them to kill or be killed. He paused. ‘What would happen, Miss Ellie?’
‘They would refuse the sword in the first instance,’ she answered, ‘because of the intellect.’
He never said ‘yea’ or ‘nay’ to her, only gave her one more conundrum on which to dwell. ‘It is another interesting proposition,’ he said, scrutinising her intently, ‘the battle between reason and original sin.’
That night, sleep would not come easy. Her mind wrestled with all that the old man had said. She wondered from where it was he got his wisdom. Day after day out here in the backwoods of America with his peach orchard and sucking his empty pipe. Why didn’t his like ever end up in the White House at Washington, or the Confederate White House in Richmond?
She had asked him.
‘I’m not good with words,’ he replied, ‘not good with the big city words. The things I know, I know. Nothing fancy, plain as that old peach tree. The buds come, the peach grows. I pluck ’em. I eat ’em. Next year they grows again. That’s all I know. Can’t explain it better than that! Peaches get eat. Sure they do … and people too.’
Her own thoughts were anything but ‘plain as the old peach tree’. Half of her wondered what on earth she was doing here, journeying to the ends of the earth? What did she expect to find there? The girl, Emmeline – Patrick’s sweetheart? And what then? Stephen had told her that Lavelle was not in Louisiana. He didn’t know where her husband was. Nor, it seemed, had Patrick known. Nobody knew. Lavelle had disappeared, or was dead. This last thought she utterly disbelieved without fully knowing why. He was somewhere in this Great War. She just knew it. But on which side? Some said that in excess of a quarter of a million Irish were in uniform on both sides, the bulk with the North. She was unsure as to where Lavelle’s allegiance would finally lie. He was passionate about ‘freedoms’ – whether now it was the ‘republican’ freedom of the South or the ‘greater’ freedom of the Union of States, she could not be sure. That Patrick’s, dear Patrick’s sympathies had lain with the South she was not surprised at. Stephen’s she could not have guessed.
Finding Lavelle seemed an impossibility. She wondered if perhaps he too was still searching for her? At this stage, with the passage of years, it seemed a doubtful endeavour. She could not expect a love to be still so enduring. After how she had defiled it.
She got up, went to the window. The moon, bright-grandeured, splayed over the land, seeming to soak up the singing sound of Quince’s stream, so that the song-notes rippled upwards into the brimming light. She turned to see the peach orchard. Thought of the old man’s words again. Life was plain and simple – if you kept it that way. As she watched, a peach, heavy on the bough and blushed with life, dropped. The fruit, ripe to its core, fell like the moon, yellowing its way to Earth.
It decided her. That and the state flag Quince had given her. Pointing out to her the figure of Virtue, dressed as a woman warrior. The state motto Perseverando – by persevering. Again she thought Quince could see into her soul. Virtuous she might not be but she could at least live out the other call of Virginia – and persevere. She would not go back. Reason would be put aside and she would continue South. At least meet Patrick’s Emmeline.
In the morning Quince bade her goodbye, gave her a sunburst of peaches to bring with her, smiling while telling her, ‘The peach alone is wise.’ Then pointed her on the way.
‘Ah, Richmond, sad, sad, Richmond. It is another land,’ he echoed after her.
She gave the silvery grey its head, pondering the miles with all the old man had said.