A Quilt for Christmas (21 page)

“Yes. Or you. I owe you a great debt, you see.”

His life, he had said, but Eliza could not imagine how that could be possible. Was it the portion of the harvest she had donated the year before? A government man had come to the farm in late fall and demanded a part of the crop for the soldiers. It was her responsibility to the Union, he'd said. Her husband was fighting in the South, she had told him. Wasn't that sacrifice enough? All the more reason to donate to the cause, the man had said. But the harvest was scant, and they might go hungry. Still, he had insisted it was her duty. So in the end, she had let the man load his wagon with bushels of corn, all the while wondering if the soldiers would see any of it, or whether it would be sold on the black market, with the man pocketing the proceeds.

But how would this Confederate standing in her barnyard know about the corn she had given away, and if he did, why would he come all the way from Kentucky to thank her? The man seemed sincere, however, so she gestured to the stump where she had been sitting. He eased himself onto it, then dropped his bedroll and bread sack next to it. Eliza's scrap bag was open beside him, and he fingered a strip of cloth, a homespun green plaid that was so old it had come with her from Ohio. “You quilt, do you?” Before Eliza could respond, he answered his own question. “Of course you do.”

“You did not come to talk of quilting,” Eliza said, thinking now that if the man was not suffering from mental distress, he was at least odd. What man talked of quilts?

“In fact, I did,” he said, reaching for his bedroll. He unstrapped it and rolled out a soiled coverlet.

Eliza stared at it, not understanding at first. Then she gasped as she made out the red and white stripes and the triangle of blue with its white stars in the center, although the quilt was so dirty she could barely see the colors. She looked up at the man, her eyes wide, then studied the quilt again, reaching down and touching it with the tip of her finger. It was ripped and tattered, the down gone in some places, spilling out in others. Slowly, she turned over the corner on the lower right-hand side and read the names that were still embroidered there. When she could speak, she said, “This is Will's quilt, the Stars and Stripes quilt I made him for Christmas.”

“I did not know it was for Christmas, of course. But I have known all along that you made it for your husband.”

“It was for Christmas, last year. He promised to keep it safe.”

“It kept me safe. It warmed me in the Rock Island prison camp. I would have died without it.”

“But how did you…” Eliza's voice died at the terrible thought that came to her. She dropped the corner of the quilt she was holding and stared at the soldier. Her legs were weak, and she reached out her hand to steady herself. The soldier jumped up and took her fingers, but Eliza snatched them away. “You,” she said. “How did you get it? Will never would have parted with it. You are a Confederate. You are like a dagger in my heart. You must have killed him.” She sent him such a look of anguish that the man winced.

“No. Never. I did not.” The man rose and held out his hands in supplication.

“Then how else could you have come by his quilt?” Eliza wrung her hands, then stilled them by wrapping them in her apron.

The man gestured to the seat, and it was Eliza who sat down now, steadying herself by grasping the sides of the stump so hard that her hands were white.

“I did not kill him. I never saw him,” the man said. “I was captured in a skirmish just before the battle. The Yanks won, and when the fighting was over, we prisoners were marched through the camp. I'd lost my own bedroll, and it was cold, December, so when I saw a quilt nicely rolled up and bound with straps, I snatched it up. I thought someone would take it from me, but no one saw me, so I pretended it was mine. Only after I unrolled the quilt that night did I realize it was a Union flag. I thought it a great joke, and so did my fellows, but it kept me warm.”

“It was no joke,” Eliza said softly.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to offend.”

“You stole my quilt—Will's quilt?”

“Would you rather it had been left on the ground to rot?”

Eliza stiffened. “I would rather it had been Will's shroud.”

The soldier sighed. “Ma'am, I am sorry to bring you distress, but there were no shrouds. There wasn't time. The dead were placed in trenches and covered with dirt.”

Eliza put her hands over her face, but she did not cry. The soldier touched her shoulder in a gesture of sympathy, but she flung away his hand. “Will wrote me of the graves, but I did not want to believe his remains had been disposed of in such a sacrilegious way, stacked in rows like cordwood in a ditch.” Then she muttered to herself, “But why should Will have been any different?”

“I helped to bury the dead. I want you to know I did so with respect.”

“Did you bury Will?”

The man shook his head. “How would I know? I felt sorry for the dead. It was only luck and by God's mercy that some of us lived while others died. The Yanks were our enemy in life, but in death, we are all just men.”

“You did not act with hate?”

“Oh, I did when the war started, and with good cause. But by the time I was captured, I was too weary of war to hate. I just wanted the killing to stop.”

“As did we all,” Eliza said.

“I wanted to live.”

And so did Will, Eliza thought. She reached down and traced one of the stars with her finger. The stars had been hard to stitch, because she had tried to make them all alike. It was a pity she had not thought to let them be lopsided and stubby like Missouri Ann's stars.

“Sometimes at night when I lay under the stars on the quilt, I wondered if I would ever again see real stars under a free sky. It was hell, that camp. So many died of smallpox and the bowel complaint, from starvation and the cold. I was there only a winter, but I would have died, too, without your quilt. That's why I had to come here, to return the quilt to Mr. Spooner, to explain why I'd stolen it. That seemed a way I could make peace with the unspeakable, and maybe he could, too.”

“You don't hate the Yanks?” Eliza asked.

“Oh, I did at the start, hated them as much as you must hate those of us who fought for the Confederacy. You see, I had a farm in Kentucky, a good one. I had no slaves, didn't believe in one man owning another, so the Southern cause was not mine. Then the Yanks came and burned down the farm. I was away, and Mary, my wife, tried to stop them. She was shot, and I returned home just in time to hold her in my arms as she died. Later I found out a band of Union renegades did that awful deed, but still I blamed all Yankees. If they hadn't started the war, none of this would have happened and Mary would still be with me. I had no reason to stay on, so I joined the army to kill as many Union soldiers as I could. After a time, I was aware the Northerners were much like us—farmers, blacksmiths, shopkeepers. I realized it wasn't the Billy Yanks I hated but war itself and what war did to men.”

He paused, then looked down at the quilt. “At the camp in Rock Island, I'd trace your husband's name with my finger, and I knew he wasn't much different from me, with a wife and maybe a farm. I got to pretending that we were friends, that he'd loaned me the quilt. It helped me.”

“Your children?”

“They never lived beyond babyhood. I suppose if I'd had someone to go home to, I wouldn't have come here. When the war was over, I went back to Kentucky, but I couldn't abide to be on the farm. I left. I'd had many an imaginary talk with Mr. Spooner when I was in prison and had it in my head that I owed him. I even thought about how you'd scold him for losing the quilt you'd made. Mary would have scolded me, although she'd have done it with affection. I thought maybe I'd keep on going west after I returned the quilt.”

“War has taken its toll on you, Mr.…” Eliza paused. “You did not say your name.”

“Judd. Daniel Judd. And it has taken its toll on you, too, Mrs. Spooner, and on your family,” he replied. Eliza followed his look around the farm and saw through his eyes the barn whose side was caving in, the fence that was broken in places, the house, where chinking had fallen out. “We shall manage,” she said.

“I had expected to find your husband here, had hoped to at any rate. As I tramped the roads, I gave much thought to what I would say to him. As I had no hatred for him, I wished he had none for me. I thought we might have sat as you and I are doing now and talked about the war, although it may be early for such conversations of reconciliation. And I had hoped he was not maimed or his heart hardened by the terrible events.”

“I wonder yours was not. After all, you lost the war.” Eliza was ashamed at the bit of triumph she felt in saying the words, but she could not help repeating them. “We were the winners.”

“I was never a hating man, not until the Yankees burned the farm. And I am not now.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then added, “My wife, her last words to me were, ‘Don't turn hard, Danny.' I didn't heed them at first, but I try now.” He nodded to emphasize his words.

“She must have been a good person.”

“The finest I ever knew.”

“As was Will. There never was a better man.”

The two were still for a moment, each thinking, recalling. Then Daniel smiled at Eliza. “We have both suffered grievous loss.” He looked around the farm again. “It appears you need some work done. I could stay a day or so. It is little I can do to repay what I owe.”

“No need. I have a son.” Eliza wondered what Davy's reaction would be if she asked him to work with a Southerner.

“It might be he could use the help.”

“There are men available, Northern men.”

Daniel smiled a little, as if to ask, where are they? Then he frowned. “If you're thinking you would have to pay me, I would refuse it. Surely your saving my life is worth a few days' labor.”

Eliza was tempted. With Missouri Ann gone, the farm had gotten beyond her, and she needed the help. But she said, “I would not ask it of you.”

“I have been on the tramp every day since I left Kentucky. I would welcome a chance to spend two nights in one place. You have a barn with straw where I could sleep, I expect.”

Eliza nodded. “You would not be the first to sleep there, although you might be the first Southerner.”

“Then it is agreed.”

“For just a day or two. I would not want to take advantage of your good nature.”

As Eliza and Daniel talked, Davy drove the mule into the barnyard. “His withers are swollen,” he said, then stopped when he saw Daniel. But he was used to the soldiers who came by the farm, so he only nodded at the stranger.

“I could take a look. I've worked with mules all my life,” Daniel said, straightening up. Eliza observed again how gaunt he was.

Davy exchanged a glance with his mother, and Eliza nodded. “Appreciate it,” Davy said.

Daniel went to the mule and ran his hand over its back. “A fistula,” he pronounced. “Mules are susceptible. Cold water will take care of it. Add another blanket under the saddle when you ride him.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Davy held out his hand. “I'm David Spooner.”

“Daniel Judd.”

The two shook hands, but as they did so, Davy's eyes dropped to the quilt lying on the ground. “Isn't that Papa's quilt?” He looked up at Daniel.

“I'm returning it.”

“You knew Papa? You fought with him?” There was excitement in Davy's voice.

“I picked it up near the battlefield.”

“You were one of the Kansas Volunteers?”

Daniel glanced at Eliza, then said, “I was a Confederate soldier. I was captured at Saltville.”

Davy dropped Daniel's hand and took a step backward. “That's where Papa died. You fought Papa.” He turned to his mother. “He killed Papa?”

“He was captured just before the battle,” Eliza told him. “He found the quilt lying on the ground and picked it up.”

“Is that what he says? How do you know it's true?”

“I believe him. He came all this way to return it.” Eliza paused. “He will stay a few days to help us on the farm.”

“We don't need help from a Johnnie.” Davy stood with his feet apart, defiant.

“We need the help of someone, and Mr. Judd has offered.”

“We don't need it from a Yankee-killer,” Davy all but yelled.

Eliza put her hand on her son's arm. “Be still, Davy. The war is over. We are one nation again. Mr. Judd has offered to help, and I am grateful for it.”

“If you'll take the mule to the barn, I'll bring a bucket of water,” Daniel said. “I've a way with mules.”

“Just like you've a way with Union soldiers.” Davy looked hard at his mother, but she was firm. So Davy led the mule away, while Daniel drew the water. Once her son was gone, Eliza said, “I guess we have accepted your offer of aid, Mr. Judd. Now I must get to supper. It is not much, just hish and hash. We will gather at the table in an hour.”

“I'm not fit company for a supper table, Mrs. Spooner. My clothes are more dirt than cloth, and I'm ashamed to tell you I've got graybacks. If you would be kind enough to put a little food on a plate, I will eat it here at the stump.”

“We will eat together,” Eliza told him. “My daughter, Luzena, will bring you hot water and soap, and you can wash yourself. You must wash your hair and beard, too, for the creatures like to hide there. I'll find a set of my husband's clothes for you to wear.” She looked Daniel up and down, taking in the torn and filthy clothing. “I suggest you burn your own.”

Daniel gave her a wisp of a smile. “We call that giving the vermin a parole.”

*   *   *

Supper was awkward. Davy was surly, while Luzena was uneasy, sneaking glances at Daniel and turning red when he caught her. Eliza tried to make conversation, but she was afraid she would offend their guest with some question or observation, so she talked in generalities. Daniel seemed to be the only one at ease, asking questions about the farm, about the work that should be done. When the meal was finished, Eliza gave him a quilt, and Daniel went to the barn to bed down.