Candle in the Darkness (28 page)

The day after Charles left, I began practicing the piano again, using music as an outlet for my hoarded emotions. Concentrating on the notes took my mind off the war, if only for a few hours each day. I was in the parlor one afternoon, so intent on learning Mozart’s “Turkish March” that I didn’t hear my father return home early from work. I don’t know how long he stood listening in the doorway, but when I finished the piece, he applauded softly.

“That was excellent, Caroline.”

“Is there a reason why you’re home early?” My heart had changed tempo the moment I saw him there. It accelerated when Daddy moved a small parlor chair next to the piano and sat down beside me.

“May I talk with you, Sugar?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. But I’ve reached an important decision today, and I’d like to share it with you.”

“You aren’t going away to war, too, are you?”

He smiled, and for a moment I saw my childhood daddy again, the man with the familiar, cockeyed smile and uplifted brow. “No . . . no, I’m not going to fight. This war came ten years too late for me. But there is a way I’d like to help the Confederate effort.” I stared down at my hands as I waited, my heart beating a quickstep.

“You’ve read in the papers about ‘Operation Anaconda,’ haven’t you, Sugar? How the U.S. Navy intends to close all our Southern ports?”

I could only nod and wait, fearing what he was about to say.

“Lincoln thinks he can strangle us to death by cutting off all our supplies. Frankly, I think it will be quite impossible for seventy-odd Union ships to patrol more than three thousand miles of Southern coastline. Still, it’s clear that Richmond has already begun to feel the effects of blockade.”

Anyone who had shopped downtown lately had noticed the blockade’s effects, not only in the higher prices but also in the growing scarcity of many consumer items. Richmond relied on imported goods. Everything came from outside the South, from tin pots to teacups, from our hairpins to our shoes. In the months ahead we would quickly learn to either make do, do without, or make it ourselves.

“Is the blockade interfering with your business, Daddy?”

“It is, but that’s not the point. I met with President Davis today. He said the government is having trouble importing the military equipment we so desperately need. England is willing to sell us their Enfield rifles, but we need ships to get them here.”

“Are you going to loan President Davis your ships?”

“Sugar . . . I’m going to sail to England with them myself.”

“He’s asking you to be a blockade-runner? Daddy, no! It’s too dangerous!”

“The president didn’t ask me to go—I volunteered.” I tried to protest, but Daddy wasn’t listening. “There’s nothing useful for an old man like me to do around here. Besides, importing things is my job, Caroline. I’m good at it. I’ve done it for nearly twenty years.”

“But not with the U.S. Navy trying to shoot you out of the water!”

He reached to take my hand in his. “It’s a very big ocean.We’ll be transporting the rifles from England to Bermuda, first. The odds are very good that we’ll never even encounter the Navy. The freight steamers that run from Bermuda to our Southern ports are small enough and swift enough to outmaneuver the Union ships.”

I felt too numb to absorb what Daddy was telling me. I only knew that I was about to suffer yet another loss. “How long will you be gone?” I finally asked.

“I’m not sure. I’ll probably return home from time to time, but I plan to make runs for the Confederacy for as long as I’m needed. It’s not just for arms. We also need tools, medicine, things like that. And if I can carry a load or two of cotton to England on my way over for the rifles . . . well, so much the better.”

I felt too overwhelmed to speak. Daddy was leaving. Like Charles and Jonathan, he was willing to risk death for the Confederacy. He rose from his chair and stood over me, resting his hands on my shoulders.

“You mustn’t worry, Sugar. I have a good man to manage my affairs here in Richmond. I’ve instructed him to give you whatever funds you need to live on.”

“I’m not worried about money.”

“Good. You shouldn’t be. I know I can rely on you to run the household and oversee the servants for me while I’m away.”

I looked up at him. “First Charles left me . . . and now you? I’ll be all alone.”

“You won’t be alone,” he said gently. “You’ll have Tessie and Eli.” I heard something sad and wistful in his tone, almost as if he was envious of the relationship I had with them. And he was right, of course. They wouldn’t think of leaving me alone and defenseless.

When the terrible day finally arrived and I had to say goodbye to Daddy, he called all of the servants into his library with us to give them their final instructions.

“You are all fine men and women,” he said as they stood in a line in front of him. “I’ve seen the kindness and . . . yes, the love you’ve shown my daughter. I’m leaving her in your hands, trusting you all to take good care of her. If anything should happen to me, you will become Caroline’s property according to my will. She’s free to do whatever she wishes with you.” As Daddy walked down the row of servants, saying a few words of farewell to each one, all six of them stared mutely at their own feet.

“Luella, I know you’ll do just as fine a job for Caroline as you’ve always done for me. Gilbert, thank you for your faithful service. Be strong. Ruby, take good care of Caroline, for her mother’s sake. Esther, you’ve been an excellent cook . . . and so much more. Eli, it’s easier for me to leave, knowing my daughter is in your very capable hands. Tessie . . .” He paused, and I was amazed to see that Daddy was battling his emotions. “Tessie, thank you . . . for everything.”

His farewell speech alarmed me. It sounded as though he was saying good-bye forever. “You’ll be back in a few months, won’t you, Daddy?” I asked when we were alone.

“Yes, Sugar. God willing, I’ll be back. Until then . . . may He keep you in His care.” Then Daddy left, just as Charles and Jonathan had. All I could do was watch helplessly as the war continued to swallow up everyone and everything I had ever loved.

Chapter Thirteen

July 1861

My stomach rolled with the wheels of the carriage as Gilbert inched the horses forward several more yards, then stopped again. We sat in a long line of carriages, waiting to disembark beneath the St. Johns’
porte cochere
for the sewing-society meeting. I was in no hurry to arrive. Before leaving home that hot July morning, I had watched from my bedroom window as Luella and Ruby washed laundry in wooden tubs in our backyard. I’d seen them each grab one end of a linen sheet and twist in opposite directions to wring all the water from it. That’s the way my stomach felt now—as if someone had grabbed both ends and was twisting it into knots.

Up ahead, the matrons and belles who had already alighted from their carriages greeted one another, their laughter as bright and dry as the sun. I dreaded joining them. It had been easier to face these wealthy society ladies when I had Charles’ arm to cling to. And since I had little in common with the young women my own age, I usually tried to float, unnoticed, in Sally’s sociable wake. But Sally would be our hostess today; I could hardly expect her to tow me behind her like a lost child. The next several hours were certain to be torturous.

As volunteer soldiers continued to pour into Richmond, the production of Confederate uniforms fell far behind the demand. The few textile mills and manufacturing plants that we did have were able to produce the cloth and cut it into pieces with patterns, but with so many men enlisting, they lacked the manpower to sew the pieces together. In order to help the cause, every fashionable ladies’ society—previously devoted to frivolous amusements—was being transformed into a sewing society. The one that Sally and her mother had invited me to join was among the city’s most prestigious.

At last Gilbert rolled our carriage to a halt beneath the
porte cochere
. “All right, Tessie,” I said with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

She stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Now, you know I ain’t allowed to go waltzing through that door with you. You seeing any of them other fine ladies waltzing in there with their mammies? Door I use is around back.”

She was right, of course. While many of the ladies had brought along one or two of their maidservants, and some had even brought their Negro seamstresses to help, the slaves gathered at the rear servants’ entrance, not the grand foyer.

The inequity added to my feelings of guilt. I already felt bad for asking Tessie to come and ashamed for being here myself. By helping the Confederacy, it was as though I was helping Tessie and the others remain slaves. I had criticized Jonathan for taking Josiah with him, but wasn’t I doing the same thing?

Jeremiah, the St. Johns’ porter, opened my carriage door and stood waiting to help me down. A half-dozen carriages stood in line behind mine. “Go on, honey,” Tessie whispered. “I see you inside.”

I buried my feelings behind a false smile and walked into the house with the other women. In their brightly colored outfits and billowing hoop skirts, they reminded me of a bouquet of multicolored asters and chrysanthemums. You would never guess from this fashionable display of summer dresses and flowered hats that the price of cloth had skyrocketed due to the blockade, or that new straw hats could scarcely be found at any price. Sally wore the most expensive dress of all. Made from plaid silk, it required several more yards of material than a plain fabric would because the plaid on all the seams had to be matched. I had the urge to shake her—to shake all of these women. Was I the only one who saw that our lives would never be the same?

Mrs. St. John herded us all into her huge drawing room, and at least the changes in our lives were more evident in there. The furniture had been rearranged, transforming the room into a workshop, with every belle and society matron transformed into a seamstress. Those who owned sewing machines had brought them, and the clatter and whir of treadles and gears served as background music.

Nearly every woman, including myself, wore a chatelaine fastened to her waist, carrying her needles, scissors, thimble, and measuring tape. But few of us had ever done more than simple embroidery work, hemstitching, or needlepoint, and our delicate fingers weren’t accustomed to pushing needles through heavy wool uniform jackets and trousers. I began with the relatively easy task of binding buttonholes and sewing on buttons, but even so, my fingertips were roughened by dozens of pinpricks by the end of the afternoon. In the weeks ahead, our hands as well as our fingers would be stiff and bleeding from stitching through heavy sailcloth as we sewed tents and overcoats.

The women talked of nothing but war, thought of nothing but war. Every one of them had a loved one in uniform—a husband, a father, a brother, a son, a sweetheart. As I listened to them talking about how difficult it was to be separated from them, I glanced down at Tessie, sewing quietly on a stool beside me. She had suffered this pain nearly all her life—separated from her parents, from her husband, from her son. What right did all of us privileged ladies have to discuss our current experiences as if they were unique when beside us sat slave women who had known this aching sorrow for many years?

“I admit that I’ve led a spoiled life,” Sally said, entering the conversation. “I never would have
dreamed
that I’d be doing such a menial task as this. But I must say, I’m
proud
to do it. If our men are willing to do their part, then I’m willing to do mine.”

“That’s right,” the woman beside her said. “If we want freedom for our country, then we have to fight for it. We can’t expect someone else to do it.”

“All of the noble women of Virginia stood beside their men in 1776,” an elderly dowager said. “I’m proud to say that their selfsacrificing spirit has been passed down to us.”

“We may be called upon to sacrifice more than our time or our pride in the months ahead,” another woman added somberly. “I know what an enormous sacrifice it must be for you, Mrs. Randolph, to send all five of your sons off to fight.”