In The Face Of Death (25 page)

“And a speedy end to them,” he added, and turned away from her, going into the mists that draped the barren trees, vanishing before the sound of his steps had faded.

Fox Woman appeared in the door of her house. “That was a foolish thing. You may come to regret this gesture.”

Madelaine swung around and looked directly at Fox Woman. “What was I to do? He could not remain here, not with so many of the Choctaw men here favoring secession. There is no way he could guide me to any harbor now, not in safety. The only sensible thing was to release him from his obligation.”

“Sensible, you call it,” said Fox Woman, her expression sharp. “You are taking a chance, staying here. True, this is isolated, and that creates a kind of safety as long as nothing happens here. But if it does, you will have no haven left to you, and escape would be difficult.”

“But you Choctaw have been able to manage in these places, away from important roads and big towns, where there is nothing to gain that would interest an army, and where you can hide with ease.” Madelaine recalled the devastation she had seen in Paris and Lyon in the wake of the Revolution, and she added, “It is safer here than in cities, that much is certain.”

“Until the fight comes here,” appended Fox Woman. She motioned. “Come inside. It’s too cold to remain out there.”

Madelaine realized she was shivering, but knew it was from something other than cold.

North of Jacksonville, Alabama, 8 May, 1861

This is a more remote place than Fox Woman’s house near Aurora. She has insisted we come here because feeling was running so high in Aurora she feared the men in town would take it into their heads to practice war on the few remaining Choctaw. Where we are now is rugged country, and Fox Woman thinks that with luck we can wait out the war here.

Assuming the letter I left with Mister Holt was actually delivered to my bankers, I will be able to gain access to my money as soon as it is safe for me to travel north. . . . I am troubled that I will be unable to reach my bankers directly due to the recent outbreak of fighting. I may have to make do with the money I have with me, which is little more than three thousand dollars, not an inconsiderable amount, but in these uncertain times, who knows how long it will have to last me? Since Lucas and Turner transferred my money to the Williamsburgh Savings Bank of Brooklyn, New York, I have had only a few dealings with the bank, which I am told is a flourishing venture. No doubt Lucas and Turner were prudent in their decision to transfer the funds, given how things are going in the United States. Nevertheless, it would be more comforting to have some direct means to reach the bank so that I will not have to depend on the mails to the extent that I must now.

I have brought five horses and three chests of my native earth, along with four cartons of books, and Fox Woman has brought most of her supplies with her, along with her goats, so it is my hope that we can continue on in the studies we have begun. She tells me that she wants to prepare a number of places where we can retreat in case soldiers invade the region. Given the remoteness of this location, I cannot believe it will come to that, but I am willing to do as she wishes.

There is game in the woods, which will suffice me for a short while, but I am beginning to wonder how I will find nourishment. . . . Little as I wish it, I may have to venture nearer a town in order to sustain myself. . . .

“If you are certain you must do this,” said Fox Woman, frowning at the cases Madelaine had just finished packing.

“Yes, I am afraid I must,” said Madelaine, holding up her hand to stop the protest she knew was coming. “And if I do not leave now, I will certainly be here through the winter, which would not be wise.”

Fox Woman regarded her thoughtfully. “It will be dangerous for you in a town.”

“Yes,” Madelaine said again. “But hunger is a greater danger still.”

“There will be enough for both of us, given how little you take,” said Fox Woman, cocking her head to the side. “Or are you afraid that if the winter is hard, we will starve?”

“Something of the sort,” said Madelaine indirectly. “I have no wish to abuse the hospitality you have shown me, and I fear it could come to that, in the winter.”

Again there was a short silence between them. “I do not wish you to go because you are worried for my welfare,” said Fox Woman, choosing her words carefully.

“But I must,” said Madelaine. “I cannot argue with you about this. It is my nature to need . . . the things I need.”

Fox Woman nodded slowly. “In that case, let me give you some names. I have cousins who work near the town of Buchanan, in Georgia, just over the line the white men insist is there, though no one has ever seen it. They have a white father, these cousins, and so are allowed to live there. They are respectful people, and will not dishonor the family or the Choctaw.”

Madelaine sighed in gratitude. “You are very good to a foreigner, my friend, and I thank you for—”

“It is not a question of goodness,” said Fox Woman with asperity. “You have done me honor, and I will honor you.”

“Call it what you will,” said Madelaine, feeling the first pangs of separation from this knowledgeable, good-hearted widow, “I am grateful for all you have done for me, and for all you have taught me. I will miss you.”

“You have taught me many things, too,” said Fox Woman, her bright eyes now glinting with appreciation.

“How is that?” asked Madelaine, thinking that Fox Woman was not referring to the few medicaments Madelaine had shared with her in exchange for Fox Woman’s expertise.

“I have seen that though you are a stranger, you do not seek to overturn the ways of the Choctaw. I have seen also that you keep to yourself. That is an admirable thing; few whites know how to do it. They withhold themselves, and think it is the same thing.” She reached for a deerskin cape and held it out to Madelaine. “You will need this, I think.”

Madelaine looked at the wonderful garment and hesitated. “It is yours, Fox Woman.”

“Then you will have something of me with you; and you are leaving me a horse,” said Fox Woman, and all but shoved it into Madelaine’s hands. “There. Now, let me tell you how to find the road that leads to Buchanan. It will not do to have you lost in these mountains.”

“No; I would not like that,” said Madelaine, not wanting to contemplate what her hunger could do to her if she were forced to wander the hills for any length of time. It had happened to her once before, and the memory was repulsive to her.

“You will go to Jacksonville, and take the road east that goes to Rome,” Fox Woman began, very businesslike. “About five miles after the road swings north, there is another road that comes in from the southeast. There is a farm there, and a church called Bethany. Turn onto that road and follow it. Once you cross the Tallapoosa, you will have about eight miles to go until you reach a narrow road going north. That will take you to Buchanan. My cousins live a mile to the east of the town, on a farm called New Springs. Their name is Selbie: Walter, John, and Susanne. Show them the cape and they will know you come from me.”

So, Madelaine thought, the gesture was not entirely selfless as she had first supposed. “I will do it, Fox Woman,” she said.

“You should have escort,” said Fox Woman, her sense of propriety offended by Madelaine’s solitary departure.

“It can’t be helped,” said Madelaine, her curtness concealing a welling sadness. “And when Luke Greentree returns, tell him where I have gone, in case he should want to escort me to the coast.”

“You may be sure I will,” said Fox Woman, suddenly made awkward by the burden of farewells. She looked at the cartons stacked by the door. “Let me help you with those.”

“I will manage them well enough, my friend,” said Madelaine.

The canny look was back in Fox Woman’s eyes. “So that I will not discover how heavy they are? I have seen you lift things that no woman—or man—your size should lift without effort.” Her manner turned brusque. “Go on. Load your pack saddles.”

Feeling disquieted by this abrupt change in Fox Woman, Madelaine faltered. “It . . . it was not my intention to deceive you.”

“Good. You didn’t,” said Fox Woman, and went back to her household tasks while Madelaine busied herself with loading her chests and crates onto the pack horses.

When everything was loaded and strapped into place, Madelaine swung up into her sidesaddle, disposed her skirts in the approved way, secured the deerskin cape to the cantle of the saddle, and called out to Fox Woman. “I thank you again, my friend.” She waited, hoping that the Choctaw widow would come to the door, or make some other gesture for good-bye, but it did not happen, and after a few minutes, Madelaine picked up the reins and the leads of her three pack horses, and rode away through the autumn-bright trees toward Jacksonville.

On the Jacksonville-Rome Road, 17 October, 1861

The dun is going lame on her off-front. I have slowed the pace to a walk and moved all the load from her pack saddle to the other two, but I can see no improvement. It will probably be necessary to leave her here, at Bethany Church, so that she will have a chance to recover. . . .

I have encountered a number of young men on the road, some of them wounded, who are going home for harvest, leaving the army for the winter. . . . They are all full of tales of the great deeds of Generals Beauregard and Johnston, who they believe will rout the Yankees completely before the end of the year. They are less pleased about a Yankee General named Butler who has taken several coastal forts in the Carolinas. . . .

The minister here is an odd young man, full of zeal and the rhetoric of religion, but also filled with passion he does not recognize for what it is. He believes completely in the Last Judgment, and that it is coming very soon. He has warned his small congregation that they will have to answer for their sins before God in the next few years, basing his assumption for this on some of the stranger verses in the
Apocalypse of Saint John,
which the Protestants call the
Book of Revelations. . . .
While I can understand why it is he is afraid, with war breaking out everywhere, I doubt it is the trumpet of the Last Judgment. He is very worried about the souls of his flock, thinking it necessary that he save all of them, though why he should think he has such a right or obligation, I cannot fathom, for his ordination is self-imposed. And although he refuses to keep slaves, he is certain that whites are a superior people to blacks, and men superior to women; the Bible confirms this, or so he insists. Abolitionists are anathema to him, the embodiment of devilishness he cannot sufficiently condemn. He has only a sketchy knowledge of Africa, taken mainly from his interpretation of passages in the Bible, which he accepts as the sole authority on all matters. If he found a passage in the Bible he decided meant that righteous men should wear their shirts back to front, he would do it at once. While castigating me for my “vain and unfeminine intellectualism,” I saw that he desired me. This condemnation is the price of his charity for a place to stay, though I have paid him for a traveler’s room at the back of the church. I wonder if I dare to visit him in his sleep? Or am I seeking to best him at his own game? Better him than one of the soldiers on the road, I suppose.

GEORGIA

New Springs Farm, near Buchanan, Georgia, 1 January, 1862

Walter and John have left the farm today to join the army, which surprises me, given their Choctaw mother, but apparently there is less stigma in having an Indian mother than a Negro one, though the latter are far more common than the former. Also, having the mother Choctaw and their father white is apparently less dreadful than the other way around. Their departure leaves Susanne and me to tend the place, for the Selbies have no slaves and do not like to hire hands except at harvest time. Many of the farms in this region have suffered the same fate, with most of the men gone to fight, and the women, children and old people left to manage the land for them.

There have been fewer claims of a quick conclusion to the war than I heard last spring. Then everyone supposed that it would not last long or have many losses. But that is turning out not to be the case. There have been rumors that a Northern general was invalided out of the army for saying the war would be long and bloody because he was thought mad for saying it. It gave me a start to hear about this, when I learned the general is named Sherman, and he has been serving in Kentucky. I cannot help but wonder if he is any relation to Tecumseh, for he has brothers—John and Charles, if I recall correctly—and other relations, and surely he isn’t the only member of his family to have had a military education. No one in Buchanan seems to know more than his last name, and while they scoff at what they have heard of him, they say it serves the North right to have such an officer.

The hero of the day is a General Thomas Jackson who is being called Stonewall, apparently for not retreating in battle. He, along with two generals called Johnston, one Joseph and one Albert, have been quite successful in battle. Most of the people in Buchanan are impressed that Jackson is a fervent Christian, and are convinced that will aid him greatly in his campaigns. . . .

Not long ago the Wilsons, a family three farms away, learned that two of their sons were killed in combat at a place called Ball’s Bluff. Everyone in the town is shocked that this has happened, and they all hope that the two Wilson boys will be the only losses Buchanan will suffer. I say very little, because I cannot share their certainty that no more Buchanan boys will die. . . .

Madelaine used a pick to break through the ice on the water trough this cold morning of the last day in February. The small barn was hardly warmer than the outside, and the sheep, for all their wool, huddled together; the two cows at the far end of the barn chewed at their fodder and waited to be milked. Between them, Madelaine’s four horses, stalled European fashion, waited for their morning oats.

“I’ll take care of the chickens and turkeys,” said Susanne, hoisting up her skirts as she went out in the direction of the coops. A large metal scoop, clutched in her left hand along with a mass of skirt, dribbled grain as she walked, calling out to the fowl that breakfast was coming. She was a handsome woman of twenty-four, fairly tall, somewhat angular, dark-haired and dark-eyed with strong features and flawless skin. In another place she would have been considered a very eligible woman, but here in Buchanan, Georgia, no one could forget her mother, and she was considered an old maid. To find a husband, she would need to settle in a city where men were not so particular as they were in Buchanan.

“I’ll start milking,” Madelaine called after her as she reached for a pail and the three-legged milking stool. The nearer of the two cows was a soft brown color and her milk was very rich. Outwardly placid, Sheba had the disagreeable habit of putting her foot into the milk pail as soon as it was full; Madelaine was now familiar with her tricks and anticipated her mischief. She moved the pail aside just before she finished milking and squeezed the last into a skimming pan, which she set aside for the half-dozen feral cats who made the barn their home.

The second cow was a tawnier color, with darker head and ears and a dark stripe down her back; called Lilly, she had the perpetual dazed air that gave the word bovine meaning. Madelaine filled the second pail quickly, wondering, as she often did when milking this cow, if Lilly realized she was there at all. As she prepared to carry the pails back to the pantry, she heard the sound of recklessly cantering hoofbeats on the road outside, and a moment later a large, dark horse filled the barn door, a young man, enveloped in a three-tiered cape, exhausted, hanging onto the reins. There was a bull’s-eye lantern clutched in one hand, the wick still lit, mute testimony to his long ride. “Don’t mean to disturb you,” said the young man in a hoarse voice. “This New Springs Farm?”

“Yes,” said Madelaine, neither cordial nor hostile.

“Miz Selbie?” he panted.

“No; she’s around at the coops. I’m Miss de Montalia. Is there anything I can do for you?”

The young man shook his head. “Got to see Miz Selbie,” he insisted.

“She will be here directly,” Madelaine told him. “You might want to get down and give your mount a rest. I have to get this milk to the creamery. I will be back in a few minutes. There’s water for your horse.”

The young man nodded several times, then all but dropped from the saddle, dragging the reins over the big horse’s head and leading him toward the water trough.

One of Madelaine’s horses whinnied; the newcomer neighed back.

“Don’t do that,” the young man ordered his horse. “Sorry, Ma’am.”

“It’s nothing,” said Madelaine, and lifted the pails, carrying them off to the rear of the house to the creamery. She emptied the pails into larger cans, worked the pump to rinse out the pails, and then made her way back to the barn, calling to Susanne as she went.

The young man was in earnest conversation with Susanne, his soft cap clutched in his hands. “He made sure you’d want the news about Walter. I gave him my word I’d let you know.”

“Where is he?” asked Susanne, doing her best not to appear upset.

“In Tennessee. He got that far. There’s a . . . place run by the Shakers. They took him in. They’ve been nursing a lot of sick and wounded, both sides. Doesn’t matter to them. They won’t fight, not for North nor South. They say the Good Book won’t let them.”

“How sick is he?” Susanne’s trembling lip betrayed her emotion, though her voice was level.

“Very sick. His lungs is putrid.” He looked away. “He took a bad chill after that river crossing, and cutting his back, and what with the snow and all, it settled in his chest. He was doing poorly for more than a week before anyone got him help, and his cut worsened.”

“And John is with him?” Susanne spoke more urgently now, as if she could not contain her worry much longer.

“He was. But his company needed him back. They need good farriers, you know. They couldn’t let him bide with his brother for long, not with the Yankees pressing in.” The young man was apologizing for the army now, and his face showed how difficult he was finding this interview. “Sorry, Miz Selbie. I got to get on my way. I got letters to carry to Atlanta.”

“Where did you say Walter is, again?” Susanne asked, as if she were having trouble understanding the words she heard.

“With the Shakers, Miz Selbie. They’re up between Woodbury and Smithville. They got about a thousand acres. Don’t worry. They’ll take real good care of him. They’re good at nursing, and they take all comers. They’re godly folk, the Shakers, but a mite peculiar. Not that that’s anything to hold against them.” He reached for his lantern and indicated the two large saddle bags on his horse. “You can get word to them from Rome, if you want.”

“You say John’s all right?” Susanne said as she watched the young man prepare to vault into the saddle once more.

“Oh, he’s fine. I hear Colonel Crowder wants to promote him to sergeant.” He sprang aboard his horse and pulled hard on the reins, swinging the big animal around, so that he had to address Susanne over his shoulder. “You get a letter down to Rome, and they’ll see it finds your brother.”

“I will,” said Susanne as the young man set his horse trotting out of the barn.

When the sound of hoofbeats had faded, Madelaine came forward. “Well,” she said, regarding Susanne with mixed concern and curiosity. “What do you think?”

Susanne put her hands to her face. “I don’t know
what
to think.” She was shaking now, and unshed tears welled in her eyes. “His lungs . . . people die of rotten lungs.”

“Yes, they do,” said Madelaine. “But they don’t have to, or some of them don’t.” She set the empty pails back on their pegs and came toward Susanne. “We will take a couple days and go to Rome.”

Susanne looked around. “But how can we? The stock can’t be left in the dead of winter, and we have too much work. There’s no one who can be spared to look after the place, not around Buchanan.” She wiped her eyes. “I will have to ask someone who is going there to take a letter for me.”

Madelaine smiled at Susanne. “I’ll do it.” She hurried on before Susanne could protest. “I have the horses, and the road is easy. I know at this time of year it is hard going, but I have traveled worse roads before.” For a moment she was back at Conners’ Mine, in the impossible grip of a mountain winter. “I can go there in a day if the weather clears, and be back at sundown the next day.” She held out her hands to Susanne. “You don’t need me to churn for you, and you told me yourself I am useless on your loom. So let me do this for you.”

Susanne looked dismayed. “I should not allow it, but. . . .” With a sigh she capitulated.

“Good,” said Madelaine, and went on enthusiastically. “We will write the letter tonight, and I will leave tomorrow morning at first light, if the weather is good.”

“It isn’t right . . . “ said Susanne, shaking her head, but unable to make a greater protest than that.

“In these times, we cannot be bothered with what is right, not if it means more unhappiness.” Madelaine busied herself putting out the last of the morning feed, letting Susanne collect her thoughts. With the simple chores finished, she gestured to Susanne to return to the house with her. “You need something hot inside you, to steady you.”

“You must have something, too,” said Susanne, her thoughts more collected than before.

Madelaine did not respond to this as she made her way along the frozen mud path to the house once again; she thought that her traveling would give her the chance to find some nourishment.

But the day ended with freezing rain, and it was not until four days later that Madelaine was able to set out to the north and the small city of Rome, along a road that was now eight inches deep in mud. Madelaine longed to ride straddled, and wished she did not have to use her sidesaddle, for on such treacherous roads, she needed all the control possible to guide her mount along them. She rode the strongest of her Foxtrotters, a nine-year-old dark bay mare with a blaze on her face and two white stockings which were quickly lost in a coating of mud.

“Are you sure you want to go?” Susanne asked, shielding her eyes from the bright, early rays of the sun. “You could wait a day or two, until it is drier.”

“And watch you fret every hour?” Madelaine countered. “No thank you.”

“But there will be a great deal of mud,” Susanne warned her.

“Of course,” Madelaine answered. “It may take a little longer than I planned, though, because of the mud.” She thrust her gloved hand into her fur muff, and put her hand on the little Bell revolver she had concealed there. “You don’t have to worry about me. I will manage well enough.”

“Well then,” said Susanne, clearly relieved that Madelaine would not be dissuaded. “Go with God.”

Madelaine accepted this with a nod and a salute with her crop, then set her mare off at a springy trot. By mid day, Madelaine had gone seven miles, not quite able to enjoy the wooded hillside in the harsh winter wind; but she found the ride invigorating, and she felt satisfaction to be doing something more than milking Sheba and Lilly. She was congratulating herself on making such good time with the condition of the road and the severity of the weather when she saw a carriage up ahead, its wheels mired, and a black coachman standing at the head of the team, tugging at the leaders’ heads while a woman in the carriage urged him to use the whip.

“Not gonna do that, Miz Warren. They be no good with bloody shoulders. You just wait while I coax them out real gentle-like.” The coachman, hearing the approach of Madelaine’s horse, called out as she grew nearer, “There’s a bog the next couple miles, where the road is low.”

“I can see that,” said Madelaine. “But I appreciate the warning.”

A middle-aged woman wearing a widow’s cap atop a profusion of curls clustered at her ears, that made her look more like a Cocker spaniel than a fashion plate, stuck her head out of the window and stared at Madelaine. Her greeting was formal. “Good day to you, young lady.”

“And to you, Ma’am,” said Madelaine, puzzled by the disapproval she heard in the woman’s voice.

“Where are you bound?” There was no hint of invitation in the question, and she plainly disapproved of young women going anywhere unescorted.

“To Rome. To get news of a soldier who is ill. I should get there day after tomorrow, if this road remains a mire, or tomorrow evening if it improves.” She touched the brim of her fashionable hat with her crop. “I hope your journey goes well.”

“Lord have mercy,” cried the woman, and disappeared back inside the coach.

“You go right on, Ma’am,” said the black coachman. “It’s gonna take some time for us to get out of this.”

“Thank you,” said Madelaine, and let her mare mince by, avoiding the ruts with water standing in them.

Two miles further on, Madelaine came upon a flat-bed wagon loaded with sacks of flour that had been abandoned, the team unhitched and taken away. A solitary slave of about sixteen years sat on the driver’s box, his cloth coat hardly enough to keep him from shivering, looking forlornly down the road. He took off his cap as Madelaine rode by, and warned her that it was another six miles to a roadhouse where she could sleep for the night.

“Six miles. I should be there before nightfall,” said Madelaine, and asked if she should inform anyone at the roadhouse of the wagon. “Do you need someone to come for you tonight?”