2
a re you sure you want to donate this thing to the salvation army?” the man rubs
his fingers across the dining room table’s surface. “don’t you think we should sell it instead?”
the woman has been clattering old pots and pans in the kitchen, but now she joins him. with
a bright yellow wrist encased in a work glove, she brushes strands of hair away from her eyes.
“it would be great if we could. extra money would help a lot. but this table will never sell.”
“why not?’
“well, for the same two reasons i don’t want it.” she tells him that nowadays dealers can’t
sell heavy, brown furniture from the middle of the nineteenth century. people won’t buy it
unless it’s at junk store prices, and maybe not then. “that’s what most everything in this house
is. i guess it was all bought at the same time, like a big redecorating project. i don’t care for it
much either. besides, this table is in terrible shape.” she points a yellow finger at the many
irregular pale patterns splotching the surface. “see these? they’re mouse pee stains.”
“they’re what? how do you know?”
“they’re wherever i find mouse nests and droppings. they’re all over the dresser tops
upstairs.” she pauses, pointing at something else. “and look at these wide cracks in the wood. i
think they’re too bad to be fixed, and it would cost more than the table is worth, even if they
could be. frankly, i can’t imagine who’d want this thing, but maybe someone will, if it’s almost
free.” she looked at him sympathetically. “think about our house at home. everything’s 1950s
mid-century modern. most people prefer chrome, glass, and leather these days.”
the man nods. “okay, i’ll take it into town in the pickup later today, after i help you with the
kitchen.” they pass close to me on the way out of the room, unaware of my choking rage.
their careless disregard for my possessions sets my head on fire. i literally see waves of red.
that table was the center of our family life. kept polished to a fine sheen, the walnut surface
bore the food that sustained us and was the scene of many events, joyful and solemn. pa’s open
wood coffin lay on its gleaming surface while neighbors kept candlelight vigil for three nights,
guarding against mice and bearing witness that his spirit was gone. it served the same function
for my coffin. but i remember most clearly when i was eighteen, and my family, seated around
its oval surface, heard an announcement that i’ve regretted ever since.
an ordinary journey to town was the start of it all. new blades of grass pushed through the early
march snow as sam lucas’s father set out to staunton to acquire sacks of coffee, sugar, and rice
at the general grocers. sam and i were boyhood comrades in those days, and his father had
asked us to come along. our young backs would come in handy if the wagon wheels skidded off
the ice-slicked road.
the three of us hunched forward in silence as the wagon jostled us along the frozen ruts of
the road from bethel to staunton. blink, and you might miss my hometown of bethel—not
much there but a blacksmith shop, the general store, a handful of houses, and the few farms
edged by the road. staunton, the county seat and the closest town of any size, was a world away:
a good fifteen miles and a six-hour round-trip journey by horse. bethel was long behind us when
a dark silhouette came into view.
“it’s old mr. tatternook with his dogs. the damn fool has blocked our way,” mr. lucas
muttered as he drew back on the horses’ reins. a coarsely woven, irregularly fitting overcoat
swaddled the man in black, and a pack of scraggly curs, wolf breeds, wild-eyed bear dogs, and
yapping rat terriers encircled his feet. under his breath mr. lucas let go a stream of oaths before
he said, “what are you up to, tatternook?”
there was no response from under the low, broad brim of the flapjack hat that almost
obscured a patch across one eye. i expected the man and his dogs to approach mr. lucas, but as
snow crunched under his boots, tatternook shuffled to where i perched on the wagon’s boards.
he stared me dead in the eyes. heat surged in my cheeks, and i recalled where i’d seen him. it
had been one steamy, boring day last summer.
during the past year, i had settled into a routine of helping pa with his mill and farm work.
all summer and fall i’d lugged burlap sacks of wheat and then corn from farm wagons to a heap
by the grinding stones, marked their number in the mill book, and watched the circular stones
crush the grain as the huge water wheel forced them around. then pa and i scooped up the flour
or cornmeal and bagged it for the farmer. while we worked, he’d mutter about how too much
rain or too little rain was affecting wheat crops, and then he’d worry over his account book. four
bags of wheat ground for mr. lucas. ten bags of corn ground for mr. hogshead. who owes,
who doesn’t? the tedium of it, day in and day out, drove me mad.
the only thing i looked forward to was spending time with my friend sam. while everyone
sought his invitation for adventures, he most often chose me. i counted myself extremely lucky.
no one ever paid any attention to the fact he was slightly bowlegged. sam could still outrun
almost any creature on two or four legs, once even a mad hound dog. he might have been
considered short, but the muscles bulging his sleeves and straining his shirt across his chest
made anyone think twice about mocking him. the son of a bethel tavern keeper, he was springy
as a cat and full of fire. he never got his fill of anything. he’d respond to even the crabbiest
remarks with a wide, toothy grin and an open expression. that’s when you noticed his dimples
and strong chin, both pleasing to girls. he’s the one who taught me to fire a hunting rifle, not pa.
and taught me before we were ten years old to swear as good as any sailor by mimicking what
he’d heard in his father’s tavern.
“goddamnit, get your horse’s arse over here,” he’d yell.
“not on your life, you yellow-bellied bastard,” i’d holler back, and we’d laugh so hard at
those forbidden words that we’d tumble onto the ground.
if i could have had my wish in those years, it would have been to be just like sam, rather than
the serious boy i was. no one ever accused him of being a bookworm.
sam often sought out danger to leaven endless summer days, and he easily persuaded me to
join in. i was eager to prove i was as much fun as his other friends, boys a year or two older. it
was hard to compete with their tales of taking down ferocious bears and timber rattlesnakes,
supposedly encountered during afternoons roaming the forest with rifles.
one august afternoon, sam and i climbed into mr. mckimmie’s pasture to taunt his bull.
the game was to flap a crimson kerchief before his broad snoot while whooping and hollering
and then to run like the devil with the beast snorting at our heels until we catapulted over the
fence. we kept at it until the bull had no more breath or energy. at one point, i spied a fellow
clad in crow-black off in the distance but paid him no mind. now, on the wintery road to
staunton, he stood before me. he hesitated a moment, then inquired, “boy, do you remember
me?”
my voice cracked as i responded, “i believe i’ve seen you around these parts once or twice,
sir.”
“you’re correct there, tom smiley,” he spoke softly. he hesitated for effect and then said,
“heed my warning, young man. your rash nature and false pride will lead to nothing but
remorse all your life. unless you learn to curb them.” his one piercing eye glittered as it locked
onto my gaze. a chill flowed down my spine like a winter stream over rocks. then, without
further conversation, tatternook abruptly moved away from the wagon with his dog pack and
continued in the direction of bethel. sam and i looked at one another.
“what the devil? just what did you do to provoke that old fellow?” sam said. i shrugged my
shoulders and rolled my eyes, hiding my unease.
mr. lucas thwacked the leather reins on the horses’ flanks. “pay no heed to that man. no one
knows where he came from or who his folks are, and god knows what blinded him. probably
provoked someone into poking him in the eye. he’s as odd as a three-dollar bill. all of bethel is
fortunate he keeps to himself.” and we lurched forward.
sam’s father went his own way in town, and we were drawn toward the courthouse, curious
about loud shouts echoing from that direction. when we rounded the corner, we found the
source. a crowd had set up a rhythm of stamping feet and waving fists, cheering at the top of
their lungs, “seventy-six, seventy-six.” the day’s chill was forgotten as we pushed our way
through to the center where fire in an iron barrel warmed the hands and hind parts of dozens of
boys. the crowd looked to be our age but included a few older men on the sidelines. a
uniformed man had taken the center of the courthouse broad stone porch as we drew closer. he
drew himself up with an important air, and the crowd grew silent.
“who’s that?” sam asked a boy standing close.
“everyone knows he’s captain john imboden, leader of the west augusta guard, the
county’s volunteer militia. where’ve you been?”
“i don’t know. what’s this about?”
“you didn’t hear about lincoln’s inaugural speech? it came in by telegram hours ago. he
said that no state may withdraw from the union. that’s got people pretty riled up. enough to
think there might be a war. imboden’s looking for recruits for the guard, i hear.”
we listened to a tirade aimed at a group of boys barely old enough to shave. imboden
bellowed, “if there’s no other way to defend our right to withdraw from oppressive rule, we’ll
band together to bear arms!” a lean, hawk-nosed man, he paced back and forth, shouting and
spitting, while he fiercely pounded his clenched fist on his open palm. “our patriotic ancestors
cast off the yoke of tyrannical rule in 1776. we can do it too! has this president forgotten the
example set by the founders and the colonies? we must defend our god-given rights! we must
protect the inherent freedoms that lincoln and his bogus new party will surely trample!”
a wave of “seventy-six, seventy-six” swelled again from the crowd. the blaze that ignited
the speaker’s eyes and the hint of danger that rippled through his spare form were what riveted
my attention. when imboden paused to swig from a hip flask, i spotted someone waving at me.
he grinned widely, revealing the familiar gap between his top teeth. it was tayloe hupp, a
staunton boy i’d known when we were children. he beckoned us to join him.
“tom, you’re here too? you look pretty much the same, but taller.”
“you too.” i didn’t tell him that his teeth were the only way i recognized him. “my friend
sam and i rode into town with his father. we heard the ruckus and came only to satisfy our
curiosity. i didn’t imagine it would be anything like this.”
“it’s really something, isn’t it? i think i’m going to sign up. it’s one way to keep my old man
from forcing me into his law practice. what about you fellows? why don’t you join me?”
sam’s brown eyes were dancing. his elbow nudged my ribs. “this is a heck of a lot better
than spending our days charging mckimmie’s bull, i’d say. let’s do it; let’s enlist.”
“i don’t know. i’ll have to think about it.” i studied my boots rather than meet his challenging
eyes. joining the volunteer militia was something i’d never considered, not even for a minute.
“come on. i won’t do it without you.” he playfully punched me on the shoulder. a broad
grin covered tayloe’s face. sam said, “you might have a better chance with lizzie fackler if
you’re in a uniform.” he winked and waited for my response. i wished he had left lizzie out of
it. her blue eyes fringed with dark lashes and the cupid’s bow of her plump, inviting lips flashed
to mind, along with the warm scent of the rose water she dabbed on her pale wrists. a month
earlier she had held hands with me at the saturday church social on two occasions, hiding our
clasped fingers within the folds of her skirt and pressing them against her thigh. then she’d
allowed me to walk her home and steal an inviting, lingering kiss. i could still feel the damp
softness of her mouth on mine. without explanation, from the next day forward, she refused to
even glance at me and wouldn’t speak, either. i’d made the mistake of asking sam about the
peculiar ways of women. but to volunteer for the militia, i needed a bit more convincing than
tayloe’s encouragement and sam’s goad about lizzie.
now imboden was cunning, playing to the young crowd’s rejection of authority. “let’s not
forget george washington was damn proud to be called a rebel, and we should be too!” a roar
surged forth.
the voices faded into a dull buzz, and i was adrift in a daydream. mountains and villages
miles beyond my father’s farm loomed in my mind’s eye, as i imagined my heroic deeds.
staunton was the most i had ever journeyed, and i feared that would hold true all my life. pa had
never been farther than staunton or lexington, both no more than fifteen miles distant. he had
no interest in visiting the state capital when mr. lucas invited him to accompany him a few
years earlier. for the most part, he had no desire to see anything of the world beyond what he
already knew, unless it was by absolute necessity. i, on the other hand, was desperate to exist
awhile right on the edge of life and death—to feel truly alive in a manner that working in my
father’s fields and mill could never provide. it didn’t occur to me then that the route to that high
state required a deep numbness the remainder of the time.
imboden’s passionate rhetoric paid off. a long queue of boys formed before the table on the
courthouse steps to sign up. tayloe waited among them to scrawl his name on the muster roll,
and sam joined him. he raised an eyebrow at me and strode forward, dipping the pen in ink and
firmly signing his name with a grand gesture. he then turned expectantly. with only a flicker of
hesitation, i joined the line and signed when it was my turn. the three of us were now
militiamen, partners in a pact with the unknown, and we strolled away from the courthouse—
proud as pigs in mud.
and yet, during the three-hour wagon ride home, the thrill began to drain away. i dreaded
telling my folks. sam and i traded secretive, sly glances, but then sank into thought as mr.
lucas’s plodding team of farm horses parted the twilight landscape. neither of us much
considered that we had set ourselves on a traitor’s path, joining a militia hell bent on
overthrowing the united states government, if the call came. nor had we given any thought to
the reasons behind the conflict.
as the paneled front door thudded behind me, ma cried out from the kitchen, “is that you, tom
smiley? we’re sitting down to eat any minute now, so wash up quickly.” i recall my mother so
well from before the war. in those days, she was a person of habit and orderliness. she insisted
that her kitchen be scrubbed spotless, not a splash of grease on a kettle or pot, and that we
appear at the dining table for every meal on time, hair combed, hands washed. her delicate face
could become fierce in a flash if we dawdled long enough for food to chill but then could
brighten quickly afterward. she also cared that no locks stray from the soft brown braids
wrapped round her head and that her lace-collared dark dresses were stiffly pressed. but most
specifically, she was generous with her maternal devotion and scrutiny, and, as her only son, i
was the recipient of their greatest share.
now i responded to her call. my image flared out of the hall mirror as i headed toward the
kitchen, and i doubled back to check if i might look any different. i twisted my head this way
and that. no, the same gangly fellow stared back, taller than most and capped by an unruly
tousle of brown hair that refused to slick down. my long-nosed face tried on a sober expression,
but i was still an awkward youth who had sprung up too fast for his clothes and features to keep
pace. there was no new aura of manliness or derring-do. nevertheless, the blue eyes above the
sharp cheekbones were not those of the boy from the morning. these eyes burned with the
promise of adventure.
word flies across the county miles. the minute mr. lucas discovered sam’s deed, my
parents would be quick to find out. i’d be in a far worse pickle if they got the news from a
bethel neighbor. the best time would be after everyone had gathered around the table for supper
that night. thinking of pa’s reaction, my palms grew sweaty, but the presence of my sisters and
mother might soften his disapproval. they would be in opposition at first—not to the notion of a
seceded virginia, but to my thrusting myself into harm’s way if war was to come.
early nightfall had already tinted the shallow snow a deep indigo beyond the tall dining room
windows when ma and the girls finally settled china tureens and platters on the table’s
homespun linen cloth. the warm aromas of freshly baked corn bread, smoked ham from our
own hogs, and green beans stewed with pork hocks held no lure for me. through cracks in the
thick, winter curtains, the gas lamps banded the powder-cloaked shrubs with golden light. i cast
my gaze there rather than at the cheery faces around the table and allowed my mind to drift back
to tayloe at the courthouse.
i met him six years earlier when we were both twelve. pa had need of a lawyer, and i had
insisted on riding the three hours with him to staunton. i was loafing next to the office door with
my nose in one of my favorite books, ivanhoe, when a fellow about my age trotted around the
corner.
“what are you reading?” he asked, without any preliminaries, his bright eyes friendly and
curious. “by the way, i’m tayloe.”
“i’m tom. tom smiley,” i said. then i showed him the book’s cover and asked, “have you
read this? it’s powerfully good.”
he nodded. “it’s one of my favorites. i’ll read any book about knights and kings.”
“me too.” i tried to think of something more to say. “is this where you live?” he glanced at
the spacious brick house with the wide porch behind us and nodded again. “well then, my father
is paying a business call on your father,” i said.
“i guess so.” he paused a moment. “do you play dominoes? we could sit on the porch while
you watch for him.”
“i’d like that,” i said, trying not to stare at the conspicuous gap in his front teeth.
he strode off on the brick walk leading to the columned porch and i followed along. just as
we reached the steps, the formal front door swung open and a middle- aged black woman
dressed in blue calico and a white apron beckoned to tayloe. she had a red kerchief around her
head, and wisps of gray curls escaped around the edges. she placed her hands on her thin hips.
“your mother says get on into this house. it’s time for piano lessons, and you needn’t be
talking to boys you don’t know.” my eyes widened in wonder that a house slave was giving
tayloe orders, even if they started with his mother. i’d never known anyone with a house slave,
and i quickly looked away, unsure of how to act.
tayloe made a grimace and turned toward me. “next time your father comes to town, get him
to bring you by the house. we’ll play dominoes then.” i accepted his invitation only a couple of
times. his mother treated me as though i wasn’t a worthy guest by aiming a hard expression my
way whenever she saw me at the door. obviously, she didn’t want her boy to befriend a farmer’s
son.
one thing i know, we were proud to have been tradespeople for several generations, and
scotch- irish presbyterians to boot. and there was not one slave on our place, or on our
neighbors’ lands. folks in the valley raised wheat and rye, not cotton, tobacco, and rice that
required backbreaking labor. those plants don’t do well in the valley’s limey soil. besides, we
virginians at the southwestern end of the shenandoah valley believed our own hard work built
character. we couldn’t abide the lazy tidewater virginia aristocrats with their english ways and
indolent habits. they forced enslaved people to provide for all their needs. tayloe’s people had
recently come from that part of the world and were no different.
with tish and mary’s help, ma did her own cooking, gardening, butchering, house cleaning,
sewing, churning, milking, weaving, and putting up vegetables in crocks after the growing
season. pa’s income from the mill just a quarter mile down the road, as well as livestock grazed
on the farm, permitted us to live in a newly expanded four-bedroom wood-sided house, drive a
fashionable buggy, and to eat as fine and as often as we wished.
the toe of mary’s buttoned boot thwacked my ankle and brought me back to the present.
heads were bowed, ready to say grace. after pa offered thanks to the lord for providing the
ample meal before us, his angled face grew stern, and his brows slanted toward his prominent
nose. his eyes were stern behind his glasses. “tom, do you know anything about an incident
over at mr. ware’s place? he says somebody has been using the back of his barn as target
practice with eggs pilfered from his chicken coop. when i met him today on the road, he swore
he spied you and the lucas boy scurrying off behind his shed. you wouldn’t be involved in
some nonsense like that, would you?” he waited, elbow on the table and one hand cupped
around his gray-bearded chin.
caught off guard, i paused a second and then said, “no, sir. i can’t imagine what fools would
do such a half-witted thing—wasting a man’s egg supply and spoiling his barn. sam and i had
nothing to do with it, you can be sure of that.” but i couldn’t meet his eyes directly. we’d
thought the wares weren’t home—that they were off at a church supper with my parents. it was
the sharp, quick thwack of the hard shell against the wood and the slow, messy aftermath that
we found so pleasurable. years later, the sound would trigger night terrors.
“well, i hope not to hear of anything like this in the future.” to my relief, he seemed satisfied
and returned to his meal.
sixteen-year-old mary looked over at me with eyes that brimmed with mischief and a smile
working the edges of her mouth. “tom, just where have you been all day in such wretched
weather?”
ma and pa both glanced up quickly from their plates as my face and ears flushed. mary knew
me well enough to suspect that i’d been up to something, and she was going to catch me out in
front of our parents. eyes glued to my fork, i muttered, “sam and i went with mr. lucas to town
today. what more do you need to know?”
ma said sternly, “that’s no way to talk to your sister. answer the question that was put to
you.”
now i’d have to tell them: i had committed myself to bear arms for the south, if it came to
that. “sam and i signed up with the west augusta guard today when we were in town,” i
stuttered. forks clattered back to their plates, and everyone stared. “you should have heard all
the speechifying. if you’d seen that fellow imboden strutting and inciting the crowd like we did,
you’d have been hard-pressed not to sign up yourselves.”
my parents exchanged knowing looks. in their view, i was headstrong, and there was some
truth to it. the schoolteacher took switches to my calves more often than the other fellows. pa’s
tone was gruff. “why now? there’s been no call for volunteers, at least not that i know of, and
those fellows in richmond at the state convention don’t seem anywhere ready to vote for
secession. they’ve been at it for months, toing and froing on the subject. what’s gotten into
you, boy?” i had no good answer, sputtering and fumbling for words until abandoning the
fruitless effort. my parents’ faces darkened with a shared alarm.
ma chimed in, “do you have any knowledge of these militia hotheads you’ve joined yourself
up with?”
“do you?” i asked.
“i do indeed. they’re a bunch of hooligans and reckless fools. it won’t do you one whit of
good to associate with the likes of them.” her eyes burned into mine. “or to be impudent to
your mother.”
“aw, ma, they seem not such a bad lot. the leader is john imboden, a high- falootin’
staunton lawyer who hobnobs with all the bigwigs in the state capital. i ran into tayloe hupp
at the rally. remember him? he’s the son of pa’s lawyer, and he thinks imboden makes the sun
rise and set.”
“that’s where you’re both mistaken,” pa said. “most people know he’s a man of poor
judgment and abrupt reactions—not a fellow to whom i would entrust my son.” he placed both
hands on the table and leaned forward. “for lord’s sake, withdraw before it’s too late. this
secession convention in richmond may lead to a catastrophe.” he glanced at ma for
confirmation. “i’ll acknowledge that there’s many a wager that there’ll not be enough votes to
secede—but if troubles are coming, you’ll have committed yourself to the storm’s center. if you
hadn’t done this outrageous thing, you might never be called to fight.”
ma nodded her head and then muttered something under her breath about bad influences. i
was certain i heard sam’s name.
but they knew nothing of this business i’d signed up for. they were born too late for the
american revolution and were barely born in time for the war of 1812. there were no old
veterans in the bethel area, and my father hadn’t ever been an army man. he had never believed
that fighting just for fighting’s sake was noble.
i usually could count on mary, younger by two years, to support me, even if she had sparked
this uncomfortable discussion. she and i were most alike. when i was ten and she was eight and
wore braids, she entered my room one summer day and found me bent over a piece of paper on
my desk in a bar of sunlight. i held a large magnifying glass a few inches above the white
surface and peered through it so intently that i didn’t hear the door creak open.
“what’s that?” she said loudly, causing me to drop the glass to the carpet. when i jerked
around in my chair, her expression revealed the same wonder at the insect’s appearance that i
had felt. i hadn’t the heart to scold her for startling me.
“it’s a snaketail dragonfly. in latin, it’s called an o-phi-o-gomphus,” i told her, slowly
sounding out the syllables of the unfamiliar word i’d found in dr. asa finch’s science of
entomology.
“oh, fie on gomphus,” she yelled and burst into giggles. “gomphus is a terrible sickness. fie
on it! you’d better not let ma hear you talk about that!”
“it’s not a disease, silly. come here and look more closely. i caught it down by the stream.” i
put the magnifying glass in her hand and shoved the paper across my desk toward her. a four-
winged insect with a thin, armored tail lay pinned to the surface. its bulbous blue eyes reflected
a tiny image of the window’s light.
“it’s beautiful and scary,” she said.
“now let me have my glass back.”
“not yet.” she bent lower over the paper. “did you see how the belly is patterned like a
snake?”
“abdomen, not belly. you have to learn the terms.” i gave her brown braid a sharp tug. she
kicked me in the shin and fled, hollering for ma.
from that afternoon on, she shared my love of collecting and studying insects. i made her a
long-handled net to match mine with discarded strips of our mother’s hat veiling sewn to a bent
piece of willow. when we finished with summer chores, mary would run with me along the
stream or in the field grass. we’d lie quietly on our bellies in the baking sun and wait for an
unsuspecting grasshopper or an eastern hercules beetle to scurry by. then we’d scoop it up,
drop it in an old apothecary bottle, and plug the glass mouth with a cork until we carried it back
to the house to identify it in the insect book. i showed mary how to draw the carapace, six spiny
legs, stalk-like antennae, and to write the latin name in her best script beneath. with practice,
she became an even better draftsman than i was.
and, like me, she was restless to see more of the world, but was pretty enough to attract a
fine husband who would settle her down. at least, that’s what we thought then. our mother’s
sapphire eyes shone from mary’s fine-boned face, but mary’s were always alight with a wry
humor. even though i teased her mercilessly, she was the one with whom i shared my doubts
and worries.
now she said softly to our parents, “allow him a chance to speak before you judge him
harshly.” she turned toward me with wide eyes. “you must have a good reason, don’t you,
tom?” but i honestly couldn’t think of one worthwhile explanation for my actions at the
courthouse. it seemed the better course to stay silent.
at twenty, letitia was the oldest of us three and i always thought she was a bit jealous of my
status as the only son. she said, “why must you always be so rash? pa needs you at the mill and
around here in the fields. he depends upon you. how will he possibly manage?” her tone
became sour. “i agree with pa. you could at least have waited until matters are more decided.”
at first, i didn’t want to acknowledge what she said. but later that evening, her words about
abandoning my father to do all the work and mary’s concern for my safety had a sting. i began
to regret my decision. in truth, pa often complained of sore arms and an aching back, and he’d
recently become more dependent upon my younger muscles for help with heavy work. but it
was too late to withdraw. my earlier euphoria was reduced to a leaden feeling in my stomach. i
wondered how sam was faring with his family.
