6
t he packet of string-bound letters is still on the library table. some of mary’s
correspondence, sadly, didn’t survive the fighting or was devoured by silverfish within a few
years. but in the letters that remain, i can find her again. she’s right there in the scrolling words
that drove her pen across the paper. the pale sheets of vellum still hold the echo of her touch.
there is precious little this couple does to deserve gratitude, but finding the letters is the great
exception. long ago, crouched on a stump or log in camp, i read and reread these missives from
my sister. i carefully preserved them in my haversack and then hauled them home on furlough.
in each letter, mary’s soft, clear voice was as real to me as the voices of the boys in the camp. i
saw her eyes crinkle with laughter and sensed her lively spirit—just as i do now after so many
years. because her stories of home gave me the courage to carry on, i saved every one.
as i read her words, i envision my little sister at sixteen, seated with her back ramrod straight
at the tall desk, sunlight haloing the fine wisps of dark hair caught back by a ribbon. her high-
collared pink linen blouse has tugged loose from the waistband of her floor-skimming, brown
striped skirt. her brow is furrowed as she carefully scribes each word across the page, praying
the scroll pen won’t splat ink across the lines. she cusses under her breath when it does and then
absently twists a flyaway lock with her free hand. fine penmanship was a source of pride, and as
a girl she imagined herself a writer, inventing stories and then concealing them in a thick folder
in her bureau chest. i’d sneak a look and quote lines to torment her. i miss her almost as much as
i do ellen.
may 1861. from mary.
dear tom,
it feels like longer than a month since you and the others left. i wish you could have
seen us—ma, tish, and at least twenty girls and women from the neighborhood—
being so industrious on your behalf. now that the state has officially seceded and has
called for three-month volunteers, there is a powerful load of work to be done.
last tuesday morning, pa, mr. lucas, and mr. beard ferried our sewing machine
and others loaned by bethel folks to hupp’s general store. you wouldn’t have
recognized the place. barrels of flour and cornmeal were shoved out of the way
against the walls, bundles of brooms and towers of washtubs were moved outside, and
tins of tea crowded the high shelves. the men lined up sewing machines in rows
across the room. several of the women hadn’t ever seen the new invention, and ma
and tish had to demonstrate pumping the foot pedals and threading the wheels. then
the men went off to borrow chairs to set before the machines. by late morning, the
wagons returned loaded with teetering stacks of rush-seated kitchen and carved-back
parlor chairs. ma even told pa to bring grandma’s old slat-backed one. by this time
pa was plumb worn out, and he complained about his back.
while they were gone for the chairs, we busily sorted through bolts of homespun
fabric and beige canvas. everyone had rifled through their chests and trunks for
material suitable for uniforms and had brought it to hupp’s. the long oak counters
overflowed with it.
as the machines whirred, there was a festive mood while fellows lined up to be
measured. mr. lucas volunteered for that task, saving us women from an improper
job. the boys loitered in front of the store and flirted with all the girls, and we girls
happily flirted back until ma and the older women realized work had lagged and then
shooed them away. you can always count on ma to spoil a good time! you should
have seen those boys strut about. i expect they were considerably puffed up by the
idea of outfits that would set them apart as daring. we cobbled together as best we
could all manner of pants, shirts, and jackets, and i stitched buttonholes until the pads
of my fingers bled. but we were all content to be doing something helpful. some girls
were especially eager to sew for the boys they were sweet on, but i hoped that my
labor would benefit you in some way.
i expect you’ll be pleased to know that pa and other neighborhood men are headed
your way up the valley road with wagons stocked with the new uniforms, fresh
blankets, and more important, baskets packed with last winter’s yellow and red
apples, smoked hams and sausages, loaves of bread, crocks of preserved vegetables,
and spring greens. they should be there at the ferry by the time this letter arrives.
tish and i were mighty proud of our part and know that without everyone’s efforts,
you boys would go wanting for however long this war lasts.
your loyal sister, mary
this closure makes me laugh now, as it did every time she signed this way during the war.
june 1861. from mary.
tom, you wouldn’t believe how folks around here get exercised about the arrival of
anything from harpers ferry sent by you boys. i swear that by the time the stagecoach
driver has planted a foot on the front porch, word has traveled and everyone for miles
around swarms like hornets. the barnyard looks like a farm auction with horses, the
hogshead’s rockaway buggy, and so many farm carts pushed up against the fence.
last sunday the weather was stormy, so the parlor was bursting with folks pressed
against the walls after every seat was claimed. pa read your latest message to a
hushed group breathless for any mention of their sons’ whereabouts. on fairer days,
families stand about on the lawn and listen to a letter’s contents as pa reads to the
assembled congregation from the porch. you’d think he’s the local minister. he
drones through each letter, glasses perched on his pointy nose. folks beg him to
repeat it all so that the precious words can feel like more. no letter is ever lengthy
enough to satisfy.
ma says to write anything personal on a small, separate piece of paper and tuck it
inside the longer letter to keep the rest of the neighborhood from hearing. if word
comes that the lucas family has mail, people make just as mad a dash there, but
sam’s not the scribe that you are. letters arrive only two days after they are written,
so don’t think you can use mail delays as an excuse to shirk your brotherly duty.
we hear that as many as 800 augusta boys have responded in the past few weeks to
governor letcher’s call for three-month volunteers. you’d be hard-pressed to find any
healthy boys around here anymore
ma and pa never seem to have anything written in time when the mail stage drives
by, but this evening ma will add a note to this envelope. be forewarned. i suspect it
will be the usual.
june 1861. from ma.
it’s with a trembling hand and sad heart that i take this pencil in hand to drop you
a line, as i fear that there may never be another opportunity. i exhort you once more
to put your trust in the almighty god of jacob. take jesus christ as your savior. then
if you fall on the battlefield you’ll be saved, and we’ll be gloriously reunited in heaven
at the last judgment. there have been fervent prayers for you and the other boys. oh,
won’t you pray for yourself!
nothing more from your affectionate mother, c. smiley.
july 1861. from mary.
tom, you know how ma keeps no secret from aunt ellen, including her worries
about your lack of faith? after church this past sunday, aunt ellen lay in wait for me
on the portico. before i could slip past, she grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. she
implored me to persuade you to enlist under jesus’s banner and to observe the
sabbath. as though i could influence you on such matters! she also stuffed into my
pocket a scrap of paper that has a diarrhea remedy, saying she found it in a book
penned by a man who has served in foreign countries. here it is: take a tablespoonful
of wheat flour and mix with two or more of water and drink. in most cases, one dose
stops the flux instantly. i pass this on but try it at your own risk.
what my sister and aunt ellen couldn’t imagine was that flour would quickly be in short
supply, while diarrhea would be as constant as a soldier’s shadow.
i have thought hard about you or sam standing solitary guard duty around the
steep bluffs that folks say encircle the ferry. what if you lost your footing on the
treacherous stone and tumbled to the bottom one starless night, and no one knew you
were below with a broken arm or leg? pledge to me that you’ll have sam or some
other fellow stand with you. don’t either of you stand guard alone. tish and ma also
want to remind you not to sleep in wet clothes if you’ve been drenched by rain, as you
know you might become ill. you are probably muttering under your breath “enough
of that motherly advice!” so i’ll cease for now.
how does housekeeping go? at home you always thought our work was so easy,
but i reckon you know a little about it now. i guess you will be the chief cook and
dish washer. do you sleep in tents or out in the open air with the sky as your cover?
nothing significant is happening here, but that fidgety mrs. jim calliston has lost
her mind with all the war talk and was carried to the staunton lunatic asylum.
speculations of war fill the air, and i guess it just drove her mad. no one seems
concerned with anything else but rumors that the northerners are nothing but
warmongers, raving mad for battle. everyone is scared to death. i do wish folks would
be more interested in going to harpers ferry to check on you and the other boys from
home, rather than being so distracted by all these dark imaginings.
you might be interested to know that because you fine, strapping boys have
deserted us, the older men formed a thirty-man home guard three weeks after you
left. some of the remaining boys who haven’t mustered the courage to join you, have
joined them. folks worry that “bad elements” will misuse the unprotected women and
elderly now that everyone responsible for law enforcement has gone. a few are also
convinced that slaves will seek revenge on all white people.
do you remember johnny hutchens, my friend eliza’s brother who is several years
your senior? i can’t fathom why he was elected captain of the home guard because
everyone knows the hutchens family has been staunchly pro- union all along.
convincing eliza hutchens and her nine siblings to give up their union sympathies,
although now they aren’t so bold about expressing them, would be like trying to
convince the sun to shine in bethel at night.
the home guard’s purpose is to go where there’s danger—but a vote of members
determines every move. in my opinion, they can be depended upon to always vote to
stay home. they march weekly in the small field to the south of our house, as the other
fields in bethel are in pasture, but most don’t know “face right” from “face left.”
almost all should have volunteered to be in the real army, especially those who brag
they can whip five yankees by themselves.
johnny hutchens didn’t last long as captain. last thursday was drilling day for
the guard and was also when the oath of allegiance to the confederacy was
administered—sworn to by all but the two lacy brothers and their captain johnny.
johnny says he’s too religious to fight, and anyway he won’t fight against his
relations, who are nearly all northerners. if he went to battle, he swears that he
couldn’t fire one bullet at the yankees and doesn’t know whether he’d order his
company north or south. he was speedily turned out of office, and captain hite was
elected instead. do you agree johnny ought to have the words ‘traitor’ branded on his
forehead—as “heretic” was in ancient greece? have you boys heard that president
davis has proclaimed that everyone who won’t pledge loyalty to the sovereignty of the
confederacy must leave the state within forty days? after that time, they’ll be arrested
and thrown in the brig.
i have nothing more to write. your most loyal sister, mary
those lacy boys, just two years apart in age and strong, dark-haired fellows, avoided the
confederate army in the end. they were found dangling by ropes lapped round a broad beam in
their father’s weathered barn a month or so after the draft was announced in early ’62. it beats
me why they didn’t just hightail it north instead, but the times were so exceedingly strange that
no man’s actions can be judged by usual measure.
