Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [109]
“I haven’t seen that child in ages,” Grandmother said as she leaned back in her chair. “You’d think George would bring his only child out to Hilltop once in a while to see me, wouldn’t you? Where is George?”
I looked to Aunt Anne for help, but she simply shrugged and said in a hushed voice, “Caroline, please forgive us, dear, for arriving unannounced, but we had no one to send ahead of us. The Negroes would have all bolted over to the enemy, thinking they’d be free, if we had let them out of our sight.”
“I don’t mind at all. And I’m sorry for not welcoming you properly. Please, would you like something to eat, or maybe a place to rest or freshen up?”
“I’m not hungry, but perhaps Mother Fletcher would . . .”We both turned to ask Grandmother, but her eyes were closed and her head had lolled to the side, resting against the wings of the chair. She was snoring.
Aunt Anne and Cousin Thomas ate the light lunch Esther had quickly prepared, while Tessie and Luella readied the upstairs bedrooms for our guests. Gilbert hauled their luggage up to their rooms. We decided that Grandmother and her maid would sleep in Daddy’s library, since climbing the stairs was difficult for her.
“Hilltop is on the far side of the Chickahominy,” Aunt Anne explained as she ate, “and since the Confederate lines are on this side of the river, William thought it wise to send us to safety. The Federals are advancing, and the plantation will soon be in enemy hands.”
“They’re that close?” I asked, my stomach doing a slow, queasy turn.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“I wanted to stay home and shoot Yankees,” young Thomas said, “but Father wouldn’t let me.” They were the first words he had spoken since he’d arrived. I calculated his age to be fourteen, nearly the age Jonathan had been the first time we’d met. But Thomas had none of his older brother’s curiosity and wiry vitality. Instead, Thomas was plump and lethargic and seemed content to sit and stare out the window all day. If he had stayed at Hilltop to shoot Yankees, I don’t know how he would have summoned the energy to reload the shotgun.
“William insisted on staying at the plantation,” Anne continued. “Heaven only knows what the Yankees will do with him. He’s the only one left, except for the slaves, but he didn’t want to abandon our home.”
“You are all very welcome here, Aunt Anne. Stay as long as you’d like.”
“We don’t want to be a burden to you. Your servants will find some produce in the wagon and the last of our hams. We’d rather you got them than the Yankees.”
“You have no idea what a blessing it will be to have real food again. Eli dug up his flower garden and planted vegetables this spring, but all we’ve harvested so far are some greens. Your food is a godsend.”
She smiled ruefully. “You may change your mind about what a godsend we are after you’ve lived with Mother Fletcher for a few days. But you know, out of all of us, I feel the most sorry for her. The war has changed everyone’s life—probably forever—but we’re still young enough to adjust, to start all over again if we have to. I pray to God that the war doesn’t take my husband or my sons, but at least the decision to engage in this folly was theirs to make. Mother Fletcher didn’t choose any of this. And now the quiet life she always had with her family, living on her own land, is gone— and no one can help her understand why.”
A few days later, early in the afternoon, a great rumble, like the roll of thunder, suddenly shook the house. Deaf as she was, Grandmother awoke from her catnap and said, “You’d better tell the servants to close the windows, Anne. It’s thundering.”
The skies were gray and overcast, but there weren’t any thunderclouds. Aunt Anne and I looked at each other as the rumbling booms grew louder. “It’s artillery,” I told her.
“Is it the war?” Thomas asked, looking up from the house of cards he was constructing. His mother nodded. “Tarnation! I want to fight, too, Ma, like Will and Jonathan. I’ll bet it’s grand.”
I knew better. The only thing grand was the scale of the slaughter. Every boom of the cannon