Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [90]
“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.”
Mrs. Randolph quickly blotted a tear with her hankie. “My boys are not cowards, so I must be brave, as well. I sent them off gladly. Their country needs them.”
I had hated to watch Charles go; I couldn’t imagine watching a beloved son, a child I’d nurtured from infancy, march off to war. For a second time I thought of Tessie, of how she must have felt to watch her son being taken away against her will.
Then, like a changeable wind, the conversation turned to another aspect of the war, our first victory. Mrs. Goode told us about the letter her son had sent describing last month’s skirmish at Big Bethel Church.
“The Yankees sent troops up the peninsula from Fort Monroe— more than four thousand of them—thinking they could drive us out of our fortifications and move inland. But my Daniel said our boys fought like wildcats. We drove them back, that’s for certain, even though our boys were outnumbered nearly four-toone.” The society ladies of Richmond gave a modest little cheer.
“God’s favor is always on the side of justice,” Sally said. “Even if we’re outnumbered, heaven will protect the Southern cause.”
Her words brought an even more enthusiastic response. When the applause died away, Mrs. Goode said, “It also shows that our enemies are cowards who will run at the first chance.”
“That’s right,” everyone agreed. “Billy Yank won’t fight.”
“Johnny Reb will, though. It’s our homeland that’s being invaded.”
When the room quieted again, Mrs. Randolph asked, “Have any of you been downtown yet, to see all the Yankee banners we captured at Big Bethel? They’re on display in the store windows.”
“I’ve seen them,” Mrs. Taylor bragged. “And I also saw them parading the prisoners right down Main Street. I got my first good look at a real live Yankee.”
“Frankly, I’d much rather see a dead one,” Mrs. Goode replied. Everyone laughed except me. I had been picturing Robert in his U.S. Army uniform.
As the afternoon wore on, the drawing room grew increasingly hot, the scratchy wool uniforms like blankets in our laps. Even with all the windows and double doors thrown open, we perspired in the heat, our needles slipping through our sweaty fingers. The St. Johns had equipped several of their slaves with palmetto fans and stationed them around the room to keep the air circulating. But when the young Negro girl standing behind Sally and me grew weary and paused to rest, Sally turned around with a frown and pinched her leg.
“Sally! That’s no way to treat a child,” I admonished her without even thinking.
“But it’s hot in here,” Sally said, pouting. “She’s supposed to keep fanning.”
“She’s been fanning us for nearly an hour.” I kept my voice low, hoping no one else would hear me. “Your arms would be tired, too, by now. And she’s just a little girl.”
“Caroline, she’s a slave.”
“That’s no excuse to treat a person unkindly.”
At first Sally seemed annoyed that I had interfered. But when she glanced over her shoulder again, she saw that the girl had tears in her eyes. “Sit down and rest a minute, Lucy,” she said with a sigh. Then Sally turned to me. “I don’t even realize I’m being unkind. I hardly think of them as persons. I’m sorry, but I was raised not to see them.”
Now it was my turn to be ashamed of my behavior. Admonishing my hostess had been rude. I mumbled an apology of my own and tried to disappear into the sofa