Chapter Sixty-Four
The war reached Howbutker in September of 1864 and took one of its most beloved native sons. Jessica, Priscilla, and Petunia were in the kitchen preparing cloth packets of corncob ashes as a substitute for soda to distribute to neighbors when Amy, eight years old and a “mother’s helper,” was sent to answer the pull of the front doorbell. Wartime shortages and the union blockade of supply ships had generated ingenious ideas for replacements of coffee, flour, pepper, sugar, and salt. Residents of Houston Avenue had formed a cooperative exchange. Individuals were assigned specific tasks of preparing large quantities of substitute items to be shared by all. As examples, Bess DuMont had become quite proficient at roasting and grinding acorns and okra seeds to make a fairly decent cup of coffee, and Camellia Warwick had refined the art of making passable flour from potatoes. The women of Houston Avenue made a morning social occasion of the exchange, taking turns entertaining the group in their homes. Jessica was to host the following day.
“That’s probably Mrs. Davis bringing me an arrangement of her chrysanthemums for the table,” Jessica said.
“She sure been nicer to you since Mister Silas been proved right on all accounts, and her husband been proved wrong,” Petunia said. “You got to hand it to her. She eat crow without tryin’ to sugar it.”
“A hollow vindication for Silas, though,” Jessica said. Silas’s predictions had come to pass. The Confederacy had not been able to sustain itself against the military might of the North, and rumors flew that a major invasion was under way to lay waste to the Southland. France and Great Britain did not come to the aid of the Confederacy in exchange for its cotton as expected, and slaves were running away from plantations by the hundreds owing to the drain of their overseers to the war and having no incentive to stay. So far, Somerset’s labor force, but for a few desertions, had remained intact.
But it was a neighborhood boy from down the street who burst into the kitchen, Amy hurrying after him, alarm written across her young face. The boy whipped off his hat, breathless, his face flushed. “Miss Jessica,” he panted, “the bluecoats have come.”
Jessica jumped up. “What? Where are they?”
“In the pasture in back of your house. They’re stealing the horses.”
“Priscilla, you know where the pistols are. Arm the servants,” Jessica ordered. “Petunia, you stay here with Amy. Leon, do you know how to use a gun?”
“I sure do. My daddy taught me, just in case.”
“Priscilla, give him a pistol, too.”
“What are we going to do?” her daughter-in-law asked, eyes large with fright.
“I don’t know.”
Jessica grabbed the flintlock standing at the ready by the door in the larder and headed for the back door. All the men on the street were at their places of work, the children in school. The question flashed through Jessica’s mind why Leon, son of their banker, was home. She heard a cough from what sounded like a deep chest cold and understood why. Only the women were home, most napping this time of day, their servants oblivious to the scene that met her eyes when she stepped onto the high floor of the gazebo and peered toward the pasture.
A dozen or so men on horseback and wearing Federal army uniforms were twirling ropes in pursuit of Houston Avenue’s carriage horses, let out from their stalls for the day. The horses were resisting capture, successfully dodging the rope nooses tossed at their heads. To her horror, Jessica saw Flight O’ Fancy among them. The Thoroughbred had caught the attention of the officer in charge. She could clearly hear his orders to “Get that horse!”
She stood helplessly. The soldiers mustn’t get their hands on Nanette’s horse, but what could she do, a lone woman with one flintlock between her and a dozen armed men? She must not risk injury to Leon or expose Priscilla to them. One look at her and no telling what those soldiers might do. She wished for Jeremiah, wise and strong, but he had died two springs ago. Her mind in a lock of indecision, she gasped as she saw Robert Warwick run out to the pasture, pistol in hand. She had forgotten he’d be home, working as he always did in his carpentry shop. He was building a desk for Thomas as a welcome-home gift. Oh, good Lord, no!
Priscilla, Leon, and the servants had come outside, the collection from Silas’s gun cabinet in their hands.
“Priscilla, run to the next-door houses and tell the neighbors what’s happening and to arm themselves,” she said. “Tell them to send a runner to alert the house next to theirs and they in turn are to send somebody to alert the neighbor next to them and so on. Hurry now. No time to waste.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Priscilla said, looking relieved at her task.
The officer in command, a first lieutenant by the parallel bars on his yellow shoulder straps, swung his horse around at Robert’s approach and withdrew his pistol from its holster. Without thinking but with enough presence of mind to leave the flintlock behind, Jessica flew down the steps of the gazebo and through the wrought-iron gate across the service road hollering “No! No!”
Every man turned to look at her. Flight O’ Fancy, seeing Robert, had stopped running and ambled toward him.
“Miss Jessica!” Robert said, his voice echoing his surprise when she reached the conclave. “What are you doing here?”
“Hoping to talk some sense into every mother’s son here. Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”
The lieutenant recovered the use of his dropped jaw and said, “Madam,” and brought his gloved hand to the brim of his cavalry hat.
“Robert dear,” Jessica said, “please put your gun on the ground. It will be useless against so many here.”
Robert at twenty-three had never outgrown the whistle and rattle in his lungs. His bronchial condition had left him looking as if a strong wind could blow him away. He had no more wherewithal to challenge the mounted cavalry unit than a stick against a battering ram.
“I’d do what she says,” the lieutenant said, his tone and the steel in his eye receptive to no argument. Flight O’ Fancy had reached them, her flanks quivering nervously.
“You can’t have this horse,” Robert said, lowering his pistol but keeping it by his side.
“I am going to take her and all these horses here, so drop your weapon and both of you go back where you came from and no harm will come to you.”
“You are not taking her,” Robert said, his jaw set obstinately. “She’ll be no war horse for the union army.”
“She will be when I’m through with her.”
“No, never. I’d rather see her dead first,” Robert declared and positioned the gun to a spot behind Flight O’ Fancy’s ear and fired.
Jessica couldn’t believe her eyes. From their stunned stares, neither could the mounted men. It took a moment while the horse thundered sickeningly to the ground and the smoke cleared from Robert’s pistol for them all to realize what had happened.
“Well, now, you shouldn’t have done that,” the lieutenant said and aimed his firearm at Robert’s head.
“No, please!” Jessica screamed, but it was too late. The bullet struck Robert in the middle of his forehead and he crumpled to a gangly heap beside the body of the fallen horse. Jessica dropped to her knees beside him and cradled his bleeding head in her lap. He had died instantly, defiance locked in his frozen stare. Jessica looked up at the officer through a glaze of shocked tears. “How could you do such a thing? He was just a boy.”
“Weren’t we all once?” the lieutenant said. “A man who would shoot a beautiful horse like that for the reason he gave doesn’t deserve to live.”
“The horse belonged to the girl he loved. She died at fifteen. Robert looked after her mare in memory of her,” Jessica said, eyes overflowing.
Remorse washed over the lieutenant’s face. He looked away across the green space of the pasture for a moment, then back at Jessica. “War is nothing if not a series of tragic misjudgments, madam. My sincere regret for mine.”
Jessica heard a commotion behind her and glanced over her shoulder to see the mistresses of Houston Avenue and their servants taking position in a line of billowy hoop skirts and maids’ uniforms stretching almost the length of the service road. They held guns and had been trained how to use them in defense of their homes. Among them were mothers whose sons had been lost or wounded in battles in Texas and all across the Southland. They seemed to be waiting for a signal from her about what they should do.
Camellia Warwick, small, delicate, broke through the file with a shriek and ran toward them, her hooped skirt almost lifting her from the ground. Jessica turned back to the lieutenant. “Leave now, young man, and go home to the mother who will never know the grief you’ve caused this boy’s. Stay, and there will be further bloodshed, possibly yours.”
“I make no war against women and servants,” the lieutenant said, “but I aim to take the horses. Signal to your people to stand down, and we will be on our way.”
Silas had been in Dr. Woodward’s office when the tragedy occurred. Afterwards he rode out to Somerset to his favorite vantage point overlooking his plantation and the result of his life’s work. The peace that usually calmed his troubled mind and eased into his soul did not come. He did not hear of the grievous events in the pasture or of his wife’s heroism until he returned home at dusk. There was sadness enough, he thought. He decided to wait until the brunt of Robert’s death had passed to give Jessica the news of Dr. Woodward’s diagnosis.