Chapter Thirty-Five
As the wife of a plantation owner, with a son at war in a Confederate uniform, I had little choice but to go through the motions,
to show up and do my part, even as my belief in the cause was slipping away.
One afternoon, as sunlight slanted through the tall parlor windows in my sister’s house, dust motes drifting like tiny specks
of gold, I sat beside her on the settee, our laps covered with half-finished socks destined for the front. Between us lay
a basket of rolled bandages, each one a reminder of what awaited the men who would receive them. These items were our latest
assignment from the women’s aid society.
Addie worked quickly, her needles flashing through the gray wool. “We had a letter from Christopher yesterday. He’s bearing
up well at Camp Chase.”
“Any word on how they’re treating him?”
“Short rations, but the wound was tended well enough.” Her voice caught, and she lifted her chin. “He and the other prisoners
keep their spirits up by singing Confederate songs.” Shaking her head with admiration, she said, “Those boys are true heroes.”
I continued my knitting, careful to keep my tone even. “I do hope he’ll come home to you soon.”
“Oh, I expect not.” Drawing more yarn from the ball and looping it over her forefinger to keep the tension, she said, “When he gets exchanged—and he will—he’ll rejoin Stephen’s company. Imagine—our sons fighting side by side again.”
I thought of Stephen’s latest letter describing men with dysentery, crying for their mothers as they died. The glory Addie
described was nowhere in his accounts.
“Have you heard from him lately?” she asked as if reading my thoughts.
“Last week.” I set down my needles. “They haven’t been paid in two months. Half the boys have no shoes.”
She shifted the stitches along her needles and went on without looking up. “Well, sacrifices must be made. They’re fighting
for our very way of life.”
That phrase—endlessly repeated at the general store, in neighbors’ parlors, around the supper table—scraped against something
raw in me. “Our way of life,” I echoed, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. “Do you ever wonder exactly what that means?”
Her hands stilled. “I know what it means. It means our homes, our families. Our traditions. It means not allowing outsiders
to dictate how we should live.”
I picked up my needles again, trying to focus on my knitting. The wool rasped against my fingers, dry and coarse. We worked
in silence, the only sounds the click of our needles and the occasional crackle of the fire.
“Joy Henderson’s eldest returned yesterday,” Addie said finally. “Missing his left arm, but alive. There was a small parade
in town.”
“I heard.”
“That’s what matters, you know. That kind of courage.” She licked a finger and rubbed two frayed ends together, then snipped
the stray wool. “I’ve never been prouder than when Christopher enlisted. Watching him ride away in that fine gray uniform . . .”
Her voice caught. “I’m sure you felt the same.”
“I was terrified.”
She patted my lap. “Of course you worry. We all do. That’s why it’s important to have faith.”
I tugged the yarn too tight, and the stitches bunched on the needle. “Tell me, Addie. What do you think our boys are really
fighting for?”
She made a face. “Truly, Sallie? You’re asking me that? It’s about our independence. About states’ rights to—”
“Own slaves,” I said.
“—govern ourselves.” She sat back against the cushions. “I don’t know why you insist on speaking this way. It’s . . . it’s
disloyal.”
“Have you read the papers? Seen the casualty lists? The war is devouring our men, and for what?”
“For freedom.”
“Not for everybody.”
“Oh, stop it right now. You’ve been reading those Yankee rags.” Her words were brittle with irritation. “They print lies to
frighten people like you.”
“People like me? What does that mean?”
With an audible sigh, she said, “It means you’re always so quick to doubt. Safe and comfortable, passing judgment on men willing
to die for what they believe in. Your own son believes in this cause enough to risk his life. What gives you the right to
question his sacrifice?”
“I’m not questioning his sacrifice, Addie. I’m questioning what he’s being asked to sacrifice for.”
“Don’t pretend your comfort isn’t built on the very system you now condemn. The food on your table, the clothes on your children’s
backs—it all came from this land. From their labor. You don’t get to enjoy the bounty and turn up your nose at how you got
it.”
“But what I’m saying is . . . I don’t want it like this anymore.”
She stared at me as if I were a stranger. “Do you know what people would say if they heard you talking like this? What they’d
think of you? Of us?”
“I care less about what people think than you do.”
With a dry laugh, she said, “And you alone know what’s right, is that it? While the rest of us are ignorant fools?”
“That’s not what I meant.” I rubbed my palm along my thigh, brushing off bits of wool lint. “I just can’t stop thinking about
it all. About what we’re doing. About . . . what comes after.”
“After we win, you mean.”
I looked at her—my beautiful, confident sister who had never doubted her place in the world. “And if we don’t?”
“We will.” She smoothed the sock she was working on against her knee, tugging it at the heel to test the stretch.
“Even if we do, the economy will be in—”
“Stop it.” She jabbed her needles back into her work with quick, angry movements. “Just stop.”
I reached for her arm. “Addie—”
She pulled away. “No. I won’t listen to this. This . . . Unionist . . . disloyalty, under my own roof. Not while my son is
out there fighting.”
“My son is out there too,” I said, my voice rising. “I lie awake at night, thinking about it. Wondering if I’ve sent him to
die for something—for something that may not be worth . . .”
Addie went very still. When she spoke, her voice was ominously low. “At least Christopher knows his mother supports him. At
least he doesn’t have to wonder if his sacrifice matters to the people he loves.”
The words hit like a blow. “That’s not fair, Adelaide.”
“Isn’t it? You sit there in that Quaker meeting house every Sunday, clutching your hands in your lap, fretting over your doubts and questions.
Pretending you’re too pure to pick a side.
” She shook her head in exasperation. “You’ve always been like this,” she said, gathering her knitting and tucking the unfinished sock into the basket at her feet.
“Softhearted about things you don’t understand.
You think your tender feelings make you virtuous, but they just make you weak.
The world doesn’t run on sentiment, Sallie.
It runs on strength. And order. Some of us are clear-eyed enough to see that.
” Gathering the remaining socks in her basket, she said, “If you can’t speak with loyalty about our cause, perhaps it’s best you don’t speak at all. ”
The door to the parlor creaked open, and we turned to see Chang standing in the doorway, Eng half a step behind him. How long
they’d been there, I couldn’t tell.
“Albert needs help with his lessons,” Chang said.
Addie nodded, composing herself with visible effort. “Of course. I’ll see to it.” She rose and passed the brothers without
meeting their eyes, her skirts rustling with the force of her movement.
I packed up my own knitting with unsteady hands. “I suppose that’s enough for today. I should find William and Frederick,”
I murmured.
“Is everything all right?” Eng asked, though he knew it wasn’t.
“Just a difference of opinion,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Sisters disagree sometimes, you know.”
Chang grunted with disgust.
Eng sighed. “You should go home, Sallie.”
I nodded, the wound of Addie’s words still raw.
In the front hall, I gathered William and Frederick, thanking my sister for her hospitality with stiff formality as she came
down the stairs. She nodded, her mouth a thin line.