Alice's Tulips: A Novel (10 page)

When I reached town, I went to the
Journal
office, as everyone does, to read the latest list of the war dead that’s always posted there, then turned away, relieved that Charlie’s name was not on it. And who do you think was standing right behind me? Sartis Rhodes! You remember how handsome he was and how we almost died when Chloe Solomon, the Israelite, snapped him up. He spoke my name, but I couldn’t think who he was, because his eyes were sunken, and he wore a beard thick enough to hide mice.

“Sartis Rhodes,” he says. I would have hugged him if he hadn’t been so ragged. Instead, I held out my hand to take his, but, Lizzie, he hadn’t one. His arm was there, but the hand was shot off.

“Oh,” I says. “Oh, Sartis. I’m so sorry.”

He gave me a woeful look. “I thought about getting killed, but I never counted on this.”

“It’s just a hand, Sartis. I know Chloe told you as much.”

“She don’t know. It’s my writing hand, so I never wrote her. You think it won’t matter?”

“Matter? Chloe is the luckiest woman I know, having her husband come home to her.”

“Do you think so, Alice? I’ve been afraid she might not want me, maimed this way. That’s why I came here, with a friend who got discharged. I’m afraid to go home.”

“Sartis, you start back to Fort Madison this minute, and if Chloe isn’t the happiest woman there is when you get off the boat, why, I’ll introduce you to a dozen others who would be happy to take her place.”

You should have the seen the look on his face, Lizzie. He became the old Sartis, who was so lively and full of himself. He hugged me with his good arm and what was left of the other, then turned to his friend and said he was going home. Oh, but not before he told me some news: The Carter boy has got kilt.

“He wasn’t more than five feet from me when he was hit. He was a brave soldier and got shot through the heart and died at once,” Sartis said.

I did not feel much emotion at the news and says, “I’m sorry to hear it, Sartis, truly I am, but me and him had a falling-out, and I didn’t care a pin about him. Still, I didn’t wish him to die.”

Sartis thought a minute. “I’d forgot about you and him. You had good cause to hate him. Well, then I’ll tell you the truth. He didn’t die right off. He got half his jaw shot away and was left on the battlefield for the night with the rest of the wounded, for we were too busy fighting to collect them. He was found the next day, bawling for water, but he didn’t have enough of a mouth left to drink it. I saw him myself.” Sartis looked at the end of his arm where his hand wasn’t, and said, “I shouldn’t have told you. Folks at home want to hear that their boys die easy, but soldiers know the truth of it. Carter was a poor soldier, but
even a poor soldier shouldn’t have to die that way. Battle’s not noble, you know.”

This war isn’t much fun, Lizzie, and Charlie seems a long way away. I wonder if he’ll ever come home. As I walked back to Bramble Farm, I thought I’d be so glad to see Charlie even if he was missing a hand like Sartis. Then I remembered what I told him the day he left—that he was not to come home if he lost his leg, for I wouldn’t be married to a man who couldn’t dance. And oh, Lizzie, I felt so ashamed. Do you think I’m a worthless girl?

Please remember me kinder than I remember myself.

Alice Keeler Bullock

Sometimes quilters made up their own designs, but more often they borrowed patterns from one another. They traced them onto whatever paper was available—brown wrapping paper from the store, old letters, used envelopes. If a pattern was a single piece, such as Double Axe Head (Friendship Forever), the template might even be cut from tin. When they didn’t have patterns to borrow, quilters used the shapes that were available, such as bowls, leaves, playing cards, or dominoes.

October 3, 1863

Dear Lizzie,

We have the best crop of apples ever you saw. We dried apples. We stirred up apple butter. We cooked applesauce, enough for the whole Union army, and put it into brown crocks, whose tin lids are held tight with red wax, for no tinner comes by to seal them. But we still had trees and trees of apples, and even more of them on the ground, so yesterday, we went to making cider. It was Annie’s idea, and more fun than I ever had with Mother Bullock.

“Mother Bullock is an abstainer. She doesn’t take it. Doesn’t make it, either,” I told Annie when she brought up cider making.

“I’ll speak for myself, thank you, Alice,” Mother Bullock says. “I see nothing wrong with a little cider for fruitcake. Some can go to vinegar. And we’ll keep extra for those that wants a sip. I guess that’s you, Alice.”

My mouth dropped opened, and I swear Mother Bullock winked at me, but I’ve never seen her do such before, so I’m sure I was mistaken. What put her into such a mood, I could not imagine.

“I seen you got a cider press in the barn,” Annie says.

“I don’t suppose there’s a thing in that barn you haven’t seen,” Mother Bullock replies. Not much gets past Annie, all right.

When Annie and I went into the barn, I told her to work fast, before Mother Bullock could change her mind. We hauled the cider press outside, where Annie and Joybell took it apart and cleaned it. Annie says Joybell’s eyes are in her fingers. Me and Mother Bullock and Lucky gathered up the ripe apples that had fallen on the ground. Then Mother Bullock directed our making of the cider. She sure knew her onions about doing it, too. I guess she wasn’t always an abstainer, but I didn’t dare ask.

When we had finished cooking and straining, we put the juice into stone jars for five days. Then we’ll add the sugar, and the cider will ferment. We drank such quantities of juice while we worked that we will be gassy till Christmas. When we had finished, Mother Bullock announced she would make us a cider cake, using apple juice, and went inside and mixed it up in a spider, which she put into the coals to bake—“spider-cider cake,” I call it. Mother Bullock can be a good cook when she wants to.

Me and Annie and Joybell went to the creek to take a good wash, as Joybell had upturned a cupful of cider on us. Since it was as hot as August, I says to Annie, “Let’s go for a dip. Mother Bullock’s not around, and Joybell can’t see, so it’s just me and you.”

Annie replies, “I don’t care none to look at you.” So we took
off our clothes, Annie faster than me because she doesn’t wear drawers. When I asked her why, she replies, “Them I hain’t got.”

Then us three jumped into the creek. Dressing naked to swim is the best time there is. The creek not being deep enough for regular swimming, we laid on our backs in the water, then splashed each other. Joybell had the most fun of all, jumping so much, she tired herself out, so she stretched out on a rock in the sun, naked as the day she was born, to dry herself, then fell asleep. She looked like a little fairy child, her skin as pale as buttermilk and her hair like gold in that bright sun.

After Annie and I dressed ourselves, Annie went off, and I chanced to look up into the trees on the hill—right at a man on horseback, who was watching us! I do not know for sure who he was but think he must have been Mr. Samuel Smead, who I told you has trespassed on our place before. I have not seen him in several weeks, but he, it appears, has seen more of me than is proper! I do not know what possessed me to do so—perhaps I wanted him to know he had been caught snooping or maybe I chose to shock him. Probably I am just wicked. Whatever the reason, I raised my arm and waved it back and forth. Don’t know if he saw me, because in an instant, horse and rider were gone. Well, Lizzie, I was much cheered that someone wanted to look at this old form, but I doubt he saw anything more tasty than Mother Bullock’s cider cake, which had nutmeats, a nutmeg, and half a pint of juice. It turned out so nice, Mother Bullock said she would make another tomorrow to send to Charlie.

We have been mailing all kinds of treats to him, because Charlie got himself hurt, the silly fool, but not from the war—and not bad. He wrote it down in a little poem, which I quote to you:

As Me and Harve were cutting wood
We were doing the job and doing it good.
I was splitting a block
And I cut my foot and also my sock.
So pard Harve got some piece goods, you see
And I am piecing a quilt for Alice and me.

Did you ever hear anything so clever? Charlie sent along a quilt block he had made. He said his fingers were as stiff with the needle as if he’d been shucking corn and that I would have to make the rest of the quilt, unless I wanted to trade places with him. “You can soldier, and I’ll stay home and patch,” he writes. Well, I would if I could, but I’m the one who’ll sit by the fire and sew.

Charlie’s square is a cunning design, a twelve-patch, with pieces the size and shape of dominoes—which is what he used as a template. He said he’d seen me trace around a china plate; he didn’t have a china plate, but he did have a domino. I’ll hang the twelve-patch squares on the diamond, alternating with setting squares of a nice black-and-white shirting pattern, and call the whole Dominoes. Oh, I wish it was done and me and Charlie were under it. Lord, I miss him.

Your ever-loving sister,

Alice

October 7, 1863

Dear Lizzie,

Why of course you may come for a stay. You could board a steamboat for Keokuk, then take a coach on to Slatyfork. If you came for the winter, we would have the best time ever. But I wonder if Bramble Farm would please you. First off, Lizzie, the house is small and not fancy. There is no sofa, only shuck-seat chairs, straight and rocking. You would sleep with me, and we could put a mattress in the big room for the girls. We have good linen ticks that we fill with straw, and pillows the same, so we would all sleep finely. But it is not such a good place for children. There is the open fireplace that we use for cooking and another at the other end of the room. And when the snow is on the
ground, the girls will have to stay inside, since we have no yard for play. I think you would find it hard living, as we have no gaslight and no pump. All the water must be hauled in from the well. This place is not so nice as Papa’s farm in Fort Madison, and Slatyfork is not so nice as Galena. The shops are few and poor, and we have not a single millinery. What’s more, the customs here are queer. We do not make the round of visits you enjoy. Most times, we have no need for bonnets and hoops, even small ones. Worst of all, you would be under the thumb of Mother Bullock, for she is the rooster in this henhouse. I paint a bleak picture, but I want you to know before you start what you are in for. There are good things, too. We eat all right and are warm, and though Mother Bullock is not friendly, she is fair. Lizzie, if you choose to come, you would be welcomed by me, and even Mother Bullock, I think. And I would have the gayest winter since you and I were home in Fort Madison.

While you consider, I want you please to be particular to think of consequences. It is right for me to speak of this, since you are always so outspoken with me. Would people not think your place is with your husband and that by coming here you have deserted James? They might conclude you think him guilty. I know he does not deserve you there after the way he has treated you, but I fear you would only make things worse by leaving. James is a drunk—everybody knows it; Mama has wrote her disapproval—and you are his only steading influence, and your enemies would say your leaving had caused him to fall even more under the influence. It is the way of the world, as you have oft told me: A woman is to blame for both herself and husband. There is no question but what James would be better off with you there, but I don’t care a pin for James. I care only for you, and if you want to come to me, I should be the happiest girl in the world. But, Lizzie, here is the thing of it: Would you yourself believe you had taken the coward’s way out? You were always one to stand and fight. Remember how you defended me against James and everyone else in the incident of the poor dead Carter boy?

Now if you come, Lizzie, I cannot help you with the passage.
I would send it to you if I had it, but our money is tight. Charlie sends what he can but has to buy things for himself, and the sharpers skin the poor soldier. When I told Mother Bullock I might need the money to buy tickets for you and the girls, she took out the book in which she keeps accounts and said she did not know how we could manage it, since we do not have enough for ourselves for the winter. Charlie’s enlistment money was used up a long time since, and he sends as much of his pay as he can spare, but Father Abraham’s cashier is three months late. Mother Bullock says Charlie takes care of Uncle Samuel, so Uncle Sam ought to take care of us, but families are not considered in this war. Except for apples, and there is little market for them, our crop was poor this year, and we bartered most of it. Mother Bullock says we have barely twenty dollars, and we must buy winter clothing for Annie and Joybell, and even Lucky, because we don’t pay them a red copper for helping us on the farm. Annie and Joybell don’t have shoes, and Annie has just one dress—my dress, which she, at last, has admitted to stealing.