Alice's Tulips: A Novel (11 page)

“I had but a rag when I come here, and it wasn’t proper. It got tore up on the way, and I didn’t have no fabric to take ravelings from. All’s I had to mend it was thread that was spun at home, which was too big for the needle. Then I lost the needle,” she says. “Then I had but the use of a Confederate needle.” When I inquired what that was, she replied, “A thorn.”

I was angry with Mother Bullock for not telling me how things stood.

“You are young, and I wanted to spare you the worry,” she replies.

“Then you do me an injustice. You treat me like a child.”

“Sometimes you act like one,” she says, then looked away. “It’s not easy for you here, I know that, Alice. I’d hoped you and Jennie Kate Stout would be close, but I see you’re not, and there’s none your age except Annie, who’s not our kind. Well, it’s hard for all of us, and you must bear up until the war is over, for Charlie’s sake.”

There is one more thing—we are concerned for our safety,
and you would be, too, if you came here. A group of raiders was so bold as to ride into town, where they ripped down the American flag hanging in front of a store, then thrashed the shopkeeper and burnt his building. They had come up from Missouri, and while they did not attack any of the farms, we all worry they will come back. Mother Bullock says it is a good thing she doesn’t have silver, else we would have to bury it to keep it from them. It is not known if they are the ones who have done the other deeds, or if there are other groups of bushwhackers afoot, too. Maybe the man I saw watching us by the creek the day we made cider wasn’t Mr. Samuel Smead after all, but a guerrilla. Annie saw him, too—and before I did. That was why she ran off as soon as we dressed, in hopes of catching him. But he disappeared before she reached him, and she said she disremembered to tell me. Of course, I never mentioned who I suspicioned him to be. Lordy, no. I said he must have been a horseman passing along the creek, who heard us making noise and came to have a look.

She gave me an astonished look, then mutters, “A body’s foolish to think such.” But she has said nothing more and knows better than to tell Mother Bullock.

Now that the harvest is over, except for our little patch of corn, we have gone to quilting again. It is good weather, quilting weather, warm enough to stitch outside. I am almost done with the patches for the Dominoes quilt. Annie quilts real good, and here’s something strange: She quilts with either hand. When I remarked on it, she laughed and says, “Well, that’s because I can’t hardly write with either hand.” I asked did she piece, and she says, “I piece, but I’d rather patch my coverlids. I take natural delight in it.” She makes laid-on quilts, the kind we call applique, but I never liked the look of them as much as patchwork.

Charlie writes that his foot has healed nicely, good enough for dancing, and if he doesn’t get home soon, he may try to find him a Secesh girl as partner. “Well, Charlie Bullock, two can play that game,” I wrote him.

Lizzie, think hard if you really want to break up housekeeping, and I know you will find the right course. No, I would not ask
for advice from Mama and Papa. You know they do not trust our decisions, fearing one day we will bring dishonor on the Keelers. They will advise you to do only what would cause the least gossip. Billy writes me in secret now and says they had such a good harvest that he asked Papa to buy little Judah a pony. Judah is a timid boy, still afraid of horses, although it has been a year since he was stepped on by Charger. Billy thought Judah might ride a pony, but Papa said he could ride Charger or walk. The only thing Papa will give his children is a Bible, which is why I do not care much for church.

With a great deal of love to you and the girls and not much left over for James, I remain

Your ever-true sister,

Alice Bullock

October 15, 1863

Dear Lizzie,

For myself, I am disappointed you will not come, but I believe you have made the best decision for yourself. You are right to think of your reputation. As Miss Densmore admonished us, once lost, one’s reputation is not easily regained. Oh, don’t I know it, but Charlie never knew about the Carter boy, so it turned out all right. You must have been much cheered at Mrs. Grant’s remarks. What a lady she is. Now why couldn’t her husband have finished up his business at Vicksburg earlier so he could have put things to rights with James. But if you change your mind and want to come to me, why then, do it. Your life is worth more than your reputation (Mama would not agree, I fear), and if James threatens you again, then you have no choice. You are dearer to me than anything in the world but Charlie. I would ask him to write to James, but I think Charlie has forgotten his pledge of abstinence. He wrote in one letter that he got into a scrape, “but if I was drunk, I didn’t know it.” Besides, I never thought preaching at a person did much good. All Mama’s preaching never helped me.

The little quilting group met again today, and I am so sick of Iowa Four-Patch that I am sorry that ever I thought it up. It serves me right for being so proud. Since the quilting was here on Bramble Farm, I invited Annie to join us. Some wonder if she is really Secesh, since Kentucky is on both sides in this war, but myself, I think even if she is (which I don’t believe,) what does it matter whose hands stitch the quilts that keep the Johnnies warm? I know the men like the quilts. Charlie has told me they look forward to bundles of blankets and food from the Sanitary Commission but don’t care so much for what comes from the churches. “Preaching with porridge,” the soldiers call the church bundles that contain more Testaments than food. Bibles are as common as dogs in the army. Every soldier was sent off with at least one, and they don’t want any more. Many employ the pages in uses God never intended. And they blaspheme something terrible, Charlie says.

Annie was pleased to be invited to quilt and asked if I wanted her to set up the quilting frame.

“The frame we use is at Mrs. Kittie Wales’s house, and I don’t care to go to the trouble to take it down and put it up again.”

“I mean to say yourn,” says Annie.

“I haven’t one.”

“You got you one out back of the barn.” She led me to a shack where the Bullocks keep worn-out farm equipment, and under a broken wheel was a quilt frame—cherry it is, with cunning little wooden cogs. We got it out and set it up, and it’s steady and solid as can be. Not one of the cogs is broke.

When Mother Bullock saw it, she says, “I never thought to ask if you wanted that old thing.” If she had, I could have had an easier time of quilting this past gone year.

Because the day was warm, we set up the frame outside and had ourselves a jolly time. Jennie Kate came with her baby, but I don’t know why she bothered to, because her mind appeared somewhat bled, and she took just one stitch to my ten. “Slowness comes from God, hurry from the devil,” she said, when we had to wait for her to finish before we could roll. Then she examined her stitches and pronounced hers the smallest of all. Self-praise
does not go far here, however, and no one was as taken with Jennie Kate as she was with herself. With her fine house and furniture, she thinks she is grand and mighty, when all she is is lucky. Even her baby, called “Piecake,” ignored her, playing instead with Joybell, who ran her little fingers over the baby’s face, both of them laughing. I think it is a shame Joybell cannot see what a beautiful child she is, but blindness will keep her from being vain. That being the case, I suppose it’s a pity so many of us were born with sight.

I gave Jennie Kate the Ducks and Duckling quilt I made for Piecake, but she did not seem to care for it.

“Tokens of affection are always much appreciated, but why did you make it of that bright color?” asks she.

It was no token of
my
affection, but I did not say so. “I thought it would cheer you.”

“It cheers me,” says dear old Mrs. Kittie, who then launched into the latest letter from her soldier correspondent. She never answered him, and he has written twice more, once proposing to visit after he is mustered out. So she was forced to reply, writing that she was to be married as soon as her intended got out of the jailhouse, where he had been locked up for horsewhipping a man who had insulted her. “He didn’t really insult me,” Mrs. Kittie wrote. “He only wished me good morning, but my fiance is a big, mean man who is crazy jealous.” She added she was all but certain the injured man would walk again, so no harm done. And she hoped the soldier would visit, because she’d always wanted to meet a man who would stand up to her intended.

Nealie stayed behind after the others, to wait for her husband, who arrived in due time with his brother. Only Nealie and me were in the yard, and she climbed up on the horse in front of Mr. Frank Smead. Mr. Samuel Smead told them to go on ahead and he would catch up. Something was wrong with his saddle, he said. I do not think he fooled anyone, me most of all, but Nealie and her husband agreed, and they cantered away.

“What is the matter with your saddle?” I teased, as Mr. Smead made no move to remove it or to refasten the straps.

He cocked an eyebrow and looked around. “Where are your two swimming companions?”

I turned as red as a maple leaf. “You are not a gentleman.”

“Never said I was. And I don’t believe you are a lady, either. But you sure are a pretty girl.” At that, he gripped my arms and pulled me to him and kissed me. I would have slapped him, despite his threat of last summer, but he held my arms tight.

“You have no right,” I hissed. I was mad as a yellow jacket.

He just laughed at me. “I take any right I please. Besides, you wanted me to kiss you. Now, don’t deny you liked it.” He tightened his grip on my arms.

Well, I didn’t like it, but I was a little afraid of Mr. Smead, so I cocked my head and said, “Oh la, Mr. Smead.” At that, he let go of me. I knew better than to smack him.

“Come down to the creek with me.”

“I will not.”

“Tomorrow, in the early afternoon. I’ll be waiting for you.” When I did not reply, he said, “You mind me, now.”

He frowned when I wouldn’t answer, and I was afraid he would take my arms again, so I said, “There’s Mother Bullock.” There wasn’t, but he spun around to look, and I took my leave. By the time he realized I had tricked him, I was halfway to the house.

Mr. Smead presumes too much, and if he comes around tomorrow, he will wait all day, for I won’t be there. I will teach him not to trifle with

Your sister,

Alice Keeler Bullock

October 16, 1863. P.S. I wonder if the presumptuous Mr. Smead is at the creek waiting for me. I would check tomorrow for hoofprints, but there is a drizzle starting, and I think any prints would be washed away. What if he didn’t come at all? Now, Lizzie, wouldn’t that be a joke on me? I stand him up, and he doesn’t know it because he has stood me up, too!

October 22, 1863

Dear Lizzie,

Nealie stopped on her way to town and asked me to spend an afternoon with her. I said we were awful busy on Bramble Farm, although we are not. She gave me a long look and started to ask me something, then looked away. I felt terrible, because I like her so, and I took her hand and says, “But you can come here. I’ll have Mother Bullock make a cider cake, and we can piece and talk. We’ll have us a good time.”

“Mrs. Bullock doesn’t like me,” she says.

“She doesn’t like me, either,” I reply.

Nealie laughed at that and agreed to bring her sewing for an afternoon—yesterday, it was. We had the house to ourselves because Mother Bullock went to help Aunt Darnell pack, as she is going to Quincy for the winter to live with her son. Annie and Joybell were at the shack, where they expect to stay for the winter. Lucky added a fireplace there, so it’s back to cooking in this house for me. But I don’t mind much, because Annie taught me what to do with an open hearth.

Nealie and I spent as nice a day as I ever had here, and she altered the bonnet with the red, white, and blue streamers I bought when Charlie joined up. Now it doesn’t look so much like a flag tied to my head. I wish I had not wasted the money on it, since we need it. But you can’t cry over spent money, or cut fabric, for that matter. Nealie gave me a yard of yellow material that she had bought and then decided she didn’t like. Lizzie, crops were poor for all of us, factory cloth is twenty-five cents the yard, and I cannot think why a woman would buy fabric she wouldn’t use. So I asked Nealie how was it she could afford such extravagance. She seems to have money when the rest of us do not.

“Oh,” she replies vaguely, “Father sends me money.”

“Your father, the horse trader? Does he also send horses to your husband? He rides a fine horse. So does Mr. Samuel Smead.”

“Oh, yes.” She changed the subject, asking if she could borrow a piece of chalk to mark her quilt, and we said no more about her family.

Mother Bullock had not come back when Nealie left. I walked her to the road and waved her off, then stood a few moments until she was out of sight. The weather has a chill in it, and we will have frost soon, but the fresh air felt good. It stung my cheeks.

As I turned to go back to the house, I spied Mr. Samuel Smead hiding in the trees. The light was poor there, the trees only black shapes, and he rode a dark horse, so it took a moment for me to make him out. By then, there was no time to flee before he was upon me. So I acted as if nothing had ever passed between us, and says, “You are late, and you have missed Nealie.”

“That so?”

“If you hurry, you can catch up with her.”

He neither replied nor left.

“I best get to supper,” I says, turning to go, but for some reason, I could not take a step. That reason was Mr. Smead’s horse, which had pinned me to the fence.

“Miss Alice, upon consideration, I believe I made improper advances to you. I have come to beg your pardon.” He dismounted, removed his hat (which had a chicken feather dyed blue attached to it), and made a foolish bow. His coat fell open, showing a red blouse. “If you don’t forgive me, I’ll have to kill myself.” He clutched his chest. “Make up your mind. My physical manhood is weakening.”