Alice's Tulips: A Novel (2 page)

The night before Charlie left, I gave him the Friendship quilt I had worked on in secret, and told him it was my love letter to him. Your block with your name and sentiment arrived just as I was assembling the pieces. I was in a busy time, as I was making drawers and blouses for Charlie, too, but I wanted the quilt to be perfect, so that meant making the blocks myself. You saw them. They were the Churn Dash pattern, in blue and brown and cheddar yellow. Don’t you think that’s a pretty combination? After I made the blocks, I passed them around among Charlie’s friends to be signed. Some drew pictures and wrote verses. One neighbor printed an
X,
and wasn’t she the embarrassed one at doing it? Mother Bullock spoilt the fun by writing “Mrs. E. Huff” over the sign, so no one would know. I set up the quilt frame
at Aunt Darnell’s house to keep it secret from Charlie, and ladies from the town came to stitch for an hour or two. Most did a good job, but I had to rip out the work of one because her stitches were long as inchworms, with knots the size of flies. Lizzie, you know I am not vain except for my sewing, and I think I can’t be beat at quilting. My stitches were the finest, even though, being in a hurry to finish, I took but eight stitches to the inch instead of twelve, as I usually try to do. When no one was about, I tucked powerful herbs and charms into the batting to keep Charlie safe. My husband pronounced the quilt a peach, fit for the bed of a king, and he is never going to lay it on the ground but what it has a gum blanket beneath. He says he will sleep every night with my name over his heart. Did you ever hear such a pretty speech? My patch is in the center, like a bull’s-eye. Yours is beside it. Mother Bullock’s is on the side. Jennie Kate Stout wrote:

When This You See
Remember Me

Well, he won’t see it often, because it is at the bottom of the quilt, and when he does see it, he will think what a sloppy wife she would have made him, because the ink was smeared. She asked for a second square to sign her name, but I said I hadn’t any extra.

I used leftover scraps to make Charlie a cunning housewife that is brown with blue pockets, bound in red twill, and it rolls up nice and fastens with hooks and red strings. Inside, the housewife is fitted up with needles and pins and thread so Charlie can mend his uniform if he gets shot. It’s told that many soldiers go ragged because they won’t sew for nothing, but Charlie sews as good as a woman. Remember when he boarded at the McCauley farm so that he could be close to me? The McCauley girls jollied him into learning to work a needle. Mattie McCauley says if a woman can plow, a man ought to know how to thread a needle. But how many do? I ask you.

That last night, after she gave Charlie a fork and spoon to take with him, Mother Bullock walked out to visit her sister, Aunt Darnell, giving me and Charlie time alone, as she should, since we haven’t been married so long, and I expect he’ll be away for some months. Then she sent word by a man who was passing by that she was took tired and couldn’t walk home, so was spending the night there. That was a good thing, because it gave me and Charlie the night alone without the worry of rattling the corn shucks in the tick when we got to romping. (Now, Lizzie, I said I would be frank, so you musn’t take offense, and besides, you have wrote me about you and James and that business under the parlor table. I wanted to try it with Charlie, but I’ve told you how I thrash about so, and I was afraid I would bang my head on the underside of the table and break it—my head, that is.) That’s when I told Charlie he was one of the family men who’d, enlisted. Now you musn’t say a word about it, because I don’t want Mother Bullock to know awhile yet, for she is always one for acting proper and would make me stay away from the town. Charlie says it will be a boy, and he wants to name him for his brother Joseph. That’s to please Mother Bullock, because Jo was her favorite, and she misses him. Well, I’m sorry he got drowned, too, for if he was on this earth yet, me and Charlie never would have left Fort Madison to help her with the farm. But I don’t think we have to name my baby for him.

I told Charlie I fancy something patriotic for the name. “How does Abraham Lincoln Bullock suit you?” I asks.

“Not unless he’s born with a beard and top hat,” replies Charlie. I think maybe I will be like the Missouri Compromise and try to come up with something to please everybody. How do you think Mother Bullock would like the name Liberty Jo? Maybe, like the Compromise, when the day is over, it won’t suit anyone.

When we took Charlie into town in the morning to climb aboard the wagons that took the boys away, he gave me a good squeeze and says, “Now, Doll Baby, you got to promise not to
step whilst I’m away.” I reply real saucy, “When dead ducks fly! But I guess I can give my word not to step with a Reb.” Then I told him to promise he would come back with both his legs. You know how I love to dance, and I won’t be tied to a cripple with a stump. “Oh cow!” says I, “I’d rather deliver you up to the jaws of death than to see you hobble back on a pegleg.” Charlie laughed and promised his strong Yankee legs would keep him safe.

Mother Bullock said she’d welcome back her son in any condition, which put me out of sorts, because it was only a joke I’d made. She is as sour as bad cider when she wants to be, that one, and she is only the mother, not the wife. But I feel sorry for her, because if Charlie falls, she will never more have a son, and I could have plenty more husbands, I suppose, although I don’t want any but the one I have. Well, Charlie thought it was funny, and he was glad I sent him off with a laugh and not tears and lamentations, like some I could name—Jennie Kate Stout, for one. He said I have the right kind of pluck and will do for a soldier’s wife. I replied he is brave and true and will do for a soldier.

This from the proud wife of a Yankee volunteer, your sister,
Alice Keeler Bullock

December 12, 1862

Dear Sister,

Oh cow! Lizzie, I shrieked so loud when I read your letter that Mother Bullock came running, as if I’d gotten tangled up in a mess of hoop snakes. To think that mousy little Galena leather shop clerk and bill collector, who lives just around the corner from you, is the famous Gen. U. S. Grant! Just wait till I write Charlie. He’ll get a promotion for sure when he tells the officers his wife’s sister is as close as stacked spoons with the wife of “Unconditional Surrender” Grant. Isn’t she the one that won’t look you straight in the eye because she has a cast in hers? Which one is it? I didn’t like her much when I met her at the sewing
at your house. The general called for her, and he smelled of tannery and pipe smoke, and hadn’t a word to say to anyone. Mother Bullock, who read a newspaper even before Charlie went off to war, knows all about General Grant. When I told her his wife was as good as your best friend, she said you should order General Grant to make Charlie write home. I said General Grant could do that, or he could win the war, but we oughtn’t to expect him to do both.

Charlie has been at camp in Keokuk. That is all we know, because he does not write, although he sent sixty dollars of his bonus money by way of a fellow who returned to Slatyfork on account of he had the quick consumption so bad, he was rejected. Charlie loaned out the rest. His generosity is greater than his prudence, Mother Bullock says. Harve writes Jennie Kate regular, and she calls on us each time she is in receipt of a letter. She gloats over them.

Well, Lizzie, I am worked like a mule here, but I don’t complain, because I won’t let Mother Bullock call me indolent. You know I always did my share at home, but I was fed up with farming, and I thought it a piece of luck that I married a fellow in the dry-goods business. Now don’t misdoubt I love Charlie, but if I had known he was going to go to farming, maybe I would have thought about it harder. No, that’s not so. I would have married Charlie no matter what, because I was crazy about him. He has a pretty smile and the nicest hands I ever saw on a man. And he is quicker on his feet that anybody I ever danced with. And he was real generous when he measured piece goods for me, always adding a little extra. But I don’t suppose all that extra added up to more than a dollar, so it looks like I got bought for a farm wife for eight bits. That’s a good trick on me, isn’t it?

We have a hired man living in a shack by the barn. He is a veteran that got hurt at Shiloh, and he’s gimpy, and hard work does not agree with him, but he’s all we can get with the war on. Then there’s a free Negro that helps us out, too, in payment for Mother Bullock letting him farm a piece of our land. He’s better than an Irishman, I suppose, although not much good can
be said for either race. The hired man takes his Sunday dinner with us, but I put down my foot about the Negro. Slavery’s wrong. I believe that. But that doesn’t mean we have to let them sit at table.

The men are no help to me, because I do the inside work, and I never knew a man who was worth a red copper at the laundry tubs or cookstove. No, I should say the hearth, for there is no cookstove. Now you know how I hate cooking over an open fire. When I asked Mother Bullock why she never got a stove, she said they were dangerous. I have burnt a hole the size of a pawpaw in my brown dress, and my arms ache from lifting the heavy pots and chopping wood. Mother Bullock criticizes everything I do, until one day last week, I had had enough. She had accused me of not testing the heat in the brick oven in the hearth before putting in the bread. “Do it this way,” says she, thrusting her hand into the oven.

“Do it yourself, then,” I reply pertly, which drew a stern look but no rebuke. To redeem myself, I boiled up a kettle of black walnut hulls yesterday to make a dye, then colored a length of homespun, and will make a dress for Mother Bullock.

You have asked about my health. I am feeling finely, with the constitution of a hog. This morning, my stomach felt queer, but maybe I should not have lifted the heavy kettle. You say let them pamper me all I can, because they don’t do it for the second baby. Well, who is to do the pampering? I ask you. Not Mother Bullock. I guess you are talking about the hired hand or the Negro. Maybe the hogs.

As tired as I am of an evening, I still go to piecing, even if it’s only for a few minutes. I am never so tired but what I feel better when I have my pretty needlework about me. Last evening after supper, I spread the scraps around whilst I searched my head for a pattern. Mother Bullock commenced to read the Bible aloud, and we sat in sociable companionship for an hour. After she closed the Book, she went to her room and came back with an old split basket and thrust it at me. Inside were pieces of a quilt. “My angel mother cut them out just before she died.
I wasn’t yet a year old then,” Mother Bullock says. Mother Bullock does not do fancy stitchery, so she let them sit all these years.

Lizzie, they are chintz flowers, cut from whole goods for one of those coverlets of the old-fashioned kind, such as Grandma Keeler had. I was so pleased that I gave Mother Bullock a hug, the first time I have done such a thing. She pulled away and turned aside and smoothed her dress, since she is not one for sentiment. “I always thought time was better spent in such other than fancy sewing,” she says to me. “But I see it pleases you, so where’s the harm in it?”

I reply, “Sewing pleasures me, it does,” and told her how I won the first-place medal for my sampler at Miss Charlotte Densmore’s Academy in Fort Madison, where Mama hoped I would be turned into a lady. I did not mention how many times Miss Densmore rapped my head with a thimble for whispering or for making what she called “gobblings” of my first lumpish attempts.

“Where’s it at, that sampler?” asks she.

“In my trunk.”

“Get it, then.”

I was surprised, because Mother Bullock had never displayed interest in my work, but I took it out and showed it to her. She ran her hand over the stitches and read the little verse. Do you remember it? It goes:

Then let us all prepare to die
Since death is near and sure
And then it will not signify
If we were rich or poor

I never liked it.

But Mother Bullock nodded her approval, for she broods over death; she seems to enjoy brooding. “Well, if it’s won a prize, it might could have a frame to it,” she says. I decided right there to make those cut pieces into a quilt for her.

But then Mother Bullock spied this letter I had just started to
you, and she says real sour, “You ought to write your husband oftener than you do your sister.”

So I tell her, just as tart, “I have wrote him four times already. Lizzie writes back. Charlie doesn’t.”

This morning, Mother Bullock took the buggy to town, and she came back with a little frame. She put the sampler inside and hung it on the wall. Now, Lizzie, here is the thing of it: It’s a real nice frame, not a cheap one, either, but there is no glass.

You ask what is her appearance. We don’t look a thing alike, me and her. I am still as short as piecrust, just five feet tall, with chestnut hair (that is turning black from living in a dark log house with only an open fire for heat), and my eyes are still blue as a doll baby’s. She is four or five inches taller, with wheat-colored hair and eyes, and skin as dark as an Indian because she goes about with her head uncovered. She is fit, although dried up, but then, she was twenty-five when Charlie was born and now is almost fifty, so lucky to be alive.

Accept the best of love from your affectionate sister,
Alice K. Bullock

December 25, 1862

Dear Lizzie,

I have never had such a dull Christmas in my whole life. First off, the weather was miserable. I love a good snow, but we got sleet. I was chilled driving to church, where there was no heat because the stovepipe had come loose. Afterward, we went to Aunt Darnell’s for dinner. We had roast pig that was all fat and no lean, and suet pudding, and desiccated vegetables from the army, which she had got hold of somehow. The Lord knows why. I called them “desecrated,” which is a joke I heard, but nobody else thought it was funny.

They take Christmas serious around here. It’s all Bible reading and prayer. No parties, not even a round of visits. I asked Mother
Bullock to open the black currant wine we had made (for medicine, of course) before Charlie left, but she would not, saying as both she and Charlie had taken the pledge, she did not believe it acceptable for Charlie’s wife to imbibe. No matter, as it would not have gone with our supper of cold corn bread, Irish Murphys roasted in the ashes, and sauerkraut. Besides, we did not get a single caller to wish us Happy Christmas!