disrespect to you, ma’am. Please forgive me if I have offended you.”
At least he knows enough to apologize.
“You mentioned that Eli had some money before. When he was sick.”
Simon’s eyes indicate no recognition or surprise. He is watching me.
“Did you find the money?” I ask. My stomach churns, and I cover it with a hand.
“No, ma’am,” Simon answers with no inflection. “I think I must have been mistaken.”
“There was a package, wasn’t there? Did you find it?”
“No, ma’am, I did not.”
“But you have looked for it?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did some looking. As I said, I think I was mistaken.”
He looks at the pile of weeds, his hands at his sides. He must be hiding something. There must be more that he knows.
“Excuse me,” Simon says, “I’ll be getting back to my work.” He turns his back to me and grasps a thick clump of vetch. He pulls at it, tearing again at the soil and tossing the plants aside.
The laudanum is working. I should have kept it with me. Why did I put it back in Eli’s room? I can barely breathe in there, but thank God Weems got the work done. Eli’s face is like a wax mask. Poor Eli. Ten years with him, and what did he get? What did I get? No one seems to know.
I should stay away from the laudanum. Eli did not like it. Mama never did, either. But I need something for this headache. And no one saw me cross the hall. It was a small dose. It is because of this tremendous heat. What is left for me after almost ten years? And what will Henry get?
Unanticipated shocks? I could almost laugh at Judge, although he would never abide laughter. And he is the only one to know. I should not have asked Simon. Foolish of me. What could Simon tell me anyway? Yes, Judge knows the shocks. He knows that I know them. Since Pa died, it has been nothing but shocks. The war. Hill going to battle with Buck. The deaths and the loss.
When North Alabama fell, we could hardly believe it. That was all after the battle at Shiloh. I was still at school in Huntsville. Our soldiers seemed to give up without a whisper of a fight. The whole Tennessee River and the Oosanatee along with it abandoned to them.
I was fourteen. Albert Sidney Johnston rode through Huntsville on his way to join Beauregard and the western army at Corinth before the battle. My girlfriends and I lined up along Eustis Street, waiting for him to pass. He was dashing, with a large feather waving from his hat and his long mustaches hanging to his chin. A few weeks later, he was dead. The horrible numbers of dead and wounded flooded into town on the railroad. And then nothing. The trains stopped. There were rumors everywhere, and as if on the breeze suddenly the Yankees were around us. Soldiers on leave and politicians still in their nightshirts ran from their homes before dawn. We weren’t even surrounded, we were simply overwhelmed.
Jennie Heyney’s father took us both back to Albion in a great barouche with a safe passage from the Yankee general. Mr. Heyney died in the sickness that came after the war. Cholera or dysentery or something. Mama squeezed me so hard when she saw me, and Emma was crying, too. Mike kept asking if I’d seen any dead bodies, and we had, though I didn’t tell him. Two men in blue jackets and homespun trousers dead in the woods off the turnpike. Stragglers or sharpshooters or bandits. Mr. Heyney told his coachman Old George to drive on fast. But we saw them, Jennie and I. Faces upturned, bloated and black in the sun, swarming with flies and God knows what else, left there to rot among the pines.
That was the war. Albert Sidney Johnston killed, along with thirty thousand dead and wounded. Six times the number of people in Albion. Inconceivable. Horrible beyond comprehension. Who were they all? Where were their families? Didn’t it mean anything? But it was the war. We had to defend ourselves. Jennie had a brother in the 26th Alabama, like me. Even Mr. Heyney looked gray.
Who was I then? Am I
At least he knows enough to apologize.
“You mentioned that Eli had some money before. When he was sick.”
Simon’s eyes indicate no recognition or surprise. He is watching me.
“Did you find the money?” I ask. My stomach churns, and I cover it with a hand.
“No, ma’am,” Simon answers with no inflection. “I think I must have been mistaken.”
“There was a package, wasn’t there? Did you find it?”
“No, ma’am, I did not.”
“But you have looked for it?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did some looking. As I said, I think I was mistaken.”
He looks at the pile of weeds, his hands at his sides. He must be hiding something. There must be more that he knows.
“Excuse me,” Simon says, “I’ll be getting back to my work.” He turns his back to me and grasps a thick clump of vetch. He pulls at it, tearing again at the soil and tossing the plants aside.
The laudanum is working. I should have kept it with me. Why did I put it back in Eli’s room? I can barely breathe in there, but thank God Weems got the work done. Eli’s face is like a wax mask. Poor Eli. Ten years with him, and what did he get? What did I get? No one seems to know.
I should stay away from the laudanum. Eli did not like it. Mama never did, either. But I need something for this headache. And no one saw me cross the hall. It was a small dose. It is because of this tremendous heat. What is left for me after almost ten years? And what will Henry get?
Unanticipated shocks? I could almost laugh at Judge, although he would never abide laughter. And he is the only one to know. I should not have asked Simon. Foolish of me. What could Simon tell me anyway? Yes, Judge knows the shocks. He knows that I know them. Since Pa died, it has been nothing but shocks. The war. Hill going to battle with Buck. The deaths and the loss.
When North Alabama fell, we could hardly believe it. That was all after the battle at Shiloh. I was still at school in Huntsville. Our soldiers seemed to give up without a whisper of a fight. The whole Tennessee River and the Oosanatee along with it abandoned to them.
I was fourteen. Albert Sidney Johnston rode through Huntsville on his way to join Beauregard and the western army at Corinth before the battle. My girlfriends and I lined up along Eustis Street, waiting for him to pass. He was dashing, with a large feather waving from his hat and his long mustaches hanging to his chin. A few weeks later, he was dead. The horrible numbers of dead and wounded flooded into town on the railroad. And then nothing. The trains stopped. There were rumors everywhere, and as if on the breeze suddenly the Yankees were around us. Soldiers on leave and politicians still in their nightshirts ran from their homes before dawn. We weren’t even surrounded, we were simply overwhelmed.
Jennie Heyney’s father took us both back to Albion in a great barouche with a safe passage from the Yankee general. Mr. Heyney died in the sickness that came after the war. Cholera or dysentery or something. Mama squeezed me so hard when she saw me, and Emma was crying, too. Mike kept asking if I’d seen any dead bodies, and we had, though I didn’t tell him. Two men in blue jackets and homespun trousers dead in the woods off the turnpike. Stragglers or sharpshooters or bandits. Mr. Heyney told his coachman Old George to drive on fast. But we saw them, Jennie and I. Faces upturned, bloated and black in the sun, swarming with flies and God knows what else, left there to rot among the pines.
That was the war. Albert Sidney Johnston killed, along with thirty thousand dead and wounded. Six times the number of people in Albion. Inconceivable. Horrible beyond comprehension. Who were they all? Where were their families? Didn’t it mean anything? But it was the war. We had to defend ourselves. Jennie had a brother in the 26th Alabama, like me. Even Mr. Heyney looked gray.
Who was I then? Am I
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