Tennessee Twilight: A Civil War Novel – Free Online Novel – Webnovel

Monday, April 27, 1863

Monday was laundry day, and this Monday was the first day of spring-cleaning, a week of total chaos. Amanda and her housekeeper, Barbé, worked from sunup to sundown. Before the week was out, they would clean everything—clean under and around it, and return it to its proper place.

Amanda was cleaning the parlor, when she heard Jonathan shouting in the front yard. He had decided that the best contribution he could make to the war effort was to grow corn to feed the Union army and their horses when they arrived in northeastern Tennessee, which was rumored to be any day now. Luke and Crocker were working in the northwest meadow, digging up the dried cornstalks from the previous year, and readying the ground for planting.

Amanda went out onto the front terrace and called to Jonathan, “What’s the matter?”

“Those damned Rebels have passed a new tax law. They think they’re going to take ten percent of everything I grow this year to feed the Confederate army. Well, let them take ten percent of nothing!”

“You have to plant something,” Amanda urged.

“We had enough food last year,” he said, leaning his arm against the side of the house.

“Barely. The garden was bigger then, and we grew extra potatoes in the back meadow, and extra corn. The pantry and the root cellar are nearly empty. You have no idea how much it takes to feed four people through the winter.”

“If Juba ever makes enough money to feed his own, we’ll have plenty,” Jonathan said hatefully. Juba was Barbé’s husband.

“Then Luke isn’t needed in the field anymore?” she asked.

“Nobody’s needed in the field.”

“Then tell him to help us with the cleaning.”

“Luke, go help your mother.”

“Do I have to?” Luke said.

“Yes,” Jonathan yelled. “And quit whining. You sound like a girl.”

Amanda told Luke to help Juba with the rugs and the upholstered furniture on the rear terrace. She returned to the parlor, where she was scrubbing the wooden floors.

“Where is my vinegar water?” Amanda called a while later, trying not to sound too impatient. She hadn’t slept well, and had been suffering with a headache all morning.

She had lost count of the number of buckets of water they had already used that morning. Every drop of water they used in the house had to be carried from the pump behind the kitchen. It didn’t seem so bad until she carried several bucketsful, and her side began to burn.

“Here’s your water, my girl,” Barbé said breathlessly. As she hurried through the parlor door, a splash of water spilled onto the boards Amanda had just scrubbed and polished with beeswax. Her mournful eyes begged Amanda for forgiveness as she hastily mopped it up.

“Why isn’t Luke carrying that?” she asked Barbé.

“You sent him to help Juba.”

Amanda nodded. “Sorry,” she said, “I forgot. Thank you for the water. I want to finish these windows before dinner.”

“You best hurry,” Barbé whispered secretively. She sat the bucket on the windowsill and left as quickly as she had come.

Earlier, when Amanda learned that Luke would be working with Crocker, she had begged Juba to help with the spring-cleaning. She had put him on the spot in front of his wife, so he couldn’t very well refuse, but he made it clear he didn’t intend to stay long.

Juba was a big man—over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, long arms, and hands so large that he could pick up a rolled-up carpet with one hand. His skin color was almost black, much darker than Barbe’s. He had come to live with Barbé at Bluesmoke after he bought his freedom. Prior to that, he could spend only a few hours with her after church on Sunday. Finding no other opportunities, he continued to work for his previous master for a pittance of a wage. Amanda saw his ego deflate, his hopes, die. He had believed that the day he bought his freedom would be a magical time.
* * *

One morning a year earlier, Barbé came crying to Amanda. “He’ll get his heart broke,” she said.

“What is it?” Amanda asked.

“Juba’s going to see Mr. Bixby again about buying his old carriage house,” Barbé said tearfully, “says he’s tired of being a fix-up man and waiting for something to make our lives better. Says he has to make it better, or it won’t ever be.”

“What do you mean he’s going to Bixby again?”

“He’s been there several times over the last few years.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

“Because I promised him I wouldn’t. You know he won’t take help, especially from you.”

Juba wanted to buy the old carriage house behind Bixby’s General Store at Armstrong Crossroads and set it up as a blacksmith shop.

“Oh, Mandy,” Barbé continued. “I know Mr. Lincoln wrote that emancipation paper to help us black folks, but it’s got Juba so worked up I’m afraid for him. I keep telling him it just means slaves are free. It don’t mean we can go down the road and buy a farm and some white man’s gonna pay us a pile of money for our crops. He says, ‘That’s fine. I don’t want to be a farmer. I want to be a blacksmith, like my Daddy and Granddaddy trained me for.’”

“Sshh,” Amanda said, drawing Barbé into her arms. She called for Luke, who was still in the kitchen eating breakfast.

“Ride as quick as you can to Mr. Bixby’s,” she told Luke, and don’t let Juba see you. Tell Mr. Bixby to come see me tonight after dark.”

“This might work,” Amanda said, turning back to Barbé, “and it might be a good investment for the money I’ve saved from my father’s trust.”

“Really?” Barbé said, drying her eyes. “Don’t give me hope if there ain’t no hope.”

“No, I’m serious,” Amanda said.

“Oh, Dear Lord,” Barbé said, hugging Amanda tightly. “If you could do this for me, he’ll stop thinking about moving to the North.”
* * *
When Bixby came to the house that night, Amanda tried to make him see that his terms were unreasonable. The deposit he was asking for would take all of Juba’s savings, and leave nothing for tools.

“That building has stood empty for years,” she told Bixby. “I would think you’d be glad to be rid of it.”

“It isn’t costing me a penny sitting there,” Bixby said smartly. “And I’m not so sure that man—that colored man—can make a go of a business here.”

“So, that’s it.”

“No, that’s not it,” he said haughtily. “I don’t hold it against him that he’s a Negro, but some folks around here will. I don’t think they’ll give him any work.”

“You think they’d be stupid enough to travel clear to Greeneville, when there’s a blacksmith right down the road?”

“Some would, yes.”

“Then that makes me angrier than I already was,” she said.

Bixby held fast to his original price. Amanda had to pay half of the deposit, and she agreed to pay off the balance of the debt should Juba default on the monthly payments.
***
After many hours of backbreaking work, Juba opened the Armstrong Crossroads Blacksmith Shop. He smiled with great satisfaction. Amanda had never seen him so happy.

So, she was caught completely off guard when he stormed into the kitchen one Monday morning a few weeks later. Working in his spare time, he had transformed the big room above the carriage house into an apartment. He was bringing Barbé back to Bluesmoke after they spent their first weekend there.

“What have you done now?” he shouted at Amanda.

“What are you talking about?” Amanda asked. She looked to Barbé for an explanation, but she stood quietly by, eyes downcast.

“My wife won’t come live with me at the Crossroads,” he said angrily. “She wants to stay here with her precious Amanda.” This last part he said mockingly, his lips protruding into a pout.

Barbé gave Amanda a sly sideways glance, and a slight shrug of her shoulders. Despite all the talk about the apartment and how nice it would be for Juba to have his own home for the first time in his life, Amanda had never thought about Barbé living there—apparently, neither had Barbé.

“And what would you have her do?” Amanda said.

“I would have her live with her husband, where she belongs.”

“Wouldn’t that be a hardship on you?” Amanda asked. “To have to bring her back and forth to Bluesmoke every day?”

“Who says she has to be here every day?” Juba said.

“Juba,” Amanda stuttered, “it’s hard enough for me to get along with her here. “I can’t imagine—“

“I just can’t get away from you people,” Juba said, shaking his head. “I bought my freedom from a man who treated me like a dog from the day I was born. I moved here, hoping I could be an independent man, to be respected. But all I got here was more bossing. Then, I’m thinking I’ve finally made it—a blacksmith shop of my own. But all I got was another white man to order me around like I’m his personal darkie. If I’m lucky enough to get a job, Bixby takes me off it, puts me on another job for one of his friends, and my customer has to wait. But I carry on as best I can, because I have a goal. If this is what it takes to get my business going, then this is what I’ll do. And I work every night to make a nice living space for my wife. I can finally give her the home she deserves—only to find out she don’t want it!”

Juba left the kitchen and slammed the door closed.

“I don’t understand why he’s behaving like this,” Amanda shouted. “I spent almost all my savings on that shop.”

“But he doesn’t know that,” Barbé whispered, “and you can’t tell him. I don’t know what he’d do if he found out.”

A compromise was eventually reached. Barbé would stay with Juba from Friday afternoon until Monday morning, and live the rest of the week at Bluesmoke. Amanda knew that Juba was disappointed, but she needed Barbé more than he did.

Business at the blacksmith shop did come slowly at first. It seemed that Bixby had been at least partially right. Some eastern Tennesseans had no problem with a black man working in a blacksmith shop, but to own one seemed to be another matter entirely. Even the most loyal Unionists weren’t necessarily abolitionists. Even those who condemned a system that permitted one man to own another weren’t sure how the freed slaves would fit into Southern society. Who could afford to pay the freedmen for their work? And who would house, clothe, and feed them?

Jonathan was sitting at his desk one day when Amanda withdrew a small valise from the safe in his office. She unlocked it with a key she wore on a long chain around her neck. There were only a few bills left, but it was U.S. greenbacks, not that worthless Confederate currency.

Jonathan moved his chair around, trying to look inside the case, but she closed it quickly. He chuckled as she put it back into the safe.

“What’s so funny?” she asked him.

“Looks like you’re down to your last dollar,” he said, still smiling. “I told you that you’d regret the day you got involved with Juba and that business. I know you’ve done it all for Barbé, but he’s got only himself in mind.”

“He always cares for Barbé,” she said firmly.

“Does he? It appears to me that you care for Barbé.”

“What if I do?” she asked.

“How much do you plan to do for that nigger?”

“You know I hate that word,” she said.

“Well, that’s what he is,” Jonathan said hatefully. “Some are black folk; some are Negroes. Juba’s a nigger. He made himself that, not me. Don’t rebuke me for calling him what he is.”

“You know how disappointed your father would be to hear you say such words.”

“Well, he isn’t here to hear me, is he?” Jonathan said sarcastically.

“I know your attitude, Jonathan,” she said. “The white man is king of the world; the black man is well beneath you.”

“You’re leaving yourself out,” he said. “White women are next in line, then black men, black women, and then Indians of any description.”

That last jab was directed at Silver Plume, Amanda’s Cherokee friend.

“Do you remember what I told you the day Juba came here bragging that he was free, and could do whatever he wanted to do?”

“No, I don’t,” she said, “nor do I care.”

“You disappoint me, Amanda,” he said, reaching over to slap her on the back. “I thought you remembered everything I say.”

She moved out of his reach.

“I told you that he’d become one of those uppity niggers, who would expect the world to give him a living. You’ve paid him for every lick of work he’s done here at Bluesmoke. Now you’re setting him up in business. When will it end?”

“It will end when I say it ends!” she shouted.

“Women shouldn’t be allowed to have money,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “They don’t know how to handle it when they get it. That’s why we men have to marry you and take care of you poor helpless creatures.”

“I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t bring this up again, and punish me with it,” she responded. “It’s my money, and you just can’t stand me having it, can you?”

“Well, it was yours,” he said. “Before it’s over you’ll lose every dime.”

“Next time I need confidential papers drawn up, I’ll go to Greeneville,” she said. “Then you won’t know what I’m doing.”

“Well, really, Amanda, what do you expect? Putting all your money into such a crazy venture—you might as well have burned it.”

“I don’t know if you noticed,” she said calmly, “but I didn’t ask for your opinion. I can’t remember the last time I did ask for it, and I will have to be extremely desperate if I ever ask for it in the future.”

“Oh, you’ll come to me after this mess falls down upon you, and I’ll try not to remind you of what you said here today.” He giggled again.

She slammed the door as she left—but she still heard every word he said.

“You’re quite a handful, Amanda,” he shouted. “Old Alex Hunter knew just what he was doing when he set up that trust for you. He made sure I’d never have the slightest bit of control over his sweet little Amanda. All you Hunter women are arrogant bitches.”