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

First thing after breakfast one fine May morning, Mr. Bixby came to Bluesmoke. Amanda knew it must be bad news for him to come in person. The telegram he brought was from Mother. “David killed at Chancellorsville. Come quickly.”

Amanda ran immediately to Jonathan’s office, weeping, crushed by the news of her brother’s death.

“I want to leave for Hunter House today,” she said tearfully.

“Well, I can’t,” he said bluntly. “I have to appear before the magistrate today. This is the first new case I’ve had in weeks, and I will not abandon it. We need the money.”

“We’re short on money?”

“Of course, not. I meant to say I need the work,” he stammered. “You’ll have to go alone. I’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Barbé wants to go. She loves David as much as I do.”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “We can’t leave the house unattended with hungry soldiers about.”

“You can’t leave her here alone,” Amanda said, crying again.

“Then I’ll fetch Juba,” Jonathan said. “He’ll have to stay with her until we get back.”

“You know he won’t want to leave the shop.”

“Then he’ll come at the barrel of my gun!”

Before the war, Amanda would have just traveled to Greeneville and boarded the train, which ran straight up to Abingdon, but the war had threatened the safety of train travel—like everything else.

The railroad was of supreme importance to the Yankees and the Confederates, especially the railroad bridges—massive wooden structures, some of which spanned hundreds of feet across valleys and streams. They were easily burned, and took weeks to rebuild. Along its tracks, men, supplies, and critical communications passed from the main armies in Virginia to the troops west of the Appalachian Mountains. The army that controlled the railroad would also control eastern Tennessee.

Soon after Tennessee seceded from the Union, the Rebels rushed in and posted garrisons at all strategically located railroad stations and bridges. They retained possession in the spring of 1863, despite the fact that the Yankees had twice burned the high bridges across the Holston and Watauga Rivers.

“Jonathan, I can’t travel alone.”

“You and Luke will have to go it alone. He’s a strong boy. He can protect you.”

“Then at least go rig up the horse and buggy while we pack.”

“It’ll take you several days by buggy,” Jonathan explained. “You know the roads are seas of mud this time of year. Better to go on horseback.”

Amanda knew what she and Luke had to look forward to on their journey to Virginia, and traveling without Jonathan only increased her anxiety.

Several times their horses’ hooves were sucked in by the muck. Luke had to climb down and lead them out of the mire. At some spots, the roads were impassable, and they were forced to detour on other roads, or to attempt passage through the adjacent fields. It was the worst journey she had ever undertaken.

Abingdon was a welcome spot of civilization in the wilderness, encompassing a few broad streets graced by large well-kept homes. Amanda considered stopping at David’s house there, but she was sure his wife and children would already be at Mother’s.

Amanda was relieved to see Hunter House in the distance. The Georgian-style country estate was really a plantation mansion transferred west, along with all the customs and the slaves. The fifteen-room mansion was located at the center of a park of about twenty acres, and was surrounded by spreading trees, flowering shrubs, and borders of odorous boxwood. When Amanda was a little girl, she thought it was magical place.

The house was constructed of soft red brick, and had identical stone-pillared porticoes on the road front and the riverfront, looking the same to travelers on land and water. The house consisted of three distinct sections: a huge rectangular center block which rose three full floors above the high basement, and two symmetrical two-story wings. From each portico, white marble steps led to a dark hall that ran the full depth of the house. Halfway down this hall was a cross hall which contained staircases to the upper floors and connected with the wings.

Amanda left the horses to be tended by one of the servants, and asked Luke to take their bags upstairs. She gave her boots to a servant to be cleaned. Though she was a muddy mess and her hair hung in sodden strips on her face, she was anxious to find her mother.
She entered the center hall slowly, trying to prepare herself for the sight of a coffin containing David’s body there—where her father’s body had been laid out, on a day that sometimes seemed so painfully recent, and at other times, so long ago.

There was no coffin. No body.
* * *
Life at Hunter House was one of simple elegance and comfort. A large army of slaves worked behind the scenes to make this life possible. The patina of antique furniture, the sheen of old silver, and a bouquet of fresh flowers in every room combined to create an atmosphere of charm and beauty as glamorous as any of the palatial homes in Richmond.
Mother wasn’t in the Green Room—the dining room. The servants were busy setting the tables. No one knew how many times the table might have to be set that night before everyone was fed. It was a sign of respect to allow the older and more important guests to eat at the first table. After they were finished, clean dishes and fresh servings of food were brought to the table, then the second table would begin. At times a third and fourth table were necessary.

Amanda found Mother in the kitchen. Amanda ran to her with arms outstretched, already wracked with sobs before she buried her face in Mother’s shoulder. The servants began to wail.

“They have been crying like this since the news first came,” her mother said. “I simply must regain some control here, or no one will have anything to eat tonight. The parlor is already full of guests, and more arriving by the minute.”

“Where’s Mattie?” Amanda asked. Mattie was Mother’s head cook.

“She has run away from home with some slaves down the road. We are so scared for her.”

Elizabeth Hunter was a strong and decisive woman. She hadn’t been interested in her husband’s businesses. Hunter House was her domain, but she was a kind boss. She worked with her servants. They didn’t fear her, but they hated to disappoint her. A sideways glance, or a stiffening of her already ramrod-straight back, spoke volumes.
Amanda grabbed both of Mother’s hands and promised to take care of supper.

“See to your guests. You’re much better at that than I am,” Amanda said with a halfhearted smile.

Amanda thought Mother was looking old. She swore she weighed the same as always, but Amanda thought she looked thinner. Her hair had turned completely gray since Father died. Still, she was the most beautiful woman Amanda had ever seen. Her complexion was perfect; her eyes were crystal blue. She still applied her makeup, and dressed in fine clothes every morning, as if the Queen of England were coming to dinner.

Amanda’s sister, Penelope, and her family arrived from Fredericksburg. Penelope was five years her senior. They had never been close.

With meal preparations organized, Amanda escaped to the room she always occupied at Hunter House, the Rose Room. It had been her room when she was a girl, a beautiful chamber with quaint old furniture and spotless linens, and a glass bell on the bedside table to summon the servants. The four-poster bed was covered by a white canopy piped in rose pink, and a flowered curtain draped down at the head of the bed. A calico quilt covered the bed. A plump bolster pillow stretched from one side of the bed to the other.
On a small table by the bedroom window, Amanda found a book of poetry, which she suspected Mother had chosen especially for her. Amanda wondered how Mother remembered all the little details of comfort most people overlooked, always doing a little special something for each of her guests.

After she had washed all reminders of the trip from her hair and body and changed into clean clothes, Amanda sat in the chair by the window and picked up the book. Some words of comfort might soothe the ache in her heart. But it was no use. Her mind couldn’t grasp the meaning of the words.

She had thought she needed some time alone, but the room was too confining. Nor did she want to greet the visitors. Of course, their every word was of David. She decided to go for a walk.

Across the hall, the younger grandchildren would crowd into the large corner room, where their adoring grandmother had created their own private dormitory, with six single beds. Amanda peeked into the open doorway and saw three little valises inside the door, which meant that David’s children had arrived. She passed the door to the room next to hers, the room that was David’s when they were children. Her hand touched the knob, but she pulled back.

On David’s last visit, on furlough, he had told the family that he planned to move back to Hunter House and to restore the farm to its original condition. The war, he said, had changed the way he looked at life. Mother had been elated. Now, that dream would never be realized.

Outside, the cool breeze felt good on Amanda’s face. She entered her father’s office in the carriage house. It had been maintained as it was the day he left to fight in the Confederate army. Amanda almost expected to see him sitting at his desk, pulling off his old straw hat, and mopping his sweaty forehead with a red bandanna.

Amanda couldn’t visit Hunter House without spending some time there, touching his things: his accounting books, his field hat that was so worn it was shiny, the jacket he wore in cold weather. One of his soft flannel shirts still hung across the back of his office chair. She caressed her cheek with it.

A large map, yellowed by time, hung on the wall behind his desk. He used that map to teach Amanda about the world, hoping she would be his traveling companion and would love going abroad as much as he did. He knew that Mother, Penelope, and David were homebodies. A tiny tack marked each place he had visited. She went with him once to New York, when she was fourteen. He must have sensed her homesickness. They stayed only a few days.

I should have offered to go with him again. I was the one he tried to instill with a sense of adventure and a hunger for knowledge. I was the one who disappointed him terribly. He was just too kind to say so.

They had talked frequently about her future. With Father’s encouragement, she was beginning to believe that she could do whatever she wanted with her life, but it all vanished like a wisp the moment she met Jonathan Armstrong.

To the east of the house was a hillside garden full of wildflowers. A network of walks and footpaths created intricate patterns. Being there only reminded her of David and the days they spent together there. Time seemed endless then.

In good weather, she and David roamed the property. They played tag along these garden paths, pestering Mother while she worked in the flowerbeds. They suited their play to the seasons: made necklaces of jasmine in March, played hide-and-seek among the lilacs in May, watched the hummingbirds hover around the honeysuckle in June and July, stole fruit from the orchards whenever available, and swung on stripped grapevines in the fall. They fished, hunted, built forts, and rode horseback—each always trying to get the better of the other.

In very hot weather, Mother kept them inside. They took their toys and books to the central hall, where there was always a breeze blowing up from the river below or drifting down from the cool woods to the west. They learned hymns and Bible verses during morning prayers at the dining room table, and on Sunday mornings, the whole family sat together at Old Christ Church down the road. They were taught to be clean, polite, and well mannered, especially when away from home or in the company of visitors. They studied their lessons at night in the library. Amanda often nodded off over her books—exhausted by her wanderings through woods and field with David that day.

She recognized early on how lucky she was. Not everyone, not even many of her friends, had the things they had—a wonderful home in which to grow and learn, an almost endless array of material possessions, an appreciation of books and nature, the sound of their parents’ voices kind and gentle, gardens and woods to run and play in, and cornbread baked in an iron skillet.

Hunter House was famous back then as a highly productive wheat farm. She and David loved harvest time, and went with the women in the afternoon to take pieces of pie to the workers in the field. They followed the slaves as they cut the grain, swinging their cradles in perfect rhythm, and delighted in their singing—mellow voices raised in rich African rhythms. The binders followed the cradlers, and tied up the bundles of wheat, next came the men who formed the shocks.

She and David romped through the tall golden wheat at sunset. With closed eyes and arms outstretched, they fell backward upon the springy stalks, and watched the lightning bugs circle overhead. At those times, giggling with her brother, Amanda experienced complete joy.
***
Amanda could think of no more heartwarming sight than looking into the family parlor at Hunter House to see the massive fireplace ablaze. The walk through the gardens had improved her mood, but she returned to the house knowing that her brother’s body had been delivered while she was gone. She had caught sight of a military ambulance headed in the direction of Abingdon.

She returned to her room after supper to read the letter that had arrived with David’s body. It was written by his commanding officer. The letter read:

“This place called Chancellorsville, where the Yanks have set up their headquarters, consists of one large brick house at a crossroads about ten miles west of our lines at Fredericksburg. It is located a mile or so within a forest known as the Wilderness, a twisted mass of immature oak and vine-covered pine that stretches for many acres.

“David read his Bible by the first ray of light every morning, then placed it in his pocket over his heart. He waited patiently for his orders, which he performed with diligence and care. A finer man I know I will never meet. A bullet through the head took him down.”

When Amanda read that last sentence, she dropped the letter and screamed. The words were—well, abrupt. She realized that the painstaking description of the forest were the meanderings of a man who was avoiding the task before him. Then, those eight little words. The loss of a life should take longer than that, especially one so full of love and kindness. She would have admired David even if he hadn’t been her brother. They had talked for hours about what life really meant.

David told her once that human beings would be more than arrogant to think that we could make the slightest difference in a world so big, but we must still try. For, in the trying, we might touch each other, and maybe that one tiny fingerprint wouldn’t fade after we’re gone. Nobility was to be found in the effort, he said, not the result.

As she bent to pick up the letter, Mother and Penelope came running through the door.

“Are you all right?” they asked in unison.

“I’m sorry to frighten you,” she said softly. “I’m all right.”

“Are you sure?” Mother asked.

Amanda nodded and wiped the tears from her face with the backs of her hands.

Alone again, she laid the letter aside and held her hands straight up at shoulder height, as a mime might do in trying to escape from an imaginary box. She had almost forgotten. After running all the way home, she and David would stop and press their hands together, palm-to-palm, fingertip-to-fingertip. And if they stood very still, they could feel each other’s heartbeat. Now she sensed David’s hands pressing against hers, and she was at peace.

Of course, she would cry, and she would miss him always. But her tears would be for her family, for the void left in all their lives by his death.
She picked up the letter and began to read again:

“I have previously thought myself hardened to war, but the events of this day have left me to wonder whether any cause can justify such loss. I am sure you are aware of the exceptional man your son was, and be assured that he was as loved here as he was at home. We have sent the men under his command to the rear for the time being. They are so shocked and heartbroken; we doubt that they are capable of defending themselves.

“I will try to visit Hunter House after the war. David talked of it so often I almost feel like I have already been there. I have never met a man so completely devoted to his family. I hope you can find solace in knowing that he did not suffer.
Brigadier General Albert Sommers
Chancellorsville, Virginia
May 2, 1863”
***
Downstairs, Amanda found Jeremy, David’s youngest child, who didn’t understand death, but clearly understood that Daddy wouldn’t be coming home ever again. She lifted his little body, carried him to a chair in the corner of the parlor, and whispered to him.

“Daddy asked me to tell you that he is with God in Heaven, and when it’s your turn to go to heaven, he will be there waiting for you.”

“I want to go now,” Jeremy sobbed.

“Only God can decide when it’s your time to go, so you have to wait. Do you understand?”

He nodded his dear little head and soon fell asleep in her arms. She wouldn’t give him up to be put to bed for hours. He was a part of David she could still hold on to.
* * *
The following afternoon David was buried with great military flair. Confederate soldiers from local garrisons marched in the procession from the church to the cemetery. Amanda led David’s horse with its empty saddle. Mother and Penelope walked beside her.

Amanda had never seen Mother so utterly crushed. That evening, at her request, everyone gathered in the family parlor, the Blue Room.

“Tonight we should remember David. His goodness—“ Mrs. Hunter began. Her thoughts seemed to stray. “He fought in twelve battles, for his country. His courage, I am told was the finest ever known, and we are proud.

“We know he loved us, and he wouldn’t want us to suffer at his passing. We must remember that through the difficult days to come,” she managed to say before her voice gave way.

Seeing her so broken down, the servants began to wail, especially David’s servants, who had come with his wife and children from Abingdon. Jonathan, who was standing at the very back, pushed through the crowd, and left the room. Amanda followed him to the music room across the hall.

“How rude of you to leave while Mother was talking,” she said, trying to keep her voice down.

He had arrived barely in time to attend the funeral—leaving her to worry about his safety and to wonder if he had decided not to come at all.

“What is the matter with you, Jonathan?”

“You buried the man,” he said. “Why can’t you let it be?”

“And you would have us do what? Act as if he never existed?”

“That would be preferable to continuously talking about him. Let the man rest in peace. But, no! You Hunters have to wallow in your grief. You must express your every little emotion beyond the limits of human endurance. And,” he continued, flinging his arms,
“God forbid that you should become overwrought, for then you’re too agitated to make any sense, but repeat yourself, and say the same thing over and over.”

“Like you’re doing right now?” Amanda said.

The color rose in Jonathan’s face.

“I guess it’s better for everyone to keep their mouths shut like you and Eva, so everyone around you can be uncomfortable all the time, and wonder what it is you’re feeling. You might as well have stayed home for all the help you’ve been to me since you arrived.”

“Well, that can be easily remedied,” he said.

“Go ahead!” she shouted. “I can’t stand the sight of you right now.”
He left the house. When Amanda saw him later, he had been into the whiskey—he always carried whiskey in his saddlebags—and was in a mellow mood, but she went to bed without him.
* * *
Mother stood on the back portico, trying to say good-bye to Amanda. “I thought burying your father was the most difficult task I would ever face,” she said. “Now I pray that losing one of my children is the worst pain I will experience in this world. If there is a greater hardship, I will not survive it.”

“I can’t believe that God would allow another member of our family to be sacrificed to this horrible war,” Amanda said.

“Please stay on with me a few days more,” Mother begged. “Everyone is leaving me at once.”

“Penelope said she would stay on a few days.”

“She’s not strong like you.”

Amanda was overcome. She had no idea Mother thought she was strong. “I’ll ask Jonathan,” she finally managed to say.

“If he’s concerned about your welfare, please tell him I will send one of the servants to deliver you home safely.”

“How can I refuse her?” Amanda told Jonathan, who was standing nearby, waiting impatiently for Amanda to say her good-byes.

“Just say you can’t stay,” he said.

“I’ve never seen her so shaken.”

“Who’ll take care of me if you stay? Of Luke?” Jonathan said.

“Barbé is capable of—”

“No,” he said resolutely.

“Please,” she begged, “I can’t leave her in such a state.”

“Come home now, or don’t come home at all,” he said, and mounted his horse.
* * *
The night before the last leg of their journey home, they stopped at their friends, the Andersons. Jonathan didn’t care much for the Andersons—he suspected they were Confederate sympathizers—but Amanda begged, and he finally relented. The Andersons served them a wonderful supper, and Amanda enjoyed a few hours of conversation that had nothing to do with death or the war.

Maybe Amanda and Luke lingered too long at the breakfast table the next morning, or maybe he was still angry with Amanda. Whatever the reason, as soon as he gulped down his breakfast, Jonathan went to make sure the horses were ready for their departure.
Mr. Anderson asked Luke if he was still following the activities of General John Hunt Morgan. Luke’s eyes lit up at an opportunity to discuss his hero. Jonathan came in to hurry them along, and soon discovered the topic of conversation.

“You’re stupid to admire such a murderer,” Jonathan taunted Luke.

“He’s not a murderer!” Luke shouted, his face turning bright red. “He protects the civilians, and doesn’t allow their homes to be burned or sacked. He’s the finest gentleman I know.”

“You don’t know him,” Jonathan said.

Normally, Luke would back down, but Amanda saw a fire in his eyes she hadn’t seen before.

“This is neither the time nor the place for this conversation,” Amanda interjected.

“Morgan doesn’t kill,” Luke said defiantly. “He has done a great good for the Confederacy. He has burned bridges, blown up tunnels, tore up railroad tracks, and captured supply depots and many prisoners, but nowhere have I heard of him murdering anyone.” Luke was seething.

“Son, you are just being naive,” Jonathan said in a superior tone. “He’s a lying, thieving, low-down Confederate rat.”

“You take that back!” Luke screamed.

“Jonathan, please,” Amanda begged, pulling on his arm.

“Settle down now, son,” said Mr. Anderson. He put one of his large hands on the nape of Luke’s neck, the other on his arm, and walked Luke out to his horse, and didn’t release his hold on him until he had calmed down a little.

Luke spoke not a word all the way home. Amanda tried to turn her thoughts away from her family’s troubles, from Luke’s stony silence, from the sure knowledge that this was not just another father-son spat and would not pass quickly.

Amanda thought Luke’s hero worship could only lead to disappointment. She realized, as most people seemed to have forgotten in their romantic notions about the war, that these were only ordinary men, who had been thrust into a place of prominence by unusual circumstances. Some would succeed; many would fail.

Passing through Greeneville now on their way home, Amanda admired the town. Its appearance hadn’t changed since the beginning of the war, but many businesses had been forced to close. The cool waters of Big Spring, located in the heart of town, had first attracted settlers there in 1783. Lovely homes, churches, and places of business bordered its tree-lined streets. As they passed by the Williams house, Amanda was tempted to stop and spend a moment with Catherine Williams, now a widow, who had been her acquaintance for many years, but decided against it.

There was discomfort in the town regarding the politics of the members of that household. Catherine, the head of the family, was an avowed Confederate and didn’t care who knew it, but her son was in the Union army and his wife lived there with his mother.
About a mile from home, Luke urged his horse forward and rode ahead of Amanda. Jonathan had ridden so far in advance that she hadn’t seen him for hours.

When Amanda arrived at Bluesmoke, Jonathan and Luke were shouting at each other in the front yard. Luke stood beside his little mare, Lady, the reins still in his hand. The horse was frightened by the loud voices and reared up, trying to break free of Luke’s hold on her.

“You can’t see anyone else’s point of view, can you, Father?” Luke shouted. “Your opinion is always right.”

“Yes,” Jonathan said after a moment’s pause. “I’ve lived much longer than you have, and I know a good deal more than you will ever know.”

“If it means I’d turn out to be like you, then I don’t want to know it. I’m ashamed you are my father!” Luke jumped into the saddle and took off in a roar of pounding hooves.

Jonathan grabbed the reins, but he couldn’t hold onto them.

Luke didn’t come home that night.

Chapter 5 << – Index – >> Chapter 7