Homeland Read online

  [lost]

  Susanna Ashford, Vicksburg, Mississippi

  To

  Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine

  [not sent]

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1862

  Dearest Cora,

  Your letter reached me today, What do I think about Mr. Lincoln’s Proclamation of Emancipation? Everyone here says this is his malicious way of inciting slave revolt, but not a servant in this house-hold—or anywhere in Vicksburg, so far as I can tell—is thinking about revolt. The ones who don’t like being slaves (and there are quite a lot that don’t mind it: they have food and clothing and a roof over their heads, and trust their masters—and apparently their masters’ heirs!—not to sell them) are all thinking about running away, because now they have someplace to go.

  All my life I’ve heard Pa’s friends, and my brothers, fretting about slave revolt, and I’ve always thought: If they weren’t slaves, they wouldn’t revolt, would they?

  But the other thing that reached me today is the news that Mrs. J and her family have been forced to flee from Carter County. So there is no way I can send you this just now. I will continue to write—and to make drawings for you—and send it all when I can.

  At least I won’t run out of paper. The attic here is chock-a-block with old magazines and sheet-music, some of them dating back to the twenties, and as you’ll soon see (this is my last sheet of Husband #3’s stationery) there are plenty of blank inside-covers and spaces. I’ve been drawing on them for weeks already. We still get firewood and coal by railroad from Jackson, but they’re shockingly expensive—over thirty dollars a cord! That’s Confederate dollars, but even so!

  As late in the year as it is, I still haven’t had a bedroom fire, though I notice Aunt Sally always has one. We can’t get black lead, either, so it takes more scouring and fussing to get the grates clean and they always look rusty and dingy. At least, even though we can’t get carborundum powder, either, we can still use brick-dust to clean the knives.

  I remember how horrified I was last year to pay a dollar a yard for plain calico. Most ladies in town would scalp for a chance to get it for that little now. Aunt Sally, of course, always manages to “get” bolts of new and quite good muslin and calico as presents from the Generals here and in Jackson, all of whom are her dear good friends. As a result, Julia and I are suddenly the two best-dressed young ladies in Vicksburg. Everyone else’s dresses have all been turned once and some of them twice, and I’m told people in the country are setting up looms to weave their own cloth.

  I still haven’t managed to find a copy of Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s Vindication. But, stowed away on a top shelf I found a marvelous book by her daughter. It’s about a doctor who creates a human being out of pieces of dead bodies, and by scientific means endows it with life … and having done so, refuses to take further responsibility for it, because it is misshapen and ugly. I have never read anything remotely like it, and could not put it down. I was totally enthralled. I suspect your Father would say it is completely morally unedifying, and yet—why is the story of a creature who is assumed to be evil because of his ugliness, different from that of one who is deemed unfit for a place in society because he, or she, is black? Or a woman?

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 26

  NIGHT

  No letter from you, and who knows how long, before I get one again? I pretend I can post this tomorrow, and in time get one back from you, reminding and reassuring me that … Well. Out calling today (with a two-inch burn on my temple from the curling-irons!),there were several young artillery officers at Mrs. Lillard’s, one of whom—Captain F—seemed to think I would be enthralled to hear about his family, and his three plantations, and how he’d moved all his slaves except his valet down to Alabama where they’d be “safe.” I kept getting up to get tea (or whatever it was) or bread-and-butter for Julia so I could change my seat, and Captain F kept moving to wherever I was sitting, and on the way home Julia told me that he was clearly in love with me.

  She sounded so gleeful, fussing with my hair and tweaking my lace, and I just stared at her: “Oh, Susie, you’re going to be the belle of Vicksburg!” And Aunt Sally, when we got home, took me aside and had a great deal to say about F’s family’s investments in France and Mexico and in New York banks—which is where her investments are. Both gave me much solid advice about how to “attach” a man.

  And I’m ashamed to say my first thought was, “Gosh, if I did hook him, I’d get him to send me to the art academy in Philadelphia!” Please write me and remind me how stupid this is.

  Mrs. Lillard has not been able to get her chimney repaired, and during tea, squirrels kept coming up to the hole and looking in, impatiently, as if they wished everyone would leave so they could get at the bread-and-butter. No fire can be made in that fireplace, of course, and you must imagine all the above scene of courtship with everyone muffled up in scarves and coats.

  The newest Bennet Sister,

  Susie

  P.S. Actually, I know how stupid it is, because “hooking” Captain F would almost certainly involve kissing him, and he has flabby lips. (Tho’ Miss Austen does not say so, I feel sure Mr. Collins in P&P has flabby lips, too.)

  Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine

  To

  Susanna Ashford, Vicksburg, Mississippi

  [not sent]

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1862

  My dearest Susie,

  Monday a letter reached me, not from you, but from Eliza Johnson, who is now safe in Nashville after a horrifying journey across enemy lines. I rejoice to hear she and her family are out of danger, and re-united with the Senator; yet, my heart sinks as I realize that for a time, I will be unable to hear from you.

  For a year now, I have thought of you as a friend, and more than a friend. It is not simply that you are on the same “side” as my husband, as some Daughters of the Union deride. The tide of patriotism runs so strongly over all the North that it has swept before it any possibility of regard for opinion different than that of the majority: one must be very, very careful now what one says. Yet in the night, between sleeping and waking, I still dream that I feel your hand gripping mine, though I can no longer hear your voice. As I am re-reading David Copperfield, I ask your forgiveness, if for a time you join the company of those friends he speaks of: present, close, treasured yet untouchable, whose invisible presence has become a lifeline which sustains my soul—the Bennet Sisters, Miss Summerson, the sturdy and faithful Quasimodo. All souls need friendship, even, I am convinced, the cats whom I see lying snug together in the loft, and the cows who seek one another out, with all the pasture’s acres to choose from. What is this human capacity, to keep flame burning for years without tangible fuel? Where does the line lie, between great distance and sheer fancy?

  The school term is drawing to a close on Isle au Haut. I grieve its loss, for the fisher-folk of the island—whose soil is too thin and stony to permit much in the way of farming—though they regard me as a “foreigner,” are less inclined to suspect me of treason. Yesterday I helped Mrs. Barter, who operates the general store at the Town Landing, to air and turn the bedding of the family rooms behind the store, in preparation for winter, she having scalded her hand severely at pig-killing. The moon is young and thin, setting just at twilight, or I would have stayed to help her with the second, and worse, part of the task: painting the mattress-seams with camphor and turpentine, against the inevitable winter live-stock of bedbugs and fleas. I returned home to find a similar scene in progress, Mother instructing Peggie in the art of applying the camphor with a feather, Peggie’s own family having been, I am sorry to say, entirely ignorant of the art.

  We have had hard freezes these past four nights. Saturday, when Papa comes, we will spend the day at Uncle M’s butchering. All week, my students have been erratic in their attendance, from their families being themselves so engaged.

  Your friend always,

  Cora

  Susanna Ashford, Vicksburg, Mississippi

  To

&n
bsp; Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine

  [not sent]

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1862

  TWO a.m.

  Dear Cora,

  As you can see by the sketches, I’m writing this in the maids’ room in the attic. Nellie is down with pneumonia. Cook will be up to relieve me at four. Nellie was off her head with fever earlier this evening, which was quite terrifying. Julia has taken it into her head that Nellie has either scarlet fever or the Black Death, and forbade me to help nurse her because I’d transmit it to Little Tommy. I’ve been doing all the doctor said to keep the fever down, wrapping Nellie in a cool-water pack, and she seems to be sleeping a little easier now. I brought a book with me, but have discovered that Frankenstein is not something you want to read at two in the morning when the house is so silent you can hear the rats discussing politics in the main attic.

  Speaking of books, someone (and I can guess who!) evidently whispered to Captain F that I “read books,” because he offered me a tremendous bribe for my affection—Charles Dickens’s newest, which I understand is an historical novel set in the French Revolution! Captain F himself finds Dickens “common” and “sensationalistic.” (I’ll bet he’s never read him, or anything else, ever.) I am in agonies. I conjure your response, in your fine Italianate handwriting, before me on my lap-desk:

  My darling Susie—Why expend ink (at $2.50 per bottle) discussing such callow perfidy? I know you will spurn such offers with the contempt they deserve, without the slightest prompting from me. You are destined for Art: never waver in your pursuit of your chosen Star. Moreover, I have written to Mr. Dickens in London and he adds his encouragement to mine. He intends to base the villain of his next novel (Phineas Slunchbug) upon F. Mr. Slunchbug will be transported to Australia and then struck by lightning upon arrival. Your own, Cora.

  I miss you.

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 11

  Nellie is no better. She keeps calling out for her mother, and crying; she is no older than I. When I was little, and Payne and I both had scarlet fever, Julia nursed me; our Stepmother had us both put out into the overseer’s house, so she wouldn’t catch it.

  I kept falling asleep all day, when I should have been helping Cook do the lamps.

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 14

  It’s three in the morning again and Nellie has just drifted off to sleep. The stillness is frightening. Every time I doze, I wake up trembling, thinking I hear Regal’s militiamen stumbling and cursing in the hall, or trying the bedroom door. How long does it take to forget something like that? I have a book with me—Persuasion, NOT Frankenstein!—but am far too weary to make sense of words on the page.

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 16

  Dr. Driscoll says, Nellie might very well have died, if she hadn’t been nursed as she was, for which Cook deserves far more credit than I. Last night was my first good night’s sleep, and I slept most of the morning. All the strange dreams I had, half-sleeping up in the attic, seem to have shrunken back down to little things, memories of something that happened to me once.

  I will seal this up, and drop it into the imaginary post-box, and imagine that you unfold it on Deer Isle on some snowy afternoon. I pretend I can look forward to hearing from you, about your Mother, and the lovely Miss Mercy, making cheeses and cider, and setting forth across the glittering sea to earn your own keep.

  All my love,

  Susanna

  Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine

  To

  Susanna Ashford, Vicksburg, Mississippi

  [not sent]

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1862

  Dearest,

  Winter closes in. Icy winds and sleet for weeks now, while like squirrels Mother, Peggie, and I try to outrace them: making head-cheese and sausage, feeding the slow-burning fire in the smoke-house, digging potatoes, patiently rubbing butter over the newly-pressed cheeses: big cow-cheeses, small strong-smelling goat cheeses. Uncle M sent one of his sailors to bring wood into the shed and the summer kitchen, cut boughs to bank the house, and sharpen all the tools, Papa being disastrously unhandy with edged metal. The house is dark, and it has begun to snow, which I fear means Papa will not be able to come from New Haven this Saturday.

  Having added you, for the moment, to those friends who exist only on paper, I have come to meditate on friendship, its nature, and its comforts. As I re-read my way slowly through this precious hoard of volumes, this is what I see: Who in these tales are friends with who, what they do for their friends, and what they ask of them. Coming new to novels, I find that those which seem to me the most convincing are those in which the heroes and heroines are loyal friends, as well as ardent lovers or passionate martyrs. It interests me that the villainous Montonis and Ambrosios, and even the Tulkinghorns and Heeps, have Evil Henchmen, but not a single friend. Perhaps I only see this because I am quite desperately lonely myself. Isn’t it curious how few sets of friends one finds in the Bible? David and Jonathan; Ruth and Naomi; Paul and Luke; Jesus and his Apostles; Job’s four unhelpful “comforters.” Fitting, I suppose, in a book whose purpose is to define Man’s relationship with God, and only secondarily with Mankind.

  Tell me what you think of this, my own dear friend.

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 1

  EARLY MORNING

  Six inches of snow, and a hush upon the world, as if somewhere, someone has pricked her finger on the spindle of a spinning-wheel, and all the world lapsed into slumber. Going into the barn to milk, all the cats were curled up tight next to Mrs. Brown, the matriarch of our little herd—Mother does not believe in fanciful names for animals—like six hats dropped down in a row. Such peace, gold eyes blinking at me in the lantern-light.

  I miss you.

  Cora

  Susanna Ashford, Vicksburg, Mississippi

  To

  Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine

  [not sent]

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 1862

  Dearest Cora,

  I forgot to mention, during Nellie’s illness, that I got a commission for a full-sized portrait! (In colored chalks, for there are of course no oils to be had in the town!) The subject is Mrs. R, who is the head of the Episcopal Church Hospital Committee and runs the lives of half the people in Vicksburg, and can get Aunt Sally invited to her reception when President Davis comes to town next month. Mrs. R also promised me all the paper in her husband’s desk, and all the pen nibs and ink. As you can see, I’m still writing—and drawing!—with a quill, and making ink out of lampblack and elderberry juice.

  I had to do the portrait twice, because Aunt Sally took one look at the first one, and cried, “Good heavens, girl, you can’t show that to Cecelia!” I guess Aunt Sally thought it was a little too much like her—it did capture her nasty little sidelong smile. My second attempt devotes a great deal of detail to the lace on her collar and the way her hair is done (thicker and browner than it is in real life). I’m actually glad I had to re-do it, because the second portrait gave me better practice in lighting and composition. I suppose court painters in Europe have to do this kind of thing all the time. Do you think making Life prettier than it is is a painter’s vocation? We are going there to dinner this afternoon, to ceremonially present it, and I know Aunt Sally will make me sit next to the obnoxious F.

  LATER THAT NIGHT

  Captain F formally requested permission of Aunt Sally to “pay his addresses” to me. Julia is beside herself with delight. I try to regard all of this in a comical light (and have so far steadfastly refused the proffered copy of A Tale of Two Cities!). In fact, Captain F—like Captain McC and even his poisonous “boys” back in Greene County—aren’t the real villains of the story, any more than Mr. Tulkinghorn or Mr. Smallweed are the real villains of Bleak House. They are minions of an evil that has no shape, and is everywhere, devouring lives and turning friends Pa used to argue politics with into men who’d think nothing of lying in wait in the woods to shoot him dead—or girls you grew up with, into women who don’t understand why you haven’t stopped loving a man of whose politics they disapprov
e.

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 3

  Curses! Aunt Sally did indeed secure invitations to that wretched reception! She has informed Julia and myself that we are also expected to attend—in new dresses for which she has obtained the silk through Heaven only knows what channels! Three weeks of sewing and fittings! And, worse, three weeks of listening to Julia talk about sewing and fittings and how to fix my hair! Death, where is thy sting?

  The Belle of Vicksburg,

  Susie

  P.S. That’s F in the margin, eating cream cake at tea at Mrs. Bell’s. The other drawing is Mrs. Bell’s house with the hole shot through it.

  Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine

  To

  Susanna Ashford, Vicksburg, Mississippi

  [not sent]

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1862

  Dearest,

  Monday is Will Kydd’s day to get mail from the mainland. Even knowing there will be nothing from you, still I cannot suppress that little spurt of anticipation in my heart. An additional cause for gratitude on waking this morning: the blizzard that blew in Sunday has finally blown itself out, and when I crossed to do the milking about an hour before daylight, I could feel that the day would be warm—warm for December in Maine, in any case. Saturday night we had rain rather than snow. By noon the world will be awash in slush, it means we can get laundry done.

  THAT EVENING

  There! An afternoon of lugging in wood to the kitchen fire to heat the soak-water, of filling tubs with garments—incredible numbers of rinsed and rough-dried diapers—to soak overnight. The whole kitchen is a fog of baby-smelling steam! Mother, Peggie, and I laughed and sang sea-chanties. Then a sadness: just as dusk was falling, Will knocked on the door, with a letter from Brock, in Louisiana, telling Mother that our cousin, Farnum Haskell, has died of fever in New Orleans. Cousin Farnum had joined the Thirteenth Maine just before I came home, so the last I saw him was at my wedding, dancing with his tiny daughter Susan, who was standing on top of his boots. Only a few weeks ago, when we travelled to Northwest Harbor to church, I looked across the street to his sail-loft by the mill-dam, and wondered, When would Cousin Farnum be home? Now I know.