A Thread of Hope

A THREAD OF HOPE

American Civil War - Adamsville, Tennessee

April 1862

I sat on the wooden boards of the dusty attic floor gazing down in stupefaction at the open journal on my lap. Above me the fading light from the small window lit up a stream of dust motes but I breathed them in without noticing. The inside cover had the name Charlotte Miller, my Grandma’s name, written in faded black ink, the flowing cursive letters sloping strongly to the right. I had wandered up here hours ago having nothing else better to do while the Doctor was tending to her frail and sick needs. She had been sick for a long time, I knew her time could be near and felt sickened by it. Grandma was the only family I knew and all my life we had enjoyed a close and tender relationship which had endured the tests of my pubescent and teenage years with a calm and confident bond of mutual love and respect.

Spying an ancient trunk sitting towards the back of the attic I cautiously opened the grimy and creaking lid. Rifling through a pile of long flowing garments from another age I had found, concealed in amongst them the journal I now held in my hands. The diary stated the year in dull gold letters on its dark cover - 1862.  Opening the fragile pages carefully and using a torch to light up the fading pages, I started at the beginning which was dated April 2 1862 and stared at the first words Grandma had entered.

“He was standing in the doorway as I opened it. The sun had disappeared and shadows had taken control but I could see he was wearing the dark blue uniform of a Union soldier and that he was injured. I knew immediately that I must take him inside and hide him.”

 As I stared at these cryptic words a time-lapsed memory slithered into my mind of a long forgotten apparition I had seen when I was all of 5 years old. As quickly as it had come it drifted away and I tried to grab it, shutting my eyes in concentration as the memory slowly took hold and became a reality.

Grandma had been making bread in the warm kitchen and I was her little helper, sitting on a high stool while I watched her pummel the dough into shape. I was allowed to decorate the top once it was formed into a loaf and I would proudly cut gouges on the top and sprinkle a bit of wheat flour over the top before it went into the oven.

On this day I was sitting with my elbows on the table and holding my chin in my hands as I watched her. I couldn’t wait for the bread to come out of the oven when, after allowing it to cool a while, Grandma would turn it out and cut me a delicious crusty piece, slathering it with thick butter that she had made the day before and smearing sticky honey on top of it all.

“Ah, Gracie” she now said. “Hop into the pantry and fetch the tin of sesame seeds, my pet. Then you can sprinkle a bit over the top of this loaf before we bake it”. I knew the tin she meant. It was a small red and white tin that used to hold boiled sweets and it was kept on the second shelf up from the floor which I could easily reach. Obediently hopping off the stool I scooted into the big pantry attached to the kitchen and skidded to a sudden stop staring with wide eyed fear into the gloomy corner where the sacks of flour were kept. Something was not right.

At first all I saw were the blue woolen trouser legs with big leather shoes on the feet stretched out facing me. Fearfully my eyes travelled up them to a man lying there on the stone floor. He had a dark blue coat and under his black hat his eyes were closed as if he was in pain. As I stood there the apparition slowly disappeared and I was left shaking as I backed slowly out of the gloomy interior. 

“Come on, pet. Why are you taking so long?” My Grandma’s voice came vaguely from a distance. “Well, where is the tin? Can’t you find it?” And she stepped into the pantry to put her hands on my small shoulders. “There it is, right where we keep it.” Picking it up, she shepherded me out back into the kitchen, seemingly not seeing the man lying prone on the floor. I kept silent, my small mind confused and disorientated, not understanding or comprehending what I had just seen. We finished the baking and the vision faded from my mind as I happily ate the warm bread thickly spread with honey which dripped from my fingers and smeared like sticky glue on my face.

My Grandma had brought me up from a the young and tender age of 9 months after my parents had died from the typhoid pandemic that had swept our county. Or so I had been told. And what I still believed. Over the years my parents had always been on the periphery of my thinking, but on the whole I had simply accepted what Grandma had told me without questioning much. Our relationship embodied all that I needed growing up. I knew I was loved and accepted and our family bond was established on mutual respect and understanding. I also knew of many families that had been ripped apart by that deadly disease and indeed a few of the children in my class at school were from the local orphanage. I was very grateful I had not had to suffer the same fate of being brought up by strangers in a government institution.

Now, still crouched on the hard floorboards, the mustiness of the attic was assailing my nostrils. I sneezed gustily but carried on reading with the journal balanced on my lap and the image of my 5 year old memory still hovering in my mind.

Grandma was taking me on a fascinating periodical journey of a stage in her life that I had no personal knowledge of. Oh, I knew the general events of that time of history; of the great 1860’s Civil War that was still on the lips of most Americans. Grandma was always exceedingly careful not to get involved in any disputes or arguments about that time in US history and had always kept her silence and views on the subject. I was beginning to understand why.

A few hours later I was stiff and cold and, dusting myself off, descended the ladder and made my way to Grandma’s bedroom. The Doctor had gone and medicine and written instructions lay on the bedside table. Grandma lay tucked up comfortably, her eyes closed and her frail, lined hands lay outside on the coverlet. She stirred as I entered and her eyes focused on me, a tender smile creasing her lips. It was hard for me to see her like this. She had forever played such a vibrant part in my life and had occupied existentially, every part of my existence. I didn’t straight away bring up the subject of her journal. It was all so new and I needed time to absorb everything that I had read. I also felt slightly abashed that I had delved into the privacy of her thoughts and life and wasn’t sure how she would respond.

It wasn’t until the next day, when it seemed she was a bit stronger, that I broached the subject of her journal that I had brought with me and which I now had on my lap as I sat next to her bed. The day was balmy and a soft breeze was blowing the tree branches gently outside her window. The sweet twinkling sound coming through the slightly open casement of the many little birds hopping in amongst the green foliage brought a sense of peace and even joy into the room.

She wasn’t surprised to see me holding her diary but instead, strangely, seemed a bit relieved that I had found it and even more so that I had read it. Slowly, and in the quivering voice of age, her story came out.

There was a huge battle taking place in the distance and the heavy artillery sounds of musket fire and the booms of cannons brought a tangible sense of fear and trepidation to every heart. The Civil War, as it became to be called, was a war between the states of America over the abolishment of the use and exploitation of slaves. Grandma still lived at home as she had never married, and she accepted her role of protector and provider to her elderly parents with an inner strength and resolution. Now, however, the lives of everyone had changed overnight and many lived in fear of soldiers who would enter homes to find food and water and were indiscriminate about how they seized both.

When the clumsy but panicked knocking came on their front door late one night Grandma and her parents looked at each other in horror. Despite their anxious whispered pleas to ignore it, Grandma tiptoed over to the window to look outside and then carefully opened the door while casting nervous glances out into the darkness.

“He was terrified and wounded” she said softly. Her eyes were gentle with the clear memory of a time still fresh in her mind. “It was as if God had brought him to our door.” She reached out and pulled him inside to the warmth. In the months that followed they nursed him, treating his wounds, and his mind, with kindness and no discrimination or prejudice until he got stronger.

At that moment of my Grandma’s story I abruptly interjected, and with a sudden clarity, told her of my vision in the pantry when I had been only 5 years old.

“I saw him!” and at her curious, side-long glance of skepticism I reiterated and explained what I had seen of a man lying on the pantry floor wearing, what I now realized, was a blue army uniform of a Union soldier.

She looked at me with the slow insight of wisdom glowing in her tired eyes. “Oh my” she breathed. “You were only a child then and he was long gone. How did you know…”

She went on to tell me in a wavering and awed voice that the pantry was where she and her parents had first laid him out on the floor while they waited for the distant sounds of the fighting to stop.

“It was so dangerous out there and if we had been found harboring an enemy I don’t know what would have happened”.

We gazed at each other, wonder and astonishment beating in both our faces. Grandma took hold of my hand in one of her own, clutching it tightly as she continued her story.

“He stayed with us for months until the war was over. It was such a joy to have him there. He helped with all the farmyard tasks and brought laughter and happiness into our lives. He was so grateful that he was still alive and was so appreciative to us that we had played a part in his healing. Then he left.” Her tone was low and her voice quavering. “He had family back home. He had to go back to them, to let them know that he was still alive. He left such a void in our lives that was bottomless and empty and so hard to fill… until I realized… I was pregnant.” She said those words with an acceptance that held no regret or shame and gripped my hand even more tightly.

“He never knew. He was younger than me and had a whole life out there that I could never be a part of.  It didn’t seem right to disturb or interfere in his life with such news. After all it had happened in a time of great trauma when all our lives were upended and we were all so emotional and shaken by the war. Normal life just wasn’t possible”

Then she turned her head to look at me fully in my eyes, both of her hands now clutching mine.

“Forgive me, my pet. You were the baby I gave birth to 6 months later.”

I stared at her, my mind tumbling over and over with the import of her words and with the shock of a truth finally come out. Yet somehow I wasn’t so surprised. Hadn’t she always been a mother to me? The bond we shared had always been one of the close strength of mother and daughter. I found myself breaking out into a smile of wonderment and joy.

“Mama!” I exclaimed and I drew down to her for a clumsy embrace as we both laughed out loud.

She died not so long after that, her body weary and tired. But she died as she had lived, calmly and quietly and with a serenity that the truth, that had been so long hidden, had finally been told and most of all accepted, which left her with a peace that passed all understanding.

Of course I could not leave the story like that. Now that I finally knew who my mother was I needed to know who my father was. It took a long time. I poured through paperwork in the attic, through archives and Union army names. I came up against bureaucratic red tape and stern mustached men who told me those records were closed to public scrutiny. Finally I found a sympathetic army colonel who, understanding my plight, offered to help me but only on the condition that once the name was known I would leave it up to him to decide whether to make contact with my father. Of course I knew it was a sensitive situation. I had no idea where he was, even if he was still alive. Or whether he had an extended family that would be devastated to know there was an unknown sibling out there.

A few months later I received a letter from the colonel and I opened it with trembling hands.

He stated that he had found the man I believed was my father. With a quickening heart I sat down and read as fast as my eyes would let me. He was still alive and he wanted to see me! He was in a nursing home in the State of Ohio but still seemed to have all his faculties intact and still possessed the kindly sense of humor that my Grandma had remembered so well.

We corresponded for a while before I made my way by a meandering train to the beautiful surrounds where he stayed. In his letters he had seemed surprised but also delighted to hear he had a daughter that he had known nothing about and he conveyed this with a gentle acceptance and a benign, compassionate understanding that awed and thrilled me.

When we met it was as if we had known each other all our lives. He was tall and slim with a shock of white hair and the most piercing blue eyes I had ever seen. He came towards me with upright steps and hugged me tightly as if he had been waiting a long, long time for this.

“I shall never forget what your grandparents, and your mother -” said with a twinkle in his incredible eyes “- did for me. I would not be alive today if it hadn’t been for them. You have my eyes, you know!”

Yes, of course I did. And so much more, enclosed in my genes from this incredible man. It turned out that he had no other living family. He had married after the war but his wife had died just a few years ago and they were unable to have any children.

“A legacy from my injuries during the war, I fear” he said forthrightly. “To find out after all that I had fathered a child - you - was a miracle.”

We stayed in constant touch after that. Writing letters, telephoning, and with me visiting him often…we were all the family each other had. It was joy getting to know him and I can still remember how his dear face would light up as I came across the bright green grass to sit by him in the dappled sunshine.

We all love, and lose, during times of war. My story is nothing new but I am so thankful that it has now been told. I went on to marry and have my own children and to them I tell my story believing that it does evoke a beam of light, to shine like a beacon of hope through dark war days and beyond, and ends with a ray of hope and thankfulness for life, which continues with optimistic faith that all is not always lost.