Beauty From Ashes (45 page)

hoping the yellow fever passes us by this 603 fall, but I’ll try to see her more often from now on. I think even the squares in Savannah would seem empty without Miss Eliza’s being there.”

On a mild September morning in the fall of 1854, a few days after a fire had burned an entire block of businesses, Louisa Fletcher sat reading her mail in the dining room of the Howard House. She and Dix still lived there while he made certain that he’d found the exact tract of land he meant to begin farming, at least as a hobby. Three of the four letters spread before Louisa were from Savannah and all bore frightening news, even worse than Marietta’s fire. Since the always dangerous month of August, sickness from the almost annual siege of yellow fever had begun to grip Savannah. All but six thousand of the eighteen thousand inhabitants of the town had fled to Savannah River plantations or farther inland.

One of the letters was from kind, thoughtful Miss Eliza Mackay. Her single-page note was

written just before she and her daughters left for Knightsford, Mark Browning’s Savannah River plantation, a reasonably safe distance from the city where people were seemingly well one day and deathly ill or dead the next. Two letters told of how the priests and ministers in Savannah churches were exhausted and falling ill one after another. Miss Eliza left it up to Louisa whether and how much to tell Anne.

Louisa sat staring into space, wondering how she could bring herself to tell Anne that John Couper, on whom she depended minute by minute, had been back in Savannah, in dire danger, since August. Should Louisa even tell her? She had no real choice. After all, telegrams and the railroad had so speeded up communication between the two cities, Anne would soon know anyway. Better that she hear the dread news from someone who truly cared for her, who would stand by her no matter what happened.

And then she was stunned to see John Couper, his face drained as white as chalk, standing in the doorway that led to the hotel lobby, his eyes searching the dining room as though looking for a familiar face.

“John Couper,” she called, “here 605 I am!”

As the young man hurried toward her, she got to her feet and embraced him as though he were her own son.

“Something’s terribly wrong, isn’t it, John Couper? Please sit down and I’ll order some cool tea.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher! Your face is like an angel’s from heaven to me right now. I need your help. I have dreadful news for my mother and she’s so fond of you and—do you have time to go with me to her house? I know she’ll need you there. She’s told me how close the two of you have grown to be and—was

“Who’s dead in Savannah, John Couper? I was just reading my mail, and three letters told of the yellow fever epidemic! You look pale, but you’re not ill, are you?”

“No. No, I’m all right, Mrs. Fletcher, but my first cousin, my father’s brother’s son Menzies Fraser, is dead. Mrs. Fletcher, I saw him on Liberty Street right outside his rooms only day before yesterday! He was fine, ruddy-cheeked, laughing. He was taking a surprise to his mother, my Aunt

Frances Anne, one of Mama’s closest friends from childhood. Mrs. Mackay’s Hannah had baked a chicken for Menzies and Aunt Frances Anne. He was hurrying back to his rooms with it to surprise his mother. Such a good-natured, charming fellow. Menzies Fraser didn’t have an enemy anywhere. He—he looked so healthy and full of life and then he came down with the fever and now, that fast, he’s—dead! In his grave at Laurel Grove …”

This fine young man needed her now. He had left for Marietta almost as soon as his cousin— his friend—had died. Why? To break the tragic news to his mother himself? Something was expected of Louisa this minute. She prayed for wisdom and felt her prayer answered almost at once. “John Couper, my dear boy, did you come here yourself to allay your mother’s fears about you? Did you come yourself so she would be sure you’re all right?”

“I know it looks foolish but, yes. And somehow I don’t really think you consider me foolish for having come. This yellow fever epidemic is so widespread, Mrs. Fletcher, anyone can sicken and die. If young, healthy Menzies could die, anyone can!”

Of course, Louisa thought. He 607 needed an older person to tell him he’d done the right thing by making the train trip. And, of course, it would help Anne to see him healthy, though pale and shaken over the sudden loss of his cousin, his close friend. “You did exactly the right thing, John Couper, and it so happens I was going shopping this morning, so a buggy is harnessed. I beg you to take it and go straight to your mother.”

“Should I have tried harder to get Aunt Frances Anne to come with me, Mrs. Fletcher? I know she needs to be with Mama. They’ve always been so close.”

“Where is your aunt now?”

“With Miss Eliza Mackay at her friend Mark Browning’s plantation house out on the Savannah River. She’s fairly safe there, I think—they both are—from the fever.”

“I’ve heard often about how much your mother thinks of Mrs. Mackay. I’m sure she’ll be happy to know Menzies’s mother is with her. Miss Eliza can help, if anyone can. She’s learned how to live without so many loved ones. Come along, John Couper. If you like, I’ll ride with you to your mother’s house. One thing is certain, though.

Anne must not even consider going to be with her sister-in-law Frances Anne. She’s here, away from the danger of fever. We must keep her here.”

As soon as Anne learned that Frances Anne was with Miss Eliza, she calmed down. The heartbreaking news of Menzies’s death affected her in a way only Pete could make clear to the others. Anne didn’t weep or cry out. In fact, she fell abruptly silent as she sat in her bedroom with Louisa, John Couper, and Pete.

“Don’t just sit there staring at her,” Pete pleaded with her brother and Louisa. “Can’t you both see that this is just one thing too much for Mama? We came up here to escape sickness and death and tears and more grief. For a mysterious reason our mother certainly doesn’t deserve, it’s all following her here. Give her some time. Don’t try to comfort her or think of a way to make her say something she may be sorry for later.”

“You know you’re much better off right here, don’t you, Mama?” John Couper asked, as though Pete had said nothing.

For what to Louisa seemed an 609 eternity, no one spoke. Then, straightening her shoulders, Anne said in a voice so unlike her, Louisa couldn’t believe her ears: “That’s enough, John Couper!” Anne almost shouted. “Your sister spoke the truth when she warned you not to force me to say anything I might be sorry for later. Do you hear me? Not another word!”

From downstairs a loud banging at the front door brought Anne to her feet as though someone had jerked her from her little rocker. “Who is that?”

“I’ll go down and find out,” Pete said, heading for the door.

“No! No, Pete. You’re so sane and sensible today, I want you here with me. John Couper can find out.”

Louisa knew at once that Anne had hurt her son, so she gave him what she hoped was a bracing smile when they exchanged quick glances just before he left his mother’s room to head downstairs to the front door.

Then Anne did another surprising thing. She followed the boy into the upstairs hall. Through the open bedroom door Louisa could see her friend lean over the stair railing, plainly

eavesdropping. Nothing, she thought, could be more unlike Anne Fraser!

The woman’s voice booming from downstairs left no doubt in Louisa’s mind who was making the unexpected call. It could be no one but the fire-eating woman who thrived on nourishing trouble between longtime Marietta friends, especially those who for various reasons happened to be on opposite sides of the secession question. Louisa knew that the Fletchers’ good friend Robert McAlpin Goodman had told Dix he almost feared Beaulah Matthews, because he knew of no fire-eating citizen in town with as much capacity to cause trouble as a proslavery, anti-Unionist woman. Louisa knew Beaulah Matthews was one of the more dangerous because she was one of those deluded citizens who insisted that if a person believed in the union of all the states, he or she was bound to be an abolitionist.

“So, you’re her much-discussed only son,” Beaulah was saying in her strident voice.

“Yes, ma’am. Are you and my mother friends?”

“I’d say we’d better become friends if things keep going from bad to worse as they’ve been

doing for the past several months. One 611 reason is that my son, Buster Matthews, a staunch and loyal Southerner, intends to marry your sister Fanny. That is, unless she’s bitten by the germ of Unionism as I keep hearing is the case with your mother and your red-haired sister. Where do you stand where your native country is concerned, young man?”

“I—I didn’t come prepared to discuss politics, madam,” John Couper answered politely. “We’ve just had a death in the family back in Savannah. My first cousin, who was one of my best friends, just died of yellow fever. There’s a terrifying epidemic in Savannah.”

“Oh, I know! Almost everyone has fled the city and those left behind are ill. Excuse me, young man, but I must be going! I certainly didn’t come here to be exposed to—a dreadful disease! Tell your mother I called, please?”

Louisa had heard every word, and, of course, so had Anne. The door banged shut and Beaulah Matthews was gone.

The front door had no sooner closed than Anne whirled to face Louisa and Pete in the

upstairs hall. “I don’t want that woman in this house again! Do you understand me, Pete? She is never to set foot inside that door as long as she lives.”

“Mama,” Pete said as though she was speaking to a small child, “you’re upset over poor Aunt Frances Anne. You can’t just take it out on old Mrs. Matthews, no matter how much she ruffles your feathers. Fanny hasn’t said a word about marrying her dumb, hot-tempered son, Buster. I don’t believe it.”

“Well, you’d better believe it,” Anne snapped. “Fanny told me herself yesterday. It would break her father’s heart—her Grandfather Couper’s too—but your quiet, seemingly submissive sister is a strong Southern sympathizer.”

Louisa had stood quietly beside Anne at the top of the stairs, saying not one word until now. “But my dear Anne, this is a free country. There are so many persons in Marietta who do blindly sympathize with what they call, almost reverently, the Southern Cause. Your daughter Fanny is a thoughtful girl, and even though her father was a British subject, it’s perfectly

possible that she does hold such 613 anti-Union feelings.”

“Possible,” Anne said, “but Louisa, you know it’s not plausible!”

“Perhaps she’s been influenced by Buster Matthews. His mother, as difficult and obstinate as we may find her, is, like us, a citizen of a free country. You and I both believe in that country. We just want it to stay together as one. And nothing, believe me, can divide families and friends as can politics or religion.”

Anne turned abruptly to look at Louisa. “Louisa, Louisa, can you ever forgive me? If anyone knows what it’s like to be shut out by those who profess to follow the same God of love, it’s you! There’s no one more faithful in church attendance than you, and our own minister can’t or won’t allow you to partake of Communion with us. I’m so, so sorry I let my rage show. I’m a slave owner too! And owning slaves is supposed to be part of faithfulness to the twisted Southern Cause. We should all be thinking only of poor Frances Anne Fraser in her dreadful grief. We should be thinking only of her and—oh, I’m surely not strong enough even to go on breathing in

the face of such tragedy.” Suddenly she almost screamed out John Couper’s name. “Son? Where are you? Are you still standing alone down there in the entrance hall?”

“Yes, Mama,” the boy called, taking the stairs two at a time until he was beside her, holding her close in his arms. “Here I am. And I’m fine and healthy. You don’t have to worry about what you’d do if you lost me. I’m right here. I’ll always be right here to look after you.”

Anne clung to him. “Yes. Yes, you’re here now, but any day I’m sure you’ll tell me you have to get back to Savannah to look after your own business. Don’t, John Couper! Don’t tell me that. You said he was fine and healthy one day and the next he was still and cold and buried in Laurel Grove Cemetery. John Couper, I must go to Savannah. I know—I know Frances Anne needs me.”

“Mama,” Pete said, “Aunt Frances is with Miss Eliza Mackay. As wonderful as you are—and you’re the most wonderful mother anyone ever had—even you couldn’t be of more help than Miss Eliza is. You can write to her. Even if you only say you’re praying for her, that will help

somehow. If it doesn’t, then God just 615 isn’t doing His part in any of this!”

“And Mama,” John Couper said, “I’m not going right back to Savannah. We may be a little short of money for a month or so, but almost everyone, businessmen included, have left the city. Rest your heart, Mama. I promise you I’m not going back to Savannah until I know the worst of the epidemic is over. Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, of course I believe you, Son. I’ve always believed every word you’ve ever said to me. Now, Louisa, I don’t think I can endure another minute without writing some kind of note to Frances Anne. Will you excuse me?” She reached to touch Louisa’s arm. “And forgive me? And pray for me and Frances Anne?”

For Pete, writing to any member of her immediate family had never been difficult. She didn’t consider it a chore. And surprising even herself, she had grown so fond of Fraser, her sister Annie’s child, during his visit to Marietta that writing to the boy had become almost second

nature. She had always liked children enough to know how to play with them and to make them laugh at her antics. But with young Fraser, everything was different. She made no bones about how much she enjoyed what had come to be regular correspondence with him. Even her usually solemn sister Fanny broke down now and then and teased Pete about the boy.

“I declare,” Fanny said one November morning as the two strode—because Pete always strode—toward the post office on the Square hoping, as everyone hoped these days, for news of what Mama called the trouble, which seemed to be spreading. “I never saw you so fond of any child before, Pete. You and young Fraser Demere have a regular case on each other. He writes to you almost as often as you write to him.”