*A quick note: This is May’s short story, just a little late. I hope to not make this a habit. I think history lovers will particularly enjoy this one, which is based very loosely on a true story. Thank you for reading!*
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Night time is the worst time. At night, I can hear, but I can’t see, and the soldiers sound like wild animals in the dark woods. I know they’re out there, but I can’t tell where. I wonder if we’re safe. Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever truly feel safe again.
No one really believed the war would come. Maybe some did, but I certainly didn’t. Here in the valley, things like war and politics have always felt like villains out of a story book. We’ve settled our disagreements for years like civilized people. We’ve lived that way, too. And now it’s my job to protect us. Not with a gun and a uniform, but with my silence. No one suspects a widow.
When the ledger came to me, it came by chance. I’ll never forget that day, because that was the day everything changed, and amid the smoke and dust, the cries and the acrid smell of blood and gunpowder in the air, I found the one thing I can do. Women can’t go to war, can’t take up arms with our husbands and sons and march to the front. This I know all too well, because I’ve lost them both, my husband and my boy, and there was nothing I could do for them, no help I could render as they lay dying alone on a field far away. My hands were empty then. Now they hold the simplest treasure, and I will never let it go.
Mr. Partlow had always kept the ledger, neat and tidy and itemized, tucked away in a drawer in the apothecary he’d run since his father left it to him three decades ago. He was a good man, Mr. Partlow, and a fastidious record keeper. He could tell you who had the most coal, the biggest harvest of carrots and potatoes, the greatest quantity of grain, the healthiest livestock, and he facilitated those trades fairly and quickly, and noted everything in the ledger. At the time, those records meant security, knowing who had what, who could trade, who to come to in dire straits. You could say he kept the valley running. The day he died, the day of the first raid, he didn’t even have time to put on his apron. It was pure luck that I found the ledger before the enemy.
And pure luck, days later, that they didn’t take it from me.
The day the enemy came to call, the sun rose hot and heavy and bright white against the deep blue sky. It was too beautiful a day for the grief and anger hanging in the valley, but only God controls the weather. Maybe he was mocking us. I spotted the soldiers from my garden, five of them approaching from the east. I dropped the hoe and made for the house, but they reached me at the porch and blocked the door.
“Ma’am,” the tallest said.
“Sir,” I answered back, bile rising in my throat and dread in my belly.
“We hoped to trouble you for some water.”
That’s how they came to be at my table, looking for all the world like friendly neighbors sharing the latest gossip. I knew all along it wasn’t water they were after.
I sat in the corner, kept my hands busy with the beans I’d planned for dinner, and my mouth fastened shut. I owed them no kindness.
“It’s just you then, ma’am,” the tallest said. He didn’t ask. He declared.
“It is,” I answered.
“All alone out here,” he said. He looked around the room, scanning each shelf and corner.
“Didn’t have much choice,” I told him.
“Must be hard, running this farm on your own. Hard to get what you need.”
So mild, so very conversational. Here was a lion stalking its prey. I would not be so easily outmaneuvered.
“I manage,” I said.
“No help from neighbors?”
“What neighbors would you be referring to?” I gestured out the window, to the empty meadows and the deserted road.
He barked a laugh, as did his comrades, and then all became quiet.
I shelled beans and looked down, kept my eyes away from his and my face a mask of calm, but my mind whirred in an anxious frenzy, wondering where I’d left the ledger. That single document, a record of everything everyone had, of what could be stolen, exploited, ransomed, killed for, and here it was in my house, in my hands, a hair’s breath away from those who’d do us harm. My mind’s eye scoured each room and found it upstairs, open and exposed, atop my unmade bed. I’d spent the last night reading it, reminiscing better days, recalling faces I’d never see again. Here was danger, so close, right out in the open. I couldn’t know what they wanted, couldn’t be sure they knew about the ledger, but I knew if they were here at all, they must be after something. Something more, anyway, than just water and a few minutes in my far from pleasant company.
“I’m sure you know the value of good neighbors just the same,” said the tallest.
“I suppose,” I replied.
“Then I suppose,” he said, “that you wouldn’t mind if we took a look around. We’re running low on supplies, see, and it would be very neighborly of you to offer us what you can.”
“I…” I stammered.
“We won’t be long,” he said. “I’ll just send the boys around. Quick and quiet as mice.”
I looked closely, for the first time, at the faces of the others. Young men, all of them, tired and dirty. One looked like he might fall where he stood. I could only hope he would be the one to scour the bedroom. Either way, I knew, I had no choice. So I said, “Do what you must,” and watched these strangers as they set about searching my home and stealing what little I had left. I prayed. I prayed and begged any higher power who might listen that they would overlook the ledger.
“They’re good young men,” said the tallest, who’d stayed behind, doubtless to ensure that I would stay put and not attack with some hidden weapon while his men were distracted.
I didn’t reply.
“Terrible business,” he added.
“Yes,” I said.
I could hear them, boots clomping upstairs, drawers opening and closing, cabinets squeaking and slamming. The minutes ticked by, each an eternity of worried torture. And then, they were done. The men returned to the table with sacks full of goods I couldn’t see, and the tallest thanked me and bid me goodbye.
“Stay safe,” he told me, as they stepped off my porch. I watched their backs until I could no longer see them, until they became as small and harmless as flies. I wished I could crush them just as easily.
“Go to Hell,” I said.
I tore into the house and took the stairs two at a time. I didn’t care about what else they might have taken, what chaos they left in their wake. I only cared about the ledger. I reached my bedroom, saw my blanket gone, and my sheets and pillows. But there, thank merciful Jesus, there on the dressing table sat the ledger, still wide open. Relief flooded my veins, washed over me like a spring rain, and I took my first full breath since I’d seen those soldiers coming my way.
I hid the ledger that night. I won’t say where, not even here, not even to myself. But it’s somewhere safe, somewhere, I hope, no one will think to look. And when this is over, joyful when this is over, it will still be there. I can’t return it to poor Mr. Partlow, but I know someone will keep it, when there is peace in the valley again.
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The Valley Chronicle, June 17, 2022
Contractors working to restore the old Poston House have made a remarkable discovery in the walls of the home.
“It’s pretty incredible,” said George Roberts, head of the project. “I’ve never had a find quite like this.”
Work began as usual on Monday morning, starting first on the old chestnut staircase. Hidden in the wall between the floor and the lath and plaster, just above the top step, they found what local historians believe to be the town’s Civil War-era ledger, a record of all trades and barters that opens an invaluable and fascinating window into the past.
“It’s truly a rare gift to have this artifact in our hands,” said Roy Galloway, curator of the valley’s Museum of Pioneer Life and beloved high school history teacher.
Mr. Galloway believes that Mrs. Gayle Poston, owner of the home at the time of the Civil War, hid the ledger for safekeeping.
“It would have put the whole community in danger,” he said. “She was a clever woman to hide it like she did.”
As for why the item was still there, Mr. Galloway says that when she died in 1864, before the end of the war, she likely hadn’t shared its secret location.
“No one knew,” he said. “That’s all I can think. Otherwise, we certainly wouldn’t have found it here today.”
Plans are currently being made to restore and preserve the ledger, after which it will be displayed in the museum for public viewing.
“Just incredible,” Mr. Roberts repeated, before getting back to work. He says the home should be complete and ready for its next owner by the fall of this year.
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Thank you for reading! This is the fifth of twelve stories I’ll write for my 2023 Short Story Challenge. The theme this year is: Wild.
Here are the first four, if you’d like to read them:
I hope you join me and write some stories of your own this year! It’s fun, and I hope this will be a happy year full of good stories. But just reading is fine, too, and I’m glad you’re here.
The next story will be posted at the end of June.
A Virginia Writer's Diary 