Distant Flame

July 26, 1861

July 26,1861 HEAVY RAIN SPILLED off the roof of Grace House, dripping clear strands down the siding. Charlie sat at a third-floor window and watched the pecan trees wave and float in the strong wind. He had awakened the night before and heard the rain coming, like a distant army marching, thunder and wind, and suddenly, his room's curtains had been sucked into the frame, then blown back outward into the room. Since then, the rain had come hard, and Betsy Clark Merrill had brought Martha to the ballroom on the third floor to play with dolls and sew. Charlie was reading Ivanhoe for the third time. He could recite the first sentence from delighted memory:In thatpleasant district of merry England which is wateredby the river Don thereextended in ancient times a large forest, covering the greater part of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between Sheffield and the pleasant town ofDoncaster. Charlie was on chapter 29, but his mind wandered. Martha sat idly, watching her mother sew button eyes on a homemade doll. Martha was blonde, unlike Charlie, with huge brown eyes, dimples, and a calmness that rarely seemed to change. Her beauty astounded visitors, and her talent as a pianist amazed many, though she would not turn seven until November. She sat in a rocking chair and watched her mother sew, eyes not wandering, concentration complete. Charlie liked to sit and watch her, and most of the time she was gentle, A A Distant Flame 37 but sometimes a mood would shake her, and her eyes would flame, her voice grow deep and resonant, her feet stamping, her hands reflexively hardening intofists. There was a clomping on the stairs, one hard step then a softer one, like someone dragging something. In the late Forties, this had been the ballroom of Grace House, where Branton's lights came for dances, but after the Baptist Church bought it in a fit of Fifties prosperity, dancing was forbidden. Now it was a playroom, a rainy-dayhideaway. "Jack," said Charlie. "I expect," said Betsy Clark Merrill. "Lately it looks like his foot is worse. I do wish there was something could be done for that boy." "He never says anything about it," said Martha. "It must not hurt." "It hurts, but he never says anything about it," said Charlie. "Maybe he has a thorn, like the lion with his paw. What was the man who took out the thorn, Charlie?" This was Martha, turned to look with level love at her older brother. "Androcles," said Charlie. Jack hobbled up the last step and into the ballroom, his face flushed with the effort. He leaned on his good leg and looked down at his stockings. "See, Mrs. Merrill, I took my shoes off before I came inside with mud. I'm much better behaved than Charlie." "Jack, you're a prince," said Betsy Merrill. "My pleasure, ma'am," said Jack, bowing low and sweeping an invisible hat, with invisible feathers sweeping the polished floorboards. "This is making me ill," said Charlie. Jack walked to him, sliding his clubfoot along the floor behind him, smiling and humming. "You're reading what again?" asked Jack. "Ivanhoe" said Charlie. "And how did you know I was reading something again?" "You always read everything again. I never read anything more than once. I read Hamlet once and that was enough for me. I read a book about President Jackson. Very boring. Then I read a book about the indignities being heaped on the South. Now the war may already be over, and we won't be able to make soldiers." "We can't say anythingfor sure," said Betsy. "Word is there is some fighting out to the west, and Mr. Lincoln is sure to use the men he's called up. I believe those who saythe war is going to fall apart before it really starts may be quite wrong. I read books more than once. Maybe 38 PHILIP LEE WILLIAMS that's where Charlie gets it. I read Ivanhoe to him aloud when he was seven. He would seem to be sleeping, but if I stopped, he'd open his eyes and say,'Mama, don't stop reading the story. I want to know what happens next.'" "I don't understand make-believe stories," said Martha. "That doll Mama is sewing the eyes on, Jack? I don't make...