Night Watch

I didn’t say they had found us, and more times than I knew. Mama would hide me in the root cellar, once with a handful of carrots she ripped from the ground as we ran. Don’t come out no matter what, until I fetch you! And she dropped me in. She told me, when she was still talking, never to tell about the War. No matter who won, it didn’t do to say what had happened. The Secessionists lost, I knew, and the Abolitionists won, but they were all ragged, drifting men.

He’d named Mama to suit himself—called her Mrs. until she was Miss Janet. And said my name wrong, Connolly instead of ConaLee.

I fell asleep hungry and heard the babbies, crying far off, like the sound of them would follow us forever.

Connolly, he said. How old are you?

He should have known but I told him. I’ll be thirteen at the end of December. Born after you went away.

Born in ’61, the year both sides mustered troops.

You’ll stay with her.

Here?

This is home. There’s nothing back there. It’s all give away.

It’s give away?

Are you listening to me?

Yes sir, I said, for he liked to be addressed such.

He leaned down and pointed his finger at me until he touched my throat, just at the little notch of bone. Then listen, he said. I am not yer Papa, nor have I ever been. I never laid eyes on you or your mama till I came upon you, and you don’t know my name.

It was true. She had never called him a name. Only at first he bade us call him Papa and she never said different.

No woman teched in the head is going to raise three young ones, he said.

We stepped together then, as though in a dance of certain measure, to the narrow bed and lay down upon it. We held the small round pillow between us and slept, safer, it seemed, than we had ever been.

She peered at her reflection, amazed it seemed, and turned her head to and fro, touching the long silk tassel, watching it move. She even smiled at me.

I knew I must fix the mirror to the wall so she would get used to seeing herself.

You are Miss Janet now, I told her. Whatever came before—it’s not true here.

She nodded. Then she whispered, Here, we are safe.

They were four words, barely breathed, but my heart warmed. Yes, Mama! I told her.

He’s crossed you, My One—but he must decide himself to leave, to see his own advantage. Eliza, I told you to only talk when he’s gone, but talk to me now. Tell me—

Help ConaLee, Dearbhla…

She won’t leave you, Eliza, nor these babbies. Least he’ll stay away more, if he thinks you senseless, mute.

Dearbhla cut the rope with the blade in the coop as Eliza collapsed against her. Why this binding? Dearbhla asked.

To keep me here, by the coop, till he return.

It’s only a bit of rope, Dearbhla said, coiling it in her pocket. It doesn’t tie you here. And you afraid to cut it yourself. I’ll take it—let him ask me for it. Now come, eat the food I’m making, bathe, rest. He asks, say you woke in your bed and have no thought of how. Or say nothing.

Eliza nodded, stricken. I won’t speak…before him.

And not before ConaLee, Dearbhla cautioned. She’s burdened, and too young to keep your secrets. Could be your silence may protect her.

Many have suffered, he said, and suffer now, especially here, in this border state. The fighting has ceased, but not the grief.

We encourage meaningful diversion each morning, mental stimulation in company, conversations on topics of interest, useful activity. For women, sewing and embroidery, sketching in pastels, simply for expression, for pleasure. Some evenings, lectures, performances, open to all able to enjoy them […]

We provide firm, sympathetic structure, healthy air and food, a refuge from family and strife. We counsel responsibility and participation. Our approach is known as “moral treatment.” Many can be cured with humane treatment, and the incurable, treated humanely.

Miss Janet, not her surname, I think, may never remember who she was, but perhaps she can accept who she is.

My mother embraced me as in days past, when I was her only child. Shhh, shhh, ConaLee. She pulled my hands from my eyes and held my face as she spoke. Child, you saw, she said. They know what he is. He is trapped, and we are not.

I could believe it, nearly. She seemed so certain.

I wish some living force had protected all of us. Men hunted, imprisoned us—they enslaved, shackled, burned down the country. And the just men suffered the cruelties of all the others. War scars last. Generations…

ConaLee surveyed the house once more. It would be hers. Who lived there, came to stay—would be up to her. ConaLee, there is no forever. We are on our walk and the day is fine. Not so many families owned a house. Some owned more, this and that, houses, stores, railroads, vast lands. Others…died, or fled, or forgot who they were. Endurance was strength. The courage of the lost swelled and moved, a force separating the days, clearing the way.

I didn’t say they had found us, and more times than I knew. Mama would hide me in the root cellar, once with a handful of carrots she ripped from the ground as we ran. Don’t come out no matter what, until I fetch you! And she dropped me in. She told me, when she was still talking, never to tell about the War. No matter who won, it didn’t do to say what had happened. The Secessionists lost, I knew, and the Abolitionists won, but they were all ragged, drifting men.

He’d named Mama to suit himself—called her Mrs. until she was Miss Janet. And said my name wrong, Connolly instead of ConaLee.

I fell asleep hungry and heard the babbies, crying far off, like the sound of them would follow us forever.

Connolly, he said. How old are you?

He should have known but I told him. I’ll be thirteen at the end of December. Born after you went away.

Born in ’61, the year both sides mustered troops.

You’ll stay with her.

Here?

This is home. There’s nothing back there. It’s all give away.

It’s give away?

Are you listening to me?

Yes sir, I said, for he liked to be addressed such.

He leaned down and pointed his finger at me until he touched my throat, just at the little notch of bone. Then listen, he said. I am not yer Papa, nor have I ever been. I never laid eyes on you or your mama till I came upon you, and you don’t know my name.

It was true. She had never called him a name. Only at first he bade us call him Papa and she never said different.

No woman teched in the head is going to raise three young ones, he said.

We stepped together then, as though in a dance of certain measure, to the narrow bed and lay down upon it. We held the small round pillow between us and slept, safer, it seemed, than we had ever been.

She peered at her reflection, amazed it seemed, and turned her head to and fro, touching the long silk tassel, watching it move. She even smiled at me.

I knew I must fix the mirror to the wall so she would get used to seeing herself.

You are Miss Janet now, I told her. Whatever came before—it’s not true here.

She nodded. Then she whispered, Here, we are safe.

They were four words, barely breathed, but my heart warmed. Yes, Mama! I told her.

He’s crossed you, My One—but he must decide himself to leave, to see his own advantage. Eliza, I told you to only talk when he’s gone, but talk to me now. Tell me—

Help ConaLee, Dearbhla…

She won’t leave you, Eliza, nor these babbies. Least he’ll stay away more, if he thinks you senseless, mute.

Dearbhla cut the rope with the blade in the coop as Eliza collapsed against her. Why this binding? Dearbhla asked.

To keep me here, by the coop, till he return.

It’s only a bit of rope, Dearbhla said, coiling it in her pocket. It doesn’t tie you here. And you afraid to cut it yourself. I’ll take it—let him ask me for it. Now come, eat the food I’m making, bathe, rest. He asks, say you woke in your bed and have no thought of how. Or say nothing.

Eliza nodded, stricken. I won’t speak…before him.

And not before ConaLee, Dearbhla cautioned. She’s burdened, and too young to keep your secrets. Could be your silence may protect her.

Many have suffered, he said, and suffer now, especially here, in this border state. The fighting has ceased, but not the grief.

We encourage meaningful diversion each morning, mental stimulation in company, conversations on topics of interest, useful activity. For women, sewing and embroidery, sketching in pastels, simply for expression, for pleasure. Some evenings, lectures, performances, open to all able to enjoy them […]

We provide firm, sympathetic structure, healthy air and food, a refuge from family and strife. We counsel responsibility and participation. Our approach is known as “moral treatment.” Many can be cured with humane treatment, and the incurable, treated humanely.

Miss Janet, not her surname, I think, may never remember who she was, but perhaps she can accept who she is.

My mother embraced me as in days past, when I was her only child. Shhh, shhh, ConaLee. She pulled my hands from my eyes and held my face as she spoke. Child, you saw, she said. They know what he is. He is trapped, and we are not.

I could believe it, nearly. She seemed so certain.

I wish some living force had protected all of us. Men hunted, imprisoned us—they enslaved, shackled, burned down the country. And the just men suffered the cruelties of all the others. War scars last. Generations…

ConaLee surveyed the house once more. It would be hers. Who lived there, came to stay—would be up to her. ConaLee, there is no forever. We are on our walk and the day is fine. Not so many families owned a house. Some owned more, this and that, houses, stores, railroads, vast lands. Others…died, or fled, or forgot who they were. Endurance was strength. The courage of the lost swelled and moved, a force separating the days, clearing the way.