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Secondhand Sunsets

By Gail Kittleson

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Chapter One
Poplar Bluff, Missouri—Late April 1863
This spring afternoon brought a wistful mix of expectation and melancholy. In Mama’s big backyard garden, the marigold seeds Abigail Ferguson planted three weeks ago now peeked through the soil. Ah, the promise in these fledglings!
Bending over a row of carrot seedlings that would soon need thinning, Abby took in the lush Missouri landscape spreading past the wagon path behind their property. Beyond a field of sweet hay a mass of honeysuckle bushes, redbud, dogwood, and hawthorn trees inundated the riverbank. A month ago, so many lacy white blossoms attended that stretch, it looked as though an untimely snow had fallen.
But today, variegated greens splashed with gold hinted that one day, autumn would frost the countryside. Along the Black River, the waterwheel at Hank Jenkins’ sawmill created a steady backdrop to the thud of logs dropped off by landowners intent on earning some cash. This fresh enterprise rose of a sudden, thanks to the new railroad boring its way through the iron ore fields north of Poplar Bluff.
In Papa’s store, word had it they would call the railroad the Iron Mountain and Southern. Concerning this, Abby had her own ideas—why not the Zephyr or the Streaking Flame—something a
little more exciting?
A sudden whirlwind taunted her skirt, stretching the fabric’s
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Second Hand Sunsets
black crepe covering tighter against her knees. With soil-caked fingers, she brushed the ugly wrinkled stuff as she knelt to pull a few weeds—what matter if her dress got a little dirtier before washday? With her schooling nearly at an end, she would soon work in the store every day, and each time new bolts of yard goods arrived, Mama relished first choice.
From the arbor, Aunt Susan’s voice rose and fell with Mama’s. “Early string bean crop this year—if the rains hold right, of course —no guarantees in this life, especially with this ghastly war... But
you and Loyal keep each other in balance, a lovely thing to observe, dear sister...”
“Yes, I had all but given up hope, but then Loyal came to town, full of wit and dreams. And now, as soon as the war ends, he plans to—”
The wind stole Mama’s last words, but Abby finished her sen- tence for her. “—expand the store, and work on a library.”
Keep each other in balance—a perfect description of Mama and Papa. Rising from the backyard soil, she swayed a bit. Little wonder she felt dizzy by times these days, bereft of her beloved Elwood in this fast-changing world.
A verdant tomato leaf lent its fragrance to air tinged by offerings from the McClatchey’s cow next door. Bunches of small, dark green tomatoes hanging thick on these vines would soon begin to color, first the faintest pink, then redder and redder, like the sunsets she cherished. One day, deep ruby globes would greet her on these vines, ready for the picking.
So it was—change all around. The war, however, rendered these alterations more abrupt and cruel. Recently, word of nine Union ironclads sailing into Charleston Harbor reached the telegraph office. Of course, the news immediately generated talk inside Fer- guson’s Store, where Abby had helped Papa last Saturday.
“The Confederate batteries badly damaged the ironclads.Those Rebs forced our sailors to withdraw, and we thought our Navy so stalwart, with those new monitors fashioned after the original.”
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When the first newspapers had arrived with more details of the debacle, talk rose to a fever pitch. “Such preparations our sailors made, and the tide and visibility proved auspicious. But those monitors move too slowly. When the tide turned, Rear Admiral Du Pont was forced to suspend the operation.”
“Indeed.WewereunabletopenetrateeventheRebels’firstdefense.”
“Yes, and they left one vessel near to sinking, the others damaged as well. One of our sailors perished, with twenty-one wounded. At least all of the captains agreed ’twas no use to continue the battle anew in the morning.”
Papa summarized the discussion. “I had hoped we would occupy the harbor with ease, but alas, such a battle. I fear there will be a passel more before this conflict finds resolution.”
Here in the garden, the tale swirled in Abby’s memory—how long could this horrid war last? Then a late afternoon breeze brought a whiff of dogwood, returning her thoughts to her one all-consuming focus... dear, beloved Elwood.
•
Poplar Bluff bustled like a mama hen gathering her chicks at the first sign of danger. On the south end of Main Street, clinks and clanks pinpointed where Aloysius Smart struggled to settle a new pump into the stubborn clay loam after digging himself and his hired man into a sweat. The huge mound of red-yellow sand and gravelly clay they unearthed already reached building size.
On this clear June morning, Abby paused after filling her pail at the well behind the general store. For a moment, the crunch of shovels halted while Mr. Smart and his help paused to wipe their foreheads. In the brief serenity, low-lying swamplands to the south and east beckoned.
At the same time, from miles north of town, the click-click of rugged railroad workers’ picks resonated. How they thought to bore through that impenetrable iron ore piqued her curiosity.
On her way to the back entrance, an elderly man called old Duff 5

Second Hand Sunsets
rehashed the scene she had witnessed with her own eyes less than a month earlier. Seemed as though folks tended toward either the past or the future these days, and old Duff favored the past.
“Yeeess, sir. General Marmaduke’s men swept right through here on the way up t’ Cape Girardeau. Headed in from Arkysaw fer pervisions fer his men, half of ’em with no mount.”
He spat into dry clay. “But Gen’l McNeill put ’im down, that’s what. Learnt ’is lesson, ol’ Marmaduke did. ’Tain’t likely he’ll be raidin’ these parts no more.”
Avoiding the wizened sages gathered around him in the shade of a tall poplar, Abby slipped up the wooden stairs. She only had to close her eyes to see Marmaduke’s long-cut hair bouncing against his collar as he rode through town in his fancy uniform.
Extra gray hairs sprouted from Mama’s scalp that day, gospel truth. At least Marshal Tibbets and his local minions had managed to protect Poplar Bluff from looting, which was more than many other small towns around here could boast.
But now, up Main Street to Virgil G. Riggin’s blacksmith shop and down the other way to Doc’s house, the only brick one for miles, no one would know this small habitation had experienced such a threat. And before that, there had been even more—Abby’s breath caught in her throat at the recollection.
Morning haze still rose from the Current, Black, and St. Francis rivers that met here on an old Indian trail. Low-lying humidity lent a peaceful aura to the town’s layout, but visions of Confederate raiders ranging the outlying hills still remained vivid.
Ever since the battle at New Madrid that snatched three young Poplar Bluff men from this world in the spring of ’62, Abby kept an eye on the front door of Ferguson’s General Store, as Papa instructed. “Be always at the ready, child. Flee out the back if necessary, and run to the church. Your mother and I will search for you there.”
For the moment all was well, but last night, her second story bedroom window revealed Union campfires twinkling like fireflies
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on the outlying hills. Bound farther south, the troops camped here temporarily, but their presence still produced a shiver.
She set to dusting the shelves, her perennial responsibility. Half an hour later, Papa gestured for her to follow him outdoors. “Help me position the Founder’s Day banner, daughter—this should take only a minute.” Of course, Loyal Ferguson would be the first to decorate for the upcoming festivities.
Below the wide front planks, two Union soldiers dismounted. Abby dipped her head as Papa climbed the side ladder to the roof.
“Go right in, gentleman. I shall return soon.”
Papa’s hammer blows from on high dissolved in a sea of specu-
lation by some dawdlers leaning against the storefront. He crossed to the other side of the roof, and Abby, stationed in the dusty street, motioned her directions with her hand.
“Up a bit more. Now to your left a couple of inches.”
Then, from the far end of Main Street, a sudden dust whorl rose higher than Poplar Bluff ’s church steeple. That could only
mean one thing.
“Hurry, Papa—the stage.” Mr. Ferguson climbed down the ladder
as Abby preceded him up the steps. The self-proclaimed vigilantes ogled her, and one spewed a stream of tobacco juice into the folds of her skirt. Though Papa urged forbearance, she marched straight up to the leader.
“You did that on purpose, Hollis Brum!”
Hollis turned his back to face his so-called local warriors. “Them
Rebs wolf down California gold and Kansas Territ’ry, too—think they own the world. Quantrill’s Raiders ran wild, but Ol’ Brains showed ’em who was boss.”
“Major Gen’l Halleck?”
“Yep—brung order and made us proud at Shiloh. We’s th’ militia, ready n’ aimin’, if ’n they think t’ come back.” Rousing hurrahs launched an even stronger tirade, but Abby stamped her foot.
“Local militia, my foot! Made us proud at Shiloh—don’t you know 23,000 men perished there?”
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Second Hand Sunsets
Hollis spewed more tobacco juice as she scurried inside. Behind the counter, a wet rag made quick work of the stain on her skirt. Her black crepe sleeve rustled against a tattered wall poster with a painting of Old Glory and praise for Missourians already mustered with the Third or Sixth Cavalry.
In the store’s shadowy recesses, a good-looking Union captain studied a worn St. Louis Dispatch while his sergeant eyed the shov- els. His clipped mustache lent the slender captain an Eastern air, but the sergeant’s rawboned features hinted at farm country origins.
At another hurrah from the would-be gallants on the stoop, Abby muttered a promise to her feather duster. “Watch your back, Hollis Brum. I know a girl who could take you down.” Inspired
by the poster, a plan took shape in her mind.
The captain’s voice carried over a row of new Callahan frock coats.
“Says here a Sergeant Bascom riled an Apache hornet’s nest in Ari- zona Territory last winter, and actually met Chief Cochise. After this war, shall we proceed south to do some Indian fighting, sergeant?”
His comrade chuckled low and deep, like the rush of water at a turn in the river. “We have enough on our hands, sir. How many shovels do we need?”
The captain shelved the newspaper. “Six ought to do.” He dropped an elbow on the thick oak counter and cupped his chin. His handsome profile brought to mind—no, Abby would not allow the thought.
“May I help you?” She drew herself to her full height. “Ma’am, I hear tell federal officers warrant a discount today.” “June nineteenth, sir? When did you receive this notification?”
His affable blue eyes twinkled, but just then, some shovels crashed to the floor, and the big sergeant nearly propelled head- long over the counter. Taking note of his massive farmer hands,
Abby leaped back.
His earthy scent filtered to her—wood smoke, horseflesh, and
worn wool. As he righted himself, his violent flush ignited a twinge of sympathy.
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The captain doffed his cap and added a handful of choco- late creams to his purchases. “Captain Whitaker and Sergeant Tolzmann at your service.”
“A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen.” Abby weighed the candy and figured the bill. “That will be five dollars even.”
“At this rate, the Army will go broke. Tell this lovely young lass how we await our paychecks, sergeant.” The soldier fixed his eyes on his boots, so the captain addressed Abby again. “Last paid in January of ’63. Do you call this treatment just?”
“President Lincoln surely has his reasons.”
He steered the conversation elsewhere. “Sergeant, I deem these
fine dimples and upturned nose the prettiest in the state.”
The tall soldier fidgeted, so Abby took up the banter. “Only in
Missouri? What about parts north?”
“Surely no Iowa belle holds a candle to this southern beauty?
What think you, sergeant?”
A crooked smile jagged below the sergeant’s pained dark eyes.
Men of few words make the best suitors—where had she heard that? The captain plunked down some coins. “Here you go, and a
nickel for a pretty ribbon to highlight your chocolate eyes.”
“Sir, there is no need—”
“Please accept this token for the privilege of gazing upon the
finer species.”
Pocketing the coin, Abby removed the ragged poster from the
wall and thrust it toward him with her best smile. “Sir, a favor, if you please. That noisy ruffian outside talks a good war, but perhaps you might remind him of his patriotic duty?”
“Happy to do so—the Union always needs to muster fresh troops.” Leaving his partner front and center, he shouldered a couple of
shovels. “Bid this young lady adieu, Sergeant Tolzmann.”
The soldier finally found his voice. “Good day.” He touched his
cap and pivoted so fast his boots squeaked.
Most soldiers entered Ferguson’s store with decorum. Others
stared at her with such brazen looks that Abby fetched Papa from 9

Second Hand Sunsets
his meat cutting, but none had revealed this sincere a shyness. She crossed to the window.
“I hope Papa’s right about the fight moving south. We already paid dearly at New Madrid.” Dry black crepe crushed between her fingers, matching her sigh. There, she had finally named the site of Elwood’s demise, even if only to these tall shelves.
“Oh, Elwood, by now we would be married and on our way out West.” Her whisper circled in ever-present dust motes, while through the window, Hollis fidgeted under the captain’s sharp surveillance.
A mongrel meandered by as the sergeant secured their shovels to his saddle. At a pitiful whine audible even inside, he squatted to pet the scraggly animal. Abby drew nearer the window as sunshine highlighted the big fellow’s smile.
“Why, I believe I might...” She dragged a wooden stool to the window and set to work as the duo rode away. Half an hour later, she still bent over her sketchpad.
“Hello?”
Immersed in her task, she had failed to notice the door open.
“Why, you’re sketching!” Lizzy, her dearest friend, leaned over her shoulder. “I passed this fellow on that sharp curve east of town, riding abreast an officer toward the Union camp.”
“You recognize him?”
Lizzy lifted the pad. “A perfect likeness.” She did a little jig.
“This must mean my old friend has returned.”
“Perhaps. I do feel more spirited today—you will never believe
what I did to that Brum fellow.”
After Lizzy left, the likeness Abby had created stared up at her.
This bashful soldier would likely never pass through again. Adieu, after all, meant farewell forever. This war tossed people around like dry leaves, and fate might soon steal his life, too.
•
“Abigail Belinda Ferguson, must your work never end?” 10

Gail Kittleson
Abby looked up from snapping green beans.
“Oh, Aunt Susan, I hoped you would stop by.”
“This time of day makes me languish, dear. Sometimes when
afternoon wanes, I drift into melancholy.”
“Now Sister, have a glass of lemonade and be your bright, cheery
self again.” Abby’s mother descended with a tray, so Abby gave her aching fingers a rest.
“I would be mortified if anyone else saw me like this.”
“Everyone needs someone, Auntie. Sunset still brings me Elwood’s image. I wish I could forget, but the sun was setting when he first spoke to me of our future.”
“As years pass, those memories become our treasures, child.”
“Pondering the plans we made only makes me sad, like seeing those rotting pears in the side yard. Every year the wasps infest them and turn their sweetness sour.”
Mama’s pursed lips filled Abby with regret, so she softened her outburst. “You know patience has never been my strength.”
“Nor mine.” Aunt Susan patted her forearm. “But sometimes, patience is all life leaves us, along with the memory of our plans.”
“Well spoken, Sister, and you have borne your burdens with a noble spirit. Now come inside and help me in the kitchen.”
The last pile of string beans diminished as children’s voices drifted from the riverside. Shadows slithered the shed’s length, and in spite of Abby’s morning determination to think on pleasant things, heat welled behind her eyes.
Leaving the bean basket on the grass, she paced the yard. Only a few years ago, she and Elwood had capered along the Black Riv- er’s shore like those youngsters. Without a care in the world, they frolicked with Lizzy and other friends. So many joys they shared— simple times, like discovering a painted lady in his mother’s yard.
The leaves had died back in June, but early in July, one day she and Elwood came upon a stalk two and a half feet high, right where he had cut the grass two days before. Mrs. Partridge called these surprise lilies—a perfect name. Elwood tried to fit a giant
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Second Hand Sunsets
blossom, pink with a white throat, behind Abby’s ear. How they giggled at his attempt.
Then one autumn night he hid in the bushes near the back porch, preparing to sing Open thy lattice, Love, listen to me...
After supper when she emptied the dirty dishwater, Abby had no idea he lurked there until he yelped and jumped out, soaked to the skin. He sang to her anyway. Dear, dear Elwood. This recollection brought such a mix of laughter and misery, she pounded her fists on the clapboard shed.
“Oh, why did you have to go off to New Madrid? By now, we might be expecting our first child—how I despise this vile war!”
Across an expanse of prairie grass came the familiar sound of the store’s back door. That meant Papa would soon appear on the wagon path. He always washed at the back pump and left his apron to soak in the shed before entering the house. His day had begun extra early, cutting steaks and roasts from the beef he butchered yesterday.
He worked so hard—mustn’t let him find her in such a state. In the shadow of the shed, Abby wiped her eyes and took herself in hand.
“Enough lamenting, Abigail Belinda. Open your eyes to all the goodness around you, like Aunt Susan.”
Papa found her composed, but quiet, and they walked together across the yard. Yes, so much good all around her. But a stifling sensation below her collarbone testified otherwise.

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