The Civil War is seen through the unclouded vision of an eight year old girl living in western Kentucky. Betsy Johnson speaks about the war, President Lincoln, General Grant, God, the slavery question, the Emancipation Proclamation, the Medal of Honor, and her family. Her poignant and cogent observations make this a unique volume that will appeal to children of all ages. With authentic detail and a refreshing perspective, Sweet Betsy, will capture the hearts of readers everywhere.
Sweet Betsy That's Me
A Child of the Civil WarBy Michael R. ZomberiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2009 Michael R. Zomber
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4401-6323-4Chapter One
TOMATO, WORMS, AND WASPS
The whole day before my poppa got home from the war, I was so excited I couldn't think or act right. I was hotter than an iron griddle burning red on the stove, and that didn't help any. It was way past noon, and I was in the barn cleaning off the wasp nests with an old worn-out corn broom. It was late in August near September in Mission City Kentucky, and the heat was making me sweat. Sweat was running down my forehead into my eyes. That salt water sure stung. I could see the gray mud nests with holes looking like a honeycomb covering half the roof.
Wasps don't make honey. I can't figure what they do besides chasing me around trying to sting me. I hate them and I hate the nests. One time I knocked one down and it fell on General Gates, my poppa's horse.
He got stung on his head and kicked down the stall door. He was real mad and wouldn't let me feed him for two days. He even tried to bite me, me his best friend. I felt real bad, but it wasn't my fault.
He's a real big horse, brown and strong. Momma rode him some while Poppa was away to the fighting. Poppa was fighting for the Union.
The Union is a red and blue flag with thirty-four white stars. Momma says he's fighting for Cecile, my Negro nanny, and all her people. I love Cecile and I'm glad he's fighting for her.
Other day I heard Cecile tell Momma that when she was in town, she was walking along, minding her business. Cecile couldn't believe what some man says to her when she passed by.
"This war's all on account of you Negroes. Damn you all anyway. You should've stayed in Africa. Good, honest white folks are dying 'cause of you. It's all your fault, you and that damn Yankee baboon, Lincoln, who looks like he's half black himself."
Cecile told Momma, "I didn't say a thing at first. I ignored him and then I just couldn't help myself. I looked at him, and I just smiled and smiled.
Then I said, "Sir, we're worth fighting for, even dying for. We been dying for you and yours for two hundred years." That old boy's mouth fell open. He couldn't say nothing. Nothing at all."
Momma said, "Good thing he didn't slap you. Then Colonel Colt and I would have had to pay him a visit."
Cecile just laughed and laughed. She always laughs because she says the Lord wants us to be joyful no matter what happens. She listens to the Lord harder than anyone I know, even the preacher. Momma made her pretty face kind of nasty looking.
"No laughing matter. Sounds like he's a copperhead to me. When Josiah comes home, no one will dare to speak against us or President Lincoln."
Colonel Colt is Momma's Navy pistol and Josiah's (now, that's my poppa's name, only I can't call him that). He's coming home real soon and he's a hero. Says so in the papers. Momma showed me, and I read them myself. He's a hero at Gettysburg.
I'm so proud of my poppa, I can't tell you how much. Now, that Henry VanGriff Junior, little brat that he is, is only four years younger than me. He's only four himself and why, that boy says things. His poppa is a captain in the Kentucky home guard, not the real army like mine. Why, one day I was laughing at him being a junior.
"That means you are smaller than everyone," I told him. "Why, I can hardly see you, you're so small." See, once a week, I go to his house where his momma lets me play their piano.
Before we leave, Momma washes behind my ears till it hurts. Then she makes me wear a dress. I hate dresses. They're itchy and well, you know how they crawl up between your legs, and then you can't cross your legs easy at all. How can you play proper and get dirty in a dress?
Momma always says, "Now, Betsy, look at yourself. You're quite the lady." I never say nothing, just make a face. I hate that darn dress. Momma is the only woman in Kentucky who wears her hair like a man. She rides like a man, no sidesaddle or dresses for her even on Sunday.
"Now, Betsy, don't you go making faces and don't tell me I don't wear a dress. Stop looking at my hair or the lack thereof. You know the rules."
Yes, I know the rules, and if I break them then she won't take me to Henry's house, and then no piano. When I was little, I hated that piano. I'd hit the keys and it wouldn't sound right. The black ones were hard. My hands were just too small. I had to use both and they'd trip over each other. My hands wouldn't go wide enough no matter how I tried.
But it was just like riding a horse. One day you just get it. Then it's wonderful. Like it all fits. I love the piano. I love the smell of the wax on the wood. Why, it shines just like the sun on the river.
If I'm in a bad mood, the music makes me happy. It takes me places in my mind. Dotty, that's my mare. Well she's really Poppa's, but with him being gone and all, I got to take care of her.
I love horses but I love the piano too. I just lift the cover. It folds like an accordion. Then I play and it's like I hear the music in my head before I play. My poppa likes this Mozart he heard once, and I'm trying to learn it, but it's like trying to hold water in your hand. It keeps slipping away from me. But I'm going keep trying because I want to surprise him more than anything.
That Henry, like I said, he has a mouth on him. Only yesterday I was teasing him and he says, "I ain't small. I'm big. Bigger'n you are. You're just a girl, a dirty girl. Your poppa's private. Mine's captain."
"My poppa's a sergeant, stupid. He's a hero. Says so right in the paper. Your poppa's a mar a mar." Tell the truth I couldn't get the darned word out right or remember what Momma said one night about Henry's daddy.
I heard Momma tell Cecile sometime not too long ago. "That Henry VanGriff. He holds himself so high. So he's rich and handsome. So what. As a soldier he's nothing but a martinet, not a patch on my Josiah."
I thought Momma was calling him some kind of bird. I just couldn't remember the whole word. Well, then Henry Junior started laughing at me. I was confused. When I can't think of a word, I get this funny feeling in my belly. I get all choked and then I get mad.
When I was little like Henry and I couldn't talk just right, I used to cry. Momma used to say, "Why Betsy, whatever are you crying for?" I couldn't tell her it was because I couldn't find the word.
Anyway, I didn't cry; I picked up a rock. It weren't a big one, little more than a pebble, and I threw it at Henry hard as I could. I missed. Don't usually but this time I did. Then he called me the b-word. Don't know as I heard it before. Didn't think much of it except then Henry started crying like a baby. Then he run off. I felt kind of bad for him even though he's such a baby.
Well, I got a big mouth or so I been told, and I told Cecile that Henry called me the b-word. She clapped her hand over her mouth, and don't you know she ran all the way down to the garden and told Momma.
Then I saw them together at the tomato and cucumber patch. I just love tomatoes. They taste so good with a pinch of salt. The sour salt taste curls your tongue, and then you know it's summer.
The weirdest green worms live in them. They are huge and all spiky, the same color as the branches. The branches are fuzzy like a peach, and the worms are smooth.
Momma's afraid of the worms. I'm not. They don't bite or sting like wasps. They just like tomatoes. I don't think they eat them. I don't know what all they eat. They just creep over the vines all day and night minding their business.
Chapter Two
BAD WORDS AND A SHOOTING LESSON
Anyway, Momma came up quick and I could tell she was mad. Her eyes were popping from her face and her skin was red. She stood real close to me and said, "Henry Junior called you a what? Have you been listening to those town boys? Got too much time on your hands? Betsy Johnson, if you're lying to me, I'll know it. I always know when you are telling me a fish story."
I'm a bad liar. I try but somehow I feel funny like when I can't find a word. I turn red like Momma was, and then I can't get out the words. Momma says this is a good thing. I don't rightly know. I only know I stink at lying.
"Henry said Poppa was a private. I said he was a hero and a sergeant. Then I said Henry was stupid. I couldn't remember what you called his poppa. A mar, a mar."
"A martinet?"
"That's it. What's a mar-tin-it? I know it's a bird. Why's Captain VanGriff a bird?"
"No questions, just answers please. Now, Betsy, honey, please tell me the rest of the story."
"I want to know. Why's Henry's poppa a bird?"
"Sweet Betsy, my sweet girl, please tell me the rest."
When Mommy wants me to do something, she always calls me Sweet Betsy. I can't turn her down.
"Well, I couldn't find the word and then I got mad. I picked up a rock, and I threw it at him. Didn't hit him though, the little baby brat I promise I didn't. Then he called me the b-word."
"Well, I'll be. Seems I must have a chat with Lucinda about Junior's language. I imagine he heard that from his father. Now, honey pie, sometimes when men are upset with things, they use bad words. It is a sign of weak character and it is a flaw. Your father doesn't use bad words now does he?"
I remembered one time Poppa slipped in some mud getting onto his horse, you know, General Gates.
Poppa slipped and then he used a bad word. I don't remember what it was, but after he said it, I think I said it. Then Poppa turned red as sunset.
He told me, "Now my Sweet Betsy, promise you won't ever say that word, will you?" Course I promised right then. I pray for Poppa every day and me, Cecile, and Momma. I know the Bible tells me to love my poppa and my momma, and I do.
I love my poppa. I love the smell of horses he has, and his pipe smell, and his prickly whiskers when he don't shave. Like I said, I'm a bad liar but I didn't have to lie, only say nothing. But I was real scared Mrs. VanGriff wouldn't let me come play the piano no more, and then I'd never learn the Mozart for Poppa and I'd be a big failure. So I smiled and shook my head, and Momma smiled and she gave me ten cents.
We've been eating coots because there ain't any real ducks like mallards left since everybody's so hungry now. Momma shoots them in the river with a shotgun. No matter how she or Cecile cooks them, they taste real strong and fishy. The meat's dark and kind of squashy. I hold my nose, and every so often, I bite down on a shot. Wow that hurts.
Momma says, "Now Betsy, take your time and be careful. You don't want to chip or break one of the teeth the Good Lord gave you. There is no dentist for miles since Doctor Willis joined the army. Cecile and I try to remove all the pellets, but there are always a few stragglers."
I asked her one time, "Why don't you use Grandpa's rifle or Colonel Colt? That way there wouldn't be no lead in our supper."
Momma said, "Now, Sweet Betsy, that's quite a compliment. You must really think highly of my marksmanship. Your poppa is the real sharpshooter in the Johnson family. And by the by, Betsy, you aren't too bad yourself."
Momma grinned. She's so pretty when she laughs. I only wish she'd grow her hair, it's so yellow just like the sun. Her eyes are so blue like the sky. I was six years old when she taught me how to shoot a pistol. I know because it was right after my birthday. I was waiting for her to teach me, and she always told me I had to wait till I was six.
Colonel Colt was very heavy. I could hardly hold him up. It was summer and real hot. We walked down near the tall silver sycamore trees by the river where there was a clearing. The grass was real green and kinda long. Momma said we needed to be alone. She pulled out the Colonel and handed it to me. Wow, was it so heavy. I nearly dropped it in the grass and needed both hands. Momma was worried about some Copperheads; they're bad men round here who want to kill Momma and sell Cecile to the Rebels, and they're traitors to the Union. They're like the poison snakes.
She said the Copperhead men was near town and that they was asking about her preaching the gospel of abolition and voting rights. Riling folks, now that's my momma's job.
"Betsy," she said, "Sometimes I have to leave you alone with Cecile when I go to spread the gospel of women's rights and serve the holy cause of abolition."
Abolition is so that Cecile and her folks can be free, and women's rights are so Momma can wear her hair short like a man and enter turkey shoots so we can win the prize ham and eat bacon for once. I sure get tired of coot.
I remember the day I learned to shoot like it was yesterday, and I tell you true that gun was real pretty, all blue like the sky. A Colt's Navy, Momma called it. She showed me how to use two hands and aim it at an old cracked jug. I pulled the trigger, and it made an awful noise, smoke, and a piece of the cap hit me in the head. But I blew that old jug all to pieces.
Momma stood away off, and I could tell she was happy with my shot. She patted me on the cheek. Her hand was soft and smelled of the flower soap that Mrs. VanGriff gave her. "Betsy, honey, if you can do that again, it will ease my mind when I have to leave. Maybe it was a lucky accident."
"Was not," I said. I picked the piece of cap out of my head and handed it to her. I must have been bleeding just a little, but in the excitement I didn't notice.
"Why Betsy Johnson, you are a brave girl. You are truly your father's daughter. Your poppa would be so proud. Why, you didn't even flinch. It must have been hot. Are you hurt?"
"No Momma, I'm fine." Momma put another smaller cracked jug on the stump. The sun was beating down on my head, and I saw waves when I looked the stump. I smelled my hand, and it was like a rotten egg had broke all over it. Yuck! The gun was shaking like a leaf in the wind when I pulled the trigger and nothing happened.
"Misfire," Momma said. "Cock the hammer and try again. I took a deep breath and my heart was pounding in my head. My belly felt like I couldn't find the words.
I saw the jug and it had a real big crack in the neck. I raised the gun with both hands and pulled the trigger. There was a boom, and the smoke was so thick I couldn't see. Then I saw the stump and no jug. Momma took her Colt and shoved it in her belt. Then she grabbed me up and kissed me all over.
"Well, that's what I call marksmanship," she said. "I think I'll concentrate on your formal education. Seems like you're a natural with a pistol. Now remember that a gun has only two uses. Self-defense when your life is in danger or the defense of others. Otherwise they are the tools of the coward and the fool, and I know you are neither."
"What about shooting jugs? Or the turkey shoots?" I shouldn't have said that about the turkeys. I know Poppa used to enter the turkeys and he'd win the ham for sure.
They still had turkeys but only maybe once a year because of the war. They wouldn't let Momma shoot because she's a girl and all; besides, they all know she'd win for sure. So Momma frowned at me a little for reminding her.
"Sweet Betsy, I stand corrected. Of course shooting targets is acceptable, and hunting is too, but if you ever shoot at one of God's creatures that you don't intend to eat, then you are sliding down the slippery slope to Hell. Remember he prayeth best who loveth best all creatures great and small."
Now I got to say I fear the Lord and His Righteous Judgment, and Momma don't often threaten me with Hellfire, so I pay real close attention when she does.
Chapter Three
HORSES AND DONKEYS
Every day, morning and night, I pray to the Lord Poppa will come home. When Momma told me she got a letter from his colonel, she said Poppa had been shot but he was okay, and now he'd be taking a train home soon. That made me cry real hard, but then I made a deal with God that I would learn that Mozart and play it right for him no matter what. I'd practice it even if my fingers went numb like they sometimes do. I'd even be nice to that baby brat Henry VanGriff. Course, I broke my promise about Henry an hour later.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Sweet Betsy That's Meby Michael R. Zomber Copyright © 2009 by Michael R. Zomber. Excerpted by permission.
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