Dovie Ledbetter never had much her entire life. What little she had was now burning. Her boy, Albert, was under those hot coals that had been her house. She was too numb to even think about it. She just sat under the cedar tree, waiting on the heat to die so she could find him.
She was at the river, the Coosa, a few miles northwest of Rockford, Alabama, about a half mile from home, trapping fish in the shallows when she heard the gunshot. Barefoot, she raced home, the smoke plume her guide.
The Yankees had finally come, like Willis said. At least, from the tracks in the dirt, there were several riders. A whiskey bottle lay where a careless hand had tossed it. A few of her things had escaped the fire. They were scattered in the yard, too poor for even thieves. There was blood and chicken feathers as well. The cow was nowhere to be found.
Willis asked her to be his wife five years ago. Dovie was a plain woman who lived in a shack where her father died the winter before. She never knew her mother. Willis had a club foot, what he called a twisted leg, that made his gait awkward at best, but he had always been nice. She said yes. Survival was easier when two people worked together.
They became river people. Not travelers, just two people who used the river for most of their food.
That’s how they found the cabin. They discovered a dim trail and followed it there. It was deserted, had been that way for a long time. Ground squirrels had moved in, and there was a hole in the floor where rain dripped and rotted the wood.
They visited several times before moving in.
That was the happiest day Dovie could remember. She thought that was the night Willis put a baby in her belly. That was just before the war started.
Willis was excited and wanted to join the 21st Alabama Volunteers. They were gathering in Rockford and planned on heading north in a few weeks. Willis hugged Dovie, kissed little Albert, and headed to war. His last words: “We will lick those Yanks in a few months, and I’ll be straight home.”
Dovie lay awake most of the night thinking about Willis leaving. She had little Albert. It would be harder.
Two days later, Willis hobbled back home.
“They wouldn’t take me because of my twisted leg,” he told her, tears in his eyes.
The next couple of years dragged by. They survived mostly off the river. The floods provided the best times. The river would flow out of its banks, and the receding water would trap fish in low spots. Easy picking for hungry people. Willis would carry them to town and trade for a few pennies or barter. There were huckleberries and poke salad in the spring.
He would return home full of war stories and rumors, his eyes alight with excitement.
It was a hot day in July of ’63.
Willis returned from town with supplies: flour, a yard of yellow fabric, and some candy for Albert.
He came racing up, a new light in his eyes. “I’m going,” he shouted.
“Where?” Dovie asked.
“To fight the Yanks!” he said.
Dovie looked at his leg. “What about that?”
“The recruitment officer said they could accept me now. Most of the darkies that drove the wagons had been killed or run off. He said I would drive a supply wagon. I will be the boss of it. I marked the paper right then.”
“Where did you get the stuff?” she asked.
“Mr. Hallman gave it on credit. It will be easy to pay once I receive my wagon pay.”
Dovie said nothing.
The next morning, Willis hobbled out of Dovie’s life forever. He was moving fast as the forest swallowed him. He hadn’t looked back.
The late summer heat broke in September with no word from Willis. Winter came. Dovie and Albert survived thanks to the floods.
Spring brought a stranger to the house. A gray shadow with one arm and an eye patch rode out of the forest late in the afternoon. Dovie was afraid of him.
“You Dovie Ledbetter?” he asked in a grizzled voice.
Dovie could not find her voice. She just nodded yes.
“War news,” he said, handing her an envelope. It was ragged and stained. He turned and rode off without a word.
She was glad he didn’t want to rest.
She had never seen a letter before. Certainly, she had never received one. She thought it must be from Willis. Maybe he sent money. She opened it carefully, as if it might break. There were only words.
She wished she had asked the man to read it.
She looked at it often, never touching it. She kept it close. She would talk to Albert and tell him the good news that might be hidden in the words.
After four days, she told Albert they were going to town. She carefully wrapped the letter in a piece of gray cloth she had found in the river. They left at dawn.
As they approached town, she spotted a heavy wagon. It was the tinker. It was rumored he could fix anything. She waved him down and shyly showed him the letter from Willis.
“Yes, I can read it,” he told her.
He had seen this type of letter before. He sat on some rocks and pointed for Dovie to sit as well.
The tinker pulled some round glasses from his shirt pocket, cleared his throat, and began to read.
“Regards, I must inform you that Willis Ledbetter was killed fulfilling his duty. Cause of death, killed by a horse. He was properly buried with prayers. Captain James Abrams.”
The tinker folded the letter and told Dovie he was sorry for her loss.
Dovie did not understand. She told the tinker that Willis went to fight Yanks. What did that mean?
The tinker stared at the ground for a moment. “He’s gone,” he said. Then he handed her the letter and drove off, leaving Dovie and Albert in the dusty road.
Dovie took Albert’s hand and headed home.
A week later, Mr. Hallman, the store owner, rode up on an old horse. He told her Willis owed him money for supplies bought on credit before he went to war. He read the list: flour, cloth, candy.
He demanded money. She offered to bring him fish.
He reached out and put his hand on her arm. She knocked him down. She was good at throwing rocks. Albert ran into the house, heading for his safe spot.
Dovie kept throwing as Mr. Hallman scrambled away, climbing onto his horse and riding off, carrying knots and bruises with him.
It was late summer when Dovie heard the shot and saw the smoke.
It was the following day before the ashes cooled enough for Dovie to search for Albert. He was easy to find. She knew where to look.
The rotted hole in the floor between the two support beams, his safe spot that Willis had shown him. “Go there and hide if the Yanks come. They won’t find you there,” he had told him.
He was right.
Dovie scraped out a hole in the ground under the cedar tree where she had sat and watched the house burn. She put what she could find in the hole and pressed the soft dirt on top of the remains. She found the biggest rock she could roll. Exhausted, she sat on the rock, looking with unfocused eyes into the distance. The grief was in the silent tears making lines on her dirty cheeks.