Flesh And Blood. Caroline Burnes
a light meal, I found myself curled before the warmth of the fire, my book opened but unread upon my lap. The sense of loss that struck was acute. I stood, the book dropping unattended to the floor. Why couldn’t Frank be here with me to share this room, this fire, this soft spring night with just enough chill to make the fire welcome? Why, of all the people in the world, was it Frank who’d been killed?
As a million others who’ve lost loved ones, I went to bed that night with my questions unanswered.
The next day dawned brisk and beautiful. Pale pink light suffused the room, creeping in through the wall of eastern windows and ricocheting off the delicate webbing of the mosquito netting that I’d been unable to resist draping around my bed. It was like a fantasy to wake up swathed in that glorious coral bed. I was thankful that whoever had furnished the room had been of more modern size. The bed was more than adequate, with plenty of room to wallow and indulge. But this wasn’t a morning for such activities. I intended to get up and scout the grounds for the old trysting oak of Mary Quinn and Charles Weatherton. I had the peculiar sense that during the night Mary had stood over me, weighing my cause. I would meet her this day. I knew it in my bones.
My hair is dark brown and straight, just below my shoulders, and I’ve taken to pulling it back in a barrette or ribbon at the nape of my neck. My mother says I’m not young enough or old enough to support this style and that it’s simply a tactic to look austere and spinsterish. Most days I stay in the house and write, and since the grocery man or the postman haven’t complained about my “do,” I’ve been able to ignore Mother. I donned a pair of jeans and a cotton sweater, tied a ribbon in my hair and set out with a piece of toast in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other. Perhaps I’d breakfast with Mary Quinn.
Walking through the gardens, I recalled the legend. There are a few variations on it, but only in specific detail. The content is the same no matter what version I’d heard or read.
In the spring of 1861 Mary Quinn was a seventeen-year-old girl, or woman in those days. Corrine, her descendant, favored her greatly in looks and attitude. Curly red hair, pale skin and green eyes. The ferrotypes of Mary reveal a lovely young girl with a square jaw and a humorous twinkle in her eyes. It was March, and Mary was attending a church social on the grounds of the Presbyterian Church in Vicksburg when she was introduced to young Charles Weatherton. Four years her senior, Charles had been to Europe and was reputed to be quite a charmer. He had completed his education and was heir to the Weatherton fortune, a firm that had grown up around the development of the railroad in the South.
While most of the eligible Vicksburg ladies had fallen victim to Charles’s gray eyes and olive complexion, Mary was immune. She told him archly that as an only child, she had been well vaccinated with skepticism by her father when it came to male charm.
Charles was smitten. By the end of March, he had proposed to her at least fifteen times—and been declined. His sixteenth plea met with success, for as saucy as Mary’s tongue could be, her heart was tender and she’d fallen in love with Charles.
Mississippi had already seceded from the Union, and Charles had joined the Confederate army. Mary had jokingly told her friends it was the combination of Charles’s gray eyes and the gray of his cavalry officer’s uniform that had finally worn down her resistance. Whatever the source of the attraction, their love was so deep and intense that no one who saw them together could help but feel the tender brush of their love. Even the most cynical of anti-romantics melted at the emotion that flowed between the two.
The proposal was approved by both families, and a wedding was hastily arranged. Charles was due to report to Richmond for his orders, and Mary wanted her wedding before he left. The entire town rallied to the cause and began the preparations for the April 14 wedding. But fate stepped in, and on April 3, Charles received orders to report to Richmond immediately. There was dire need for his services. Torn between his duty to his country and his fiancée, Charles hesitated. It was Mary who tied his golden sash of rank and walked him to his horse. He could not love her if he neglected his duty to his country, she’d said. She would wait for him. She would wait until eternity.
The quick war that everyone in the South had anticipated was an illusion. Though one Southerner might be able to lick ten Yankees, the Yankees were better trained and better provisioned. And there were so many more of them. The year passed, and then another. It was 1863 and the South was struggling for survival.
Mary received many letters from Charles. She would take them unopened to the oak tree where they had often sat holding each other in a tight embrace and planning their future after the war. When she read them, she could feel Charles beside her.
It was in February of 1863 that Mary received word of Charles’s death. He had led a charge in a remote area of North Carolina and been shot down. He did not suffer. His death was instant. Mary’s reaction to the news was completely unexpected. She said she’d known for three days that he was dead.
Instead of the terrible grief her family expected, Mary went on about her life as if she still believed that Charles would return after the war. She did not speak of the future, but she did not grieve, either. She continued to go to the oak tree where they’d had their trysts, and each time she returned, she seemed calmer, happier.
When Vicksburg came under attack, Mary’s father, Canna, ordered her to remain in the gardens and not to venture along the riverbank to the oak tree. Union soldiers were straggling about the grounds of Ravenwood, and even desperate Confederates were dangerous. For the first time in her life, Mary disobeyed. No matter what her father said, she refused to give up her daily visits to the oak. Canna ordered a servant to restrain Mary. With all the agility of her quick mind and body, Mary was able to elude her keepers. At last, Canna ordered her locked in her room. Not even a lock on her door could prevent her from slipping away to the tree.
One clear spring day Canna followed his daughter. To his horror, he found her acting out the role of lover to empty air. She spoke as if Charles answered her, carrying on an animated conversation and even mimicking the act of hugging and kissing her nonexistent fiancé. The Yankees could not defeat Canna Quinn, but the sight of his daughter, his only child and heir, in such a condition, devastated him. He ordered Mary to be restrained in her bed.
Within three days’ time she was dead. Once she could not go to the oak tree, she simply gave up the will to live. She had told everyone not to mourn her, that she was simply going to meet Charles and that he waited for her, as she’d promised to wait for him. She’d closed her eyes and died without a struggle. She was not quite nineteen years old. Her date of death was April 14, the second anniversary of the scheduled date of the wedding.
Out of compassion for other lovers separated by death, Mary’s ghost is said to intervene in misunderstandings. She is said to be a messenger between the living and the dead. But only a pure love can attract her help.
There is certainly some misunderstanding between Frank and myself. I do not have the purity of Mary’s love, I know that. It was impossible for me to simply will myself to stop living, though I did think about my own death in the first months after Frank’s murder. Walking through the rose garden and past the fountain, I gave that idea some thought. Perhaps there is another kind of strength that allows one to survive a tremendous loss and continue to live. I’ve often thought that I’d rather be dead and allow Frank to live. But that in itself is cowardly.
Even through the worst of my grief, I never doubted that Frank knew how much I loved him. Not until lately. In the past month he has appeared to me three times. I wake up from a troubled sleep, and he is standing at the foot of my bed. He points his finger at me and makes his accusation of betrayal. I want to reach out and touch his hand, to feel his thick, black hair beneath my fingers. To pull him to me and tell him that I haven’t betrayed him in thought or deed. But he makes his accusation and he fades. It is unbearable, and if I don’t find the reason for his visits, I truly will become insane.
By the time I had mulled through the entire legend yet again, I found that I had arrived at the old oak. It was a live oak, an enormous presence that exuded a peace that invited me to sit beneath its branches on an old root. I settled in, wondering if Mary and Charles had shared this same natural seat. I felt as if they