We were to enroll. Ann was to enroll at Jacksonville Academy. I was to enroll at Illinois College.
That year I called on her at the Rutledge farm, several times. We worked together in the fields. When she worked at Jim Short’s farm, I rode over to be with her. I helped her with the chores. Swampy place.
August came, hot, dry August. Corn was stunted that year. Few martins and swallows were around. But malaria was around and put me down, a day, two days, three. I sipped Peruvian bark—jalap. Late that month, her father sent for me.
Valued brother, come, Ann is very ill.
D. H. Rutledge.
I still have that message.
She lay on her bed, feverish; the log house seemed to be claiming her; she put her small hands in mine; her corn silk hair was around her face. In two days she was gone. We buried her in Concord, seven miles away, seven miles to walk behind her coffin.
It was many weeks, many weeks and miles of walking, before I recovered, out of that grey mystery.
I still write to her family. I want to know how the Rutledges are faring.
