Love and War

by John Jakes

  “Chest.”

  “Let’s try again. Lower him feet first. I know you’re wounded, Sebastian. You go back right now.”

  “You can’t carry him alone. I’m fine.” He didn’t sound like it.

  “All right. I’ll grab his boots. You’re taller—you reach over my head and take him under the arms. We mustn’t drop him.”

  “Larkin?” Sebastian gasped. “You hear that?”

  “I hear,” the scared soldier answered. “Here he comes.”

  Slowly, they maneuvered the wounded lieutenant down and into a horizontal position, then started to carry him toward the rifle pits. Billy took the lead, facing forward, holding one of Buck’s boot heels in each hand. The enemy fire grew heavier. He hunched slightly, which struck him as hilariously futile in view of the number of shells and bullets landing all around. Sweat dripped off his chin. His heart beat hard; the fear persisted. He was ashamed when he thought of the sergeant carrying the wounded man along with a reb ball in his shoulder. Sebastian uttered a short, guttural sound each time he took a step.

  “Here we are,” Billy whispered at the timbered rim of the rifle pit. “You men down there, take the lieutenant. Gently—gently! That’s it—Oh, goddamn it—” He felt Buck’s upper body drop as Sebastian let go, fainting on his feet.

  Other black soldiers were taking hold of the lieutenant’s legs, so Billy pivoted and tried to check Sebastian’s fall. But the sergeant slipped sideways, just out of reach, then tumbled into the rifle pit.

  Two of Sebastian’s men tried to catch him and failed. He landed hard. Billy heard the thump seconds before three more shells exploded. He jumped into the rifle pit, the impact scraping his teeth together. Tears flowed down his cheeks because of the smoke. The bombardment had become steady and thunderous.

  He picked one of the black soldiers. “Climb out to the rear and find two litter bearers. Quick, dammit!”

  Half the effort was wasted. Surgeons successfully extracted a Minié ball from Lieutenant Buck’s chest and patched him up, but Sebastian died at daybreak while the smoke from the final rounds of the bombardment drifted away above the fortifications. Corporal Larkin had stayed flattened on the ledge during the shelling and returned without a scratch.

  In his journal that afternoon, Billy put down some thoughts prompted by the sergeant’s death.

  The colored troops faced peril as bravely as any white men I have led. During the bombardment—so senseless in a way, and so typical of what this war has become—Sebastian exhibited immaculate courage. How wrong I have been to judge soldiers of his race my inferiors. It does no good to explain that my opinions and behavior have been the same as those of most in this army. It is possible, I suppose, for great numbers of people to be wrong about something—for error to be epidemic. The death of the “brass ankle” has plunged me into a fury of doubt about all I previously believed.

  The supply train chugged Southwestward. George rode in the open on a flatcar, huddled in his overcoat. It was a gray Saturday; Monday would be the first of November. There was a smell of snow in the air, a sinister look to the barren trees, a sense that the siege would settle back into lulling quiet after last Thursday’s failed advance. A thrust on the left, its objective the interdiction of the Southside Railroad, had been repulsed by Heth, Mahone, and some of Wade Hampton’s horse. Hampton had been promoted to full command of the rebel cavalry in August. Was Charles still scouting for him? Was Orry still in Richmond?

  Memories of the fire, of the burned bodies that night in April of ’61 came back again; they were with him often. Another house had risen to replace the one destroyed, but the new one bore little resemblance to the old. The war had been long and devastating. When it was over, could past relationships be restored? Did they even exist any more? He was not confident.

  Among the change rattling in his pocket were some of the new two-cent pieces authorized by Chase before his resignation and minted for the first time this year. Each bronze piece bore the words In God We Trust, a motto which had never before appeared on American coinage. George wondered whether that affirmation was also an unvoiced cry against the dark times; a declaration of lack of faith in human ability to find a way through the war’s maze of misery and cupidity and blind chance. In God We Trust—but not in generals, contractors, even Presidents.

  Nevertheless, it did appear that Lincoln would win a second term. The Republican radicals had decided a splinter candidate couldn’t win and had patched together a sullen truce with the President. Sherman’s capture of Atlanta and Phil Sheridan’s trouncing of Jubal Early at Cedar Creek had completely reversed the political tide. October elections in Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana resulted in strong National Union party majorities. George had voted in camp and, according to the note that had at last arranged a reunion between the brothers, so had Billy. Both cast their ballots for Lincoln and Johnson.

  With other states yet to vote, governmental departments, particularly Stanley’s, were doing everything possible to influence the outcome. George noticed that officers known to support McClellan were slow to receive promotions to which they were entitled. Each day steamers left City Point packed with men conveniently furloughed home to districts where a Republican victory might be in doubt. George hoped for that victory and believed in the need for it, but he disliked the less than pristine methods being used to achieve it. He had visions of Stanley gleefully inking Dem. on promotion authorization and flinging each so labeled into a crackling fireplace.

  A few white flakes flurried around George as an artillery colonel clambered aboard to share the edge of the car. They struck up a conversation and were soon discussing a notorious farmer from Dinwiddie County who called himself the Deacon and led a band of mounted partisans—the kind of band the rebel Congress publicly disavowed and secretly praised. The preceding week, Deacon Follywell’s men had captured three Union pickets near the left of the siege line and hanged them.

  “When we catch them, they should get the same treatment,” the colonel declared. His tone left no room for dissent.

  The train rounded a curve; shell-blasted trees fell behind, replaced by a vista of a crowded campsite. On frozen ground, among white tents, black infantry drilled, marching to the rear, then to the oblique, while George and his sullen companion rode by.

  “Look at that spectacle,” the colonel said. “Five years ago, no decent Christian would have believed it possible.”

  George turned and raised his eyebrows to indicate not merely surprise but disapproval. The colonel mistook it for interest and began proselytizing.

  “Any intelligent man knows why it’s happened—why the stability and moral fiber of this army and this nation are being undermined.” The colonel leaned forward. “It’s a conspiracy led by the worst elements of society.”

  “Oh?” George said above the whistling wind. “Which elements are those?”

  “Use your head, man. It’s obvious.” He ticked them off on gauntleted fingers. “The crackpot editors. The free-love philosophers and perverts from New England. The greenhorn immigrants flooding our shores, and the Jewish usurers who are already here. The radical politicians. The New York banking interests. They’re all in it.”

  “You mean the New York bankers consider Southern field hands to be potential customers? Fancy that.”

  The colonel was too intense to catch the straight-faced mockery. “They’ve plotted together to render the white man subservient to the nigger. Well, I tell you what the result will be. Blood in the streets. More blood than has ever been shed in this war, because white people will not permit themselves to be enslaved.”

  “Is that right?” George said, observing the crossing at the Jerusalem Plank Road coming up ahead. “I thought slavery was ending, not beginning. I do appreciate the enlightenment, sir.”

  “By God, you’re laughing at me. What’s your name, Major?”

  “Harriet Beecher Stowe,” George said, and dropped off the car.

  The snow was thickening. He tram
ped toward the camp of the Battalion of Engineers in low spirits.

  The camp rang with the noise of axes. The sudden cold weather had speeded the start of hutting. Three parallel streets had been staked out, and about a dozen timber cottages, no two alike, were already partly finished.

  A headquarters orderly said Billy could be found in a work shed at the edge of camp. Welcome heat bathed George as he stepped into the gloomy building where a group of men crouched around a fire burning in a shallow pit in the dirt floor. With a stick or tongs, each man held a tin can near the flames.

  Billy saw his brother, grinned and waved, then passed his tongs to the man beside him. As Billy hurried toward him, George thought, Lord, how thin and wan he is. Do I look that terrible? I suppose I do.

  The brothers embraced, a hug and several slaps of the back. Billy’s grin was huge. “How are you? I couldn’t sleep last night thinking you’d be here today.”

  “Should have paid a visit weeks ago, but the rail line takes a lot of damage, so it always needs repair. Tell me, what in God’s name is going on at that fire?”

  “We’re melting out the solder in the cans before we flatten them into sheets. From the sheets we build stoves. One of the boys in the battalion dreamed up the idea. Got to keep warm somehow. Looks like we’ll be in Petersburg all winter. But come along to the mess. We’ll find some coffee, and you can give me all the news.”

  The flurries had stopped, the clouds were breaking. Shafts of sun formed light pools on the bleak landscape. Seated at a grimy trestle table in a cold building made of unpainted lumber, George expressed shock at the sight of Billy’s scarred left hand.

  “A permanent souvenir of Libby,” Billy said with a curious smile. “I have several.”

  After he described some of his prison experiences, the escape, and his wounding, they fell to discussing other topics: the South’s virtually certain defeat, Sherman’s brilliant triumphs, the whereabouts of all the members of the family except Virgilia. Then came a chance mention of the barrels of chicken and turkey meat promised for the last Thursday in the month; last year, a presidential proclamation had declared Thanksgiving a national holiday.

  “I suppose we have a lot to be thankful for,” Billy said. “I could have died in prison. Probably would have except for Charles.”

  “Any idea where he is?”

  Billy shook his head. “Wade Hampton’s been in some hot engagements around here, though.”

  “I gather the cattle raid is still a cause of some embarrassment.”

  “Some? Try monumental.” In September, Texas Tom Rosser and four thousand riders had undertaken an adventure worthy of Stuart. Completely encircling the Union rear, they had rustled twenty-five hundred head of beef cattle from an abatis corral at Coggins Point, on the James, then driven the herd back to the hungry defenders of Petersburg—taking three hundred prisoners along at the same time.

  “Some found the whole business pretty funny,” Billy said. “Old Jeb’s ghost tweaking Grant’s nose—that kind of thing. It didn’t amuse me much. I can’t find humor in this war any more. Nor much enthusiasm for soldiering, either. If I ever get home, I’m not sure I want to come back to the army.”

  “The last time I saw Herman Haupt, he talked about the West. He predicts a boom in rail construction out there after the war. The idea of a transcontinental line will undoubtedly be revived. He said there would be great opportunities for capable engineers.”

  “Something to think about.” Billy nodded. “Provided we ever get Bob Lee to surrender.”

  “The siege surely does drag on,” George agreed. “It’s grim. They say the rebs are starving. Eating a handful of corn once a day, if that. I know they fired the first shot. I know they have to be whipped till they quit. But you’re right: knowing you’re part of something like that sours you after a while. I wanted duty on the lines. Helping run the military railroads is good, satisfying work. My black crews are fine. But I have days when I’m as low as I’ve ever been in my whole life.”

  Billy stared into his empty tin cup, held between hands that looked raw and red; the left one was the ugliest. “So do I. When that happens, I think about a conversation you and I had on the hill behind Belvedere. You talked about some things Mother once said to you. How she believed our family was like the laurel—”

  “Hardy. I remember. I hope it’s still true.”

  “Sometimes I wonder, George. So much has changed. Colored men in uniform. Railroads flying up and down the countryside carrying whole regiments. Dead men piled up like kindling—something no one ever expected. I wonder if any of the old things can survive. Including friendship with the Mains—excepting the one I married, of course.”

  George scratched the stubble on his chin. He had the same fears. Exhaustion sharpened them, exhaustion and depression brought on by the misjudgment and malingering that were as bad in the field as in Washington. By the endless counting of bodies. By the common agreement that the war would probably continue into next year.

  Still, he was the older brother, and for some damn reason it was ordained that older brothers were always supposed to be wise and strong. Though he felt his effort was probably transparent and ludicrous, he tried.

  “I ask myself the same question when I’m feeling down. My answer has to be yes, or I couldn’t keep going. The verities will outlast all the changes—and help winnow the worthless ones. That’s the meaning of the laurel, I think. Friendship—the love of our wives and our families and people we cherish, like the Mains—that’s more permanent than anything else. That endures and helps us do the same. Otherwise, I’m not sure we could. We’ll come through, don’t worry.”

  Billy lifted the tin cup, tilted it to drain the last of the cold coffee. In his brother’s eyes George detected a sad skepticism. Billy didn’t believe what he had just said.

  Well, he didn’t, either. He had seen too much of Washington and Petersburg. He had heard the fire bells in April, long ago.

  117

  THE SCRATCH OF HER pen and the pound of the sea—those were the only sounds in the cramped and wretched stateroom.

  Ashton bent over the account book on the tiny table she had pushed against the wall beneath the single flickering lamp. Wearing a loose silk shirt and stained trousers, Huntoon lay in the lower berth, watching her with resentment. During the entire first day after leaving Hamilton, Bermuda, he had puked into a bucket at least every half hour. The second day, he was able to reach the rail, but the earlier stench still tainted the cabin. One more grievance she bore against him.

  Ashton weighed nine pounds less than she had on the disastrous night Orry aborted the assassination plot and sent them flying out of Richmond in a closed carriage. She yearned for an opportunity to repay her brother for his ruinous meddling. But at the moment she had more important goals. Surviving. Reaching Montreal, then the Southwest. Restoring her beauty; the way she looked now was loathsome.

  Most compelling of all was the need to be with Powell again. Huntoon sharpened the need because of his constant snuffling and tossing in the berth.

  Cresting waves struck and shook the steamer. She was Canadian, the Royal Albert, and was presently running as close to the American coastline as she dared, being a neutral. It was the evening of election day in the North. More pertinently, as Ashton’s occasionally queasy stomach reminded her, it was November. November meant the onset of this kind of rough sea in the North Atlantic.

  From the bunk, Huntoon bleated, “What time is it?”

  Writing numbers, Ashton said, “Look at your watch.”

  He made a pathetic sound to tell her of the suffering induced by the effort. “Almost eleven. Won’t you put out the lamp?”

  “Not until I’m finished.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Reckoning our compound interest.” The Nassau bank in which, at her insistence, all the Water Witch profits had been deposited, wouldn’t know where to send quarterly reports until Powell established the new government. In Hamil
ton, Ashton had been able to cash a draft on the bank, just enough money for minimum traveling expenses. The rest remained safe in their account, in sterling. Sometimes she shuddered, remembering how close she had come to putting it all in a Charleston bank.

  Quickly, she toted up the figures and swung around, flourishing a little book at him. “Nearly a quarter of a million dollars, as closely as I can compute it. That’s something to compensate us for this misery.”

  Huntoon’s round spectacles misted; he was sweating. “Lamar may ask for some of that money.”

  “Oh, no.” She shut the book and tucked it in her bulging reticule. “He doesn’t get the loan of a penny until the new government is in place, and perhaps not even then. In this venture, he hazards the gold from his mine—we hazard ourselves.”

  “I’d sooner surrender that bank account than our lives,” he countered in what she considered a sniveling way. “But if you look at matters honestly, Powell has placed more than his gold at risk. I mean, he faces the same physical dangers we do—”

  “He should. It’s his scheme.”

  Ashton loved Powell, but she saw no contradiction of that in her reply to her husband. One plot had foundered; a second might also. Curiously, failure hadn’t embittered her lover, even though he had been forced to hide in that filthy attic for weeks, then flee down to Wilmington by himself after he returned to Richmond and found the farm in the hands of the provost’s men.

  At Ashton’s insistence, Huntoon left a sealed letter at one of Powell’s drinking haunts. Thus he learned more of what had happened and where the Huntoons were bound. From Wilmington, he had continued on to Nassau before rejoining them in Hamilton. Discovery, hasty flight, fear of pursuit—those had perversely strengthened his determination. It helped convince Ashton that although the possibility of failure was always present, Powell would succeed this time. He would bring the new nation into being.

  The need for it was more desperate than ever; that had become clear in the weeks since their flight from Richmond. Lee was stalemated, Sherman was driving to the sea, the old Confederacy was going down. In Nassau, Powell said, some Southerners had begged him to join rebel agents already in Toronto, headquarters for new schemes to throw the North into turmoil, foil Lincoln’s election and pave the way for peace negotiations. One plan Powell heard about involved Illinois Copperheads who were supposed to overwhelm Camp Douglas and free great numbers of Confederate prisoners. Another, even more witless in his estimation, called for burning every major hotel in New York City.