by Lynn Austin
“ ‘Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus,’ ” she read. “ ‘Who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God: But made himself of no reputation, and took upon him the form of a servant. . . .’ ”
“A servant,” I repeated. “That’s what Eli was trying to tell me last summer when we nursed all those wounded soldiers. God wants us to be His servants.”
Tessie shook her head as if she couldn’t believe the words either. “Eli always telling us colored folk that Massa Jesus understand us, that He a servant, too. But I ain’t believing it until I read this.”
“You and the others have an advantage over me in this area,” I said, returning to my knitting. “You already know how to be good servants, how to obey your master. No wonder Eli understands Jesus so much better than I do.”
Tessie turned back to the Bible and read, “ ‘He humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross. . . .’ ” I stopped her again so I could ponder that thought. Would I be willing to obey God, even in the face of death?
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs and Gilbert shouting, “Missy Caroline! Missy Caroline! Come quick! Come see who’s here!”
When I opened my bedroom door, I couldn’t believe the look of joy on Gilbert’s face. “Come see!” he repeated, and he bounded down the stairs again, ahead of me. When I reached the landing, I saw the front door flung wide open and my father standing in the foyer with his satchel at his feet. I ran downstairs to embrace him.
“Daddy! I can’t believe you’re finally home!”
“I can hardly believe it myself, Sugar. I had quite a time getting here, let me tell you.”
“Thank God you’re safe.”
When Daddy finally released me, Gilbert was still grinning. As he took Daddy’s hat and overcoat from him, the other servants began gathering shyly in the foyer to have a look at Daddy, as if they’d forgotten what he looked like.
“Welcome home, Massa Fletcher,” Tessie said softly, and Daddy smiled.
“Here you are home again,” Esther moaned, “and ain’t a bite of meat to eat in this whole house. I’m sorry, Massa Fletcher, but we ain’t had nothing but fish for days and days. Beef you buy in the market cost a fortune, and even then it’s about as tender as Eli’s old shoe.”
Daddy chuckled. “Fish will be just fine, Esther. In fact, Eli’s shoes would probably taste fine, too, if you cooked them. Ah, it’s good to be home!”
The servants went all out for Daddy, setting the dining room table for lunch, even though it was just the two of us, and uncorking a bottle of wine from the cellar. “Ain’t too many bottles left,” Gilbert explained, “since all them wounded soldiers Missy took in needed it so bad. But this here is a celebration.”
Esther set a bowl of potatoes in front of Daddy. “We eating a lot of potatoes, these days. Ain’t no butter to put on them neither, so I had to fix them with vinegar and bacon.”
“They smell wonderful,” he said.
“Don’t your daddy look good?” Tessie whispered as she set the platter of fish in front of me. “Don’t he, though? All that ocean sailing and salty air must agree with him.”
Eli came to stand in the dining room doorway, hat in hand, to welcome Daddy home and to explain to him why his stables housed only one little mare. “You made a good choice,” Daddy told him. “I would have done the same thing if I had been home.”
When we all finished telling Daddy our stories and explaining what had gone on in his absence, he leaned back in his chair and said, “You’ve had quite a time of it here while I was gone, haven’t you? But you’ve all done very well. My thanks to you.”
“I’m so glad you’re home,” I said. “Now you can make the hard decisions from now on.”
He reached for my hand, frowning. “Caroline, I can’t stay. I’m leaving again in a few days.” I stared at him, unable to speak. “I came back to apply for a government commission as a privateer.”
“Daddy! That’s the same thing as being a pirate.”
He laughed. “I suppose Mr. Lincoln and his friends might see it that way, but I consider myself part of the Confederate Navy. Our privateers have already made a big impact on the war effort, raiding Northern ships. And, of course, any goods my ships manage to seize will help the South, too.”
What my father planned was much worse than running the blockade. Attacking Union merchant ships on the high seas was considered piracy, and captured privateers faced execution. “Please don’t do this,” I begged. “It’s too dangerous. If you’re caught they’ll kill you.”
“Then I guess I’d better not get caught.” He smiled, trying to make light of it, but when he saw my expression he sobered. “Caroline, don’t make me feel any worse than I already do for leaving you. I would gladly heed your wishes if this were peacetime. But we’re at war, and every man—every woman, for that matter—has to do what he feels called upon to do. For Charles and Jonathan, that meant going off to fight. For me . . . this is something I really feel I have to do.”
I nodded and pretended to understand. Charles, Jonathan, and now Daddy were all willing to risk death for the Southern cause— but I still didn’t see how it was worth dying for.
“Besides,” Daddy continued, “President Davis had a showdown with Lincoln last November over his treatment of captured privateers. Davis threatened to execute a captured Federal officer for every privateer Lincoln executed. Lincoln finally backed down. Privateers are treated like any other prisoners of war now.”
“That’s a very small comfort, Daddy.”
“I know. But you can be proud that your father is about to become part of the Confederate Navy, Sugar. Did you read in the papers how we took on the Union fleet last week—and won?”
I had read about it, but Daddy was so excited about our victory at Hampton Roads that I let him retell the story of how the Confederate ironclad Virginia sank the Union’s most powerful warship, the Cumberland, then set the Congress on fire and drove the Minnesota aground. When the Union ironclad Monitor arrived the next day, the Virginia battled her for four and a half hours before the duel ended in a draw.
“Our sewing society has been making sandbags all week,” I said. “We’re sending them to General Magruder to fortify Yorktown against the Federal fleet.”
Daddy raised his fist and cheered. “Bravo! And bravo for Magruder. He has the Feds fooled into thinking he has a lot more men at Yorktown than he actually does. If the enemy fleet knew we only have about eight thousand men there, they would have sent landing parties and taken the city a long time ago.”
I thought about his words as Esther brought in a pecan pie for dessert—Daddy’s favorite. If the enemy knew how weak we were, maybe they could attack quickly and end the war before there was any more bloodshed. More than anything else, I wanted the war to end before the men I loved had to die.
“Now, this ain’t gonna taste near as good as usual, Massa Fletcher,” Esther warned as she set the pie in front of Daddy. “Seeing as I had to make it without real sugar. Ain’t no sugar anywhere in Richmond, just sorghum.”
“When I come back, Esther, I promise I’ll bring you a whole boatload of sugar.”
“You going away again, Massa Fletcher?”
“Yes, I can only stay for a couple of days.”
“Well, you make sure you bring yourself back safe, you hear? And don’t be worrying about bringing me no sugar.”
Daddy waited until Esther left the dining room again before turning to me, his expression serious. “The Federals are coming, Caroline, make no mistake about it. McClellan’s army is going to come after Richmond. The northern approach didn’t work for McDowell last summer, so they’re going to try moving up the Peninsula this time, between the James and York Rivers. Word has it that more than one hundred thousand soldiers are on their way to Fortress Monroe by ship—the largest army ever assembled on American shores.”
My stomac
h rolled over at the thought of such a huge army. “How many men do we have?”
“Not nearly that many. But Joe Johnston’s troops are going to be heading down to the Peninsula pretty soon to help Magruder.”
“That means . . . Charles and Jonathan?”
“Right. Our troops held their own against the Feds at Manassas last year, and they’ll do it again if they have to. You’ll be safe here in Richmond, I promise.” I would think about his promise many times in the months ahead.
Daddy stayed less than a week. The government moved swiftly to commission him as a privateer. Then, as abruptly as he had arrived, Daddy was gone.
On a mild spring day, the first Sunday in April, the Army of the Potomac passed through Richmond on their way to the Peninsula. We had been expecting them for days and preparing parcels of food for their arrival, but the news first reached us at noon, at the close of our church service.
“Trainloads of General Longstreet’s men have been arriving from Fredericksburg all morning,” a city official told us as we lingered on the portico outside St. Paul’s. “The poor souls have traveled nearly twenty-four hours without food. They’re half-starved.”
“Where are they now?” Mr. St. John asked. “Do you know if the Richmond Blues are among them? My son, Charles?”
“All I know is that they’re marching through town to Rocketts Wharf. They’re heading down to the Peninsula from there by steamboat.”
The calm of Sunday morning turned into chaos as people rushed around in all directions, searching for their loved ones, desperate to get parcels of food to them. I had come to church in my own buggy that morning, so I left the St. Johns to their own plans and hurried off to find Gilbert.
“Take me to Rocketts Wharf,” I told him. “Hurry! If Charles hasn’t arrived yet, we can wait for him down at the wharf.” I was afraid that I would be too late, that I’d already missed him.
Gilbert drove as if our lives depended on it, maneuvering the little buggy through back lanes and narrow alleys to avoid the worst of the traffic and the columns of men who were tramping through the streets. Bands played and women tossed spring flowers in greeting, and while it was reassuring to see so many thousands of soldiers, I couldn’t help remembering that a year had passed since we’d celebrated the first shots at Fort Sumter. The war, which many thought would be over in thirty days, had dragged on for a year with still no end in sight.
The wharf was a sea of milling, gray-clad men. If Charles was among them, I didn’t know how I would ever find him. I only knew that I had to try. I climbed down from the buggy without waiting for Gilbert to help me.
“Drive home and fetch the food I packed,” I told him. “And bring Tessie back with you so she has a chance to see Josiah.”
Gilbert surveyed the vast host of soldiers and shook his head. “Ain’t right to leave you here all alone, Missy. All these men . . .”
“I’ll be fine. Just hurry, Gilbert.”
I started running toward the dock before he could stop me, pushing through the swarming men, scanning their faces, calling Charles’ name, asking for his company. Then above the rumble of voices I heard him calling.
“Caroline! Caroline, over here!” I caught a brief glimpse of Josiah and of Jonathan waving to me. Then I spotted Charles plowing a path through the crowd as he hurried toward me. I’m not sure I would have recognized him if he hadn’t been calling my name.
His body looked leaner and more muscular than I remembered, his dark hair overgrown and badly in need of a barber. His beard, always so neatly trimmed, was long and scruffy. But his beautiful eyes were the same, his face as handsome as I’d remembered, even with windburned cheeks and a new network of lines etching the corners of his eyes.
We both halted when we were a few feet apart and drank in the sight of each other from head to toe. The gray uniform coat he’d had tailor-made a year ago was wrinkled and worn at the cuffs. A rip in his right sleeve had been crudely patched. His trousers were baggy-kneed, the hems caked with dried mud. The soles of his scuffed boots testified to miles of hard marching.
Charles gazed back at me, his eyes as soft as blue flannel. “You’re even more beautiful than your picture,” he said. “Your letters keep me going, Caroline. I read them over and over.” He slid his knapsack with his blanket roll off his shoulders as he talked and leaned his rifle against it. Water sloshed in his canteen as he lifted the strap over his head to remove it. Then he opened his arms to me.
“Let me hold you, Caroline.” The gray wool of his jacket felt rough against my cheek. It smelled of woodsmoke and gunpowder and sweat. “I want to memorize what it feels like to have you in my arms,” he murmured, “and the scent of your hair, your skin.”
We might have been the only two people on the wharf as Charles held my face in his hands and kissed my forehead, my temples, my neck. I felt the strength in his arms as he held me tightly to himself, the warm pressure of his body against mine. Neither of us wanted to let go. I listened to his heartbeat and the sound of his breathing, remembering the delicate thread of life that held both of us to this earth. I had watched that thread break so many times now—watched helplessly as a heart ceased to beat or a last breath was drawn—and I willed life to fill Charles, to remain in him.
“When I left home,” he said, “I didn’t think it was possible to love you any more than I already did . . . but I do.”
“I love you so much!” I told him, but I don’t know if he heard me as the blast of a steam whistle drowned out my words.
“That’s my ship,” he said.
“Charles, don’t go!”
He clutched me tighter still. “Listen now. God willing, I’ll be back to hold you again soon.” He bent down, and his lips briefly kissed mine. It was all we dared do in such a public place. I sensed his reluctance as he finally released me from his arms.
“Where are they sending you?” I asked as he retrieved his gun and slung his knapsack over his shoulder.
“Yorktown.”
My stomach rolled like a wave at his words. “One hundred thousand enemy soldiers.”
“Don’t go . . .” I whispered.
As the call came to begin boarding the ship, Sally and her carriage driver arrived with food. She filled Charles’ arms with sacks and parcels, so he wasn’t able to hold me or squeeze my hand a final time. I reached out once more to touch his cheek, his hair. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Caroline.” He walked backward as far as he could, unwilling to lose sight of me, then ran up the ramp and dropped his packages so he could crowd near the ship’s rail and wave.
The soldiers gave the Rebel yell as the boat steamed from the dock, and the sound of it—bold and defiant—shivered through me. I waved until my arms ached and Charles’ boat finally disappeared from sight. Then, as I turned away to wipe my tears, I saw Tessie hurrying toward the dock, searching for Josiah. Too late.
Charles remained in besieged Yorktown, sixty miles away, for nearly a month while McClellan’s massive army assembled nearby. When the report came that the Federals were moving their heavy guns into place to fire on Yorktown, I spent every spare moment in prayer for Charles’ safety.
Such dreadful news filled the newspapers throughout the month of April that Tessie begged me not to read it anymore. “It just making you upset, honey,” she insisted. “Where’s the good in knowing what’s happening in all them places if you can’t change anything? I wish I never learn to read about such terrible things.”
We read about the battle in Shiloh, Tennessee, and the incomprehensible loss of eleven thousand soldiers. Four days later, Fort Pulaski surrendered, leaving the Savannah harbor undefended. A week later, Fort Macon in Beaufort, North Carolina, was lost. Then, at the end of the month, came the staggering loss of New Orleans and the lower Mississippi River.
“I want this awful war to end, Tessie.” Dear God, when will it end?
I had little time to worry about those faraway places as the enemy pressed closer and closer
to Richmond. While McClellan’s army prepared to move up the Peninsula, two other Union forces inched closer to Richmond, one moving south along the Rappahannock River, the other approaching in the Shenandoah Valley. During the first week of May, rumors spread throughout the city that our troops had evacuated Yorktown and had moved to defend the entrenchments around Richmond. I didn’t learn about the fierce fighting that had taken place in Williamsburg, or the danger Charles had been in, until I received his letter a few days after the battle.
We knew the Federal guns were in place, ready to bombard Yorktown, and that it was useless to stay and defend the city any longer.On the night we evacuated, our batteries rained fire on the enemy throughout the night to cover our retreat. My company was part of the rear guard and among the last to leave. The next day when the Federals discovered that we were gone, they pursued us, catching up with us at Williamsburg and attacking my division.
We battled them from sunrise until sundown—outnumbered and outgunned—but we drove them back. When the enemy finally withdrew, we waited until dark, then marched all night toward Richmond.I have never been so weary in all my life, nor have I ever fought so hard and marched so long without food. You can see by my shaky handwriting that I am still weak with exhaustion. But the thought of what we are fighting for keeps me going—the knowledge of the freedoms we stand to lose . . .
Charles’ letters were precious to me, but this time his words made me so angry that I crumpled up his letter and threw it across the bedroom. Then I pulled out a sheet of stationery and composed an angry letter to him in return.
I told him how furious I was with him for risking his life for such a hopeless cause. The South was wrong, the “freedom” he was fighting for—the “freedom” to hold people as slaves—was a moral outrage. Couldn’t he see the terrible devastation he was bringing upon our land, the tragic waste of life? I told him to read his Bible, the book of Exodus, and see how Pharaoh had hardened his heart against freeing his slaves until even his own officials begged him to let them go, saying, “Do you not yet realize that Egypt is ruined?” The South was slowly being ruined, and I was so afraid that Charles would die, just as all of Egypt’s firstborn sons had died. I didn’t want to go on living without Charles.