Al gave a gasp of surprise and dismay. “But— I thought you cared for me.”
“I do, oh God, Alice, I do. But I can’t— I can’t marry you.” He faltered, searched desperately for some sort of explanation. “There’s someone— Someone in New York. We quarreled. It’s why I left, why I asked Leslie to assign me here. I thought I could forget, but—”
“Oh!” She gasped again, sharply, as if she’d been slapped. “You ought to’ve told me before this!”
“I know. I’m— I’m sorry, Alice.” He felt her start to shake with sobs beside him, put his arm tentatively around her shoulders. She jerked away, sliding out of reach to the far side of the tent. David lay numbly, listening helplessly as she cried in stifled, choking spasms.
An endless time seemed to pass till her sobs diminished. She spoke, suddenly, her voice still thick with tears. “If you’re still— still so in love after all these months, David, then I reckon you ought to go back to her.”
Chapter 22 — 1864
“I RECKON YOU OUGHT TO GO BACK TO HER.”
If he could just get Al’s words out of his mind! Her tear-choked advice taunted him, followed him to the front where he’d fled at daybreak, mumbling his apologies over and over, ashamed to look her in the eyes, eyes still red with crying over him.
She wouldn’t waste tears on him if she knew what he really was. Knew the truth of his perverted longing. Knew—
“I see two perverts here if that’s what you choose to call us!” David closed his eyes against the mocking image as Zach grabbed him and pulled him toward the mirror, clamped his fists over his ears, useless defenses against Zach’s damning accusation. Zach shook him fiercely.
“You tryin’ to get killed!” David surfaced to awareness of the trench where he’d been sitting since noon. The shouting infantryman yanked him from his seat on the fire-step, jerked him toward the bombproof. The whistling fuse of a shell filled the air. David fell forward into the opening of the dugout, landed heavily on top of his rescuer. The noise of the explosion surrounded them; the ground rocked as if hit by an earthquake.
There was a second of profound hush. Then men crept cautiously to the opening of the bombproof, surveyed the sky, joking in tones loud with relief. “Johnny can’t hit the side of a barn tonight!” a young voice sang out.
The soldier who’d grabbed David stared at him angrily. “Lissen, you wanna cover the front, watch out for yourself! You can’t expect people to look out for you! Now you see a shell veer off to the side it ain’t gonna hit you, but you gotta watch those bastards when they climb up in the sky like that.”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, thanks,” David mumbled.
“Mister, I was you I’d get the hell out of here. The Rebs’re mad as hornets ‘bout Burnside gettin’ ready to throw those damn niggers against them. They ain’t been a lull in their firin’ long enough to take a good shit since Johnny learned ‘bout those darkies.”
David nodded. He stepped from the shelter, surveyed the debris left by the mortar. If that fellow hadn’t grabbed me I could’ve been dead by now. The thought left him oddly untouched. Hell, it might’ve been for the best.
He stared at the sandbagged walls, the infantrymen scrambling to repair the damage. A portion of the wall by the nearest firing slit had crumbled; sandbags and wood chunks lay strewn on the firing-step. Tall as I am, all I’d have to do is step up on one of those bags; it’d all be ended in a few seconds. David took a tentative step forward.
“Get outta the way, will ya!” David started, gave a shudder at what he’d just contemplated. Hell, suicide was a sin too.
The mare lifted her head and nuzzled him as he stumbled up to her. David flung an arm around her neck, trembling with fear and relief. Christ, he told himself, get a grip on yourself. Keep your mind on your job, for God’s sake.
Though there’d be precious little to cover till the mine explosion was set off. David looked up at the darkening sky. He’d best find a spot to unroll his blanket for the night. He couldn’t face Al, share a tent with her again. He mounted, searched desultorily for a place to camp. The singing of the Negro troops swelled, a little ways off. Well, Leslie might be interested in a sketch or two of them.
The colored soldiers looked at him with only slightly diminished wariness, but made room for him without breaking off their song. David sank down next to the light-skinned boy who’d spotted him the night before, tried to fix his attention on the music. The mournful spirituals had given way to a robust, defiant tune. “No more peck of corn for me, no more, no more, No more peck of corn for me, Many thousand gone. No more driver’s lash for me, Many thousand gone.” The men’s voices swelled on the refrain as if they hoped their words would carry to the Reb lines. David turned to the boy as the song ended. “Did you all make that up?”
“Reckon someone must of.” The boy shrugged. “Ain’t none of us start it though.” He gave David a sudden grin. “We made us a new song though, massa. Been singin’ it ‘bout every night since we picked to head the attack. Thass it Sergeant Jackson lining out now.”
David listened. The sergeant trumpeted, “We looks like men amarching on,” his deep bass voice evoking the sound of a thousand marching footsteps. “We looks like men of war,” the men responded in martial rhythm. The simple tune rose to a crescendo; the sergeant repeating his line, the men responding over and over, with unflagging enthusiasm.
“Thass it, suh,” the boy said eagerly. “Men of war. Thass what we be now, massa.”
Like Zach predicted, David thought. Christ. Stop thinking about— He forced his thoughts back to the circle of dark soldiers, the grinning boy next to him.
“Why do you keep calling me that, then?” he asked him.
“What you mean, suh?”
“You all ran off from slavery, didn’t you? Why do you keep saying master?”
The boy frowned in thought. “Don’ know, suh. Reckon we just be useta callin’ white mens that. Don’ mean we gonna let no man be massa over us no more,” he added solemnly, his eyes fixed on David. “What you wanna be called? What you name, suh?”
David smiled. “It’s Carter. David Carter.”
“Yassuh, Mista Carter. I’m Amos. Amos Johnson, that be my last name.”
“And did you run off to join the army?” David asked him.
“Yassuh, Mista Carter. Them Union soldiers come marching by our plantation and all our peoples what wasn’t too old or crippled up to walk just follow ‘long after them.”
“Then your family all left with you?”
“No suh. My grandma be too cripple with rheumatiz, she still back on the plantation. I sho hated to leave her, cause she raised me from a lap baby after my mama sold away, but granny tell me take the chance while I got it.”
“Oh. Is that all the family you have? How about your father? Was he sold away too?”
Amos colored. “Don’ know nothin’ ‘bout him,” he mumbled sullenly.
David stared at him, surprised at his sudden change of tone, then flushed himself. Hell, he’d like as not been fathered by his owner. He certainly looked it, lighter even than Mike, more of a high yellow. No doubt it was nothing he was proud of. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Yassuh,” Amos said, looking startled in turn at David’s apology. He smiled. “Granny’s all the family I got left. After the war be over, I aims to go back for her, carry her up North where I kin take care of her. I ain’t never gonna live on no plantation again. My ol’ massa, he set me to learnin’ carpentry, and I aim to find me work in some big city, big as Charleston maybe, and learn me how to build fine houses like those I seen there once.”
David smiled, enjoying the boy’s enthusiasm. He was a bit like Mike had been at that age, maybe fifteen or so, he mused. Mike had had that same quick smile, displayed that same eagerness to tackle life despite the roadblocks in his path, on the few occasions he’d confided his dreams to David. Well, it ought to be possible for this boy to build some kind of future if he was a s
killed carpenter. Assuming, that was, he lived through the war at all.
“Course first we gotta lick the Rebs ‘fore any of that come to pass,” Amos said, as if he’d read David’s mind.
“I’m afraid so,” David said, his dark mood returning. Get a grip on yourself, he warned himself again. He’d best concentrate on finding a place to sleep and some better fodder for his poor mare than the sparse grasses she’d found in these pine woods.
He ought to be able to purchase a little forage from one of the commissioned officers or his servant. He rode through the encampment till he found the officers’ tents, made arrangements for the mare and accepted an offer to share in the officers’ mess from a sober-faced young lieutenant.
The lieutenant, Christopher Pennell, served as aide to Colonel Henry Thomas, one of the two brigade commanders in the Army of the Potomac’s only colored division—the Fourth Division of Burnside’s Ninth Corps, under the command of Brigadier-General Edward Ferrero. David sat listening as the officers’ talk ranged from the unending heat spell to the next day’s drill. Colonel Thomas turned to David. “I hear you’ve been observing our infantrymen. Come to see for yourself, have you, if darkies can be turned into soldiers?”
“Well, not exactly—”
“Oh, they make good soldiers all right.” Thomas pushed away from the table and brushed a stray crumb from his beard. “Drill from morning to night without complaint. Desertion’s just about unheard of.”
David nodded. “I’ve heard talk among the other troops though, sir. They’re afraid your men won’t stand up to their former owners in battle.”
“Oh, they’ll fight. Have you heard that martial air they’ve composed? They’ve sung it to the virtual exclusion of their whole repertoire of hymns since they learned we’re to spearhead the assault.”
“If I might be permitted to add a word, Colonel.” Lieutenant Pennell turned to David, his face flushed with fervor. “I’m a Massachusetts man, Mr. Carter. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the record of the 54th Massachusetts, the regiment of free colored volunteers, but—”
“Yes, I know,” David said. “I mean, I know about their attack on Fort Wagner.”
“Then, you know what colored troops are capable of,” Thomas said easily. “And since the atrocity at Fort Pillow, our men have redoubled their determination.”
“You’re familiar with Fort Pillow?” Pennell demanded.
“I’m afraid so,” David said.
“An atrocity,” Pennell said, as if David hadn’t spoken. “Sheer butchery on the part of the Rebs. Over three hundred men slaughtered in the act of surrender, for the offense of being of sable hue. Nathan Bedford Forrest bragged that the water of the Mississippi was dyed with the blood of the slaughtered.”
“I know,” David said. “I read the complete account when it was published in April.” It must’ve been going on right while I was sitting and talking with Mike. I remember he didn’t write a word about anything else his next letter, not even Dad’s health. No wonder, with Peter in the hands of the Rebs— “It was a terrible thing. But wouldn’t it serve to make the colored troops more fearful of the Rebs?”
“To the contrary,” Pennell answered. “The response of our sable troops has been to fight with renewed ardor. With ‘Remember Fort Pillow’ as their battle cry.”
David nodded uncertainly. “I just meant—” He paused, trying to marshal his thoughts, wondering why in hell he was bothering to argue the question with these officers. He knew the answer to that though.
Anything was better than being alone with his memories.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The continuing bleakness of David’s mood went unnoticed as work on the mine shaft was completed, just shy of a month from its beginning. Christopher Pennell, who’d offered David sleeping space in his tent, spent long minutes on his knees each night, praying for the strength not to falter in his mission; Colonel Thomas’ easygoing manner grew edgier with each day that passed without orders for an assault.
The Confederates—rumors flew—had learned of the Union mine and were sinking shafts of their own in an effort to discover its location; Hancock’s corps made a diversionary feint against Richmond, while Colonel Pleasants’ miners lugged eight thousand pounds of powder down the long tunnel.
The colored troops awaited the assault with nothing but patient, unwavering faith, so far as David could see, a patience that turned to joyous anticipation as orders were given to be ready to attack at half-past three in the morning of July 30, immediately following the explosion of the mine. The infantrymen were tense with sleepless excitement as they lay on their arms the night before, just behind the covered way leading to the shaft.
Christopher Pennell clasped his hands around his knees, eager as any man in his command as he awaited Colonel Thomas’ return with Burnside’s final orders to the brigade. “We’re ready,” Pennell told David. “Men and officers both. With God’s help we’ll prove to the world what our sable brethren are capable of.” David winced at the echo of Zach’s words. He forced himself to listen to the young lieutenant review Burnside’s plan of attack, as much for his own benefit as David’s. If nothing else, David told himself, he’d managed to position himself well to capture the start of the assault for Leslie.
Pennell broke off his explanation of how the attacking troops would sweep to the right and left of the crater formed by the explosion, driving the Rebs from their trenches and lessening the danger of flank attacks. David followed his gaze. Colonel Thomas strode toward them, his face a grim mask, and informed his regimental commanders that Meade and Grant had overridden Burnside’s orders: The plan of attack had been changed. A white division would lead in place of the colored. David approached Thomas for further information on the last minute change. “I’ve unburdened myself of all the knowledge I have,” Thomas snapped. “All I can add is that I fear the morrow is most apt to bring disaster.”
He’d best look elsewhere for more information. David worked his way toward the breastworks nearest the Confederate lines, finally stumbling on a hill overlooking the field where most of the contingent of newsmen waited the explosion in murmuring, anxious groups. David joined them, nodded to Al with painful stiffness and found himself a spot well away from her.
Alf Waud gave him a broad grin. “We missed you the past couple of weeks, old chap. You intending to steal a march on the rest of us, moving down to the front?”
Christ, if he only knew— David managed a strained smile. “I’m afraid I’ve no more idea than you what’s going on.”
“Between you, me and the gatepost,” Waud said, “Meade’s interested in covering his arse if things go wrong. He doesn’t want to be accused of using the darkies for cannon fodder, got Grant to back him up. I daresay Burnside was bloody well miffed. He didn’t choose a new division commander to lead the assault, let his generals draw straws for the honor. Ledlie drew the short one,” he added parenthetically.
Waud pulled his watch from his pocket. He lit a match, shielding its flame from view, and peered at his timepiece. “Three-twenty,” he announced. “Ten minutes to go.”
Conversations died. A silent tension stretched through the thousands of massed troops, strained near the breaking point as the moment came and went without sight or sound of the promised explosion.
Four o’clock came. Anxiety heightened. Daylight approached. The scheme was a failure, men whispered in agonized disappointment. The sight of the massed divisions, clearly visible from the Reb lines once day arrived, would be a dead giveaway of the Union purpose.
Two Herald reporters who’d made their way to the mouth of the shaft returned with news: the rope fuse had gone out at a splice somewhere along its ninety-foot length; two of Pleasants’ miners had volunteered to enter the tunnel to relight the match. David breathed his admiration of the men’s daring. Four-fifteen passed. Four-thirty.
With a suddenness that startled even the expectant onlookers, the ground heaved. The earth along the Reb lines
erupted, spewing out a massive cloud of flame-shot smoke, dirt, sandbags, guns and the mangled bodies of men, rising on a pole of fire as if the flames of hell had burst forth into the living world. The cloud spread outward like a swollen, rotting mushroom. Rocks, timbers, severed limbs and clay hung suspended an instant, the space of an indrawn breath, then almost slowly fell back to earth. The rumble of the explosion was drowned out by the roar of cannon, thundering from the line of Union artillery like the war cry of a thousand vengeful devils.
Chapter 23 — 1864
DEBRIS RAINED BACK TO EARTH, chunks of clay falling as far as the lead troops of Ledlie’s division. The first two Union lines scattered in panic. Through the cloud of settling dirt and smoke David made out the raw wound of the bomb crater. He stared through his field glasses, transfixed by the destruction.
“Mind if I take a look through those?” David jumped at Al’s approach, handed her the glasses with a wordless nod, stood in awkward silence as she raised them to her eyes. Al lowered the glasses and turned to David. “Aren’t you even gonna say howdy? Seems to me by rights I’m the one who oughta be mad.”
“Oh God, Al, I’m not mad at you! It was all my fault. I just—”
“Never mind, David. This is the hardly the time to stand around jawing about it anyways.” She focused the glasses on the crater, peered through them, then handed them back with a look of disappointment. “You can’t hardly see what it’s like, even with these glasses of yours. A couple of the Herald reporters are heading over to have a better look at it. I reckon the best thing to do is join them.”
Shock jerked him from his silent embarrassment. “For God’s sake, Al, have you gone crazy? It’s bad enough you’re here at all. At least have the sense to stay behind our lines!”
“I don’t reckon you’ve any business telling me what to do! Anyways, it’s not so crazy. It’s gonna take a while for the Rebs to recover. It won’t be dangerous to go out for a quick look.”
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