by John Jakes
With a bob of his head, he went out.
The dapple of shadow and light from moving clouds continued into the evening. Charles consumed two bowls of the thin beef soup and four pieces of coarse, delicious brown bread baked earlier. She ladled out a small portion of soup for herself but didn’t touch it. While he ate, she said little, resting her chin on the backs of her interlocked hands, her elbows on the table on either side of the cooling soup. As she studied his face, she tried to fathom the sad mystery of what was wrong with him. Occasionally she prodded with a brief question.
He said he was sure the war was lost. He spoke of the high rate of desertion and Lee’s failure to demonstrate faith in Wade Hampton by promoting him to commander of the cavalry. He mentioned actions whose names were unfamiliar and the escalating hostility.
“When Hunter was in the valley, he burned Governor Letcher’s home in Lexington. The Military Institute, too. In Silver Spring, right outside Washington, they say Jube Early looted homes and farms in retaliation. Now he’s loose in Pennsylvania—God knows what he’s doing there. When this whole business started, it reminded me of a South Carolina tournament: fair ladies, courageous horsemen, games. It’s turned into an abattoir, with butchers and cattle on both sides. Good soup,” he finished insincerely, pushing the bowl away. Do it now. Don’t prolong it.
“What I came to say, Gus—” he cleared his throat “—with things going so badly, I don’t know when I can get here again.”
Gus lifted her head, a swift, fierce movement, like a response to a slap. Bitterly, she said, “Next week or never, the choice is yours. It always has been. I—” There she stopped, shaking her head as if saying no to herself.
“Go ahead, finish.”
Her voice strengthened. “I hope you didn’t expect a flood of tears in response to your announcement. I’m not sure I want you here in your present frame of mind. It’s hardly new or profound to say that war is terrible. And you seem to forget men don’t carry the entire burden. Do you think it’s any easier to be a woman with a son or husband in the army? Do you think it’s easier to sit and watch grown men play soldierboy by tearing up a garden—all the food you have in the world—and ruining a farm with their hooliganism? I know the war’s done hard things to you. It’s in your eyes, what you say, everything you do. You seem to be filled with rage—”
He rammed the chair back and stood, cigar in his teeth. He had lit a new one after eating, having decided he would go when the cigar was smoked. He might be leaving sooner than that.
“Don’t bother to display your truculence,” Gus seethed. “I’ve had my fill. What gives you special dispensation to beat your breast longer and harder than any of the rest of us? I love you, idiot that I am. I’m sorry for you. But I won’t be treated like some dumb animal that’s misbehaved. I won’t be kicked, Charles. If you choose to come here again, let it be as the man I fell in love with. He’s the one I want.”
Moments ticked by. He drew the cigar from his mouth. “He died.”
She returned his stare. Softly, without wrath, she said, “I think you had better go.”
“I think so too. Thanks for the food. Take care of yourself.”
He walked out, mounted Sport, and rode away beneath the lowering clouds of night.
For half an hour, Gus did nothing. She sat at the kitchen table, her hands on her stomach, while grief beat at her. Sometime during this period, Washington knocked at the back door. She didn’t answer. He went away.
Darkness crept into the kitchen. When she finally stood, it was to light a lamp. She felt much as she had the night her husband died. She couldn’t believe it had happened to her.
If she had been more realistic about Charles—less smitten—she would have recognized that something like this could happen. There had been signs, strong ones, during the past year. A couplet from “An Essay on Man” cycled endlessly through her thoughts: Atoms or systems into ruin hurl’d, And now a bubble burst—
“And now a world.”
The whisper died away. With mental pushes and kicks, she forced herself to move through the dark house. Dusting this. Straightening that. Motion, work—anything to numb the pain. She lit two more lamps in the kitchen, heated water on the stove, pulled all her clean dishes from the shelves and washed each piece, dried them vigorously, and put them back.
Another knock. This time, Washington didn’t wait for an answer before stepping inside. “Miz Augusta, it’s near onto midnight. Too late for you to be up.”
“This floor’s filthy. I’m going to scrub it.”
Washington’s forehead furrowed; such behavior was incomprehensible. “Major Charles didn’t look so good—”
“He’s been quite ill. Dysentery.”
“He didn’t stay long.”
“No.”
“He comin’ back soon?”
She had to lie. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”
Still frowning, Washington chewed on his lower lip. “If you’re goin’ to wash the floor this time of night, you let me help you.”
“I want to do it by myself. I don’t feel sleepy.” She remembered her manners. “But thank you.”
The door closed, shutting out his troubled face.
She filled a pail and found her brush. She couldn’t believe how badly she hurt. His leaving was the direct cause, but the deepest guilt was hers. She had let down her defenses. Opened herself to love, whose other Janus face was the possibility of loss.
Would she have changed anything? Refused to love him? It took her no time at all to answer with an emphatic no. But, God above, it did hurt now.
Despite that, she still took pride in being a self-reliant woman. She had endured this damned misbegotten war, and she would continue to endure it. She would endure the pain, too, for as long as it lasted. She knew how long that would be. Till the hour she died.
No matter. She would endure everything because there was always, even amidst the worst, some reason for wanting and needing to survive. She knew her own reason well and only wished she had been able to tell him. But it would have been a cruel and self-serving use of the truth.
Gently, she rested a hand on her waist. Then, as the clock rang midnight, she got down on her knees and began to scrub.
115
THE NIGHT AFTER THE battle of the Crater, Billy wrote:
Sun., Jul. 31. Routine company inspection. All quiet on the siege lines following yesterday’s devastation.
Saturday, waking to reveille at 2 a.m., we breakfasted and marched in shirt sleeves to Ft. Meikel, a section of the works from which we witnessed the detonation o f8,000 lbs. of powder in the T-shaped mine shaft, approx. 600 ft. long, dug in complete secrecy by Lt. Col. Pleasants’s 48th Penn. Veteran Vol’s—chiefly coal miners, from whom came the idea. At first, I regret to say, it was rejected by Gen. Meade & our own chief of engineers, Maj. Duane. But opposition was overcome, and the task accomplished by men working day & night for a month. That the miners did not suffocate was due to a clever scheme which drew foul air from the tunnel by means of a fire & a secret chimney. Company A of our battalion assisted with part of the task, building the covered way protecting the mine entrance & the approach to same. The mine ended at a point 20 ft. beneath the rebel works along Peagram’s Salient. The charge went off with a monumental rocking of earth & lighting of the sky such as I have never before witnessed. The scheme was a total success until Gen. Burnside’s IX Corps, in line of battle in a nearby ravine, commenced its advance into the smoking crater.
For reasons not yet clear, the advance foundered, with men on the bottom & sides of the crater trapped there as more troops poured in. All were soon entangled—a great writhing human target for deadly rifle & artillery fire from the enemy. This took a huge toll & prepared the way for Gen. Mahone’s counterattack, which turned the brilliant effort into a defeat.
What I find singular, beyond the construction of the mine itself, is the courage exhibited by Gen. Ferrero’s colored troops. They were to have been sent in
first, but Grant feared he would be accused of treating negroes as cannon fodder if the attack failed, so he held them in reserve. When finally committed, they conducted themselves so valorously their praises are being sung by all.
During the battle, the battalion was in readiness for any sudden call—we took a tool wagon to our vantage point—but none was forthcoming, so we returned to our present encampment near the Jerusalem Plank Road, there to resume our routine duties.
Mine have now been expanded, voluntarily, to include campaigning among my fellow soldiers for Mr. Lincoln’s reelection. Some men will be enabled by state law to cast votes in the field—Penn. soldiers are among that lucky group—but others will be required to return to their native states. Whatever a man’s situation, all but the most phlegmatic are showing a lively, not to say occasionally violent, interest in the coming battle of ballots.
Our President faces a hard fight. Some scorn his shortcomings as a war leader and his policies regarding the colored race. I have listened and argued with avowed loyal Unionists who hope the Democrats nominate Gen. McC. in August because they find L. guilty of so many “crimes”—the draft; promoting growth of centralized federal power; arbitrary arrest & imprisonment of critics of the administration—& so on.
While many feel that way, I do not find the army as “McClellanized” as it was even one year ago. Grant squanders lives almost wantonly, yet there is a rising surety that he has at last fashioned a fighting force which will triumph; along with the expected wailing about the butcher’s bill, there is new pride within the Army of the Potomac. Most agree it is only a matter of time until we win. This works in Abe’s favor. I will campaign for him to the utmost.
The siege continues without much success. Geo. is now based at City Point in the RR Corps charged with maintaining our rail supply line, esp. the many trestles which span gullies, creeks, & other low places along the route. I want to see him but thus far have not; daily, it seems, there is a new task for the battalion. Since my arrival, I have led a surveying party near the reb. siege lines—we drew hot fire for 10 minutes on that occasion. I have commanded detachments which dug wells and put up shelters made of boughs for the mules which pull our wagons. I have twice taught large groups of colored infantry the techniques of gabion & fascine construction. They were eager to learn & did, quickly.
We have felled trees for new gun platforms, replaced gabions ruined by heavy rainstorms, built bombproofs, cut new embrasures in existing works, & generally added to the siege line. The line is essentially a series of separate redoubts, or forts, connected by rifle pits, each fort laid out so its guns may play not only upon the enemy but on adjoining forts, should they be attacked.
A great amount of the work is done in close proximity to the earthworks of the rebels, which calls for extreme care & frequent stealth. We often perform our tasks at night, in complete silence when that is possible. Every man knows that an improper move, a command uttered too loudly or any inadvertent noise can draw the artillery or sharpshooter fire which can end the war for him a considerable time before an official surrender. No wonder, then, that we are issued a daily ration of whiskey. Our job is hard & it is dangerous. I never hesitate to drink the whiskey. I have every hope of a reunion with my brother at City Point soon—& many reasons to do my utmost to live through each new day. Many reasons, but one supreme. You, my dearest Wife. How I do long to outlast the killing & hold you in my arms again.
Along with its changing colors, autumn brought better news to the Lehigh Valley. Sherman had taken Atlanta on the second of September. That and the successful exploits of Little Phil excited the entire North. In scornful reply to the pacifists campaigning for the election of McClellan, Republicans proudly called the Irish cavalry leader “Peace Commissioner Sheridan.”
Autumn also brought Scipio Brown to Belvedere for the last time. Gleeful as a boy, he pivoted in front of Brett to show off his light blue trousers with the broad yellow stripe and the dark blue jacket, without insignia—the means by which junior lieutenants were distinguished from senior ones.
“Lieutenant Brown, Second United States Colored Troops, Cavalry. I’m replacing an officer who was injured when the regiment skirmished at Spring Hill.”
“Oh, Scipio—it’s exactly what you wanted. You look simply grand.”
Constance and Madeline agreed. The three women had gathered in the parlor to welcome and honor Brown with sherry and little sugared cakes. Madeline, who thought the slender-waisted amber-colored man cut a handsome figure, asked him, “Where and when will you report?”
“City Point, next Monday. I hope there won’t be as much trouble as there was when I went to take my oath. Ran up against a gang of four white boys, two of them veterans. They didn’t care for the idea of colored men entering their army, and they tried to stop me.”
Perched on a chair like some long-legged water bird on a nest much too small, he showed them that infectious smile as he pushed outward with his palm. “But I cut a path.”
“We have men like that right here in Lehigh Station,” Brett said, noticing, as she never had before, that his palm was nearly as white as hers. Brown’s chair gave a sudden creak, so he rose—happily, because it allowed him to stand to his full height in the uniform he wore with obvious pride.
Constance asked, “Have you any other late news from the city?”
“They’re saying that with Mr. Lincoln’s assistance, Nevada Territory will become a state by the first of November. That will provide the last two votes needed to ratify the amendment.” It was not necessary for him to explain further; in Brown’s lexicon there was but one amendment, the thirteenth.
He bowed to the ladies. “The refreshments were delicious, but I must go up and say good-bye to my children. My train leaves at six.” He had arrived at nine that morning, after traveling all night.
“I’ll go with you,” Brett said immediately. Madeline flashed a glance at Constance, silently remarking on Brett’s eagerness and Brown’s pleased reaction. Constance smiled to say she saw the same things. Her smile seemed broader these days because her face was fuller; the slim woman George had married had disappeared inside a larger, rounder one. The effect was not unbecoming.
At the school, Mrs. Czorna cried, and the seventeen black waif hopped and danced around Scipio, admiring the magnificence of his uniform: every button bright, no speck or wrinkle anywhere. He told Mrs. Czorna and her husband that the Christian Commission in Washington would continue to gather strays and route them to Lehigh Station from the temporary shelter in the Northern Liberties.
“It will not be the same,” Mrs. Czorna wept. “Oh, never the same, you dear man.” She hid her tear-streaked face on her husband’s shoulder. She’s right, Brett thought with mingled sorrow and pride.
Scipio Brown bid the children good-bye one at a time, leaving each with a hug and kiss. Too quickly, Brett found herself accompanying him down the hill again. Hazard’s billowed its smoke into the October sky, dimming the autumn sun. Windblown laurel seethed on both sides of the path. Brown checked his pocket watch.
“Half past five already. I must hurry.”
On Belvedere’s veranda, she stood with one hand grasping a carved pillar—something she found necessary to steady herself. The western light blazed in her eyes, making it hard to see him. She feared the pitiless light and what it might reveal.
Brown cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to begin this good-bye. You have been such a great help to me—”
“Willingly. I don’t need thanks. I’ve loved every one of those children.”
“When you feel just as much love for an adult of their color you’ll have made the whole journey. But you’ve come a long way already. An incredible distance. You are—” there was an uncharacteristic hesitation “—you’re a wonderful woman. I can understand why your husband is proud.”
His black silhouette loomed against the softly lit mountains across the river. Without conscious thought, Brett reached out to touch him. “Yo
u must take good care of yourself. Write to us—”
He stepped away from the hand on his sleeve. Only then did Brett realize what she had done.
“Of course I will, as time permits.” He sounded stiff and punctilious suddenly. “I must go, or I’ll miss the train.”
He untied the hired horse, mounted gracefully, and cantered down the road toward where it curved between the nearest houses. Light from the west glared above their roof lines; everything below was shadow. She lost the mounted figure in that mass of dark blue and stood with a hand shielding her eyes, trying to find it, for several minutes.
Belatedly, she understood why she had touched him. She had been overcome with emotion: intense sorrow, affection—most stunningly of all, intense attraction. Although she couldn’t quite believe it, neither could she deny her memory. For the tiniest moment, lonely and inwardly empty because of Billy’s long absence, she had been linked by longing to the tall soldier making his farewell.
And it had not made a whit of difference in that moment that Scipio Brown was a Negro.
By now the emotion had passed. The recollection never would. She had been unfaithful to Billy, and though the infidelity had been silent and brief, her sense of morality generated shame. But it had nothing to do with Brown’s color. He was worthy of any woman’s love.
Down by the canal, a whistle blew its long, lonely plaint. His train. She wiped tears from her eyes, remembering something he said.
When you feel just as much love for an adult of their color, you’ll have made the whole journey.
“Oh,” she whispered, and turned and ran into the house. “Madeline? Madeline!” She dashed from room to room till she found her, seated with a book of poems. As Madeline stood up, Brett flung her arms around her, starting to cry.
“Here, what’s all this?” Madeline began, her smile tentative, wary.
“Madeline, I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
“Forgive you for what? You’ve done nothing wrong.”