by John Jakes
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.
&
nbsp; “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. “You 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.”
“I have. Yes, I have. Forgive me.”
The crying continued, and Madeline patted the younger woman to comfort her. At first she felt awkward, then less so. She held her kinswoman close for some length of time, knowing Brett needed absolution, even if she didn’t know exactly why.
116
SHELLING HAD PARTIALLY DESTROYED the redoubt, forcing the Eleventh Massachusetts Battery to abandon it. For the second moonless night in a row, Billy led a repair and revetting party to the site, working at frantic speed so the redoubt could again be occupied.
It was October, hot for so late in the year. Billy worked without a shirt, his braces hanging down over the hips of sweat-soaked trousers. The wound in his calf had healed cleanly and no longer impaired movement. The bullet’s point of entry sometimes ached late in the night, but that was the worst of it.
Billy’s laborers were the men of a colored infantry platoon, the same kind of work force he had supervised frequently in the past weeks. The platoon lieutenant and a corporal stationed themselves on a restored section of the parapet to keep watch, a customary procedure.
Not that much was visible. Billy could barely discern the abatis line in front of the redoubt and could see nothing at all of the rebel works, which here ran parallel to those of the Union, with only a couple of hundred yards separating them. Occasionally a match flared on the other side, or someone spoke. The Yankee and rebel pickets talked to one another a lot. They had lately worked out a protocol that helped each side. Neither would open fire unless an advance was about to start. Advances were infrequent, so for much of the time the pickets—and crews like Billy’s—were spared anxiety about stray bullets. Unless, of course, they were fired by some hothead, always a possibility—as was a sudden rain of larger projectiles. Soldiers on the front were seldom warned of an artillery bombardment.
The Negro in direct charge of Billy’s men was a heavy, placid-looking sergeant. Named Sebastian, he had skin as light as coffee with milk in it, a huge hooked nose, and slightly slanted eyes that didn’t fit with the rest of his features. He drove himself hard and expected similar effort from the rest of the platoon. As he and Billy sweated to raise heavy half-timbers into place, Billy grew curious about him.
After another was set in position, both stepped back. Bits of dirt stuck to Billy’s wet skin. He judged the time to be two or three in the morning. He was so tired he wanted to fall down on the spot. He took several deep breaths, then asked, “Where are you from, Sergeant Sebastian?”
“Now or a long time ago?”
“Whichever you want.”
“I live in Albany, New York, but way back, my granddaddy ran away from a South Carolina farm where he was the only slave. Granddaddy was what they call a brass ankle. Little bit of white, little bit of black, little bit of Yamasee red all mixed together.”
“You mean red as in Indian?” It helped explain the contrasting features.
“Uh-huh. Granddaddy’s name was the same as mine. He—”
A scarlet burst in the sky over Petersburg curtailed the conversation. Out by the abatis line, the pickets cursed the sound of the shell whining in. Billy shouted a superfluous command for the men to fall to the ground. Most were already down when he landed on his chest, seconds before the shell made a direct hit on the half-restored parapet.
Billy covered the back of his head with both arms. In the downpour of dirt and splintered wood, he heard someone yell, “Sergeant Sebastian? Lieutenant Buck’s hurt or kilt.”
Buck was the platoon officer on lookout. Sebastian wasted no time, scrambling up as other guns opened fire in the distant batteries. “I’m going out to get him.”
“But it isn’t safe while the bombardment—”
“Hell with what’s safe. You heard Larkin. Buck’s hurt or killed.”
Crouched over, Sebastian began to run along the face of the r
edoubt, shouting over his shoulder, “Rest of you men back to the rifle pit.”
Billy had voiced his objection out of prudence, not cowardice, but he knew Sebastian thought otherwise. He leaped up and raced after the sergeant.
As he ran, some Union picket, spooked by the shelling, fired a round. “Hey, damn you, Billy Yank, what you doin’?” an unseen reb called angrily. The last three words were barely audible as Confederate sharpshooters showed what they thought about the truce violation.
Balls buzzed and thunked into the redoubt inches above Billy; he was on all fours, crawling. Another shell landed six feet behind him, hurling wood and clods of dirt in all directions. Some pelted Billy. Ahead of him, Sebastian caught some, too; Billy heard him groan. Where there had been only heat and silence, now there were pulses of light, reverberating explosions, outcries from wounded pickets, and smoke so thick Billy choked.
“Pass him down, Larkin.” Sebastian was on his feet, straining to reach to the crumbling parapet where the black officer lay. Crouching and moving forward again, Billy couldn’t quite tell what was happening, but there was some difficulty. He heard Sebastian grunting.
Billy called, “Can you reach him, Sergeant?”
“No.”
“I can’t hear you. Have you got him?”
“I said no,” Sebastian yelled, causing some marksman on the other side to aim for the sound and shoot. Sebastian jerked and exclaimed softly, clawing the dirt of the redoubt’s unrepaired face. A shell landed fifty yards to the east. Men in the rifle pits took the burst, started screaming. In the glare, Billy saw Sebastian on his knees, blood running from his shoulder.
Sebastian hooked his fingers into the dirt in front of him. Pain contorting his face, he pulled himself back to a standing position. A bullet nicked a timber on the ground; the splinter hit Billy’s neck like a flying nail.
Dry-mouthed with fear, he stepped up beside the sergeant. “Corporal Larkin?”