Annie, Between the States

by L. M. Elliott

  “That’s my Annie,” Laurence answered. He held out his hand. “Perhaps, if we are fortunate, Colonel Stuart will ride forward and I will have the honor of introducing him to my beautiful sister.”

  As they climbed the cellar stairs and walked through the small frame house, Laurence told her more of Stuart. “He is absolutely insane and brilliant at the same time, Annie. Amazing valor. Three weeks ago, near Falling Waters, we had a merry little skirmish. At one point, Colonel Stuart found himself separated from us and completely alone right by a group of Federals. The bluecoats stood behind a rail fence staring at him. Like so many of our officers who left the U.S. army when Lincoln declared war on their kin, Stuart still wears the U.S. blue uniform while he awaits new gray cloaks to be made. Seeing that the bluecoats thought him a Union officer, Stuart roared at them to take down the rail fence as if to prepare for a charge. He was so commanding, they did it. Then Stuart told them to throw down their arms, or they were all dead men. All by himself, he captured forty-nine men from the 15th Pennsylvania Volunteers. Can you imagine?”

  He stopped by the front door to light a lantern to carry with them. As he struck the flint and the flame flared, Annie looked at her brother’s fair, fine-boned face, before always so quiet and contained, now flushed with excitement. Still very young-looking at age twenty-one, and yet there was a man’s self-assurance in his large, hazel eyes. Laurence had always had a mature, almost princely air to him, which had been forced upon him by circumstances. But this was something different. Annie wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but it inspired and saddened her at the same time.

  Miriam came up behind them, and Annie could tell her mother sensed a new resolve about him as well. “Was it hard today, son?”

  Laurence began to speak, stopped, then began again in a hushed tone. “It…was disturbing, Mother, I’ll not lie. We were ordered into battle several hours after the fighting had begun. Colonel Stuart ordered us to attack where the firing was hottest. As we rode through a valley, we passed surgeons at work with hacksaws on our boys…great heaps of arms and legs lying about…. I…I’m afraid I was sick from the saddle as I passed.” He rubbed his forehead with his hand and sighed. “A blue haze of gun smoke confused everything. We found ourselves in the midst of a large regiment of men in blousy pants and red-tasseled caps. The Colonel figured them for those bodacious, Moroccan-styled Zouaves from Louisiana. He called out, ‘Don’t run, boys, we’re here.’ Well, it turns out they were Zouaves all right—but Zouaves from New York. They opened fire on us, at rather close range.”

  Boyishly, Laurence took his mother’s hand. “I was frightened. But I remembered what Colonel Stuart had said just a few days before when we were outnumbered. He said, ‘A good man on a good horse can never be caught. Cavalry can trot away from anything. A gallop is a gait unbecoming to a soldier unless he is going toward the enemy. We gallop toward the enemy, and trot away, always.’”

  Laurence was quiet a moment, in thought; then another of his heart-stopping, dimpled grins lit up his face. “And we know, don’t we, Mother, that I have a very good horse.”

  Annie laughed. Laurence’s pride in the horses he bred and trained was one of his few real faults.

  “So we held firm. The Zouaves put up a good fight. According to some we captured, they’re a regiment of volunteer firemen from New York City, so they’re tenacious and not afraid of a bad situation. But we rattled them, and eventually they ran. All the Federals ran. Looks like some ran right through here.” He lowered his voice. “I’m afraid Aunt Molly’s corn is ruined. Has there been word of Uncle John?”

  Miriam shook her head. “I need help getting her back upstairs to bed. Do you suppose some of your friends could carry her?”

  “Of course, Mother.” There it was. That quiet, responsible look Annie knew so well. “I’ll see to it. And I’ll check on Uncle John. I think the 8th was on the right flank, where fighting was not as fierce. We can hope that God spared him.”

  Laurence turned back to Annie. “To fresh air, sister.”

  Outside, Annie was startled by the crowds. Everywhere were huddles—of men talking and laughing, of doctors leaning over soldiers, of horses grazing. To the side, a large group of prisoners sat on the dew-covered ground, guarded by a few Confederates holding shotguns. Some of the bluecoats kept their heads bowed. One played a mouth harp. Several played cards. A few chatted easily with their captors like classmates in a school yard during recess.

  Young Confederates scampered from one mass to another, carrying messages, carrying water, carrying questions—“Ain’t we going to ride on? Those bluecoats are just down the road, begging to be caught, like fat partridges.” “What should I do with this man, doctor? He’s bleeding bad.” “What should we feed all these prisoners?” “Did you see how they ran, by God, did you see? They’re no match for Virginia boys, I tell you!”

  Down by the ruined corn, campfires burned, and the smell of coffee and salt pork frying in thick grease drifted toward Annie. She hadn’t eaten since early morning. But the smell of such coarse food was hardly appetizing.

  Yip, yip. Yehaw. Whooee. Yesssss, sireee! In thundered a dozen riders, yelling and whooping in triumph.

  They reined their horses in hard, and the leading officer shouted, “Look here, boys, we’ve brought you a feast. The Federals were expecting to celebrate tonight and made themselves a mighty fine dinner. But guess what! They forgot to take it with them when they skedaddled home!”

  The men cheered and collected to see the cache: champagne, boxes of lemons, cakes, beef tongue, smoked fish. There were also boots, blankets, trousers, and new accurate-firing rifle-muskets. But the cavalrymen grabbed first at the rich food.

  “Where is Colonel Stuart?” the leader called.

  A soldier answered through a mouthful of cake.

  “He’s waiting to move on, if given the order. Beauregard’s meeting right now with General Johnston and President Davis. Seems General Beauregard had the chance to follow them, too, but he received a report that some Federals were recrossing Bull Run. A rider came through just a moment ago and said that Beauregard turned his flank and found it was actually our boys. I think someone needs to suggest we all wear the same uniforms instead of each regiment having their own styles—handsome as they are, sir. It’s too confusing. We’ve plenty of Federals to fight without shooting at each other by mistake.”

  The officer petted the neck of his sweaty horse as he listened. “Let us hope there’s no need for coordinated uniforms, that today has finished it,” he answered. “There’s enough dead out there on the field as it is. Many more than any of us anticipated.”

  “Amen to its being over,” Laurence muttered.

  “Stay here on the porch a moment, Annie. I’m going to see if I’m needed. I’ll return.”

  A soft, damp night breeze brushed Annie and cooled her. She looked up to the sky and tried to close her ears to the sounds around her as she searched for constellations—Orion, the hunter; Draco, the dragon; Gemini, the twins. There. A thin ribbon of golden light streaked the blackness. She closed her eyes and made a wish on the falling star, a wish for things to be normal again.

  “She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies…although it does look like it’s beginning to cloud up a bit.”

  Annie jumped at the sound of the soft voice behind her. Half lying, half propped against the wall, was Thomas Walker of Massachusetts. She’d almost stepped on him. She’d been so preoccupied by Laurence and the scene on the fields before her, she’d missed the fact that there were still wounded men and the Federal surgeon on the front porch—now, however, carefully watched by a Confederate soldier.

  “Sir…forgive me. I didn’t see you.”

  “It’s all right, Miss Sinclair. I know you were rejoicing in your brother’s safety.”

  Annie felt herself blush. He’d heard everything, of course. She wasn’t offended, simply embarrassed. Her mother and her schoolteachers had drilled manners into
her, and it was extremely rude to have completely missed his presence. “Do…” She was unsure how to proceed. Lord, how topsy-turvy the world had become; this certainly wasn’t a social situation her etiquette classes had ever mentioned. “Do you need anything else?”

  “No, thank you. I feel much better. I’ve had water and a little corn bread. One of the youngsters brought it to me.” He gestured to the lawn, and Annie saw Sally carrying a tray of corn bread. Mother must have seen to that. Again she was embarrassed—she should be helping. “It was very tasty. You have been very kind to us, miss.”

  Annie nodded. She started to go down the stairs, but curiosity got the better of her. “What was that verse you spoke? I’m not familiar with it.”

  “It’s Byron. Lord Byron. I’m afraid I have a weakness for England’s Romantic poets. Not something I spoke much of while I attended West Point.”

  “Do you know the rest of it?” she asked. “I love Keats. I haven’t read this Byron.”

  He nodded and recited:

  “She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes….”

  He paused. “I could write it down for you, miss, if you have paper and ink.”

  “Oh, I’d love to have it. It’s beautiful.” Somehow poetry had normalized the strangeness of their meeting and conversation. For a moment, Annie forgot that this man was a declared enemy of her family, her homeland, her way of life. She liked him. And then she hated herself. She should be helping her Confederate protectors, not mooning over some Unionist, no matter how much poetry he could recite. She gathered her skirts and stepped backward down the stairs.

  “I should see to our soldiers, sir. I wish you a speedy recovery.”

  “Thank you, miss.”

  She walked a few paces and heard, “You know, Miss Sinclair, those constellations you were looking at…”

  Annie stopped. “Yes? What about them?” She hoped for another verse of poetry.

  “Well…one of them is very important. The Little Dipper. Slaves call it the Drinking Gourd. I’ve read that they follow it—the North Star is the tip of the handle—over the Mason-Dixon Line to freedom.”

  Annie stiffened and her voice became icy. “My brother does not fight to keep slavery, sir.”

  “No? Are you sure, miss? Do you have any slaves?”

  Annie’s face grew hot. They did, but it wasn’t the way Northern abolitionists portrayed it. Hickory Heights’ servants were like family almost. There were seven of them, living in decent cottages with their own vegetable plots and flocks of chickens, which they could sell to make money of their own. Against Virginia law, Miriam taught them to read. She tended them when they were sick. One, “Grandma Hettie,” had been retired for years, living in leisure and health, visited daily by Miriam before she died last year at the age of eighty-two.

  It seemed to Annie that their servants were better treated and cared for than the factory workers in the North, many of whom were immigrants, paid next to nothing and then cut off and cast aside to starve in city slums once age or illness or injury made them useless to the rich factory owners and merchants. But…Hickory Heights’ servants weren’t exactly free. It was something Laurence had spoken of doing as soon as he came of age and could legally do it. That had been in May. The war had simply interrupted all his plans for the farm.

  “It really is none of your business, sir,” said Annie primly. “We are not like the cotton plantations or the cane-brakes down south. We are good to our people. We take care of them. My brother’s man begged to follow him into battle, he loves him so. Laurence and he grew up together. What we fight for is our freedom, our ability to govern ourselves in a way that answers our needs, not those of Boston shipbuilders.” She couldn’t help a final dig: “Besides, there are still many slaveholders within your sanctimonious Union. Slavery is still legal in the city of Washington, and in Maryland, Delaware, Kentucky, and Missouri. Lincoln’s own in-laws own slaves. I read that many of your generals and senators do as well. What we can’t abide about you people is that you don’t practice what you preach.”

  Thomas Walker smiled and nodded. “You’re correct. Our mission right now is simple: to save the Union. President Lincoln has not outlawed slavery. Four of the states in the Union still condone it. Probably some members of President Lincoln’s cabinet own slaves. But someday this war will also be about slavery. You’ll see. And I sense a great kindness in you, miss, if you don’t mind my forwardness. I’m afraid bluntness is a New England trait. I think it will eventually strike you that fighting for your freedom while denying others theirs is unconscionable.”

  Annie could barely breathe, she was so angry—angry because she knew that no matter how kind their family or friends might be to their servants, it would never make up for the horrible fact of slavery. Angry because Northerners assumed everyone in the South mistreated slaves and wanted slavery to continue, while the reality was that the overwhelming majority of Southerners, like her aunt Molly and uncle John, had none. Angry because in her heart, she knew this Yankee was right. It was unconscionable.

  Slavery was not what her brother fought for. He fought to protect his family and his farm and because Virginia was his country. And yet, his valiant courage would always be tainted by the assumption.

  “I hope…I hope they lock you up for a long, long time,” she finally sputtered as she turned and fled into the night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  For the next few hours, Annie fell to helping Confederate soldiers with a vengeance. She brought water. She served corn bread. She tore Aunt Molly’s cotton bedsheets into bandage strips and walked among the soldiers awaiting medical attention. She held the hands of the young and thanked the older ones for defending Virginia.

  Well past midnight, she pulled a jacket over a slumbering boy who had fallen asleep in the middle of telling his battle experiences. He was that weary. He’d been one of the lucky ones, just scratched up and scared. Looking at his face at peace, Annie reckoned him to be about her age. Risking his life before he’d even lived it. And here she was, talking poetry with a man who might have shot the boy down.

  She stayed kneeling beside him and bowed her head in prayer. The battle had raged on a Sunday and the irony of all this killing on a church day did not escape her. Her prayers felt hollow, and Annie looked down at the boy again. His forehead was awash in perspiration. Funny, it hadn’t looked like that a minute ago, and the night was a pleasant one. Annie put her hand to his head. It was hot as a stovepipe. “Good Lord,” she murmured. He was burning up with fever. No wonder he fell asleep mid-sentence. Remembering her mother’s care for her, Annie doused a linen scrap in water, squeezed, folded it, and pulled it gently across his throat, cheeks, and forehead.

  “Sweet lady, I hope if I fall in battle, you are there to nurse me.”

  A pair of thigh-high riding boots with spurs stood before her. In the moonlight, a saber scabbard gleamed alongside. Annie looked up at one of the hairiest men she’d ever seen. Even in daylight it would have been hard to make out his features behind the thick beard that stuck out a good two inches from his face. Still, his voice marked him as a gentleman.

  As the man bowed, sweeping his arm out before him like a courtier of old, Laurence hurried up behind him.

  “Colonel, I’d like to present my sister, Annie.” Laurence helped Annie to her feet. “Annie, this is Colonel James Ewell Brown Stuart.”

  So this was the man, known as Jeb Stuart, whom her brother so admired. He was much shorter than she’d imagined, but quite broad across the shoulders, giving him an illusion of great stature. “It is an honor, sir. My brother has spoken so wondrously of you and your influence on your men.”

  “Yes? Well, that’s fine. Corporal Sinclair is a good lad. Excellent horseman. But of course, your brother is a Virginia boy and we’re born in the saddle, aren’t we? If he keeps things up, he’ll b
e a colonel himself before long. Do you ride, miss?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.” Annie thought of her beloved Angel Wings, her ink-black mare with the long white stockings that accentuated the delicacy of her legs as she trotted. She’d give anything to be home and heading out riding the next morning instead of here.

  “Actually, Colonel, my sister is quite the equestrian. And a daredevil.” Laurence smiled. “I wanted to give her one of my brood mares when she was about ten years old, but she’d have none of it. ‘Too poky,’ Annie said. So she picked the wildest mare I had. Beautiful mover, but a mind of her own, very forward under saddle. Fast as Mercury.

  “Well, the two are peas in a pod. Angel—a ridiculous name for that horse, given her temperament—won’t let anyone ride her but Annie. Together, she and Annie lead the hunt. She shows up some of the men dreadfully who don’t ride half as well as she does. My mother despairs that Annie will never attract a husband, embarrassing all the county’s bucks as she does. And I don’t know how many times my mother has asked that Annie not jump the orchard fences—they’re close to four feet high—and how many times she’s done just that despite my instructions.”

  Annie blushed. Must Laurence always talk about her headstrong misbehavior?

  “Really?” Stuart took off his hat in salute. “You must do me the honor of riding with me one day, Miss Annie. I have a wonderful mare myself—Skylark’s her name. I wager she could jump an eight-foot ditch for me if she had to. We’ll bring along your brother to tell us which fences we’re allowed to jump, eh?” He laughed, a loud, hearty sound that caught the attention of a crowd of nearby cavalrymen.

  “Hey, Colonel.” “Congratulations, Colonel.”

  “That was a rousing day, Colonel.” “On three, boys, hurrah for Virginia! One-two-three: Hurrah!”