by Tatjana Soli
She passed a beautifully gowned woman with her back to the room who caught her attention. Her perfection of form—chestnut hair, ivory shoulders, tiny beelike waist, blue silk dress—had Libbie’s admiration. But as the woman turned around from speaking with her circle of friends, Libbie feared she may have let out a gasp on seeing an angel’s face entirely covered over in scars, a map of torture and brutality impossible to imagine in that civilized and genteel setting. The scars did not end at her chin but continued down her neck, scrolled over her arms and chest before disappearing under the fabric of her luxurious dress.
The woman, from a prominent family, had traveled out to New Mexico Territory to visit her fiancé, when she was captured by the Apache. She was held in captivity four months before being ransomed.
Later that evening Libbie was searching for Autie for a nuptial toast when she found the two on a settee in the library in front of the fire, drinking small glasses of sherry. He had put his hand on top of the woman’s briefly as they exchanged some confidence, and she bowed her head to him.
When Libbie approached she saw his face was flushed, his eyes watery. He was deeply affected by the meeting, and it cast a momentary pall on the evening. Libbie felt she was indeed what he jokingly teased—a silly, frivolous schoolgirl. Her earlier peeve had been childish. Even on this happiest day of their lives, he could not help but involve himself in the plight of others. A chill came down her spine. What if she was not equal to his fame? He looked up and saw her, joyfully waving her over.
“I want you to meet the love of my life,” he said to the woman.
It wasn’t until that moment that she truly loved him, loved him as a mature woman loves a man, for his whole being, and not just as an infatuated girl worships a hero.
It was the happiest day of her life, not for the obvious reason of marrying the man she loved, nor even for the minor celebrity of becoming a war hero’s bride, but because she was never again to know another day, before or after, so filled with hope. Most times hope was more satisfactory than its fulfillment, which often fell short. For the moment theirs was a true marriage. They filled each other’s heart. Generals and officers who later complained about her presence on military campaigns simply did not understand that together they were strongest.
* * *
THEIR HONEYMOON BARELY BEGUN, Autie was called back to Washington to rejoin his regiment.
When the order came to move out to Virginia, all her promises of being strong and brave as a soldier’s wife flew out of her head. Having so recently found true love, the possibility of his dying quite unnerved her. She could not endure another loss. At the least, Libbie refused to be left behind. Being separated was infinitely harder to bear than the threat of danger.
“I just want to be a little mouse, curled up safe in your pocket,” she said.
To her surprise, Autie allowed it. A choice that ended up being the most fateful decision of their marriage, setting the tone for their future life.
General Kilpatrick was her baptism into the ignoble reality of the military, something not covered in the glowing tales written in newspapers. She was introduced to the novel concept that not only did one fight the enemy, one fought one’s own side, where dangers sprang from both above and below.
Kilpatrick, nicknamed Kill Cavalry, was a vain man, full of hubris. He ordered Autie on what amounted to a suicide mission simply to serve as decoy. He was to draw troops away from the Confederate capital to clear the path for the main maneuver of Kilpatrick “single-handedly” capturing Richmond. That her Autie succeeded while his commander aborted his mission spoke for itself.
In the privacy of their rooms, Autie confided that the men despised their general. Although he was brave, he was reckless, and profligate with his men’s lives. He exhibited bad judgment at Gettysburg and again at Falling Waters, and men had died needlessly. Autie’s men, on the other hand, spoke of their confidence at being under his lead. He squeezed Libbie’s hand.
“It means everything to me. I must be worthy of their trust.”
* * *
A LARGE PLANTATION HOUSE had been converted into Union headquarters, and there Autie readied to leave at dawn. She began to cry hysterically, the realization of the danger he was going to suddenly palpable.
“Be brave, Libbie,” he said, disappointed by her lack of composure.
A guard unit would arrive to look after her.
All day she waited alone and still they did not come.
The house was large and rambling, unknown, the circumstances under which she was staying there unclear. Had the owners been forcibly evicted, or was the army renting it? Coerced or volunteered? Could an angry family member be lurking inside a cabinet, bent on revenge? The floorboards creaked in an unhappy way, without the pressure of feet. The woods around Stevensburg were dense and menacing. She did not even consider venturing outside, a target to any outraged Southerner.
She scurried upstairs and barred herself in the bedroom, sitting by the large window overlooking the front of the house to read and wait. The memory of her earlier behavior burned in her. Nothing in her life to that point had ever been asked of her, other than to be pretty and cultured, certainly not courage. Last night Autie had trusted her enough to confide in her about generals, and she had returned the favor by acting like a silly child, scared of her own shadow.
What if he refused to let her come in the future? She took out pen and paper, determined to set his mind at ease: I will learn to be brave, but you know, dear, I can’t learn all at once.
* * *
HOW SLOWLY TIME CRAWLED.
Hours later she heard the sound of men marching. Finally! All manner of metal things—sabers, guns, pots, pans—clattered like a tinker’s wagon from the din of it. Joyfully she raised the window sash to call out a greeting to her “rescuers.” Unused to being solitary, those few hours taught her the necessity of always surrounding herself in company. She would always try to envelop both Autie and herself in a large, loving circle of family and friends.
She hung out the window so far as to threaten pitching out entirely, straining to see the soldiers through the trees, when she stopped. Although she hardly could make out distinct words, she could tell from the cadence those voices did not come from the North. Sure enough, as they skirted the woods along the property, she saw gray rather than blue wool uniforms. Quickly she drew back, pressing against the inside wall. Stories of crimes committed against women filled her head. Depending on the rank of the commanding officer, it could range from gentlemanly house arrest to the unthinkable. She had never before known such fear.
No gun had been left her, although she hadn’t an idea of how to use one if it had, but just the idea of holding a weapon sounded preferable to wielding a book, even one as ponderous and heavy as The Woman in White. If she survived the next hours, she promised she would remedy the situation by having Autie supply her with both gun and shooting lessons.
For the moment, no other options available, she hid. There being no closet, she chose beneath the bed as she had done since she was a little girl frightened of thunder. She slid against the tight wooden struts supporting the four-poster honeymoon bed. The afternoon sun burned against the cotton ruffle. Underneath was not as clean as she would have liked, not nearly as clean as her girlhood bedroom in Monroe. With every inch of her being she regretted not listening to her father and going home like the other wives. What a foolish woman she was. Dust tickled her nose, and she pinched her nostrils shut in order not to sneeze.
Hours passed. She was embarrassed to say that she fell asleep, waking at evening to the sound of boots and the clanking of a saber up the stairs. Her heart tried to escape her chest. She held her breath and mouthed her last prayers as the door banged open.
“Libbie!”
She crawled out, unsteady, dress twisted around her legs, face gritted with dust. She tried to pin her fallen hair but gave up as tears welled.
His eyes were lit with hilarity at the sight of her, bu
t he knew better than to utter a sound. She glanced miserably at him, and he could bear it no longer. He burst with laughter.
“There were Rebels passing not twenty yards from me!”
“They wouldn’t dare touch a hair on the pretty head of Custer’s wife.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, dear, I hope they wouldn’t,” he said. “You do understand there’s a war going on, don’t you?”
She cried hot tears at being so poorly treated. Only after he begged her forgiveness, pleading exhaustion and relief at finding her, did she move on to white-hot anger.
“You give no thought to my safety. You are not worried in the least.”
His face turned red. “Men died today in battle, Libbie. If I worried about everything I should, I would go mad.”
He had brought his black cook Eliza, and she was already installed in the kitchen preparing dinner for no less an illustrious guest than General Sheridan, commander of all the cavalry.
“He wants to meet the beauty who stole my heart.”
* * *
AT TABLE, Sheridan beamed at her Autie for his accomplishment on the battlefield that day. The whole house was aware of the newlyweds’ tiff. In his awkward attempt at mollifying the teary bride Sheridan bragged that Autie was “the only man who matrimony has not spoiled for a charge.” The comment had the opposite effect of making Libbie feel even more dejected.
They sat down to an excellent meal of roast beef, baked potatoes, and peas—unheard-of luxury in a war zone short of food. The crown jewel of the meal was the lightest, fluffiest of biscuits. Eliza was a wizard both in procuring in the black-market economy of the camp and in her cooking skills. Libbie was filled with admiration.
A year before Eliza was contraband, an ex-slave following the army, when she got a job cooking for the regiment. Impressed by her cooking skills, Autie had asked her to manage his private household on the campaign.
“You are fighting the War for me, the least I can do is cook for you,” she answered.
They had been together through thick and thin since. Eliza went into battle with him, cooking over a stewpot as bullets flew by her head at the front lines. The Confederates had even captured her twice, along with his personal wagon, but she remained undaunted and found her way back to him. She welcomed Libbie and coddled her like a mother even though they were close to the same age.
Now Sheridan furnished a lovely bottle of claret to complete the dinner. Libbie noted that Autie poured them each a glass without comment. He gave her a pointed look, and she nodded, allowing him this one time to drink.
But it wasn’t until dinner was over and they had spent the night in the four-poster bed that Libbie was finally able to laugh at her foolishness. However ungracefully, she had managed to survive her baptism into military life.
* * *
AUTIE TOOK FOR GRANTED she would be safe because she was his wife. She wondered if this was true. How did he know for certain? It bothered her that he didn’t worry more over her, that he treated the whole episode as a grand joke, an anecdote to be told over the campfire. No doubt she would soon be the butt of jokes between Autie and Tom. Every embarrassment was grist for the Custer humor mill.
After being entrusted with the lives of thousands of men, a callus of sorts had grown over Autie’s heart. For the first time she noticed something about her new husband—his exuberant optimism had devastating effects on those around him. He did not live in the same world as those less brave than he, and he made them pay the price for their cowardice. Nonetheless, she had endured, even if in such a timid way. After that first experience she never willingly went home to wait out a campaign.
LIBBIE
Within hours the farmhouse was vacated and again they were on the move. She rode sidesaddle on Autie’s favorite horse, Custis Lee. She traveled beside her husband, and when she tired she moved to an ambulance specially outfitted for her comfort, behind the command escort. That special privilege began a slow burn of resentment in the soldiers.
The road was bumpy, the journey a long one, the wagon’s bouncing rattling her bones till she was sore when she climbed down to her tent at night. When a snake crawled into the tent with her one evening, she ran back to the wagon to sleep, but she dared not show displeasure, fearing any tantrums would be cause to send her home.
One morning they were to cross swampland up a narrow, tree-choked trail. Up at dawn, they rode till mid-morning, when they stopped for a meal and to rest the horses, then carried on. Late morning sun poked through the tree limbs overhead, poured a yellow, pollened light over the land. The creak of saddles, the percussion of metal against metal, the thud of hooves and boots were a soothing cadence that gave a sense of progress despite their torpid speed.
She nodded off in the heat, the wagon’s hot canvas smelling of starch, daydreaming of being again a young girl at her mother’s side as she ironed, when an explosion shook the wagon and made the horses jump in their stays. The sound was so loud her ears rang afterward.
The column came to a ragged stop. Her driver climbed down to quiet the animals, their eyes white-rimmed in fear. Orders were shouted up and down the line to remain in place, but it wasn’t until one of Autie’s staff rode back that it was confirmed—a soldier had tripped a new weapon called a land torpedo. It was a barbaric way to wage war. Sherman called it a coward’s way to murder. They could not move forward without knowing the extent of the mining done to the road ahead.
They remained at a standstill for hours in the sweltering heat, restricted from going off the road to relax in the woods. Even pack animals and horses were not allowed to refresh at the nearby stream. She found the scene strangely bucolic, soldiers stripped down to shirts, the lace of trees against the noon sky, the greenish gloom of forbidden woods, the stamp of horses in their stays. Mosquitoes descended as numerous as raindrops to feast on any exposed skin.
It became stifling in the wagon. Perspiration rolled down her back, her chemise and petticoats thoroughly wet under the heavy blouse and skirts she wore. Trying to stay cheerful, she shared apples and water with the driver. She was fortunate to have a wagon full of food and water. Theoretically she could last days in such a privileged cage.
Hours passed.
She simply had to have fresh air, but her escort stopped her before she could place a footstep on the earth. Autie’s orders. She whipped the curtains closed, and quickly shed her corset and petticoats. She would wear only her cotton dress, modesty be damned. So freed, she stood up out of the wagon, lapping up any freshness in the heavy air like a dog. She was aware of the looks of soldiers around her: even though married she still enjoyed an admiring male glance, so she lengthened the time of her pose.
It was then that she heard a man’s screams, then the louder, ringing silence. Minutes later a stretcher went past, the wounded man blanketed with a sheet, his bloody leg still in its boot nestled next to his side like a newborn. Mercifully, he had passed out. Libbie bowed her head and said a prayer.
She offered to go and sit with the wounded soldier but was refused. The doctor must have thought her too will-o’-the-wisp to be of support. No one would say it to her face, but she guessed that hers was the only ambulance empty enough to accommodate the wounded man. She volunteered it, happy to ride her horse or join a supply wagon. The doctor accepted, but within a few minutes Autie countermanded her, to Libbie’s horror.
Later the doctor told her that it wouldn’t have mattered, the soldier never regained consciousness and died that night. She said another prayer for his mother, knowing the enormity that such loss would mean to the poor woman. Libbie could bring tears on just by picturing her own dear mother’s face. She resolved to read aloud passages from the Bible to comfort all close enough to listen. The men told her it was the closest to home they had felt in months.
In the afternoon, activity could be heard from the rear. Mounted cavalry herded a large group of soldiers between them. Libbie was shocked as they came close enough for her
to recognize gray uniforms. Prisoners. Autie must have “borrowed” them from the latest battle. They were shoved to the head of the column.
What happened next haunted her for many years. Threatened by the end of a rifle or saber, the prisoners were poked down to a crawling position, shoulder to shoulder across the road, three rows deep. They proceeded to crawl like small children, no, like beasts of burden, forced forward to trip any land torpedoes with the weight of their own bodies if they did not manage to disable them first. No one cared how unlikely it was that a common soldier would have such advanced technical ability.
Travel became agonizingly slow. In the period while the prisoners were prodded ahead several hundred yards, all eyes watched the road, everyone dreading the concussion of yet another explosion. In between it was so quiet one could hear the wind in the trees, the chafing drone of insects. Libbie imagined she heard the whoosh of her own blood in her ears.
The column would come into motion and catch up in minutes only to endure yet another equally long wait.
The sight of men used in such fashion shamed her. She believed it lessened her husband’s mission, and she would speak to him about it. It did not seem moral, but she reconciled herself that, being a woman, she didn’t understand the ways of war. What strain Autie must have labored under and hid from her daily. She thought of his silences, which she formerly had attributed to displeasure with her, and now guessed their true cause.
Was it unforgivable weakness on her part that she wished to return to the ignorance of childhood? She had not imagined such cruelty of one man toward another. Worse, the man who ordered it was also the man she loved. She felt herself aged a decade in the first few weeks of her marriage.