Jacob's Ladder: A Story of Virginia During the War

by Donald McCaig

  Dearest Leona, if one has lost everything—property, friends, perhaps even honor—one retains the furnishings of the mind. Many of my fellow soldiers find consolation in religion, the road from Sharpsburg Ford was littered with discarded playing cards, and many a man spent the night before the battle thumbing a Testament whose flyleaf bore his mother’s most pious hopes. Old Blue Light Jackson is a beacon for these men, for he is as fierce a prayer as he is a fighter. Dear wife, though I admire the faith of these fellows, snatched from their families and placed in the fore of this sanguinary conflict, I cannot share it. I am no atheist. I believe that purpose, frequently benign, guides all things, that no sparrow falls unnoticed by God. I have had the thought, perhaps a blasphemous one, that when we fought at Sharpsburg, God and His recording angels had their hands full.

  Although we Confederates prevailed, it was a near thing. The Army of Northern Virginia is a great bear lying in its den licking its wounds.

  If our Thomas will study and learn and take his lessons to heart he will be rich in goods none can ever snatch from him. If he is blessed with the faith so many of my comrades exhibit, so much the better, for there is nothing finer than an educated Christian.

  Dearest, with our army I have passed through great destitution: ruined plantations, shattered granaries, homes whose fire-scorched foundation stones testify to happier times. None of the good citizens of Sharpsburg or Kernstown or Winchester or Front Royal thought, when first this struggle began, that they would be asked to give more than their lives to this conflict. None thought they would have their property confiscated, homes destroyed, their children starving. This is war unlike any that has ever been fought.

  I entreat you to remember our daughter, Pauline. Some think it unwise for young women to have much education, and there are those who cite Sallie Kirkpatrick’s imprisonment as evidence for that proposition. Many of my fellows believe not much is changed, that life after this war will resume as before. Alas, that cannot be. The world which Uther Botkin knew, that generous span of time from Mr. Jefferson to General Lee, will remain enshrined in memory, but I fear tomorrow. Neither Thomas nor Pauline is prepared for a life that might include poverty, subjugation, and sorrow. Stratford’s isolation may not keep it from battles to come, and Samuel Gatewood’s barns will burn as well as any. When I imagine the worst—and on the battlefield the worst seems too plausible—I torment myself with the vision of Thomas and Pauline with no dower except that which they can carry on their backs, their family destroyed and family competence dispersed to the four winds.

  I am glad to be serving with Duncan again. Though I would not tell him so, I wish his wound had been a trifle worse. Men can recover from the most appalling injuries, and many who survive this war will be those with wounds severe enough that they can, with honor, quit the battlefield.

  You may accuse me of being ungallant. An army is a clumsy device: it kills. An army that is compassionate or tender is no army at all. We Confederates have disguised bloody slugging behind gallant scrims and charades. There is nothing gallant about case shot nor canister.

  I do not know how General Lee perseveres. Our numbers are half what they were, and we are filling our ranks with conscripts. When we have exhausted our able men, will we turn to the oldsters, to the boys? Will we draft our Thomas?

  Though visibly worn and aging, General Lee remains confident. Can the heart ever be too strong for the body? Can too tenacious a love of freedom destroy everything freedom holds precious?

  This has been a morose communication, but I come at last to the matter I least wished to touch upon. I can scarcely think upon it. I am devastated we have lost our blessed infant Willie to fever. Our dear babe was so ill for so much of his brief, brief life. I am only consoled by your report that in his final hours relief came swiftly to him. God sometimes does intervene, I believe, to show mercy to the innocent. I love little Willie as I do our other children, though I shall not in this mortal life once see his dear face.

  My religious comrades assure me we will all be united on the other side: you, me, little Willie, E. P. Hagwood of Galveston, Texas.

  I can write no more,

  Catesby

  THE OUTSIDE WIFE

  NASSAU, THE BAHAMAS NOVEMBER 6, 1862

  “CALM SEAS, DARK moon!”

  The governor’s guests cried, “Hear, hear!” and Captain Horner, who was elderly for a blockade runner, responded stoutly, “Confusion to the Federal fleet!”

  Glasses flashed in a crystal salute, and Marguerite clenched hers betwixt thumb and forefinger exactly where stem met bowl and set it, just so, on the snow-white linen tablecloth, and that quick, the dark servant behind her chair refilled it, and Marguerite hadn’t yet learned how to tell him to stop. She didn’t like the sharp bubbly wine—it made her want to sneeze.

  The British governor’s wife, Priscilla (of the Dorset Aynsworths), frequently complained of her husband’s excessive hospitality toward the blockade runners, whose arrivals and departures from Nassau had been occasions last year but now had all the drama (the lady opined) of the daily post. And, she had added, the dinner guests were not exactly “our sort.”

  Perhaps six of the thirty guests who filled two tables in the formal dining room overlooking the harbor might have been included in “our sort.” Young Trenholm’s uncle, Viscount Campbell, owned estates in the Scottish Isles, and Fraser had been presented at court. Roger Bourne—one of the ship captains present—his father had been a bishop. Billings and Packwood were from good British families—out to make their fortunes in the wide world. But the pilots, so honored at these gatherings, were rude American coastal seamen, and most ship masters were little better. Mr. Omohundru, the Wilmington shipowner, carried himself like a gentleman, but nobody knew a thing about his companion.

  Marguerite’s current discomfort was prompted by knowing what she’d be thinking if she were behind her chair instead of in it. She’d be wondering why the quality folks got so much to eat and how could they eat it all? She might exchange a glance with a fellow servant, one of those glances.

  The young Englishman at Marguerite’s elbow was describing his voyage out. “. . . cotton over the top of the wheelhouse,” he said. “Bloody wonder we didn’t turn turtle.”

  Too well Marguerite recalled her voyage from Wilmington, the blockade runner so overloaded freeboard was reduced to less than a foot, water hissing by, sidewheels churning the ship forward in an awkward powerful motion like a strong dog swimming.

  “And then, not fifteen miles from safe harbor in Nassau, we spotted a Federal’s smoke, and she came up so fast we escaped by tossing the deck cotton into the sea. When the Federal slowed to harvest her prize, we were saved: somewhat poorer, but better than losing the boat.” He sighed deeply and drained his glass. The Englishman didn’t seem to notice when his attentive servant refilled it. It was as if the black hand were invisible.

  Another lesson to be learned: how to make people invisible.

  “I am surprised I’ve not seen you in Wilmington. We have some grand affairs at the City Hotel there. We quite take over the place, myself and the other speculators. I’m part owner of the Kestrel. Two hundred and eighty tons, fourteen knots in a calm sea.”

  “We don’t go out much in society.” Marguerite smiled at the ruddy-faced young Englishman.

  “But I say . . . aren’t you . . . with . . . Omohundru?”

  “With” was the all-inclusive preposition which served to describe the relationship polite whites accepted without honoring. In Nassau, a good many white captains and merchants were “with” women never addressed as “Mrs.” The governor’s wife spoke of “companions” and never, never asked questions. The blacks called them “outside wives.”

  In Wilmington, Marguerite was Mrs. Silas Omohundru.

  Although Marguerite could endure gatherings like this one, she could not enjoy them. Her manners were the reverse of what she’d learned serving Stratford’s parties, augmented by wit and acting skills. She watched
the ladies at the head of the table, and whatever fork they used, she used, and when they dabbed with a napkin, she dabbed with hers, and when they flung it down carelessly, so did she.

  “Grand boat, Omohundru’s Wild Darrell,” the British boy remarked. “What does she draw?”

  Marguerite smiled. “I’m afraid I leave nautical details to my husband.”

  “No more than six feet, I’d wager. It’s rumored she made sixteen knots on her crossing.”

  Marguerite flashed him a smile.

  “The Kestrel is getting long in the tooth. Last voyage into Wilmington we were attempting the New Passage. . . .” With a swoop, the young man appropriated her wineglass. “Here, imagine this is Fort Fisher . . .” A water glass was the Kestrel and another portrayed the Federal blockader. “Dark of the moon, shoal water, no more than seven feet in the channel, and our dog of a pilot couldn’t read the bottom. There is no sound, ma’am, more appalling to a sailor than the terrible noise as you strike. . . .”

  The young man went on maneuvering what became a flotilla of glassware as more Federal blockaders joined the fray, Fort Fisher’s guns thundered reproaches, and the Kestrel’s crew lightened by heaving cargo into the sea.

  Marguerite smiled and said “Oh, my!” but she was thinking about her son, Jacob, and his nurse, Kizzy, who was dark, dark black, and whenever Marguerite and Silas came back to the hotel, Jacob was smiling and sweet-smelling. Jacob was such a sturdy boy! Although his underpinnings were not completely reliable, Jacob explored boldly, and the other day when Silas told him to go into the other room, in his tiny voice, Jacob said, “Not!” and continued his play, eyeing Silas from beneath his eyelashes.

  Silas simply laughed. “Then I suppose I’ll have to remove myself,” he said, and took his papers into the dining room.

  A month ago, Marguerite had a dream where she was carrying Jacob up narrow stone stairs—stairs which circled above her forever. Though she was weary, Marguerite couldn’t lay Jacob down.

  Kizzy sometimes yearned for her man, Mingo—left behind to watch the Wilmington house. How could she? Kizzy had everyday care of Jacob, that precious jewel. Daily she shared in the child’s ways, his amusements, his tantrums, his humors. Why would Kizzy want that fool Mingo?

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry for being tedious. Our hazards were, I fear, interesting only to a seaman.”

  She loved Jacob so much. “Oh no! I was so fascinated by your gallant struggle. I quite forgot to eat.” And Marguerite gave him a mild version of her best smile.

  “The Federals were shooting flares to bring up the rest of their fleet and . . .”

  Silas never asked about other men. Never inquired about the men at the Captain’s House, never asked about the father of her child. Dear Duncan Gatewood. Graceful, thoughtless, intuitive, with the playful strength of a young foal. How can white men be so fine as children and so awkward after they get their growth?

  “Some plaice, madam?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Poor Jesse, who’d loved her all the while she was loving somebody else. Sometimes, on a still night, when she and Silas sat outdoors and the stars were specially bright, she remembered Jesse.

  The evening they arrived in Nassau, Silas had insisted they dine at the Queen Victoria Hotel, where the finer owners and captains stayed. Silas marched into the hotel as if they were as truly wed as they pretended, his eyes flashing hot coals daring anyone to say a word, a single word, against his honor. Of course, there was nothing to worry about: plenty of other white captains had outside wives darker than Marguerite. In Wilmington, she was tolerated as a wealthy merchant’s Bahamian wife. In Nassau, they knew better but didn’t care.

  “The fish doesn’t please you?”

  She crossed her knife and fork on her plate. “I’m afraid I haven’t much appetite.”

  The young man set his fork down. “I am told Mr. Omohundru paid forty-three thousand for the Wild Darrell, that she was Clyde-built to be Fraser’s boat but the purchase fell through.”

  “I’m afraid I do not attend to Silas’s business.”

  “Rumor has it that Omohundru means to ship army goods exclusively: guns, powder, lead, medicines, shoes. That he refuses all luxury items.”

  “Silas is a patriot.”

  “To be sure. . . . And Confederate cargoes earn well, but, ma’am, a cargo of luxury goods is so blessed profitable that if you bring it in and lose the boat, you make money all the same. When Benson beached the Almandine, the goods they salvaged out of her tripled his investment. If blessed with a skilled pilot . . .” He shook his head.

  “I believe Silas has engaged a pilot.”

  “Indeed he has. Indeed!” The young Englishman’s face glowed with wine and goodwill. “Joe MacGregor. Finest pilot alive. Why, there’s nobody who knows Cape Fear better than Joe MacGregor, and he’s been coastering Frying Pan Shoals since he was a boy. Pilots like Mac are tolerably scarce, ma’am. You see,” he confided, “when a blockade runner gets taken, you Confederates get sent to prison until exchanged. We English are neutral, so they turn us loose in short order. But the coastal pilots—the Federals clap them into Point Lookout Prison, and there they’ll stay. Without a good pilot amongst shoals on a moonless night, your blockade runner hasn’t much chance, don’t you see?”

  “But Silas has employed a pilot.”

  “Oh, that’s the grandest story. Everyone laughs about it.”

  Marguerite ignored her fizzy wine. She already had drunk one glass: enough.

  “Mac is a peerless pilot. But the first thing Mac does in the morning is uncork a quart of rum, and last thing he does at night is empty his second quart. He is desirous of employment—oh, most desirous. A good pilot can ask three thousand for a single voyage, and that’s gold, ma’am, not your Confederate currency, and MacGregor was so desperate, he’d take half that. But Mac’s a drunkard, ma’am.” He shook his head. “And every skipper knew it. Until Omohundru hired him, the best pilot on the island slept under the benches of a grog shop in the Skibberdeen, where the ordinary sailors seek vice. Pardon me, ma’am . . .”

  Marguerite’s servant removed her fish and topped her wineglass. At the head of the table, young Trenholm was proposing another toast: “Our Confederate cousins. May they retain the freedom they so bravely defend.”

  Like the others, Marguerite toasted, but she did not drink.

  Her tablemate assured her, “Every day our British government comes nearer to recognizing your new nation.”

  Marguerite said, “Surely Silas wouldn’t employ a drunken pilot!”

  The young man grinned. “That’s the joke of it. Joe MacGregor hasn’t touched a drop since Omohundru hired him.

  “Mr. Omohundru invited Mac aboard the Wild Darrell, just to get a feel for things, no position offered, nothing definite. The Wild Darrell was on the west coast of Hog Island, clipping along briskly, when Mac came onto the bridge, bottle in hand. ‘I do not permit drinking on my boat,’ Mr. Omohundru said, and first he threw the bottle over the side and then he threw Mac after it. Well, the captain shouted, ‘Man overboard!’ and dashed to the wheel, but Mr. Omohundro was cool as ice and ordered him to hold course, although Mac was thrashing, hoping some shark wouldn’t take an untoward interest. They sailed until they were hull down on the horizon before Mr. Omohundro gave the order to come about. The currents must have been dead quiet, because they steamed straight to Mac and dropped a ladder.

  “Poor old Mac was over the rail, shivering and puking all the water he had swallowed, and Mac said he might have drowned, and Mr. Omohundro said that a reliable pilot is the best and noblest man in the world, but a drunken pilot might as well be drowned. He said he had a job for Mac at full wages if he never touched whiskey again. So Mac thought it over.

  “Ma’am, this is the best part. Mac said he’d consider the offer but wanted to know if it was Mr. Omohundro’s custom to drown employees who displeased him. And your husband, ma’am, he didn’t blink an eye. He said Mac shouldn’t have worried, there was no da
nger. When he threw Mac over the side he took particular note of the nearest wave. It’s shape was distinctive, he said.”

  He laughed and took more wine to calm himself. Marguerite smiled. This was not the Silas she knew.

  Duncan had been like a will-o’-the-wisp, Jesse had been awkward sullen struggle. When they made love she lay passively. Silas—Silas was like what Marguerite imagined another woman might be, delicate, subtle: as though her skin and his skin were one. Duncan liked to make love out of doors in the sunlight. Silas invariably touched her in the night.

  Of all the powerful Omohundru clan, only Silas’s youngest half brother had been a friend to their father’s bastard. Marguerite understood that the legitimate half brother had borrowed heavily on Silas’s credit and reputation (and probably considerable of Silas’s money). Silas was an intuitive businessman who despised his natural skills. A bastard, he yearned to be a gentleman.

  “Why did you take up with me?” Marguerite once asked him.

  “I will prove you as fine as any lady in the land!” Silas said.

  Marguerite learned gentle manners so quickly it seemed she had always possessed them, and from the start she knew how to bend a conversation from indiscreet inquiries.

  Silas believed they could both become anything they pretended to be. Marguerite was unconvinced.

  “Are you a native of these islands?” her dining partner asked.

  Marguerite’s smile meant the young man should have known her people, that everyone did. He flushed. Forgiving him, she said, “Do try the mango sherbet. I do not believe you have mangos in your country.”

  The sherbet had been chilled by ice that had been cut from Maine’s Androscoggin River. Once an insignificant Caribbean trading port, the war had transformed Nassau into a mercantile capital with a hundred ships at the wharves or waiting to dock—ships from Europe, Britain, not a few from New York and Boston. King Cotton made it all possible. The Confederacy financed its purchases with cotton in hand or promised when the Confederacy won the war. Cotton drove the English and New England mills alike; cotton was better than money.