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

by Donald McCaig

  “You gonna shave him?”

  “I never shaved no man in my life. Pompey’s gonna do that.”

  And so it proved. The two women washed Uther Botkin’s mortal remains and wrapped him neatly in his faded green blanket atop the bed where he’d slept since he’d come to this country.

  A different knock. “It’s me,” Pompey said and waggled his eyebrows.

  “Come in here and do what you come to do. And don’t you go cuttin’ him.”

  “Won’t hurt him a bit. Won’t no cut bother him anyways.” Officiously, Pompey laid Master Samuel’s Birmingham razors, a badger brush, and a shaving mug on a chair beside the bed.

  “I be bothered,” Opal said. “And I’m more bother than you want.”

  Pompey tried on a confident smile. “Shavin’ a dead man—there’s a trick to it. Dead man’s skin don’t bounce back, and they can’t twist their face to help you make a pass.” He whisked his razor on the strop.

  At the fire, Franky bent to sniff the funeral feast, a pot of brown beans with salt pork. Last November, when Opal’s neighbors brought their hogs out of the woods for slaughter, salting, and smoking, Opal had held back. When the smoke rose from the boiling fires and the tripods went up beside the meathouses, that’s when the Confederate commissary men came with their train of wagons. Some of the hogs were salted, some were half smoked, some hadn’t had the hair scalded off them yet, the commisary men took the hogs they found—even at Stratford. But Opal’s hogs hid in the woods eating acorns, coming out only for the corn she provided when snow covered the ground. Whenever she and Uther needed meat, she asked young Thomas to go into the woods and shoot one. Dragging a dead hog through the woods was hard work, but it was a sight better than no hog at all.

  The commisary men weren’t mannerly: a sharp knock on the door and three or four rough-looking gents who’d already been told a thousand times how they’d do more for the Confederacy in the army ’stead of stripping poor folks’ cupboards. They didn’t talk much, took what they wanted, and paid on the spot with Confederate currency.

  “Master Samuel gonna bring you back to Stratford, Auntie,” Pompey said. “I heard him and Mistress Abigail talkin’.”

  “What’d I do at Stratford?”

  Pompey spread lather on the dead man’s cheek. “Whatever needs doin’.”

  “Where’d I live?”

  Pompey grinned. “Live with me if you have a mind to.”

  Opal snapped, “I had me a jackass once and he weren’t no account. Why’d I want another?”

  Pompey pressed Uther’s slack jaw to tighten the skin. “No matter how hot your water, dead man sucks heat right out of it. There’s plenty room in the Quarters. Ain’t even half of us left.”

  “I believe I stay right here. Miss Sallie need somebody to keep this place while she away. Otherwise it fall to rack and ruin.”

  “Servant without no master? Ain’t natural.”

  Opal hefted herself onto a stool held together by twisted wire. “Old Uther, he weren’t my master exactly.”

  “You think white folks gonna let you stay here by yourself, livin’ in old Uther’s house and eatin’ old Uther’s food and sittin’ down in his chair when you’ve a mind to? Them partisan rangers come ridin’ down the road one dark night and find you alone, what you gonna do then?”

  Opal snorted. “I can shoot a shotgun same as any man.”

  Pompey wiped the razor on his pant leg. “Opal, you always was . . . unlikely. . . .”

  “We free. We emancipated. Master Abraham’s set all us free.”

  “Uh-huh.” Pompey wiped the razor on his pant leg and leaned very close to inspect his handiwork. “Why you want be free?”

  “I don’t want nothin’ changed! I want to lie my head down same place I been lyin’ it for twenty years. I want to milk the cow and churn the butter and fork cow droppings into the garden. My German beans already comin’ on.”

  Pompey took a step back for broader perspective. “I was wonderin’ what you’re gonna do with them riding boots of his.”

  “Boots belong to Miss Sallie.”

  Opal kept the boots in a locked chifforobe, the spavined horse out behind the shed, and the milk cow hobbled in the woods, though it meant carrying the milk a quarter mile. Opal feared the white folks coming to honor Uther Botkin would strip everything bare. If she couldn’t defend Uther’s boots from Pompey, how could she defend the furniture from any white man who wanted it? Suppose Preacher Todd said, “Old Uther promised me that mantel clock”?

  “Likely Miss Sallie don’t recall them boots,” Pompey said. “They made by that Lexington shoemaker. They real boots.”

  “What you need riding boots for? You don’t ride no horse.”

  “Because they so fine!” Pompey patted the corpse’s cheek, swished his blade through the water, and dried it. “I help you dress him if you want.”

  Franky let the curtain fall closed. “They comin’! Master Samuel and the preacher.” Pompey swiftly rolled his master’s razors in the towel and scooted his parcel under the dead man’s bed.

  “Pompey!” Franky said accusingly.

  “Mine weren’t sharp.” The barber flung open the door and cried, “Master Samuel, welcome to this here house of grief. Is the old Master Botkin inside, all fixed up for his funeral.”

  Samuel dismounted from the wagon. “Preacher, if you and my houseman here would carry in the sawbucks, you’ll have somewhere to set the coffin.” Before stepping inside his old friend’s home, Samuel Gatewood removed his hat. Beside the deathbed in that dim light, Samuel’s hair seemed too thin, too white.

  Though Preacher Todd’s workmanship was not so fine as could be got in Staunton or Lexington, it was adequate for a poor man’s coffin. “Careful, boy,” he cried. “Don’t bang it on the doorframe! Pine takes dents.” Once they had the coffin on the sawbucks, the preacher removed his hat and knelt to pray.

  Preacher Todd’s prayer was a lengthy Presbyterian prayer, during which he switched tracks several times, and he approached his terminus with a head of steam at some hazard he might roar right through the station. “All things we have are thy gift. In Jesus’ name. Amen.” He replaced his hat.

  The preacher filled his plate and cut a substantial slice of corn-bread. “Somebody in this house knows something about cornbread,” he observed.

  “Ain’t me,” Opal said. “Franky made it.”

  Preacher Todd rested his plate on the coffin lid. “Auntie Opal, you ordered this casket for Uther Botkin’s mortal remains. . . .”

  Opal blocked everybody’s view while she unlocked the chifforobe. “I believe you said three dollars.”

  Samuel Gatewood put out his hand for the purse. “That is Sallie’s money now,” he said. “I shall keep it safe for her.”

  “I been keeping it safe!” Opal blurted.

  “Of course you have. You’ve done your duty for old Uther and now you must do your duty for his daughter.”

  Opal’s face slackened, but she didn’t resist as Samuel took the purse. “Three dollars, sir?” Samuel said.

  “Gold?” the preacher inquired.

  “Oh dear, I’m sure not. Opal, what was your agreement?”

  “Scrip,” the woman said sullenly.

  The preacher satisfied himself with a second bowl of brown beans.

  Samuel asked Pompey and Franky to dress Uther in his old frock coat and best mended shirt. He and Aunt Opal stepped outside.

  “I’m gonna miss that old fool. I’m gonna miss him so.” Aunt Opal’s eyes overflowed.

  “I’m sure he is in a happier place.”

  Opal wiped her eyes with a rag and blew her nose into it. “Ain’t gonna be the same without him. That man knew some things. People listen to him and we wouldn’t be in all this trouble.”

  “Perhaps so. Auntie, after the burying, you’ll come live at Stratford. You are getting on in years and will want someone to care for you.”

  “I got some good years yet. Ain’t no better stockm
an in the county!” Quickly she added, “I lived here twenty years. Wasn’t Master Botkin takin’ care of me—you know that—was me takin’ care of him!”

  “Once this war is over, Auntie, and Sallie returns to her home, I’m sure she’ll want you. This past year Mr. Botkin was too ill to pay your rental, and I expect he failed to provide the agreed-upon shoes. Did he buy you shoes?”

  “I don’t need no shoes. I goes barefoot most of the time.”

  “You shall have shoes. Uther was a fine man, but I believe he may have been even less worldly than our good Preacher Todd.”

  The kitchen garden glistened in the sun, heat waves shimmered above the barn roof.

  “What about this?” Auntie Opal cried. “Who’s gonna milk the cow? You think somebody else gonna come in here and take care of things like I do?”

  “We’ll fallow the Botkin plantation. The Millboro telegraph reports a great battle is being fought outside the town of Gettysburg, in Pennsylvania. Early reports say General Lee is everywhere successful and has forty thousand Federal prisoners. If Lee destroys the Federal army, they must sue for peace. Auntie, perhaps your Sallie will come home soon—and Catesby and my poor dear Duncan. They might all be home for the harvest. . . .”

  Opal shook her head slowly. She said, “Ain’t ever gonna be the way it was.”

  LETTER FROM LIEUTENANT CATESBY

  BYRD TO HIS WIFE, LEONA,

  IN CAMP NEAR CULPEPPER, VIRGINIA

  JULY 25, 1863

  DEAREST LEONA,

  I write you in great excitement with great news! I have renounced my previous sinful ways and publicly confessed my desire to be a Christian! I cannot tell you how happy I am! I have never been a man of sanguine temperament, have oft seen the worse rather than the better, but I can today rejoice honestly and openly in the love of Christ my Savior!

  I have long been contemptuous of those plain souls who found solace in their Christian beliefs. Although I gave credit to Stonewall for his military abilities, I never honored the depth of his devotion to God. Now, too late, I would sit with Stonewall Jackson at one of his prayer meetings and take comfort from his stalwart faith! If only that Christian warrior were with us today!

  The army thinks that Stonewall’s absence cost us the victory at Gettysburg, and I am one who believes it true. Darling Wife, we did all mortal men can do. From Pickett’s division after their charge only one field officer returned to our lines; Garnett’s brigade of thirteen hundred lost nine hundred and fifty; a North Carolina company which began the fight with a hundred men now numbers eight. We have done what mortal men can! My own regiment expended itself on an assault on Culp’s Hill with a loss of fifty-six brave men. Our Major Cobb was wounded, and my fellow cardplaying sinner Sergeant Fisher is missing.

  Our army started home through rain and clinging mud and a civilian populace which found courage to fall upon our weakened wounded stragglers. When we reached the Potomac, the river was in full flood, the only bridge destroyed, and every small boat for miles was busy ferrying our wounded. The army itself had no means to cross back into Virginia. While we awaited the arrival of the Federal host, black despair was my bosom companion.

  But thanks to God, the enemy did not come! Day after day the river dropped, our engineers cobbled together a rude bridge, and while Longstreet’s men crossed that, our division attempted the ford. We taller men stood chest-deep in the deepest stretch of that swirling muddy river passing our comrades from hand to hand.

  When the sun came out to illuminate the far shore, our blessed garden of Virginia, I saw the Israelites fleeing Pharaoh’s hordes. A frightened soldier gripped my hands until I passed him on—to a stranger of unknown rank and unknown regiment who passed him to safety.

  That, Dearest Wife, was the moment God called to me.

  Even before our battle at Gettysburg, many from my company had been attending prayer meetings (held almost nightly) and the services which three mornings a week have replaced routine drill in this army.

  At one of these meetings, Private Henry Perkins was touched by grace and came to witness his new faith to me, though at the time I was a skeptic still. Private Perkins confessed his newfound surety of Christian salvation. “Sir,” he said, “I cannot speak of the satisfaction this has given me and how my parents will delight that I have given up cards and strong drink.” The boy’s face shone with fervor.

  Not two weeks later, below Culp’s Hill, a Federal cannon ball struck him, clean removing the top of his skull, and his brain flopped, two perfect lobes, into the dirt of the road. At the time, I was horrified, appalled at the harm hot steel wreaks on mortal flesh. But today, sharing the private’s Christian certainty, I believe that shot freed Private Perkins from every grief and peril in this world, and that Henry Perkins departed for heaven straightaway. I tell you, Dearest, I have seen these things.

  Preachers are everywhere among us. Our regimental chaplain, Captain Nelson, invites evangelists to speak at our meetings. Nightly we have fresh testimonies of one simple story: Christ, our Savior’s love for us!

  As I strive to become a Christian, I have renounced cards, and I cannot understand what I ever saw in them. How contemptible we sinners are!

  Although we ate well on our march through Pennsylvania (the war has hardly touched that country), here in our old camps along the Rapidan, rations are hard biscuit, a bit of beef, and the sassafras roots we dig to avoid the scurvy. Forage is so lacking for the horses most have been removed to the Valley to graze. General Lee is issuing no furloughs, and we may soon be back in the thick of it.

  I cannot tell you what joy it is to gather in the evening around the campfire with other professing Christians. Leathery veterans and downy-faced boys alike entreat their Savior on one another’s behalf. We pray for our leaders, for those in the regiment who have not seen the light of Christ’s truth, and for the safety of our new nation. Sometimes senior officers come, standing humbly on the outside of the circle, and twice General Lee himself attended. Quietly, a Christian among Christians, the general stood, head bowed and uncovered, listening to his men’s souls.

  Surely God will cherish and protect His people. Surely the many ardent prayers for our brave new nation will find His Favor.

  I pray daily for you and our dear, dear children. I pray things at Stratford are not too difficult and entreat you, Dearest Wife, to redouble Thomas’s Christian instruction. Temptations are strongest in young men. What if calamity should strike while a boy is strayed? I shudder to think what might have befallen me had I had been slain, still wallowing in sin, a frequenter of gambling hells and drinker of wines and hard liquor. Eternity in damnation in exchange for brief years of earthly mischief! Never in heaven to embrace my beloved parents, never to see our Baby Willie thriving in the Lord’s care, never to greet you, Dearest, when you cross over the River Jordan into Paradise!

  As Samuel must have told you, Duncan’s health continues precarious. We must trust the Lord to watch over him.

  This letter to you, my Darling, is the most joyous I have ever written. I am a new man and will strive with all my heart to be a Good Christian. I trust Providence for all my needs.

  Your Loving Husband,

  Catesby

  LOVE IN THE REBEL CAPITAL

  THE GIRL SAT in the corner of Marguerite Omohundru’s sunroom at farthest remove from her hostess. Her tea was untouched on the silver tray. She hadn’t taken off her jacket.

  Outdoors, red and golden leaves had been raked into hummocks; excepting the green-gray splash of rhododendron, the garden was bare. The sky had lifted—the way it always did in Richmond that time of year—and the air was so clear it snapped.

  The old woman was wrapped in a fur robe, and her withered head poked out of the robe like an opossum pretending to be a bear.

  The girl said, “I don’t know why you tell me these things. They’re not true. Everybody knows they aren’t true. Daddy says if I want to know what it was like I should read Thomas Nelson Page. I should take his bo
oks out of the library.”

  “I never met the gentleman.” The old woman brushed at a wisp of hair. “Was he in the army?”

  “My supervisor says I have to get on with my work,” the girl said. “If it hadn’t been for Uncle Harry, I’d have lost my job.”

  “A summer job?”

  “Well, that’s how it started. Phil, he . . .”

  “Started seeing someone else?”

  “Some Culpepper girl he met at Monticello. Phil works for the foundation. He’s a dollar-a-year man.”

  The old woman smiled. “Your supervisor has instructed you to interview other former servants?”

  “He says . . . Daddy says . . .”

  The old woman picked the lemon from her teacup and sucked on it. “Did I ever tell you why General Jackson sucked on lemons? He thought it improved his vitality. Lemons didn’t save his arm. It was North Carolina boys who shot him, you know.”

  “. . . that you’re no negro! They say you’ve been associating with negroes at your bank for so long you’ve come to think you’re one yourself. They say Mr. Omohundru met you in Nassua, in the Bahamas, and married you. Everybody knows it.”

  “Who else are you interviewing, child?”

  “Nobody. I get so sick of hearing the same story over and over. If one more old fool tells me about Cox’s snow, I swear I’m going to scream!”

  “It happened, you know.”

  “I know it happened. But why must I know about it?”

  “What do you do when you’re not working?”

  “Sometimes I go to the matinee.”

  “If you came here more often instead of wasting time at the movies you would be finished sooner.”

  The girl lifted her teacup and sipped.

  “Do you go out in society?”

  The girl pulled a face. “Everybody thinks I have a ridiculous job! And when I talk about you nobody believes me!”

  “After General Pickett made his fatal charge, gloom settled on Richmond, a gloom the ladies tacitly agreed to alleviate. Defying the continuous processions to Hollywood Cemetery and the mourning bands on so many sleeves, theatricals and charades and levees continued, and though there were times when some new-widowed belle broke into unconsolable sobs, Confederate officers toasted feminine charms as before the war, with all the gaiety they could muster.