No Spot of Ground
Page 1
NO SPOT OF GROUND
Walter Jon Williams
No Spot of Ground
Walter Jon Williams
After years of civil war, the genius of Edgar Allan Poe is nearing the breaking point. Poe has devoted himself to the Confederacy, but his dreams of honor and glory are drowned in blood and slaughter far more vast than the terrors of his imagination.
Anguished, tortured by memories of his dead wife and his dead hopes, Poe finds himself holding a key position against Grant's assault, and must decide whether or not to sacrifice all that he still loves in service to a dying cause.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9889017-6-6
eISBN: 978-1-62579-301-0
Copyright © 1989, 2014 by Walter Jon Williams. All rights reserved.
Smashwords edition published by Walter Jon Williams
Cover art by: Thure de Thulstrup
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
Electronic version by Baen Books
www.baen.com
BOOKS BY WALTER JON WILLIAMS
Novels
Ambassador of Progress
Angel Station
Hardwired
Knight Moves
Voice of the Whirlwind
Days of Atonement
Aristoi
Metropolitan
City on Fire
The Rift (originally as by Walter J Williams)
Divertimenti
The Crown Jewels
House of Shards
Rock of Ages
Dread Empire’s Fall
The Praxis
The Sundering
Conventions of War
Investments (short novel)
Dagmar
This Is Not a Game
Deep State
The Fourth Wall
Collections
Facets
Frankensteins & Foreign Devils
The Green Leopard Plague and Other Stories
Privateers & Gentlemen (historical novels, originally as by Jon Williams)
To Glory Arise (originally published as The Privateer)
The Tern Schooner (originally published as The Yankee)
Brig of War (originally published as The Raider)
The Macedonian
Cat Island
NO SPOT OF GROUND
The dead girl came as a shock to him. He had limped into the Starker house from the firelit military camp outside, from a cacophony of wagons rattling, men driving tent pegs, provost marshals setting up the perimeter, a battalion of Ewell’s Napoleon guns rolling past, their wheels lifting dust from the old farm road, dust that drifted over the camp, turning the firelight red and the scene into a pictured outpost of Hell.
And here, to his surprise, was a dead girl in the parlor. She was perhaps sixteen, with dark hair, translucent skin, and cheeks with high painted spots of phthisis red. Her slim form was dressed in white.
She lay in her coffin with candles at her head and feet, and her long-faced relatives sat in a semicircle of chairs under portraits of ancestors and Jefferson Davis.
A gangly man, probably the dead girl’s father, rose awkwardly to welcome the surprised stranger, who had wandered into the parlor in hopes of asking for a glass of lemonade.
The intruder straightened in surprise. He took off his soft white hat and held it over his heart. The little gold knots on the ends of the hat cord rattled on the brim like muffled mourning drums.
“I am sorry to intrude on your grief,” he said.
The father halted in what he was going to say, nodded, and dropped back into his chair. His wife, a heavy woman in dark silk, reached blindly toward her husband, and took his hand.
The intruder stood for a long moment out of respect, his eyes fixed on the corpse, before he turned and put on his hat and limped out of the house. Once he had thought this sight the saddest of all; once he had written poems about it.
What surprised him now was that it still happened, that people still died this way.
He had forgotten, amid all this unnatural slaughter, that a natural death was possible.
*
That morning he had brought his four brigades north into Richmond, marching from the Petersburg and Weldon depot south of the James break-step across the long bridge to the Virginia Central depot in the capital. Until two days ago he’d commanded only a single brigade in the defense of Petersburg; but poor George Pickett had suffered a collapse after days of nerve-wrenching warfare in his attempt to keep the city safe from Beast Butler’s Army of the James; and Pickett’s senior brigadier was, perforce, promoted to command of the whole division.
The new commander was fifty-five years old, and even if he was only a division commander till Pickett came back, he was still the oldest in the army.
At school he had been an athlete. Once he swam six miles down the James River, fighting against the tide the whole way, in order to outdo Byron’s swim across the Hellespont. Now he was too tired and ill to ride a horse except in an emergency, so he moved through the streets of Richmond in a two-wheel buggy driven by Sextus Pompeiius, his personal darky.
He was dressed elegantly, English riding boots, black doeskin gloves, a spotless gray uniform with the wreathed stars of a brigadier on his collar and bright gold braid on the arms. His new white wide-brimmed hat, a replacement for the one shot off his head at Port Walthall Junction twenty days ago, was tilted back atop his high forehead. Even when he was young and couldn’t afford anything but old and mended clothes, he had always dressed well, with the taste and style of a gentleman. Sextus had trimmed his grizzled mustache that morning, back in camp along the Petersburg and Weldon, and snipped at the long gray curls that hung over the back of his collar. A fine white-socked thoroughbred gelding, the one he was too ill to ride, followed the buggy on a lead. When he had gone south in 1861 he had come with twelve hundred dollars in gold and silver, and with that and his army pay he had managed to keep himself in modest style for the last three years.
As he rode past the neat brick houses he remembered when it was otherwise. Memories still burned in his mind: the sneers of Virginia planters’ sons when they learned of his background, of his parents in the theater and stepfather in commerce; his mounting debts when his stepfather Mr. Allan had twice sent him to college, first to the University of Virginia and then to West Point, and then not given him the means to remain; the moment Allan had permitted the household slaves to insult him to his face; and those countless times he wandered the Richmond streets in black despondent reverie, when he couldn’t help gazing with suspicion upon the young people he met, never knowing how many of them might be living insults to his stepmother, another of Mr. Allan’s plentiful get of bastards.
The brigadier looked up as the buggy rattled over rusting iron tracks, and there it was: Ellis & Allan, General Merchants, the new warehouse of bright red brick lying along a Virginia Central siding, its loading dock choked with barrels of army pork. The war that had so devastated the Confederate nation had been kind only to two classes: carrion crows and merchants. The prosperous Ellis & Allan was run by his stepbrothers now, he presumed, possibly in partnership with an assortment of Mr. Allan’s bastards− in that family, who could say? The brute Allan, penny-pinching as a Jew with the morals of a nigger, might well have given part of the business to his illegitimate spawn, if for no other reason than to spite his foster son. Such was the behavior of the commercial classes that infected this city.
Richmond, he thought violently. Why in the name of heaven are we defending the place? Le
t the Yanks have it, and let them serve it as Rome served Carthage, burned to the foundations and the scorched plain sown with salt. There are other parts of the South better worth dying for.
Sextus Pompeiius pulled the mare to a halt, and the general limped out of the buggy and leaned on his stick. The Virginia Central yards were filled with trains, the cars shabby, the engines worn. Sad as they were, they would serve to get the division to where it was going, another fifteen miles up the line to the North Anna River, and save shoe leather while doing it.
The detestable Walter Whitman, the general remembered, wrote of steam engines in his poems. Whitman surely had not been thinking of engines like these, worn and ancient, leaking steam and oil as they dragged from front to front the soldiers as worn and tattered as the engines. Not trains, but ghosts of trains, carrying a ghost division, itself raised more than once from the dead.
The lead formation, the general’s old Virginia brigade, was marching up behind the buggy, their colors and band to the front. The bandsmen were playing “Bonnie Blue Flag.” The general winced− brass and percussion made his taut nerves shriek, and he could really tolerate only the soft song of stringed instruments. Pain crackled through his temples.
Among the stands of brigade and regimental colors was another stand, or rather a perch, with a pair of black birds sitting quizzically atop: Hugin and Munin, named after the ravens of Wotan. The brigade called themselves the Ravens, a compliment to their commander.
The general stood on the siding and watched the brigade as it came to a halt and broke ranks. A few smiling bandsmen helped the general load his horses and buggy on a flatcar, then jumped with their instruments aboard their assigned transport. The ravens were taken from their perch and put in cages in the back of the general’s carriage.
A lance of pain drove through the general’s thigh as he swung himself aboard. He found himself a seat among the divisional staff. Sextus Pompeiius put the general’s bags in the rack over his head, then went rearward to sit in his proper place behind the car, in the open between the carriages.
A steam whistle cried like a woman in pain. The tired old train began to move.
Poe’s Division, formerly Pickett’s, began its journey north to fight the Yanks somewhere on the North Anna River. When, the general thought, would these young men see Richmond again?
One of the ravens croaked as it had been taught: “Nevermore!”
Men laughed. They thought it a good omen.
*
General Poe stepped out of the mourning Starker house, the pale dead girl still touching his mind. When had he changed? he wondered. When had his heart stopped throbbing in sad, harmonic sympathy at the thought of dead young girls? When had he last wept?
He knew when. He knew precisely when his heart had broken for the last time, when he had ceased at last to mourn Virginia Clemm, when the last ounce of poetry had poured from him like a river of dark veinous blood.
When the Ravens had gone for that cemetery, the tombstones hidden in dust and smoke.
When General Edgar A. Poe, CSA, had watched them go, that brilliant summer day, while the bands played “Bonnie Blue Flag” under the trees and the tombstones waited, like chimneys marking the factories of a billion happy worms.
Poe stood before the Starker house and watched the dark form of his fourth and last brigade, the new North Carolina outfit that had shown their mettle at Port Walthall Junction, now come rising up from the old farm road like an insubstantial battalion of mournful shades. Riding at the head came its commander, Thomas Clingman. Clingman saw Poe standing on Starker’s front porch, halted his column, rode toward the house, and saluted.
“Where in hell do I put my men, General? One of your provost guards said up this way, but−”
Poe shook his head. Annoyance snapped like lightning in his mind. No one had given him any orders at all. “You’re on the right of General Corse, out there.” Poe waved in the general direction of Hanover Junction, the little town whose lights shone clearly just a quarter mile to the east. “You should have gone straight up the Richmond and Fredericksburg tracks from the Junction, not the Virginia Central.”
Clingman’s veinous face reddened. “They told me wrong, then. Ain’t anybody been over the ground, Edgar?”
“No one from this division. Ewell pulled out soon’s he heard we were coming, but that was just after dark and when we came up, we had no idea what to do. There was just some staff creature with some written orders, and he galloped away before I could ask him what they meant.”
No proper instruction, Poe thought. His division was part of Anderson’s corps, but he hadn’t heard from Anderson and didn’t know where the command post was. If he was supposed to report to Lee, he didn’t know where Lee was either. He was entirely in the dark.
Contempt and anger snarled in him. Poe had been ignored again. No one had thought to consult him; no one had remembered him; but if he failed, everyone would blame him. Just like the Seven Days.
Clingman snorted through his bushy mustache. “Confound it anyway.”
Poe banged his stick into the ground in annoyance. “Turn your men around, Thomas. It’s only another half mile or so. Find an empty line of entrenchments and put your people in. We’ll sort everyone out come first light.”
“Lord above, Edgar.”
“Fitz Lee’s supposed to be on your right. Don’t let’s have any of your people shooting at him by mistake.”
Clingman spat in annoyance, then saluted and started the process of getting his brigade turned around.
Poe stared after him and bit back his own anger. Orders would come. Surely his division hadn’t been forgotten.
“Massa Poe?”
Poe gave a start. With all the noise of marching feet and shouted orders, he hadn’t heard Sextus Pompeiius creeping up toward him. He looked at his servant and grinned.
“You gave me a scare, Sextus. Strike me if you ain’t invisible in the dark.”
Sextus chuckled at his master’s wit. “I found that cider, Massa Poe.”
Poe scowled. If his soft cider hadn’t got lost, he wouldn’t have had to interrupt the Starkers’ wake in search of lemonade. He began limping toward his headquarters tent, his cane sinking in the soft ground.
“Where’d you find it?” he demanded.
“That cider, it was packed in the green trunk, the one that came up with the divisional train.”
“I instructed you to pack it in the brown trunk.”
“I know that, Massa Poe. That fact must have slipped my mind, somehow.”
Poe’s hand clenched the ivory handle of his cane. Renewed anger poured like fire through his veins.
“Worthless nigger baboon!” he snapped.
“Yes, Massa Poe,” Sextus said, nodding, “I is. I must be, the way you keep saying I is.”
Poe sighed. One really couldn’t expect any more from an African. Changing his name from Sam to Sextus hadn’t given the black any more brains than God had given him in the first place.
“Well, Sextus,” he said. “Fortuna favet fatuis, you know.” He laughed.
“Massa always has his jokes in Latin. He always does.”
Sextus’s tone was sulky. Poe laughed and tried to jolly the slave out of his mood.
“We must improve your knowledge of the classics. Your litterae humaniores, you understand.”
The slave was annoyed. “Enough human litter around here as it is.”
Poe restrained a laugh. “True enough, Sextus." He smiled indulgently. "You are excused from your lessons.”
His spirits raised by the banter with his darky, Poe limped to his headquarters tent, marked by the division flags and the two ravens on their perch, and let Sextus serve him his evening meal. The ravens gobbled to each other while Poe ate sparingly, and drank two glasses of the soft cider. Poe hadn’t touched spirits in fifteen years, even though whiskey was a lot easier to find in this army than water.
Not since that last sick, unholy carouse in Baltimore.
Where were his orders? he wondered. He’d just been ordered to occupy Ewell’s trenches. Where was the rest of the army? Where was Lee? No one had told him anything.
After the meal, he’d send couriers to find Lee. Somebody had to know something. It was impossible they’d forgotten him.
*
Eureka, he called it. His prose poem had defined the universe, explained it all, a consummate theory of matter, energy, gravity, art, mathematics, the mind of God. The universe was expanding, he wrote, had exploded from a single particle in a spray of evolving atoms that moved outward at the speed of divine thought. The universe was still expanding, the forms of its matter growing ever more complex; but the expansion would slow, reverse; matter would coalesce, return to its primordial simplicity; the Divine Soul that resided in every atom would reunite in perfect self-knowledge.
It was the duty of art, he thought, to reunite human thought with that of the Divine, particled with unparticled matter. In his poetry he had striven for an aesthetic purity of thought and sentiment, a detachment from political, moral, and temporal affairs. Nothing of Earth shone in his verse, nothing contaminated by matter− he desired harmonies, essences, a striving for Platonic perfection, for the dialogue of one abstract with another. Beyond the fact that he wrote in English, nothing connected the poems with America, the nineteenth century, its life, its movements. He disdained even standard versification− he wrote with unusual scansions, strange metrics− the harmonies of octameter catalectic, being more rarified, seemed to rise to the lofty ear of God more than could humble iambic pentameter, that endless trudge, trudge, trudge across the surface of the terrestrial globe. He wanted nothing to stand between himself and supernal beauty, nothing to prevent the connection of his own mind with that of God.