The Calm and the Strife

by David J. Sloat

  “Where?” Ginnie asked, bristling at the order.

  “My friend, Maria Comfort, is coming by in a while. We’re going over to Mr. Tyson’s Photographic Shop. You have to come.”

  “Why are you going there?” Ginnie asked, puzzled.

  “To get our picture taken, of course. Everybody’s doing it. For the soldiers. I’m getting one made for Lou to take with him.”

  “And you want me to go with you? Who’s paying for all this?”

  “Maria, of course.”

  Ginnie looked at her, totally confused. “Why would she pay for us to have our pictures taken?”

  Georgia sighed impatiently. “I couldn’t ask Mama for the money, and I didn’t have enough to pay for it myself. Maria said she would pay for half of it if we had our pictures taken together. Then she could have a picture of me, too. This way, it would only cost me half as much.”

  “And who’s paying for the other half?”

  “Maria,” Georgia said, laughing at Ginnie’s expression. “Well, she’s lending me the money. I can pay it back a little at a time and Mama will never know.” Then, brightening, she added, as if finally getting to the point, “But, if we all get our pictures taken together, we each have to pay only a third of the cost.”

  “What am I going to do with a picture?” Ginnie asked indifferently, shaking her head.

  Georgia stopped her. “Give it to Jack, of course!”

  This thought, though she realized it should have been obvious, had not occurred to her. She pondered it for a moment. “I don’t know. That seems a little....”

  Georgia sighed heavily. “You don’t have to give it to him if you don’t want. Do it for me then. I want you to be there. We’ve never had our pictures taken together. Please.”

  Ginnie closed her eyes, resigned to the fact that her sister would badger her until she got what she wanted. “All right, I’ll get ready,” Ginnie said without emotion.

  Maria arrived shortly afterward and helped each girl braid her hair and arrange it in a crown on top of her head. With a final look in the mirror and an admonition to their brother Jack to watch Sam and Henry, they set off. The three women walked up to Chambersburg Street to where Charles Tyson maintained a photography studio in his home, west of the Diamond. They sat for several poses, most of which showed Maria in the middle with Georgia on her right and Ginnie on her left, their hands and arms linked in friendship and affection. Mr. Tyson assured the girls that he could have the pictures ready the next morning, in spite of the fact that many other women in town had the same idea.

  They returned home and set to work on the two uniforms. By bedtime, some striking alterations had been made. They added dark stripes down the sides of the trousers, substituted brass buttons for the black bone ones that came with the blouses, and stitched piping around the cuffs, collar and front. Also, they reworked the shirts so that they fit properly. Lou stopped by early the next morning and sat impatiently while Georgia hurried to finish her sewing. Ginnie, having been flustered by Jack’s attention, made a point of running an errand so as not to be home when he stopped by.

  When she returned, the men had collected their uniforms and reported for more indoctrination. The house was empty. Ginnie sat for a while staring out the window. Her inner chaos matching the chaos in the streets, she realized that she was more confused than ever. Her feelings for Wes had not changed, but in the past few days she found her thoughts wandering more frequently to Jack. She didn’t have the same kind of feeling for Jack that she had always had for Wes, but she could not deny the strange elation she felt when his name was mentioned or when he looked at her. Her mind was filled with questions that she had no way to resolve and, worse, she had no one to talk to about her problem. She wanted to be true to Wes, but she had no idea if he was ever coming home. Should she wait for him? Everyone said that he was a traitor and that she was suspect for harboring feelings for him. Jack was attractive she had to admit, and his style was far more polished than Wes’. It was a compliment to have him show an interest in her. But what about Wes?

  She slipped back out of the house before her mother was due and headed north, determined to talk to her father about her inner turmoil. She made the familiar trip quickly, pausing only to catch her breath before knocking on the door of the Poor House. The large attendant with the dead eyes opened the door a crack, leering at her from the darkness.

  “I need to see my father.”

  Another voice came from inside, “I’ll take care of this, Samuel.” The attendant stood to one side and a tall, thin man whom Ginnie had never seen before appeared. “May I help you? I’m Mr. Kemp, the superintendent.”

  Ginnie was relieved to have someone more pleasant than the brutish attendant to deal with. As Kemp squinted at her through his pince-nez, she stuttered, “I’m…I need to see James Wade…my father.”

  “Do you, now?” he asked contemptuously. “This is not a boarding house, you know. We don’t have visitors here.” His curt manner made it apparent that argument would be useless. But Ginnie was determined.

  “Please, sir, just for a moment. I have to see him. It’s important.” She smiled hopefully, trying to hide her shaking hands.

  “Mr. Wade is not himself today. I’m afraid he would not recognize you, even if you might be his daughter.” Before she could express her resentment at his comment, Mr. Kemp nodded a farewell and shut the door in her face. Loneliness and confusion overwhelmed her as she made her way back to the road, where she found herself weeping. She paused for a final glance at the front window, hoping to see the face of her father. But there was no one.

  On Friday morning, most of the town gathered again, this time at the railroad station, two blocks north of the Diamond. Everyone wanted to bid the new soldiers goodbye as they left for war. Railroad Street was thronged with clusters of people – parents bidding sons farewell, wives and lovers making the most of their sweet sorrow.

  Ginnie walked to the station with Georgia and Lou, who were oblivious of her presence. Wondering whether she would see Jack, she looked around the crowd, impressed by the number of young men in uniform. There seemed to be so many, but she knew there were fewer than a hundred in all. She tried to imagine the seventy-five thousand soldiers that Lincoln had called for, all gathered in one place, but found that her imagination was not up to the challenge.

  A tap on her shoulder brought her out of her reverie. She turned to see Jack dressed in his newly tailored uniform. “Come to see me off?” he asked with a grin.

  A flush of pleasure warmed her cheeks. She smiled and said, “I thought I’d come see if you’d messed up my handiwork yet.”

  He snapped to attention, turning around so she could examine him. “It looks wonderful,” he said with a smile. “Thank you so much.” Grabbing her hand, he pulled her away from Georgia and Lou. She was too surprised to object.

  “I wanted to see you yesterday to ask you something, but you weren’t home when I came for the uniform.” Ginnie felt a flush of guilt. He looked down at her intently. “You know that Wes isn’t coming back.”

  She frowned at the mention of his name. “I don’t know what he’s going to do….”

  Jack cut her off. “He’s not coming back, Ginnie. He’s made up his mind to quit this town for his new friends, and that means giving you up as well. I think he’s wrong and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  She felt herself begin to tingle with resentment. “You never liked Wes,” she said heatedly. “You’re glad that they’re calling him a traitor.” The indignation in her voice caused him to pause.

  “Ginnie,” he said, pleading for her understanding, “this has nothing to do with Wes. It has to do with you and me. I’m going away and I have to say this before I go. I like you, Ginnie. I think you know that. I didn’t want to come between you and Wes, but now he’s gone and I don’t want to miss my chance.”

  Ginnie opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come. Jack looked at his feet nervously, and Ginnie realized
that he was embarrassed. She had never before seen him at a loss for words and it amused her. He cleared his throat a few times before speaking. “I...I mean, I was wondering if you would consider...being my girl.”

  Although she knew what he was going to say, she still felt both shock and thrill when she heard the words. She stared at him for a moment until he finally found the courage to look at her. She had often wondered how she would answer such a question, but now that the moment was here it seemed hard to say anything but yes.

  She nodded her head slowly. The look of embarrassment on Jack’s face was instantly replaced with a huge smile. He grabbed her hands and shook them awkwardly, babbling, “Oh, I’m so happy.”

  The train whistled and Captain Buehler shouted for the men to get aboard. There was a flurry of activity as people said their last goodbyes. Jack looked at her, his lip quivering.

  “May I kiss you, Ginnie?” he asked in a hurry.

  Ginnie felt herself begin to tremble as he stooped and touched her lips lightly with his, then kissed her again, harder. She grasped him tightly around the neck feeling his strong arms support her and hold her close, and they embraced for a long moment. When he pulled away, she was surprised to see his eyes glittering with tears. “I wish I had something of yours to take with me,” he whispered.

  It was only then that Ginnie remembered the picture in the pocket of her dress. She pulled it out and handed it to him, captivated by the light in his eyes as he studied her likeness. Then he was off, lost in the crush of poorly uniformed figures all trying to board the train at the last minute.

  Jack found a window and she caught sight of him again just as the train began to chug slowly north toward the state capital. Around her, hundreds of others waved and called out names, but she was oblivious to the clamor. Her brimming eyes were filled not with the sadness of loss but with the joy of discovery.

  Chapter 10

  JACKSON

  Harper’s Ferry, Virginia

  April 23, 1861

  Wes paced the dark street trying to keep his mind from wandering. Down the slope, the town was silent. It was, after all, the middle of the night when only spirits were abroad. The rivers gurgled in the distance, the wind whispered through the trees, and Wes shivered, feeling small and alone.

  It had been a week since they had come to Harper’s Ferry. He and the other Guards had been among the first to arrive but, with the governor’s call to arms, the Ferry had become the focal point for troops because of the armory which was located there. At last count, there were well over four thousand men from cities all over the western part of Virginia. The streets were filled with carts, horses and various other articles of war. Daily, new militia units marched down the long hill to join the crowd, filling to double and triple capacity the already overcrowded buildings serving as makeshift barracks.

  Wes had never seen so many people in one place at one time. There were men in wildly colorful uniforms with baggy pantaloons and strange, flat hats with tassels. There were men who had come right from the farm and who carried axes and pitchforks instead of rifles. There were men in coonskin hats and bearskin coats who looked as if they had never before been in a town. Morale was high and almost everyone enjoyed “playing soldier.” The various units engaged in daily marches up and down the streets in the center of town as officers struggled to learn how to move masses of men in the same direction at the same time. The Guards, because of their previous experience, performed better than most and, as a result, were required to drill for only an hour or two a day. The rest of the time was reserved for enjoyment, and they worked hard at it.

  Whisky and ale were plentiful, appearing in huge quantities each night as if by magic. Wes had never been with people who drank so much, and he had spent most of the past week either drunk or hung over. During one of his stupors, he had apparently said something to an officer which was not appreciated. He didn’t recall the incident, but it had resulted in his pulling extra guard duty outside the town.

  So he walked, trying to keep warm and awake because, even though there was little possibility of the Federals attacking tonight, he knew that if he were caught asleep at his post he would be thrown into the stockade – or worse. Several men in his company had already been caught asleep on duty. There had been talk of firing squads, but so far the offenders had merely been locked up for a while.

  After a few hours, boredom set in and Wes began to fantasize in an attempt to stay alert. Various noises became approaching Federal scouts whom he surprised and captured. He imagined pointing his gun at the frightened enemy soldiers and herding them off toward town where he would sound the alarm. Then all the others would come storming out and see what he had done, congratulating him and praising his courage.

  With a start, Wes came out of his reverie. What a moment ago had been nothing more than wind in the trees now formed itself into real hoof beats coming down the road, straight toward him. Instantly, all his boldness vanished. He fought off a painful fear that paralyzed his arms as he struggled to raise his gun in the direction of the approaching horsemen. Peering down the dark road in dread, he knew it was unlikely that another militia unit would be arriving this late.

  The horsemen broke around the bend in the road with a suddenness that terrified Wes. His guard post was lit solely by two lanterns, one on either side of the road. He planted himself squarely between them and waited, aware that the lights made him a better target.

  “Halt, or I shoot!” He had tried to yell it convincingly, but it came out more like a strangled soprano. The group, seeing him standing in their path, slowed and reined in ten yards away, their uniforms still obscured by the darkness. Wes pointed his gun unsteadily at them, knowing he should say something. With as much fierceness as he could regain he shouted, “Who goes there?”

  The lead horsemen edged forward a few steps and the tall figure in the center spoke in a calm voice. “I’m here to take command, son. If you’ll relax for a few seconds, I’ll show you my orders.” The man waited a moment, then said, “Please put that gun down, soldier. It’d be a poor start to get shot by one of my own men.” The horsemen behind him laughed quietly in the darkness.

  When Wes lowered his musket slightly, the man reached into his knapsack, pulled out a sheet of paper, leaned over and offered it to Wes. In the feeble light, Wes could see that the man was wearing the blue coat of the United States Army. This sent a confused shockwave through Wes. What if he was an enemy pretending to be a friend? Rather than taking the piece of paper, he raised his gun again, stepped back and said, “That uniform says you’re a Yankee.”

  He could hear the officer sigh. “You’re doing your job well, soldier. But we don’t have any Confederate uniforms yet, now do we?” Wes shook his head as he began to understand the problem. “So rather than ride into camp in my long johns,” he continued, “I thought I’d wear the uniform I was wearing before the war started.” He paused, waiting for Wes to react.

  Wes lowered his musket again and mumbled, “You may pass.”

  “Oh,” said the horseman. “Now you don’t want to see my orders?” Wes glanced at the sheet of paper the man held out to him a second time, but in the dark he couldn’t make it out and, in any event, he was too rattled to read it. He handed it back and the man asked, “Who’s your commanding officer?”

  Wes came to attention. “Um, Colonel Allen, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Well, th-that is...” Wes stuttered, “he’s my commander. I-I’m not sure who his commander is.”

  Looking down on Wes from high atop his horse, the new commander said, “Well, why don’t you take me to Colonel Allen, Private, and we can get this all sorted out.”

  Wes, still trembling, knew he should lead the group to company headquarters. But he hesitated because there was an irrational feeling tingling up his spine that, if he turned around, they would shoot him in the back. The man on the horse said with impatience, “Son, I don’t think the Federals are going to attack tonight.
And if we were the enemy, one of us would probably be dead by now. So, why don’t you just take us to your officers.”

  “Yes sir,” Wes responded, his anxiety somewhat allayed. He turned and trotted off down the hill into town, glancing back every so often to make certain that the horsemen were not just illusions in the dark. They remained a few paces behind him, the large horses bobbing their heads nervously, bidding their riders to turn them loose.

  Arriving at the house Colonel Allen was using as his headquarters, Wes marched up the front steps and knocked on the door. After a long, tense wait, during which he kept glancing nervously at the newcomers, the door was opened by a bleary-eyed young man wearing a disheveled lieutenant’s uniform.

  “What?” the officer demanded unpleasantly.

  Wes, standing as straight as he could, said, “I need to see Colonel Allen.”

  The officer scoffed indignantly. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Private Culp of the Hamtramck Guards.” Before the lieutenant could respond again, Wes felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, realizing that the lead horseman had dismounted and come up behind him.

  “It’s all right,” the new commander said to Wes. “I’ll handle it from here. You did a fine job.” Then he turned his attention to the man in the doorway. “I’m here to see Colonel Allen. I’m the new commander, Colonel Jackson. Be so good as to wake him for me.” His tone was quiet but authoritative, and Wes felt suddenly secure beside this man whose face he still had not seen clearly. The lieutenant responded instantly to his commanding tone. He opened the door wide for him, then climbed the stairs to get the colonel, while the other horsemen followed their leader through the door. Wes, not knowing what was expected of him, stood quietly outside the open door.

  Colonel Allen came down the stairs holding a lamp in one hand and trying to button his shirt with his other. The young lieutenant scurried behind him, holding another lamp aloft. As Allen reached the landing, his visitor stepped forward. “Good evening, Colonel. I am Colonel Thomas Jackson. I’m carrying orders from General Robert E. Lee authorizing me to take command here. I apologize for waking you, but I thought it best to begin straight away.” He handed Allen the sheet of paper he had shown Wes earlier.