After services, the Danzingers paid calls on their neighbors or received visitors at home. Alexander sat on the porch, blank-faced, as the Danzinger’s friends rattled on in German. For all he knew they were discussing him! Sometimes Alexander took long walks along the river, shunning the turnpike and better-traveled roads in favor of field edges and the dark woods where wild creatures rear their young. One restless Sunday he came into the kitchen where the women were preparing the Sunday dinner and offered to help, but the discomfort on Gretchen Danzinger’s face pushed Alexander out in a cloudburst of apologies.
When they sat to eat, Katrina, the eldest daughter, turned to Alexander with a smile. “Mother said you wish to become a hausfrau. It is more difficult to be a hausfrau than most men think!” The women and girls giggled while Seth and Willem pretended to find the whole business beneath their notice.
The next morning they greased hay-cart axles and sharpened scythes, and the Danzinger boys left the heaviest, dirtiest work to Alexander and weren’t satisfied until he was entirely filthy and reeking of masculine sweat.
When the seed heads came out of the boot, the Danzingers cut timothy. They started as soon as the dew dried, quit for dinner (cold chicken, potato salad, buttermilk) at noon. With the sun directly overhead, they began afresh and worked without pause until the evening dew settled. They cut two acres that day. Two days later they raked and stacked the hay. Although Seth had helped his father, he’d never made haystacks himself, and instead of bright green monuments to Brethren industry and God-fearing pride, Danzinger haystacks slumped dejectedly against the poles that skewered them. That night after supper, Alexander collapsed onto his pallet in the harness room with a groan.
By the third day, his hands were calloused, he’d found a working rhythm, and near noon—Gretchen Danzinger and her mother-in-law were laying out the meal under the shade of an old elm tree—Alexander wiped sweat from his forehead and imagined the men who had harvested since ancient days. While emperors reclined sulkily, bored with the rarest wines, in their fields men toiled and drank cool water, and who was to say which was the better portion?
Alexander kept this thought close to him, turning it over and over in his mind, because it was a different sort of thought from those he had had when he was in Yale’s cool library reading what scholars proposed. Could he be different? Do men change? How he hoped so!
The next day while he and Seth were honing their scythes, Alexander asked, “This work—how do the other Valley farmers do it?”
Seth was puzzled. “If they are Brethren,” he said, “they work as we do. If they are rich English, their slaves do it.”
“Don’t they miss it? The work?”
“Oh, they are much too busy. Rich English are busy making governments and making war.”
“But this is better,” Alexander said.
“Why yes,” Seth said, a trifle smugly. “Yes, it is.”
In the evenings, they sat on the porch, and sometimes Grandmother read meditations aloud from her German prayer book. Seth whittled and Willem daydreamed. He was a dreamy boy. Alexander thought to warn the boy against dreaming, warn him that he should hold fast this world, that the distance between the self and the world should not grow too wide, that a man can lose his way and not be able to find his way back. He said nothing of this, however, because his tongue had thickened from disuse, and he spoke no more than he needed to get through each day. Alexander Kirkpatrick almost felt safe, almost happy.
One Friday evening, just at sundown, the Burkeholders arrived for a visit. The women drank tea and gossiped in the kitchen while the men sat in the parlor and talked livestock prices. As eldest Danzinger, Seth was allowed to join them. When someone asked Alexander if cattle prices were too high and would hog prices hold, Alexander shrugged and went outside. Under the watchful gaze of grandmothers from both families, stiff as porcelain dolls, young Karl Burkeholder sat in the porch glider beside Katrina Danzinger. Despite these intimidating circumstances, young Karl described his new roan colt animatedly and Katrina replied with the appropriate female interest. Alexander walked into the dooryard and sat under a tree. Would his life have been better if his mother hadn’t died so young? If his uncle hadn’t been so old and reclusive?
A figure crossed the yard, between him and the house. “You’ll learn to talk livestock prices if you hope to be a farmer,” Lewis Burkeholder said. “A farmer who can’t talk about the weather or prices has little to say.”
Alexander leaned back against his tree, his hands pillowing his head. Fireflies caroused through the balmy spring evening.
“You come from the war,” Burkeholder said.
“Yes.”
“Before they hanged him, John Brown said, ‘The sins of slavery will be washed out in blood.’ Were you with the Federals or Confederates?”
“Does it make any difference?”
“To a pacifist like myself, it oughtn’t. But it’s hard not to prefer the Confederates. Gretchen Danzinger says you’re educated. Our people are not overfond of ‘the learned professors.’ ”
“I don’t care about that anymore.”
“Uh-huh. I was a friend of Henry Danzinger’s. He was our bishop, and traveled all over the countryside preaching. Henry wasn’t the best farmer. Some of his haystacks weren’t much better than yours.”
“We worked hard on those haystacks! The boys and I did the best we could!”
“We kept meaning to come down and help, but we didn’t get ahead of our own work until this afternoon. Not very neighborly, I fear.” Burkeholder hunkered down. A bulky shadow—his eyes gleamed. “God didn’t care that Henry Danzinger was only a fair farmer. While he was alive, he fed his family and they were happy. I don’t believe he was killed for his money. Because of his travels the partisan rangers thought Henry was a Federal spy.” Burkeholder sighed. “God moves in mysterious ways.”
Alexander uncrossed his leg and recrossed it.
“Gretchen Danzinger is an upright woman,” Burkeholder said. “She will make some man a good wife. It would be better if she chose among her own people.”
The words banged against Alexander’s ears. Was there no safe and silent place where the world wouldn’t intrude on him?
Burkeholder uncoiled and stretched and yawned and called, “Karl, I believe you have told Miss Danzinger quite enough about your new colt for one night and we’ve got to take syrup into New Market on the morrow. A clever lad would ask Miss Danzinger if she’d like to come over on Sunday and see your colt. Fetch your mother and sisters and hitch our buggy.” To Alexander, Burkeholder said, “Will you accompany us into New Market? Oh, the Saturday market is a regular Babylon: planters, Brethren, millers, drovers. And all the Confederate commissary men too.”
“I believe I’ll stay here.”
“I thought you might. None of us will give you up to the army. We would not hurt Gretchen for all the riches of Nineveh.”
The Burkeholders said their goodbyes and the boys brought the buggy around, and directly the Burkeholders’ buggy lantern diminished down the road.
Afterward, Alexander took a cup of tea out onto the porch. The swing where the courting couple had sat was still warm from their bodies. Gretchen Danzinger came and sat at the extremest end of the swing. “Do not concern yourself about Lewis Burkeholder,” she said. “Lewis thinks he is responsible for everything that goes on around him. His father was the same way. When our bishops are selected, it is never a Burkeholder. A Burkeholder would be more bishop than we need.”
“I think . . . I think I am happy here.”
“Once I was happy too,” she said.
“I wish . . .” Alexander said, and a yearning filled his body, a yearning which made his body light, as a boy’s body is light, so light he might fly into the night sky and companion the moon.
“You are shivering,” Gretchen Danzinger said. “Behind the door is Henry’s coat. Tomorrow I will lengthen the sleeves.”
AN EVENING AT
JOHNNY WORSH
AM’S
GAMBLING HELL
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
MAY 29, 1863
CATESBY SPENT THE afternoon with wounded officers, thanked the matrons, and when he left Camp Winder felt his customary relief.
It was a fine long spring evening, and the wind buffeted Richmond and whipped chimney smoke into frail banners. In some lights, war-battered Richmond was lovely. The lilacs were concluding luxuriant bloom, and every wrought-iron fence was glossy with climbing roses. Shy blossoms peeped out among the foliage. Catesby plucked a white one and tucked it through the top buttonhole of Leona’s homespun shirt. The shirt had the thick comforting nap of a scarcely worn garment and gave off the faintly oily smell of the butternuts she’d used for dye. The wool had been combed and carded, spun and plied, by his dear wife before it went on the loom. Leona had worked on this shirt while she mourned for infant Willie. Sudden coolness in the air shivered Catesby.
Samuel Gatewood had assured him that Leona’s health was much improved. On their remote mountain plantation, Leona and the children were safe from the ravages if not the hardships of the war. He had done all he could for them. Plus, he had two hundred dollars in poker winnings he could lose without regrets. If he were to lose every penny it would mean nothing. Catesby played for sociability. A man needed sociability.
Catesby’s bundle of Confederate shin plasters had, over the course of pleasant evenings at Johnny Worsham’s, grown plump as a yearling hog. Many officers came in drunk and hurled their money down upon cards that couldn’t possibly support their wagers. Others played hand after hand as if dazed, scarcely more pleased when they won than when they lost.
From the first time Catesby came in, Johnny Worsham misread him, taking him for a wealthy planter or successful speculator, treating him with the special courtesy he proffered to men with deep purses.
At Johnny’s front door a trio of enlisted men were kept at bay by two bouncers wearing cocky bowler hats. Catesby sometimes wondered how the young brutes had avoided conscription. “Naw, boys, you don’t want to come in here. This ain’t for the likes of you. Go on down to Shockoe Bottom and have yourselves a good time. Evenin’, Genr’l.” The bouncer threw Catesby a mocking two-fingered salute.
Johnny was just inside. The buffet was being replenished by a colored man dressed all in white. “You know,” Worsham said, “I had me a Frenchie in here last night. He said our spread was as grand as anything in Paris. What do you think of that?”
“I’ve never been to Paris, Johnny. You’ll have to ask someone else.”
“Say, I thought you were a cosmopolite.”
“Johnny, I’m just a soldier who used to be a lawyer. Hoped to be circuit judge one day.”
“Billy, bring out another stack of plates,” Johnny Worsham called. “You gonna play tonight or you just come in to eat something?”
Catesby shrugged.
“That Fightin’ Joe Hooker that General Lee whipped—they say Hooker’s a poker player. I’d like to get him in here. Sit him down opposite Mr. Benjamin or Mr. Omohundru.”
“The slave speculator?”
“Omohundru owns a blockade runner. Can’t think what it’s called—fastest boat on the Cape Fear. He’s got him a first-rate pilot and a good captain, and the Federals can’t catch him. Supposed to have a Bahamian wife, but I’ve never seen her. Not many ladies come in here. Omohundru’s in Richmond for the government. He generally comes in after midnight.”
“An Omohundru once frequented my country. A kinsman, perhaps.”
Catesby extracted a Havana and perched on a stool at the tiny bar (Johnny didn’t make it convenient to leave the gaming tables). He drew rich smoke into his lungs and was content. Catesby wondered if he’d live to see the end of the war and decided on the spot that he simply did not care. Those who worried about surviving this war joined one of the California-bound wagon trains, fled abroad, or deserted. Half of Catesby’s regiment had deserted. Some returned for the important battles and then deserted again, others disappeared for good.
Catesby Byrd was an officer in Marse Robert’s army. Had there ever been such a band of men under the sun? Hurrah for the bonny blue flag that bears a single star!
Catesby found a glass of champagne at his elbow, though he had not ordered it.
“That is Judah Benjamin?” Catesby asked.
Worsham nodded at a portly man whose head was too big for his body. “Yes, the Secretary of State.”
“Is it not his Sabbath?’
“Mr. Benjamin’s Sabbath starts when the tables close. Or when city police come through the door. Couple, three weeks ago they raided us, but the boys delayed them until the gentlemen could escape out the windows.”
“I see a vacant chair.”
Worsham chuckled. “No man with money to lose ever got turned away from his table. Benjamin learned his game in New Orleans. Have a care.”
With his untasted glass, Catesby ambled through the crowd. “Gentlemen?”
The dealer, Johnny’s houseman, managed a jerky nod. Benjamin lifted his open sunny face and one eyebrow. “I hope you won’t take offense, Lieutenant. You honor us with your presence. But our game is table stakes and we require an initial investment of five hundred.”
Catesby flushed. From his side pocket he extracted his own two hundred and fattened his stake with the regiment’s clothing fund from his money belt. When he casually tossed the cash on the table, some slick Confederate bills slid to the floor, and stooping to gather them, Catesby felt the fool.
After Catesby was seated, Benjamin touched his arm. “I meant no offense, sir,” he said. “We in government have done such a poor job of providing for our gallant armies that I worried you might play and be embarrassed, and I did not wish to compound the inadequacy for which I and my ilk are responsible.”
The man’s smile was so warm and charming Catesby relaxed. “Catesby Byrd of Warm Springs. I am honored to make your acquaintance, sir.”
“When you gents are done bein’ honored with each other,” the houseman said, “I’ll deal the cards.” To Catesby he explained, “House rakes a dollar a pot.”
Catesby looked around, smiling. It was so pleasant to be gambling. It was only scrip, not much different from the buttons they sometimes played for in camp. The Confederate dollar he laid on the baize as his ante—this week eight of them would buy a single gold dollar. Next week what would they be worth?
The players were a colonel of artillery, a cavalry captain, a naval officer, a civilian, and Judah Benjamin, who watched benignly as each man inspected his down card.
To the naval officer, Catesby said, “Have you heard news of the Alabama? Does she still harass Federal shipping?”
The naval officer looked up. “I have heard nothing since she took the Hatteras in January.”
“She is our ghost.” Catesby lifted his glass. “Gentlemen, the Alabama!”
Benjamin murmured “Alabama” with the others but added, “Lieutenant, I believe it is your wager. I cannot speak for these other gentlemen, but after a long week in the government, I am ready to forget the war. Surely gentlemen have more civilized topics for discourse.”
Catesby flushed at Benjamin’s reproof.
The naval officer ignored it. “I was gunnery officer on the ironclad Virginia. When we had to scuttle her because the whole Confederacy didn’t have a port for her, I was transferred, and now I train Confederate naval cadets who don’t have a ship to serve on. I’ll raise a dollar.”
Catesby felt twice insulted. First Benjamin had doubted his financial resources, then he’d implied that the war in which Catesby might die wasn’t worth the attention of civilized men. “Sir,” Catesby said tensely.
Benjamin lifted a placatory hand. “When Mr. Davis and I served as senators in the Federal Congress, during the course of a debate on, of all things, military procurement, I misunderstood him, he misunderstood me, I compounded my misunderstanding, and he returned the favor. Beyond some mark, invisible to each of us until we were
well past it, honor and reputation became involved, and had Mr. Davis not courteously apologized, we would have fallen prey to the rigors of the Code Duello. In a conciliatory spirit, my fiery young lieutenant, I apologize if my remarks have caused offense. I had not meant them to.”
And Catesby felt a worse fool but said, “You are too gracious, sir.”
Mr. Benjamin said, “I believe my two queens lose to Colonel Binghamton’s three sevens.” He raised a finger and a waiter promised a fresh bottle of champagne.
Catesby did not play energetically. If he lost his two hundred and was reduced to the regiment’s money, he’d quit. He anted, lost his ante, watched play unfold.
The naval officer and Benjamin were skilled players. The colonel of artillery had been assigned to the Army of Tennessee, would depart Richmond tomorrow, and played morosely. The cavalry captain was not yet twenty, one of J.E.B. Stuart’s troopers. His uniform was finely tailored and he had a gentleman’s contempt for money. At the rate he was losing it, that was fortunate.
Benjamin played an unspectacular game; sometimes he bluffed wildly with poor cards, and these rare flamboyances invited the other gamblers into subsequent traps where Benjamin’s hole cards ground them up. Occasionally, Benjamin withdrew money from the table, so his visible stakes were never much larger than the others’.
The rhythms of the game became the rhythms of Catesby’s blood, and when the young cavalryman angrily stood and said, “Well, I believe you have all the money I’m going to give you,” his outburst was a traditional flourish within those rhythms as was the appearance of Johnny’s bowler-hatted bouncers at the cavalryman’s elbow and the murmur, “Sir, Mr. Worsham would be honored if you’d take a brandy with him.” The captain’s flustered refusal and stormy exit were reprise and diminuendo.
Benjamin glanced at his cards. “When I was a boy in Charleston, buzzards perched near the marketplace, and because they removed the market’s waste, they were tolerated and a fine of five dollars was imposed for shooting one. They became so tame they walked under the merchants’ feet and children fed them scraps. When I am tempted to think that we Confederate administrators are indispensable, I recall those buzzards.”
Jacob's Ladder Page 33
