Jacob's Ladder

by Donald McCaig

  Ollie whinnied his laugh.

  “You haven’t heard how the bluebellies tried to assassinate President Davis? Colonel Dahlgren brought five hundred troopers to the outskirts of Richmond, and they was to slip in, murder Jeff Davis, and slip out again.”

  Seth said, “We do not read newspapers.”

  “Well, then how in the hell are you gonna get the news? Our brave boys put paid to Colonel Dahlgren. You don’t read newspapers, how you learn about that?”

  “If it is important,” Seth said, “someone will tell us.”

  “And this ain’t important? Bluebellies tryin’ to assassinate Jeff Davis ain’t important?”

  Gretchen Danzinger held up her thick black book. “This is all the news we need.”

  “Well, Colonel Dahlgren wasn’t in that Bible, but Judas Iscariot surely was. How you think them bluebellies gonna get near President Davis if Judas Iscariots ain’t helping them do it?”

  Seth looked straight ahead.

  “Traitors,” Captain Stump went on. “Oh, we Confederates, we have got vipers in our bosom. Tolerate them?” He chortled knowingly. “We embrace them. Those Federals, they know better. Some newspaper criticizes Tyrant Lincoln? They shut it down. Some traitor starts speaking against the government? Secretary Stanton writes his name, and snap!—that man is in prison. You think the Federals tolerate traitors in their midst? I should say not. But here in the Confederacy we don’t tolerate traitors, no, you bet we don’t.” The captain groped for the right words. “We give them suck!”

  Seth said, “Sir, we are citizens of the Confederate States of America. Please, let us pass.”

  “Why, Seth Danzinger, your citizenship was what we was wanting to talk to you about. If you don’t mind stepping down, your womenfolks can continue unmolested.”

  “Seth, you will not,” Gretchen Danzinger said firmly.

  Captain Stump sighed. “Seth, there was some of my men here wanted to have our talk in your home. It ain’t so far down the lane, you ain’t got no near neighbors, so we wouldn’t be disturbed. Now, some of these boys are rough cobs—not the sort you’d want trampin’ through your parlor.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “And although I don’t like to admit it, some of my boys—good boys all—they have a weakness for spirituous liquors, and a few, why they’d drink anything—that brandy kept in the barn for medicinal purposes, that red wine for fortifyin’ an elderly lady’s blood, oh, they’d guzzle it all right.”

  “And glad to do it, Cap’n,” Ollie sang out.

  Again Captain Stump shook his head. “Sometimes I look at that turkey feather Ollie has stuck in his hat and think that feather never adorned a foolisher bird. And, if you’ll pardon me for bringing it up, had we waited at your house, I wouldn’t feel perfectly easy about the girls. Some of these men have been reared up pretty rough . . .”

  Seth passed the reins to Alexander and stepped down into the road.

  For the first time, Captain Stump noticed Alexander. “And who the hell are you?”

  “I work for the Danzingers.”

  “Hell, I didn’t know Dutchmen hired help. Thought they bred enough brats to get their work done.”

  “Sir, I was destitute. I believe they took me in from Christian charity.”

  “You talk funny. You some kind of a preacher?”

  “No, sir. I was a teacher of Latin.”

  “Say something Latin to me.”

  “Veni, vidi, vici.”

  “Weenie, weedie, weekie? What’s that?”

  “It means ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’ Julius Caesar said it.”

  “Yeah? Well, Professor. Suppose you get down in the road with your boss.”

  “I . . . I . . . am unwell.”

  “You don’t look unwell to me. You look like you been bellied up to the trough. How come you ain’t in the army? These Dutchmen won’t fight, but that’s no excuse for you.”

  “I will not take human life,” Alexander announced.

  The captain weighed Alexander with his eyes. “You won’t? Boy, you are a babe in arms. You don’t have have any notion what you will do. I seen boys like you before. Now suppose you get down beside your boss.” He took the reins from Alexander’s hands and passed them to Willem. “Son, you got to drive. You’re the man now. Sorry, ladies”—touching a forefinger to his top hat—“but this is for the best. You wouldn’t want my rogues dirtying up your parlor.”

  His mother pressed Seth’s hand to her cheek for a moment and kissed it.

  “You go on home, Mother. We’ll answer these gentlemen’s questions and come along directly.”

  Grandmother Danzinger said something in German, and Seth answered her gently. The old woman moaned and slumped against the cushions.

  “I’ll be damned if there aren’t more funny words here than in a Creole whorehouse.” Stump lifted his hat. “Scuse me, ladies. Maybe you better git.”

  “You will promise me you will not harm my son.”

  Captain Stump sighed, “I already promised your daughters will be safe. We are partisan rangers, and so long as I’m in command we ain’t gonna molest no ladies.”

  “Mother, please. Good night! I am certain to satisfy this man.”

  Little Willem jigged the reins. White faces pressed to the isinglass window until the buggy disappeared around a turn.

  “Well then, boys,” Captain Stump said amiably. “Now we can get on with our business. Why don’t you two step up on that bank there, so we can get a look at you.”

  The roadbank was washed from the winter rains, and Alexander and Seth couldn’t get a purchase until Seth grabbed a root to pull himself up and helped Alexander.

  “There now,” Captain Stump said. “Ain’t that better?” He eased his top hat and resettled it. “Boy, I got to tell you straight out that we’re the ones killed your father and you best take us seriously.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Henry Danzinger was workin’ for the Federals, passin’ information about partisan movements. Because he was a spy for them and took their gold for it. You know how much he had on him? Forty dollars in gold.”

  “My father had sold cattle that day!”

  Captain Stump shook his head. “Cattle buyers don’t pay gold. They pay Confederate scrip. But the Federals pay in gold—for value received. Oh, we was watchin’ Henry a long time. Been watchin’ you too. What was you doin’ in Winchester last week?”

  “There was guano stored in a burned warehouse. I went to see if it could be salvaged. My father . . .”

  “Son, we’re done talkin’ about your father. We’re talkin’ about you.”

  “I am a farmer, the son of a farmer. We will harvest two hundred bushels of wheat, which will make bread for the Confederacy. We wish nothing but to be left in peace. Why do you torment those who have done you no harm?”

  “Oh, hell.” Ollie scratched his groin. “We already decided to kill this pup. Why you jawing?” He reached out. “Baxter, pass me that bottle. Damned if you ain’t the worst bottle hog I ever see’d.”

  “I’m giving this boy a chance to defend himself.”

  Seth looked directly into his accuser’s eyes. “I choose my father’s defense. Innocence.”

  “You got money?” Baxter asked. “A watch?”

  Seth unsnapped the fob and tossed it to the horseman. “No money,” he said.

  “This watch ain’t gold,” Baxter said.

  “It a nickel-plate Illinois. It belonged to my father. It is a reliable timepiece.”

  Baxter laughed, a fox’s bark. “Christ A’mighty. We already threw this away onct.” He flipped the watch into the roadside ditch. “Captain Stump, we got to start catchin’ these Federal spies after they visit their paymaster, ’stead of before.”

  Alexander cleared his throat. “I was a courier for Colonel Jones of the 44th Virginia. I was wounded.”

  “Oh, was you now.” Captain Stump perked up. “So how come you ain’t with the 44th?” Captain Stump turned to Baxter. “Pass me that jug.
”

  “I am convalescing.”

  “Seem convalesced to me, way you clambered up that bank there. You was right spry.”

  “I am sojourning with these good people until the fighting starts in the spring.”

  “Plenty of fighting in the Valley. Fighting all year round. All the fighting a patriot’d want.” Captain Stump took a long swig. “Danzinger—is it right what this fellow is sayin’—that he’s a Confederate soldier just achin’ for his chance to return to his unit?”

  “And if he is?”

  “Then we won’t do to him what we mean to do to you. Now I know how you Dutchmen hate a lie. Lies go against your religion. Is this fellow a Confederate soldier?”

  “How did my father die?”

  “Henry Danzinger died game. I’ll give him that. Said he wasn’t no spy. Asked us to tell his family that he loved them and reckoned he’d see them in the afterlife.” Captain Stump shrugged. “The usual.”

  “But you never told us.”

  “Well, we got busy. God, this whiskey is foul. Baxter, where’d you get this stuff?”

  “Off that Federal sutler we hung.”

  “And I was thinkin’ we shouldn’t have hung him. Boy, you sure you ain’t got any cash?”

  Seth counted coins in the moonlight. “Sixty-five cents.”

  Captain Stump sighed. “Well, nobody ever said patriotism was gonna be prosperous.” He drew a black pistol from his horse holster. When he held out his free hand, Seth laid the coins in it. “Give you time to pray, if you want.”

  “I have come from a prayer meeting, Captain. Our Alexander is a Confederate soldier convalescing from wounds. Many times he has said he will return to his regiment in May. Isn’t that the month when Federals and Confederates begin killing each other again?” Seth’s smile was steady as lantern light.

  Stump said, “Don’t this make you want to fight us?” In the face of Seth’s silence, Stump went on, “It would me. I been fightin’ all my life.” He gave the pistol to Alexander, who held it awkwardly, pointed at the ground.

  Captain Stump turned to his men. “This Danzinger—is he a Federal spy?”

  Ollie said, “If he weren’t no spy, what was he doin’ prowling around in Winchester when the Federals held it? I say we should give him the same treatment our boys gave Colonel Dahlgren.”

  “What do you say, Professor?” Captain Stump asked Alexander.

  “Why do you ask me?”

  “You’re a soldier, ain’t you?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “We’re all soldiers ‘but,’ ain’t we, boys?”

  Somebody whined, “Baxter, what’d you do with that watch? I ain’t got me no watch.”

  “Armstrong, you been passed out in the saddle again? Goddamned if I ever knew a man who could ride all night passed out and not fall off his horse.”

  “What’d you do with that watch?” It was a whine that knew it wouldn’t get an answer.

  “Well then, Professor, if you’re a soldier, how about you show it. That fellow beside you is a convicted Federal spy. You know the penalty for spyin’.”

  The world spun and Alexander pressed a hand to his forehead. So this is what the world is about. This is what men do. Cows don’t murder, sheep live and let others live. Just last week, Alexander was pouring whey and vegetable scraps into the hog trough, six hogs squealing and biting, and barn kittens slipped between the voracious monsters to dip their pink kitten tongues to drink and the hogs nudged them gently aside.

  “Professor, I believe it is your bounden duty to shoot that man. Oh hell, don’t look so pained. You don’t shoot him Ollie’ll have to, and Ollie’s such a poor marksman he’s likely to shoot him half a dozen times afore he’s done for.”

  “I ain’t so,” Ollie said virtuously. “That nigger didn’t want us jollyin’ his wife? I popped him first shot. And that was with my pants down.”

  “Alexander,” Seth said, “will you tell my family I died thinking of them? Tell Willem he is the man now.”

  “Yes,” Alexander promised.

  “I ask no promises of these men. You, I trust.”

  “Keep on insultin’ us and we’ll see how fast you can run tied behind a horse,” Ollie said. “Gunshot’s the kindliest killin’ we do.”

  “I am grateful,” Seth said without a hint of irony. “It is God’s blessing my end is to be quick. I hope my father will be proud of me.”

  “Well,” Captain Stump said amiably, “I should think he would be. Henry didn’t beg. Seth don’t beg. Boy, I got to tell you, when I go out, I hope I go out as good as you.”

  “Christ’s sake,” Ollie said. “Stop the jabberin’. We was goin’ on to Staunton. There’s some good cathouses in Staunton.”

  Captain Stump said, “Well, Professor?”

  Because he did not know what to do, Alexander did as bid.

  DON’T WE LOOK LIKE MEN

  A-MARCHING

  FAIRFAX CITY, VIRGINIA

  APRIL 27, 1864

  THE BEAST SLID over the Long Bridge across the Potomac toward Manassas Junction, jamming the roads, overloading railroad cars. The beast sweated, sang, emptied its canteens, slathered roadside meadows with filth, drained strong wells in an hour, muddied every shallow stream it crossed. Men four abreast with officers on horseback and couriers—thoughtless young men on fine horses—racing beside the packed ranks.

  The beast stopped, bulged, flowed around obstacles, stopped, rested, hurried to catch up again.

  Second Sergeant Jesse Burns marched on the left of A Company, color company of the 23rd Regiment United States Colored Troops, Thomas’s brigade, Ferrero’s division, 9th Corps, Army of the Potomac. The horses thundering past didn’t scare him, for what could hurt him now? The three men to his left dressed on Jesse and the files of men directly behind and he felt their concentrated attentions and never heard an officer cry “Close it up!” or “Dress your ranks, damn you!” without worrying that some hesitation of his, some infinitesimal swerve, had created the problem.

  Ahead, First Sergeant Tubman marched with the color guard and the regimental and national colors. Some regiments had elaborate colors: one bore the motto “To prove that we are men.” On another, a colored soldier bayoneted a Confederate above the motto “Sic Semper Tyrannis.” The 23rd’s flag was a plain government-issued banner, but Jesse would have died for it.

  Riding before the color guard were Colonel Campbell, Captain Fessenden, and a bevy of couriers carrying messages from the head of the column, the rear of the column, Washington City, and General Grant, whose headquarters were somewhere ahead on the Rappahannock.

  Surgeon Potts and the file closers were at the rear.

  A plaintive voice from the ranks invoked the chant which had one day erupted spontaneously and had become the regiment’s marching song, “Don’t we look like men a-marchin’ . . .”

  A bass voice replied, “Don’t we look like men a-marchin’.”

  And the regiment sang out, “Don’t we look like men a-marchin’. Don’t we look like men o’ war!”

  Some of these ex-slaves hated the endless drill; Jesse Burns gloried in it. On the drill field, the regiment swung like a gate from column of march into line of battle, and the first sergeant deployed right while Jesse marched in place, the human hinge, as the 23rd USCT (a spear) transmuted itself into the 23rd USCT (a wall) and a thousand bayonets shimmered in the sun. Precise as the machined lock of the Springfield rifle each man carried, thorough as morning muster, drill made Jesse’s heart glad. It was so simple when done correctly, but let one man break step, one sergeant fail to keep alignment, and no white officer’s bellowing could restore order and grace.

  Since Jesse didn’t drink or chew, he rarely visited the sutler’s wagon and kept his worldly wealth in a brass matchbox next to his skin: thirty dollars rolled tight. He also owned a blue uniform, blue blanket, blue overcoat, haversack, bayonet, canteen, rifle, change of underwear, socks, and shoes; and these articles had been brand-new when he g
ot them: brand-new!

  When the sun was directly overhead, the colonel lifted his hand and the color bearers flourished the colors and Jesse marched backward, facing his company. “Brigade! . . .”

  “Regiment! . . .”

  “A Company! . . . Halt!”

  Not as precisely as Jesse might have wished, the men shuffled to a halt and fell out onto a broad hillside beside the roadway for their dinner.

  Jesse and Clement Smallwood were messmates, and already Smallwood was breaking up fence rails for their noon fire. Jesse was headed for the creek when Surgeon Potts rode up. “Sergeant. A word with you.”

  Jesse shifted his canteens to his left hand, brought his heels smartly together, and set his right hand at his forehead, a gesture which seemed mightily like a man shading his eyes against bright sunlight. The surgeon dismounted and raised a careless hand. “Ah, that’s all right, Jesse. No need for that between us. Cigar?”

  “No, sir. I don’t smoke ’em.”

  “Well, if they’re good enough for General Grant they’re good enough for me. But I guess you coloreds are more particular than whites.” Surgeon Potts had a way of putting a man in the wrong. Now he scratched a lucifer against his boot sole, puffed, and exhaled a cloud around Jesse’s head. “Supposed to keep the bugs off,” he said vaguely.

  Jesse hadn’t noticed any bugs.

  The surgeon was a young man, prematurely bald, with a wispy mustache. “You’re doing a good job, Burns. Was it up to me, I’d put you up for first sergeant and move that hincty Tubman back in the ranks. Man says ‘Yes sir’ and ‘No sir’ but don’t mean it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jesse said.

  “Your men don’t give us any trouble, and I believe A Company could match a good many white outfits at drill. You ever been whipped?”

  The ropy scars crisscrossing Jesse’s back ached in wet weather, and when he changed underwear, he always found somewhere private to do it. “No, sir,” he said.

  “I thought them Johnnies liked to whip you boys. I heard they whipped you whenever they got bored. Lieutenant Hill, he’s a Maryland boy, and he tells stories’d raise the hair on your neck. Hill says nobody cares if a white man comes into the Quarters and takes any woman he fancies.”