by Belva Plain
I really do not understand anything, Miriam thought, as the women talked.
The choir stood up and sang, “Be merciful unto me, O God.”
Psalm 57, it said, in the Form of Service. On this June afternoon in the year 1861, President Jefferson Davis having decreed a day of prayer for the government, Miriam sat in the crowded synagogue.
“Yea, in the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast.”
In the pew behind her a woman stirred the air with a palmetto fan. The heat was overwhelming, but it was not only the temperature that weighed upon Miriam; it was her own unrest.
Angelique was yawning. Catching her mother’s glance of reminder she clapped her hand in its white glove over her mouth. A flush touched the girl’s high cheekbones; a strand of slippery hair lay damp on her forehead. She began to play with her bracelets, making a jangle in the quiet. Miriam’s frown vanished almost as soon as it had appeared: How could this child envision what was coming? Let her bracelets jangle! Soon enough she would find out, soon enough.
Now came the twenty-ninth psalm. The congregation rose.
“The Lord will give strength unto His people; the Lord will bless His people with peace.”
The stately music came to a hushed end, and the Scrolls of the Law were returned to the Ark.
Prayers and petitions for mercy.
“You know that Gabriel is leaving with the Tenth Louisiana?” Eugene asked.
She had not known. She had not seen him since that day she would rather not, for Gabriel’s sake and her own, remember.
“But Rosa said he was to have a government post of some sort,” she replied.
“He turned it down. He wanted no sinecure. I admire him for it.”
Emma wondered whether Gabriel was to be with General Beauregard. “Fine old French stock, the Beauregards. Mrs. Beauregard says he rarely speaks English, only when he has to.”
“We must give a dinner on the day he leaves, a gala dinner,” Eugene said. “You might as well send Maxim right now with the invitations.” His animation increased; the war had enlivened him. “What does he like to eat? We must have all his favorites.”
“It seems to me,” Emma recalled, “that he had a special fondness for gumbo.”
And Ferdinand contributed. He had always had the gift for perfect hospitality. “Yes, and lettuce with brown gravy, the way Serafina makes it. A roast with champagne sauce. And plum pudding. It’s not the season for it, but that doesn’t matter. And a vanilla meringue. He likes that, too.”
A double row of gilt buttons marched down the front of Major Carvalho’s gray frock coat. Carrying a saber and wearing his military boots, Gabriel was another man, a stranger.
Miriam had not wanted to seat him at her right, but Sisyphus, who was a master of protocol, had naturally placed the guest of honor there. Relieved that, after the first required greeting, he did not say anything further to her, Miriam addressed her conversation to the man on her left, who happened to be another of Emma’s cousins, a garrulous ancient who asked of her only that she listen while he talked of nothing in particular.
Meanwhile, general talk ranged around the table, chiefly a recapitulation of the concerns that had filled every mind since the start of the war.
“If we don’t ship cotton, the European powers will starve for it, and they’ll have to come over to our side.”
“No, no, we should produce as much cotton as we can, more than ever before, and send it to England now to build up credit.”
“Burn it up, is what I say! A lot of planters in Georgia and South Carolina are doing just that right now. What did the Russians do when Napoleon occupied Moscow? They burned the city.”
“Nonsense! The Union armies will never get as far as the cotton belt.”
Gabriel had been silent until now. “Don’t underestimate them. They may even threaten New Orleans.” His words produced a flurry of shocked denial.
“They will never pass the forts,” Eugene objected. “We have redoubts with cannon for sixty miles, all the way from the forts to the city. New Orleans! On the contrary, we’ll see them in Washington!”
And Ferdinand added, “They’ll be too busy in the east to bother with us.” Once unwilling to admit even the possibility of war, now that it had come, he had turned into an eager strategist. “Anyway, if they should try—if, I say—the attempt wül come from upriver.”
“The forts are impregnable,” Eugene said again. “The British couldn’t breach one of them in 1815, and now we have two. And you think they will even try to attack, Gabriel?”
“I think they will try,” Gabriel said firmly, “and may possibly succeed.”
“General Lovell will have things in hand,” Emma said. “I know the family—a delightful man, a brave gentleman.”
Ferdinand tried again. “We have fifteen naval ships outside the forts—”
Rosa interrupted, “My Herbert tells me nothing will pass the Louisiana and Mississippi ironclads when they are finished. I don’t know how you can talk like that, Gabriel. It’s not like you to be so gloomy.”
“Realistic, not gloomy,” Gabriel replied.
He shifted restlessly in his chair and his leg, in doing so, brushed the hem of Miriam’s dress; apparently too aware of the contact, he moved hastily away.
She felt his discomfiture as she felt her own. The dinner was interminable anyway, stilted and prolonged. People should eat their food, get it done with, and leave the table, she thought impatiently.
“Have you heard,” asked Rosa, speaking to the table at large, “that André Perrin is on a commission to seek alliances abroad? Especially with France, I believe. He should be perfect for that, he knows the country so well. He has such polish, I always thought, so persuasive in a diplomat,” she added innocently.
“Oh, an excellent choice!” It was a man’s voice, certainly not Eugene’s voice, nor Gabriel’s, but whose, Miriam did not know, having suddenly become engrossed in her plate, on which a chinoiserie border of cobalt and gold encircled a fantasy of pagodas.
So if that was true, he would be hack in France. Back with Marie Caire, to drift with her as she did with Eugene? Now the tension within Miriam, the tension of the two dark years since André had left, became unbearable. She could not sit a moment longer, but would have to get up and move regardless of appearances. With the very edge of vision she was aware that Gabriel was looking at her. Afraid to return the look, she could only guess that he was punishing himself with morbid curiosity, to see how she had reacted to the mention of André. And she wondered whether the nervous blotches were already staining her forehead.
Eugene had risen, and Sisyphus was guiding him toward the door. The dinner was concluded.
“The train goes at eight. We’ll have plenty of time if we leave now,” he said.
Gabriel protested. “It’s a long ride and very hot. Really, I hadn’t expected anyone to go.”
“We are seeing you off,” Eugene said firmly.
Horses, carriages, soldiers, and families crowded alongside the train which was to carry the men away to Camp Louisiana in northern Virginia. Some soldiers had already taken their seats in the cars and begun to play poker, while friends handed fried chicken and cold drinks through the windows. Some were already drunk. There was much laughter, brave talk, solemn admonitions, and tearful good-byes. Babies were hoisted onto uniformed shoulders, anxious mothers held on to their restless children, and lovers parted. Over all a brass band blared triumphantly.
“I’ve packed ice in a bucket for you,” Rosa said. “Be sure to remind Lorenzo that it’s among your things.”
“I really don’t need to take Lorenzo,” Gabriel objected. “He has plenty to do at home for you.”
“Nonsense! What do you mean? Every officer has his body servant. Who’s going to take care of your horses and cook for you and wash your clothes? Now, remember that he’s got your watch, and I’ve given him three hundred dollars in gold to keep in case you need to
buy anything, although I do believe I’ve thought of everything.”
Eugene sniffed. “Three hundred dollars! You’d better watch out that your Lorenzo doesn’t run off to the Yankees with it.”
“Nonsense!” Rosa said again. “He adores Gabriel. He would never do that. Besides, why should he run off? He lives as well as Gabriel does, as well as we all do. Where could he live any better?”
The engine shrieked three times. Men began to climb into the train. Abruptly Rosa’s brisk and lively courage gave way, collapsing with her pride. “Oh, my sons, my brother, everything’s falling apart! When will it all be normal again?” Her nose ran. She rummaged in her reticule for a handkerchief. “Oh, I’m ashamed of myself! I can’t help it.”
“Come,” Gabriel said gently. “Come, Rosa. You’ll manage. It will be all right. We men need your courage. Come, my dear.” Above Rosa’s shaking, bowed shoulders, his eyes signaled to Miriam that he wanted to say something. He drew her aside.
“No, don’t be alarmed! I only want to speak about Rosa. Will you take care of her? For all her brave talk and her worldly wit, she’s not nearly as strong or sensible as you.”
Miriam could not resist asking, “You can’t still really think I am sensible?”
“I think you haven’t learned yet how sensible you are.”
How like him to speak in enigmas!
“I promise you I will do my best.”
“She will need a friend.”
“You needn’t worry. I am her friend.”
“Thank you.”
There seemed nothing more to say, but he did not go. Gravel and cinders burned through the soles of their shoes. Yet he kept standing, searching her face candidly and still revealing nothing of himself, as was so often his way. God knew what he was thinking, where his thoughts had been! Surely, being human, he must have imagined her with the other man, lying together in a silky bed, must have wondered about drowsy afternoons or dark blue nights. If that were so, he must be suffering still.
“I am your friend, too, Gabriel,” she said softly. “I always have been, I always will be your dear friend.”
It was the wrong thing to say. His face tightened.
“Just please be Rosa’s. I am afraid things may be very hard for her.”
The whistles, shrieking for the last time, caused a rush to board the train, and Gabriel was lost in the scramble. His little group stood among the crowd until the train was out of sight, and then, in the beginning dusk, went home.
Eugene said only, “I wish I could have gone, too,” and after that was silent the rest of the way.
And Miriam understood that the man beside her was feeling a painful deprivation of his right to proclaim his masculinity in the great adventure of the war. She thought how strange it was that this tragedy could be at the same time exhilarating for so many. Why, even Gabriel had worn his sword with a flourish!
All up and down the streets of the city the state flag bloomed from balconies and doorways. Candles and gas lamps burned in the windows, gilding the night. From as far off as the encampment a distant cannon, crashing in some final departing salute, scattered the pigeons on the square.
On the front steps young Eugene and Angelique waited, still flourishing their little flags. The boy, at sight of his parents, came rushing. His eyes glistened, his voice was hoarse, he had been cheering in the streets all afternoon.
“Why didn’t you let us go along?” he demanded. Like his father he was torn by disappointment at having to miss the war.
“There wasn’t enough room in the phaeton,” Miriam apologized. “But I promise we’ll take you the next time there’s a send-off.”
The child could barely stand still. “Was it awfully exciting?”
She smiled at her son, her lovely, tender boy, and consoled herself again: He is only twelve, thank God.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “It was very exciting. Very.”
21
A year of war had made all the difference. Miriam walked home with Fanny from the market. She had just paid an outrageous price for a tough and greasy mullet, popularly known as “Biloxi bacon.” Along the riverfront a three-masted schooner was being loaded with baled cotton; with covered lights it would run the blockade to Havana, then on to London or Paris.
Paris. Squares like Jackson Square. Had he not said it resembled the Place des Vosges? André walking there—he had a rapid walk, almost a run—she could hear the sound of his hastening steps on the pavement. There would be great stone official buildings, parks, cafés, young women with sweet mouths, perfume, pearls .… A chill went through her and she stopped, closing her eyes.
“Are you all right?” asked Fanny.
She had been in Paris, she had forgotten Fanny, over whose vigilant face there now passed an expression in part concern, in greater part inquisitiveness. How much did Fanny know or guess? One could never tell about servants, so fearful, so sly, trained as they were never to reveal, but always to calculate, lest they offend.
Miriam blinked herself back to the moment, to the street and the morning.
“Yes, yes, I’m all right. A little tired.”
He had not written; of course, he feared to subject her to Eugene’s wrath; or perhaps he had written, but the mail was not getting through.
The ships were not getting through anymore. The blockade was choking the city; it was a rope around the city’s neck.
In the next block they were taking a church bell down from the steeple to be cast into cannon. Indeed, the war had made a difference! Strange to realize how one got caught up on the very crest of the wave of war when one had hoped to let it wash past. At the synagogue the women were giving a ball to raise money for poor families whose men were in the fight. The women were knitting socks and gloves for the soldiers; bags of gray wool stood in every parlor. One sent blankets to the army. One gave up drinking coffee and eating meat so that the army might have them. Strange, painful and strange, to be doing all these things, to be doing them with such a full heart, and at the same time to be hoping that the other side where David stood among the men in blue, would triumph!
Rosa de Rivera was crossing Jackson Square.
“I had a letter today from Gabriel. Shall I read it? Or perhaps you’d rather not?” she added, giving to the perfectly normal existence of the letter a significance which apparently she thought it must have for Miriam.
Why, she is enjoying this “situation”! Miriam thought instantly. Unrequited love for a married woman. Delicious, sad, and slightly scandalous.
“Of course I’d rather,” she said calmly. “Sit down and read it. You go on home without me, Fanny.”
“‘I have been in victories and defeats,’” Rosa read. “‘At Manassas Junction, where we won, and at Fort Donelson, where we lost. They were equal in horror. For my first battle, I was enthusiastic. It seemed to be a sweeping thing, and, in spite of the evil that is war, a chance to show what individual courage, multiplied by thousands, can do. Perhaps, decisively, to bring the war to an end? At any rate, I went into it with no fear, to my great astonishment, and with a feeling of power. All of that ended very quickly.
“‘In the morning the truth hit me between the eyes. It was a summer morning; do not those two words convey enough meaning? Summer morning, and against the greenery the red earth of the breastworks made another wound to add to the sum of the human wounded, of whom there were so many. That fresh, blooming earth, and what we had done to it! All the young men and what we had done to each other! We had captured the Federal depot, but because there weren’t enough wagons and we couldn’t carry much away, we had set fire to it. It had been burning all night. Of this tremendous bonfire only a heap was left, a small hill of smoking ruins, with sparks like little red evil eyes popping out of hell.
“‘General Lee allowed the Federals to collect their own wounded. Theirs and ours were laid out as separately as possible, under the trees, as much out of the sun’s glare as we could. The wounds are terrible, far worse, they tell
me, than in the Mexican War. That’s because of the minié bullet; it has a conical shape, a devilish invention, it rips the flesh to jagged pieces. Already flies and maggots were settling in these awful wounds. The men, lying in long columns, kept shifting in their agony, so that the columns rippled as if some gigantic serpent were sliding across the field.
“‘Perhaps I should not write these things to you. Yet it seems to me that people ought to know about such horrors, even though I see no way now to prevent them. Now that we are in this war, we have no other course than to continue. At any rate, as I know I shall regret having written this, I remind myself that I shall not write again for a long while, for there is neither time nor place to do so.
“‘But let me finish. How shall I describe a battle? Should I even try? Yet, again, it seems that people ought to know. It is a din, a pandemonium. Even the trees are wounded, as Gatling-gun bullets tear them apart. One is caught in a rain of leaves and twigs. It was the Williams repeating cannon that we used or the twelve-pounder Napoleon. Our men’s faces are black with gunpowder. The noise of these things is indescribable. On a level below them one hears the racket of fleeing birds and the terrible screams of wounded horses. Poor, ignorant creatures whose once kind masters have led them into this!
“‘Often it is waiting for battle that is the hardest. The suspense is sometimes more trying and difficult than the real thing. Knowing what is to come and fearing it, one still wants to get it over with. We march in slashing rain, soaked through to the bone. Most of the men have no raincoats and often not enough tents. Many must sleep in the wet, without shelter. We are thick with lice; sometimes we cannot change clothing for weeks and the lice lodge in the seams, so that even washing the clothes doesn’t get rid of them. The men are so ashamed of being filthy. Illness attacks many more than are wounded. Most people don’t know that. Last summer it was typhoid that killed. Now in the cold, it is pneumonia. The cold and snow are very hard on southern boys. And all the time in heat or bold, there is scurvy to fear. Our diet is crackers, salt pork, coffee, and beans.
