Different Sin

by Rochelle Hollander Schwab

  All that time he’d spent with Al. He’d sensed Al’s interest in him. And his own, damning response. But he’d managed to deny it, explain it away. Till he could no longer avoid facing the fact of his perversion. No wonder Pete had ragged him with taunts about his chicken. He’d probably seen through him all along. David stiffened, anticipating Pete’s mocking greeting. He ought to turn back.

  He’d come within sight of their regimental colors though. It would look pretty odd, riding this far and then not even stopping by. He dismounted, searched out their company, hailed them as he walked up.

  Colin glanced up at David, gave him a cursory nod. Sean sat slumped against him, breathing noisily in his sleep. The others lay on the ground, rifles at their sides, or sat in exhausted silence, washing hardtack down with coffee, pulling on tightly gripped pipes. David sank to his haunches, taking in their drawn, dirt-smeared faces. Hell, he thought, abashed, they have a lot more on their minds than my sins.

  He looked around again, aware now of how their circle had shrunk. He wet his lips. Bert was there and— “Where’s Pat McFarland?” he asked.

  Pete looked at him indifferently, took his pipe from his mouth. “Pat’s turned up his toes.”

  “He did what?”

  “You heard me.” Pete replaced his pipe, drew smoke in fiercely.

  Sean sat up. “Pat got a bullet right through his eye,” he said. “It was running all down his face. He kept clawing at it and twitching till he—” He broke off, his face contorted.

  Colin clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be goin’ to pieces now, kid,” he said softly.

  “Christ!” David breathed. “I’m sorry.” They looked at him, not answering.

  “This here march tonight,” Pete said finally. “Would you be knowing if Grant means to run back ‘cross the river?”

  David spread his hands helplessly. “I’ve heard talk, but—”

  Pete grunted, lapsed back into silence. Darkness began to fall. He ought to start back to headquarters, David thought. He stood, then snapped to alertness at the sound of a commotion a little ways down the road. The others got up, straining to see.

  David peered through his field glasses. Grant, his short figure dwarfed by his big bay, was trotting placidly south, his staff officers following. Waves of wild cheering swelled as the entourage rode into view.

  Colin thumped Pete on the back, yelling, “Hey, old woman! Hey! He’s headin’ towards Richmond! He means to fight!”

  A grin spread slowly over Pete’s face. “Sure, it’s about time.” He pummeled Colin’s arm, his grin broadening. “About time, old man!”

  Sean whooped, tossed his cap into the air. Men threw off their fatigue to rush up to Grant as his party neared, reaching hands out to touch him, screaming their approval, ignoring staff officers’ warnings to quiet the noise before the enemy was alerted. Wildly yelling soldiers buffeted David as he stood alone in dazed incomprehension, as the men cheered and cheered the prospect of more of the bloody fighting they had just endured.

  Chapter 20 — 1864

  RAIN DRUMMED ON THE SLANTING WALLS OF THE SHELTER TENT, seeped damply through the canvas. David hunched over his sketchpad, ignoring the clamminess of the damp flannel shirt against his skin, filling in details and instructions to engravers with grim care. His back and shoulders ached. He set down his pencil and massaged his cramped fingers, wondering dully if exhaustion would grant him a few hours sleep. His candle flickered over the oilcloth-covered stack of drawings he’d completed since the night march six days before: the record of a week of unrelenting horror, a record he’d made compulsively, reworking his sketches with a fierce concentration that served only partially to keep his anguished self-knowledge at bay.

  Leslie should be pleased, at any rate. He’d be forwarding him enough stirring scenes of battle. David stared down at his pad, memory coloring in the images of frenzied pain and death so inadequately conveyed by pencil and paper. He thought back to the soldiers cheering Grant’s decision to carry on the fight. The incomprehension he’d felt then had only deepened. How in hell could anyone find anything stirring in these scenes of slaughter? Or call taking some damn piece of ground worth all those deaths?

  Zach might be able to make some sense of it, he thought suddenly. God, how he wished he could talk to him right now! Well, he’d write him. He’d heard there’d be a chance to send out mail in a day or two. He grabbed his pencil, flipped to a clean sheet of paper.

  No, dammit no! What in hell was he thinking of? He’d broken himself of Zach! And Zach had made it pretty damn clear he wanted nothing further to do with him. Even if he did respond, writing each other now would be like pus festering in an amputation.

  Though Zach had been right about him all along. He could still— Goddamn it, no! Just because he’d found out what he was didn’t mean he had to give in to perversion.

  The tent flap flew open to a gust of rain. Al scrambled in, raindrops flying from her curls. More droplets cascaded from the rubber blanket she let slide from her shoulders. She grinned at him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shake water over you like an old hound dog.”

  David smiled with unexpected pleasure. “That’s all right. I’m glad to see you. I thought you’d be back a day or two ago. Though I’d hoped—”

  “Reckon we would’ve,” Al interrupted. “Only we got caught by a party of Rebs while we were still heading to Washington City.”

  “What! My God! What happened? How did you—”

  Al laughed. “Whoa! Give me a chance to tell you.” She dropped down next to him. “Well, we got ‘cross the river at Ely’s Ford okay. Only there weren’t any trains fixing to go. So Sylvanus thought we oughta ride on to Rappahannock Station. There wasn’t any moon that night, so we were pretty much picking our way down the road when ‘fore we knew what was happening we were surrounded by cavalry pointing their revolvers at us and yelling ‘Surrender!’”

  “My God! You must’ve been scared to death.”

  “Well, it was sorta scary. They got hold of all those casualty lists Sylvanus was carrying and that fancy rig of his, and figured him for a colonel ‘stead of a correspondent. So they took us into custody, kept us under guard all night. It looked like we’d end up in Libby Prison for sure, and I was starting to wonder what I oughta do. Well, next morning we started riding toward the Confederate lines—still under guard, of course—and darned if we didn’t run right into a bunch of Sheridan’s pickets. Them and the Rebs started in skirmishing, so while their mind was off of us, we skeddadled on out of there and made our way to Washington. So it was lucky I hadn’t given myself away.

  “Anyhow, the Rebs took all the papers they found on us, so we had to write our dispatches over from memory ‘fore we could send them. Sylvanus’ paper was real pleased with him though. They made him chief correspondent here; he was only acting chief before. Only the Rebs got a bunch of the sketches I was carrying for you. I managed to fold some of them real small ‘fore they could see, and hide them under my clothes. I left them with Leslie’s Washington bureau. I’m sorry ‘bout the others though.”

  “Never mind them,” David said. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

  “I reckon we weren’t really in that much danger,” Al said. “Though I’m darn glad we got away when we did. I hear I missed a big battle here yesterday.”

  “Thank God you missed it! You can’t imagine— There’s been fighting ever since you left. Wounded men stretched out all along the road, just lying there waiting for the doctors to get to them. And the battle yesterday— The part I saw—It was through my field glasses, but still— The Confederate troops and ours were pressed up on opposite sides of the breastworks, just standing there slaughtering each other. Jabbing their bayonets into men’s guts through chinks in the logs. Firing canister point-blank right through them. And more and more fresh troops sent in, piling on top of men lying there bleeding in the mud. Hell, I saw men climb right over their bodies to get atop the breastworks, shoot down into the opposi
te side. Even club men down like wild animals.”

  “Well, reckon I’m glad I didn’t see that.”

  “Hell, Alice— Sorry. But you ought to have stayed in Washington once you made it there. This is no place for a woman.”

  She shrugged. “Reckon it ain’t much fun for anyone. But I told you, I still mean to do what I set out to. Anyhow, I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

  “I am. Only—”

  “I reckon you weren’t cut out for a war correspondent yourself,” Al said. “You look downright awful. You’ve got terrible circles under your eyes.” Her fingers stroked his face a moment as if to smooth them away, pulled lightly through his beard. “You oughtn’t to set up drawing this late.” She smiled, then reached up to kiss him.

  David pulled abruptly away.

  Al drew back and looked at him a moment, looked away flushing. “I reckon you’re right,” she said in a small voice. “Next thing you know we’d be at it again.

  “David. You know, even upset as I was— I’m not some camp follower. I wouldn’t— wouldn’t have— if I wasn’t awfully fond of you.” She blushed furiously, twisted the tail of her shirt around her fingers.

  “I know,” David said. He sat numbly searching for words, staring at her boyish crop of curls. Hell, he was fond enough of her. If only he could bring himself to respond to her the way any other man would.

  She wasn’t like any woman he’d met, that was damn sure. Maybe it would be possible. She’d made her feelings for him pretty plain. Maybe he needn’t be doomed to a life of loneliness after all.

  Christ, she was sitting there waiting for some response. He put an arm around her shoulders. “Hell, I know that, Alice,” he said softly.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  The rains continued, churning fields and roads to mud through a second week of intermittent fighting. On May 20th, after repulsing a Confederate attack, Grant ordered the army to march from Spotsylvania Courthouse southeast toward Richmond.

  Sunshine was drying the road as Grant and his staff moved along the route taken by Hancock’s advance corps a day earlier. The bright sunlight after days of rain and mud was a tonic. Here and there men broke into a few bars of song, trudging along in time to “John Brown’s Body” or “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” David felt his spirits lift. He smiled at Al riding alongside him.

  Al grinned back. “Seems like everyone’s glad to get shut of those darn woods, get out into some open country,” she said, waving her hand at the cleared farmland around them.

  “And to leave those bloody Reb entrenchments behind,” Alf Waud put in, riding up alongside them. “It’s what Grant’s after, to force Lee to fight him in the open field.”

  “I suppose,” David said, wishing he could forget the war a while. In the two weeks since crossing the Rapidan, casualty figures had climbed to over 30,000 Union soldiers killed or wounded. The road to Fredericksburg was clogged with ambulances struggling to move along the muddy ruts. The memory of men applauding Grant’s decision flashed through his mind. At least Colin, Pete and young Sean were unhurt. He’d caught a quick glimpse of them as they marched out ahead of Grant’s command a day ago. Though others of their company— Ezra Hollings had lost a leg and— David sighed, tried to fix his attention on the rolling farms, still sown with corn and tobacco despite the war.

  Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia also headed south, paralleling the Yankees in a desperate race toward Richmond. By the end of a week of skirmishing and night marches, the soldiers’ momentarily buoyant spirits had vanished; men sank to the ground to sleep dressed in the mud-caked garments they’d worn since leaving the wilderness, stumbling to their feet again with fatigue barely lessened.

  Grant’s efforts to force Lee onto open ground were thwarted as the Confederate general outmaneuvered the invading Union army. Entrenched Rebel troops met Federal corps at the North Anna River. After brief skirmishing Grant withdrew his forces to the north shore of the river, dismantling pontoon bridges before daylight on the 27th of May.

  “So what he’s bound to try now,” Alf Waud told some half dozen other reporters that morning, “is to outflank Lee, make some diversionary thrust while the main body of the army circles south toward the Pamunkey.” Waud drew in the dirt with a pointed stick as he spoke, outlining the Confederate defenses, drawing a circle around Lee’s right flank.

  David stared into his coffee mug, listening halfheartedly to the newsmen argue strategy as they gulped their breakfast. Christ, he thought, all those maneuvers, diversionary thrusts, flanking movements, all of them aimed at more of the killing they’d seen so goddamn much of. Hell, the Peace Democrats were right in their demands for a negotiated peace.

  Not that he’d voice his opinion and be labeled a Copperhead traitor, probably lose his press pass with the army to boot. Have to hightail it home in disgrace. The way he’d hightailed it down here in the first place. David gripped the tin mug tighter, cradling its warm comfort in his fingers. He was no Reb sympathizer. That wasn’t his flaw. He knew damn well why he couldn’t share the other men’s enthusiasm for pressing the war. What else could you expect from a damn nancy?

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  The mare’s hooves churned up clouds of yellowish-brown dust. David coughed, wiped his handkerchief over a face grimy with sweat-streaked dirt. It seemed a hell of a lot longer than four days since they’d crossed back to the north bank of the North Anna River. As Waud predicted, the army had circled south, crossing the Pamunkey May 28, only to find the Rebs already entrenched behind Totopotomy Creek, less than ten miles northeast of Richmond. Grant ordered still another flanking movement in the drive to get between Lee and Richmond. David climbed gratefully from his saddle as they returned to the general headquarters. Hell, he thought, I’m too old to be riding in this heat like a boy.

  Still, at least he had a horse. Look at the infantrymen, making forced night marches. They must be dead on their feet. Look at Al, for that matter. You wouldn’t think a woman would have the stamina to keep up like this, spending damn near every day covering another skirmish, up half the night writing dispatches.

  Crazy as her scheme was, you had to admire her. He glanced over at her, caught her quick grin, drew in his breath in a resurgence of the hope he’d felt that dismal night at Spotsylvania.

  A commotion rose among the staff officers as couriers dashed up with news. Sheridan’s cavalry had taken the crossroads of Cold Harbor, less than a day’s march from Richmond; a counterassault by Confederate forces had been delayed by the onset of darkness; Sleepless men waited tensely for Wright’s Sixth Corps, making a night march to reinforce Sheridan’s forces, then cheered exultantly as the Confederate infantrymen were driven from the crossroads after a day’s fierce fighting.

  An all-out attack on the Rebs seemed imminent. If Grant could take Richmond, David thought, there’d be an end to the war. For once he was as caught up in the war talk as the other men: Grant had run out of room to maneuver; any further flanking moves would drive the Rebels into their Richmond fortifications. The ordered shift of Hancock’s men from the extreme right to left of the army would give Grant the strength to attack before the Confederates could fully entrench.

  Anticipation slowly died as Hancock’s corps stumbled into their new positions well past daybreak, exhausted and desperately in need of rest, at the end of a twelve-mile night march. The scheduled dawn attack was postponed twenty-four hours, giving, men and officers knew, the Confederates ample time to strengthen their breastworks.

  “They’ve bloody well entrenched six miles,” Waud reported, “with their flanks protected by the Totopotomy and Chickahominy. But it’s unlikely Grant’ll back off from a frontal assault now. He’s got his back to the wall. It’s my guess he’ll go ahead whatever the cost.”

  “Christ,” David breathed. He watched Waud and the others disperse. He ought to take advantage of the delay to find a position to view the battle tomorrow, he told himself grimly. He rode slowly behind the Union lines, checking for
elevations that would give a clear view of the assault, once or twice dismounting to do a quick sketch of sprawled infantrymen. He worked his way to the left flank and stood debating a moment whether to look for Pete and Colin. He looked around him at the tired, dispirited men. Hell, even if he found them in the growing darkness, they’d hardly be in a mood for visiting.

  He prepared to mount.

  “Wait a minute, mister!” David halted. The soldier who’d called him pointed at his sketchpad. “Can you spare me a sheet of that?” he demanded.

  “I guess so.” David tore a page from his pad, watched, startled, as the infantryman tore it in two, then tore the halves, handing the scraps to nearby soldiers. “You won’t fit much of a letter on that,” David blurted.

  “Ain’t writing one.” The man pulled the stub of a pencil from his pocket and began printing his name and home address. Around him the others did the same. Finished, the soldier stripped off his uniform jacket and fastened the paper carefully to its back with a few bent pins.

  “Ain’t writing a letter,” he repeated. “I just don’t relish the notion of gettin’ killed tomorrow and my folks never knowing for certain how I ended up.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Rain fell in wild bursts that halted shortly before dawn. The sky was barely light as the signal for attack sounded at half-past-four on June 3rd. The line of Union infantrymen scrambled from shallow rifle pits they’d thrown up the night before and advanced across open ground toward Rebel trenches a few hundred yards away. Musketry and artillery exploded from Confederate works dug in intricate, zigzag designs into a low chain of ridges, raking the Union soldiers with crossfire. The blue-clad soldiers were mowed down like wheat before a scythe.