Different Sin

by Rochelle Hollander Schwab

  David gripped his glasses, his gaze riveted to the small portion of the battle he could see, his breath catching in his throat. Those soldiers who still stood were flinging themselves to the ground, their attempt to assault the Confederate lines ended. Less than half an hour had passed since the order to advance.

  Seven thousand blue-clad men, wounded or dead, lay on the field between the Union and Confederate lines. Union soldiers obeyed orders to entrench where they lay, digging in along the thwarted lines of attack. Heavy firing continued, making any attempt to rescue the wounded a suicidal mission.

  The cries and pleas of wounded men, sprawled among five acres of corpses, carried past the lines, resounding through the night. Grant declined to request a temporary truce. David shuddered in horror, trying not to imagine the torment of men trapped out on that field without help, without food or water. “Why in hell won’t he ask for a few hours to get them out of there?” he demanded.

  For once, the circle of reporters was silent, “I daresay he’d consider it an admission of defeat,” Waud said finally, his face set.

  By the third day, the cries of the wounded had died away. The nauseating stench of unburied bodies drifted over the camp. A six-hour truce to bury the dead and rescue the wounded was at last arranged.

  David stood, simultaneously drawn and repelled, watching the work detail head to the field. Hell, he told himself, Leslie’s not going to want pictures of Union dead. But he could be of some use if any of the wounded were still alive, at the least offer a drink of water. He could be man enough for that. He filled his canteen and Al’s, thankful that for once she had the sense to shrink back from horror, and walked doggedly out past the Union entrenchments.

  The ground was strewn with corpses, blackened and swelling in the heat. David stumbled through them, trying desperately not to gag, finding no one left alive.

  Along the Union picket line, groups of Union and Confederate soldiers stood chatting in apparent friendship, trading sacks of coffee and sugar for tobacco. David stared at them in dulled amazement and plodded on. He skirted a swampy patch of ground and stopped to get his bearings. Hell, there was nothing he could do out here. He’d head on back, he thought with relief.

  A few yards away, at the edge of a burial detail, a heavyset Union infantryman, his right hand bound in a blood darkened bandage, jabbed a spade at the ground. He swayed weakly, leaned on the spade a moment, then dug into the earth again with grim determination. David started, then hurried toward him. “Pete! What are you doing here? Where’s— For God’s sake, you’re hurt! You’ve got to get to a field hospital!”

  “Not till I see him laid to rest proper. Down far enough so’s no animals’ll be clawing him up.”

  David followed Pete’s gaze. Colin’s body, recognizable only by the shock of red hair, was as bloated and darkened as the others, his maggoty intestines protruding through a gaping rent in his stomach.

  “Oh my God!” David squeezed his eyes shut, forced himself to open them and turn to Pete. “I— Here, give me that.” He took the shovel and started digging, back muscles straining as he thrust into the ground, fiercely grateful that the awkwardness of the unfamiliar labor helped fix his mind on the task at hand. They lowered Colin into the new grave, covered his body with earth.

  Pete swayed again. David took in the pallor of his face, the bloody bandage. “Come on,” he told him. “There’s nothing else we can do. I’ll help you get back to the doctors.”

  Pete stood unmoving, staring down at the grave.

  “Pete.” David laid a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t stay here.”

  The infantryman shrugged off David’s hand. “What in Jesus’ name do you know? Ain’t nothin’ to do—” His voice was a ragged whisper. “I could’ve— I got these here fingers blowed off, but I still could’ve— Sure and I didn’t give a damn for nothin’ but my own skin. Didn’t try goin’ after him when it’s knowing I was that he was layin’ here all these days.” He clenched his good fist, a shudder running through his body.

  Oh Christ! David thought, what can I say to him? Hell, Pete hadn’t intended his words for him. But he couldn’t just stand there. “Pete, he’d never have pulled through with a wound like that. You’d have just gotten yourself killed as well.”

  Pete turned on him. “Sure, I know what you’re thinkin! It should’ve been me ‘stead of him.”

  “Christ Pete, I didn’t— I— Let me help you back,” he said finally.

  “I’m not needin’ help! No, wait. You wanna— Here.” Pete pulled a dirty sheet of paper from his pocket. “It ain’t your place to, but I can’t write no letter with my fingers gone. I took this off his body before— Here, send this to his Rosie and write her— You write and let her know.” He pushed the folded paper into David’s hand and moved unsteadily away.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  “My Dear Wife Rosie, We have been marching all night to get to this place, Coal Harbor, where we are laying up resting, so I take this opertunity to write you, my Dearest Wife. There seems no peeple left in this part of the Country, only our men and Johnny Reb. The rebs has dug their Rifle pits in front of us, but our Officers beleeve we are suficent strong to take them. We are laying now in the rain which don’t bother us none as this Country is so hot you would not beleeve. Some of the men has taken sick with the Diarear but I remain healthy as a horse so don’t give yourself any Uneasiness about me. Where we are camped now is so near to Richmond I have hopes we may bring a Close to the war this summer which I Pray for as I know you do too, my Dear Rosie. To bring an end to all this terrible Sufering and that we will be united again as God intended for Man and Wife to live. But I will write you more particulers after the Battle. Till then I remain your afectionate Husband, Colin.”

  David dropped Colin’s letter, wishing he’d never unfolded the sheet of paper Pete had handed him. “Christ,” he burst out. “What did he have to reenlist for!”

  “Reckon he thought it was the right thing to do,” Al said soberly. She rubbed her eyes. Shadows from the candle flickered on her face.

  “I’m sorry,” David told her. “I didn’t mean to keep you awake. It’s just, I can’t find the words to tell her.”

  “That’s all right. I wish I could help you out. It’s plumb awful, isn’t it, them just married and all.”

  “God. He was so happy, going on about the cottage they’d have and now—” David slumped in exhaustion, rubbed his own eyes. Colin’s freckled face formed behind his lids, grinning in half-embarrassment as he talked. The image disappeared, replaced by the bloated, stinking corpse they’d buried that afternoon. He shuddered, stared at the blank writing paper. “She’ll be looking forward to hearing from him and then— My God, what can I say to her?”

  “I reckon it might be easier to think of the proper words in the morning,” Al said. “We can put our heads together. There’s no way to send mail out now, anyhow.”

  “I suppose.” David set aside the paper, blew out the candle, closed his eyes. Once more he gazed through his field glasses at the doomed assault on the Reb trenches. The glasses grew heavier as he watched the battlefield. He stared at them, suddenly realizing he held a rifle, awkwardly gripped between his hands. The bayonet waved wildly at the sky.

  “Hey, move your hands a little farther apart on the barrel. That’s it. You’re gettin’ the hang of it!”

  David started at Colin’s voice, moved his hands as he directed. Pete grunted in amused approval on his other side. He stared around him at the rest of their company, the exposed, muddy field ahead. Christ, he didn’t belong here with them. He ought to run for the rear. But he couldn’t show himself a coward in front of them. He bent over like the others, moved forward at a stumbling half run. Thunder crashed around him. He gasped, screamed. “My God, we’ll be hit!”

  “Calm yourself now, David. Just follow my lead.” Pete’s voice boomed out with unwonted warmth and reassurance. David turned toward him. Not Pete, but—

  “Zach! Oh my God,
Zach! What are you doing here?” David dropped the rifle, ran to him, unheeding of anything but his growing joy. Lead pelted down like hailstones. Blood spurted from Zach’s mouth as David reached him. His face darkened, bloated. Maggots crawled toward his eyes.

  “No! No! No! No! My God! My God! No!” He couldn’t disentangle himself from Zach’s fierce embrace, as Zach shook him, crying from his blood-filled mouth, “You’ve never given a tinker’s damn for me!”

  Zach gave him another fierce shake. David opened his eyes, dimly made out Al’s concerned face, inches above his, as she shook him awake. “Al, thank God!” David wrapped his arms around her, pulled her down next to him, his body shaking with tremors.

  “Are you all right, David? You were screaming something awful. I had the hardest time waking you.”

  “Oh God, I—” He gave a strangled sob.

  Al pulled him closer, pillowed his head on her breast. “It’s all right now. What were you dreaming about?”

  “I— I can’t—” David drew a deep breath, clinging to her, pressing his face against her warm breasts as they rose and fell in quiet rhythm. “Just a crazy nightmare— I don’t— Oh God, Al. Hold me. Please. Just hold me.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  After twelve days at Cold Harbor, Grant ordered the Army of the Potomac to withdraw from their positions. Stealing from under Confederate noses, the troops abandoned their trenches during the night of June 12, heading toward Charles City Courthouse, near the James River, where hastily massed ships waited to ferry them to the southern bank. If Grant couldn’t take Richmond by frontal assault, he would try the back door: an attack on the Confederate rail center at Petersburg, twenty-two miles below Richmond and a vital supply link to Lee’s army.

  By the evening of June 13, Union infantry were streaming up to the north bank of the James, while army engineers raced to complete a massive pontoon bridge for the train of supply wagons and cavalry. David headed toward the riverbank to sketch the engineers before darkness fell, leaving Al scribbling her dispatch in their tent.

  He finished his sketch and sauntered along the riverbank toward the steamboats. Infantrymen camped for the night thronged the shoreline, plunging into the river with the glee of schoolboys given an unexpected holiday. Men pulled off uniforms that were little more than dirt-encrusted rags after two weeks confined to trenches, whooping and calling as they splashed one another.

  David reached for a pencil, then stayed his hand, content just to watch the scene. Water streamed down men’s backs and arms as they scrubbed and splashed, droplets beaded on wiry, hardened muscles, reflected the fading daylight from taut, powerful flanks.

  A stocky, grinning soldier hoisted another man to his shoulders, pranced around like a good-natured bear, then tossed the other into waist-deep water with a powerful heave. The second man came up sputtering and laughing, wrestled with the first in mock anger. Their bare thighs strained together as they struggled for a hold. David raised his field glasses, stared through them greedily.

  The stockier man pushed the other down, released him with a broad grin. He looks a bit like Zach, David thought. Those shoulders and the way his chest and back are covered with hair. Only younger. Like Zach must’ve looked before I met him. The man stepped from the water. David’s eyes followed him, moved down his body, drinking in the firmly muscled thighs, water dripping from his pubic hair.

  Christ! What am I doing?! David turned away, shame-faced, hurried to the bluff over the river and his tent. He shoved open the flap, stumbled into the dimness inside.

  Al smiled at him. “I was just wondering if you weren’t getting hungry,” she said. “I’m about starved. Though I wish we had something besides these darn sardines. Well, I finished my dispatch, at any rate, so at least I won’t have to strain my eyes none working by candlelight. From when we skedaddled out of Cold Harbor without Lee being any the wiser right up to coming here. Even though we can’t send anything out till after the battle, of course.”

  “I’d sooner never see another battle,” David said. “I was watching the men swim out there, without a care in the world, and then to think a few days from now—”

  “No sense getting in a fret ahead of time,” Al said. “Though I wish I could peel off my clothes and jump in with them. I feel grubby as an old hog that’s been wallowing in the barnyard. I must look a sight!”

  “You look fine. Well, we’ve all gotten a little dusty from the road.”

  Al laughed.

  “No, you do.” David sank down next to her. “There’s nothing wrong with your looks.” He reached out and ran his fingers through her curls. “If you let your hair grow out and put on a dress, you’d be a fine looking woman.”

  “Well, I reckon I’ll do that sooner or later. I don’t mean to live as a man forever, David.” She looked at him, her face suddenly serious.

  “I should hope not.” David stared back at her. Hell, she’d probably turn heads. With that pretty face. And that hair. And a tidy little figure under that disguise. There’s not many men wouldn’t want her. I can see it. Why in hell can’t I feel it? Christ, I can at least make the effort. We get along. And to have someone. Have her there to hold in the night.

  “After the war’s over—” He faltered, unable to continue. Al looked at him expectantly. The moment of silence lengthened. David took her face in his hands, let his fingers slide through her ringlets. Oh Christ, if he could just feel the way he did about—

  “David.” Al’s voice was a whisper of happiness. Her arms encircled him.

  David closed his eyes and drew her into a closer embrace, clinging to her like a lifeline.

  Chapter 21 — 1864

  THE GENERAL HEADQUARTERS AT CITY POINT, where the waters of the James joined the Appomattox, seemed a city in fact. Steamboat traffic ran daily to Washington City, newly constructed wharves and storehouses served the supply base. Hospitals were built and manned with the assistance of the civilian Sanitary Commission. On a high bluff overlooking the rivers, reached by a wooden staircase, stood the tents of Grant and his staff. Outside the guardline, the plateau was covered with the shanties and tents of civilians: volunteers and employees of the Sanitary and Christian Commissions, sutlers, curiosity and favor-seekers, proprietors of eateries.

  From the edge of the bluff, where David sat with Al, the waters below reflected the last rays of sunlight, the bustling wharves grew still with evening. The neighs of cavalry horses carried through the still, hot air.

  Al glanced around, then took David’s hand, her fingers twining with his. He smiled, brushed her lips in a quick kiss. Hell, he told himself, as he must’ve done a hundred times since they’d watched the army cross the James a week earlier, he could be happy with her. They could make a life together after the war.

  Not that an end to war appeared imminent. A Union victory, seemingly within reach days ago, had slipped from grasp, the advantage Grant had gained by his brilliant, stealthy maneuver lost. On June 15th, with Lee ignorant of the Army of the Potomac’s whereabouts, a division of colored troops, commanded by General William F. Smith, broke through a portion of the Petersburg defenses, taking two artillery batteries and several hundred prisoners. But Smith awaited the arrival of reinforcements to press his attack further; the delay gave Confederates the time they needed to strengthen Petersburg’s thinly manned defenses.

  Supporting strikes in the Shenandoah Valley by Union troops were rebuffed. The assault on Petersburg faltered and ground to a halt. Uncoordinated Union attacks on the 16th and 17th broke through Rebel lines, but the brief successes were not followed up. By June 18, when Grant and Meade issued orders for an all-out Union assault, Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia had arrived, entrenching in a tightly drawn line around the city of Petersburg.

  Union troops were repulsed with heavy losses. Inexperienced regiments were mowed down by Confederate fire while veteran Union infantrymen lay prone, refusing to make an assault against earthworks as formidable as those of Cold Harbor.

  A
nd who could blame them, David thought, tightening his grip on Al’s hand. Who the hell could blame them?

  At any rate, Grant had accepted Meade’s assessment that nothing could be accomplished by further attacks, and ordered the troops to entrench and settle down to a siege.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  “City Point, June 21, ‘64, Dear Mike, Our General Head Quarters and the men in the Front Lines were enlivened by a surprise visit from President Lincoln today.” David paused, sifting through the pictures in his mind for words to describe the spectacle: Abraham Lincoln, his black frock coat and high silk hat silted with thick yellow dust from the road, sitting his horse like a countryman ill at ease in Sunday clothes as he accompanied Grant to view the Union entrenchments, his gaunt, lined face lighting with a smile as battle-weary veterans crowded around to catch a glimpse of him.

  “On the return to City Point, the President’s party passed the encampment of negro troops under Smith’s command who captured a part of the Reb breastworks last week. I have forwarded Leslie an illustration, which you will see if he chooses it for print. Mere words can barely describe the fervor of these men, jostling and shoving to catch sight of the President, kissing his hands, shouting and praising him as their Emancipator, Father Abraham. The President in his turn appeared sincerely moved, removing his hat and thanking them while tears welled up in his eyes.

  “The situation here otherwise stays a Stalemate and seems pretty likely to remain so for the summer. Give my best to all your family when you write them, and when you see Dad next, let me know how he is getting on. Affectionately, David.”

  David read his letter over, sealed the envelope and worked a postage stamp loose from the gummed mass.

  He ought to write Zach about Lincoln’s visit. As much as Zach admired the man, he’d surely relish— The thought came unbidden into David’s mind. He closed his eyes, visualizing Zach’s surprised pleasure as he opened the envelope, the way his forehead would wrinkle in concentration as he read. It wouldn’t hurt to write him, let Zach know he still thought of him from time to time, still counted him a friend. Hell, he’d been in his thoughts more than just occasionally for that matter, nearly every day since they’d crossed the James.