by John Jakes
“Is there any important news?”
“They say a battle will be fought in Virginia in a few days.”
“Perhaps it will bring a quick peace.”
“Perhaps.” She sounded indifferent.
“Are you coming to supper?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Virgilia, do me the courtesy of looking at me.”
Slowly, Billy’s sister complied; her eyes caught light from the sky, and Brett imagined she saw a flash of the old Virgilia—martyred, angry. Then the eyes grew dull. Brett forced a gentleness she didn’t feel.
“I appreciate that you’ve undergone some terrible experiences—”
“I loved Grady,” Virgilia said. “Everyone hates me because he was a colored man. But I loved him.”
“I can understand how lost you must feel without him.” It was a lie; it was beyond her to understand a white woman’s love for a Negro.
Virgilia sank into self-pity. “This is my own home, and no one wants me here.”
“You’re wrong. Constance took you in. I’d like to help you, too. I know”—how difficult this was—“we’ll never be warm friends, but, even so, we needn’t behave as if the other person doesn’t exist. I would like to make you feel better—”
At last, the old Virgilia—scathing: “How?”
“Well—” Desperate, Brett seized a straw. “For one thing, we must do something about that dress. It doesn’t become you. In fact, it’s horrid.”
“Why bother? No man wants to look at me.”
“No one’s trying to rush you to the altar or into the social whirl”—the light reply drew another hard stare—“but you might feel better about yourself if you discarded that dress, took a long bath and fixed your hair. Why don’t you let me help you with your hair after supper?”
“Because it won’t make any difference.”
How foolish to think she’d accept help, Brett said to herself. She’s as stupidly ungrateful as—
The thought went unfinished as Brett studied the other woman. Virgilia’s hair blew this way and that, and she had grown round-shouldered. Though she had lost weight, she still had a full bosom. But it sagged, like a crone’s. Her eyes picked up light from the fading day again. Hurt. So hurt.
“Come—let’s try.” Like a mother with her child, she grasped Virgilia’s wrist. Feeling no resistance, she tugged gently.
“I don’t care,” Virgilia said with a shrug. But she let the younger girl lead her inside and down the iron stair.
After supper, Brett sent two girls to pour kettles of hot water into a tub. When the girls realized the reason, they looked at her as if they suspected lunacy. But she pressed on, urging a limp and unresisting Virgilia upstairs.
She shut her in the bathroom. “Throw out your clothes. Everything. I’ll find something else for you to wear.”
She sat in the gloomy bedroom—Virgilia had closed all the drapes—and let five minutes pass. After ten, her irritation changed to alarm. Had the mad creature done away with herself?
She pressed her ear to the door. “Virgilia?”
Her heart hammered. Finally she heard sounds. She stepped back as the door opened. A hand extended a wad of clothing Brett didn’t want to touch. She marched it downstairs at arm’s length.
“Burn this,” she said to one of the girls. To another: “Find a nightdress and robe Miss Virgilia can wear. Mine are too small.” The order horrified the girl. “I’ll pay you twice what the clothes are worth. You can buy new ones.”
That got action. Upstairs again, she laid the gown on the bed and handed the old linen robe through the bathroom door. She turned all the gas mantles up full so that the bedroom was bright when Virgilia finally emerged, stepping out almost shyly, the robe tightly wrapped and tied. Her skin and hair were damp, but she was clean.
“You look splendid! Come sit here.”
Virgilia took the embroidered seat Brett had placed in front of the large oval mirror. With a fresh towel, Brett dried Virgilia’s hair vigorously—it was indeed like grooming a child—then began to ply a silver-backed brush inlaid with pearl. She stroked down and down while a clock on the fireplace mantel ticked. Down and down. Virgilia remained rigid, staring in the mirror, seeing God knew what visions.
When she finished the brushing, she parted Virgilia’s hair in the current style—down the center—then wound a strand on her finger and pinned it above Virgilia’s left ear. She repeated the procedure on the other side. “Those will shape into attractive loops.” She lifted the rest: Virgilia did have beautifully thick tresses. “We’ll gather the rest in a net in the morning. You’ll be very fashionable.”
She saw her own smiling face in the glass, above Virgilia’s lifeless one. Discouraged, she tried not to show it.
“There’s a nightgown on the bed. First thing tomorrow, we’ll drive into town and buy some new clothes.”
“I have nothing to wear.”
“We’ll borrow a dress.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Never mind. I do. Consider it a present.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do. Hush. I want you to feel better. You’re an attractive woman.”
That finally fetched a smile—of contemptuous doubt. Vexed, Brett turned away. “Rest well. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Virgilia remained motionless, like a piece of garden statuary. Brett decided she had wasted her evening.
For a long while after the door closed, Virgilia sat with her hands in her lap. No one had ever used the word attractive to describe her. No one had ever come close to saying she was pretty. She was neither, and she knew it. And yet, staring at the gaslit image, she saw a woman marvelous and new. A not-unpresentable woman with hair modishly arranged. Even her complexion looked better; scrubbing her cheeks had brought some color, which helped to hide the pox scars of which she had always been ashamed. A lump formed in her throat.
When Brett had said she wanted to help her, Virgilia’s first reaction had been suspicion, her second exhausted indifference. Now, before the mirror, something stirred in her. Not happiness; she was seldom capable of that, and not now especially. Call it interest. Curiosity. Whatever its name, it was a little bud of life that unexpectedly broke through hard ground.
She rose, unfastened the robe, and opened it to see herself.
Corseted, her breasts would become her. The near-starvation she had endured after selling the last of the stolen silver had slimmed her. Perhaps the agony of those weeks of hunger would have a positive side.
She let the robe fall. Suddenly overwhelmed, she took a small step forward. One hand, not steady, came up—reached out—touched the wondrous reflection. “Oh.” Her eyes filled with tears.
She found it hard to sleep that night. Around midnight she opened the curtains so the morning light would wake her. Wearing both the gown and the robe, she was seated in the dining room waiting when Brett appeared for breakfast.
32
GEORGE WOKE AT FIVE on Sunday morning. He slipped from bed—but not quietly. His activity soon roused Constance and the children. “You’re as excited as a boy,” she said, yawning as she struggled into her clothes.
“I want to see the battle. Half the town expects it to be the first and last of the war.”
“Do you, Pa?” his son asked, acting as cheerfully jittery as his parent.
“I wouldn’t venture a guess.” He wrapped the old army-issue gun belt around his waist and made sure the 1847-model Colt repeater rested securely in the holster. Constance took note of the preparation but limited her comment to a frown. George gestured.
“William, fetch my flask of whiskey and take care of it. Patricia, help your mother with the lunch hamper. I’ll get the carriage.”
Patricia made a face. “I’d rather stay and read and feed the cows on the mall.”
“Now, now,” Constance said as George left. “Your father made all the arrangements. We’re going.”
So
was a large part of the population of Washington, it appeared. Even at this early hour, a line of riders and vehicles waited at the city end of Long Bridge while sentries checked passes. Among the sightseers there was a great deal of animated conversation, laughter, and the displaying of opera glasses and telescopes bought or borrowed for the occasion. It promised to be a warm, lovely day, the scents of summer earth and air mingling with the aromas of horse droppings and perfume.
Finally the Hazards reached the head of the line. George showed his War Department pass. “Plenty of traffic this morning.”
“Plenty more ahead of you, Captain. They’ve been passing for hours.” Saluting, the sentry signaled the barouche forward.
They crossed the river, George smartly handling the two plugs rented as part of the rig that had cost him an outrageous thirty dollars for the day. He had paid without protest and deemed himself lucky; among the phaetons, hacks, and gigs on the rutted road, he spied even more unusual conveyances, including a dairy wagon and another with the name of some city photographer blazoned on it.
The trip was not short; they had to travel roughly twenty-five miles southwest to find the armies. As two hours became three and the miles rolled on, they drove past cornfields, small farms, and ramshackle cabins. White and black people watched the cavalcade with equal astonishment.
McDowell’s advance had torn up the road. Constance and the children constantly swayed and bounced; Patricia loudly lamented the discomfort and the long distance.
A stop near a patch of woods was necessary for all of them. Constance and her daughter retired first, then George and William after they returned. George folded down the calash top so they could enjoy more of the scenery and sunshine. That mollified William a little, but Patricia continued to express boredom and annoyance. George spoke to her and put a stop to that.
A horseman sped around the left side of the barouche; George recognized a senator. He had already seen three well-known members of the House. They were still a couple of miles this side of Fairfax when William tugged George’s sleeve, excited. “Pa, listen!”
Amid all the cloppings and creaking, George had missed the faraway rumbling. “That’s artillery, all right.” Constance put her arm around Patricia. George’s spine prickled, and he remembered Mexico. Shells bursting. Men toppling. The raging screams of wounded; the lost cries of the dying. He remembered the shell that blew away the hut on the Churubusco road—and his friend Orry’s arm in the bargain. He shut his eyes to blot out the memories—
With a shiver, he straightened and concentrated on driving. The shelling beyond the horizon excited travelers all along the road. Horses were urged to greater speed. But some difficulty ahead slowed movement. Huge dust clouds billowed. “Good God, what’s this?” he said as Union troops, marching toward Washington, forced vehicles, including the barouche, over to the shoulder.
“Who are you?” George yelled at a corporal driving a high-piled baggage cart.
“Fourth Pennsylvania.”
“Is the battle over?”
“Don’t know, but we’re going home. Our enlistments ran out yesterday.”
The corporal drove on, followed by clots of ambling volunteers who laughed a lot and handled their shoulder weapons as if they were toys. Purple berry stains ringed the mouth of more than one young soldier. Wild flowers stuck from the muzzle of more than one musket. The Pennsylvanians straggled through the fields on either side of the road, picking flowers, pissing, doing whatever they pleased, while the guns grumbled in the south.
Past Fairfax, the Washington picnickers pressed on toward a thin blue haze drifting above ridge lines still miles distant. The boom of artillery grew louder. About noon, George began to hear the crackling of small arms, too.
The countryside here was rolling and wooded, though it had open stretches as well. They drove through Centreville and down the Warrenton Turnpike until they came upon great numbers of carriages and horses lined up on high ground on both sides of the road. An army courier galloping to the rear shouted that they had better go no farther.
“I can’t see anything, Pa,” William complained as George turned the horses left, behind the line of spectators with their picnic blankets and baskets spread among the trees. In front of them a hillside sloped to a creek called Cub Run, with smoke-muddied fields and woods beyond.
Hunting an open spot, George noticed enough foreign uniforms and heard enough different languages to furnish at least one diplomatic ball. He continued to see Washingtonians, too, including Senator Trumbull, of Illinois, present with a large party.
He winced when he came upon a familiar group. “Good morning, Stanley,” he called, driving on. He was thankful there was no room on either side of Stanley’s phaeton.
“Three hampers and a champagne bucket—what wretched excess,” Constance said as William directed his protest to her:
“I can’t see anything.”
“That may be, but we’re going no closer,” George said. “Here’s a place.” He pulled into vacant space at the end of the line of vehicles, tired and hot. His watch showed ten past one. Their view of the battle consisted of a panorama of distant clouds of thick smoke.
“They’re not firing.” Constance sounded relieved as she unfolded and spread their blanket. Could it be over already? George said he would try to get some information. He set off on foot toward the turnpike.
Courtesy forced him to stop a moment with his brother’s family. The twins were busy bashing each other behind a tree. Sweaty Stanley looked cross-eyed from champagne. Isabel declared that the artillery fire had been “fearsome” until a few minutes ago and that the rebs certainly must be on the run to Richmond. George touched his hat brim and left in search of more reliable sources.
He passed several loud groups and found himself irked by their jollity—maybe because he had a grasp of what was probably happening beneath and behind the smoke. He reached the turnpike and scanned it for anyone who appeared trustworthy. In three or four minutes, a gig came rattling up the hill from the suspension bridge spanning Cub Run.
The gig pulled off the opposite side of the road. A portly civilian, well dressed, put on eyeglasses hanging from a chain. From under the seat he took a hard-backed writing pad and pencil. George crossed the road.
“Are you a reporter?”
“That’s correct, sir.” The proper British accent startled George. “Russell’s the name.” He awaited a reaction and was cooler when he had to add, “The Times of London.”
“Yes, of course—I’ve seen your dispatches. Have you been forward?”
“As far as prudence allows.”
“What’s the situation?”
“Impossible to be sure, but the Federals appear to be carrying the day. The troops on both sides are spirited. One Confederate general distinguished himself in a hot contest around a farmhouse close by the Sudley Road. A Union action vedette gave me particulars, and the chap’s name—” he leafed back two pages—“Jackson.”
“Thomas Jackson? Is he a Virginian?”
“Can’t say, old fellow. Really—I must get on here. Both sides are resting and regrouping. There’ll be more soon, I don’t doubt.” He dismissed his questioner by bending over his pad to write.
George felt sure the hero of the farmhouse must be his old friend and West Point classmate; the strange, driven Virginian with whom he had shared study hours and hashes and conversation in sunny cantinas after Mexico City fell. Jackson had been teaching at some military school before the war, and it was logical that he would join up and stand out. Even back at the Academy, there had been two distinct opinions about Tom Jackson: he was brilliant, and he was crazy.
George tramped back to his family. Around two, while they ate, the lull ended. Ground-shaking cannonading began, exciting William and terrifying Patricia. Hundreds of spectators peered through spyglasses, but little could be seen except occasional fiery glares in the roiling blue clouds. An hour went by. Another. The rattle of small arms never stopped. Since t
he best soldier couldn’t fire a muzzleloader much faster than four times a minute, George knew that continuous fire meant great numbers of men were volleying.
Suddenly horses burst from the murk hanging over the turnpike. One wagon emerged, followed by two more. All sped toward the Cub Run bridge—too rapidly; the spectators heard unseen wounded screaming at every jolt.
Constance leaned near. “George, there’s something vile about all this. Must we stay?”
“Definitely not. We’ve seen enough.”
That was confirmed when a carriageload of officers with horse tails on their elaborate helmets pulled out of line, heading for the turnpike. One officer stood, swayed drunkenly, and fell out. The carriage stopped. As his comrades helped him back in, he vomited on them.
“Yes, definitely this isn’t—”
A commotion interrupted George. He turned and followed the pointing fingers of people nearby. A private in blue came running along the turnpike, heading for the bridge. Then another. Then more than a dozen. George heard the first man screaming unintelligibly. Those behind were throwing away kepis, haversacks—God almighty—even their muskets.
And then George understood the cry of the boy on the bridge.
“We’re whipped. We’re whipped.”
George’s stomach spasmed. “Constance, get in the carriage. Children, you too. Forget the food.” He slipped the nose bags off the horses; he had wanted to water them in the creek, but now there was no time. He smelled something vague and terrible in the powder-laden air. He shoved his son and daughter. “Hurry.”
His tone alarmed them. Down the line, two horsemen were mounting, but no one else acted concerned. George maneuvered the barouche into the open and started toward the road, aware of soldiers running up the hill while more poured from the smoky woods beyond Cub Run on a steadily widening front. One youngster in blue shrieked, “Black Horse Cavalry. Black Horse Cavalry right behind us!”
George had heard about that feared regiment from Fauquier County. He shook the reins to speed the stable plugs, passing Stanley and Isabel, who seemed puzzled by his haste. “I’d get going if you don’t want to be caught in—”
