by John Jakes
In the uneasy silence that followed, Cooper frowned and Billy admitted to himself that Jane was right. He need only examine his own attitudes of a couple of years ago. Though one war was over, he shared his brother’s belief that another was just starting.
140
OPIN AGIN SAID THE sign hanging crookedly on the front of à large log building just outside Goldsboro, North Carolina. Charles reached it right before dark. The weather was surprisingly cool for May. Rain had started an hour ago, and he had wrapped himself in the robe of rags and scraps.
A smaller line on the sign proclaimed, Confedrate Bills Prodly Acepted Here! Charles had nine hundred dollars’ worth of those—back pay—stuffed in his shirt and pants pockets. He pitied a man who would try to run a business on pride and worthless currency, but he would accept that kind of lunatic hospitality tonight. He didn’t want to sleep in the open again, especially with the rain, and hunt for an orchard or coop to rob for food.
A black boy led his mule away, promising a good rubdown and feed. Charles entered the main room of the roadside tavern, a drab place with a few desolate-looking men sitting about, talking, or lazily clicking pieces across a checkerboard. A fire brightened the stone hearth.
Charles ordered whiskey, a plate of lamb barbecue, and purchased a cigar from the innkeeper. He discovered the man had several rusty guns for sale and a few old boxes of ammunition. One contained shells that would fit his .48 army Colt. Elated, he bought the whole box for fifty Confederate dollars.
While he was eating, a man of about forty came noisily downstairs from the sleeping rooms under the eaves. He rubbed his hands at the fire while Charles tried to avoid his eye.
But the man forced conversation on him. He had a pink face, curly hair gone prematurely white, and a mouth downcast in a curve of perpetual suffering. He introduced himself as Mordecai Woodvine, itinerant salesman of Bibles and Christian tracts.
“Sure hope business picks up soon. Sure has been terrible the past couple of years. I hate traveling anymore. Too many uppity free niggers all over the place. But the work I do is God’s work, so I guess I oughtn’t complain.” So saying, he continued to look miserable.
He sat down without invitation and insisted on knowing Charles’s name and whether he had been in the army.
“Yes, I was. I scouted for Hampton’s cavalry.”
“The cavalry! There’s plenty on that subject in Revelations. ‘And I looked, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.’” Through the smoke of his cigar, Charles could be seen scowling. Woodvine poked a finger at heaven, intoning, “‘And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth—’”
With intentional rudeness, Charles interrupted. “I’d say that describes our work pretty well.” He wanted to strangle the man for prompting memories of Sport.
The fool went right on. “My cousin Fletcher was a cavalryman out west. Rode with Bedford Forrest—there’s one good old rebel who won’t tolerate this nigger freedom, I’ll tell you. Fletcher got captured, and do you know what happened to him?”
Charles was on his feet. He indicated no interest in the answer, but got it anyway.
“They offered him a choice. Prison—or the Yankee cavalry. That’s right, they shipped him to a regiment out on the plains somewhere. To fight Indians. There are a goodly number of our boys doing that, I’m told. They’re called galvanized Yankees.”
He leaned forward. “You understand, don’t you? Galvanized metal is iron coated with zinc to keep out rust. A galvanized Yankee is a Confederate wearing a blue—”
“I know the meaning of galvanized.”
“Oh. Oh, well—I thought maybe you didn’t. Anyway, if you hanker to stay in some army, you might keep it in mind. That is, if you could stand to serve with men who brought this plague of emancipation upon us. I couldn’t stand it. I’d puke my guts out, if you’ll pardon the indelicacy.”
“Surely,” Charles said, an almost malevolent glint in his eye. “Galvanized Yankees. Think of that. Tell me, Mr. Woodvine, in which branch did you serve?”
“Me? Why—uh—I didn’t. I’m too old.”
“You’re over forty-five? You don’t look it.”
“But there are reasons—a physical impairment—”
“And you probably spent most of the war in the woods, selling Testaments to the trees and quoting Scripture to the saplings—where they couldn’t find you. Am I right, Mr. Woodvine?”
“What? What’s that?”
“Good night, Mr. Woodvine.”
He walked away, heading for his room. On the stairs, he heard the parting shot.
“Drunken veterans—that’s all you see anymore. The army taught them to love Whiskey. Issued regular rations of it. Disgraceful, that’s my opinion.”
Charles wanted to turn, go back, and beat Woodvine bloody. Instead, he shut the door of his room and leaned against it. He was a fool to react angrily. He had no interest in the Bible salesman or his cousin. Much as he had come to love Texas while he was with the Second, he had no interest in continuing as a cavalryman. He had no interest in anything but reaching Spotsylvania County as quickly as possible.
Rain tapped the roof as he stretched out and pulled up the cover. He heard the rain leaking with a steady drip near the fool of the bed. Downstairs, made boisterous with drink, some of the desolate men started to sing.
Charles recognized the piece. He had heard “O I’m a Good Old Rebel” several times since leaving South Carolina. It was sung with great fervor now that Johnston’s army had surrendered to Sherman near Durham Station.
“I hates the Yankee nation
And everything they do
I hates the Declaration
Of Independence, too.
I hates the glorious Union.
’Tis dripping with our blood.
I hates their striped banner.
I fit it all I could.”
“Christ,” Charles groaned, pulling the thin pillow over his head. It didn’t shut out the rhythmic thumping of tin cups on the bar, the stamp of boots, or the splendid choir baritone of Mordecai Woodvine joining in.
“I can’t take up my musket
And fight ’em now no more,
But I ain’t got to love ’em.
Now that is sarten sure.
And I don’t want no pardon
For what I was and am,
I won’t be reconstructed,
And I don’t care a damn!”
Weeds and wild grasses tossed in the warm wind, high as the hamstrings of his mule. The wind snapped the gypsy cloak as Charles turned into the dooryard, an ominous feeling on him. The fields hadn’t been prepared for planting. On such a pleasant day, when fresh air would have broomed the house, every window was shuttered. Around the rear stoop, wild violets showed where none had grown before. The open door of the barn revealed a rectangle of darkness.
“Washington? Boz?”
The wind blew.
“Anyone here?”
Sunflowers swayed in what had been the garden. Why was he awaiting an answer? Hadn’t he gotten it when he came over the last hump in the scarred road and seen the house so still, the surrounding fields empty in the sunshine?
She had locked the place before going wherever she had gone. Using his elbow, he broke the window of the kitchen door, reached through, and let himself in. The furniture was there, chairs neatly squared up beneath the table. Pots and the iron skillet hung from their pegs in their remembered places. He jerked open cabinets. Dishes there, too.
He ran to her bedroom, his boots thudding the pegged floor. The bed was neatly made and on the table next to it he spied her book of Pope, a place marked with a pale blue ribbon. Surely she wouldn’t leave that if she were planning to be gone for any length of time. She must be away for just a day or two, with the freedmen.
To confirm it, he bore down on the wardrobe, expect
ing to find most of her clothing. He yanked the doors open.
Empty.
He stood still, frowning, worried. How to explain the contradiction—all the clothes missing and her favorite book left behind?
He had left the porch door open; a strong gust of wind blowing through the hall caught a wardrobe door and hurled it shut with a bang. That roused him and broke the grip of his panic. He carried the book to the kitchen, laid it on the table, then hurried to the barn, where the freedmen stored their tools. All were still in place.
He sawed some boards, nailed them on the inside of the broken window, took the book, and tied the door shut with a length of rope. It would be one of the things for which he would ask her forgiveness the moment he saw her. One of many.
About to mount the mule, he paused and opened the book at the place marked by the ribbon. He discovered a small, unfamiliar flower, its blossom pressed flat, most of the yellow gone. He swallowed.
The poem was “Ode to Solitude.” Gus had bracketed four lines with delicate strokes of an inked pen.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
He cursed and shut the book. A shudder ran down his spine. He booted the mule all the way into Fredericksburg.
Although most of the population had come back, he saw few signs that repair of the destruction had begun. He inquired at two stores, without success. The proprietor of the third, a hefty butcher, gave him some information after he introduced himself.
“She let both her free nigras go. The younger, Boz, passed through town and told me. A few nights later, she disappeared without a word to anybody. That made me recall she had come in the day before and settled her account.”
“How long ago was all this?”
“Several months.”
“And you haven’t seen her since?”
“That’s right.”
“But where the hell did she go?”
“Who do you think you’re talking to, soldier? I’m a Union man.” His hand slid across the moist red block to a boning knife. “I were you, I’d be more polite to the people that whipped you, else they might do it again.”
Reddening, Charles restrained his anger. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I rode a long way to find her.”
The butcher saw his opportunity and smirked. “Maybe she didn’t want you to find her. Ever think of that? Mrs. Barclay left her place without telling a soul in Fredericksburg or the county where she was headed. You don’t believe me, you ask anybody.”
He picked up his cleaver and began chopping a slab of faintly shiny meat with hard, swift strokes. Charles walked out, leaving a trail of boot prints in the sawdust. He leaned on the store front, stricken by the truth in the butcher’s nastiness.
She hadn’t wanted him to come back, else she would have waited. Or at least left word of her destination. Instead, she left a poem about death. The end of everything. He understood the positioning of the ribbon and the inked brackets. They were meant for him.
He walked around the iron hitching post, rested a hand on his worn saddle, and said something broken-sounding under his breath. The mule flicked his ears. Flies landed anyway. The pain, the uncertainty of loss, beat at Charles harder and harder by the second. He didn’t try to quell the feelings. He couldn’t have done it if he had wanted.
141
THE CORPORAL IN CHARGE of the two-man detail hailed from Illinois. He had been educated at Indiana Asbury, a tiny college in the next state, then returned to Danville, the home town of Mr. Lincoln’s great companion Ward Lamon, where he taught in a one-room school for two years before mustering for war. He was twenty-four. The private helping him was four years younger. Their detail was one of many assigned to sift through the rubble of Richmond, with shovels and by hand, to locate and retrieve any unburned government documents.
The corporal and the private worked in the skeletal ruins of what had been a warehouse. Part of the roof remained, and two walls. The soldiers started early each day; this morning there was a slight fog, not yet burned off. The sun shafts around the fragment of roof seemed to hold smoke.
“Here’s a box hardly touched, Sid,” the private said. In this part of the warehouse yesterday they had discovered batches of undelivered letters, most of them at least partly scorched. When they pried open the new box, they found bundles that appeared untouched.
Since their assignment was to recover and mark any mail that could be forwarded, they thought their search, thankless thus far, had finally borne fruit. They were disappointed. The private showed Sid the top letter of a stack he was holding.
“Must’ve had a heavy rain. Guess the box leaked. Spoilt the address.”
The corporal studied the letter. Saw faint handwriting indecipherable because of blots and water streaks.
“The rest like that?”
The private fanned the stack. “Ever’ one.”
Pleased, Sid said, “Then I guess we should open them. The address might be repeated before the salutation.” That was an excuse; he was bored and wanted to sit down awhile. Opening mail beat pawing through wet ashes that stuck to your uniform and made it stink.
Besides, reading the mail of strangers appealed to his sense of drama. He had always loved Othello and Romeo and Juliet and the novels of Dickens. He dreamed of writing a piece of fiction of his own one of these days. Might be some stories worth remembering in these letters.
They sat on fallen beams and opened them one by one. The private did it mechanically, unmoved by anything he read. Sid rapidly grew disgusted. Contrary to his expectations, he found little except bad spelling, worse grammar, and fragmentary, wholly uninteresting observations about homesickness, mother’s dearly remembered cooking, or the absolute perfection of every girl to whom a letter was addressed. In twenty minutes he was bored again. But orders were orders.
An hour had passed when he sat up suddenly. “Hold on, here’s an interesting one. Signed J. B. Duncan—one of our own officers.”
He showed the private the abbreviations and initials following the name. “Brigadier General, United States Volunteers. But it’s addressed to someone he calls ‘My dear Major Main.’ You suppose that’s a reb, Chauncey?”
“Pretty likely if the letter’s here, don’t you think?”
Sid nodded. “Seems to concern some female named Augusta—Oh, my Lord, listen to this. She became pregnant with your child, and although she knew of her condition at the time of your last visit, she would say nothing, not wishing to exert moral coercion—” With new enthusiasm, Sid said, “This is an educated man. Telling quite a story.”
“Sounds like a hot one,” Chauncey observed.
Sid kept reading. “The pregnancy was fully as difficult, not to say dangerous, as that which occurred while she was married to Mr. Barclay. You know the unfortunate outcome that time, I believe. Fearing for her well-being and also her safety on that isolated farm where she foolishly remained throughout much of the worst fighting, I arranged to smuggle my niece over the Potomac and on to my present home in Washington. Here, on December 23 last, she delivered your son, a fine healthy infant to whom she gave the name Charles. But I regret to say the birth—”
The corporal’s voice had dropped. He shot the private a melancholy look.
“What’s wrong, Sid?”
“… the birth was not without its tragic aspect. One hour after delivering, poor Augusta succumbed. She passed away with your name upon her lips. I know she loved you more than life itself, for she told me so.”
Sid wiped his nose. “My God.” He went on. “I have written twice before and paid to have each missive borne to Richmond by private messenger. I hasten to write yet a third time because I know postal service is disrupted, and I wish to do all that I can to make certain at least one of the letters reaches you. Regrettably, each letter bears the skimpiest of addresses, but I have none better.”
A gulp of b
reath. “New paragraph. The divisive holocaust, perhaps ordained by God but tragic for His children nonetheless, shows every aspect of an imminent conclusion. When it is over, it is your right to claim your son. I will keep him, providing proper care, until you come for him, or, if you do not, for as long as is practicable for an old bachelor bent upon continuing his military career. I bear you no enmity. I pray this finds you whole and glad of the good portion of my news. Respectfully—”
Sid rested the last sheet on his knee. “That’s all except for the signature.”
“That ought to be delivered for sure,” Chauncey said. He was subdued now, sitting motionless in a smoky shaft of light.
“Yes.” The corporal thrust the envelope into the sun. Tilted and peered at it. “Hello, that’s better. Here’s the name again. Main. And the word Major. The first name’s gone, along with the address. Still, that may be enough.”
He folded the two pages, replaced them in the envelope, and slipped it in his pocket. “I’ll bring this one to the lieutenant’s attention myself.”
“Good,” said Chauncey, staring at Sid. Sid stared back. When the government of that damned Davis had torched so many of its records, how did you find one reb soldier among the hundreds of thousands wandering homeward on the roads of the South—or lying dead in mass graves, thickets, fields, from Virginia and the Pennsylvania mountains to the bluffs of Vicksburg and the hills of Arkansas?
Both knew you didn’t; not easily. Sid would try, but he felt it was hopeless.
142
AFTER LEAVING FREDERICKSBURG, CHARLES wandered aimlessly for three days. Lay rigid each night, unable to sleep. Lost his temper without provocation and almost got knifed for it in another wayside tavern. Wanted to cry and could not.
In the scarred country above the Rapidan, he came to a four-way crossroads and dismounted. While the mule cropped grass, he took off his gypsy robe and lay down at the roadside. He hoped the mule kept eating for hours. He had no destination. No reason to go on.
