by Gina Danna
That night, Jack ate with the other officers. Rathborne brought another full flask with him, and they split the contents, absorbing information as it came in. Longstreet’s men, thirty thousand strong, give or take ten thousand depending on the officer who heard it, was spotted only a night’s march away.
Gulping the last of the smooth Kentucky whiskey–where Rathborne got it, Jack didn’t ask–he noticed the tension in Pope’s voice.
“Pack up, Jack,” Rathborne grumbled. “Bet you five, we’ll be gone tomorrow.”
Jack shook his head. “We’ll be here forever. Maybe we should just let them go.”
His friend asked “You’d give up your chance to return home?”
With a loud laugh, one that made half the men around him turn, Jack’s face became hard. “I left home over ten years ago. I will not return. Not under the current circumstances and probably not afterward.” The venom in his voice came from his soul. He caught Rathborne’s look of surprise and saw out of the corner of his eye the men around him speaking in lowered voices. He didn’t care. Jean Baptist Fontaine could rot in hell for all Jack cared. And even that wasn’t enough punishment. Not for the dictating tyrant he had been and still was.
#
September 17, 1862
Sharpsburg, Maryland
Jack looked down his line of infantrymen, all poised and ready to be called on. Tugging his pistol out of its holster, Jack snapped the barrel out, re-loaded and shut it.
He’d been ready for days, perhaps weeks by that time. It all ran together in his head because sleep or any real rest had constantly eluded him. It was either look forward to the fight, for the chance to kill, or succumb to nightmares. Every night, when he lay his head down and closed his eyes, Emma, the child, his father and Caroline spoke. Well, perhaps Emma was silent, but her eyes told him the truth. The child was his. And despite his own denial, he had a responsibility he couldn’t ignore.
McClellan resumed command of the combined northern armies as the Army of the Potomac after Pope’s disaster in August along Bull Run Creek, near Manassas Junction. As Pope retreated to Washington with his troops, Lincoln had switched back to Little Mac, and the men welcomed his return. But it didn’t slow their return to Union lines because scouts informed the general that Lee was heading north, presumably to take Washington. The route took them through occupied Maryland. Regardless of why Lee moved above the Mason Dixon Line, McClellan remained cautious.
The snail’s pace of the Union Army rattled the nerves of soldiers like Jack. The quiet was Jack’s greatest enemy. Too much free time allowed his mind to wander. He wrote numerous reports, drilled his men to excess, played every game in camp that’d take bets from an officer and avoided everyone at mail call because no one wrote him. His misery was complete.
Emma was south, caring for his son. Virginia was a battleground and would be till this war ended because the secesh capital sat in Richmond. Rose Hill was less than a day’s ride from there, sitting on the James River. Prime land for an attack. For occupation. For death. He had to get them out of there, and his need grew daily. But the army was not granting leaves, particularly to officers who wanted to enter enemy territory to rescue their families.
Four days earlier, Jack had led a reconnaissance patrol into an area just outside Frederick, Maryland where the Rebs had camped the night before. While scouring the site for any clues as to their direction, one of his men came up to him.
“Sir,” the corporal said, handing Jack three cigars wrapped in a piece of paper.
Jack took the cigars and pulled the paper off them, but as he peeled the wrapping back, he found writing on the inside. He stared blankly at the page. The handwriting was familiar from his days at the Point–the writing of Robert E. Lee. Commands for the next line of movement. He dropped the cigars and jumped onto Goliath’s back, racing to McClellan.
The general read the orders and his lips curved upward. “Here is a paper with which, if I cannot whip Bobbie Lee, I will be willing to go home.”
Excitement spread throughout the camp, even igniting Jack. He ordered his men to be ready to move. A move that didn’t happen for another sixteen hours.
“What the hell!” Rathborne threw his knapsack down after another patrol. “Those Rebs gotta know they’ve lost their orders. They’ll switch what they’re doing when we could’ve moved and had them by now!”
Jack snorted. “You know Mac. He won’t move till he’s damn good and ready. Hear he’s waiting for the rest of the army to get up here. Hedging his bets not on us beating Lee but just finding him.”
And the forces did arrive. Lining Antietam Creek, the Union Army found Lee’s across the water. The landscape turned blue within a day. But it wouldn’t be until the 17th that Major General Joseph Hooker led the first attack. “Fighting Joe” was his nickname, and Hooker definitely lived up to it, swearing loudly as troops marched across a cornfield. After the first line of gunfire, the Rebs returned fire. It took only a short time for the devastation to unfold. Jack stood witness as gunfire downed over half of the 12th Massachusetts alone in only minutes.
Orders came down the line. Jack inhaled. With his revolver drawn, he shouted, “Forward!”
They fell in with the rest of the advancing troops. Hooker’s front line was near a little white church on a knoll. As they drew closer, grey Confederate uniforms broke, scurrying into the woods as Hooker swore violently, almost demonically, firing his own weapon.
But the tables were turned. Jack saw the other army coming toward them like mad men, guns blazing into the Union line. He halted his men. The first volley from the Rebel line looked like a scythe in a field of corn, cutting down the lead troops within minutes.
“Front to the left!” Jack ordered, spinning toward the woods. His men quickly followed as the Rebel army burst onto the field with a bloodcurdling yell, scaring men out of their wits.
Battle raged across the cornfield, back and forth, under the noonday sun. The Confederate center became part of a sunken dirt road that separated the farms during peacetime. It served as a trench the Rebs used to annihilate advancing Yankee troops by simply rising from it to fire and then drop down again for protection. Unit after unit fell back under the onslaught of Southern fire until a New York unit found a spot where they could fire down into the lane. As they did so, the sunken road became a slaughter pen, the Rebs unable to move out fast enough to evade Yankee gunfire. Their bullets came fast and furious in retaliation for the destruction of their own.
Jack withdrew his men from the attack on the sunken road to aid General Burnside’s brigade as it struggled to cross Antietam Creek by a bridge. The larger force of twelve thousand, though, was easy pickings for the Confederates on the bluff above.
“Sir, 12th reporting,” Jack said, reaching Burnside.
The general was grizzled and dirty. Stroking his long sideburns, he looked at the bluff and shook his head. Jack turned in time to see a group of flamboyantly clothed Zouaves from New York charge up the hill, screaming at the top of their lungs, only to be quickly repulsed.
“Three hours. Three hours, I tell you,” the commander muttered.
“Sir,” Jack tried to get his attention. “We outnumber them. They won’t have enough men or firepower to last.”
Burnside turned and stared at him. Wide-eyed, almost frantic, he seemed startled by Jack’s voice. He shoved the telescope into Jack’s hands. “Really, Captain? What is it, Captain?”
“Fontaine, sir.”
“Captain Fontaine,” the officer stated, his lips a cruel grin. “Do you see them leaving? Do you?”
Jack extended the scope and looked. At first, it appeared they were retreating, but then, he saw a grey cloud behind them. One that grew bigger every moment. Reinforcements.
“Sir, they’ve got reinforcements.”
“What?” Burnside yanked back the scope and looked. “Fire and damnation!” He stormed to his portable desk and scribbled a message and handed it to his aid. “Take this to the Gener
al.”
Jack frowned and pulled at his collar, standing with Burnside. The soldiers tried to get off the bridge on the other side but succumbed to gunfire. Jack refused to send his men to their death without a direct order.
The aid rushed back into camp and gave Burnside the response he awaited. He opened it and uttered a curse. “It would not be prudent.” He threw the paper to the desk. “The bastard refuses to send me reinforcements. Damn him!”
The carnage continued till sunset, when all firing stopped. Jack heard the wounded on the field and went with others to carry them away. It was a waking nightmare. With each injured man removed, numerous dead remained. Jack knew the same degree of destruction could easily happen wherever the armies collided for as long as the war continued. And Virginia was ripe for similar carnage.
Emma and his son could easily become victims.
The thought ate at him, and his stomach twisted.
He couldn’t let that happen and prayed they were still safe. He had to believe they were. But as he stood there, in the blood-soaked field with its harvest of dead, he knew he had to take them away from Rose Hill, away from Virginia. But where? He’d sworn he’d never return to his own family. It was the last place he wanted to go–ever. But, Jean Baptiste Fontaine was a wealthy man with connections in Europe as well as the North. He could protect them and would, especially when he learned Nathan was his grandson.
Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, Jack made a decision. At first light, the Union Army discovered Lee had retreated to Virginia. And so had Jack Fontaine.
If you don’t have my army supplied, and keep it supplied, we’ll eat your mules up, sir.
—William T. Sherman, to an army quartermaster
before moving his army from Chattanooga toward Atlanta
Chapter Sixteen
Rose Hill, Virginia, Fall 1862
Emma heard him coming. She sat rocking the baby, cooing softly, trying to get him to sleep. Nathan stared into her eyes, determined to stay awake. His little body was tense, but when she hummed a melody, it relaxed him. And his vibrant green eyes would close. Her humming hitched as she looked into Nathan’s eyes. Jack’s eyes. How could he deny this child?
The even step and click of wood, a rhythm of sorts, grew louder. It stopped in the doorway behind her. Still gazing out over the veranda railing, she ceased humming but not rocking.
“Billy, you shouldn’t be up,” she scolded.
A tight laugh echoed behind her. “You tell me that every day. If I don’t get up and practice, how will I ever be able to dance with you again?”
Emma closed her eyes. Dance. Billy would never dance again, not with only one leg and crutches. She could hear his rasping breath. He was braver than any man she knew, not giving up despite having lost a leg. It had to have been devastating to awaken in the field hospital with only one leg.
Billy hopped over to the chair next to her rocker and fell onto the seat. His crutches crashed to the floor. She glared at him, still rocking, hoping the movement would keep the little one asleep.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
Silence filled the air. The affectionate companionship they’d shared prior to the war was slipping away with each day.
She rocked for a few more minutes, feeling the babe grow heavy in her arms. At close to eight months, he was no longer just a squalling bundle of hungry, sleepy flesh. Emma realized the little boy was getting under her skin and into her heart. He was hard to resist despite the fear that he might not make it to his first birthday. With Caroline gone, he had no one but her to mother him. Especially since his father had abandoned him. Little Nathan was the closest Emma would ever come to having her own child… “Miss Emma, let me take that boy,” Sally said, holding out her arms.
Emma rose slowly, trying not to jostle the sleeping babe. Nathan cooed in her arms, his little lips pursing in his sleep. She smiled and bent to kiss his forehead before she handed him over to the slave.
“Thank God for Sally,” Billy said. “At least she’s still here.”
Emma went to the railing and looked out at the fields. The barren fields.
“How many are gone?” he asked.
She sighed. “Last report, ten more. Field hands, mostly.” The price of war. With Billy having returned maimed, he couldn’t be of much help. Her father was sinking more and more into dementia. And Charles was still gone. Everything had fallen into her lap, and she hated the burden. “I’m not sure how we’ll get through the winter, especially if we get another visit from either side.”
The chair behind her scraped the wood floor. She should look at him at least. He had not inflicted the injury on himself, nor the pain and suffering it caused. It hurt her to see him trying so hard to stand again, to feel like a man again. She was a coward for not looking.
#
Billy struggled to get up. The damn crutches hurt his armpits, no matter how much wrapping Sally put on them. The pain in the stump of his right thigh ricocheted through him at every movement. It speared into his hip and back. Morphine helped, but it was harder to come by, and he knew it could make matters worse in the long run.
He saw his wife wince whenever he hobbled around, the look gnawing at his gut more and more each day. Last winter, after escorting her father home, he’d left again as an able-bodied man. A skirmish with Yankees not far from Winchester got him in a mess, with a gunshot to his calf. The butcher of the 5th Virginia had dug too deeply into his leg, searching for the bullet, despite Billy’s protest that the man was only pushing the lead further in. He could feel it tearing the inside of his limb. Blood splattered everywhere. Lightheaded and sick, Billy was overwhelmed by darkness as the man shoved the metal probe deeper still.
Two days later, he awoke to a searing pain in his leg. When he tried to move it, nothing happened. He looked down to find it was missing from below the middle of his thigh, which was wrapped in bandages. That had almost done him in. An amputee. He had returned home an invalid. He remembered Emma’s face when she glanced into the buckboard to find him prostrate and in pain. It had paled even in the heat of July’s sun.
That first month home, he’d lost himself in all the alcohol he could drink–with Sammy’s aid. The old slave had kept him supplied, but why, Billy didn’t know. Bedridden and drunk, he snapped at Emma every time she came to change his dressings and feed him. Even now, he had to bite his tongue to keep from yelling at her, wanting her to hit him or scream or something.
She had taken on the responsibility of the house, the remaining slaves, her father, her nephew and now her husband. She had no choice. He saw the wear and tear it had on her day after day. The only joy she had was Nathan, but there was sadness even in that.
“I see you’re walking better,” she finally said. She turned to him and gave him a fleeting half smile. “Before long, you’ll be using only a cane.”
It was a lie, but if it made her feel better, he wouldn’t argue the point.
He leaned harder on the right crutch, freeing his left hand to caress her face. “Oh, Emma, I’m so sorry.”
He saw the sheen of tears in her eyes as she shook her head and placed her fingers on his lips. “Shh,” she said.
“I did wrong to you,” he finally stammered. Guilt invaded his soul. “God’s punishing me. I can only beg your forgiveness.”
She nodded. “It’s all right…”
“No, no it’s not.” Self-anger and hatred spurred him on. She had done nothing to deserve this. “I should have stopped her. I knew what she was up to…”
“Billy, don’t,” she whispered.
“Emma, I know you loved Jack. She took him from you, and I’m sorry.” He saw her shudder.
“Billy, stop, please.” A tear trailed down her cheek.
“You know I love you. I loved Caroline too. Perhaps, I loved her too much. I gave into her,” his voice graveled. “Because I took her, I can’t really have you.” He faltered as her face fell, and his stomach pained him almost as badly as his wound. Bu
t he deserved it. And her hatred.
Her hand flew to her mouth, deadening a sob.
“Emma, I love you, but you deserve so much better than me,” he ground out. “And I’ll never be able to give you a child. Please,” he begged, “forgive me.”
#
In the pre-dawn hours after the battle at Antietam Creek, Jack slipped out of camp, taking his bedroll, revolver and Goliath. Taking the horse was a gamble, but Jack didn’t care. Rathborne would know he’d left for Virginia, but he trusted the Ohioan to remain quiet. Why, he wasn’t sure. The man could turn him in and reveal where he’d gone, but something deep inside Jack told him Rathborne wouldn’t.
It was quiet where Confederates had been camped. Lee had also left under the cloak of darkness. In a fit of self-loathing, Jack asked himself what other man would desert his own son and leave the woman he loved vulnerable to the enemy. He had to get them to safety.
Leading Goliath out of camp had been relatively easy. Sentries were alert but scattered. After what had been a day full of death, even the bravest lads couldn’t stay awake. But Jack felt every inch of him alive and alert as he moved slowly through the woods, trying to hide himself and the large black beast.
Sun rose on a cool fall morning. He had stopped to survey the ground ahead and let the animal graze. If he could shadow Lee’s army, he’d have cover to escape the Union. But, when the Confederates found him, he had to be able to walk away a free man. He pulled off his black felt officer’s hat, feeling chilled with his scalp exposed to the breeze. The hat’s brim rose on the sides, anchored by a brass eagle on one side, a dark plume on the other. He yanked off the bird as well as the plume. The sky-blue cord, the color of the infantry, around the crown was next, followed by the brass bugle ornament of the foot soldier and the number twelve, which indicated his unit. The now unadorned hat still had the army form, so he grabbed the brim and forced it to curl under.
