“Yes, ma’am,” he said obediently, handing her the comb.
“You know, I was so worried about being black that I asked Evetta if it was even legal for us to get married,” she said conversationally. “Everyone says I don’t look—what’s the matter?”
Morgan had stopped brushing the horse, and his eyes seemed to be focused on her face. He had an odd expression, half puzzlement, half amusement. “I forgot. I had forgotten that you are an octoroon.”
“Had you? I’m not surprised,” Jolie said airily. “I forget sometimes that you’re blind.”
“I don’t, but I’m learning to live with it. But this reminds me, Jolie. I didn’t marry some woman with black blood. I married you.”
In the first week of August, Will Green came riding up on his old mule, Geneva. They all greeted him joyously, for he was the first person they’d seen since April.
After a flurry of welcomes, Morgan said, “Come on, let’s sit out here where it’s cool, and Evetta will bring us something cool to drink. We’re all starving for news.”
Morgan had a cane now, hand-carved by Santo, who was turning into a skilled wood sculptor. He had formed the head of the cane into an eagle. Morgan took Will’s arm and led him up the drive onto the grounds. “I can tell as soon as I get under this shed roof. The temperature drops about twenty degrees,” he said.
Will stopped and looked around in wonder. Amon and the boys had built a low shed roof onto the front of the kitchen, which faced east. They had also built a long, heavy oak table and benches. “This here’s new,” Will said.
“Yes, we never really had a good place to sit in the back of the house,” Morgan explained. “And I don’t like to sit in the front yard. I like it back here, where I’m close to everything.”
“But I mean, you still got nails? And planed boards and everything?” Will asked, slowly sliding onto the bench facing Morgan and Jolie.
“Yes, we’ve still got a lot of supplies and food, too,” Jolie said. “Thanks to Morgan. People thought he was a coward because he didn’t join the army right when the war started, but he spent that year traveling all over, getting everything we’d need.”
Will shook his grizzly head. “You mean you ain’t had no Yankees out here to clean you out? That’s a miracle, pure and plain.”
“The Lord’s worked a lot of miracles in my life lately,” Morgan said. “I’ll tell you all about it, but first we’d like to hear all the news.”
In his picturesque way, the saddler told him about the series of battles beginning with the Wilderness. “Caught on fire that second day of fightin’,” he said, his old rugged face grieved. “Some men, they had their legs busted up and couldn’t git out of the woods.”
“Oh, no,” Jolie said with horror.
“Thank God I got out of there the night before,” Morgan said fervently. “Thank God.”
Will went on to tell them of Spotsylvania, of the Bloody Angle, of Cold Harbor. “Now Marse Robert’s dug in at Petersburg, and the bluebellies are diggin’ in all around it. Looks like it’s going to be a long time, them snipin’ at each other in ditches.”
Morgan sighed. “I feel so guilty because I haven’t reported that I was wounded and unfit for duty. We just haven’t had any way to communicate. I was afraid to let Amon or the boys go into town.”
“You was listed as missing at the Wilderness when the lists come out last month. That’s why I was real s’prised to hear Reverend Chancellor telling me all ’bout how he married up you and Miss Jolie. Don’t blame you for bein’ missin’, and I mean that, Mr. Tremayne. Even if you sent one of the boys to town, it’s occupied now by the bluebellies. They ain’t carin’ where you are, long as you ain’t behind them earthworks at Petersburg.”
“I can’t say that I wish I was, exactly,” Morgan told Will, his brow wrinkling. “But I do feel like I should be.”
Jolie put her arm through his. “And you would be, if you weren’t blind,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I wouldn’t wish it on you, but as long as this war is on, I’m not going to be very regretful that you are.”
“Y’know, it’s a funny thing,” Will said, staring at Morgan. “You look like you can see. You look at a body when they’re talkin’ to you, and it just seems like you’re lookin’ ’em straight in the eyes. I keep forgettin’ that you’re blind.”
“That’s funny,” Jolie said with a smile. “So do I.”
CHAPTER TWENTY–FIVE
The winter that year was hard and grim. Cold weather and icy rains set in the very first day of September, and it was winter, with no joyous autumn season. It snowed a lot that winter. Most of the time it was dark, portenous days with heavy merciless snow piling up in drifts sometimes six feet deep.
The men, including Morgan, worked hard to keep the snow at bay. Morgan could find his way all around the farm. He had begun by memorizing the number of steps to take, but after a couple of months, it became instinctive.
Rosh and Santo went into Fredericksburg once a week, unless the snowstorms were too bad. News from Petersburg wasn’t good. The armies were stalemated. Still, battles erupted as Grant kept attacking, attacking, always pushing to try to finally defeat Robert E. Lee. But now, as before, it seemed he could not beat even the starving, ragged, decimated Army of Northern Virginia.
One freezing night in February, Morgan and Jolie sat in their favorite chairs close to a hearty comforting fire in the study. The boys had brought back some newspapers that day, and Jolie had been reading them to Morgan. She had just read that they estimated that Ulysses S. Grant now had about 125,000 men around Petersburg, while General Lee had 52,000.
Morgan said sadly, “It’s all going to come down to the numbers in the end. There’s just too many of them. They could probably go on replacing every casualty for the next ten years. But I guess we can’t replace even one anymore. At Fredericksburg, I realized then that this was going to happen.”
“Really? But that was such a great victory for us,” Jolie said.
“It was. But I watched it from the hills above the battlefield, so I could see it, but I wasn’t really in it. I saw lots of blue dots, long lines of them, come across that field of death, again and again. Tens of thousands of them marching, standing up proud, aiming, firing…falling. Then thousands more would come, marching right over the ones who’d been killed and wounded, marching slowly, aiming, firing. Sometimes they would even get to reload, but they all fell. At the end we found bodies piled up seven and eight deep.
“But then I saw, as clearly as if it was a painting in front of my eyes, that if they had just thrown that whole army at us then, and all eighty thousand of them had rushed up those hills in a bayonet charge, they might have just overrun us by sheer weight and momentum. They would have died, yes, but I doubt that their casualties would have been much higher than they were. They probably would have been lower. But no general had the guts to do that…until General Grant came along.”
“But he hasn’t done that at Petersburg,” Jolie argued.
“No, but once again General Lee outsmarted him. Fighting against an enemy that’s on a level plain with you, behind earthworks, is different from storming a hill. Those trenches are about thirty miles long. Even General Grant doesn’t have enough men to rush a thirty-mile line.” He sighed deeply. “But what he does have is enough men to eventually encircle General Lee and the army. It will happen. I know it. I can see it.”
“You said you can see it,” Jolie said softly. “And I know that’s true.”
“Mm. Jolie?”
“Yes?”
“It is truer than you know. I can see red,” he said almost casually. “I can see the fire.”
Meredith and Perry, for the first and last times, came to the front of the tent and stood by the flap opening to watch General Lee. The date was April 9, 1865.
Lee came out, bowing to get through the low opening, then naturally resumed his stately erect posture. He looked at his two servants and nodded courteously to them
but said nothing. His face was a study of sadness.
He wore a new uniform, Confederate gray with the graceful sleeve insignia of a general and the embroidered gold stars on his collar. His trousers were pressed to perfection with a gold stripe down the sides and a ruler-straight crease front and back and tucked into his glossy black cavalry boots with heavy gold spurs. His gauntlets were spotless white. His hat had new gold braid and tassels surrounding the brim. At his waist was a gold satin sash. At his side was a heavy sword, with jewels on the hilt and an icy blue steel scabbard that glittered in the weak sunlight as if it had been fashioned from sapphires.
An aide brought Traveler. Lee mounted, and without a backward glance, he rode down the dusty road that was lined with thousands of silent soldiers.
Perry had stayed up all night long readying General Lee’s uniform and boots and sword. His face was tired and tragic.
Meredith was openly crying. “I’d give my right arm and right leg if Marse Robert didn’t have to give hisself up,” he said miserably.
“Me, too,” Perry said quietly. “But one thing I’ve found, that the Lord don’t want arms and legs. He wants sacrifice and surrender. Marse Robert’s done sacrificed all his life, and now it’s time for him to give up and let the Lord take keer of him.”
When General Lee reached the McLean house, the agreed-upon meeting place, General Grant had not yet arrived. Lee went inside and entered a parlor with fine but plain furniture typical of a middle-class farmhouse. He selected a marble-topped table and cane chair that was in front of the window. He would be able to see Grant arrive.
There was a flurry of horses and heavy boots on the porch. Grant came in dressed for the field. He was about five eight and sturdily built but slightly stooped. His hair and beard were thick and nut brown, with no sign of gray. He wore a plain blue coat with only shoulder straps to indicate his rank, a dark blue flannel shirt, unbuttoned and showing a black waistcoat underneath. His trousers were tucked into ordinary top boots, mud-spattered and worn.
General Lee stood and crossed the room to shake his hand. The contrast between the two men was remarkable. General Lee was six feet tall, fifty-nine years old, and immaculate. Grant was much shorter, he was fully sixteen years Lee’s junior, and he was untidy. If it had not been for the gravity with which he conducted himself, he would have looked like a careless, rowdy second lieutenant.
General Grant took a seat at a small table in the middle of the room, while General Lee resumed his seat across from him. General Grant opened the conversation. “I met you once before, General Lee, while we were serving in Mexico, when you came over to General Scott’s headquarters to visit Garland’s brigade, to which I then belonged. I have always remembered your appearance, and I think I should have recognized you anywhere.”
Politely, Lee said, “Yes, I know I met you on that occasion, and I have often thought of it and tried to recollect how you looked, but I have never been able to recall a single feature.”
Grant went on reminiscing about Mexico, seeming to enjoy his recollections and encouraging Lee to talk of it, too.
General Lee was, as always, courteous, but finally he determined to bring the conversation around, though he dreaded saying the words more than anything he had ever done in his life. Still, he spoke in the most natural manner, in the soundest tones, and his deep smooth voice seemed to echo in the somberly quiet room. “I suppose, General Grant, that the object of our present meeting is fully understood. I asked to see you to ascertain upon what terms you would receive the surrender of my army.”
CHAPTER TWENTY–SIX
Morgan came around the corner of the kitchen porch, and for a moment Jolie was horrified because she saw that he was using his cane again. But then she saw that he was stumping along with a limp, trying not to put any weight on his left foot. Heavily he sat down on the bench.
“What happened?” Jolie demanded.
“That horse stepped on my foot. Again. And good this time. I think he did it on purpose,” Morgan grumbled.
“He’s tired of everybody else riding him, you know that. He blows out his sides like a great fat man when they try to cinch him, and if they can get him saddled, he deliberately runs right against the fenceposts to try to shuck them off,” Jolie said with frustration. “He’s getting worse every day. You know you’re the only one who can control him, Morgan.”
“I’m doing a real good job at that. My broken foot is a sure sign.”
“Is it really broken?” Jolie asked with sudden alarm.
“No, but it really hurts.”
“Shame on you, you big baby-muffin. You scared me. You need to stop this whining, Morgan, and get on that horse and ride him. That’s all there is to it.”
Morgan frowned. “Am I really whining?”
“Well, kind of.”
“I’m sorry about that. I’ll try not to whine anymore, but really, Jolie, it scares me. I can see up close, yes, but far off everything’s blurred, and it makes me a little bit dizzy. I just don’t want to fall off and—and—”
“Hit your head,” Jolie completed the sentence for him. “And maybe go blind again.”
“Yes,” Morgan said resignedly.
Jolie came around the table and sat down in Morgan’s lap. She put one finger under his chin and tilted his head up to look straight at her. “Look at me, Morgan.”
“With pleasure,” he said, lightly kissing her lips. “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined. You’re alluring and exotic and radiant. Since spring has come, it seems that you’ve bloomed along with the flowers.”
She smiled, and it was indeed dazzling. Jolie had grown into a gorgeous woman, with smooth rich olive skin with a golden cast, dark eyes slightly uptilted at the corners, a wide generous mouth, and perfect white teeth. “Evetta tells me that’s another symptom. She said ladies always glow.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“You know that thing we’ve been hoping for, and praying for, ever since we got married?” Jolie asked with a hint of mischief.
“You—you mean, for a baby? That we’d get pregnant?” Morgan asked with excitement.
“Morgan, I was horribly sick yesterday morning and this morning! Evetta said it’s got to be a baby!” she cried, throwing her arms around Morgan and pulling him close.
He almost smothered her, returning the hug, and finally she pulled back, breathless. “Don’t smush me. You might smush little Jeannetta,” she warned him.
“Or little Lee,” he reminded her, his face lit with a foolish grin.
“Or little Lee,” she agreed placidly. Then she grew grave and said, “So, what are you going to tell him, Morgan? That your big bad horse is too scary to ride? No, no, Morgan. You’ve never been scared of a horse in your entire life. Horses, and in particular Vulcan, are like a part of you. I may not really understand the kind of love that you have for them, but I see it, and I recognize it. Vulcan is missing you, and you’re missing him.”
“After what you told me, I feel like I could ride a storm! You’re right, Jolie. As usual you’re so right. Would you come with me now? I’m going to saddle up that old devil and make him see the error of his ways.”
They walked to the stables hand in hand. Morgan still favored his left foot, but he could put weight on it now. He went in to saddle Vulcan, and Jolie went to stand on the fence rail around the paddock, as they had done for so many years.
It took so long that Jolie began to doubt that Morgan had been able to saddle the horse. But finally she heard Vulcan’s heavy, prancing steps at the stable doors opening out into the paddock.
Morgan came out, sitting high and proud in the saddle, holding one rein in each hand, as he did when he wanted Vulcan to be collected. Stamping, tossing his head, snorting, Vulcan took two steps out into the paddock and then, with a slight movement of Morgan’s hands, stopped completely still.
The great black stallion reared, pawed the air once, twice. He landed neatly then began a perfect gaited trot to the
far end of the paddock. There he turned, a quick smooth whisk around, reared, and came back to a collected stance.
Morgan dismounted, took the reins, and led him to Jolie.
And then Morgan and Vulcan both bowed.
Robert E. Lee was revered in the South and reviled in the North.
In the North the press was merciless and vile. But no matter whether it was a personal attack, a criticism of his tactics or strategy or leadership, or even attacks against his family, he refused to respond, not privately and especially not publicly. He was that kind of man. In all the trials, tribulations, and tragedies that he suffered throughout his life, he never lost his sense of goodwill toward others, his self-control, or his dignity.
His fame was because he was a man of war, but others remembered his excellent service at West Point. In August of 1865, the trustees nominated him for the presidency of Washington College in Lexington, Virginia. On October 2nd, he was inaugurated in a modest service, and the final phase of his life began.
It was a good life. Lee was sensible of the honor of educating the young and worked as hard to make the college an excellent place of higher learning as he had in planning any campaign. Finally he was settled with Mary, and he knew he would never have to leave her again. They had lost sweet Annie, but the six children, including the three boys that had all served the Confederacy, had come through the war and prospered.
During the Christmas holidays, they were often all together at Lexington. Lee must have felt that it was a quiet, peaceful life, and a rewarding one. But after the war, he could never again be characterized as a happy man. In many ways he was solitary and withdrawn, and though his eyes would sparkle with good humor, he rarely smiled. The phrase “grave dignity” best described his last five years.
On September 28, 1870, he went to a vestry meeting at his church on a wintry wet evening. When he came home, he fell ill, seemingly alert one minute and then dozing off into apparent unconsciousness. His final enemy had attacked.
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