No Common War

by Salisbury, Luke;

  One night Betsey asked, “Where you reckon you be a year from now?” She was dabbing her ears with something that smelled like vanilla. Her dull eyes searched my face.

  I thought of Helen and how much I wanted to be in Sandy Creek, and how I shouldn’t try to fool her. I spoke the truth. “Probably dead.”

  An unfamiliar expression crossed Betsey’s face. She bit her thumb, a sign she was thinking. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m a soldier. You need to be brave, too.”

  Betsy kept biting her thumb.

  I thought about her, and then I thought about Helen. And felt guilty.

  18

  Camp Keyes

  Arlington, Va

  March 10, 1862

  Dearest Helen,

  The winter is long, and to say I miss you is to say I’m breathing. I wish I could march home and take you to our place by the creek. I hope your pledge to marry is still good. I know it is. If it weren’t, a bullet would be preferable. I don’t worry about you, dear Helen. Mother says you always wear a velvet pouch around your neck. She thinks it contains a ring. Is it the white stone from the creek? You may trust that your tintype is always over my heart. I touch it so much—Merrick says I look like I’m always giving the Roman salute. Well, I’m saluting you.

  I want to marry you the moment I get back. I don’t know how long that will take. So far, we sit and wait and hope McClellan comes up with a good plan. All the boys think the beating we took at Bull Run last summer was a mistake. We will surely do better next time. It’s good we think so, but I don’t think the war will end with one battle. I don’t think it will end with two. I think it will last a long time. So you must last a while without me.

  Sometimes I wonder at how little time we’ve had together. Those hours by the creek or behind John Brown now seem like a story from Arabian Nights where everything is magical. Sometimes I think I know missing you more than I know you. I wonder what me you miss. You and I have to trust what we don’t know. We must believe in what we can’t touch. We can only believe what we want and hope. I guess love is always like that, before life takes away the newness and magic and it gets tired. For us it is different. We are schooled by distance, disciplined with absence, instructed by time that drags like my feet on a long march. Our now is thinking and remembering and imagining. I’m always thinking about what you are doing (hoping it’s writing me!), remembering your soft hands, imagining what we will do when we are together.

  Sometimes I feel sorry for myself. When I can’t sleep because of the cold dew when we are on picket, or tramping through the Virginia mud, hoping not to get shot by a Reb sniper, or just laying in a tent listening to rain pelt the canvas and thinking of the rain sweeping over the lake or making dots on the creek or tapping the windows on Rail Road Street, then I miss you so much, and I wonder if rain is falling on you too. I sometimes despair of seeing home or seeing home soon, but I think of you again, and Gib, and your Congregational belief that people must do right. I know you believe doing right is the true religion. Maybe the only religion.

  I saw a man die in the woods. You know him. Ollie Jenks. He was killed standing in the woods. It’s a terrible thing to see the blood of someone you’ve known your whole life, a neighbor, a friend. It’s terrible and I know I will see more of it.

  If it weren’t for Gib, and you, the price might be too high. I might doubt what I believe, but I don’t because of him, and you. That’s why your love is important beyond all measure.

  If I am killed, let only the good of me haunt you, and that not for too long. There is much that isn’t good, but let that be forgotten. I have tried to do right. War makes us do things we never thought we would. I hope you can forgive me.

  I don’t think of the heads much. They are there, but they only watch. They don’t talk.

  I don’t mean to sound so sorrowful, but I get so lonely missing you and Mother and Father (yes, Father too) and Sandy Creek. I want you to look after Mother as much as you can. She is so strong and sensible (has to be, living with Father!), but if something happens to me or Merrick, or any of us, she will be saddened in ways she won’t show, and she will need you. I believe each of us sees God’s face once or twice in our lives. People see God’s face in grief. It’s not an easy face. If Mother is grieving, you must help her. Otherwise she’ll be lonely the rest of her life.

  Think of me. I think of you.

  You have all my love,

  Ro

  19

  At Christmas Betsey disappeared. I had whittled little Abe a toy boat, and bought Betsey a bottle of French perfume, real French perfume. I was determined to find her. I went to see Madame Bird.

  “She’s gone, Corporal.”

  “I know that much.”

  “Let it rest, Corporal.”

  Something in Madame Bird’s tone struck me wrong. “Why? Just give me a reason. You know I treated her good.”

  Madame sighed. “She’s married now. Trying the decent life as best she can.”

  “Who?” I felt numb. Of course, Betsey was with other men. But one who would marry her?

  “A man in the Patent Office.” Madame Bird shrugged. “A wet fish, but at least he’ll take care of her and …”

  There was meaning in that ‘and’. I heard it and it terrified me.

  “She’s got something good with her Patent Office man, all right? It’s got nothing to do with you…”

  “A man has a right to know,” I said. “Is she…?”

  “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  I met her gaze. Madame Bird was hard as a sutler, but I held it until she looked away.

  “Betsey’s with child.”

  My body went cold. “Mine?” I asked.

  Madame Bird shrugged. “She said one night you didn’t use a French letter.”

  I thought back to the night we’d gotten drunk. I could barely remember any of it.

  “Betsey can’t work now. This Patent Office man is her only chance. Don’t spoil it for her.”

  “But…but if it’s my child….”

  Madame Bird glared at me. “This is her one chance to leave the business, to make a little bit of respectability. You’re a preacher, show your kindness.”

  That hurt a lot, but I knew I wasn’t going to do anything. I knew then in that shabby red hall I wouldn’t tell, not even Merrick. This would be a secret. For me and Betsey. I didn’t want Helen to know. Or Father. Or Mother. I wasn’t going to ruin my life, and I wasn’t proud of it.

  Walking out of the whorehouse into a light rain, I was relieved. That didn’t feel good either. Suddenly I realized what Betsey had been trying to tell me. It hurt that I didn’t see that poor, dark-eyed woman who’d given me a few moments of real comfort was making a decision that would change her life. But what would I have done if she’d told me? I had no answer. I decided to walk all the way back to camp, trying to mill all I was feeling. I told myself I was helping Betsey by not giving away her secret, that I would hurt her chance of something better in her life by trying to find her. The rain fell harder. I walked quicker, knowing I was lucky—lucky I didn’t have to deal with it, with the baby—and knowing I wasn’t a good man. I knew I’d just learned something about sin, but didn’t know exactly what. I knew I’d learn more if I lived long enough.

  20

  It was cold and snowy in January. Our war was with mud and a despondency that settled over Washington City like the winter fog. A private in the Second Infantry killed his sergeant and was hanged on the Commons between O and P Streets, by Vermont Avenue. Thousands gathered to see, but Merrick and I missed it. People talked about war with England. McClellan got typhoid, but recovered. Every day the telegraph informed the world: “All quiet on the Potomac.”

  Merrick wanted to get away from the others one cold Sunday afternoon. We headed for the river as snow flurries mixed with smoke from tents and shacks. We sloshed through heavy mud pulling our heavy coats round us and cursing our thin kepis. It was so cold, the dead hors
es in the streets didn’t smell. A bootblack offered to wash, not polish, our brogans. The whores we saw stayed in doorways and didn’t bother to yell.

  We tramped through freezing mud to the river, sat on a rotted log, and watched Navy ships, barges, and a ferry working its way towards the other side. A sailor saluted us and we saluted back. The river had a skim of ice and didn’t stink for once. Bottles, broken staves, and a dozen busted hay bales glided by between dark patches of ice. The water looked dead.

  Merrick eyed me. “Haven’t said much these last few weeks.”

  I shrugged. I hadn’t felt like talking, and I still didn’t.

  “Is this about that woman?” he asked.

  “Betsey.”

  “There’s lots of Betseys in Hooker’s Division, Ro.”

  “She made winter easier. Made all this waiting easier.”

  “The waiting’s awful,” said Merrick. “Makes you think too much.”

  “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things.”

  Merrick looked at me carefully. “You oughta think about home. You’ve got a woman in Sandy Creek. She’s waiting for you.”

  “Well, we’re all waiting.” I watched the river for a while. Then I said, “Betsey got married.”

  “Good for her.”

  “I miss her. Her room almost felt like home.”

  “What could you give her?” said Merrick. “You wasn’t going to marry her. She’ll get a better life and you don’t have to care for her.”

  “I always figured I’d have a family,” I said. “Never figured I’d die first.”

  “I used to think if I had a son, I wouldn’t make him work as hard as we did. But hell, after what we seen, I might make him work harder. Make him grow up strong.”

  Merrick had turned contemplative, and that was unusual. I wondered if he’d guessed what was going on. “Would you let him be a soldier?”

  “Doubt it’d be up to me, Ro.”

  We watched some geese fly toward the unfinished Capitol. Would I let my child with Betsey be a soldier? It wouldn’t be up to me. I’d never even know if he learned to read and write. I wouldn’t know if he grew up strong and tall, or if he’d take after Uncle Lorenzo, short and sturdy like an ox, but good-looking. I’d never even know his name.

  “Looking at this miserable river makes you think ‘bout the crick, don’t it?”

  I nodded, but I was thinking if I had children with Helen, I wouldn’t make them work too hard, or tell our boys they had to be a soldier or preacher or miller. I’d let them be what they wanted and hope they’d stay close to home. I told myself I’d have a wonderful home with Helen and children—and tried to believe it.

  “The crick be froze-up now,” said Merrick.

  “I’d like to walk by it,” I said. “One more time.”

  “Yeah,” said Merrick. “One more time.”

  21

  Spring ‘62 was sweet, then bitter. The Union began to win in the west. A general named Grant took two key forts and many prisoners. Nashville and New Orleans fell. Union gunboats took the rivers and destroyed the Confederate strongholds. Ports in the Carolinas were seized. A fearful battle was fought at a place called Shiloh and Grant won it, though it cost him. McClellan landed an army on the peninsula between the York and James Rivers—marching directly to Richmond was too much for the young Napoleon. We called him “Not Quite” because he wasn’t ever quite ready to fight. The Peninsula went well at first. The Rebs fell back.

  By April, we thought the war might just be the short, predetermined affair we’d heard about. I thought of home and worried about my sins and my secret. I knew I’d got off easy. Betsey was gone and Betsey had less reason than me to tell. Let Helen imagine what soldier’s sins she might. A flesh-and-blood baby was another matter. I was worse than Dan Buck now.

  Merrick noticed my moping and asked if it was still Betsey.

  “It’s everything, Cousin. Once home, I won’t tell about whores, and if asked, I’ll lie. I’m a liar and a hypocrite.”

  “Best practice for marriage I can think of,” said Merrick.

  The 24th thought we deserved victory. We lost men. We tramped around Virginia. We were ready for home, ready to keep secrets and tell lies. Maybe the war would be over soon. Maybe the advantages of the North would overcome the bravado of the South. Maybe the Seceesh would come to their senses. Merrick didn’t think so. He said, “The Rebs can’t be beaten without beatin’ ‘em.”

  The war changed in May. Stonewall Jackson fought five battles in the Shenandoah Valley. He marched men so mercilessly they called themselves “foot cavalry.” Jackson defeated a Federal army twice the size of his. His dyspepsia cured, Stonewall had a stomach for war. Little Mac inched toward Richmond. Joe Johnston was wounded. His replacement was Robert E. Lee.

  Bobby Lee routed the Federal Army in front of Richmond during the Battle of the Seven Days. McClellan, who had superior numbers, figured his army was surrounded, and skedaddled.

  That summer the Rebs went on the offensive.

  22

  In August war came north. On the ninth, the slow-moving Union Army, led by Edwin Pope, met Stonewall Jackson and his army at Cedar Mountain in Virginia. Lincoln had replaced Little Mac, who was loved by the troops, despite his running from Richmond. Cedar Mountain led eventually to an invasion of the north.

  The Rebs marched a thousand miles that summer. Lee had good generals—Jesus-loving, deadly Jackson; quick-moving Stuart and his cavalry; shrewd Longstreet; John Bell Hood and his Texans; and A.P. Hill, the man always there when he was needed. Bobby Lee and a poorly fed, poorly clothed, poorly shod army turned the tide in ninety days.

  I knew from Father that the Rebs thought this was the second American Revolution, and the second had to be won like the first—by foreign intervention. All summer, James Mason, the Confederate minister in London, begged for diplomatic recognition. Slavery wasn’t popular with the British workingman but Lincoln didn’t free the slaves. Aristocrats and mill owners favored the Confederacy which, like a belle withholding her favors, embargoed cotton, pending recognition. By September, Britain was dangerously close to recognizing the Confederacy.

  The 24th marched into Virginia with General Pope. Pope’s army was trying to keep Stonewall Jackson from breaking out of the Shenandoah Valley. It was a hard, thirsty march and we got dubbed the “Iron Brigade” for our stamina. We lost the name to the Wisconsins who fought beside us, but, in the North Country, the 24th remained the Iron Brigade.

  We were in reserve at Cedar Mountain. We were supposed to keep the Rebs on the other side of the Rapidan River. While waiting by a field where Union dead had been recently buried, I started to write Helen, but before I had time to make a promise, we heard heavy cannon fire and the bristling crack of rifles.

  “Move! Double quick! Rebs crossin’ the river!” The order came sudden. And loud. “They broke through at Germania Ford! They’ll surround us!”

  I put away pencil and paper. We grabbed bedrolls and rifles, formed up, and in minutes, were moving. We marched all night. We had iron in our legs that night. The next day we got to the Rappahannock River and crossed on the bridge at Rappahannock Station. Three hundred Union men didn’t get across in time and were taken prisoner. The 24th lost two. Orson Gale of Orwell got caught, but was paroled. The Rebs couldn’t keep all the prisoners they took, so some were let go after taking an oath not to fight again. If you took the oath, and got caught again, they’d hang you.

  For two days the armies shelled each other. The banks of the Rappahannock shook, but the 24th didn’t lose any more men. We waited, hearing the elephant’s rumbling stomach. Then we got orders to march. East. Back up the Warrenton Pike towards Manassas Junction, the site of last year’s defeat, now the chief Union supply depot. It was a skedaddle.

  “Jesus,” said Merrick, the next morning. “When do we fight?”

  The Iron Brigade marched north for two weeks and two days, recrossing the rolling hills of Virginia, and didn’t stop till we came
to Gainesville, Virginia, a few miles from Manassas. At five in the afternoon, sun still high, men tired, I set down my pack and thought I’d be asleep in a minute in the shade of an artillery piece. We were exhausted.

  “Form up! Form up!” yelled Captain Ferguson.

  A hundred rods across a field were Confederate soldiers with artillery behind them. I saw them. Some didn’t have shoes. Their trousers didn’t match their coats.

  We made a ragged line. I dropped my pack and reached for a cartridge. Dan Buck rammed a ball down his rifle, another on top of it, a third and fourth. He didn’t notice.

  The lines straightened. Men stared. No sound, no orders, just hot afternoon. Hot afternoon and the recognition men give before they become what men become in war.

  A shell exploded. Dirt mushroomed.

  “Good God!” yelled Merrick. “Our cannon’s our only cover!” Words got lost in another explosion. Dirt flew.

  “Lay down!” yelled Colonel Sullivan.

  Without firing, I dropped to my belly. I tried to dig a hole to put my head in. I dug with my fingers. Merrick put his hands over his head. A cannon ball smashed into the near gun crew. An arm flew straight up. A corporal was torn in half. He sat where his legs had been. HIs legs were ten feet away. Dirt and smoke hurt my eyes. Shells went over and burst behind us. I tried to put my head in the ground. I peered between my fingers and saw a gunner try to hold his face together and a cannoneer with a red hole in his chest. Red mist fell. I smelled the acrid smell of powder. My ears rang.