The younger woman listened from a new deep calm. Disgrace had strengthened her.
“Our hospital is a machine to treat wounds. We are to heal the injured and return them to duty. But too many of our patients are malingerers, lightly wounded men using their wounds to shun danger, strapping soldiers who’d rather sweep ward floors than return to their regiments. General McClellan’s inexorable advance has snatched the heart from them. First Norfolk falls, then Williamsburg, then Yorktown. Federal divisions are at Seven Pines! In the summer we would picnic at Seven Pines, it was so pleasant and convenient. Now those same woods swarm with Federal cavalry, and our President has evacuated his family from Richmond. I try to present a good front, for nothing is more injurious to a sick or injured man than a matron’s mournful countenance, but child, if matters do not improve, the Federals will be in Richmond before the Fourth of July. General McClellan has siege guns so tremendous they must be shifted by railroad. That has slowed his progress—as he advances he builds a railroad for his guns!”
“But if McClellan captures Richmond, the killing will stop.”
“At the cost of the subjugation of our people who ask nothing but to go our own way in peace. . . .”
Sallie smiled.
Cousin Molly lifted a round hand. “But dear, I haven’t given Cousin Abigail’s news. My nephew Duncan has come home to Stratford. He is furloughed to convalesce from his wound.”
Sallie’s calm toppled to the floor with her mending. “Duncan? Wounded?”
“Child, his wound is not grave, and he is mending. He was wounded during the battle at McDowell, where General Jackson first demonstrated his remarkable abilities. General Jackson’s campaign in the Valley is the only bright news in our Confederacy. Dear Cousin Abigail feared Duncan’s wound might become corrupt, but her prayers were answered. Take my word, child, young soldiers who do not sicken from their wounds almost always recover. Duncan will be fit for duty by fall, and meantime is enjoying civilian existence at Stratford.
“Abigail worried the conflict betwixt husband and son would reignite when they were once again under the same roof, but to her satisfaction, the men never discuss old differences, and excepting inevitable awkward silences when tender subjects are inadvertently touched upon, father and son are reconciled. Daily Duncan rides out to visit your esteemed father and his servant . . .”
“Aunt Opal isn’t a servant . . . exactly.”
Cousin Molly raised one eyebrow. “I think it advisable to keep these matters clear: that a person is or is not a servant, is or is not a master, is or is not a Christian, is or is not an abolitionist.”
The thought came to Sallie’s mind unbidden: And me? But she didn’t utter it, knowing that Cousin Molly’s practical goodness far outstripped her theories.
“Aunt Opal is dear to me,” Sallie said. “She reared me.”
“Why of course she is, child. My Amelia has been with me since I was a girl at Madame Talvande’s School for Young Ladies in Charleston. Amelia kept me in frocks then and keeps me in dresses today. I surely don’t know . . .”
“What news have you of Father? He seldom writes. I think all this”—she gestured at the walls—“it is too disagreeable to him.” A tear started down Sallie’s cheek. “I so wish I could see him. I so wish he could come to Richmond for a visit, but at his age . . .” She blew her nose. “I suppose it is best. He has always loved the nobler edifices of man’s reason. It would shatter him to see me here!”
“And how are you faring, dear?”
“Perhaps you noticed the chained negroes in the yard. Runaway slaves kept here until they can be returned to their masters. Such were housed in the city jail, but the war has crammed that institution with riffraff, gamblers, and women of the streets. Our prison population of Irish highwaymen and mulatto murderesses is topsy-turvy. I owe my disposition to your visits, ma’am. It seems that one day a week where I can speak openly is all I require.” Sallie set down her mending. “I would like to have other books in addition to the Bible they allow us. If you would suggest it to the keeper, I would be grateful.”
A diffident knock interrupted. Mr. Tyree held his hat in his hand. “I am so sorry to disturb you, madam.”
“Is my visit terminated, Keeper?”
“Tyree, madam, acting keeper. No, ma’am. I must speak to Convict Kirkpatrick.”
With a look that queried his entire value, “Surely you mean Mrs. Kirkpatrick?”
Tyree drew himself up. “Ma’am, those in my charge are convicts. Now, I must speak to Convict Kirkpatrick privately.”
Elaborately, Cousin Molly consulted the delicate watch pinned to her bosom. “Child, count on my return seven days hence.” A sharp look at Tyree. “Keeper, how do you justify the presence of so many colored males amongst white women?”
“We are overcrowded, ma’am.”
“I can see that. Does Governor Letcher know of this overcrowding?”
“I am not in regular communication with the governor.”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t be.” Bussing the younger woman on the cheek and bestowing the severest glance upon Mr. Tyree, she departed.
Sallie sat demurely, eyes downcast, hoping to outwait the storm. Mr. Tyree and humiliation did not agree with each other. “Mrs. Kirkpatrick . . .” he croaked. “You must dissuade your husband from a course which will produce the gravest consequences.”
“Sir?”
“Convict Kirkpatrick, he . . . is much encouraged by the approach of the Federal enemy to our city. He finds political issues in the crime that brought you here. Your husband intends to communicate with President Davis.”
“I fear I do not follow; what has Alexander done?”
“Convict Kirkpatrick seeks to be treated as a prisoner of war.”
Sallie drew breath.
“Convict Kirkpatrick demands to be transferred to Belle Isle, there to await parole with the Federal prisoners of war. He says that you and he must be treated under the conventions of war.”
“You wish me to dissuade him from this course?”
Keeper Tyree’s face wore a sheen of perspiration. “This prison is not what it was. In happier times, it was quieter. I cherish quiet, Mrs. Kirkpatrick. I owe my position to the quiet my presence inspires. As you may appreciate, my post as acting keeper is coveted by jealous men. I remind you, Mrs. Kirkpatrick, within these walls, my gratitude is valuable coin.” With a not especially convincing smile, Mr. Tyree backed out the door.
Thumbs hooked into his wasitband, Alexander strolled into the keeper’s parlor. “Hello, Sallie. You’re looking well. I see you are making the best of it.”
Like a sudden immersion in ice water, Alexander’s familiar arrogance shrank Sallie’s heart. “I miss Uther terribly. Aunt Opal is well. I hear nothing of Jesse.”
“Ah yes, poor Jesse. The runaway we tried to help.”
“We would have sheltered anyone, a dog, under those circumstances.”
“We were convicted because we opposed the ‘peculiar institution,’ and when George Brinton McClellan occupies this capital city of traitors, we shall be liberated. Sallie, I am overjoyed!”
“Alexander, the Federals have no reason to free us.”
“They are fighting slavery!”
“If that is so, Alexander, they haven’t openly confessed it.”
“Like some great snake, the Federal army slides toward its mesmerized prey. And then the dreadful bite!” Alexander gripped his own arms and shivered dramatically. “Sallie, we shall be the heroes of our reunited nation. I shall give credit where credit is due: you, Sallie—you were most insistent. But we both, by helping Jesse, struck a blow for freedom!”
“Alexander, we are convicted felons.”
He clasped her hands in his and smiled knowingly. “Dearest Sallie. Were our pathetic circumstances known to General McClellan, it would spur his advance.”
“Alexander, we are not persons of consequence, we . . .”
“Does that mean we cannot act for the
right? Alea iacta est! This very morning, clear as a bugle, I heard cannonfire—McClellan’s guns. The rebels have nothing that can stand against McClellan’s mighty engine of war.” Alexander’s grin was boyish, triumphant.
“You have lost weight,” his wife murmured.
“I have no appetite for the slops they feed us. When we are freed, dearest . . .” He tried to embrace her, but Sallie stiffened. “After we are freed, I shall return north. Some respectable institute of learning. Will you accompany me?”
“Alexander, Virginia is my home.”
“My uncle—my uncle always hoped to be invited to preach, just once, at Yale College. But he was too humble for the likes of them! Now his nephew will speak on that platform, sharing honors with Emerson, Garrison, and Thoreau. Have you ever wished to visit Boston? Chicago?”
Sallie had thought Alexander’s uncle had been chaplain at Yale College.
Alexander expanded his impromptu gazetteer: “Cleveland, New York, Hartford. Perhaps one day, after the rule of law has been reestablished in the South, we can return to Richmond, this seat of our present humiliations, to instruct our repentant enemies.”
Sallie was heartsick. What could she have seen in this poor sad fool? “Alexander, I am not with you.”
“Perhaps President Lincoln will invite us to his White House. I believe others have been so honored.” Alexander summoned his most powerful persuasion. “Sallie, you are my wife.”
“If this painful experience has proved anything, it is that I am not your wife. Alexander, I was young . . .”
Although his raised eyebrow had often silenced her, she continued. No man would command her silence again. “Alexander, I wish, nay I intend, legal dissolution of our marriage bonds, and should you refuse, I shall effect a practical severance of our union.”
“You would quit me now, when our troubles are almost over?”
“I do quit you, Alexander.”
He shrugged. He smiled. He looked away. “As you like. If my stratagems prove to your benefit as well as my own, I would be much pleased. I never wished to misuse you . . .”
“Alexander, you will not be accepted as a prisoner of war. ‘Abolitionist’ is a word—merely a word.”
“And ‘wife,’ dear Sallie. Is that merely a word?”
“Alexander, I will not be berated by you. I will not! You sat in that courtroom wearing that insufferable smile, treating everyone, even those who might have helped us, with disdain. What could you have been thinking of?”
“I suppose . . . I suppose I was thinking of nothing. I recall wondering if the long-dead jurist whose portrait hangs over the bench ever enjoyed the loving to which we were at first addicted. Sallie, after my beloved mother died, my uncle took me in. Uncle’s musty library was a warmer conversationalist than he. Sallie, believe me: I have tried. On his deathbed my uncle bequeathed me an introduction to an old friend at Buell & Peters. Picture me copying correspondence, letter after banal letter, ten hours a day, Sundays excepted. Picture an impoverished clerk walking the streets of Manhattan until weariness permitted sleep because strolling costs no money. Oh, Sallie, I had so hoped you and I . . .”
“Alexander, I will not be your wife from pity.”
“Pity?” His yearning dried. “Are you so educated then? Do you read Virgil? Caesar? The immortals? Sallie, once you failed to produce our son, the affection I had for you dwindled immeasurably. It’s right in the penitentiary regulations: any prisoner has the right to petition the highest official for redress of grievances. As a convicted abolitionist, I shall demand to be treated as a prisoner of war. If President Davis fails in his duty, he will answer to General McClellan upon that gentleman’s triumph.” Alexander flung his arms apart, welcoming McClellan’s army of hosts.
Sallie swallowed. “But, Alexander, can’t you wait? Everyone says the Federals will be in Richmond before the month is out.”
His words tumbled over one another in his eagerness. “Don’t you see? That’s the cunningest part. If I take a principled stand, and am confined with the other Federal prisoners, my story will be credited. If I wait too long, I am merely another convict with a complaint!”
For the first time in her life, Sallie Botkin fainted.
Two warders came to Sallie’s cell on the morning Alexander was to be flogged. One offered to read from the Bible, but Sallie said no. Perfectly composed, she sat on her stool, hands folded in her lap. She did hope Alexander might not scream.
Even while they tied him to the whipping post, Alexander remained confident reason would prevail. When the fire of the first blow reached his lungs, his bellow was less pain than astonishment. With no defenses prepared, no stoicism at hand, he begged and shrieked like a child. Life proved so much worse than he feared.
The flogging was done by an Irishman who, offended by Alexander’s unmanly noises, laid on worse than he otherwise might have.
Of course, Mr. Tyree could not flog a white man.
LETTER FROM CATESBY
BYRD TO DUNCAN GATEWOOD
BEAVERDAM, VIRGINIA
JULY 2, 1862
DEAREST KINSMAN,
In the past seven days I have witnessed sights I had not thought to see in this life. Of dead men and dead horses and swamps and gunpowder I am heartily sick.
After our bungled attack at Gaines Mill, Corporal Fisher (who regularly cleans me out at poker) and I had picket duty in a copse of sycamore trees which had been splintered and shredded by the day’s cannonades. At dusk, when the wounded earth was steaming and the night fog rose from the streams and swampy places, we heard a noise. It was a single soldier: a corpulent Federal private in a uniform so fresh he must have donned it for the first time that evening. When he espied us he stopped, uttered a cry—half alarm, half moan—before extracting a horse pistol his parent may have carried during the Mexican war. The Federal’s shape was deformed, his breast sharpish as if a rooster’s breastbone had been grafted onto a man.
“I won’t kill you if you don’t kill me,” he said, his pistol wobbling from one of us to the other.
Corporal Fisher, who earlier had pillaged rations from one of this figure’s deceased countrymen and was desirous of putting those rations to good use, replied, “Son, why don’t you walk back in that fog and leave us patriots in peace.”
“I’m lost,” the Federal confessed.
“Well, son,” Corporal Fisher replied, “from our uniforms you can presume we ain’t the folks you’re lookin’ for. Fellows you want wear blue.”
Duncan, I swear the fellow had a tear in his eye. “If I turn my back, you gonna shoot?”
“Naw,” Fisher said. “You ain’t no use to us. Why, you wouldn’t even make a good prisoner. Now, you are interruptin’ a repast I have been long anticipatin’. Why don’t you sound retreat? Follow General McClellan’s sterling example and change your base.”
Then, Duncan, the fellow thumped his chest with the barrel of his pistol and it gave off a hollow sound, like someone beating an iron bucket. “I got no protection behind,” he complained.
Duncan, that Federal was wearing a steel breastplate some rogue of a sutler had sold him.
Corporal Fisher leaned his Enfield against a tree, perched on a downed sycamore, and began to unwrap his supper. “I ain’t gonna take you prisoner and you ain’t takin’ me prisoner. Army you seek is somewhere behind you.” with no more ado, he began sampling Federal hardtack, which is, in every respect, quite as loathsome as our own.
Seeing that he was getting nowhere with negotiations, the Federal withdrew, facing us every cautious backward step. Since the ground was littered with shattered trees, his retreat was extremely tedious. Before he had quite disappeared, Fisher called out to him, “Yank, if you’re gonna fight General Lee again it’d be well to put your armor on backward. It won’t do you no good while you’re runnin’ away.”
So we have our jests even as dead men grin at us beneath the bushes where they crawled to die.
I am sorry to give news that Private
Ryals was taken to the hospital suffering from cholera and he succumbed to that disease.
You are not a good correspondent, Duncan my friend. And since you have seen my infant son, Willie, I would welcome any word of him, his surprising beauty, intellectual prowess, etc. None but shameless flattery of the little creature will be permitted! I am so grateful that Leona has recovered from her delivery. Sometimes when the interlude between infants is too long, childbirth is dangerous.
I must tell of the Strasburg farmer who produced a fine wedding celebration for his daughter. When the bridal party exited the church, our quartermaster’s men were leading their horses away. Carriages of the wedding processions stood unhitched and, so far as I know, still stand outside the church. Our quartermaster notices all weddings in the countryside. He avers he is beginning to notice funerals too.
Of Jackson’s troops, only Burke’s regiment fought at Mechanicsville. Although the very air roared with battle, the 44th was never summoned. The next morning we were ordered to scavenge the battlefield. We heaped rifles, haversacks, shoes, and foodstuffs on our commissary wagons. Though my son Thomas would appreciate some souvenir of our victory, I took nothing, fearing the example I might set. Some of our men—Corporal Fisher among them—needed no example and happily pocketed valuables from the Federal dead. Our officers could not halt the pilferage.
Leona writes that you are reconciled to your parent. He is as good a man as I know and oft times when I am in doubt or confused I resolve the issue by asking what Samuel Gatewood might do in my place. I was glad to learn that Stratford’s wheat crop is promising. Until this war is over, our provender will come from our domestic economy. I count my family fortunate to abide at Stratford, where food is plentiful.
General Jackson shattered the Federals in the Valley and now Lee shatters them on the outskirts of Richmond. Surely they must sue for peace!
Although I confess to a stirring in my heart when the yell goes up and our brave banners start forward, these battles in the swamps below Richmond have impressed me with the awfulness of war. Horses scream, wounded men weep all night. Only the crash of great guns drowns out these terrible commonplaces.
Jacob's Ladder: A Story of Virginia During the War Page 18
