“Perhaps the Yankees will not see our true numbers, and take us for a greater force,” Poe said.
“We may hope, sir.” Lee saluted, mounted, and spurred away.
Poe found himself staring at the black Starker house, that one softly lit eye of a window. Thinking of the dead girl inside, doomed to be buried on a battlefield.
*
Virginia Poe had been beautiful, so beautiful that sometimes Poe’s heart would break just to look at her.
Her skin was translucent as bone china, her long hair fine and black as midnight, her violet eyes unnaturally large, like those of a bird of Faerie. Her voice was delicate, as fragile and evanescent as the tunes she plucked from her harp. Virginia’s aspect was unearthly, refined, ethereal, like an angel descended from some Mussulman paradise, and as soon as Poe saw his cousin he knew he could never rest unless he had that beauty for him always.
When he married her she was not quite fourteen. When she died, after five years of advancing consumption, she was not yet twenty-five. Poe was a pauper. After Virginia’s death came Eureka, dissipation, madness. He had thought he could not live without her, had no real intention of doing so.
But now he knew he had found Virginia again, this time in Evania. With Evania, as with Virginia, he could throw off his melancholy and become playful, gentle, joyful. With her he could sit in the parlor with its French wallpaper, play duets on the guitar, and sing until he could see the glow of his happiness reflected in Evania’s eyes.
But in time a shadow seemed to fall between them. When Poe looked at his young bride, he seemed to feel an oppression on his heart, a catch in the melody of his love. Virginia had not asked for anything in life but to love her cousin. Evania was proud; she was willful; she grew in body and intellect. She developed tastes, and these tastes were not those of Poe. Virginia had been shy, otherworldly, a presence so ethereal it seemed as if the matter had been refined from her, leaving only the essence of perfected beauty and melancholy; Evania was a forthright presence, bold, a tigress in human form. She was a material presence; her delights were entirely those of Earth.
Poe found himself withdrawing before Evania’s growing clarity. He moved their sleeping chamber to the topmost floor of the mansion, beneath a roof of glass skylights. The glass ceiling was swathed in heavy Oriental draperies to keep out the heat of the day; the windows were likewise covered. Persian rugs four deep covered the floor. Chinese bronzes were arranged to pour gentle incense into the room from the heads of dragons and lions.
With the draperies blocking all sources of the light, in the near-absolute, graveyard darkness, Poe found he could approach his wife. The fantastic decor, seen only by such light as slipped in under the door or through cracks in the draperies, heightened Poe’s imagination to a soaring intensity. He could imagine that the hair he caressed was dark as a raven’s wing; that the cheek he softly kissed was porcelain-pale; he could fancy, under the influence of the incense, that the earthy scent of Evania had been transformed to a scent far more heavenly; and he could almost perceive, as ecstasy flooded him, that the eyes that looked up into his were the large, luminous, angelic eyes of his lost love, the lady Virginia.
*
Poe sat in his tent and tried to eat an omelette made of eggs scavenged from Starker chickens. Fried ham sat untouched on the plate. Around him, the reserve divisional artillery creaked and rattled as the guns were set up on the Starkers’ slight eminence. The ravens gobbled and cawed.
Poe put down his fork. He was too agitated to eat.
A drink, he thought. A soothing glass of sherry. The Starkers must have some; it would be easy to obtain.
He took a gulp of boiled coffee, took his stick, and hobbled out of the tent. The sky had lightened, and the mist had receded from the Starker plantation; Poe could see parts of his own line, a flag here and there, the crowns of trees. His men were moving forward out of their trenches, forming up on the far side of the abatis beyond. Officers’ shouts carried faintly to his ear. The alignment was proceeding with difficulty. The battalions had become too confused as they marched to their places in the dark.
He remembered the Ravens in the cemetery, shrouded by gray gunsmoke as they were now hidden by gray mist.
Sherry, he thought again. The thought seemed to fill his mind with a fine, clear light. He could almost feel the welcome fire burning along his veins. A drink would steady him.
A color sergeant came running up from the Ravens, saluted, and took the two birds away to march with their brigade. Limbers rattled as horses pulled them out of harm’s way down the reverse slope of the hill.
Artillerymen lounged by their Napoleons and Whitworths, waiting for a target.
My god, Poe thought, why am I doing this? Suddenly it seemed the most pointless thing in the world.
An offensive would only make things worse.
A horse trotted toward him from the Starker driveway. Poe recognized Moses, another of Anderson’s aides, an eagle-nosed miniature sheeny that Longstreet had unaccountably raised to the rank of major.
One of Longstreet’s little lapses in taste, Poe thought; but unfortunately, as someone with pretensions to the title himself, he was honor-bound to treat the Hebrew as if his claim to the title of gentleman were genuine.
Sextus took Major Moses’s horse, and Moses and Poe exchanged salutes. There weren’t many men shorter than Poe, but Moses was one of them− he was almost tiny, with hands and feet smaller than a woman’s. “General Anderson’s compliments, sir,” Moses said. “He wants to emphasize his desire for a diversionary attack.”
“Look about you, Major,” Poe said. “What do you see?”
Moses looked at the grayback soldiers rolling out of their entrenchments and shuffling into line, the artillerists waiting on the hilltop for a target, officers calling up and down the ranks.
“I see that General Anderson has been anticipated, sir,” Moses said. “My mission has obviously been in vain.”
“I would be obliged if you’d wait for a moment, Major,” Poe said. “I may have a message for General Anderson by and by.”
“With permission, sir, I should withdraw. The general may need me.” Moses smiled. Dew dripped from his shoulder-length hair onto his blue riding cape. “Today promises to be busy, sir.”
“I need you here, sir!” Poe snapped. “I want you to witness something.”
Moses seemed startled. He recovered, a sly look entering his eyes, then he nodded. “Very well, sir.”
In a motionless instant of perfect clarity, Poe understood the conspiracy of this calculating Jew. Moses would hang back, wait for confirmation of Poe’s madness, Poe’s error, then ride back to Anderson to try to have Poe removed from command. Moxley Sorrel might already have filled the staff tent with tales of Poe’s nerves about to crack. Perhaps, Poe thought furiously, the sheeny intended to replace Poe himself!
Cold triumph rolled through Poe. Conspire though Moses might, Poe would be too crafty for him.
“When will the attack begin, Major?” Poe asked.
“It has already begun, sir. The mist cleared early to the west of us. The men were moving out just as I left General Anderson’s headquarters.”
Poe cocked his head. “I hear no guns, Major Moses.”
“Perhaps there has been a delay. Perhaps−” Moses shrugged. “Perhaps the wet ground is absorbing the sound. Or there is a trick of the wind−”
“Nevertheless,” Poe said, “I hear no guns.”
“Yes, sir.” Moses cleared his throat. “It is not unknown, sir.”
“Still, Major Moses,” said Poe. “I hear no guns.”
Moses fell silent at this self-evident fact. Poe whirled around, his black cape flying out behind him, and stalked toward his tent. He could hear Moses’s soft footsteps following behind.
Men on horseback came, reporting one brigade after another ready to move forward. Poe told them to wait here for the word to advance, then return to their commanders. Soon he had heard from every brigade
but those of Gregg and Law− a messenger even came from Fitz Lee, reporting the cavalryman’s readiness to move forward at Poe’s signal. After ten minutes of agitated waiting, while the sky grew ever paler and the mist retreated to lurk among the trees, Poe sent an aide to inquire.
Poe gave an irritated look at his division waiting in their ranks for the signal. If the enemy had scouts out this way, they’d see the Confederates ready for the attack and warn the enemy.
Go forward with the four brigades he had? he wondered.
Yes. No.
He decided to wait till his aide came back. He looked at his watch, then cast a glance over his shoulder at Major Moses.
“I hear no guns, Major,” he said.
“You are correct, sir.” Moses smiled thinly. “I take it you intend to enlighten me as to the significance of this?”
Poe nodded benignly. “In time, Major.”
Moses swept off his hat in an elaborate bow. “You are known as the master of suspense, sir. I take my hat off to you, sir, I positively do.”
Poe smiled. The Jew was amusing. He tipped his own hat. “Thank you, Major.”
Moses put on his hat. “I am an enthusiast of your work, sir. I have a first edition of the Complete Tales. Had I known I would encounter you, I would have had my wife send it to me and begged you to inscribe it.”
“I should be glad to sign it,” Poe said, surprised. The Complete and Corrected Tales and Poems of Edgar A. Poe had been published at his own expense six years ago and had sold precisely two hundred and forty-nine copies throughout the United States—— he knew precisely, because the rest of the ten-thousand-copy edition was sitting in a lumber room back home at Shepherd’s Rest.
“Before the war,” Moses said, “I used to read your work aloud to my wife. The poems were particularly lovely, I thought—— so delicate. And there was nothing that would bring a blush to her lovely cheek—— I particularly appreciate that, sir.” Moses grew indignant. “There are too many passages from poets that one cannot in decency read to a lady, sir. Even in Shakespeare——” Moses shook his head.
“Fortunately,” said Poe, “one has Bowdler.”
“I thank that gentleman from my heart,” said Moses. “As I thank Tennyson, and Mr. Dickens, and Keats.”
“Keats.” Poe’s heart warmed at the mention of the name. “One scarcely could anticipate encountering his name here, on a battlefield.”
“True, sir. He is the most rarified and sublime of poets− along, I may say, with yourself, sir.”
Poe was surprised. “You flatter me, Major.”
“I regret only that you are not more appreciated, sir.” His tiny hands gestured whitely in the air. “Some of my correspondents have informed me, however, that you are better known in Europe.”
“Yes,” Poe said. A dark memory touched him. “A London publisher has brought out an edition of the Complete Tales. Unauthorized, of course. It has achieved some success, but I never received so much as a farthing from it.”
“I am surprised that such a thing can happen, sir.”
Poe gave a bitter laugh. “It isn’t the money—— it is the brazen provocation of it that offended me. I hired a London solicitor and had the publisher prosecuted.”
“I hope he was thrown in jail, sir.”
Poe gave a smile. “Not quite. But there will be no more editions of my work in London, one hopes.”
“I trust there won’t be.”
“Or in France, either. I was being translated there by some overheated poet named Charles Baudelaire—— no money from that source, either, by the way—— and the fellow had the effrontery to write me that many of my subjects, indeed entire texts, were exactly the same as those he had himself composed—— except mine, of course, had been written earlier.”
“Curious.” Moses seemed unclear as to what he should make of this.
“This gueux wrote that he considered himself my alter ego.” A smile twisted across Poe’s face at the thought of his triumph. “I wrote that what he considered miraculous, I considered plagiarism, and demanded that he cease any association with my works on penalty of prosecution. He persisted in writing to me, so I had a French lawyer send him a stiff letter, and have not heard from him since.”
“Very proper.” Moses nodded stoutly. “I have always been dismayed at the thought of so many of these disreputable people in the literary world. Their antics can only distract the public from the true artists.”
Poe gazed in benevolent surprise at Major Moses. Perhaps he had misjudged the man.
A horseman was riding toward him. Poe recognized the spreading mustachios of the aide he’d sent to Gregg and Law. The young man rode up and saluted breathlessly.
“I spoke to General Law, sir,” he said. “His men were still eating breakfast. He and General Gregg have done nothing, sir, nothing!”
Poe stiffened in electric fury. “You will order Generals Gregg and Law to attack at once!” he barked.
The aide smiled. “Sir!” he barked, saluted, and turned his horse. Dirt clods flew from the horse’s hooves as he pelted back down the line.
Poe hobbled toward the four messengers his brigadiers had sent to him. Anger smoked through his veins. “General Barton will advance at once,” he said. “The other brigades will advance as soon as they perceive his movement has begun. Tell your commanders that I desire any prisoners to be sent to me.”
He pointed at Fitzhugh Lee’s aide with his stick. “Ride to General Lee. Give him my compliments, inform him that we are advancing, and request his support.”
Men scattered at his words, like shrapnel from his explosion of temper. He watched them with cold satisfaction.
“There is nothing more beautiful, sir,” said Major Moses in his ear, “than the sight of this army on the attack.”
Poe looked with surprise at Moses; in his burst of temper he had forgotten the man was here. He turned to gaze at the formed men a few hundred yards below him on the gentle slope. They had been in garrison for almost a year, and their uniforms and equipment were in better condition than most of this scarecrow army. They were not beautiful in any sense that Poe knew of the word, but he understood what the major meant. There was a beauty in warfare that existed in a realm entirely distinct from the killing.
“I know you served in Greece, sir,” Moses said. “Did the Greek fighters for liberty compare in spirit with our own?”
Poe’s heart gave a lurch, and he wondered in alarm if his ears were burning. “They were—— indifferent,” he said. “Variable.” He cleared his throat. “Mercenary, if the truth be told.”
“Ah.” Moses nodded. “Byron found that also.”
“I believe he did.” Poe stared at the ground and wondered how to extricate himself. His Greek service was a lie he had encouraged to be published about himself. He had never fought in Greece when young, or served, as he had also claimed, in the Russian army. Instead—— penniless, an outcast, thrown on his own resources by his Shylock of a stepfather—— he had enlisted in the American army out of desperation, and served three years as a volunteer.
It had been his dread, these years he’d served the Confederacy, that he would encounter some old soldier who remembered serving alongside the eighteen-year-old Private Edgar A. Perry. His fears had never been realized, fortunately, but he had read everything he could on Byron and the Greek War of Independence in hopes he would not be tripped up by the curious.
“Ah,” Poe said. He pointed with his stick. “The men are moving.”
“A brilliant sight, sir,” Moses’s eyes shone.
Calls were rolling up the line, one after another, from Barton on the left to the Ravens next in line, then to Corse—— all Virginia brigades—— and then to Clingman’s North Carolinians on the right. Poe could hear the voices distinctly.
“Attention, battalion of direction! Forward, guide centerrrr—— march!”
The regiments moved forward, left to right, clumps of skirmishers spreading out ahead. Flags hung list
lessly in the damp. Once the order to advance had been given, the soldiers moved in utter silence, in perfect parade-ground formation.
Just as they had gone for that cemetery, Poe thought. He remembered his great swell of pride at the way the whole division had done a left oblique under enemy fire that day, taking little half-steps to swing the entire line forty-five degrees and then paused to dress the line before marching onward.
Sweeping through tendrils of mist that clung to the soldiers’ legs, the division crossed the few hundred yards of ground between the entrenchments and the forest, and disappeared into the darkness and mist.
Poe wondered desperately if he was doing the right thing.
“Did you know Byron, sir?” Moses again.
Poe realized he’d been holding his breath, anticipating the sound of disaster as soon as his men began their attack. He let his breath go, felt relief spreading outward, like rot, from his chest.
“Byron died,” he said, “some years before I went abroad.”
Byron had been feeding worms for forty years, Poe thought, but there were Byrons still, hundreds of them, in this army. Once he had been a Byron himself− an American Childe Harold dressed in dramatic black, ready with the power of his mind and talent to defeat the cosmos. Byron had intended to conquer the Mussulman; Poe would do him better, with Eureka, by conquering God.
Byron had died at Missolonghi, bled to death by his personal physician as endless gray rain fell outside his tent and drowned his little army in the Peloponnesian mud. And nothing had come of Byron in the end, nothing but an example that inspired thousands of other young fools to die in similar pointless ways throughout the world.
For Poe the war had come at a welcome moment. His literary career had come to a standstill, with nine thousand seven hundred fifty-one copies of the Complete Tales sitting in his lumber room; his mother-in-law had bestirred herself to suggest, in kind but firm fashion, that his literary and landscaping projects were running up too fantastic a debt; and his relations with Evania—— on Poe’s part at least—— were at best tentative.
When Virginia seceded and Maryland seemed poised to follow, Poe headed south with Sextus, a pair of fine horses, equipage, a curved Wilkinson light cavalry sword, Hardee’s Tactics, a brace of massive nine-shot Le Mat revolvers, and of course the twelve hundred in gold. He kissed Evania and his beloved Mrs. Forster farewell—— within a few months he would return with an army and liberate Shepherd’s Rest and the rest of Maryland. He, as well as Byron, could be martial when the cause of liberty required it. He rode away with a singing heart.
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