Jacob's Ladder (20 page)

Accompanied by fresh blue troops and vigorous hurrahs, a Federal flag emerged from the smoke. Confused Confederates started to retreat. Colonel Scott waved his hat and cried, “Do you intend to let these damn Federals drive Virginians from their own soil?”

The Virginians lifted their rifles and a bright bolt of fire crashed into the Federals. They quit.

Private Ryals was aiming carefully now, firing at flashes in the Federal smoke. Catesby Byrd tossed Duncan his canteen. Duncan swallowed warm water gratefully.

The sun disappeared. The Georgians ran out of ammunition and withdrew down the ravine. The 10th Virginia took their place and another Virginia regiment filled in behind them. VMI cadets were pressed into service as litter bearers.

General Johnson climbed a rock pile to see better. His stick twisted and he fell face forward into a stump hole. “God damn you men, drag me out of here. Drag me, you hear?”

The general's legs were waggling in the air like an upset beetle's and Duncan was running to help when the Federals volleyed. Duncan sat. It felt like somebody had smacked his right leg with a singletree. When he tried to stand, his leg buckled. “Oh,” Duncan said. “So this is what it's like.”

He pushed his revolver into his holster and fastened the flap and started crawling. His leg didn't hurt but wouldn't support his weight. He didn't want to inspect his leg closely because he didn't want to know. He hunched along toward the rear. Bullets flew high over his head.

Private Ryals put his rifle down and pulled Duncan by his armpits, but Ryals was too slight to do much good. “Wait a minute, sir!” he cried. “I'll get help.”

Duncan thought but didn't say, “I won't go anywhere,” and slumped onto his arm, his cheek in his hand.

He emerged into partial consciousness on a litter halfway down the ravine. He gripped the litter rails to steady himself. Lanterns held high marked the worst spots, but sometimes litter bearers slipped and wounded men shrieked when they crashed to the ground.

“Watch your feet! Damn it, have a care!”

The stars swirled safely overhead, but on earth it was dark and crowded and dangerous.

A young voice reassured Duncan he'd be all right, he'd be fine, it was only a short distance to the field hospital. “The surgeons will care for you, sir,” the young voice said. Duncan opened his eyes. The boy at his head was a VMI cadet, high-collared jacket, stock; apparently he'd lost his kepi somewhere.

That'd mean demerits, Duncan thought.

“Only a little farther, sir,” the boy said. “Just hold on a little longer.”

“They called me Wheelhorse,” Duncan whispered.

NOTE FROM CATESBY BYRD
TO SAMUEL GATEWOOD

H
EADWATERS
, V
IRGINIA
M
AY
9, 1862

SAMUEL,

I regret that your son Duncan was wounded during our signal victory over the Federals during the battle for McDowell. Duncan is shot through the upper leg but Providence has spared both his life and his leg, since the bullet missed the bone. He is weak from loss of blood and will require patient nursing while he recovers. Please come yourself or send Jack with a wagon to Wilson's Hotel, which, to Mr. Wilson's distress, has been converted into our hospital.

I send this by James Cleek, a reliable man, who will be scouting with the cavalry. Despite our severe losses, General Jackson has us formed into line of march to pursue the Federals.

Bless you,

Catesby

AN ABOLITIONIST

R
ICHMOND
, V
IRGINIA
M
AY
25, 1862

SALLIE SAT IN
the window seat of the keeper's parlor, mending a stocking. Her striped convict's shift was neatly patched and clean. Her long hair lay on top of her head in two braids tied with strips of rough cloth.

Conversing with a convict is like speaking to an inhabitant of a country one never wishes to visit, but Cousin Molly, who had commenced her visits with the expectation of uplifting Abigail's imprisoned neighbor, had come to rely on them for an opportunity for candor her work customarily forbade. “I have never seen our soldiers in such low spirits,” she admitted. “They straggle into the city in twos and threes and find some inconspicuous place in the alleyways or Capitol Square, and sprawl—silent, unwilling to meet anyone's eyes. We have suffered too many grievous defeats.

“New Orleans is now under the heel of that Federal beast Ben Butler. How gallantly the Louisiana regiments paraded through Richmond last spring. How bravely their General Beauregard fought. Now his home is confiscated, his family subservient to Federal rule. Dreadful.”

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.