Jacob's Ladder (35 page)

CHEAP GLOVES

R
ICHMOND
, V
IRGINIA
M
AY
23, 1863

ON SATURDAY MORNING,
the ward was quiet, sunlight streaming through open windows across the floor swept by the one-armed convalescent, whisk, whisk, whisk. Mosquito netting was rolled onto frames above each narrow cot. At the far end of the room an Alabama corporal was dying while a chaplain murmured verses from the Bible. In the next bed a corpulent quartermaster major complained in a high whine about his wound, which was not particularly serious. Beside him lay a blinded drummer boy, and beside him a captain of J.E.B. Stuart's cavalry, also blinded.

The one-armed convalescent set the butt of his broomstick in his armpit and maneuvered the broom with his remaining hand. He took especial care in the corners, because he had been a machinist before the war and was meticulous by nature.

In the cot beside Stuart's captain was a Jewish colonel of artillery who was visited by his rabbi each Saturday. Both the rabbi and the Alabama boy's chaplain were elderly, called back into active service by the nation's great need.

Families were in attendance, and through the open windows came the bright noise of children at play. Next to the Jewish colonel was the cot of a fiftyish private with pneumonia who was not expected to pull through. His gray-haired, drawn-faced wife arrived at dawn, left at dusk, was never seen to take nourishment.

Samuel Gatewood stood, hat in hand. Catesby Byrd said, “Duncan's fourth on the left. I'll smoke a pipe outside.”

Samuel Gatewood set down Abigail's wicker basket and laid his soft hat on the lid. Although Duncan's stump was exposed on top of the blanket, Samuel didn't look at it. His son's head was thoroughly bandaged. “Catesby said your eye . . .”

“It is saved. I'm swaddled like an Egyptian mummy until my face heals.”

“Dear boy, dear boy. I . . . I was so sorry to hear about Gypsy.”

“She was a fine horse.” Duncan's voice was little more than a whisper.

Samuel leaned near. “What a spirited creature she was. When I bought her from Alex Seig she was so wild I did not believe you could handle her. You were only twelve. Only twelve.” Samuel shook his head, wondering. “That first summer, you were just as wild as she was. We wouldn't see you from morning until night. Your mother turned gray that summer wondering what mischief you two were up to.”

“Gypsy never flinched. Little Sorrel, Stonewall's horse, if she hadn't reared when those North Carolina boys fired the volley at them, likely the general'd still be alive. Oh, Stonewall was a hell of a rider. He'd been a jockey as a boy and still rode like one, forward in his stirrups.”

“I see the army has not improved your language.” His son turned his bandaged head. “Do you suffer?”

“It hurts like hell. My face itches terribly, but I am not to rub at it. There's nothing where my arm used to be but it hurts anyway. Sometimes I feel the bullet in an arm I don't have.”

“What will we do after this war is over—so many men gone. . . .”

“There's Federals to spare. Them and their negroes can run things.”

His son's bitterness was new and unwelcome.

Duncan indicated but did not touch his stump. “My injury is not without advantages. I'll save time washing hands. And that big fellow near the door, Sergeant Crenshaw, he's lost his right arm and I've lost my left. We've made an agreement to purchase gloves together. We should realize considerable savings.”

After a moment, Samuel said, “Your mother sends you her love. Between her and Jack the Driver, we manage. It has been a tolerably wet spring, but we planted the oats in the river field and sowed corn on the uplands. Your mother's kitchen garden is larger than you remember it. We have our women servants still, though many of the men have run away or been taken by our government. Withal, I believe we are more fortunate than most. I am told that matters are completely desperate in the Piedmont.”

A matron hurried to the Alabama boy's side.

“We were making our assault on Fairmont,” his son said dreamily. “There was Hazel Grove here”—he raised a knee under the blanket—“and Fairmont here”—he raised another mound. “So we had to go down this slope and up the other. Guns on both hills, theirs and ours. First time we got within a hundred yards before they broke us. We were making our second assault when I got shot. I was still mad about Gypsy. I wasn't thinking of getting hurt.”

“When you come home, you'll find changes. You'll recall that cave in Strait Creek gorge? We've taken to keeping tubs of butter and cheese and honey in the cave. It's cool there and the commissary officers aren't likely to find it. If I knew a haven for the milk cows, I'd move them too, but they need to be near for milking.”

The Alabama boy's chaplain closed his Bible.

“I flopped down when I was shot. Oh, I went right down senseless. When I woke it was burning all around me and I couldn't move my limbs and I thought I must perish. A Federal dragged me into the creek. He was a redheaded fellow. I sometimes wonder about him, whether he got killed or not. Something was wrong with me. I could make my good arm go, but couldn't wiggle my legs. I thought I'd been shot in the legs too.”

“Aunt Opal sent you one of her pies. She said to be sure I didn't eat it myself. I said I'd reserve that pleasure for you.”

A wan smile crossed Duncan's face, and encouraged, Samuel Gatewood continued, “We make all our clothing now, honest homespun. Your sister, Leona, has made you and Catesby shirts. She did not know how long a sleeve you require, so made both regular length. Colonel Warwick suffered a similar wound at Second Manassas but is no worse a planter than he ever was.”

“Did they tell you how the woods burned?” Duncan said dreamily.

“Dear son, it isn't healthy for you to dwell on such matters.”

“Father, losing an arm is in some respects an enlightening experience. You do not wish to hear about the fire? Very well, I shan't speak about the fire. How are my nephew and niece? I imagine young Thomas is useful on the plantation?”

Samuel Gatewood said young Thomas was doing the work of a fulltask hand—when he felt like it. He said Uther Botkin was unwell. He said Colonel Warwick believed the war would be over by year's end, and Samuel prayed so, since Thomas was almost old enough to enlist.

Samuel's son turned his head on the pillow.

Undaunted, Samuel opened the wicker basket and described the items contained therein. Blackberry preserves. Three pair of socks and Leona's shirt. A book of sermons provided by Grandmother Gatewood. A novel,
Lady Audley's Secret,
from his mother. A new treatise on common animal illnesses which, if Duncan studied it, would better prepare him for rebuilding Stratford after the war.

“Those who burned alive in the Wilderness—they had plans for after the war. They had mothers and wives they cried to as the fire transformed them. Some carried keepsakes with locks of their children's hair. . . .” Duncan touched his bandages wonderingly.

Samuel Gatewood closed the basket. “Yes, it is true that men have died horribly,” he said. “In every generation some men die horribly, and we must trust that God has his purposes.” He buckled the basket's strap. “Did I say that I came down the canal in the same boat that had previously transported General Jackson's mortal remains to Lexington for burial? The craft was still draped with black crepe, which the crewmen did not remove until we had passed through the lock at Big Island. General Jackson died, I am told, grateful he would go to his Maker on Sunday, for such had always been his desire. Were the men who died in the Wilderness any different from the general who commanded them? If these tragedies are not part of God's great design, reason falters.”

Duncan turned his face away. “Father, I fear I have given way to melancholy. Can you forgive me?”

“I can and do, most heartily. I have brought a second basket to Catesby. Does he seem well to you?”

“He has been assigned to attend the brigade's wounded officers, and visits every second day. He's also been entrusted with the regiment's clothing monies but hasn't located what he was asked to buy.”

“Catesby did not quite seem himself.”

“He takes whiskey. Often when he sits where you are sitting the smell of spirits is strong enough to make me ill. He gambles more than he did—oh, there's a regular circle of cardplayers in the army, and they quickly make each other's acquaintance. Catesby is gentler than you or me, and war is no place for a gentle fellow. He will do his duty. He accepts the most dangerous post, has commanded our pickets more than any other officer in the regiment.”

Samuel Gatewood said, “Some men are blessed with a sanguine disposition. Others take a thing and worry it until there's so little left it wouldn't provide a barn rat with his dinner. I am of the former disposition. When I view Stratford's depleted fields, I picture them after the war, replenished and green, workers sowing or reaping or shocking, in proper season. You will be the planter and Catesby's son, Thomas, will act the fool—as all young men must. I picture Thomas courting and marrying. I . . .”

“Father, my own son will never be welcome at Stratford.”

Tears which he neither restrained nor acknowledged started from Samuel Gatewood's eyes. They ran down the furrows beside his cheeks. “My poor boy, you have not forgiven me.”

“Father, what else could you have done? It is myself I can't forgive.”

“We might . . . we should have spoken before.”

The boy dismissed the thought. “How could we? How can we? This war has changed everything. Everything is topsy-turvy.”

“We could not have acknowledged a negro grandson. How . . . ?”

“What a pity. What a pity. What have we done to ourselves? Sometimes I think that damned Lincoln is right.”

“Should we surrender?”

Duncan winced. “No. Hell no! But Father, after all our suffering, what will we become?” His eyes were fluttering wearily. “I am so tired. Will you come again tomorrow?”

Catesby was on the step outside. “Samuel, another beautiful spring day. If the roads stay good our army will march again. General Lee intends to march into the North. All the men think so.”

“And you?”

“I'll go with the regiment. Attending to fallen officers' needs and purchasing woolen underclothes are not duties that excuse a man from marching. General Lee thinks we can win.”

“And you, Catesby?”

Catesby shrugged. “I am not a military man. Our generals have been correct in their judgments before, though I do not believe they have properly reckoned the cost. Three more great victories like Chancellorsville and we will all be dead men.”

“You are in a black humor. If our western armies continue to resist Grant at Vicksburg and General Lee strikes a hard blow in the North, England may yet recognize our young nation.”

Catesby's grin flashed. “I have always admired you, Samuel. Have I told you? If men like you were in charge of things, we'd never have reached this wretched impasse.” Catesby rose and brushed off his trousers. “Will you take dinner with me? After two weeks in the capital I have discovered a few establishments.”

The two men rode along Main Street. Catesby seemed distracted and in no mood for conversation.

How shabby it all is, Gatewood thought. Filth in the gutter, unwashed stoops, windows curtainless or shuttered. Few cabs or hackneys, not many riders and most of those in uniform.

A cavalry squadron, President Davis's honor guard, lounged in Capitol Square.

The two men turned down 12th Street and dismounted before an unpretentious two-story clapboard building with a fresh painted green door. Both passed their reins to a colored boy, and Catesby gave him a dime.

“Samuel,” Catesby swung the door wide, “this is Johnny Worsham's gambling hell.” He raised a hand to quell Samuel's protest. “Samuel, you needn't gamble. Though no doubt there are those doing so. Come in, I'll show you.”

So early, only a few of the green baize tables were occupied. Upturned chairs rested upon the others, and the low murmur of the cardplayers seemed of a piece with the dust motes flickering in the sunlight.

“Ah, Catesby. Come to take a hand?” The inquirer was handsome on that half of his face that hadn't been scarred by a dreadful injury. His hair was black and oiled and perfumed.

“Johnny. My esteemed father-in-law, Samuel Gatewood. Planter from the mountains. A man of considerable good sense.”

“Sir, my pleasure. I believe the window table is playing bezique. Do you know the game?”

“Not this morning, Johnny. We've come for some of your excellent hospitality.”

The owner's smile didn't falter. “Of course. Of course. Will we be seeing you tonight, Catesby?”

“Unless I'm dining with General Lee,” Catesby said and kept his solemn expression until he grinned a boy's grin and slapped the proprietor on the back. “Johnny keeps a fine buffet. The best in the Confederacy.”