Jacob's Ladder (40 page)

“And you, Duncan. What do you think?”

He grinned. “It ain't my soul, it's Catesby's soul, and he's to have full disposition of it.”

A week later Duncan was sitting up, and the next bright morning was helped outside onto a bench in the sun. Sallie kept him company.

“Lord, I feel old. I don't think I will ever be a young man again.”

“Hush. Don't be sillier than you must.”

“The sun . . .”

“Yes, it does feel good. Look, crows after a hawk.”

Duncan shaded his eyes. “Hawk always gets the worst of it; he's more'n a match for one crow but he can't do much against four of them.”

“Remember at the beginning of the war the newspapers were boasting how many Federals one Confederate could defeat?”

“We talked some prime foolishness in those days. Federal soldiers take a fair bit of licking. They just haven't had good generals. Let's not talk about the war. Please, Sallie.”

“I'd thought if you were feeling better on Sunday we might attend the Davises' levee. It is their custom to open their home, and I have never been.”

Duncan brushed his uniform and even polished his boots, though that was a complex task for a newly one-armed man. On the appointed day, they borrowed a hospital ambulance and, over Sallie's objections, Duncan drove. “I can drive with one hand,” Duncan said. “And had better get used to it. Besides”—he flicked the leather over a horse well into his second decade—“I don't think Dobbin will run away with us.”

Outside the presidential mansion, militiamen were talking strategy with some Georgians who had traveled from their home specifically to advise President Davis on his conduct of the war.

“Mr. Davis, he don't take kindly to advice,” one private said dolefully. “And he's in no humor since he got home from the west. Was I you, I'd talk to Vice President Stephens. He don't care for the way things are run either, and since he's from Georgia, might be he'd know some of your kin.”

Some of the crowd in the entrance hall were civilians; most, like Duncan, wounded soldiers. The hall wallpaper was the faux wood grain so fashionable before the war. “My, doesn't it look real?” Sallie said.

“Wouldn't fool me,” Duncan, the onetime sawyer, grumbled.

Although it was late in the season, the mansion's paintings were still draped by insect-proof gauze.

Flanked by avuncular Judah Benjamin, President Davis bowed gracefully to each lady, extended his hand to each civilian, asked each soldier his regiment. After being received, the guests passed through French doors into the garden.

Davis's forehead was pinched with headache, and one of his eyes was milky and blind. “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Captain,” Davis said. “You have suffered in our cause.”

“Not so much as some, sir,” Duncan replied. Then the devil took him: “Why is it, sir, that they feed us so much better in the hospital than with the army in the field?”

Davis had already grasped the next hand but swiveled his gaze crisply. “Captain, that is so we might return you to ranks as swiftly as we can.”

Duncan's foolish grin fell off his face.

Varina Davis and a few of her intimates gathered in a small sitting room adjacent to the public melee. Although Varina Davis was a staunch Episcopalian, this parlor was decorated with crucifixes and rosaries, carved by Confederate prisoners of war. An elderly woman summoned Sallie with big gestures.

“Mrs. Stannard, how nice to see you . . .”

“Oh, do come in, child. You and your gallant escort. Where is your delightful Cousin Molly? Captain, so glad to see you. All we Confederate ladies are fascinated by soldiers.”

In her dark green hoop skirt and green jacket, Varina Davis looked like a doll, an exuberantly energetic doll. “Which is your regiment, Captain?” she asked.

“Forty-fourth Virginia, ma'am. I lost this”—he patted his stump—“at Chancellorsville.”

Almost swallowed in the upholstery of the couch, a withered old man pronounced, “Great victory. We drove 'em that day.”

“Captain, let me introduce Mr. Edmund Ruffin, who had the honor of firing our first shot at Fort Sumter.” Courtesy satisfied, Mrs. Davis left to pour tea for her other guests.

Ruffin said, “For years I argued secession from the northern oppressors. Years. Nobody listened to me then. Now we are seceded, nobody heeds me again.”

“We met at John Brown's hanging,” Duncan said.

“Don't remember you. I met too many people in those days,” Ruffin said.

“I was the cadet guarding the scaffold. We talked in the moonlight.”

“John Brown produced a pretty piece of work. He did more to cause this war than any man living. Tyrant Lincoln dances to John Brown's tune.”

“I remember it was a beautiful night.”

“Was it? What will we do without General Jackson?”

“I lost my horse Gypsy at Chancellorsville. Don't expect I'll ever find another like her.”

“Do you equate your horse with the South's finest Christian general?”

Sally took Duncan's good arm. “You'll have to excuse him, sir. The captain is recovering from fever.”

When Sallie had Duncan settled on a love seat in the corner, she fetched him a cup of tea.

“I'm gonna miss Gypsy a damn sight more'n I'll miss Old Blue Light,” Duncan muttered.

“Yes, but perhaps this isn't just the place to say so.” Sallie nodded at acquaintances across the room.

“You think I should say that every time Old Jack attacked, the Federals fell down in terror? That God and General Jackson were hitched tandem?”

The two looked everywhere but at each other. Citizens in the receiving line eyed Varina Davis's intimates with frank curiosity.

Sallie's smile was stiff. “It is so nice to taste real tea again.”

“If there ever were any tea leaves in my cup they long since departed for a happier land.” Duncan wanted to apologize, but his words came out wrong. He said, “Sallie, you never were so particular about pleasing other people.”

“Yes,” Sallie whispered. “And see what it brought me to.”

Following the Davis's levee, Sallie found plenty to keep her occupied on other wards. Duncan took on orderly chores as his strength returned.

It surprised Duncan how much he had depended on having two arms. To sweep with one arm was difficult, to collect a chamber pot impossible. The cradling action of hands and arms was a ghost inside his body. Before his loss, Duncan Gatewood had faced the world head on, legs apart like a wrestler; now he turned toward life edgeways, a fencer. Simple operations—pulling on a sock, cutting a piece of beef without sending his plate skittering to the floor—taught him much about a body he had always taken for granted. How does a one-armed man open a jackknife? By setting the haft against his hip and plucking the blade between thumb and forefinger. A one-armed man winds his watch by clamping the instrument between little finger and heel of the hand while inserting the key. Shaving his burn-scarred face was too painful, so Duncan let his beard grow.

Sometimes Duncan's missing arm ached as if he were half corporeal, half shade.

Saturday morning, Sallie arrived with a wicker basket tucked underneath her arm. “It is a lovely day,” she announced.

Duncan leaned his broom against the doorframe. “Cooler at night. Won't be too long before we roll the mosquito netting.”

“Yes. In our mountains they will have had hard frosts.”

He took a deep breath. “Sallie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you before the Davises.”

“I believe I have forgotten the incident. Perhaps we could picnic on the James. I know a grassy bank within easy walking distance. I have managed apples, a loaf of bread, a flask of fresh milk, even half a chicken. I hope you will accompany me. Oh, I am so bold!”

His face broke into a grin. “Oh, I don't know,” he said and took her arm. “Oh, I don't know.”

The river ran over the stepped falls in a soft creamy whoosh. Its bow wave broke against a green canal boat sliding upstream. An osprey flashed into the mist and emerged, wings working hard, a heavy fish in its talons.

Sallie unwrapped the cool flask. “One would never think . . .”

“This makes war seem unnatural.”

“Is it not?”

Duncan grasped his knee and leaned forward. “We must need it. Else why do we fight?”

“Duncan . . . please. Would you care for chicken? Cousin Molly obtained this mustard from Mr. Worsham. It is quite famous in the city.”

“Is it so important to you? This work you do?”

“I would die before I went back to . . . that place. When I add my time there to what I spent with Alexander I seem to have been imprisoned a lifetime.”

Duncan wiped his fingers on the grass. “Alexander?”

“Every young girl is vulnerable to a man who promises to be her all.”

A smaller osprey, a female, hung over the falls, sun flashing on her white wings.

“I miss Uther so,” Sallie said. “He was the gentlest man. . . . Do you ever wonder how it must have been in those days? Men like Washington and Jefferson and Madison and Patrick Henry . . .”

Duncan laughed, “Speculators, one and all. Did you know that Washington had money in the James and Kanawha Canal? Patriotism and profit, there's a combination.”

“Duncan Gatewood, you are plain as dirt!”

He said, “A simple mountain planter was all I ever wanted to be. Things don't always turn out.”

They sat in silence for a long while. Sallie remembered her arrival at the Augusta Female Seminary. How excited she'd been. Jesse had driven her to the great metropolis of Staunton, Virginia; how she'd gawked. At the time Duncan was already loving Midge, but Sallie'd not known about it. Sallie said, “We have so many secrets.”

“Is that unnatural? My grandfather was shot to death by the man he'd been cuckolding, and I can't recall grandfather's demise often being mentioned in the family. Candor is too blunt a tool for household usage.”

“If anyone is less discreet than I am, I don't know her. First thing comes into my mind, I blurt it out.”

Duncan confessed, “And I am often tongue-tied. Without means to say how dear you are to me.”

Her hand stole into his and gave it a squeeze. “You must not become fond of me,” she said. “For I am a felonious person.”

He couldn't help himself. “You are my very favorite felon,” he burst out happily.

At that Sallie did remove her hand. She searched the basket for an apple. “Surgeon Lane gets these from the river planters. They share with our wounded what they would not willingly put on the market.”

“Sallie . . .”

“Hush, Duncan. I have only just learned to live alone, and it seems such a gift. Will you eat an apple?”

Held up to the sun, the apple's skin glowed like red gold. “Sallie, in your presence, I am such a fool.”

Too brightly she retorted, “We will soon be apart. When you take convalescent furlough, perhaps you will write.”

“If . . .”

“Surgeon Lane says you will soon be fit for travel. Young men heal wonderfully at their own homes.”

“And most never come back to the army.”

“Why should they? Why should you? Haven't you given enough to the Confederacy?”

He shook his head. “If you could just see Lee's army. If you could see it.”

“I have seen General Lee's army. I've seen its blood and its pus and its shattered bones and its entrails more times, in greater intimacy, than I care to remember. Graybeards and boys, men who die crowded around by relatives, men who die alone . . .” Sallie covered her face.

After a time, Duncan said softly, “At night, among us, the talk is so calm. Some men pray, some sing a ditty. After Fredericksburg—oh, it was a week or so after—it was getting on to Christmas and the Federal bands were playing on the other side of the river, ‘John Brown's Body,' ‘Tenting Tonight,' those songs, and we crept down to the riverbank to listen.

“Not a week before, we had killed their friends, and the shoes and coats we were wearing had been taken from their dead. Come spring they'd come across the river again and we would do our damnedest to kill them. But the Federals have fine bands. Come a pause between tunes, one of our boys yelled, ‘How 'bout playing some of our music now?' And damned if they didn't. They lit right into ‘Dixie' and ‘The Bonny Blue Flag' and they ended with ‘Home Sweet Home,' and I misdoubt there was a dry eye in either army.

“If I live to be a hundred, I don't believe I'll ever do anything more important than fighting in General Lee's army,” Duncan said. “Those fellows who were going to run have mostly run, and those who were truly brave, most of them have been killed. The ones of us left are just ordinary men.

“After what I did with Midge, I never thought I could hold my head up again. The army gave me back my honor.” He caressed his empty sleeve. “General Mahone needs a commissary officer, and I have asked to be returned to duty. Do you—do you understand?”

Sallie averted her face so Duncan couldn't see her tears. “I have seen too much of honor,” she said.

RECRUITERS

W
ASHINGTON
C
ITY
, D
ISTRICT
OF
C
OLUMBIA
N
OVEMBER
20, 1863

THE FEDERAL COLONEL
of engineers said, “We shall want two more rows of sandbags at that embrasure.”

The lieutenant of engineers said, “I believe what we have is adequate.”

The colonel of engineers said, “I wish it would snow. I have no quarrel with honest snow. But this drizzle penetrates my mood as readily as my overcoat. In the winter Washington City is intolerable. In the summer it is intolerable. This city has two agreeable seasons, neither more than a week in duration.”

The lieutenant said, “I am told that negroes cannot survive a colder climate. This is my first experience of them. There are no negroes in Skowhegan, Maine.”

“Very few in Illinois. Nevertheless, I believe some of their race have emigrated to Canada.”

“The abolitionists got us into this damned war. I wonder they are not here to help us fight it.”

The colonel said, “I believe the Parrot guns' muzzles will clear two more rows. Jesse!”

Jesse Burns was at the tip of the mound of sandbags that constituted the new emplacement, the latest link in the chain of forts around Washington City. “Colonel!”

“Set that surveyor's rod beside that top row of sandbags. What does it read?”

“Two foot six.”

“Two more rows, Lieutenant.”

“If that man has read it right.”

“Jesse? He is the best man I have.”

“You mean he is the best negro man you have.”

The colonel lifted his pale blue eyes. “You presume to improve my diction, Lieutenant?”

The lieutenant flinched.

“These contrabands are as good workmen as any. When Haupt rebuilt that railroad bridge at Burke's Station, some called it ‘the bridge made of wheatstalks,' but it got replacements to Pope's aid, and contrabands, despite sharpshooter fire, built it.”

The lieutenant spoke with the precision of one who may not be on safe ground. “I think the negro emancipation a mistake. As my estimable kinsman Senator Collins put it, ‘For the Union we will fight to the death. We will not fight for niggers.' ”

“They are not all alike,” the colonel remarked. “There are loafers and scoundrels among them, to be sure. But there are individuals who, saving the color of their skin and the ignorance due to their previous servitude, could stand comparison with any white man.”

Fifty ex-slaves commanded by white officers were no unusual sight as the capital girded its loins against the Confederates. Some workers came from contraband camps, some slept in hovels and tenements in the city; for all the colonel knew, some lived here among the sandbags. Every morning, when the white officers arrived at the unfinished emplacement, their workers were waiting with Jesse.

The contrabands chanted a work song as they passed hundred-pound sandbags from man to man in a smooth flow.

Only last week there was fighting near Tysons Corner, and any day the audacious J.E.B. Stuart might appear on the outskirts of the city. Washington City reeked of defeatism, and the colonel planned to visit a friend at the War Department tomorrow and see if a case of brandy couldn't speed his transfer back to the real army. Let the lieutenant see to the city's fortifications.

The colonel had posted boys to warn when general officers appeared, and one of those boys came pelting along, arms and legs pumping, oblivious of the mounted party on his heels. “Master! Master!” he cried.

One civilian, one brand-new infantry captain, and one rumpled brigadier of heavy artillery, who returned the colonel's salute perfunctorily. “There,” he said to nobody in particular. “I hate this goddamned wet. Christ! I hate this wet.”

The smooth-faced civilian stood in his stirrups to examine the colonel's workers. The uniform the captain wore was new and ill-fitting, and his eyes sized up every man.

“You got your niggers building a pyramid. Who you gonna bury in there?” the brigadier laughed.

“General, from this emplacement our Parrot guns command Benning's Bridge. If Bobby Lee comes here, we'll make it hot for him.”

“Oh, hell. Lee's behind the Rapidan.” Suddenly, he clutched his saddle horn to contain his swaying. He uncorked a blue glass flask, and after he helped himself said, “Sorry, Colonel—my manners. Care for some comfort on this miserable day?”

“No, sir. I'm temperance,” the colonel lied. “As an artilleryman, you'll be interested in our field of fire. Perhaps you'd like to inspect the embrasures?”

“Colonel, I don't give two goddamns for your field of fire. Me and this young fellow here—Wilson—we've come for your niggers. Wilson says you ran him off before, though he's got a warrant signed by Secretary Stanton saying he can sign up as many niggers as he wants. Captain Fesston here . . .”

“Fessenden, sir.”

“The captain here is forming a nigger regiment, and he'll have these boys in ranks before you can spit.” The brigadier essayed a slow wink. “Mr. Wilson's well connected in the War Department.”

“Sir, Wilson is a scoundrel.”

“Oh hell. Oh hell. They're all scoundrels. You've got good duty here, Colonel. Build pyramids all day and sleep under clean sheets at night. There's those who would trade places . . .”

“If you would facilitate my transfer to the field, I'd be grateful,” the colonel came right back.

“Not so damn quick, Colonel. I can facilitate your transfer or I can make it goddamned impossible, whichever ain't what you want. You gonna let Wilson have some of your boys?”

The lieutenant of engineers touched his cap in salute, introduced himself, mentioned his connection to Senator Collins, asked how he could be of service.

The brigadier smiled benevolently. “Colonel, if you don't mind, your lieutenant and I have some nigger plucking to do. Captain Fesser . . . Fedden . . . this lieutenant will help you pick your men.”

The colonel of engineers said, “No. I do not believe he will.”

The brigadier's red eyes narrowed to gun slits. “Colonel . . .”

“Your Mr. Wilson has no powers of conscription. Nor, I believe, does Captain Fessenden. If they can persuade any of these men to enlist, they may do so. No doubt Mr. Wilson has great powers of persuasion.”

“Thank you, Colonel. Perhaps you'd absent yourself while we get this damn business over with.”

The colonel of engineers walked over to the riverbank, clamped white-knuckled hands behind his back, and kept his eyes glued to a dingy white sidewheeler steaming up the Potomac.

“The 23rd U.S. Colored Troops is a volunteer outfit.” Captain Fessenden took Wilson's sleeve. “If these men won't enlist of their own accord, we don't want them. The contraband camps are filled with men.”

“Filled with recruiters too.” Wilson spat tobacco juice, removed his plug hat, spun it, and reset it satisfactorily on his head. “Take it easy, Captain. I'll get your volunteers.” He turned to the lieutenant of engineers. “Lieutenant, who's the head man? Can't get nowhere with niggers less'n you talk to the head man.”

“Jesse!”

Jesse straightened, hands hanging easily at his sides.

“You! Jesse!” Wilson said. “I want your boys to hear this.”

Jesse raised his hand, and after the final sandbag journeyed from the wagon where it had been filled to the unfinished embrasure, men stretched, put hands on hips, wiped their faces.

“Boys, I'm Master Wilson, recruiter for the Grand Army of the Potomac. I ain't gonna tell you I don't get paid for men I bring in, because I do, but that ain't the reason I'm doin' it. I'm for the Union, by God, and let no man say Jimmy Wilson ain't. Now I expect you're for the Union too. Master Lincoln, he set you free, and I expect you're in favor of that. Let's have three cheers for Master Lincoln!”

The men looked at Jesse, who did nothing.

“You won't give three huzzahs for the man who set you free? By God, if you ain't a bunch of ungrateful niggers!”

“General,” Captain Fessenden murmured, “Wilson is making a hash of this. Let me talk to them.”

The brigadier smiled a bleary smile. “As you goddamn please.”

The captain crossed his hands on his pommel and leaned forward. “I am Captain Zelotes Fessenden, from Newport, Rhode Island. What is your surname, Jesse?”

“I'm called Jesse Burns, because my grandmother once belonged to a man called Burns. My home is near SunRise, Virginia, in the mountains there.”

“You know why I have come. The United States government has determined to create colored regiments. Your regimental officers are volunteers to a man. I was a postmaster myself before I stood the examination. Other officers were enlisted men who seized this opportunity to improve themselves.”

“Why they want to officer niggers?” Jesse asked.

“Some from conviction. Some are abolitionists . . .”

“Like old John Brown? That Brown didn't know more about us than if we were . . . elephants.”

Recruiter Wilson kneed his horse to the base of the pyramid. “Boys!” Wilson yelled. “How'd you like fifty dollars?”

The contrabands demonstrated interest.

“Fifty dollars will buy a horse like this one or five suits of clothes or a month's worth of good times. That's what this war is about: a man's natural chance to make money, and I'm offering your chance here and now. Any man put his X on this paper here, I'll hand him fifty dollars.” The recruiter extracted a plump roll of bills, which he waved like a regimental flag. “He'll draw his uniform and go on the payroll just like white soldiers.”

“How much he get paid?” Jesse inquired.

“Seven dollars a month, and he gets fed every day, three meals, and the army'll put him on railroad trains when it's too far to walk and steamers when it's too goddamn wet . . .”

“How much white soldiers get paid?”

“Soldiers of the Army of the Potomac get paid according to rank and experience. They . . .”

“Privates get ten dollars a month and a three-dollar uniform allowance,” Captain Fessenden interrupted.

Jesse nodded. He'd thought so.

“Plus you get fifty dollars today.” Wilson fluttered his currency.

Captain Fessenden continued as if Wilson hadn't said a word, “Some of you bear the marks of servitude upon your persons: the bullwhip laid upon human flesh. The men who whipped you are our enemies too.”

“Yeah,” Wilson jumped in. “Those rebels, look what they done. Stole you from your warm and happy land.” He wrapped himself in his arms and shivered. “Stuffed you into boats like you was herrings, brought you over here in chains and worked you like . . .”

“Niggers?” Jesse suggested.

“No better'n brutes. Until you was too old and broke down to work no more.” When Wilson ran out of talk, his hand was in the air, so he hastily stuck it in his pocket.

“And he made concubines of your wives,” the lieutenant of engineers suggested.

“What's a concubine, Master?” Jesse drawled.

“Whore,” Wilson snapped. “She's a whore.”

“You say we get fifty dollars right away. How much you get?”

“Three hundred,” Captain Fessenden answered.

“Then fifty dollars ain't enough. Man who signs on to maybe get killed should get paid more'n the man who signed him. That's fair.”

“Don't you want to revenge yourself on those who treated you wickedly?” Wilson cried. “Don't you want to take bayonets and stuff them down their throats?”

Jesse said, “Bible says, ‘Revenge is mine, saith the Lord.' Think He didn't mean it?”

Captain Fessenden dismounted and walked to the foot of the sandbag pyramid. “I am first captain of the 23rd Regiment, U.S. Colored Troops. The regiment will need good fighters. This man Wilson here is made of shoddy, but he isn't the worst recruiter in Washington City. One man's X on an enlistment paper looks no different from another's. Some recruiters will knock you on the head, some put a friendly arm around your shoulder moments before his bullies drag you away.

“It is true that United States Colored Troops are not paid as white troops. It is true that many white officers despise you and the white soldiers fighting beside you wonder if you can do your part. You know this as well as I do. You also know that no promise any white man ever made to you has ever been kept, save one: due to President Lincoln and the United States government you are now and henceforth forever free. Some of you will do worse as free men. Some will take the first steps toward being citizens. In my belief, you'll do as well in the army as anywhere. In the Army of the Potomac you can prove yourselves men.”

“Why didn't you say so, Captain,” Jesse said softly and slid down the sandbags, and when Captain Fessenden handed him the enlistment paper, Jesse wrote his name in large letters thereon.