Jacob's Ladder (42 page)

Clement Smallwood opened his mouth to ask if that meant coloreds would get the same pay as white soldiers, but Shadrach elbowed him silent.

“ ‘. . . and that government of the people, by the people and for the people shall not perish from the earth.' ”

Two new colored soldiers bowed their heads and said, “Amen.”

The boy from Aldie said, “Old Master was no kind of preacher at all. Master Abraham—he a real preacher!”

The candle flame shrank, sputtered, and went out. The only light in the room was the glow from cracks between the stove plates.

Clement Smallwood asked, “Jesse, are we ‘the people'?”

Jesse pressed the newspaper into folds across his knee. “Not yet,” he said.

A CHRISTMAS DINNER

B
IVOUAC
NEAR
THE
R
APIDAN
R
IVER
, V
IRGINIA
D
ECEMBER
25, 1863

CATESBY BYRD AWOKE
with his arms wrapped around Private Mitchell, a diminutive farm laborer from Charles City. The snow that had fallen in the night lay atop their rubber tarp like a goose-down coverlet, cocooning the two soldiers.

Catesby was happy, warm, and slightly drowsy, and if it hadn't been for the vermin that infested his underclothes, would have been blissful. He delayed his first scratch because it would trigger more.

He closed his eyes and prayed silently for Leona, Thomas, and Pauline: picturing each in turn. He prayed that the army be worthy of the great moral charge it bore. Catesby prayed for General Lee, and General Hill and General Early and Colonel Cobb.

“You awake, Lieutenant?”

“I never thought I could be so comfortable. Between two logs, atop an armload of straw, and I am nearly in Paradise.”

“Then you ain't got no rock under your butt,” Mitchell said. “If I turn back this tarp toward you, we mightn't get snow on the blankets. You set?”

With a practiced motion, the private flipped their tarp beyond the halfway point so only the rim of snow broke onto their top blanket. Catesby brushed that snow away before it had time to melt.

All about, snow-covered mounds were becoming pairs of men, standing like storks on their sleep-warmed bedding.

“Mitchell, hold your water!” Catesby fussed as Private Mitchell released his stream of yellow urine into the snow and the smell wafted around him. “Where's your courtesy, man?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant, but nature wouldn't be denied.” Mitchell sighed comfortably. Standing on their snow-free rectangle, Mitchell bent to his haversack (last night's pillow), drew out shirt and pants, and donned them, hopping awkwardly to get his legs through.

Catesby and Private Mitchell had been sleeping partners since the fracas at Mine Run. Although Mitchell was, to Catesby's regret, only a nominal Christian, he didn't hog the blankets or cast them off in restless slumber and was in those respects an adequate bedmate. If he smelled of old sweat, unwashed underwear, and the tang of gunpowder, Catesby smelled no better.

“Happy Christmas,” Mitchell said, drawing on his shoes, which had reposed at the foot of their makeshift shelter, dry and snug. “I've got a twist of China tea that'll serve us both.”

“I have bacon,” Catesby said. “If we were to roast it over the fire as our water heats we will breakfast like kings.”

Extracting his Enfield from the bed that had protected weapons as well as boots, clothes, and Confederates, Catesby handed his ramrod to Mitchell, and soon water boiled while the bacon, impaled on the ramrod, turned a satisfactory shade of brown.

“I have a second piece, smaller, which I intend for Christmas dinner,” Catesby said. “If we are issued rations today, we shall have a Christmas feast.”

Scrupulously divided into portions the size of plugs of tobacco, the bacon was greasy and scorching hot and underdone and delicious. The tea was pungent and black.

“Last summer in Richmond I ate all manner of delicacies,” Catesby said. “But I can't say I ever supped on better fare than this.”

Private Mitchell brushed a stump clear of snow before he took a seat. “Even a short fellow like me could have ate a mite more,” he said, stuffing his pipe. He dropped a coal onto his tobacco. “Bein' as it's Christmas and all.”

“I am grateful for all God's bounties,” Catesby said, because he was.

The private shot him a glance. “I wish't they'd send us into winter camp,” he said. “Federals ain't comin' over the Rapidan now. It'll be spring before they hit us again.”

In winter quarters they could erect log huts, huts with wattle-and-daub chimneys and doors against the wind. In some of the grander huts there might be an ax-hewn bench or two. The luxurious picture made Catesby shiver.

After Catesby rolled his blanket, he visited the sinks. Although they had been bivouacked here for only two weeks, artillery horses had peeled the bark of the smaller trees as high as their necks could stretch. The country on both banks of the Rapidan had been fought over and picked over so many times there wasn't anything left for man or beast. The regiment's most resolute foragers (among whom Private Mitchell was notable) didn't venture out anymore.

Alerted by the morning drum rattle, Catesby's company assembled under a snowy elm. Fourteen men. Nobody had slipped off during the night. Catesby wished everyone a Happy Christmas, promised no drill today, and said prayer meeting would be held behind General Early's headquarters; an evangelist from an Alabama regiment was to speak, and all were cordially invited.

Some soldiers seemed pleased, some indifferent. One veteran set his face in disdain. Catesby thought better of that man than of his lukewarm fellows. That man would attend a prayer meeting one day, and when he did, there'd be another soul saved. It was a common occurrence: a soldier would stand at the fringe of the meeting, then, gradually, ease deeper into the throng until he was indistinguishable from the other Christians. Jesus Christ knows no distinctions of rank and the poorest private is as welcome as a major general.

When chaplains petitioned General Lee that men be excused for prayer meetings, the general acquiesced, saying, “I am nothing but a poor sinner, trusting in Christ alone for salvation.” Not every officer was as righteous as Lee or the deeply mourned Stonewall Jackson. A. P. Hill barely tolerated the revival in his division, but some whispered that General Hill had contracted a venereal disease as a young man and was perhaps too well acquainted with sin.

En route to the prayer meeting, Catesby was waylaid by Private Mitchell, who said, “We're gonna have better'n fatback and hard bread tonight. Special train from Richmond. Heard it from the commissary sergeant, and he don't mistake such things. They're bringing us a real Christmas dinner. Think on it.”

Of course, Catesby couldn't help thinking, and while the Alabama evangelist described the humble manger where the infant Christ Child lay, adored by wise men, shepherds, and angels, Catesby was mentally savoring ham in redeye gravy. As the preacher drew parallels between those ancient days and these—likened in darkness and sinfulness but illuminated by the Christmas star—Catesby was picturing the German tree in Samuel Gatewood's parlor, a smiling Pompey hefting the platter of Christmas goose, his children, Thomas and Pauline, on the floor with their gifts, his dear Leona's tremulous, pretty smile.

The men sang “Shall We Gather by the River.” The preacher spoke of the peace Jesus gave His followers, how Jesus could wash away sufferings and sorrows, and Catesby knew it was true. No, Jesus hadn't eliminated sufferings and sorrows, He had displaced them. Mere suffering was like Catesby's skin: with him every moment of the day, but unnoticed.

His loss of infant Willie, loss of messmates and friends, Armistead's death, Garnett's death, the gallant Pelham's death, Duncan Gatewood's maiming, all the other maimings—these could not affect Catesby anymore; he rested in his new faith like a babe in arms. Those were the very words that occurred to him: like a babe in arms. With his own eyes, Catesby had seen how narrow was the gap between the ferocious caterwauling Confederate and the dying boy crying out for the comfort only a mother or wife could give.

Did Catesby believe that one day, in heaven, he would meet his poor dear Willie for the first time, that the infant would coo and burble and smile and take his father's finger in his tiny fist? If he could not believe—not completely—it was only because Catesby's faith was unfledged, too young to soar into the certainties the evangelists promised.

The evangelist preached: “The Army of Northern Virginia is a Christian army—a New Model Army. Last month, five hundred tracts were distributed in Early's brigade and a captain from General Longstreet's division told me cardplaying and cursing are become practically unknown in their camps. Almighty Providence has often blessed Confederate arms, but we must be worthy of God's blessings. With a firm belief in our Savior, Jesus Christ, let us be His soldiers. Let us pray.”

Catesby lowered his head but was so comfortable he forced his eyes open so he wouldn't doze off. The knuckles of his intertwined hands were reddened, and cuts cracked his fingers; the open sore at the base of his thumb was the size of a dime. A louse crept from underneath his shirt cuff, a single louse, one of the dozens that infested him. Instead of popping the louse between his thumbnails, Catesby flicked it away. Who could fathom God's purposes?

The evangelist invited the men at the fringe to come forward, confess their sins, and be welcomed into the peace Jesus could provide.

Usually some came forward, but today they hung back in the shadows under the pines, even when the Christian soldiers beckoned and called: “Joe, you all come down here. Come in with the rest of us,” and “Sergeant Peters, you're a Christian in your heart. I know you are. Think of how glad your wife will be.”

But they shook their heads or smiled embarrassed smiles, so the evangelist launched into “Joy to the World” and those who'd been easing away came nearer to sing, and Catesby realized with a pang that they'd come to the prayer meeting in lieu of the Christmas services they'd always attended at home, that it wasn't faith that brought them but memories of their families attending a small country church before returning home for Christmas dinner. For many this would be their final Christmas on earth, this prayer service the last opportunity the Holy Spirit would offer them. Catesby's mind backed away, recognizing a danger point, a precipice looming. He forced his mind back to Christian peace, that peace defended by his newfound faith.

After the service, Catesby told the evangelist how much he'd enjoyed the prayer meeting.

The Alabaman's sideburns framed his face. Burnsides, the style was called. “Thank you, brother,” he said. “Can I offer you a tract?”

In Gothic letters, the tract asked, “Would the Lord play at cards?”

Catesby's mind shied, picturing Jesus at Johnny Worsham's. “That was my sin before I saw the light.” Catesby took the tract and pocketed it before his mind could run away with him. “Cardplaying was like a sickness to me.”

The evangelist's smile stretched from sideburn to sideburn. “Jesus Christ is every sinner's salvation,” he said. He cocked his head. “You will have heard about the train?”

Catesby made a small gesture. “A rumor, surely.”

“No, sir. I have it on the best authority. The good citizens of Richmond are providing a Christmas dinner. During the battles of the Seven Days our army divided its rations with the poor of that beleaguered city, and Richmonders have chosen this Lord's Day to reciprocate. Truly, Cast your bread upon the waters . . .' ” Catesby was startled by the evangelist's wink. “The train will arrive at noon and the foodstuffs will be distributed by regiment instanter. Are you fond of yams, Lieutenant?”

Catesby envisioned the orangy-yellow tuber as it might be after it had been buried in the coals of a soldier's fire and extracted, skin blackened but yearning to burst open of its own accord. “A generous tuber,” Catesby said.

“I defer to no man in my admiration for yams. My home county is second to none in its production of fine-flavored yams, and though these Virginia vegetables cannot compare, no doubt they will be delicious.” He bent to his knapsack. “I have more tracts, Lieutenant, and wonder if you would consent to deliver them to others perturbed by the cardplaying vice. Set a sinner to catch a sinner, so to speak.” The Alabaman enjoyed his own joke.

Although the prospect of pressing tracts on Private Mitchell and Spotswood Bowles was unappealing, Catesby took the tracts because it was his Christian duty.

A broad muddy path angled east toward the railroad, and, accompanied by other soldiers, Catesby walked that way. Last winter, whole regiments had engaged in snowball fights, but few had appetite for skylarking this year. Although most men kept to their own thoughts, a few drunks hollered to each other. Men could always find whiskey. To the north, Clark Mountain was a snowy haystack, white and smooth.

What looked to be half of Rodes's division was waiting patiently beside the Orange & Alexandria track.

Since the Federals had torn up the track between the Rapidan and the Rappahannock and the Confederates had fired the Rapidan bridge, the Orange & Alexandria was truncated, not half the railroad it had been before the war.

Catesby, who had been at the capture of Manassas Junction—was it only a year ago?—would never forget the blinding wealth of the Federal armies. There at Manassas, ragged butternut soldiers tore open railroad cars, emptied cases, gulped champagne, gobbled canned Danish hams, and smoked Havanas. When Stonewall started them marching, dozens of fine soldiers vomited into the ditches.