Jacob's Ladder (59 page)

Sallie said, “Yes, Duncan. If you still want me, I will marry you.”

The pale sun reached its zenith and drove every shadow into hiding. After the fire had warmed the house, Duncan and Sallie pulled Uther Botkin's bed near to the fire and covered the straw tick with a faded blue-and-red quilt that years ago had made the journey to this place in Sallie's mother's hope chest; and for the first time, they made love.

On Christmas eve, as was their winter custom, the white Stratford family gathered for dinner at six o'clock. Though that custom had originated in happier times when evening chores kept everyone working until dark, they had not changed the hour.

Though Samuel hadn't shaved, tonight he wore a clean shirt and a not too rumpled jacket. As another concession, instead of reading in his study, he remained in the front parlor, where Abigail and Sallie talked as they sewed. When the tall clock in the hall boomed the hour of six, Samuel wound his watch and ushered the ladies into the dining room.

Since lamp oil could not be had at any price, beeswax candles illuminated the room, their sputters magnified in crystal clusters dangling from each candlestand and chandelier. Drafts shivered the crystals and redirected dancing lights around the walls.

The front quarters of the Christmas deer had become a stew, which steamed pleasantly in its heavy tureen. Spinach, which had stayed green in the garden under a comforter of straw, heaped another bowl. A platter on the sideboard held cornbread, yellow as butter. As a centerpiece, one apple per diner formed a pyramid. Samuel Gatewood's decanter stood at his place and his glass was already filled.

Young Thomas Byrd clattered downstairs. “Sorry, sorry. Uncle Duncan, I have been reading Hardee's
Tactics
all afternoon and my head is dreadfully sore. How do soldiers understand this thick stuff?” Thomas's gray uniform was brushed, his boots neatly blacked, and he set his cap precisely on the sideboard. He adjusted his pant legs and perched on the very rim of his seat. Samuel Gatewood permitted himself a smile. He nearly said Thomas needn't “sit” on formalities here, but swallowed his jest.

Softly the door opened, softly Grandmother Gatewood took her place at the foot of the table before any of men who had jumped to their feet could seat her. Pauline slipped in silently behind and took her place at her right.

While the men were reseating themselves, Grandmother lowered her head and began, “Heavenly Father, You have set a table for us in the presence of our enemies. God bless our brave soldiers who defend us against Butcher Grant and Beast Butler and their legions. Help our soldiers, particularly those at this table, to be stalwart against the foe and ever ready to sacrifice life to honor.” Though she took breath she didn't raise her bowed head nor relax her clenched hands. “Lord, today we particularly pray for the souls of men who have died in an irregular fashion and we ask You to forgive them their sins, unworthy though they may be of Your mercy.”

Tears started down Pauline Byrd's cheeks. Thomas Byrd's eyes blinked open.

“We also pray for the souls of the women who loved those men, because a woman is easily deceived, Lord, and is the weaker vessel.”

Abigail said, “Grandmother . . .”

Grandmother persisted. “Lord, may You see fit to visit sickness and death upon the camps of our enemy. May You blast those who oppose you.” She paused to consider. “Lord, we also pray for those souls who know not repentance. Souls who have been condemned to the penitentiary yet . . .”

“You have left us behind there, Grandmother,” Abigail said.

Samuel Gatewood said, “Amen.”

“Lord . . .”

“Madam!” Samuel Gatewood warned.

“Grandmother Gatewood. It is Christmas,” Abigail begged.

The old woman's mouth moved silently for a bit longer, but Duncan shook the bell to summon Franky.

“Pauline,” Samuel said pleasantly, “I understand Abigail and Sallie will be working late tonight to complete the servants' Christmas clothing. Will you be helping them?”

“Grandmother Gatewood and I are studying Revelation. We are partway through the second chapter.”

“I am sure, my dear, that Revelation can wait, but the servants will expect their socks and shirts on the morrow.” Abruptly he drank, as abruptly set down his glass. “While religious studies can benefit any young woman, overmuch ardency can weaken youthful vitality and lead to sickness and sorrow. Since you are under my roof and in my care, I would have you more involved in day-to-day matters and less in the otherworldly.”

Pauline's stubborn face dissolved. “But my mother . . .”

“Dear,” Abigail said, “you cannot bring your parents back by following them to the grave.”

Pauline crumpled her napkin on the table, “Will you please excuse me. I have lost all appetite!”

“Of course, dear,” Abigail said softly. “Please wait in the parlor. Henceforth, you will sleep in my bedroom.”

“But . . . !”

“Pauline. You must do as Samuel requires.”

Stiff-lipped, Grandmother Gatewood also rose.

“Mother,” Samuel said quietly, “that child is precious to me. In her face I see the features of my departed daughter and my dear friend Catesby, who will figure in no more prayers at my table.”

“Samuel Gatewood. I am your father's wife!”

“Yes, ma'am, and my dependent. There are several smaller houses on this plantation where you might be more comfortable than in this one.”

“I shall pray for you!” she said.

“Madam, I cannot prevent it. Franky, please fetch Grandmother Gatewood's dinner to her room.”

After the old woman left, Samuel Gatewood replenished his glass and passed the decanter and did not object when young Thomas took a glass.

“I apologize for any distress I may have caused,” he said. “Please, do enjoy your dinner.”

It was a silent meal, and Abigail hardly touched her plate. After his third tumbler, Samuel Gatewood's face was flushed, but he remembered to rise slightly in his seat when each of the ladies excused herself.

Christmas morning, upon their return from church, Pompey greeted the carriage at the dismounting step with a smile and “Happy Christmas!” and a murmured “Christmas gift?” He collected a dime from Duncan and nickels from Sallie Kirkpatrick and young Thomas Byrd.

Later in the hall, Jack the Driver, Pompey, and Miss Abigail passed out new homespun to the servants. Each received shirt, pants, two pair of strong wool socks, and an apology for absent shoes. “Perhaps they will be available later in the spring,” Abigail hoped.

There was no cash in the socks and no fireworks, but a ham and one cask of whiskey were destined for the servants and their guests.

The Heveners and Mrs. Seig arrived in Amos Hevener's buggy. Preacher Todd came on foot.

Christmas gifts were not numerous under the German tree, and every woman present wore a mourning brooch or ring. Duncan gave his mother a crucifix carved by a prisoner and the Union officer's black hat to young Thomas, who pronounced it “first rate!” From her own jewel box, Abigail gave a bracelet in the Egyptian mode to Pauline and an opal brooch to Sallie Kirkpatrick. Abigail had a cameo for Grandmother Gatewood should she came downstairs. Duncan gave a daguerreotype of General Lee to his father, and Samuel had bargained Mrs. Warwick out of a bolt of silk faille for his wife. “Samuel! It is lovely! The first new fabric I've had in so very long.” She kissed him roundly.

Samuel had shaved and wore a clean jacket and foulard and had something of his old-time holiday air. He'd persuaded Mrs. Warwick to donate a nutmeg, and Stratford's eggnog was much improved by the spice.

Neighbors asked Sallie about Cousin Molly and forwarded their kindest regards. Mrs. Seig had lost her husband at Gettysburg, and Amos Hevener's son could not be mentioned, but wonderful aromas dispelled gloom. The sideboard displayed venison hams swimming in brown sauce, a ham slathered with sorghum syrup, a chicken stuffed with chestnuts, sweet potatoes, applesauce, black walnut cake, maple candies, and corn pudding. There were as many light rolls as anyone could eat and cornbread for those who preferred it.

Samuel Gatewood tapped his glass before offering his customary toast: “Our friends.”

Before his father could resume his seat, Duncan rose. “Neighbors,” he said, “I would like to announce that Sallie has made me the happiest man in the world by consenting to be my wife.”

His father instantly turned to shake his hand, saying, “Dear son! I cannot think of anyone I would rather welcome into my family. When will it be? Duncan. I am so happy. So very happy!” Once more he raised his glass. “To the bride and groom! Sallie. So happy. I am.”

Sallie invited all present to the wedding. If the Virginia Central Railroad was not repaired, why they could come by canal barge, which was, she assured them, dignified and comfortable.

Two days after Christmas, Sallie and Duncan returned to Richmond. Before they departed, Duncan informed his father that General Lee's army needed all Aunt Opal's hoarded corn and most of Stratford's hogs.

LETTER FROM PRIVATE
SILAS OMOHUNDRU
TO MARGUERITE OMOHUNDRU

P
ETERSBURG
, V
IRGINIA
J
ANUARY
8, 1865

DEAREST WIFE OF MY HEART,

I did not write to you before this moment because I was sunk in despair. My hopes were frustrated, my accomplishments ashes in my mouth. I write today as a gentleman—a soldier in the Army of Northern Virginia.

When I first came, I sought no man's company, nor did anyone seek mine. Well fed, well dressed, a man of business—to my new comrades I bore the hallmarks of the shirker. Every day our conscription laws drag shirkers to the army, many protesting that they have influential friends, that they are of more use to the Confederacy in their offices and private trade, that they are a cut above the ordinary soldier and do not intend to be mistaken for one.

Conscripts and we few volunteers were assembled in a Petersburg park and issued rifles, bullet pouches, and the other accouterments of the soldier's trade. My uniform jacket had a bullet hole in it, and I hoped—forlornly, perhaps—the jacket had been removed from a wounded man. I sought a North Carolina regiment but did not mention Wilmington. The prospect of serving in a Wilmington regiment in an inferior rank to a DeRossette or one of that circle was too painful. In the 37th Regiment I sought and found strangers.

The day I arrived, I was set to work digging. Our fortifications surround Petersburg for thirty-six miles, and we are always busy improving them. To men rained on by Federal mortars, no bombproof is ever deep enough.

As a novice at the soldier's trade I was assigned more than my proper share of pickax work. If it was a test, I suppose I passed, and after three days my hands stopped bleeding.

One day, as we were taking a five-minute rest, a portly gentleman rode up on a dappled gray gelding and addressed Lieutenant Rigler, the officer directing our efforts. “I am sorry for you fellows,” the gentleman said mildly.

“Oh? Why is that, sir?”

“Because you have to work so hard.” And smiling, he rode on. We resumed our work with fresh vigor, for the officer was General Lee himself! We see the general frequently, sometimes with a staff officer or two, more often alone as he inspects the lines. He rides perfectly erect in his saddle, but easily. He has none of the fiery rigidity of our General Gordon. If Gordon is a fighting cock, General Lee is a wiser bird.

I soon became acquainted with a curious substance called Nassau bacon—stuff soldiers suppose is brought through the blockade by captains anxious for unconscionable profit. Nassau bacon manages to be both gelatinous and gristly—a combination I would have thought impossible had I not tried to eat the stuff myself.

The first morning I was issued rations, I struggled manfully to dispatch the Nassau bacon, which I had boiled with cornmeal as I had seen others do. Since the food was disgusting and I supposed it an aberration, I quietly discarded the stuff in a nearby shell hole. That afternoon, when hunger pangs struck me, I inquired of Private Kissock when the next rations would be issued. He inspected me as if I were mad. “In the morning, of course.” Then, as the extent of my ignorance became apparent to him, he crowed, “Boys! Conscript here thinks we eat twict a day!”

I hadn't been here long when General Hampton and three of our cavalry brigades rode around the end of the Federal lines and deep in their rear—not far from City Point—they rustled General Grant's entire beef herd: twenty-five hundred animals! Although outraged Federals tried to cut off Hampton's return to our lines, he was too quick for them. When those fat beeves arrived at Lane's brigade they were dispatched so briskly I don't believe much was thoroughly cooked, and some portions never saw the fire! Because of Hampton's audacity, we feasted on Federal rations, but such a stroke was not to be repeated, and when the last beeves were gone, the quartermasters provided us with Nassau bacon again.

I do not believe I was ever hungry before. In the mornings we collect for our issue of cornmeal mush and watch the quartermaster like hawks that he doesn't dole out to one man more than to another. If it were not for our trade with the Federals I think we must perish, and as it is, my backbone and belly button have struck up a nodding acquaintance and see fair to become friends.

Since many recent conscripts are as unaccustomed to starvation as I and see no special reason to embrace a practice they find abhorrent, they desert to the enemy, who welcomes them with the casual contempt true soldiers have for men of their kind.

I have not told my fellows that I enlisted voluntarily. Nor have I confessed I might have spent my war in Richmond advising the government. Though each veteran was a volunteer in '61 and each has reenlisted voluntarily, they would think any man who now willingly came into this army a terrible fool. They jeer at patriotic talk, and nobody dares mention “nobility” or “chivalry” in their presence. To them, such notions are “puttin' on airs.” They are realistic about the war and understand that the Federals cannot win until we are destroyed. Color Sergeant Robinson said, “We are holding the key to the lock in our mouth and old Grant knows that and he is going to try and get it.”

My lack of complaint did me good service with these veterans.

By General Lee's orders, we did not fell trees directly behind our lines, and their autumn colors were more beautiful than I have ever seen. The golds and reds were living things, and each leaf contained elixir. Poetry comes easily to a starving man and simple acts possess uncommon significance. Lieutenant Rigler and Sergeant Robinson were standing on top of the parapet, in full view of the enemy's sharpshooters, inspecting disputed ground as coolly as two engineers on a peacetime survey. A minié ball plucked the lieutenant's sleeve as if a breeze had ruffled the fabric.

I will never forget Corporal McCall, after receiving an unhappy letter from his wife, sitting on an ammunition box, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks.

The odor of my body has changed and become sharp and rather sweet. A starving man's eyes see everything. His concerns drop away like too abundant flesh, and he no longer has political opinions, neither whether the war can still be won or must be lost, whether the government has betrayed him, what are the merits of our cause. He clings to only one opinion, that the Army of Northern Virginia is like no army the world has ever seen and that under General Lee, the army is still capable of winning. At night, in our hut, the men read their Bibles or play cards or talk of home. By common consent, talk about grand meals is forbidden. I have heard so much about Private Kissock's twin daughters I feel I know them, their distinctions and similarities, and Sergeant Robinson so ably describes his log home in the pines I know how the sun strikes his meadow and how the water tastes from the tin cup that rests on a cool ledge inside his well.

Three broad double bunks take up the back portion of our hut. Our fireplace (built with bricks scavenged from old slave quarters) is in front, and there is room enough in the hut for one man to stand erect while feeding the fire. Two narrow windows are shuttered outside, and the floor in front of the fireplace is some inches lower than ground level so rain or melting snow that slips under our door is contained. Two of us lie on each wide platform. At the start I shared my bed with an October conscript, John Whitley. Whitley's habit of dwelling on our discomforts made him an unpleasant companion, but when Whitley deserted to the enemy, Corporal McCall took his place. McCall has been twice captured by the Federals and relates many amusing tales of prison life. By custom, the cardplayers have the bunk nearest the fire, and by everyone's consent the Bible readers take turns sitting in the firelight. Though some Bible readers can read no other book, they have little difficulty with their chosen text, because their perusal is abetted by memory. Cardplayers murmur and a Bible reader's silent lips trace each precious word. It is not quite pitch-black in my corner of the log hut, and outside the wind is blowing across ice-crusted ground and our pickets shiver in their picket holes, and those of us spared duty tonight are warmer by contrast. Conversation is quiet, mostly about home.

“What of you, Omohundru?” Color Sergeant Robinson asked. Robinson is the highest-ranking man in our hut—about my age, though toothlessness makes him seem older. At Chancellorsville a minié ball punctured one cheek, extracted his teeth (eating is difficult for him), and exited through his other cheek. “Are you going to follow Whitley over to the enemy?”

“Do they have Nassau bacon? I have become accustomed to the stuff.”

This weak sally was sufficient to make Robinson chuckle. “Where is your home?”

“I lived in Wilmington until recently. My business failed and I came into the army.”

I had supposed my fellows would resent the blockade runners, but no, they wanted to hear all about Wilmington, its extravagances and vices. When I described the seamen's celebrations at the City Hotel, they shook their heads disapprovingly but sought to know every detail. Although they must have guessed my business, in their delicacy they never pressed the matter. They were satisfied with lurid tales, and of those I had a good stock.

“Will you return after the war?” Private Kissock asked.

“I don't know. This war has turned everything topsy-turvy. My wife and child are there.”

Politely they inquired about you, dear Marguerite, and when I said you had been born of good family in the Bahamas, they could not contain their curiosity about that island and its inhabitants' customs. I believe they had previously supposed Bahamians to be wild cannibals! Perhaps to them any foreign land (saving only Great Britain) has cannibal potential! On other nights, I elaborated on your family, your Methodist minister father, and our son, Jacob. I expressed my delight in Jacob's accomplishments and told of the night when our quarrel so upset him he wept until we reconciled.

Robinson chuckled. “I got a boy does that. Me and his momma get into it, he marches right in and gets himself in betwixt and his little face is so serious I just got to laugh, and hell, a man can't fuss when he's laughin'.”

Although I do duty on the picket line and shiver in the trenches, I've not seen much fighting since October when the Federals last tried to break the railroads. Heth's and Mahone's men had the brunt of that fight while our brigade prepared for an assault which did not arrive.

Our lines face wet ground, which our engineers have made difficult of passage by damming streams, creating bogs and swamps. Our earthworks are as daunting as human ingenuity can make them. In front of the trenches are picket holes where two men go out one night and are relieved the next. Should the men be wounded by a mortar or a Federal sharpshooter they must remain until dark for relief. Behind the picket holes is our abatis, a dense tangle of wooden spears. Our earthen fortifications are fifteen feet high and surmounted with a log parapet through which we can fire with perfect safety. Provided we have the soldiers to man our defenses, any Federal assault must certainly be repelled. Our veterans actually hope we will be attacked for the opportunity to plunder Federal casualties.

At Fort Hell, up the line, the Federals are so close a man daren't raise his head, but here Confederate and Federal lines are farther apart and we are less troubled by sharpshooters. We have reached an informal truce with the Federals in our front: they will not shoot our pickets if we abstain from shooting theirs. This arrangement—entirely satisfactory to private soldiers—is deplored by general officers on both sides.

Directed by observers on signal towers we can see but cannot strike, the Federals hurl mortar bombs at us, and throughout the day their artillery blusters. In between barrages, our men comb the redoubt for spent and unexploded shells, because he who collects the greatest weight of Federal metal receives a night's furlough into Richmond, where life is, I am told, as gay as if there were no war. In their passion for a furlough, men take terrible chances and race one another to smoking Federal shells which sometimes explode. The metal so gathered is taken to Petersburg, where it is smelted, recast, and returned to the Federals via our own guns.

At dusk, we exchangers venture into the disputed land to trade. We have tobacco—plenty of tobacco—and they have plenty of everything else: coffee, federal rations, northern newspapers, needles, writing paper. Darling, I am proud to say I have become our company's chief negotiant. My Federal counterpart (like me a private) previously owned a mercantile in Syracuse, New York, and if he was as shrewd with his customers as he is with me, I pity them.

I enjoy haggling, and though the sums involved are small (exchanging a quarter pound of plug tobacco is a major transaction), it does not diminish my pleasure in outwitting my fellow man.

Every man in General Lee's army is a gentleman. General Mahone's father kept a tavern, General Sorrel's father was a bank clerk, the mighty Stonewall was an orphan—General Robert Lee has gentility enough to cloak us all.