Karl Bacon (25 page)

“Have I changed so much?” I asked.

“What do you mean, Michael?” Innocent eyes gazed at me in the mirror.

“You looked rather shocked when you saw me at the station.”

“You are dreadfully thin, Michael. I can feel your ribs sticking out through your nightshirt even now.” I made as if to relax
my hold on her, but she would have none of it. “You will eat well while you’re home, even if you aren’t hungry.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And I’ve never seen you with a beard and your hair truly is turning gray, although you might look quite distinguished if your beard and mane are properly trimmed. You’ll see Mr. Vincent tomorrow.”

“All right.” There was naught to do but agree.

Jessie Anne reached her soft fingers back over her shoulder and traced the line of the long scar on my cheek. “And what’s this?”

I held her closer. “Gettysburg,” I whispered in her ear. “I wrote about it in my letter.”

“But you said it was just a scratch, and you didn’t say it was on your face.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“But seeing that scar at the station was an instant reminder of the danger you constantly face. I hate the feeling of not knowing what’s happening to you, if you’re well or ill, or if you’re wounded or a prisoner, or even if you’re alive or dead. A week-old letter, though I dearly love them and what you say in them, still does little to quiet my aching heart.”

Her hands increased their pressure on my encircling arms.

“I’ll never get used to your absence or the thought that it might be permanent. I have so much desired to share my soul with you and for you to share yours with me; there is no one else under heaven. Tell me of your war, Michael.”

Could I tell her all? Would she ever understand?

I stirred the fire and added a small log. Then we sat on the bed, side by side, hand in hand, gazing into the flames. I began to tell her many of the things I had seen and done in the war. I passed over the most gruesome details, for that is something no woman should think of. I spoke of Sergeant Needham and of
John and of singing with the band and of picket duty. I spoke of long marches, fierce fighting, and long days of doing nothing. I showed her the scar on my left thigh from the piece of shell at Fredericksburg, now a faded pink irregular star. I told her about Caesar and Otto. At times, tears of sadness streamed down her face and fell softly into her lap. At others, the tears were of joy as she laughed and laughed. Then I told her about the ball that bloodied my face at Gettysburg, and she winced at how close it had come to ending my life. But of the man Augustus Wyatt, and of the others who had fallen before me that hot July afternoon, I said nothing.

Jessie Anne squeezed my hand and turned to look directly at me. “I’ve invited Abby and her children to dinner Saturday evening—also George Allerton and his boys.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, nodding vigorously. “I’ve been watching them. I think both of them just need a little nudge.”

“You still amaze me, Jessie Anne.” I kissed her gently, then we crept back under the warm bed coverings.

“Will you still be here in the morning?” Jessie Anne asked as I turned the lamp down.

“I expect so, but if not, please look on the floor.”

This last I said only half in jest, for I knew what I would do. A short time later Jessie Anne was sleeping soundly, her chest rising and falling gently with each breath. I turned onto my side to gaze at her. Her lovely face glowed in the firelight; fair, smooth skin was framed by long, silken tresses; her lips formed a slight smile. I saw the innocence and beauty of the girl I had loved so long ago — an innocence and beauty I no longer had warrant to.

I rose quietly, found an extra blanket in the chest at the foot of the bed, and laid the blanket on the floor before the fire.

For we are saved by hope:
but hope that is seen is not hope:
for what a man seeth,
why doth he yet hope for?
ROMANS 8:24

J
IM
A
DAMS SEEMED THE ONLY MAN IN HIGH SPIRITS WHEN
I walked into camp.

“It’s a Bowie fighting knife!” he exclaimed, proudly holding out the long-bladed weapon for my inspection. “I’ve seen some of the Rebs with them but never could find one for sale anywhere. The blade is almost a foot long.”

“How did you get it?” I asked.

“Took it from a Reb.”

“While you were out on picket?”

“No, Michael, we’ve been busy while you were on holiday. Saturday, the division was sent across the river—as brainless a move as there ever was—reconnaissance in force, they said. We could have told them the Rebs were still there without leaving camp. It was hard fighting until after dark—fourteen killed, but none from our company—about eighty wounded. Then they just told us to withdraw early yesterday morning.”

“I should have been here,” I said. “How did you get that knife?”

“Just after dark one of the Rebs stumbled right into me, must have lost his bearings or something. He reached for this knife to stick me with it, but I knocked him with the butt of my rifle. Broke his jaw as sure as I’m standing here—probably killed him. Anyhow, he wasn’t in any shape to protest when I relieved him of this beauty, just look how it shines—took his sheath too.”

Sunday, February 28, 1864

My Dearest Husband Michael,

Since your leaving three weeks ago yesterday, thoughts of you have been ever present with me. Indeed, more than thoughts, for I have concerns for you that grow all the more grave with each passing day. Perhaps I should have given voice to these concerns during your stay with us, but I wished not to cause a bother, or disturb your time of respite.

Please know that I make no complaint about how you comported yourself while here, for your tender compassion to Abby and her children was evident to all, and you were to Sarah and Edward every bit the loving and doting father. I understand and excuse your desire to bed down each night on the floor before the fire, for just as you said, it would indeed be most difficult to return to the conditions at the front if one became accustomed to a soft feather bed. As for me, you were most loving and tender, although we had no union—I did wish it, but did not press it. Of this too I make no complaint other than to express disappointment which has since passed. It may be, as you said, that another child should best wait until the war is ended, but at times I imagine you preferred me at a distance.

I confess that my concerns for you rose when I first saw you
at the depot. “Have I changed so much?” you asked, whereupon I commented on changes in your physical appearance. But as I observed you during your ten days at home, and now even more so, as I have reflected upon them in your absence, I have concluded there is something else. Upon seeing you again I perceived something lacking in your gaze, a certain darkening of your eyes that I can only describe as a lack of luster or light, perhaps even a lack of life. Your eyes to me have always been bright beacons of hope and joy, true revealers of the man I came to know and love. With but a glance I knew if you were cheerful or sad, contented or perplexed. At first I attributed this darkening to fatigue and the rigors of war, which certainly must drain joy and vigor from any man, and I hoped that some days at home in the bosom of your family might kindle that old light and joy once again. But alas, it did not.

In your letter to me after John’s death you wrote, “I fear I have become the man of Lamentations.” At the time I attributed your dark disposition to your sorrow, a heart deeply aggrieved that would, in time, be whole once again. So it was not until your recent furlough that I fully comprehended your meaning, and now I, too, fear you have become that man.

My Dearest Michael, you are a man with a tender heart – this I have known for many years. But now I believe that heart is sorely bruised—how could it be untouched and untroubled, given the abundant horrors you have been forced to witness? Truly, that is more than any man can bear, unless God is his refuge and strength – how I pray you find Him so. And yet I fear that you see only darkness in your current circumstances, that you see only affliction, misery, and death, that you see nothing of God’s light upon you. I fear that your heart, instead of being full of Godly love and thanksgiving for His bountiful mercies, has become a bottomless cistern full of sorrows.

Surely you must also know His promises to that man of
Lamentations, to
you,
my beloved, “It is of the LORD’S mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is Thy faithfulness. The LORD is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in Him. The LORD is good unto them that wait for Him, to the soul that seeketh Him. It is good that a man should both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of the LORD.”

This last is what you must do, Michael—hope and quietly wait for His salvation. It will surely come – in His time, not in ours. I believe this is what I saw lacking in you and I fear for you because of it. I plead with you, my dearest, do not let the troubles of this age outweigh the glory that awaits you.

I pray all the more earnestly that you may know anew the wondrous blessings of being a child of the Most High God. Draw near to Him and He will draw near to you.

I am, as always, your loving and
devoted wife and sister in Him,

Jessie Anne was, of course, quite right. I read her words over and over, knowing the truth of them in my mind but failing to allow them to sink into my heart.

The remainder of the winter encampment passed quickly and peacefully. Regular duties included marching and manual of arms drills along with regular rotations on picket duty along the river. The circumstances of daily life were so much improved that the drudgeries of the previous wintering at Falmouth — incessantly cold and wet weather, poor food, disease, mud, the tedium of basic existence—were infrequent and minor annoyances. The men were healthier and happier, storing up reserves
of strength for the rigors of the spring campaign. Indeed my own health was as fine as it had been since my enlistment, but nothing seemed to lift the dark shroud that lay upon my soul.

One sunny and mild afternoon during the first week of April, Otto and I were again sitting on the log bench beside the door of our hut, engaged in a reading lesson from Wyatt’s Bible. Captain Simpson approached, his pace quick and deliberate. We jumped to our feet and saluted.

“Sergeant Palmer.” The captain’s chest heaved with his exertions. “There will be riders in the camp … general officers … in ten minutes. Passing through. Grant, Meade, Hancock, and others. Order the men to turn out. Do something useful.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “Is there any particular duty the captain wishes the men to be engaged in?”

“Nothing particular. Just make it look good.”

I called for Jim Adams, and we raced about to the fifteen or so huts belonging to the men of Company C, ordering them to assemble quickly. “Commanding generals will be passing by in a matter of minutes,” I told the men. “Turn out in full uniform. Police the grounds near your huts. If the officers pass near you, hold your salutes until you see their backs.”

And so it was that I was afforded my first and only glimpse of General Ulysses S. Grant. About twenty horsemen plodded slowly down the main avenue of our brigade’s encampment. I immediately recognized General Meade, as I had seen him a few times before. On one side of Meade was General Hancock, now recovered from his wounding at Gettysburg and restored to command of the Second Corps. Both men sat tall in the saddle, well groomed, their uniforms crisp and clean, brass gleaming brightly in the afternoon sun.

On the other side of General Meade rode another man,
hunched over the pommel of the saddle, which he gripped with both hands, an almost nondescript man when seen alongside the other two generals. It was not that he was unkempt or unclean; he just didn’t glitter like the others. This was General Grant who, during the first week of March, was given command of all of the armies of the United States by President Lincoln, and Grant was the man who would very shortly order us out of our camps and into battle.

I stood at attention at the side of the road and raised a crisp salute as the generals passed by. Meade and Hancock appeared to be engaged in a private conversation to the exclusion of Grant, who for his part seemed not to mind, preferring instead to ride close to the side of the road, close to the men in the ranks now under his command, perhaps taking private pleasure from the aromatic cigar clamped between his teeth.

He came abreast. I looked directly up at him, something I knew I should not have done, and he looked directly back at me. Was this really Grant? Was this the hero of Donelson, Vicks-burg, and Chattanooga?

Our eyes held for but a few seconds, then with a slight nod he rode past. But in those few seconds I perceived something of the measure of the man. I saw a warmth and depth in his gaze, and perhaps a sense of somber purpose and steadfast dedication to the cause for which we would fight together as brothers in arms.

“What do you think of General Grant, Sergeant?” Otto asked me later that evening, after our evening meal, as we sat before the fire.

“Everything I’ve read says he’s a fighter. That’s why President Lincoln wants him here. I think we’re in for some heavy fighting, maybe worse than any we’ve seen yet.”

“But what’s changed in the past year?” Jim said. “We’re
almost exactly where we were last April, just a couple of dozen miles west. We’ve had a long parade of generals who were either nerveless, skill-less, or witless. What makes you think Grant will be any better?”

“I saw the look in his eyes.” I looked squarely first at Jim, then at Otto, then at Charlie. The heat in my own eyes forced each man in turn to drop his gaze to the flames. “Grant will fight us hard, and that’s fine with me. I’m going to fight and fight and fight, as long as it takes, until we win.”

“Or get killed,” Jim said.

“Yes. Either way, the fighting ends.”