Candle In The Darkness Part 25

"I'd like to help you . . . if I can," I said carefully. "Now, here, why don't you eat the food I brought you?"

I stopped bringing Robert the newspaper for a while. I was afraid he would become even more depressed than he already was if he read how Union troops had retreated once again after a second battle near Mana.s.sas Junction in August. Charles and Jonathan had marched north with General Longstreet to take on the Union forces under General Pope. The second battle they fought at Mana.s.sas had proved even bloodier than the first, but once again our Confederate forces had been victorious.

And once again I breathed a sigh of relief as Sally and I read the casualty lists together. She and her mother had returned to Richmond along with the Confederate Congress once the Peninsula crisis was over. Aunt Anne and Thomas had returned to Hilltop. Except for the chronic shortages of food and the constant worry over Charles, my life had resumed its normal wartime routine.

In his next letter, Charles told me how hard he and the other men had fought at Mana.s.sas, and how some of Stonewall Jackson's men had thrown rocks at the enemy when they'd run out of ammunition. Then we learned that the Confederates had kept going, marching north into Maryland to invade Union territory.

The next time I visited Robert he confronted me. Before the door to the storeroom had even swung closed, he asked, "Is it true what the guards are saying? They've been taunting us, telling us that the Rebels have invaded the North. Is it true?"

I could only nod as I sank down onto the bench. Robert was a different person when he was angry.

"How many men does Lee have? What's he after? Why won't you bring me a newspaper?"

"Because I knew that the news would upset you-as it obviously has. I come here to be a comfort to you, Robert, not to make you angrier and more frustrated than you already are."

"All right . . . all right . . ." he said, calming himself. "Tell me what's going on."

"There has been a second battle at Mana.s.sas-"

"At the same battlefield? Who won?"

"The Confederates did. Your General Pope underestimated the size of our forces and had to retreat-"

"Again? What's wrong with those fools?"

I saw his anger building dangerously. With every Union defeat, it seemed as though Robert relived his own defeat and what he called his "shameful" surrender at Ball's Bluff. I decided to pour out the rest of the news all at once and get it over with.

"The Rebels crossed the Potomac River into Maryland on September the fourth. A lot of people in that state are Rebel sympathizers, and the papers say some of them might enlist in the fight.We need more soldiers after our losses here last summer. The South is also hoping that Britain and France will support their cause, and a victory on Northern soil might finally persuade them to help us. Besides, General Lee knows that a lot of Northerners will lose heart for the war if blood is shed on their own soil this time."

Robert's restless frustration was painful to watch. "You have to help me get out of here," he said. It had become his desperate, unending refrain. "Please. I want to go back and fight."

I avoided telling Robert for as long as I dared that the Federal a.r.s.enal at Harper's Ferry had fallen to General Stonewall Jackson's men. He would find out soon enough when some of the twelve thousand captured Union prisoners arrived at Libby Prison. Then, two days later, I heard about the horrific battle that had been fought at Antietam Creek outside Sharpsburg, Maryland. Sally and I went downtown to read the casualty lists, and for the first time I felt helpless disbelief when I saw what I had long dreaded seeing- my loved ones' names.

Among those listed as killed in action was Jonathan's older brother, Will Fletcher. His entire eight-man artillery squadron had been struck down together. And Jonathan was listed among the wounded.

Sally and I had both seen enough wounded men over the past year to expect the very worst. Even so, when the casualties from Antietam began to arrive, Sally and I rose before dawn each morning, determined to meet every train and ambulance coming into Richmond until we found Jonathan. Just as we were about to leave on our daily round of searching the second morning, Esther hurried into the foyer to tell me that her son, Josiah, had arrived at my back door bringing news. We ran outside to him.

"Where's Jonathan? Is he all right?" I asked without a word of greeting.

Sally was right beside me. "Is he still alive?" she asked.

Josiah's dark face was unreadable. "Ma.s.sa Jonathan been shot, Missy. I'll take you to him and you see for yourself."

I wanted to ask about Jonathan's injuries, but I was afraid-and not only because I dreaded the answer. Josiah still inspired fear in me, in spite of the fact that he now looked like a walking mountain of rags. His anger had always seemed barely controlled, like a banked fire that might burst into flames at the slightest breath of air. I avoided saying any more to him than I had to.

Josiah had walked up Church Hill to my house, so we decided to drive to the hospital in Sally's carriage, which was waiting outside. Josiah climbed up beside the driver to direct him. Josiah didn't know the name of the hospital, but it wasn't huge Chimborazo.

By the time we pulled up in front of Winder Hospital on the city's west side, Sally was distraught. "You go in the room first, Caroline. I can't bear to look. I've seen so many mangled bodies, and if dear, sweet Jonathan looks like that . . . if he's mutilated . . ."

"All right. Stay out in the hallway," I told her. "I'll go in." I couldn't hide my annoyance. I don't know why she thought this was any easier for me. I had loved Jonathan since we were children.

I found him lying on a straw-filled pallet beside hundreds of other soldiers. His eyes were closed, his face paper white. I'd seen so many faces like this before, so many thousands of blood-soaked bandages, but this time tears came to my eyes. This time it was Jonathan. The left side of his tattered uniform was stained brown with crusted blood, the sleeve torn away. Blotches of fresh red blood colored the dressing around his arm. I quickly counted all four of his limbs. None of them ended in a bandaged stump.

"Thank G.o.d," I said aloud. I sank to my knees beside him.

Jonathan opened his eyes. He smiled when he recognized me. "h.e.l.lo, beautiful. Are you here to dance with me?"

"Not today." I took his uninjured hand in mine. I could hardly speak. I'd seen so many wounded men who hovered near death that I was grateful beyond words to see that Jonathan was very much alive. "How are you? Can I get you anything?" I finally asked.

He shook his head. "They already told me they're low on morphine. I'm okay. . . ."

"Thank G.o.d," I repeated.

"Yes, thank G.o.d it's only my left arm," he said, exhaling. "Thank G.o.d it was only a bullet and not a Minie ball. Hurts like the devil, though."

I'd seen what the dreaded Minie ball could do, shattering bones and mutilating limbs so badly that the wounds almost always required amputation. Even so, I could tell by Jonathan's sweaty brow and white lips that he was in a great deal of pain.

"Doctor says the bone is broken but not shattered," he told me. "The bullet severed some sort of artery, though, and I guess I lost a lot of blood. Good thing Josiah got me to a field hospital in time."

"I've seen a lot of wounds, Jonathan. You're very fortunate that it didn't do more damage than it did."

"That's because the bullet had slowed down considerably by the time it hit me."

"I don't understand. . . . How do you know that?"

"Because it went through the neck of the man kneeling beside me first. Killed him." He paused, biting his lip, then said, "My arm should heal if it doesn't get gangrene or erysipelas."

"That's why we're going to take you out of here and nurse you at home." I turned to the door, remembering Sally. I motioned for her to come into the room. "In fact," I told Jonathan, "I brought you your very own private nurse."

Sally began to weep as she knelt on the floor beside him. "Oh, Jonathan . . ." Jonathan wrapped his free arm around her and pulled her close.

I stood then and went out to find Josiah so he could carry Jonathan to the carriage. I heard men moaning, weeping, and knew it could have been so much worse. He might have lost an arm or a leg as so many of these men had. And I silently thanked G.o.d that it wasn't Charles lying dead beside Antietam Creek instead of Will.

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It took a few more days for my cousin Will's body to arrive in Richmond. The battle at Sharpsburg had acc.u.mulated more casualties than any single battle to date, but they wisely chose to send the living home first. Jonathan quickly improved thanks to Esther's cooking and Sally's constant nursing. He was still weak on the day Eli and I came back from the train station with the coffin, but he insisted on going to Hilltop with us for his brother's funeral.

I hadn't let Jonathan read that morning's newspaper. I didn't want him to know about the stunning announcement President Lincoln had made after declaring Sharpsburg a Union victory. When Tessie had read the headline-Lincoln Vows to Free Slaves in Rebel States-she'd wept tears of joy.

"Read the story out loud to me, honey," she begged. "I can't see the words for all these silly tears."

"Let's go out and share it with the others." We took the newspaper outside to the kitchen, and I read it aloud to all the servants. According to Lincoln's proclamation, the slaves in all of the rebelling states would be emanc.i.p.ated as of the first of January, 1863.

"Tell me in plain English what that means," Esther said.

"Means that if the North wins this war," Eli told her, "we all be set free. There be no more slavery down here."

"Grady gonna be free, too?" Tessie asked, still wiping her eyes. "He gonna be able to come home?"

"Yes, he surely will."

I slipped outside as they hugged and rejoiced, knowing that I had no right to share in their joy. For me, the stakes had been raised. It was now more important than ever that the North win the war. "Here I am," I whispered. I was willing to do whatever G.o.d asked me to do.

I waited to break the news to Jonathan until we had secured a travel pa.s.s and were on our way to Hilltop in a borrowed wagon. He would not rejoice over Lincoln's Emanc.i.p.ation Proclamation.

"Can't you see what he's doing?" Jonathan asked. "Lincoln knows he can't beat us any other way, so he's dangling freedom in front of our slaves, hoping they'll rise up against us."

"Why is a slave uprising always your biggest fear?" I asked. "Maybe Lincoln is doing it because it's the right thing to do. I know you don't agree with me, but slavery is morally wrong. Other civilized nations have realized it. Great Britain outlawed slavery thirty years ago and-" Jonathan groaned. "Oh, no. I'll bet that's another reason Lincoln did it. We were this close to winning England's support," he said, holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "Our victory at Antietam could have clinched it. But now Lincoln is claiming a victory and making the war into a moral issue by tossing in slavery. England will never support us now."

I decided not to argue with him. We were both much too emotionally drained. As Jonathan raged on and on about Lincoln and the slaves and "those cowardly Yankees," I let him vent his feelings without comment. But after we pa.s.sed the picket lines and crossed the Chickahominy, nearing Hilltop's property, he forgot everything else as he viewed his desolated plantation for the first time.

"The trees . . . Caroline, where are all the trees?"

The devastation was even worse than before the Seven Days' Battles, before the two clas.h.i.+ng armies had rampaged across Hilltop's fields and blown what little remained of its forests into matchsticks with their artillery.

"All our fences . . ." he murmured. "All our livestock. Our crops . . . there should be crops in those fields, ready to harvest. . . ."

"The barn is still there," I said with relief when it came into sight. "And there's your house. At least they didn't burn down your house." But as we drove into the yard, I saw that the room that had once been our grandparents' had been badly damaged by cannon fire, then crudely repaired.

Jonathan's parents emerged from the house as our wagon drew to a halt. I watched them appraise Jonathan's bandaged arm and the pine coffin in the wagon bed with stunned expressions, then slowly comprehend the reason for our visit.

"Oh, G.o.d . . ." Aunt Anne moaned, her hands covering her mouth. "Please tell me that's not Will . . . tell me that's not my son. . . ."

I felt as though I had dealt her and Uncle William the final, killing blow. As I looked at their stricken faces, I knew that regardless of who won this war, neither of them had the strength to restore Hilltop to what it once had been. All but three of their slaves had fled with the Yankees. Inside, their gracious home had been ravaged by months of hard use by careless soldiers, the lovely carpets and furniture and oil paintings stained and scarred and spoiled beyond repair. If my aunt and uncle lived carefully, they might sc.r.a.pe together enough food from the pillaged garden and orchard to provide a bare subsistence through the winter. But the Hilltop of my childhood had been destroyed.

I cried as we buried Will beside his grandparents and younger sisters, crying not only for him but also for everything else that was lost. In a way, Will was one of the lucky ones. His suffering was over.

When the funeral ended, Jonathan and I walked down the path to where the pine grove had been. All that remained of the beautiful, quiet sanctuary were weeds and tree stumps and the charred remnants of Yankee campfires.

Jonathan had managed not to weep as his brother was buried, but now I saw tears fill his eyes as he kicked at the remains of a Yankee campfire, scattering the half-burned logs and showering his pant leg with ashes.

"I curse them all!" he shouted. "The Yankees who did this to my land don't deserve to live. I could kill every last one of them with my bare hands." I suddenly realized what Jonathan must have understood all too well as he'd viewed the desolated plantation: Hilltop would now be his one day-what was left of it.

"Don't you know that Egypt is already ruined?" I murmured.

"What?"

"Do you remember the night you brought me here to listen to the slaves' wors.h.i.+p? Eli preached that night. Do you remember what he said?"

"Vaguely. I remember it sounded seditious."

"He said that G.o.d had heard the slaves' cries, and He was going to set them free-just like He had once set Israel free from the Egyptians. He told them the Negroes wouldn't have to lift a finger . . . that G.o.d was going to send plagues on this land to show the white folks His power, and in the end, all the slaves would go free."

"Our slaves weren't set free, Carrie-they ran away. And the Yankees are breaking the laws of their own land when they help them. The Fugitive Slave Law says-"

"Lincoln's proclamation of freedom cancels that law."

"Only if the North wins. And they aren't going to win. We pushed them all out of Virginia once, and we'll do it again if we have to."

"You don't get it, do you?" I said sadly. "By the time Pharaoh finished his showdown with G.o.d and the slaves were free, Egypt was ruined. I imagine it looked a lot like Hilltop looks right now."

"Shut up!" Jonathan shouted. I knew he was furious with me, but I said what needed to be said, regardless.

"The final plague came on the night of Pa.s.sover, when all the firstborn sons-"

"I said, shut up!" He grabbed my shoulder with his free hand, as if he wanted to shake me. "Isn't it bad enough that my brother is dead? How dare you imply that this was G.o.d's will? The Yankees are the ones who killed him, Caroline! The Yankees!"

"I'm sorry." I tried to hold him, but he pushed me away.

He started down the path toward home, refusing my help, but he paused long enough to turn around and ask bitterly, "Does Charles know you're a Negro-lover?"

Chapter Eighteen.

November 1862.

"The Union Army is going to try again," I told Robert that November. "A new general named Burnside is moving his forces south to try to take Richmond. But first he'll have to get past the Army of Northern Virginia."

"That includes your fiance's regiment?"

I nodded. I didn't want to discuss Charles, but Robert seemed determined to follow his movements as closely as I did. It was as if he enjoyed tormenting himself by comparing Charles' triumphs to his own failures.

"The first battleground will probably be Fredericksburg," I said.

"Where's that?"

"About halfway between Was.h.i.+ngton and Richmond."

Robert paced the tiny storeroom, as if he was the commanding general, plotting strategy. If I hadn't known him so well, known that discussing battles and military maneuvers had been his pa.s.sion since youth, I never would have had the patience to indulge his questions.

"Have you ever been to Fredericksburg?" he asked.

"No. It's really very small-no more than five thousand people. But I know it's on the Rappahannock River."

"Who has to cross the river, the Yankees or the Rebels?"

"The Yankees do. I heard Mr. St. John and the other men discussing it after church last Sunday. The city is on our side of the river. They're planning to destroy all the bridges before the Yankees get there."

"Of course. We will be expecting as much. We'll have to construct pontoon bridges. And we'll have to control the high ground to do it. Are there any hills nearby?"

"Robert, I'm sorry, but I really don't know. I've never been there." I didn't dare tell him that refugees were already fleeing Fredericksburg and coming to Richmond for safety. He probably would have begged me to interview them. "I did hear the men talking about Marye's Heights, but don't ask me where that is."

"Burnside will have to move quickly," Robert said. "That was McClellan's problem-he moved too slowly, and . . ." He stopped suddenly, staring at me with an expression of amazement on his face. "Caroline! Of course!"