Candle in the Darkness (30 page)
Sally dragged me downtown for the Fourth of July celebrations, which included an eleven-gun salute—one for each state in the Confederacy. “Come on, Caroline. Show a little excitement,” Sally urged when she noticed that I wasn’t clapping and cheering like everyone else.
“I’m very tired,” I said—which was true. “I’ve been so worried about Charles that I haven’t been sleeping.”
The next day Tessie and I read in the paper that in Lincoln’s Fourth of July speech he had asked Congress for 400,000 soldiers and four hundred million dollars to wage war. The Northern armies rallied behind the cry “Forward to Richmond.” Their goal was to conquer our city before the Confederate Congress had a chance to assemble for the first time on July 20. The newspapers also announced the answering cry of the Rebels—“Independence or Death.” I felt like a passenger on board a ship that had become unmoored, floating toward certain disaster.
I did return to Mrs. St. John’s sewing society but remained wary of Helen Taylor and her mother. As we worked, I sensed a new mood of anxiety among the women, barely concealed behind a façade of busy hands and idle chatter. The strain of waiting for news—with both longing and fear—was evident in our brittle voices and unsteady hands. This mood of apprehension thickened and settled over all of us, becoming as oppressive as the humid July air. Then the production of uniforms was suddenly halted and we were put to work at a new task—preparing bandages.
Early one evening after supper, Charles’ father drove up Church Hill to pay me a visit. I invited him into Daddy’s library and asked Gilbert to pour him a drink. My nerves jumped as I made small talk, waiting for him to come to the point of his visit.
“You’ve heard from Charles, I suppose?” he asked as Gilbert offered him one of Daddy’s last few cigars.
“Yes, I’ve had a few letters. He and the others are well, but they haven’t had much time to write, between marching for days on end and digging fortifications.”
“He’s probably eager to get the fighting underway, eh?”
I nodded, unwilling to share everything that Charles had confided— how unprepared he had been for the heavy marching and other privations of army life; how the suspense and the fear of the unknown ate at him like a disease; how he agonized over what he would do when he faced enemy fire for the first time and he would be forced to aim his weapon at another man.
“I certainly do envy all these young men,” Mr. St. John said, settling comfortably into Daddy’s chair. “If only I was younger and not crippled with this blasted rheumatism, I would love to join them. As it is, there’s nothing much I can do besides serve in the Home Guard.”
“That’s an important job, too,” I said, not insincerely. “The Union forces would like nothing better than to capture Richmond.”
“You’re right. And that brings me to the reason why I’ve come.” He took a long, fortifying drag on his cigar, then exhaled, his words filling the room along with the smoke. “General Lee has spent the past few days inspecting the fortifications around Richmond. Sad to say, he has declared them woefully inadequate. He wants to construct a better system of defenses, but as you can guess, there is a serious shortage of manpower at the moment. One solution has been to use free Negroes.”
“As volunteers?”
He studied me over the rim of his glass as he took a long drink. “No. As conscripts. But we are providing them with food and the same monthly wage our army privates receive. I don’t think it’s unfair to ask Negroes to defend their own homes, do you?”
“I suppose not.”
“That leads me to the first difficult request I’m forced to make. You see, there aren’t nearly enough free Negroes. We need more laborers. I understand that you have several male slaves—”
“Two. We only have two.”
“Yes . . . well, if you could send even one of them, the Confederacy would be grateful.” He puffed on his cigar for a moment before continuing. “My second request is for horses, and I’m afraid this isn’t a voluntary matter. The army needs every one you can spare. You will be reimbursed, of course . . . but I’m afraid you must relinquish them.”
How would I ever tell Eli? Those horses were as dear to him as pets. “How soon do you need them?” I asked.
“If you could have everything ready by tomorrow morning . . .” He finished his drink, rather than his sentence, and set the glass on Daddy’s desk. “One final request. Your boy Eli has a reputation as one of the best hostlers in Virginia. Word is he knows more about what’s wrong with a horse and what to do about it than anyone around. The Confederacy could use him. Please think about donating him to the cause.”
“I . . . I will consider it.”
I don’t recall saying much else as Mr. St. John hoisted himself from the chair and bid me good-night, promising to return in the morning for my answer. If Daddy were home, he probably would have done his patriotic duty immediately, emptying the stables and sending both Eli and Gilbert away with Mr. St. John that very night. But Daddy wasn’t home. I was the one who had to make the decision, and I couldn’t bring myself to order either man to go off with the Rebels to defend his own enslavement. I wrestled with the decision for a while; then, not knowing what else to do, I went out to the carriage house to find Eli and Gilbert. I told them about Mr. St. John’s requests.
“I don’t know anything about horses,” I admitted. “I have no idea how many we need to keep or which ones we should give to the army. But what’s even worse is that I don’t want to order either one of you to go away with these men unless you want to go. What . . . what do you think? What should I do?”
Eli’s calm expression never changed, but Gilbert was visibly upset. He frowned at Eli, making angry sounds, and shifted from foot to foot in agitation.
“What’s wrong, Gilbert?” I asked.
“Ain’t the way it works,” he replied. “Ain’t our decision. Missy supposed to tell us what to do, then we do it. We your slaves.”
“Well, suppose you weren’t slaves. What would you recommend that I do?”
“I still your slave,” he said stubbornly. “Missy supposed to give me orders.”
But that was precisely what I was trying to avoid—giving orders. It frustrated me that I was forced to become the very thing I hated—a slave driver. Then I had an idea, born of desperation. If I was stuck with the system of slavery, then I would have to play by its rules.
“All right, Gilbert. Here are my orders: I demand that you and Eli decide how many horses we need and which ones to sell. I also order you to decide how many male slaves are needed to do the work around here and who can be spared for the war effort. I’ll need your answers before morning.” I stalked to the door, then turned around and added, “That’s an order.”
I heard Eli laughing as I slammed the carriage-house door. He still had a playful smile on his face when he and Gilbert came to the servants’ entrance an hour later to tell me their decision. “We reckon that the one little mare is all you need to get around town,” Eli said. “She can pull the buggy instead of the big carriage. ’Specially since Missy don’t weigh much more than a sack of feathers. It pains me to say it, but you can sell the other three horses.”
“What about the . . . the other matter?”
“I ain’t going, Missy Caroline,” Eli said gently. “I promise Massa Fletcher I watch out for you and I determine to do that. You more important than horses. But Gilbert, here . . . he says he gonna go help with the digging.”
“Are you sure, Gilbert?” I’d never known the wiry little man to do much manual labor. He was Daddy’s valet, our butler, our carriage driver. I guessed his age to be in his early forties. “You don’t have to help the Rebels, you know. They’re fighting for the right to keep slaves.”
Gilbert squared his shoulders. “I ain’t doing it for them. I promise Massa Fletcher I watch out for you and take care all his things. I don’t know what them Yankee soldiers do if they come here, but I ain’t intending to find out. This seem like something Massa would want me to do.” I held back my tears until the two men left, then braced myself for yet another loss.
Mr. St. John led our horses away the next morning. Then Tessie, Ruby, and I stood on the front steps and watched Gilbert march off with the Home Guard and a troop of free Negroes, carrying Eli’s garden spade over his shoulder like a rifle.
I awoke on the morning of July 20 with the realization that today would have been my wedding day. Sally remembered, too, and she drove up Church Hill to invite me to join her in attending the Confederate Congress, convening in Richmond for the first time. “It’ll help take your mind off things,” she promised.
“But I don’t want to take my mind off Charles. I can’t, not even for one moment. I . . . I don’t know how to explain it.” How could I explain the illogical notion I had that it was my loving thoughts, the strength of my will, and my prayers that kept Charles alive—just as a drowning swimmer, treading to stay afloat, dares not stop paddling for a single moment?
“I understand,” she said simply, and she stayed all day with me, instead. We laughed, shared confidences, and dreamed of our futures once the war ended. I talked about Jonathan and reminisced about Hilltop. Sally told me stories about Charles’ boyhood. As the lazy summer sun finally sank from sight, we felt as close as sisters—which we would have been if it weren’t for the war.
Sunday, July 21, was a warm, tranquil day. I went to services at St. Paul’s with Sally and noticed two things: that the worshippers were almost exclusively women, and that President Davis wasn’t in his usual pew, halfway up the main aisle on the right-hand side. I later learned that while we had passed the Sabbath afternoon in peaceful conversation, enjoying a leisurely lunch and an afternoon stroll down the boulevard, the first bloody battle of the war had raged near Manassas, Virginia, on a creek called Bull Run.
As I had knelt in the hushed beauty of St. Paul’s to recite the Lord’s Prayer that morning, I’d had no idea that Charles crouched in a muddy ditch, silently reciting the same prayer as he watched masses of enemy troops march steadily toward him like a dark blue wave. I didn’t know that his lips had turned black from ripping open countless powder cartridges with his teeth, or that his voice had grown hoarse from shouting the Rebel yell, or that his hands had trembled with fatigue and hunger by the end of the day. I hadn’t pictured him bravely fighting a relentless enemy—loading and firing, then loading again, even as the sun blazed down and his shoulders ached and enemy bullets whizzed past his head. I didn’t see him advancing forward, the earth shaking, fire flashing from the barrels of enemy rifles aimed at him, his eyes red and watery with smoke and dust. I couldn’t know that his ears rang from the deafening din until he could no longer hear the command signals, and that the Confederate line around him had faltered and fallen back. Nor did I know how he’d watched so many of his friends suddenly drop beside him, writhing, screaming, dying, and he’d stumbled over their bodies as he’d retreated. While I’d sipped mint tea, Charles had witnessed death in combat for the first time, the nauseating sight of a man’s body torn apart, his guts spilled.
The first news came to us on that quiet Sunday in Richmond when Charles’ father hurried home from Capitol Square late in the afternoon. “The fighting began this morning near Manassas Junction,” he told us. “It has been going on all day.”
I prayed as I never have before and later learned that a miracle had occurred as General “Stonewall” Jackson’s brigade held the hill at the center of the Confederate line, and General Johnston’s reinforcements arrived, and the tide of battle changed in the Rebels’ favor. Charles knew the dizzying euphoria of victory as he raced forward behind a fleeing enemy, kicking aside their discarded haversacks and cartridge belts and blankets, strewn along the road.
Charles’ father returned to the capitol to await more news, for the telegram that finally arrived saying, “Night has closed on a hard-fought field. . . . Our forces have won a glorious victory.” General Beauregard, the hero of Fort Sumter, had routed Union General McDowell.
As Monday dawned, wet and dreary, I wondered if it had all been a dream. Could it really be true that the South had won a great victory so close to the Union capital? Sally and I waited in her carriage outside the
Enquirer
office for more news, with rain drumming steadily on the carriage roof, dripping from the building’s eaves, and running down the cobbled streets. Slowly the reports arrived, not only confirming our great victory on that bloody Sunday but also telling of a spectacular Union rout. The Yankees had panicked and fled before the Rebels, littering the road with equipment and baggage as they retreated to Washington in a stampede. Spectators who had driven out on that lovely Sunday afternoon to watch the battle had been nearly trampled by their own retreating soldiers. The cries of “On to Richmond” were silenced by cries of fear that their own capital might now be threatened with invasion.
I overheard many of Richmond’s politicians speculating that Lincoln would sue for peace as a result of this stunning loss. After experiencing such bloodshed so close to their own homes, the people up north would lose heart for war.
