Candle in the Darkness (39 page)

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 God that it wasn’t Charles lying dead beside Antietam Creek instead of Will.

It took a few more days for my cousin Will’s body to arrive in Richmond. The battle at Sharpsburg had accumulated 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 emancipated 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 God asked me to do.

I waited to break the news to Jonathan until we had secured a travel pass and were on our way to Hilltop in a borrowed wagon. He would not rejoice over Lincoln’s Emancipation 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 passed 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 clashing 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, God . . .” 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 scrape 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’ worship? Eli preached that night. Do you remember what he said?”

“Vaguely. I remember it sounded seditious.”

“He said that God 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 God 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 God 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 Passover, 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 God’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 fiancé’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 Washington 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 passion 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!”

“What?” I was certain he was going to spout off more battle strategy, so I wasn’t prepared for his next words.

“You could find out what else the Rebels are planning. You could deliberately place yourself in a position to overhear their strategy, like you did at church. Didn’t you tell me your fianceé’s family is high society? You could wine and dine the generals and other high officials. No one would ever suspect that a woman was paying attention. Do you know many of the Confederate bigwigs?”

I hesitated. “President Davis goes to St. Paul’s church— Charles’ church. So does General Lee when he’s in town. I have met a few majors and colonels and such, but—”

“But what?”

I felt the same revulsion I’d felt before delivering Robert’s Bible—as though I was betraying Charles. St. Paul’s was his church, and I had only begun attending there because of his family. They were also the ones who had introduced me to all the ranking officers I knew. To do what Robert was asking would mean betraying the St. Johns’ trust.

The guard knocked on the door just then, telling me my time was up. I was relieved. “I don’t know if I can do what you’re ask- ing or not,” I told Robert. “You’ll have to give me time to think about it.”

I gathered up my things and hurried away. I really didn’t want to think about what Robert had asked me to do. I was sick to death of this war and all the difficult decisions I’d had to make, all the impossible things I’d been forced to do. I was tired of feeling torn between conflicting loyalties, choosing between my love for Charles and my love for Tessie and the others. When the nation split apart, my life had been ripped right down the middle along with it.

I emerged from the prison into the cold November afternoon, wanting nothing more than to run home and hide. But when I looked across the street to where Eli had parked the buggy, I was shocked to see Mr. St. John standing there alongside him, waiting for me.

My first response was a stab of shame, as if Charles’ father had somehow overheard my conversation with Robert and read my thoughts and had come to accuse me. But I realized that was impossible—and then a towering fear rose up inside me, overshadowing everything else. He must have come with news of Charles.

The pain that suddenly filled my chest was so intense I pray I never feel it again. Without thinking, without looking, I rushed across the street to him. I might have been run over by a carriage, for I never even looked.

“Oh, God . . . has something happened to Charles?”

For a moment, Mr. St. John seemed taken aback. “No . . . no, I’m not here about Charles.” He saw how badly he’d frightened me and quickly apologized. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, Caroline. I haven’t heard from Charles.”

I leaned against the buggy and closed my eyes, overwhelmed by the same sickening nausea I’d felt after I’d seen Will’s name and Jonathan’s on the casualty lists. I honestly believed I might faint.

Eli gently took my arm and helped me up onto the carriage seat. “Easy, Missy. Better sit down a minute.”

“I’m very sorry,” Mr. St. John repeated. “Are you all right?”