Different Sin (23 page)

The farmhouse door opened and banged shut. Footsteps creaked the porch boards. Ed Forbes, in company with three or four other newsmen, strolled up to David and Al. “You fellows want to ride into Culpeper with us?” Ed asked. “Might be the last chance before we move on out.” He gave them a wink. “Thought we’d see if the prospect of us leaving won’t soften the heart of the fair rebels, win us a little lovemaking.”

The others laughed. “I know a few whose hearts’ll be softened quick enough by the prospect of a few greenbacks,” said a short, dark Boston reporter.

There was another round of laughter. “How about it?”

“I—” David looked down. No reason he shouldn’t, he told himself. Hell, it might do him good. He’d woken more than once tense with urgency for— For Zach. Memories of their lovemaking flooded through him. How could he lie with someone else after the kind of closeness they’d shared? “I guess not,” he said. He looked up. Al was shaking his head.

“Reckon I’ll stay and finish trimming my head, now I’ve started.”

“You ought to get one of the contrabands to do that,” Ed said. “There’s some of them are pretty good barbers and they’ll give you a haircut for next to nothing.”

Al shrugged. “Next to nothing’s what I’ve got till I can send some dispatches to my editor. I’m just a stringer, remember. I haven’t been paid for sitting in camp all winter like the rest of you fellows.”

“Well, suit yourself.” The reporters ambled off, joking and laughing, leaving David and Al in sudden, awkward silence.

“I reckon I’m not making too bad a job of being my own barber,” Al said after a moment. “Only hard part’s right here in back.” The sun caught the rich highlights of his curls as he patted them briefly.

“I guess I could cut that part for you. It doesn’t look that hard,” David said. He touched a curl tentatively, let his hand linger on Al’s head, ran his fingers through the soft, thick ringlets. Al turned, a little surprised, then smiled at David.

David drew his hand back a little, his fingertips still caressing the curls. I could lie with Al, he thought suddenly. Hold him the same as— Christ! David dropped his hand as if Al’s hair had turned to fire, backed abruptly away. Oh Christ, not—

“Say, would you? I’d appreciate it.” Al held out the shears with another smile, his voice fresh and innocent.

“Yeah, yeah sure.” David reached for the scissors, managed to take them without brushing Al’s hand. He gripped them hard a moment, steadied himself. Hell, it had just been a stray thought. Nothing was going to come of it. He wasn’t perverted like— It was just with Zach that— He set to work snipping Al’s ringlets, forcing his thoughts to remain focused on his task.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Sunlight flashed from the bayonets of marching Federal troops, glinted off the ripples and eddies of the Rapidan River and whitewashed the covers of the long train of baggage wagons. From the bluff overlooking the river, where Grant and his staff had halted, the columns of Union soldiers below stretched endlessly on both sides of the pontoon bridges. Newspaper correspondents clustered around the general and his officers with rapid-fire questions.

“General Grant, about how long will it take you to get to Richmond?” a reporter called.

“I will agree to be there in about four days—that is, if General Lee becomes a party to the agreement; if he objects, the trip will undoubtedly be prolonged.”

David smiled. He scribbled a few words of description on his pad and gazed down at the scene he’d just sketched. Gusts of soft spring breezes carried the sounds of men and animals moving steadily across the twin pontoon bridges erected overnight by the 50
^th
New York Engineers—stealing a march on Lee as they gained the southern bank of the Rapidan. A parallel column, led by General Hancock, was making the crossing at Ely’s Ford, six miles below. Even through field glasses, the columns wound out of sight—an army of close to a hundred thousand men, supported by over four thousand baggage wagons. At the rear of the train, far out of sight, lumbered droves of beef cattle to be butchered as needed.

“Looks pretty formidable, doesn’t it?” Al said, dropping down beside David at the edge of the porch fronting the deserted house commandeered as temporary headquarters.

David put down his field glasses. “I was just thinking the same thing,” he said. “We certainly outnumber Lee, at any rate. Though he’s on home ground. Here, you want to look through these?” He handed Al the glasses. Their fingers brushed. For a moment David felt the discomfiture that had plagued him around Al since that afternoon on the porch two weeks before.

But hell. The army was on the move. It couldn’t be more than a matter of days till they engaged Lee’s troops in battle. There were a hell of a lot more important things to concern himself with.

He got up, walked back and forth restlessly. Grant and his staff were heading into the old house for their noon meal. The reporters wandered to the edge of the bluff. The colored servant who traveled with the baggage wagon that served as field headquarters of the
New York Herald
passed plates and tankards to
Herald
reporters; other correspondents lunched catch-as-catch-can. David shared canned sardines and crackers with Al. The headquarters wagon arrived and orderlies began pitching tents for Grant and his staff.

David rose. “If Grant means to wait till Burnside gets here from Alexandria, I doubt there’ll be much change the next few hours. I think I’ll ride out a little ways, see how the crossing went at Ely’s Ford, maybe see if I can find Colin and Pete’s company.”

Al rose, uninvited, to join him. They made their way with difficulty down Germanna Road, through the noisy stream of infantry and wagons, then bore east on the Orange Turnpike. Woods bordered the dirt road, pine and scrub oak, wildflowers blooming in the underbrush. Dust swirled under their horses’ hooves; the afternoon sun sifting through the trees started rivulets of sweat down their backs. An occasional birdcall could be heard.

Hancock’s corps were camping for the night in a sprawling line along the turnpike, not far from the field where the battle of Chancellorsville had been fought a year before. The sentry who inspected their passes gave them further directions.

They tied their mounts and made their way on foot to the clearing where the 19
^th
Massachusetts was camped, walked through it till they found Colin and Pete seated around a fire with half a dozen other men from their company.

“Hey, look who’s here,” Colin hailed them. “Sit down and have some of these here beans and pork. They’re pretty good.” He grinned shyly. “Not like my Rosie cooked when we was home on furlough, but they ain’t bad.”

Al dug into the beans. “So you and Rosie got hitched while you were gone?” he asked, swallowing a mouthful.

Colin gave another shy smile. “That we did. We’ll be married three weeks come tomorrow.”

“Come tomorrow, we’ll be lucky to get out of these woods with our hides intact,” Pete said abruptly. “This here’s a damn fool place to stop. We could’ve pressed on a helluva lot further. This ain’t no place for a fight.”

“How do you mean?” David asked.

“Use your head, David! You can’t see worth shit in all this underbrush, and sure the Rebs know this ground a helluva lot better than we do. They’ll be taking us by surprise, same as they did last year.”

“But surely Grant—”

“Goddamn generals!” Pete spat. “Lot they care ‘bout the enlisted man! Sure and it’s right out here, what we’re coming to. You’re looking for something to fill up that pad of yours, I’ll show you it.” Pete rose and walked off. David followed, the others trailing along.

A few minutes walk took them to a field near the road where the artillery caissons were massed. Occasional broken limbed trees, scarred by bullets and shellfire, stood like wounded sentinels. Small groups of infantry and artillerymen clustered uneasily, talking in low tones and poking at the ground as they walked. “Sure and ‘tis what we’re heading for,” Pete repeated with grim relish.

“Christ!” David breathed. Dozens of grinning white skulls lay scattered about the ground like abandoned marbles.

“Chancellorsville,” Pete said. He jabbed his bayonet at a mound of earth where a long white armbone lay partly exposed. Grains of reddish dirt fell away, revealing the tattered cloth that still clung to the fleshless bone. Pete peered at it. “Goddamn uniform’s too faded to tell if the poor bastard was Union or Reb.”

David swallowed. The battlefield had become a graveyard of men buried where they’d fallen, in haste, so the earth now barely covered them. He drew a step closer to Al, felt him shudder involuntarily beside him, gazed at the solemn faces of the others. Pete grinned at them fiercely. “You lads scared of a few old bones?”

“I ain’t scared.” Sean’s voice cracked. He grabbed up a skull and stared into the sightless eye sockets, quickly turned it over. Teeth rained onto his hand. “Holy Jesus!” Sean sprang back, the skull bouncing on the ground as he flung it from him.

Pete laughed. “It’s what we’re coming to, sonny boy, and some of us tomorrow.”

“Christ, Pete, leave the boy alone,” Patrick McFarland growled. “Is it tryin’ to scare him to death you’re after? And that before his first fight?” He turned his bearded visage to Sean. “Sure and you’ll be fine.”

“Hey, yeah,” Colin seconded him. “Listen, Sean, we come through some pretty hard fights without a scratch. Just do like we do tomorrow. Now it’s sleep we oughta be gettin’ while we got the chance.” Sean started back, followed by Patrick and most of the other men.

“The hell of it though,” Colin said, still gazing at the unmarked graves, his voice barely audible, “is all these fellers laid down their lives for nothin’. Just so’s Hooker could call a retreat, just turn tail and run right back across the river.”

Pete cuffed him lightly on the arm. “You said it.” They stood in silence a moment.

“C’mon, old woman, it’s gettin’ dark,” Colin said finally. He clapped his hand on Pete’s shoulder. “Let’s get on back. I wanna finish writin’ Rosie tonight.”

“Pretty sobering sight, ain’t it,” Al said to David after they’d hurried back to their horses and ridden a few miles in silence.

“I’m afraid you’re right.” David peered into the wilderness that pressed the roadway on both sides. The skeletons of fallen soldiers seemed to lie under every tree, gleaming white in campfires and moonlight. He drew even with Al, glad of his company on the lonely turnpike, riding close beside him as they hastened back to Union headquarters at Germanna Ford.

THE RUMBLE OF WAGON TRAINS AND INFANTRY crossing the wooden pontoons finally lulled David to sleep that night. He opened his eyes to see Al already rolling up his blankets beside him. The night had been warm enough that they hadn’t bothered with their shelter tent; the cloudless sky promised another day of sunshine. The air was ripe with the smells of horses and crushed grasses. David watched the reflection of sunrise on the river below as the campground stirred to life. The half-buried skeletons seemed a fading nightmare in the light of day, a day more suited to a picnic or ball game than armed confrontation. The aroma of strong coffee drifted across the encampment.

By dawn, most of the army occupied positions on the southern side of the Rapidan. Grant lingered at table in the headquarters mess tent while General Meade moved south along the Germanna Road. Not till the lead divisions of Burnside’s troops were seen crossing the river did Grant rise. Followed by reporters, Grant and his staff trotted down the Germanna Road.

They’d traveled perhaps a mile when a Union officer galloped up with Meade’s message: Rebel troops were advancing down the Orange Turnpike; Union divisions commanded by Warren and Sedgwick had been ordered into position to meet them. A battle would be fought that day. David swallowed, his hands sweaty on the reins.

A four mile gallop up the packed-earth road brought them to the crossroads of Germanna Road and the turnpike, where he and Al had ridden the day before. General Meade awaited Grant near a tumbledown tavern, its yard gone to brush. The two generals climbed to the top of a cleared knoll, conferring in tones too low to be overheard. Reporters hovered in edgy clumps as Grant dispatched orders to his generals to move against the enemy.

The chief of the
New York Herald
correspondents, Sylvanus Cadwallader, handed out assignments to
Herald
reporters with the crisp efficiency of a commanding officer. Correspondents scattered like shot, heading in the direction of the musketry and artillery fire now exploding in the distance. David raised his field glasses, straining to see past the tangled growth of wilderness that lay beyond the low hill.

“You can’t get any kind of view from here,” Al said beside him. “Reckon I’ll head on down, see what’s going on.” He paused, glancing expectantly at David.

David gripped the glasses. “I— I guess I’ll stay here at headquarters a bit.” He watched Al hurry excitedly away. I ought to go with him, he thought, get closer to the front. New bursts of shelling sounded as the sun rose higher overhead. Clouds of dark smoke hung over the tops of trees.

Hell, he told himself, this was headquarters for the Army of the Potomac. There’d be plenty going on here.

Grant had settled himself on the ground, back resting against a tree trunk, his shoulders stooped over a stick of wood that he whittled as couriers raced in from the front. David flipped open his pad, his fingers already outlining the first broad strokes of the general’s figure. Grant whittled imperturbably, incongruous on the ground in the formal dress uniform he rarely bothered putting on. Despite the warm weather, he wore tan cloth gloves, leaving them on as he cut away at the twig.

He’s got the weight of the whole army on his shoulders, David mused. He studied Grant’s face, recalling Pete’s fear of a battle in these woods, his avowal that the generals didn’t give a damn for the enlisted men. If Grant was disturbed at not getting the army through the wilderness before meeting Lee in battle, he gave no sign.

David penciled in the details of Grant’s hat and beard, the thin lips clamped on a cigar. Grant continued to whittle, the gloves he’d forgotten to remove snagging and shredding as they caught on the rough pine sticks he shaved away.