The Warriors (4 page)

“I have successfully amputated the general’s left arm,” Dr. Black said. “The bone was beyond repair. If there are no complications, he’ll soon be back to lead his men again.”

Gideon shouted like a boy. So did the others. Hats sailed into the air as the weary doctor turned, gave a faint smile of satisfaction, and stumbled back into the tent.

Gideon sank down on the ground, incredibly tired. While a few of the men continued to whoop and dance around him, he leaned his forehead on his knee and thought.
At least I’ve helped do one thing in this war that I can be proud of.

After two years of fighting in which he had changed from a cheerful, contentious young man eager to see battle to a weary professional who now knew the dreadful cost of the South’s principles, it was good to be able to single out even one such accomplishment.

He yawned. Closed his eyes. It was good.

Though he knew he should get up and hunt for Stuart, he didn’t. He was too tired. He sat upright in the glow of the lantern outside the medical tent, struggling to keep his eyes open.

It would soon be Sunday, he realized. Maybe it was Sunday already.

Would Margaret be going to church in Richmond?
Must write her,
he reminded himself.
Write to tell her how we saved old Stonewall
—

Eight days later, before Gideon found the spare moments to put his thoughts to paper, Thomas Jonathan Jackson lay abed in a small house at Guiney’s Station—

Dying.

—It was pneumonia, they say. Jackson was making a good recovery. Then, quite abruptly, Wednesday I believe it was, he began to sink.

I’ve been told it was a relatively peaceful death, though the general suffered periods of delirium near the end. His wife Mary Anna was among those at the bedside. They sang a hymn he requested.

According to what we’ve been told, the general spoke twice, once to issue an order for A. P. Hill to “come up” with his infantry, the second time to utter a most peculiar remark—“Let us cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the trees.” Some claim the word was “pass, “ not “cross. “ But no one knows what he meant.

I didn’t realize he was so young; he had observed his thirty-ninth birthday only in January.

I’ve considered trying to write my father in New York where he is once again preaching. I wanted to tell him Stonewall has died. But I am sure no letter of mine would reach the North, and he will doubtless read of the passing, since Jackson’s exploits were so widely discussed.

In Lexington, the general was a friend to my father when he had no others. He will mourn the cruel accident, I am sure, even though he believed his friend had given his loyalty to the wrong side.

It is hard for me to express my feelings just now, Margaret. We won a sound victory at Chancellorsville—though at a high cost. I’ve heard there were as many as 13,000 of our boys killed, maimed, or lost. We would have made the success an even better one if Fighting Joe had not lost his taste for fighting—something it appears he never had to begin with!—and got away across the Rappahannock pontoons before we could catch him. And the loss of Jackson has robbed the victory of all sweetness.

Even General Stuart, with whose command I was reunited before the fighting ended, seems in poor spirits. He is being praised in some quarters, and d——d in others, as a result of his handling of Jackson’s infantry. He took command when A. P. Hill fell wounded the same night Stonewall was shot.

You may say I place too much importance on Jackson, but I do not believe so. It’s the common feeling that, between them, Lee and Jackson would one day have pounded the Lincoln crowd into submission to our point of view. Lee was like an anvil and Jackson a hammer, and whenever the Federals were caught between them, they were lost. Now Lee’s hammer is gone. He is reportedly grieved almost beyond consolation, though outwardly maintaining a show of courage. Men claim—rightly, I think—that when we lost. Jackson, we lost the irreplaceable.

I even sense a new attitude among those on our side. I can’t quite put it into the proper words, but there is not much talk of winning now, only of a long hard fight with a truce the most we can hope for, and defeat being more likely. The feeling did not seem present a few months ago, and certainly not a year ago. I hope the mood will pass, but I wonder. Something has changed.

In truth, I have changed too. I am ashamed to put unmanly thoughts on paper, but I cannot help them. I was never before afraid that we would lose, but I am afraid now. I am even more afraid of what will happen to us—you and Eleanor and myself—if the worst comes to pass. The last time I saw father, he quoted Scripture and stated that the Kent family need not forever be harmed by the war. But what of we three?

I never felt strongly that the nigras should remain perpetually enslaved—the plain truth is, I never thought much about their condition at all; a mistake, I am beginning to believe.

But my doubts about certain aspects of the war do not alter the fact that I have taken part in what the North calls the rebellion. Will I or any other soldier on this side be easily forgiven for that? I doubt it. Of more importance is this question. Even if I am forgiven, how will we make a life for ourselves when peace comes again?

You know the many, many hours I have spent during the winter studying the books you have sent, trying to teach myself to put words down in a proper order, and with some intelligence, because a good officer—especially a staff officer—must have that skill. But I am a grown man, and I still lack a decent education. War is the only trade I know.

You must forgive much of what I have written. I am caught up in the sad spirit of these days, and should not pass my gloom along to you. I love you with all my heart and pray for your safety and that of our dear child there in the capital which the enemy wants to destroy so very much.

Will write again the moment I can. Let us hope God and the circumstances of the war enable me to do so in a more cheerful spirit.

Give the baby hugs and kisses for me.

Your husband, G. K.

S
LOWLY, SO HE WOULDN’T
make a sound, the kneeling Confederate corporal stretched his right hand between the slats of the corn crib on the small Georgia farm.

The interior was black. He couldn’t see what he was after, but he was determined to find food. His belly hurt, though he didn’t know whether it hurt from hunger or from the onset of another attack of dysentery.

Better get hold of something to tide you over,
he thought. All he’d had to drink for the past two days had been creek water, his only nourishment a few berries. If he starved he’d never reach Jefferson County. And he had to reach it. That was why he’d risked sneaking the quarter of a mile from a clump of pine woods to the back of this crib on a small farm in Washington County. While he’d crossed the open ground, he’d kept the crib between himself and the rundown house, which appeared to be deserted. From the safety of the trees, he’d watched house and crib for a quarter hour before venturing out.

He couldn’t find any corn in the crib. He pressed his right shoulder harder against the slats, stretching and wiggling his fingers, groping. He was a lean young man of eighteen. His face, which always tended to a gauntness inherited from his father, looked even more bony than usual. He had his mother’s fair hair, but accumulated dirt had given it a dingy brown cast. Large dark eyes and a straight, well-formed nose were spoiled just a bit by a mouth that took on an almost cruel thinness when he was determined.

The Georgia twilight had a curious, cold quality despite the huge red ball of the sun dropping over a patch of woodland where leaves were changing to yellow and vermillion. Or perhaps he only thought the oncoming dusk seemed cold because he was alone. It was Sunday, the twentieth of November 1864, the eve of winter.

Grunting softly, his hand searched to the right, to the left.

Nothing.

He jammed his eye up next to an opening between two higher slats but saw only darkness.
Lord, was the crib empty?

He looked disreputable, kneeling there. His cadet-gray tunic, designed to cover his trousers to a point halfway between hip and knee, was torn in five places. From the two rows of seven buttons, just four remained. His point-down chevrons had come half unsewn, and the light blue trim that edged the tunic and identified him as an infantryman had almost raveled away. Dust and weather had soiled the light blue collar and cuffs as well as the matching sides and crown of his kepi-style forage cap that hid the white streak in his hair. A duck havelock hanging down from the back of the cap to protect his neck from the weather had turned from white to gray. A canvas shoulder sling held his imported .577-caliber Enfield rifled musket upright against his back.

Like any good soldier, he had strong personal feelings about his weapon. It was his companion, his means of survival. And he was good with it. That was a surprising thing he’d discovered during his first weeks of service. Perhaps it was his upbringing—his grandfather had taught him how to shoot. But whatever the reason, he’d quickly become a proficient marksman. He was fast at reloading, with an instinctive feel for the intricacies of handling firearms—such things as wind velocity and tricks of sun and shadow that could affect accuracy. He’d been complimented more than once on being a fine shot. The compliments helped develop a conviction that, without a weapon, he was not complete. His gun had become an extension of himself.

Straining to find something inside the crib, he failed to hear the footsteps. The farmer must have slipped out of the house in a stealthy way, somehow spotting him on his passage across the field. His first warning was a shadow that fell over the side of the crib.

“Y’all get up from there, you damn thief.”

He jerked his head around, saw the man: paunchy, gray-bearded; old, weather-worn clothing; filthy toes showing at the tip of one worn-out boot.

Thick-fingered hands clasped the handle of a pitchfork. The tines caught the sundown light and glittered like thin swords.

“I said get up!” the man yelled, lunging from the corner of the crib.

The soldier reared back. The tines of the pitchfork stabbed into the slat where his cheek had been pressed a moment before.

The man yanked the pitchfork loose. The corporal steadied himself, feet spread wide, hands held up in front of him. “Look, I only wanted a little food—”

The pitchfork flashed red. The corporal eyed the points. Would they stab at him again, without any warning?

The man’s slurry voice showed his fury. “What corn I got belongs to me and the missus and my two little girls. You ain’t gonna touch it.”

“All right.” The corporal backed up a step. “Just be careful with that fork. I still have a ways to travel.”

The man squinted at him. “Where you bound?”

“Home,” the corporal said, resorting to an evasion he’d used before. He was thankful he’d ripped the Virginia regimental emblem from his cap, in case the man could identify the insignia of state units.

“Where’s home?”

“What’s it to you?” the corporal shot back, resenting the man’s hostility to someone in Confederate gray.

The farmer came forward again, the fork held horizontally, the tines a foot from the younger man’s belly.

“Goddamn it, boy,
you answer.”

“That’s a hell of a way to talk to a soldier from your own army!” He tried a bluff, lowered his left hand to touch the brown-spotted bandage knotted around his thigh. “I got mustered out. I was hit.”

A grumble of doubt. “That a fact. Listen, I know they’re sending boys back to service shot up a lot worse ‘n you. You ain’t tellin’ me the truth.”

The corporal was angry. This ignorant clod couldn’t begin to understand his concept of devotion to duty, could never understand why he was traveling alone across central Georgia, hiding out during the daylight hours, stealing and getting shot up for trying to pilfer a chicken to eat.

“You say you’re goin’ home—”

“That’s right.”

“What’s your name?”

“Kent. Corporal Jeremiah Kent.”

“Well, now, Corporal Jeremiah Kent, you just tell me where your home’s at.”

“Mister, I don’t mean you any harm. You wouldn’t miss an ear or two.”

The pitchfork stabbed out, the tines indenting the fabric of his tunic just above the belt. “Boy, answer the question.
Where’s home?”

Alarmed, he risked a little of the truth. “I’m headed for Jefferson County.”

The farmer’s face twisted in an ugly sneer. Very softly, he said, “Then you’re tellin’ me lies. You ain’t no Georgia boy. I know by the way you talk. You come from someplace up north. Carolina, mebbe. Virginny. But not Georgia. You run away?”

The tines poked deeper. Jeremiah felt one pierce his tunic, prick his skin.

“You’re a goddamn deserter.”

Furious, Jeremiah didn’t know how to answer the accusation. In a way it was true, yet he’d traveled for miles with no sense of dishonor. Traveled with pride and purpose, in fact.

“I sent two sons to Mississippi and lost both.
Both!
I ain’t feedin’ or shelterin’ no damn runaway coward!”

The last word exploded in a rush of breath. At the same instant, the farmer’s hands jerked back at his right side. Then with full force he rammed the pitchfork forward. Jeremiah jumped sideways. A tine slashed another hole in his tunic. The points hit a crib slat so hard they hummed.

Jeremiah’s mouth looked thin and white as he laced his fingers together. Color rushed into his cheeks. While the farmer struggled to wrench the tines loose, Jeremiah slammed the back of the farmer’s neck, using his interlocked hands like a hammerhead.

The farmer staggered. Jeremiah struck again, ruthlessly hard.
Time to quit fooling with this old man.

The man dropped to his knees, his palms pressed against the slats of the crib as he gasped for air. A little of the harshness went out of Jeremiah’s eyes as he whirled and dashed toward the pines, hoping the farmer had no firearm within quick reach.