Love and War

I did, however.'

A breeze from the walled garden fluttered the candles and played with the curtains of the open French windows. 'Then it's the test,' Cooper said suddenly. 'Damn Lucius for drinking too much claret.'

'Don't blame poor Lucius. You invited him again this evening. You poured all that wine. For him and for yourself as well.'

He answered that with unintelligible sounds. Out of sight in the parlor, Marie-Louise began to play 'The Bonnie Blue Flag' on the pianoforte. At Judith's urging, she had taken the Mains' frequent guest into the other room after he inadvertently blurted a remark about the test now scheduled for Monday of next week. Cooper had withheld all mention of it from Judith, hoping to avoid tiresome reactions — bathetic tears, moralizing — which would in turn require him to waste energy dealing with them.

Looking hostile, he asked, 'What did you mean about not understanding me?'

'The sentence was plain English. Is it so difficult to decipher? You're not the man I married. Not even the man with whom I went to England.'

His face seemed to jerk with a spastic fury. He locked his hands together, elbows pressing the table so hard it creaked. 'And I remind you that this is no longer the world in which either of those events occurred. The Confederacy is in desperate straits. Desperate measures are required. It's my duty to involve myself in this test. My duty. If you lack the wit to appreciate that or the courage to endure it, you're not the woman I married, either.'

'Hurrah! Hurrah! For Southern rights — hurrah!' sang the adolescent girl and the guest in the parlor. 'Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!'

Judith brushed back the dark blond curls on her forehead. 'Oh,' she said, with a small bitter twist to her mouth, 'how you misunderstand. It isn't the risk to yourself that's upsetting me now, though God knows that kind of upset has become a constant of life here. I object to the callous way you've pushed this infernal fish-boat project. I object to your insistence on another test. I object to your forcing seven innocent men to submerge that iron coffin once more because you think it must be done. There was a time when you hated this war with all your soul. Now, you've become some — some barbarian I don't even recognize.'

Icy, he asked, 'Are you finished?'

'I am not. Cancel the test. Don't gamble with human lives to fulfill your own warped purpose.'

'So now my purpose is warped, is it?'

'Yes.' She struck the table.

'Patriotism is warped, is it? Defending my native state is warped? Or preventing this city from being burned and leveled? That's what the Yankees want, you know — nothing left of Charleston but rubble. That's what they want,' he shouted.

'I don't care — I don't care!' She was on her feet, weeping. The patriotic anthem had ended in mid-phrase. 'You are not the sole savior of the Confederacy, despite your attempt to act like it. Well, go ahead, kill yourself in your holy cause if you want. But it's hateful and immoral of you to demand that other lives be sacrificed to appease your anger. The old Cooper would have understood. The Cooper I loved — I loved so very —'

The broken words faded into silence. Out in the garden, palmetto fronds rattled in the wind. Like some long snake uncoiling, Cooper rose from his chair. His face blank, he said, 'The test will proceed as scheduled.'

'I knew that. Well, commune with yourself about it from now on.'

'What does that mean?'

'It means you may take your meals in this house, but don't expect me to be present when you do. It means you may sleep in the extra bedroom. I don't want you in mine.'

They stared at each other. Then Cooper walked out.

Judith's facade gave way. Voices reached her from the parlor, the first one — her husband's — curt:

'Lucius, get your coat. We can still accomplish a good deal tonight.'

Marie-Louise, vexed: 'Oh, Papa, Mama said we'd all gather and sing —'

'Keep quiet.'

Judith put her head down, pressed her hands to her eyes, and silently cried.

91

For days after his ordeal — Billy had been kept kneeling in the sleet storm till morning — he hobbled rather than walked. Most of the time he curled on the floor, hands locked below his pulled-up knees in a futile effort to stave off chills that would abruptly change to fever and set him raving. And every night Vesey was there — to insult him, to prod with a musket, to lift his boot and nudge the hand that would be forever nail-scarred.

Vesey, a farm boy from Goochland County who had achieved sudden and unexpected importance because of his absolute power over prisoners, reminded Billy of an Academy upperclassman George had mentioned a few times. Some fat fellow from Ohio who had pitilessly deviled his brother and Orry Main and all the other plebes in their class. Billy had never been much for contemplation of philosophic issues, but the fat cadet and Clyde Vesey convinced him that there was indeed such a thing in the world as the person with no redeeming qualities.

On the credit side of the ledger he placed the Tim Wanns.

The Massachusetts boy, though not sturdy, was quick-witted. Under Billy's instruction he rapidly learned the tricks of survival. Because Billy had gone to his rescue, Tim became Billy's devoted friend, eager to share anything he possessed. One thing he possessed, which Billy didn't, was greenback dollars. About twenty of them. The money was in his pocket when he was captured, and two of the dollars had persuaded the check-in guard to let him keep the rest.

With money, little luxuries could be obtained from the more cooperative guards. Frequently, Tim urged Billy to let him buy him something, whatever he wanted. Tim said it was small payment for the bravery that had earned Billy punishment and a persistent influenza that left him feeble and frequently dizzy.

Billy said no to the offers until one longing grew too strong.

'All right, Tim — a little writing paper, then. And a pencil. So I can start a new journal.'

Tim put in the order ten minutes later. Delivery was made at nine that night. Tim objected.

'This is wallpaper! Look at all these bilious blue flowers. How is anyone supposed to write on this side?'

'Ain't,' said the guard selling the goods. 'But if you do want to write some'pin, you write it on that or nothin'. Jeffy Davis hisself can't get anythin' better these days.'

So Billy began.

Jan. 12 — Libby Pris. I vow to survive this place. My next, most immed. aim is to send a letter to my dear wife.

He wanted to add that he had been asked to join the escape that was currently being plotted but decided he had better not commit that to paper in case the journal was found. Besides, he had so little to write upon — three sheets a foot square cost Tim three dollars — he must hoard the empty space.

Every night that Vesey was on duty, he continued to show up to harass his favorite prisoner. But Billy managed to endure the pokes with a bayonet, the kicks with a hobnailed boot, the nasty remarks about his friendship with the Harvard boy — he endured it all until he wrote the letter to Brett.

Tim insisted he be allowed to buy an envelope to hold the letter. What was supplied was greasy butcher's paper, folded and held together with paste. Billy addressed it for maximum legibility and enclosed a small square of wallpaper carrying a brief, affectionate message: He was in fine health, he loved her, she shouldn't worry.

The envelope, left open for the censor, was handed to the proper guard at noon. Vesey brought it back that night.

'I am afraid the censor refused to pass this letter.' Smiling, he opened his right hand. The envelope and its contents, all in small pieces, fluttered to the floor.

Weak, dizzy, hating the feel and stench of the filthy clothes he removed each morning for the required lice inspection, Billy pushed up from his small section of floor, slowly gained his feet, and stood eye to eye with the corporal.