Love and War

Woodvine, in which branch did you serve?'

'Me? Why — uh — I didn't. I'm too old.'

'You're over forty-five? You don't look it.'

'But there are reasons — a physical impairment —'

'And you probably spent most of the war in the woods, selling Testaments to the trees and quoting Scripture to the saplings — where they couldn't find you. Am I right, Mr. Woodvine?'

'What? What's that?'

'Good night, Mr. Woodvine.'

He walked away, heading for his room. On the stairs, he heard the parting shot.

'Drunken veterans — that's all you see anymore. The army taught them to love whiskey. Issued regular rations of it. Disgraceful, that's my opinion.'

Charles wanted to turn, go back, and beat Woodvine bloody. Instead, he shut the door of his room and leaned against it. He was a fool to react angrily. He had no interest in the Bible salesman or his cousin. Much as he had come to love Texas while he was with the Second, he had no interest in continuing as a cavalryman. He had no interest in anything but reaching Spotsylvania County as quickly as possible.

Rain tapped the roof as he stretched out and pulled up the cover. He heard the rain leaking with a steady drip near the foot of the bed. Downstairs, made boisterous with drink, some of the desolate men started to sing.

Charles recognized the piece. He had heard 'O I'm a Good Old Rebel' several times since leaving South Carolina. It was sung with great fervor now that Johnston's army had surrendered to Sherman near Durham Station.

'I hates the Yankee nation
And everything they do.
I hates the Declaration
Of Independence, too.
I hates the glorious Union.
Tis dripping with our blood.
I hates their striped banner.
I fit it all I could.'

'Christ,' Charles groaned, pulling the thin pillow over his head. It didn't shut out the rhythmic thumping of tin cups on the bar, the stamp of boots, or the splendid choir baritone of Mordecai Woodvine joining in.

'I can't take up my musket
And fight 'em now no more,
But I ain't got to love 'em,
Now that is sarten sure.
And I don't want no pardon
For what I was and am,
I won't be reconstructed,
And I don't care a damn!'

Weeds and wild grasses tossed in the warm wind, high as the hamstrings of his mule. The wind snapped the gypsy cloak as Charles turned into the dooryard, an ominous feeling on him. The fields hadn't been prepared for planting. On such a pleasant day, when fresh air would have broomed the house, every window was shuttered. Around the rear stoop, wild violets showed where none had grown before. The open door of the barn revealed a rectangle of darkness.

'Washington? Boz?'

The wind blew.

'Anyone here?'

Sunflowers swayed in what had been the garden. Why was he awaiting an answer? Hadn't he gotten it when he came over the last hump in the scarred road and seen the house so still, the surrounding fields empty in the sunshine?

She had locked the place before going wherever she had gone. Using his elbow, he broke the window of the kitchen door, reached through, and let himself in. The furniture was there, chairs neatly squared up beneath the table. Pots and the iron skillet hung from their pegs in their remembered places. He jerked open cabinets. Dishes there, too.

He ran to her bedroom, his boots thudding the pegged floor. The bed was neatly made and on the table next to it he spied her book of Pope, a place marked with a pale blue ribbon. Surely she wouldn't leave that if she were planning to be gone for any length of time. She must be away for just a day or two, with the freedmen.

To confirm it, he bore down on the wardrobe, expecting to find most of her clothing. He yanked the doors open.

Empty.

He stood still, frowning, worried. How to explain the contradiction — all the clothes missing and her favorite book left behind?

He had left the porch door open; a strong gust of wind blowing through the hall caught a wardrobe door and hurled it shut with a bang. That roused him and broke the grip of his panic. He carried the book to the kitchen, laid it on the table, then hurried to the barn, where the freedmen stored their tools. All were still in place.

He sawed some boards, nailed them on the inside of the broken window, took the book, and tied the door shut with a length of rope. It would be one of the things for which he would ask her forgiveness the moment he saw her. One of many.

About to mount the mule, he paused and opened the book at the place marked by the ribbon. He discovered a small, unfamiliar flower, its blossom pressed flat, most of the yellow gone. He swallowed.

The poem was 'Ode to Solitude.' Gus had bracketed four lines with delicate strokes of an inked pen.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
   Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
   Tell where I lie.

He cursed and shut the book. A shudder ran down his spine. He booted the mule all the way into Fredericksburg.

Although most of the population had come back, he saw few signs that repair of the destruction had begun. He inquired at two stores, without success. The proprietor of the third, a hefty butcher, gave him some information after he introduced himself.

'She let both her free nigras go. The younger, Boz, passed through town and told me. A few nights later, she disappeared without a word to anybody. That made me recall she had come in the day before and settled her account.'

'How long ago was all this?'

'Several months.'

'And you haven't seen her since?'

'That's right.'