Love and War

'But where the hell did she go?'

'Who do you think you're talking to, soldier? I'm a Union man.' His hand slid across the moist red block to a boning knife. 'I were you, I'd be more polite to the people that whipped you, else they might do it again.'

Reddening, Charles restrained his anger. 'I'm sorry. It's just that I rode a long way to find her.'

The butcher saw his opportunity and smirked. 'Maybe she didn't want you to find her. Ever think of that? Mrs. Barclay left her place without telling a soul in Fredericksburg or the county where she was headed. You don't believe me, you ask anybody.'

He picked up his cleaver and began chopping a slab of faintly shiny meat with hard, swift strokes. Charles walked out, leaving a trail of boot prints in the sawdust. He leaned on the store front, stricken by the truth in the butcher's nastiness.

She hadn't wanted him to come back, else she would have waited. Or at least left word of her destination. Instead, she left a poem about death. The end of everything. He understood the positioning of the ribbon and the inked brackets. They were meant for him.

He walked around the iron hitching post, rested a hand on his worn saddle, and said something broken- sounding under his breath. The mule flicked his ears. Flies landed anyway. The pain, the uncertainty of loss, beat at Charles harder and harder by the second. He didn't try to quell the feelings. He couldn't have done it if he had wanted.

141

The corporal in charge of the two-man detail hailed from Illinois. He had been educated at Indiana Asbury, a tiny college in the next state, then returned to Danville, the home town of Mr. Lincoln's great companion Ward Latnon, where he taught in a one-room school for two years before mustering for war. He was twenty-four. The private helping him was four years younger. Their detail was one of many assigned to sift through the rubble of Richmond, with shovels and by hand, to locate and retrieve any unburned government documents.

The corporal and the private worked in the skeletal ruins of what had been a warehouse. Part of the roof remained, and two walls. The soldiers started early each day; this morning there was a slight fog, not yet burned off. The sun shafts around the fragment of roof seemed to hold smoke.

'Here's a box hardly touched, Sid,' the private said. In this part of the warehouse yesterday they had discovered batches of undelivered letters, most of them at least partly scorched. When they pried open the new box, they found bundles that appeared untouched.

Since their assignment was to recover and mark any mail that could be forwarded, they thought their search, thankless thus far, had finally borne fruit. They were disappointed. The private showed Sid the top letter of a stack he was holding.

'Must've had a heavy rain. Guess the box leaked. Spoilt the address.'

The corporal studied the letter. Saw faint handwriting indecipherable because of blots and water streaks.

'The rest like that?'

The private fanned the stack. 'Ever' one.'

Pleased, Sid said, 'Then I guess we should open them. The address might be repeated before the salutation.' That was an excuse; he was bored and wanted to sit down awhile. Opening mail beat pawing through wet ashes that stuck to your uniform and made it stink.

Besides, reading the mail of strangers appealed to his sense of drama. He had always loved Othello and Romeo and Juliet and the novels of Dickens. He dreamed of writing a piece of fiction of his own one of these days. Might be some stories worth remembering in these letters.

They sat on fallen beams and opened them one by one. The private did it mechanically, unmoved by anything he read. Sid rapidly grew disgusted. Contrary to his expectations, he found little except bad spelling, worse grammar, and fragmentary, wholly uninteresting observations about homesickness, mother's dearly remembered cooking, or the absolute perfection of every girl to whom a letter was addressed. In twenty minutes he was bored again. But orders were orders.

An hour had passed when he sat up suddenly. 'Hold on, here's an interesting one. Signed J. B. Duncan — one of our own officers.'

He showed the private the abbreviations and initials following the name. 'Brigadier General, United States Volunteers. But it's addressed to someone he calls 'My dear Major Main.' You suppose that's a reb, Chauncey?'

'Pretty likely if the letter's here, don't you think?'

Sid nodded. 'Seems to concern some female named Augusta — Oh, my Lord, listen to this. She became pregnant with your child, and although she knew of her condition at the time of your last visit, she would say nothing not wishing to exert moral coercion —' With new enthusiasm, Sid said, 'This is an educated man. Telling quite a story.'

'Sounds like a hot one,' Chauncey observed.

Sid kept reading. 'The pregnancy was fully as difficult, not to say dangerous, as that which occurred while she was married to Mr. Barclay. You know the unfortunate outcome that time, I believe. Fearing for her well-being and also her safety on that isolated farm where she foolishly remained throughout much of the worst fighting, I arranged to smuggle my niece over the Potomac and on to my present home in Washington. Here, on December 23 last, she delivered your son, a fine healthy infant to whom she gave the name Charles. But I regret to say the birth —'

The corporal's voice had dropped. He shot the private a melancholy look.

'What's wrong, Sid?'

'... the birth was not without its tragic aspect. One hour after delivering poor Augusta succumbed. She passed away with your name upon her lips. I know she loved you more than life itself, for she told me so.'

Sid wiped his nose. 'My God.' He went on. 'I have written twice before and paid to have each missive borne to Richmond by private messenger. I hasten to write yet a third time because I know postal service is disrupted, and I wish to do all that I can to make certain at least one of the letters reaches you. Regrettably, each letter bears the skimpiest of addresses, but I have none better.'

A gulp of breath. 'New paragraph. The divisive holocaust, perhaps ordained by God but tragic for His children nonetheless, shows every aspect of an imminent conclusion. When it is over, it is your right to claim your son. I will keep him, providing proper care, until you come for him, or, if you do not, for as long as is practicable for an old bachelor bent upon continuing his military career. I bear you no enmity. I pray this finds you whole and glad of the good portion of my news. Respectfully —'

Sid rested the last sheet on his knee. 'That's all except for the signature.'

'That ought to be delivered for sure,' Chauncey said. He was subdued now, sitting motionless in a smoky shaft of light.

'Yes.' The corporal thrust the envelope into the sun. Tilted and peered at it. 'Hello, that's better. Here's the name again. Main. And the word Major. The first name's gone, along with the address. Still, that may be enough.'

He folded the two pages, replaced them in the envelope, and slipped it in his pocket. 'I'll bring this one to the lieutenant's attention myself.'

'Good,' said Chauncey, staring at Sid. Sid stared back. When the government of that damned Davis had torched so many of its records, how did you find one reb soldier among the hundreds of thousands wandering homeward on the roads of the South — or lying dead in mass graves, thickets, fields, from Virginia and the Pennsylvania mountains to the bluffs of Vicksburg and the hills of Arkansas?

Both knew you didn't; not easily. Sid would try, but he felt it was hopeless.