Love and War

Christmas Eve fell on a Tuesday. George couldn't shake the bad mood that had been with him since the McClellan reception. The war, the city, even the season depressed him for reasons he couldn't completely explain.

A fragrant fire brightened the hearth of the parlor after supper. Patricia had resumed her music lessons with a local teacher, but a regular piano wasn't practical in the crowded suite, so George had bought a small harmonium. Patricia opened a carol book, pumped the pedals, and played 'God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.'

Constance came out of the bedroom with three large presents. She placed the packages near similar ones at the base of the fir tree decorated with cranberry strands, gilt-painted wood ornaments, and tiny candles. Buckets of water and sand waited behind the tree. All the gas had been shut off in the room; the light was mellow and pleasant — quite unlike George's state of mind.

'Sing with me, Papa,' his daughter said between phrases. He shook his head, remaining in his chair. Constance went to the harmonium and added her voice to Patricia's. The young girl resembled her mother in her prettiness and her bright hair.

Singing, Constance glanced occasionally at her husband. His despondency worried her. 'Won't you, George?' she asked finally, motioning.

'No.'

William wandered in and sang 'Joy to the World' with them. Puberty put a crack in his voice; Patricia giggled so hard Constance had to speak to her. After the carol William said, 'Pa, can't each of us open one present tonight?'

'No. You've nagged me about that all evening, and I'm sick of it.'

'George, I beg your pardon,' Constance said. 'He hasn't nagged. He's mentioned it only once.'

'Once or a hundred times, the answer's no.' He addressed his son. 'We shall attend our church in the morning, and your mother will go to mass, then we'll have our gifts.'

'After church?' William cried. 'Waiting that long isn't fair. Why not after breakfast?'

'It's your father's decision,' Constance said softly. George paid no attention to her slight frown.

William wouldn't be persuaded. 'It isn't fair!'

'I'll show you what's fair, you impertinent —'

'George!' He was halfway to his son before Constance stepped between them. 'Try to remember it's Christmas Eve. We are your family, but you act as if we're enemies. What's wrong?'

'Nothing — I don't know — Where are my cigars?' He leaned on the mantelpiece, his back to the others. His eye fell on the sprig of laurel he had brought from Lehigh Station and kept on the mantel. The sprig was withered and brown. He snatched it and flung it in the fire.

'I'm going to bed.'

The laurel smoked, curled, and vanished.

He slammed the bedroom door and splashed cold water on his face, then searched till he found a cigar. After raising the window, he crawled into bed with a stack of contracts he had brought home. The fine loops and flourishes of the copyists blurred before his eyes, meaningless. He felt guilty about his behavior, angry with everyone and everything. He dropped the contracts on the floor, stubbed out the cigar, extinguished the gas, and rolled up under the comforter.

He never knew when Constance came to bed. He was lost and far away, watching exquisitely slow shellbursts on the road to Churubusco, watching a great malevolent India-rubber head — Thad Stevens — loom steadily larger, the shouting mouth huge as a cave. Free every slave. Slaughter every traitor. Burn every mansion. In the ravening maw he saw Mont Royal afire.

He watched the road from Cub Run. The fallen horse. The young Zouave, crashing his musket down on the only target he could find for his fear and fury. The horse peeled its lips back from its teeth, demented by pain. The Zouave struck once more. The head opened like some exotic fruit, spilling its red pulp in pumping spurts that became a flow. Which was the animal? Which was the man? The guns changed everything.

The Zouave, the horse, the scene exploded as if struck by a shell. Deep in dreams, the dreamer retreated, whimpering with relief — only to see the Zouave approach the horse again, raise the musket again, bring the butt down again, the cycle restarting —

'Stop it.'

'George —'

'Stop it, stop it.' He flailed at soft things wrapped around his body. He kept screaming 'Stop it.'

A young voice called out fearfully: 'Pa? Mama, is he all right?'

'Yes, William.'

'Stop —' A great, long gasp from George, and realization. Faintly: '— it.'

'Go back to bed, William,' Constance called. 'It's just a nightmare.'

'Jesus Christ,' George whispered in the dark, shuddering.

'There.' Her arms were what he had attempted to fight off. 'There.' She brushed hair from his wet forehead, kissing him. How warm she felt. He slid his hands around her and held her, ashamed of his weakness but thankful for the comfort. 'What were you dreaming? It must have been horrible.'

'Mexico, Bull Run — it was. I'm sorry I was so rotten tonight. I'll speak to the children first thing in the morning. We'll open gifts. I want them to know I'm sorry.'

'They understand. They know you're hurting badly. They just don't know why. I'm not sure I do either.'

'God, they must hate me.'

'Never. They know you're a good father. They love you and want you to be happy, especially at Christmas.'

'The war makes Christmas a mockery.' He pressed his face to hers; both cheeks were cold. The room was freezing; he had opened the window too far. The air smelled of old cigars and of his sweat.

'Is it the war that's troubling you so badly?'

'I guess. What a little word, war, to bring so much misery. I can't stand the dishonesty in this town. The greed behind the flag-waving rhetoric. Do you know something? At the rate Stanley is selling bootees to the infantry, he'll have an enormous profit within a year. Practically a small fortune. And do you know that the shoes he's delivering will fall apart after a week of use on hard roads in Virginia or Missouri or wherever the damned disgraceful things are sent?'

'I'd rather not know things like that.'

'What bothers me most is something Thayer said at the dinner. You don't build an effective army in ninety days. It takes two or three years.'

'You mean he thinks the war may last that long?'

'Yes. The springtime war — short, sanitary — that was a cruel delusion. War's not like that. Never has been, never will be. Now everything's changing. Other men are taking charge, men like Stevens, who want slaughter. Can Billy survive that? What about Orry and Charles? If I ever see Orry again, will he speak to me? Long wars make for long hatreds. A long war will change people, Constance. Wear them out. Destroy them with despair, if it doesn't kill them outright. I finally faced that — and look what it's done to me.'

She hugged him to her breast. Her silence said she understood his fears and shared them and had no answers for his questions. Presently he went to shut the window. Outside, it was snowing again.

48

Charles had fired his shotgun in anger just three times during the autumn. Each time he had led a scout detachment well past the rifle pits Hampton's infantry had dug as part of the Confederate defense line; each time the targets were fleeing Yanks on horse­back. He had wounded one but missed the rest.

That typified the months since Manassas: uneventful except for the spirit-lifting victory at Ball's Bluff in late October. In the North the' engagement had produced accusations of bungling, even treason, directed against the Union commander who had led the Potomac crossing, then seen his men shot or drowned as Confederate fire