“The trees . . . Caroline, where are all the trees?”
The devastation was even worse than before the Seven Days’ Battles, before the two clashing armies had rampaged across Hilltop’s fields and blown what little remained of its forests into matchsticks with their artillery.
“All our fences . . .” he murmured. “All our livestock. Our crops . . . there should be crops in those fields, ready to harvest. . . .”
“The barn is still there,” I said with relief when it came into sight. “And there’s your house. At least they didn’t burn down your house.” But as we drove into the yard, I saw that the room that had once been our grandparents’ had been badly damaged by cannon fire, then crudely repaired.
Jonathan’s parents emerged from the house as our wagon drew to a halt. I watched them appraise Jonathan’s bandaged arm and the pine coffin in the wagon bed with stunned expressions, then slowly comprehend the reason for our visit.
“Oh, God . . .” Aunt Anne moaned, her hands covering her mouth. “Please tell me that’s not Will . . . tell me that’s not my son. . . .”
I felt as though I had dealt her and Uncle William the final, killing blow. As I looked at their stricken faces, I knew that regardless of who won this war, neither of them had the strength to restore Hilltop to what it once had been. All but three of their slaves had fled with the Yankees. Inside, their gracious home had been ravaged by months of hard use by careless soldiers, the lovely carpets and furniture and oil paintings stained and scarred and spoiled beyond repair. If my aunt and uncle lived carefully, they might scrape together enough food from the pillaged garden and orchard to provide a bare subsistence through the winter. But the Hilltop of my childhood had been destroyed.
I cried as we buried Will beside his grandparents and younger sisters, crying not only for him but also for everything else that was lost. In a way, Will was one of the lucky ones. His suffering was over.
When the funeral ended, Jonathan and I walked down the path to where the pine grove had been. All that remained of the beautiful, quiet sanctuary were weeds and tree stumps and the charred remnants of Yankee campfires.
Jonathan had managed not to weep as his brother was buried, but now I saw tears fill his eyes as he kicked at the remains of a Yankee campfire, scattering the half-burned logs and showering his pant leg with ashes.
“I curse them all!” he shouted. “The Yankees who did this to my land don’t deserve to live. I could kill every last one of them with my bare hands.” I suddenly realized what Jonathan must have understood all too well as he’d viewed the desolated plantation: Hilltop would now be his one day—what was left of it.
“Don’t you know that Egypt is already ruined?” I murmured.
“What?”
“Do you remember the night you brought me here to listen to the slaves’ worship? Eli preached that night. Do you remember what he said?”
“Vaguely. I remember it sounded seditious.”
“He said that God had heard the slaves’ cries, and He was going to set them free—just like He had once set Israel free from the Egyptians. He told them the Negroes wouldn’t have to lift a finger . . . that God was going to send plagues on this land to show the white folks His power, and in the end, all the slaves would go free.”
“Our slaves weren’t set free, Carrie—they ran away. And the Yankees are breaking the laws of their own land when they help them. The Fugitive Slave Law says—”
“Lincoln’s proclamation of freedom cancels that law.”
“Only if the North wins. And they aren’t going to win. We pushed them all out of Virginia once, and we’ll do it again if we have to.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” I said sadly. “By the time Pharaoh finished his showdown with God and the slaves were free, Egypt was ruined. I imagine it looked a lot like Hilltop looks right now.”
“Shut up!” Jonathan shouted. I knew he was furious with me, but I said what needed to be said, regardless.
“The final plague came on the night of Passover, when all the firstborn sons—”
“I said, shut up!” He grabbed my shoulder with his free hand, as if he wanted to shake me. “Isn’t it bad enough that my brother is dead? How dare you imply that this was God’s will? The Yankees are the ones who killed him, Caroline! The Yankees!”
“I’m sorry.” I tried to hold him, but he pushed me away.
He started down the path toward home, refusing my help, but he paused long enough to turn around and ask bitterly, “Does Charles know you’re a Negro-lover?”
Chapter Eighteen
November 1862
“The Union Army is going to try again,” I told Robert that November. “A new general named Burnside is moving his forces south to try to take Richmond. But first he’ll have to get past the Army of Northern Virginia.”
“That includes your fiancé’s regiment?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to discuss Charles, but Robert seemed determined to follow his movements as closely as I did. It was as if he enjoyed tormenting himself by comparing Charles’ triumphs to his own failures.
“The first battleground will probably be Fredericksburg,” I said.
“Where’s that?”
“About halfway between Washington and Richmond.”
Robert paced the tiny storeroom, as if he was the commanding general, plotting strategy. If I hadn’t known him so well, known that discussing battles and military maneuvers had been his passion since youth, I never would have had the patience to indulge his questions.
“Have you ever been to Fredericksburg?” he asked.
“No. It’s really very small—no more than five thousand people. But I know it’s on the Rappahannock River.”
“Who has to cross the river, the Yankees or the Rebels?”
“The Yankees do. I heard Mr. St. John and the other men discussing it after church last Sunday. The city is on our side of the river. They’re planning to destroy all the bridges before the Yankees get there.”
“Of course. We will be expecting as much. We’ll have to construct pontoon bridges. And we’ll have to control the high ground to do it. Are there any hills nearby?”
“Robert, I’m sorry, but I really don’t know. I’ve never been there.” I didn’t dare tell him that refugees were already fleeing Fredericksburg and coming to Richmond for safety. He probably would have begged me to interview them. “I did hear the men talking about Marye’s Heights, but don’t ask me where that is.”
“Burnside will have to move quickly,” Robert said. “That was McClellan’s problem—he moved too slowly, and . . .” He stopped suddenly, staring at me with an expression of amazement on his face. “Caroline! Of course!”
“What?” I was certain he was going to spout off more battle strategy, so I wasn’t prepared for his next words.
“You could find out what else the Rebels are planning. You could deliberately place yourself in a position to overhear their strategy, like you did at church. Didn’t you tell me your fianceé’s family is high society? You could wine and dine the generals and other high officials. No one would ever suspect that a woman was paying attention. Do you know many of the Confederate bigwigs?”
I hesitated. “President Davis goes to St. Paul’s church— Charles’ church. So does General Lee when he’s in town. I have met a few majors and colonels and such, but—”
“But what?”
I felt the same revulsion I’d felt before delivering Robert’s Bible—as though I was betraying Charles. St. Paul’s was his church, and I had only begun attending there because of his family. They were also the ones who had introduced me to all the ranking officers I knew. To do what Robert was asking would mean betraying the St. Johns’ trust.
The guard knocked on the door just then, telling me my time was up. I was relieved. “I don’t know if I can do what you’re ask- ing or not,” I told Robert. “You’ll have to give me time to think about it.”
I gathered up my things and hurried away. I re
ally didn’t want to think about what Robert had asked me to do. I was sick to death of this war and all the difficult decisions I’d had to make, all the impossible things I’d been forced to do. I was tired of feeling torn between conflicting loyalties, choosing between my love for Charles and my love for Tessie and the others. When the nation split apart, my life had been ripped right down the middle along with it.
I emerged from the prison into the cold November afternoon, wanting nothing more than to run home and hide. But when I looked across the street to where Eli had parked the buggy, I was shocked to see Mr. St. John standing there alongside him, waiting for me.
My first response was a stab of shame, as if Charles’ father had somehow overheard my conversation with Robert and read my thoughts and had come to accuse me. But I realized that was impossible—and then a towering fear rose up inside me, overshadowing everything else. He must have come with news of Charles.
The pain that suddenly filled my chest was so intense I pray I never feel it again. Without thinking, without looking, I rushed across the street to him. I might have been run over by a carriage, for I never even looked.
“Oh, God . . . has something happened to Charles?”
For a moment, Mr. St. John seemed taken aback. “No . . . no, I’m not here about Charles.” He saw how badly he’d frightened me and quickly apologized. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, Caroline. I haven’t heard from Charles.”
I leaned against the buggy and closed my eyes, overwhelmed by the same sickening nausea I’d felt after I’d seen Will’s name and Jonathan’s on the casualty lists. I honestly believed I might faint.
Eli gently took my arm and helped me up onto the carriage seat. “Easy, Missy. Better sit down a minute.”
“I’m very sorry,” Mr. St. John repeated. “Are you all right?”
I nodded. “As long as Charles is okay, I’ll be fine.”
“Well . . .” He cleared his throat. “What I’ve come to discuss with you is very serious, but it has nothing directly to do with Charles’ safety. Would you prefer to drive home and talk about this?”
“I don’t know . . . tell me what it’s about.”
“It has to do with Libby Prison.” He tilted his head toward the building across the street.
“The prison? Tell me now.”
He sighed, then studied the ground for a moment as if searching for words. “It has recently come to my attention that you have been a regular visitor there, and frankly . . . well, I was shocked to hear it. I didn’t believe Major Turner when he first told me you went there, but he suggested I drive down and see for myself. And so I have.”
I was dumbfounded. “I’ve never tried to keep my visits a secret from you . . . or anyone else.”
“I understand you’re visiting a specific prisoner?”
“Yes, my cousin Robert Hoffman. Why?”
“Just how is this man related to you . . . if I might ask?”
I couldn’t believe he was interrogating me this way. My heart continued to pound as my fear slowly transformed into anger. I struggled not to show it. “Robert is related by marriage. My mother’s sister—who grew up here in Richmond—married Philip Hoffman, Robert’s uncle. They were kind enough to take me into their home in Philadelphia after my mother died. That’s where I met Robert. He is nothing more to me than a cousin, no different than my cousin Jonathan.”
Mr. St. John’s eyes met mine. “I’d like to ask you not to visit him anymore.”
“Why? All I do is bring him a little food and some reading material. Conditions in that place are deplorable.”
“From now on your boy can deliver the parcels. Major Turner will see that your cousin gets them.”
“That’s not the point. Doesn’t the Bible say we’re supposed to visit the sick and those who are in prison?”
“Does Charles know you’re going there to see that man?”
I shook my head. I don’t know why I’d never told Charles, but I hadn’t. At first, it didn’t seem important. After I’d carried the Bible to the Union lines, I was afraid to tell him, afraid my guilt would bleed between the lines, staining my letters with it. I could no longer meet Mr. St. John’s gaze.
“Listen, Caroline, I’m sure your intentions are innocent enough. But in many people’s eyes, your actions are scandalous. The fact that you’re helping an enemy soldier calls your loyalty into question. Visiting a man in close quarters without a proper chaperone puts your reputation at risk. I’m going to ask you again for Charles’ sake—and for the sake of your own reputation— please stop coming here to the prison.”
For a long moment, I couldn’t speak. He was right, of course. I would have to send Robert a note in my next parcel, explaining why I could no longer come. I sat with my head bowed, staring at my hands for such a long time, Mr. St. John interpreted my silence as acquiescence and got ready to leave.
“Thank you for understanding. Good day, Caroline.”
I finally looked up, and this time my eyes met Eli’s. There was no anger in them, no reproach, yet I knew before I even asked his counsel what his answer would be.
“Mr. St. John . . . wait!”
He turned and slowly limped back as I climbed down from my carriage.
“I’m sorry, but I have to refuse your request. I will write to Charles myself and tell him all my reasons for visiting Robert. And Eli will stay right beside me from now on as a chaperone. But I believe that obeying Christ is more important than worrying about what other people think. Robert is not an enemy soldier but a prisoner, a friend suffering inhuman conditions. Jesus said that whatever we do for the least of our brethren, we do for Him.”
Mr. St. John turned so abruptly and walked away that I wasn’t able to see his face. But I saw Eli’s. And his smile could have lit up the darkest prison cell.
I wrote to Charles that evening, telling him the same things I’d told his father. I asked for neither his permission nor his blessing but concluded by saying that if he were ever captured, I would pray that the women up north would show their enemies the same Christian kindness I was showing to Robert. Two days later, I gave the letter to Jonathan to deliver. He was returning to the warfront, the wound to his arm finally healed. Sally and I went to the train station to see him off.
The moment Jonathan’s train disappeared from sight, Sally gave up all pretense of bravery and fell into my arms, weeping. I rode home with her, trying my best to comfort her. The servants brought tea and pulled one of the parlor sofas close to the fire so we could warm ourselves after our farewell on the chilly train platform. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I didn’t carry on like this the last time Jonathan left.”
“Sally . . . have you fallen in love with him?” I asked gently.
She began weeping all over again. “I’ve spent so much time with him these past few weeks, talking to him, taking care of him . . . and he is the sweetest, most wonderful man I’ve ever known. If anything happens to him . . . if I never see him again . . . I don’t know what I would do or how I would live.”
I gathered her in my arms, soothing her the way Tessie always soothed me. “I think you’ve answered my question. You’re in love with him. And if it’s any consolation, Jonathan has been in love with you for three years.” I smiled, but she was too distraught to return it.
“What am I going to do, Caroline? How can you stand not seeing the man you love, having him so far away? And in so much danger?”
“I can’t stand it. I hate it. I know you’ve always supported the war, but I wish it would end right this minute, before one more person has to die.”
“I think I understand why you’ve never cheered like everyone else,” Sally said as she blew her nose. “I can’t believe I was naïve enough to think the war was glorious.”
“War may not be glorious, but it does take courage to stand up for your convictions like Jonathan and Charles are doing. That’s what my father told me before he left. He said every
man—and every woman—needs to do what they feel is the right thing to do in this war.”
“Is that why you visit your Yankee friend in Libby Prison?” Sally asked. She spoke just above a whisper.
I shivered, but not from the November chill. “Yes . . . how did you hear about Robert?”
“My father. He’s furious with you.”
“Because I refused to stop going there?”
“Yes, and because everyone in Richmond is talking about you. Helen Taylor and her mother are spreading gossip about you all over town. Daddy hates a scandal.”
“Did your father also tell you why I refused? That it’s because the Bible says when we visit those in prison it’s as if we’re visiting Jesus himself?”
Sally reached for the teapot and poured each of us a cup of tea. She wouldn’t look at me. “You have to understand my father. He’s used to getting his own way. He was very angry with you for not leaving Richmond with us last May. This incident at the prison only made matters worse. He feels responsible for you. You should try to smooth things over with him, Caroline.”
“How? He won’t be happy unless I stop going to the prison altogether, right?”
“I suppose not. But he’s threatening to write to Charles about you.”
I shivered again. “Let me ask you a question. If your father was angry with Jonathan . . . if he forbade you to see him . . . would you marry him anyway?”
Sally set her cup on the tea cart before answering. “I could never have imagined going against Daddy’s wishes before the war started. But I also couldn’t have imagined working with all those wounded men at the hospital. Now, after all we’ve been through . . . yes. I would marry Jonathan whether Daddy approved or not.”
I closed my eyes in relief. “I hope your brother feels the same way you do.”
The battle we had all been expecting took place at Fredericksburg on December 13. Once again, the victorious Confederates halted another Union drive to take Richmond. And once again, Sally and I joined with the other women of Richmond in the heartbreaking ritual of reading the casualty lists. Neither Jonathan nor Charles was listed among the more than five thousand names.