Different Sin (26 page)

“Thanks,” David managed.

“Sure.” Cadwallader stared down at him with curiosity. “You been here all morning? What’s the news from Hancock’s lines?”

David shook his head numbly. Cadwallader gave him another curious glance and a brief wave of farewell. He’s not much past thirty, David thought, watching him ride off, and in charge of that whole
Herald
crowd. Riding up and down skirmish lines without a thought for his safety. While I sit here like a coward—

Of course, he’s not a damned nancy.

No wonder I deserted that poor kid yesterday. It’s what you’d expect from a nancy. Damn perverted nancy. Oh Christ!

I ought to at least see to the horse. He stumbled to his feet, fed and watered the animal. The mare nuzzled him, then shied skittishly as artillery thundered. David climbed back up the hill. No use even pretending he had the guts to ride toward the skirmish lines. He reached the cleared top, looked over toward the turnpike. The battle had surged toward the command post; Warren’s rear lines straggled back toward headquarters. Shells crashed onto the knoll.

David stood stunned, staring at Grant as the general calmly puffed on a cigar, then raced down the back of the hill again, grabbed the mare’s reins and flung himself on her back. They crossed Germanna Road, well away from the battle, before he pulled up and dismounted, sank panting to the ground.

Rounds of musketry, wild yells and cheers sounded in the distance, an echo of the day before. He stared down at his hands, cursing his cowardice. Damn cowardly pervert. Unclothed men flexed their muscles, advanced on him with knowing, wanting grins.

Dammit, no!

He’d managed to hold onto his sketchpad. He looked down at its blank pages. Hell, he could still draw, still give Leslie what he was paying him for. He willed away the taunting images, closed his eyes till he saw Union troops charging fiercely across the meadow, branches lopped off by bullets, men writhing in agony, stretcher bearers staggering from the woods, a soldier blowing his brains out seconds ahead of approaching flames, that boy he’d left— He dug a pencil from his pocket and began to sketch.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Cadwallader sat his horse with obvious impatience, stuffing reporters’ dispatches into his saddlebags. Two days of heavy fighting had petered out to sporadic skirmishes by the third day, the seventh of May. With communication by rail and telegraph disrupted, the
Herald
chief had announced he would ride to Washington City with the accounts of
Herald
correspondents and casualty lists compiled from field hospital records. “Eight to nine thousand on our hospital books,” his voice boomed out to another reporter. “I’d put it at an equal number dead and prisoners. Maybe half that many for the Rebs.”

“My God,” David breathed softly. He stood at the edge of a cluster of reporters from rival papers, who milled around uneasily, arguing the advisability of accompanying Cadwallader.

“And no better than a standoff,” Alf Waud said disgustedly. “The talk in the regiments is that Grant and Meade will hightail it back over the Rapidan like Hooker before them.”

David nodded silently. Ed Forbes touched his shoulder. “We oughta make up our minds which one of us is going with him. Leslie’s liable to blow his stack if we let
Harper’s
or
Leggett’s Illustrated
beat us out.”

“I suppose,” David said. His thoughts came with difficulty, as if he still stumbled through wilderness thickets. Ed wasn’t eager to leave the army with Grant’s next move still unrevealed, he realized. He should offer to go. Hell, he ought to leave for good, run back to New York like the coward he was. Only how could he face—

“I’ll take them for you. You and Ed both.” David started, looked into Al’s determined face. “I’m going with them. Reckon that’s the best way to get my dispatch telegraphed to my editor.”

“Say, would you? Thanks, we’d appreciate it.” Ed dug into his knapsack, pulling out a carefully wrapped bundle of sketches.

“It’s liable to be dangerous,” David protested, trying to recall the scraps of information he’d just overheard. “Grant can’t control the Reb guerrillas between here and Washington. And you’re likely to run into Confederate troops on Germanna Road.”

Al shrugged. “Cadwallader’s planning to cut over to Ely’s Ford to avoid them. He says once we’ve crossed the river, we can catch a ride to Washington on a hospital train. They’ll be under escort all the way.”

“But still, for a—” David stopped himself. He couldn’t give her away in front of Ed and the half dozen other reporters within earshot. Everyone knew they’d been bunking together all winter; he couldn’t expose her without ruining her reputation. Well, hell, she’d be in as much danger with the army. If only she’d come to her senses and stay in Washington once she got there! “Watch out for yourself,” he muttered, holding out his sketches.

“I reckon I’ll be all right,” Al assured him. “I expect I’ll see you again in four, five days.” She gave him a quick smile and reached out for his drawings; her fingers pressed his a moment as she took them.

Cadwallader’s party trotted off. The rest broke up into aimlessly chatting groups, or took advantage of the late afternoon lull to grab a few hours rest. David lay on his blanket and waited tensely for sleep. Memories mocked him, as they had the night before.

The hell with it, he thought, rolling the blanket up again. He didn’t need to be alone with his thoughts right now. He sipped black coffee, listening halfheartedly as reporters second-guessed Grant’s strategy, finally decided to see how Pete and Colin were doing while he had the chance.

He saddled the mare and headed down Brock Road. The Second Corps was stretched out along the road behind breastworks whose logs were charred and blackened. Men sprawled in sleep or sat in numb exhaustion, watching him with dulled, smoke-streaked faces. The stench of smoke hung over the wilderness; saplings split jaggedly in two by cannon balls rose from the blackened forest floor. It seemed impossible that only three days had passed since he’d ridden with Al through woods sprinkled with dogwood and wildflowers.

All that time he’d spent with Al. He’d sensed Al’s interest in him. And his own, damning response. But he’d managed to deny it, explain it away. Till he could no longer avoid facing the fact of his perversion. No wonder Pete had ragged him with taunts about his chicken. He’d probably seen through him all along. David stiffened, anticipating Pete’s mocking greeting. He ought to turn back.

He’d come within sight of their regimental colors though. It would look pretty odd, riding this far and then not even stopping by. He dismounted, searched out their company, hailed them as he walked up.

Colin glanced up at David, gave him a cursory nod. Sean sat slumped against him, breathing noisily in his sleep. The others lay on the ground, rifles at their sides, or sat in exhausted silence, washing hardtack down with coffee, pulling on tightly gripped pipes. David sank to his haunches, taking in their drawn, dirt-smeared faces. Hell, he thought, abashed, they have a lot more on their minds than my sins.

He looked around again, aware now of how their circle had shrunk. He wet his lips. Bert was there and— “Where’s Pat McFarland?” he asked.

Pete looked at him indifferently, took his pipe from his mouth. “Pat’s turned up his toes.”

“He did what?”

“You heard me.” Pete replaced his pipe, drew smoke in fiercely.

Sean sat up. “Pat got a bullet right through his eye,” he said. “It was running all down his face. He kept clawing at it and twitching till he—” He broke off, his face contorted.

Colin clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be goin’ to pieces now, kid,” he said softly.

“Christ!” David breathed. “I’m sorry.” They looked at him, not answering.

“This here march tonight,” Pete said finally. “Would you be knowing if Grant means to run back ‘cross the river?”

David spread his hands helplessly. “I’ve heard talk, but—”

Pete grunted, lapsed back into silence. Darkness began to fall. He ought to start back to headquarters, David thought. He stood, then snapped to alertness at the sound of a commotion a little ways down the road. The others got up, straining to see.

David peered through his field glasses. Grant, his short figure dwarfed by his big bay, was trotting placidly south, his staff officers following. Waves of wild cheering swelled as the entourage rode into view.

Colin thumped Pete on the back, yelling, “Hey, old woman! Hey! He’s headin’ towards Richmond! He means to fight!”

A grin spread slowly over Pete’s face. “Sure, it’s about time.” He pummeled Colin’s arm, his grin broadening. “About time, old man!”

Sean whooped, tossed his cap into the air. Men threw off their fatigue to rush up to Grant as his party neared, reaching hands out to touch him, screaming their approval, ignoring staff officers’ warnings to quiet the noise before the enemy was alerted. Wildly yelling soldiers buffeted David as he stood alone in dazed incomprehension, as the men cheered and cheered the prospect of more of the bloody fighting they had just endured.

RAIN DRUMMED ON THE SLANTING WALLS OF THE SHELTER TENT, seeped damply through the canvas. David hunched over his sketchpad, ignoring the clamminess of the damp flannel shirt against his skin, filling in details and instructions to engravers with grim care. His back and shoulders ached. He set down his pencil and massaged his cramped fingers, wondering dully if exhaustion would grant him a few hours sleep. His candle flickered over the oilcloth-covered stack of drawings he’d completed since the night march six days before: the record of a week of unrelenting horror, a record he’d made compulsively, reworking his sketches with a fierce concentration that served only partially to keep his anguished self-knowledge at bay.

Leslie should be pleased, at any rate. He’d be forwarding him enough stirring scenes of battle. David stared down at his pad, memory coloring in the images of frenzied pain and death so inadequately conveyed by pencil and paper. He thought back to the soldiers cheering Grant’s decision to carry on the fight. The incomprehension he’d felt then had only deepened. How in hell could anyone find anything stirring in these scenes of slaughter? Or call taking some damn piece of ground worth all those deaths?

Zach might be able to make some sense of it, he thought suddenly. God, how he wished he could talk to him right now! Well, he’d write him. He’d heard there’d be a chance to send out mail in a day or two. He grabbed his pencil, flipped to a clean sheet of paper.

No, dammit no! What in hell was he thinking of? He’d broken himself of Zach! And Zach had made it pretty damn clear he wanted nothing further to do with him. Even if he did respond, writing each other now would be like pus festering in an amputation.

Though Zach had been right about him all along. He could still— Goddamn it, no! Just because he’d found out what he was didn’t mean he had to give in to perversion.

The tent flap flew open to a gust of rain. Al scrambled in, raindrops flying from her curls. More droplets cascaded from the rubber blanket she let slide from her shoulders. She grinned at him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shake water over you like an old hound dog.”

David smiled with unexpected pleasure. “That’s all right. I’m glad to see you. I thought you’d be back a day or two ago. Though I’d hoped—”

“Reckon we would’ve,” Al interrupted. “Only we got caught by a party of Rebs while we were still heading to Washington City.”

“What! My God! What happened? How did you—”

Al laughed. “Whoa! Give me a chance to tell you.” She dropped down next to him. “Well, we got ‘cross the river at Ely’s Ford okay. Only there weren’t any trains fixing to go. So Sylvanus thought we oughta ride on to Rappahannock Station. There wasn’t any moon that night, so we were pretty much picking our way down the road when ‘fore we knew what was happening we were surrounded by cavalry pointing their revolvers at us and yelling ‘Surrender!’”

“My God! You must’ve been scared to death.”

“Well, it was sorta scary. They got hold of all those casualty lists Sylvanus was carrying and that fancy rig of his, and figured him for a colonel ‘stead of a correspondent. So they took us into custody, kept us under guard all night. It looked like we’d end up in Libby Prison for sure, and I was starting to wonder what I oughta do. Well, next morning we started riding toward the Confederate lines—still under guard, of course—and darned if we didn’t run right into a bunch of Sheridan’s pickets. Them and the Rebs started in skirmishing, so while their mind was off of us, we skeddadled on out of there and made our way to Washington. So it was lucky I hadn’t given myself away.

“Anyhow, the Rebs took all the papers they found on us, so we had to write our dispatches over from memory ‘fore we could send them. Sylvanus’ paper was real pleased with him though. They made him chief correspondent here; he was only acting chief before. Only the Rebs got a bunch of the sketches I was carrying for you. I managed to fold some of them real small ‘fore they could see, and hide them under my clothes. I left them with
Leslie’s
Washington bureau. I’m sorry ‘bout the others though.”

“Never mind them,” David said. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“I reckon we weren’t really in that much danger,” Al said. “Though I’m darn glad we got away when we did. I hear I missed a big battle here yesterday.”

“Thank God you missed it! You can’t imagine— There’s been fighting ever since you left. Wounded men stretched out all along the road, just lying there waiting for the doctors to get to them. And the battle yesterday— The part I saw—It was through my field glasses, but still— The Confederate troops and ours were pressed up on opposite sides of the breastworks, just standing there slaughtering each other. Jabbing their bayonets into men’s guts through chinks in the logs. Firing canister point-blank right through them. And more and more fresh troops sent in, piling on top of men lying there bleeding in the mud. Hell, I saw men climb right over their bodies to get atop the breastworks, shoot down into the opposite side. Even club men down like wild animals.”