Different Sin (27 page)

“Well, reckon I’m glad I didn’t see that.”

“Hell, Alice— Sorry. But you ought to have stayed in Washington once you made it there. This is no place for a woman.”

She shrugged. “Reckon it ain’t much fun for anyone. But I told you, I still mean to do what I set out to. Anyhow, I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

“I am. Only—”

“I reckon you weren’t cut out for a war correspondent yourself,” Al said. “You look downright awful. You’ve got terrible circles under your eyes.” Her fingers stroked his face a moment as if to smooth them away, pulled lightly through his beard. “You oughtn’t to set up drawing this late.” She smiled, then reached up to kiss him.

David pulled abruptly away.

Al drew back and looked at him a moment, looked away flushing. “I reckon you’re right,” she said in a small voice. “Next thing you know we’d be at it again.

“David. You know, even upset as I was— I’m not some camp follower. I wouldn’t— wouldn’t have— if I wasn’t awfully fond of you.” She blushed furiously, twisted the tail of her shirt around her fingers.

“I know,” David said. He sat numbly searching for words, staring at her boyish crop of curls. Hell, he was fond enough of her. If only he could bring himself to respond to her the way any other man would.

She wasn’t like any woman he’d met, that was damn sure. Maybe it would be possible. She’d made her feelings for him pretty plain. Maybe he needn’t be doomed to a life of loneliness after all.

Christ, she was sitting there waiting for some response. He put an arm around her shoulders. “Hell, I know that, Alice,” he said softly.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The rains continued, churning fields and roads to mud through a second week of intermittent fighting. On May 20
^th
, after repulsing a Confederate attack, Grant ordered the army to march from Spotsylvania Courthouse southeast toward Richmond.

Sunshine was drying the road as Grant and his staff moved along the route taken by Hancock’s advance corps a day earlier. The bright sunlight after days of rain and mud was a tonic. Here and there men broke into a few bars of song, trudging along in time to “John Brown’s Body” or “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” David felt his spirits lift. He smiled at Al riding alongside him.

Al grinned back. “Seems like everyone’s glad to get shut of those darn woods, get out into some open country,” she said, waving her hand at the cleared farmland around them.

“And to leave those bloody Reb entrenchments behind,” Alf Waud put in, riding up alongside them. “It’s what Grant’s after, to force Lee to fight him in the open field.”

“I suppose,” David said, wishing he could forget the war a while. In the two weeks since crossing the Rapidan, casualty figures had climbed to over 30,000 Union soldiers killed or wounded. The road to Fredericksburg was clogged with ambulances struggling to move along the muddy ruts. The memory of men applauding Grant’s decision flashed through his mind. At least Colin, Pete and young Sean were unhurt. He’d caught a quick glimpse of them as they marched out ahead of Grant’s command a day ago. Though others of their company— Ezra Hollings had lost a leg and— David sighed, tried to fix his attention on the rolling farms, still sown with corn and tobacco despite the war.

Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia also headed south, paralleling the Yankees in a desperate race toward Richmond. By the end of a week of skirmishing and night marches, the soldiers’ momentarily buoyant spirits had vanished; men sank to the ground to sleep dressed in the mud-caked garments they’d worn since leaving the wilderness, stumbling to their feet again with fatigue barely lessened.

Grant’s efforts to force Lee onto open ground were thwarted as the Confederate general outmaneuvered the invading Union army. Entrenched Rebel troops met Federal corps at the North Anna River. After brief skirmishing Grant withdrew his forces to the north shore of the river, dismantling pontoon bridges before daylight on the 27
^th
of May.

“So what he’s bound to try now,” Alf Waud told some half dozen other reporters that morning, “is to outflank Lee, make some diversionary thrust while the main body of the army circles south toward the Pamunkey.” Waud drew in the dirt with a pointed stick as he spoke, outlining the Confederate defenses, drawing a circle around Lee’s right flank.

David stared into his coffee mug, listening halfheartedly to the newsmen argue strategy as they gulped their breakfast. Christ, he thought, all those maneuvers, diversionary thrusts, flanking movements, all of them aimed at more of the killing they’d seen so goddamn much of. Hell, the Peace Democrats were right in their demands for a negotiated peace.

Not that he’d voice his opinion and be labeled a Copperhead traitor, probably lose his press pass with the army to boot. Have to hightail it home in disgrace. The way he’d hightailed it down here in the first place. David gripped the tin mug tighter, cradling its warm comfort in his fingers. He was no Reb sympathizer. That wasn’t his flaw. He knew damn well why he couldn’t share the other men’s enthusiasm for pressing the war. What else could you expect from a damn nancy?

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The mare’s hooves churned up clouds of yellowish-brown dust. David coughed, wiped his handkerchief over a face grimy with sweat-streaked dirt. It seemed a hell of a lot longer than four days since they’d crossed back to the north bank of the North Anna River. As Waud predicted, the army had circled south, crossing the Pamunkey May 28, only to find the Rebs already entrenched behind Totopotomy Creek, less than ten miles northeast of Richmond. Grant ordered still another flanking movement in the drive to get between Lee and Richmond. David climbed gratefully from his saddle as they returned to the general headquarters. Hell, he thought, I’m too old to be riding in this heat like a boy.

Still, at least he had a horse. Look at the infantrymen, making forced night marches. They must be dead on their feet. Look at Al, for that matter. You wouldn’t think a woman would have the stamina to keep up like this, spending damn near every day covering another skirmish, up half the night writing dispatches.

Crazy as her scheme was, you had to admire her. He glanced over at her, caught her quick grin, drew in his breath in a resurgence of the hope he’d felt that dismal night at Spotsylvania.

A commotion rose among the staff officers as couriers dashed up with news. Sheridan’s cavalry had taken the crossroads of Cold Harbor, less than a day’s march from Richmond; a counterassault by Confederate forces had been delayed by the onset of darkness; Sleepless men waited tensely for Wright’s Sixth Corps, making a night march to reinforce Sheridan’s forces, then cheered exultantly as the Confederate infantrymen were driven from the crossroads after a day’s fierce fighting.

An all-out attack on the Rebs seemed imminent. If Grant could take Richmond, David thought, there’d be an end to the war. For once he was as caught up in the war talk as the other men: Grant had run out of room to maneuver; any further flanking moves would drive the Rebels into their Richmond fortifications. The ordered shift of Hancock’s men from the extreme right to left of the army would give Grant the strength to attack before the Confederates could fully entrench.

Anticipation slowly died as Hancock’s corps stumbled into their new positions well past daybreak, exhausted and desperately in need of rest, at the end of a twelve-mile night march. The scheduled dawn attack was postponed twenty-four hours, giving, men and officers knew, the Confederates ample time to strengthen their breastworks.

“They’ve bloody well entrenched six miles,” Waud reported, “with their flanks protected by the Totopotomy and Chickahominy. But it’s unlikely Grant’ll back off from a frontal assault now. He’s got his back to the wall. It’s my guess he’ll go ahead whatever the cost.”

“Christ,” David breathed. He watched Waud and the others disperse. He ought to take advantage of the delay to find a position to view the battle tomorrow, he told himself grimly. He rode slowly behind the Union lines, checking for elevations that would give a clear view of the assault, once or twice dismounting to do a quick sketch of sprawled infantrymen. He worked his way to the left flank and stood debating a moment whether to look for Pete and Colin. He looked around him at the tired, dispirited men. Hell, even if he found them in the growing darkness, they’d hardly be in a mood for visiting.

He prepared to mount.

“Wait a minute, mister!” David halted. The soldier who’d called him pointed at his sketchpad. “Can you spare me a sheet of that?” he demanded.

“I guess so.” David tore a page from his pad, watched, startled, as the infantryman tore it in two, then tore the halves, handing the scraps to nearby soldiers. “You won’t fit much of a letter on that,” David blurted.

“Ain’t writing one.” The man pulled the stub of a pencil from his pocket and began printing his name and home address. Around him the others did the same. Finished, the soldier stripped off his uniform jacket and fastened the paper carefully to its back with a few bent pins.

“Ain’t writing a letter,” he repeated. “I just don’t relish the notion of gettin’ killed tomorrow and my folks never knowing for certain how I ended up.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Rain fell in wild bursts that halted shortly before dawn. The sky was barely light as the signal for attack sounded at half-past-four on June 3
^rd
. The line of Union infantrymen scrambled from shallow rifle pits they’d thrown up the night before and advanced across open ground toward Rebel trenches a few hundred yards away. Musketry and artillery exploded from Confederate works dug in intricate, zigzag designs into a low chain of ridges, raking the Union soldiers with crossfire. The blue-clad soldiers were mowed down like wheat before a scythe.

David gripped his glasses, his gaze riveted to the small portion of the battle he could see, his breath catching in his throat. Those soldiers who still stood were flinging themselves to the ground, their attempt to assault the Confederate lines ended. Less than half an hour had passed since the order to advance.

Seven thousand blue-clad men, wounded or dead, lay on the field between the Union and Confederate lines. Union soldiers obeyed orders to entrench where they lay, digging in along the thwarted lines of attack. Heavy firing continued, making any attempt to rescue the wounded a suicidal mission.

The cries and pleas of wounded men, sprawled among five acres of corpses, carried past the lines, resounding through the night. Grant declined to request a temporary truce. David shuddered in horror, trying not to imagine the torment of men trapped out on that field without help, without food or water. “Why in hell won’t he ask for a few hours to get them out of there?” he demanded.

For once, the circle of reporters was silent, “I daresay he’d consider it an admission of defeat,” Waud said finally, his face set.

By the third day, the cries of the wounded had died away. The nauseating stench of unburied bodies drifted over the camp. A six-hour truce to bury the dead and rescue the wounded was at last arranged.

David stood, simultaneously drawn and repelled, watching the work detail head to the field. Hell, he told himself, Leslie’s not going to want pictures of Union dead. But he could be of some use if any of the wounded were still alive, at the least offer a drink of water. He could be man enough for that. He filled his canteen and Al’s, thankful that for once she had the sense to shrink back from horror, and walked doggedly out past the Union entrenchments.

The ground was strewn with corpses, blackened and swelling in the heat. David stumbled through them, trying desperately not to gag, finding no one left alive.

Along the Union picket line, groups of Union and Confederate soldiers stood chatting in apparent friendship, trading sacks of coffee and sugar for tobacco. David stared at them in dulled amazement and plodded on. He skirted a swampy patch of ground and stopped to get his bearings. Hell, there was nothing he could do out here. He’d head on back, he thought with relief.

A few yards away, at the edge of a burial detail, a heavyset Union infantryman, his right hand bound in a blood darkened bandage, jabbed a spade at the ground. He swayed weakly, leaned on the spade a moment, then dug into the earth again with grim determination. David started, then hurried toward him. “Pete! What are you doing here? Where’s— For God’s sake, you’re hurt! You’ve got to get to a field hospital!”

“Not till I see him laid to rest proper. Down far enough so’s no animals’ll be clawing him up.”

David followed Pete’s gaze. Colin’s body, recognizable only by the shock of red hair, was as bloated and darkened as the others, his maggoty intestines protruding through a gaping rent in his stomach.

“Oh my God!” David squeezed his eyes shut, forced himself to open them and turn to Pete. “I— Here, give me that.” He took the shovel and started digging, back muscles straining as he thrust into the ground, fiercely grateful that the awkwardness of the unfamiliar labor helped fix his mind on the task at hand. They lowered Colin into the new grave, covered his body with earth.

Pete swayed again. David took in the pallor of his face, the bloody bandage. “Come on,” he told him. “There’s nothing else we can do. I’ll help you get back to the doctors.”

Pete stood unmoving, staring down at the grave.

“Pete.” David laid a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t stay here.”

The infantryman shrugged off David’s hand. “What in Jesus’ name do you know? Ain’t nothin’ to do—” His voice was a ragged whisper. “I could’ve— I got these here fingers blowed off, but I still could’ve— Sure and I didn’t give a damn for nothin’ but my own skin. Didn’t try goin’ after him when it’s knowing I was that he was layin’ here all these days.” He clenched his good fist, a shudder running through his body.

Oh Christ! David thought, what can I say to him? Hell, Pete hadn’t intended his words for him. But he couldn’t just stand there. “Pete, he’d never have pulled through with a wound like that. You’d have just gotten yourself killed as well.”

Pete turned on him. “Sure, I know what you’re thinkin! It should’ve been me ‘stead of him.”

“Christ Pete, I didn’t— I— Let me help you back,” he said finally.