Chapter 13
13
Sally pulled her shawl around her shoulders and sat alone in the dark on the porch of her house—what had once been the overseer’s home. A man who was crueler than some and kinder than others (though kindness was not a word she would have used to describe Robert Grafton when he was running this place), and had disappeared into the Valley once Peter had set them all free. Maybe he was fighting in the army now, maybe he had found another place to work. A plantation of real size.
She hated it when Joseph was gone. She fretted that this would be the time that some trash looking to bully an old man would choose not to believe his papers or, perhaps, would be unable to read them. And Joseph would wind up like that Zach Covington, one of Leveritt Covington’s slaves, who kept escaping and getting caught, until the day that slave catchers beat him so bad he was worthless and they lynched him, with his master’s permission, there on the spot. Robert Grafton made all of Mr.Steadman’s people look at the body before someone cut it down, marching them four miles down the turnpike to see it, and this on a day when they could have been working. That was how important it was to Grafton that they witness the price of running and understood how munificent he was as an overseer.
Zach had been strung up on a lone tree by the pike, white stone and pale dirt, the land behind him undulant and gentle as the Opequon, as the river lolled against the banks after days without rain.
This was easily ten years ago now, and even her grandchildren had had to see it. How, she had thought at the time, would any child not be haunted forever by a corpse dangling from a tree branch, the body’s bare back striated with coal-black lines, the runnels filled with dried blood from the lash, and the bare feet void of toes? They had cut off Zach’s toes that day to make it harder to run, she supposed, perhaps before deciding to lynch him, but that had also made him incapable of doing much good around the Covington plantation and so his punishment had become inevitable. She’d wanted to look away and her daughter tried to keep her own children from staring, but there was no ignoring the dead man, because Robert Grafton would not allow it. He barked that making them see this was charity that someday would save their lives.
Now, of course, the white people were hanging each other, too. At least those were the stories she was hearing. A cavalry officer named Custer had executed a couple of John Mosby’s rangers, and Mosby had retaliated by hanging a couple of Yankees.
And somewhere on the turnpike were Joseph and Libby. But they’d had to go. They’d had to. You couldn’t let a good man die if you could save him.
Still, it would be hard to forgive herself for telling Libby there was a Union officer close to death at the Bingham place if anything happened to the woman or Joseph. She was the one who had set this in motion, and now she could only pray that they came home to her safely.
Joseph slowed the horses, and the wagon came to a stop. The sun had set, and he guessed they had perhaps fifteen minutes of daylight. Already, the woods were dark.
“This is the spot,” he told Libby. “There are the maples and that’s the evergreen,” he added, pointing.
“Good. You wait here. I’ll go get them.”
He had agreed to this plan and this division of labor, but only because it was the less dangerous of the two options.
Or, at least, the two options that Libby would even consider. The third option, leaving the guns from the men she had killed that morning in the woods was unacceptable to her. She wanted the weapons, and she would have the weapons. He knew her. Having her retrieve the Colts and the carbine made more sense because if someone came upon them as he was emerging from the woods with the small armory, he’d be hanged and she’d be jailed. If someone spotted them, it was better he was just a Black man driving a wagon than a Black man with serious firepower in his arms.
Though, he was aware, he was a Black man with a wagon filled with whiskey and medicine. More whiskey and medicine than he’d ever seen in one place. The bluebellies, thank the Lord, felt guilty for leaving their man to die when they had moved out, but if he were caught with that plenty it wouldn’t be pretty. A quartermaster had even given them some ham, claiming he was an abolitionist, though Joseph could see the man was infatuated with Libby, not interested in him. If any rebel drew back the canvas, all that cargo would be hard to explain.
No, not hard to explain. Impossible. A Union pharmacy chest with small bottles of ipecac, calomel, and mercurial ointment? They’d lynch him for sure.
And if he were spotted by slave catchers? Even with his proof of emancipation, without Libby present, they’d take him.
So, he sat on the seat, the reins in his hands, and listened as carefully as the horses. Horses knew they were prey, and they had become Joseph’s pickets whenever he was with them.
And, sure enough, they pricked up their ears, and then, a moment, later, he heard the tin clatter of kits jangling on—given the speed—cavalry horses. He sat up a little taller and braced for the worst.
And, in a moment, they were upon him. Confederate cavalry, four riders. They started to ride past the wagon, uncaring, but the respite—and his hope that they had urgent business elsewhere and would ignore him—passed in barely a heartbeat, because one of the cavalrymen saw he was Black and called for a halt. The men surrounded Libby’s two horses, and the six animals eyed each other warily.
One of the riders, a lieutenant, brought his own mount beside Joseph.
“You ain’t a runaway, because you’re headin’ south,” he said. “And you ain’t gonna run far with them plow horses pretending to be stallions and that anchor they’s pullin’.”
“No, sir,” he agreed.
“It’s gonna be dark soon. You got papers?”
“I do, sir. My name is Joseph Steadman. I can show you.”
The officer put out his hand for them. The men with him were young, barely more than boys. It was too dark to see their eyes beneath their hats, but he felt the threat. Finally getting into the fracas, and he, an old Black man, could be pleasant game for them: an easy quarry before a real fight. But maybe he’d be lucky and they’d view wasting energy on him as beneath them. He couldn’t decide what they were thinking. Slowly he reached into his jacket pocket for the most important piece of paper he’d ever own, and handed it to the lieutenant. He felt the angst he felt always when someone else was holding it.
“What are you doing north of Berryville?” the lieutenant asked after scanning it.
No answer was going to work, Joseph knew, at least one spoken by him. There wasn’t a lie in the world that was going to prevent them from pulling back the canvas and either arresting him or hanging him right here and now. He could say the provisions were for their army, but as soon as they pressed for details, he’d be finished. But it was the best of all his bad options, and his mind was scouring for a regiment he could use and the name of a colonel. He was, he knew, stalling: only postponing the inevitable.
“He drove me to Charles Town.”
Joseph turned at the sound of the voice, as did the four riders. There, emerging from the woods, was Libby. She hadn’t the weapons with her, thank God. But, still, Joseph realized now, he’d been hoping she’d have the common sense to stay hidden and save herself. There was nothing she could do to save him. Not anymore.
“And who are you?” the lieutenant pressed. None of the men tipped their slouch hats.
“I’m Mrs.Libby Steadman, wife of Peter Steadman, Second Virginia. This man, Joseph, works for me. Together we run a gristmill in Berryville.”
“Together?”
“Together.”
“What were you doin’ in them woods.”
She frowned at him. Then she said, “I was doing the same thing in the woods that you are likely to do in the woods. Or bears or squirrels or deer.”
One of the riders chuckled, but stopped the second the lieutenant turned to him.
“And what were you doin’ up in Charles Town?”
“The damsel is about spent. My cousin lives there, and he’s a blacksmith. He made me a new one.”
“Ain’t you a damsel?”
“A damsel’s part of a mill. It fits over the spindle. He also repaired some of the cribbing and hammered out a new gudgeon. He was doing me a favor. Now, we grind a lot of flour for the army—for you. And I’d like to get home because we have a quartermaster coming tomorrow afternoon, and we need to get back to work as soon as Joseph here has installed that cribbing and replaced the old damsel.”
“Sounds like my uncle. Always replacin’ one damsel with another.”
Libby didn’t laugh. She climbed into the wagon.
“Would you please return to Joseph his papers?” she asked when she was settled. It was more a command than a question, and the lieutenant looked at the paper one last time, before handing it to Joseph.
“Get yerself home safe, Mrs.Steadman,” he said to her, and now he did tip his hat. “But you ain’t no damsel. I expect you’ll be fine.” Then he steered the horse in front of the wagon and spurred it on, and his three men followed. The soldiers galloped down the road, and neither Libby nor Joseph spoke until the sound of the hooves had disappeared.
“I thought we were out of luck,” Joseph murmured finally. He wiped his forehead. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d been sweating.
“Me too,” she agreed. He was about to prod the horses forward, when she put her hand on his to stop him.
“Not yet,” she said. Then she climbed back down from the seat and returned to the woods. But she didn’t go far. She was in there little more than a minute or two. When she emerged from the brush, her arms were full: she had with her the pistols, the powder flasks, and the carbine from the men she had executed earlier that day.
It was almost eleven at night when the two of them reached home. Jubilee and Sally were awake, which didn’t surprise Libby. She knew they’d be worried. Both greeted them outdoors when the wagon arrived, Sally wrapping her arms around Joseph with a passion that momentarily caught Libby off guard. When they pulled apart, the woman still had her hands on Joseph’s shoulders, staring up into his eyes with palpable relief.
Neither Sally nor Jubilee had dressed for bed.
Libby drew back the canvas, and Sally held a lantern over the bounty, remarking, “They gave you the hospital.”
“And the still,” Jubilee added, climbing up into the back. “I ain’t ever seen so much whiskey!”
“No, I don’t suppose you have,” Libby murmured. “I know I haven’t.”
Instantly her niece was handing a crate down to Sally and then another to Joseph, who was saying something about wanting to get the provisions inside the house so he could get the horses dried off and bedded down for the night.
“Where do you want all of this?” Sally was asking.
“Up in my bedroom,” Libby told her. Then she asked, “Is the captain awake?”
Jubilee answered, “The jackal? He might be. All he did today was sleep and eat and play cards.”
“He played cards?”
“With me. We played twenty-one. I licked him almost every game. There’s a reason his own army left him behind. If you can’t win at—”
“That’s enough, Jubilee. I’m glad he felt up to cards.”
Then Libby hoisted one of the crates from the wagon and started up the walkway into the house.
Libby sipped whiskey in the chair beside Weybridge after midnight. She had used more on the wound on the captain’s left hand and on the spot above his knee where his right leg now ended. It hadn’t been as difficult as she’d expected to douse lint in the alcohol and then dab at the injuries. She’d been afraid of hurting him, and then she’d feared having to gaze into the abyss of the amputation. But perhaps because she’d been working by the light of a lantern, it hadn’t been hard: she’d been spared having to see the minutiae of the mutilated flesh.
Of course, it was hard to be squeamish these days. This night.
There were still a few crickets out there in the dark, chirping, but they were the very last: it was fall, and soon their purling would die, too.
He was drinking whiskey with her, having chosen the alcohol over the opium in the medicine chest the Yankees had loaded onto the wagon. Across the hallway, Jubilee was supposed to be going to sleep, but Libby knew full well that she was eavesdropping.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a whiskey drinker,” he said.
“I’m not. Usually.”
“Ah. But after today?”
“That’s right.”
“What happened?” he asked.
“It was just a very long day.” She was not going to tell him the truth. She couldn’t. The dead men, the pickets, the cavalry. It was too much to verbalize tonight. Probably forever. Joseph said he didn’t plan to tell even Sally: she already knew about the dead ranger that they had buried right here. He wanted her to know nothing about the pair Libby had killed today, and how the two of them had dragged the corpses into the woods. He wanted Sally utterly innocent in the event someone ever came here asking about them.
And, certainly, Jubilee could never know.
Was there a moment for the dead when they first understood all that awaited was putrefaction and rot? That corpse in her own yard: had it opened its eyes to the blackness of dirt, the soul sober now, and understood? And those unburied corpses off the road on the way to Harper’s Ferry, did they look at each other as a coyote or crow or turkey vulture was pulling at their flesh, comprehending that while there was no pain, there was also no life, no breath, no hope? There was only…this?
What had she done? What was she doing?
“Fourteen hours on a wagon seat? Yes, that’s the definition of a long day,” Weybridge agreed, pulling her back from her musings.
“Your army certainly packed the wagon on your behalf,” she told him.
“Guilt is great motivator.”
“Oh, they did feel guilty.”
“I’m sure. But they shouldn’t. I couldn’t have gone with the army when it moved out. Whoever made the decision to leave me behind was right.”
“Well, Jeremiah will be pleased. Dr.Norton. We retrieved a lot of medicine.”
“From what I’ve heard, it’s the whiskey that will delight him.”
“It is very good.”
“I am going to be the ruin of you, Mrs.Steadman.”
“Libby.”
“In that case: Jonathan.”
“No.” She shook her head.
“No?”
“I’ll defer to my niece. I think I’ll call you Jackal, too.” Maybe it was the whiskey, but chiding him was irresistible. She could see he was smiling, which made her unexpectedly happy. She supposed her niece, in her bedroom, was, too. “You don’t have a big snout, but I can see the canine in you.” A word came to her: wolf. But she sensed he wasn’t a wolf. Not at all. He was just tall, and his face was a series of strong, sharp angles.
“I’m sure I’ve had students call me worse than Jackal.”
“Ah, but only behind your back.”
“Only.”
She leaned over for the jug and refilled her sherry glass. She saw his was empty and poured some into it. Then she said, “I can’t see you as a taskmaster.”
“I wasn’t much older than my students. I did have a reputation for being genial.”
“Even on the battlefield?”
He seemed to think about this. “Less so. There.”
“But your men liked you. I’m confident of that.” Then, for reasons she could not immediately parse, she added, “I know they liked my husband. I’m sure he’s still popular—wherever he is.”
“Jubilee said he was a captain, too, when he was wounded.”
“He was. He is. It was his leg that was shot. Not as bad as you. Not nearly that bad.”
“Good.”
“It is.” She stared at the lantern through the sherry glass, the way the flame danced behind the liquid. She was definitely tipsy, but she didn’t believe she was drunk. At least she didn’t think so. She’d never been drunk.
“But you don’t know what prison camp he’s in now.”
“No. He was in Camp Chase in Ohio. That’s where his last letter came from. He wrote that they were going to move him because it was getting too crowded, but he didn’t know where.”
“And no correspondence since?”
“Not a one. Not a word.”
There had been so many theories, so many ideas. Everyone had one. The optimistic suggested his letters had been lost in transit. The battlefield, especially here in the Valley, had been fluid. She had written him at Camp Chase, asking that her letters please be forwarded if prisoner Peter Steadman was no longer there. She’d even written to the camp’s Union commander, but she’d never heard back. There had been rumors of a smallpox outbreak at Chase earlier this year, and the timing had coincided with Peter’s last letter and his telling her that he was likely to be moved. Hundreds of prisoners—maybe a thousand—died.
“But I’m hopeful,” she added.
“There’s every reason to be,” he told her, but she wasn’t sure he believed that.
She made a decision: she liked whiskey more than sherry. She liked the warmth of it on her throat and in her chest, she liked the way the world seemed less dark and dangerous, and the fact that she had killed two men today more palatable. Even the idea she had a dead ranger buried on her property seemed a less burdensome weight on her soul.
“I hear you dictated a letter to Jubilee for your wife,” she announced. “It’s Emily, right?” The woman’s name felt thick in her mouth. It was as if the word, and all it connotated, was simultaneously a way of suggesting her fidelity to her husband and a betrayal of him.
“It is.”
“Did Jubilee tell you how we intend to mail it?”
“No.”
“She hasn’t told me, either. It’s one thing for letters we send across lines to prisoners. This is quite another.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. I’m not quite myself, I suppose.”
“Oh, I’m certainly not me,” she said. There was disappointment in his face, and so she added, “At some point, I may have to try and return to Harper’s Ferry. I hope not. But long ago I gave up trying to know the future. I could bring it then. Your letter.”
“I’d worry about you on the road. You shouldn’t go just to post a note.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t. I also wouldn’t carry with me the one you dictated to Jubilee. When I asked her, she said you used our names. You’d need to dictate a new one.”
“My God, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s fine. Tomorrow, or the next day, we can try again—if you feel up to it.”
“Thank you. I’ll be more circumspect next time.”
“And I’ll have the doctor here first thing in the morning.”
“That’s only a few hours away.”
She nodded. It was.
And there was the mill.
She rose and lifted the lantern. “You should sleep. We both should. Are you comfortable?”
“As comfortable as possible. You’ve done an awful lot for me. Thank you.”
“I’ve only done what any decent woman would do. Good night,” she said, and then she turned to leave, the room growing dark behind her and the word decent echoing in her mind.