Jacob's Ladder (60 page)

General Longstreet cannot use his right arm, General Gordon's face is fearfully mutilated, General Ewell has lost a leg, our own Lieutenant Dallas Rigler was first wounded at Fredericksburg and later shot through the right leg. The Army of Northern Virginia has been visited by death so many times death seems a bore, the sort of fellow one avoids because he has nothing new to say!

My darling Marguerite, in the past I have done things I now regret. A better man would have made a better husband to you and a dearer father to Baby Jacob. Does he still ask after me? How often when I returned from business he was waiting to greet me, and how often I gave him short shrift. After the war, my darling, I promise to do better. I will be a husband and father. I will be a family man and businessman—and unashamed of it.

You must give thought to where you will flee if Wilmington falls into the hands of the enemy. In good conscience I cannot suggest Richmond or Petersburg. Perhaps Goldsboro will be spared the conqueror's tread.

If God favors us we may yet prevail. I will do my duty. Everything is in God's hands.

Your Loving Husband,

Silas

WHY DO THEY HATE US SO?

W
ILMINGTON
, N
ORTH
C
AROLINA
F
EBRUARY
21, 1865

MUD FROM HURTLING
carriages splashed the wrought-iron fence around Silas Omohundru's mansion and blunted its ornamental spears. Cartwheels squealed, teamsters yowled, mules brayed, and in handsome and makeshift conveyances, those who could flee Wilmington were doing so. “Use the best harness, Mingo,” Marguerite said.

“What about the goods you leavin' behind?” Kizzy's husband inquired. Although Mingo was a fairly shrewd man, this morning his head was aswim with possibilities. The Federals were advancing on Wilmington, so Mingo was a free man, no longer required to send the better portion of his salary to his master. Would Mingo have to work at all? Coloreds had been doing the work for years while white folks gave orders, but now Master Abraham's army was turning the tables. Might Mingo live in a mansion like this one? If so, how would he furnish it?

“We'll let the Federals have our things, Mingo,” Marguerite said. “After their exertions they'll require something to sit on. Unless,” she hazarded, “you want the furniture?”

“No'm,” he said sullenly.

“Mingo, so far as I am concerned—so far as Mr. Silas is concerned—you are a free man.” She did not quite touch his arm. “The world is changing rapidly these days and it is hard to know how to proceed. Meantime, do hitch our horses. The roads are soft, but our carriage is light and our horses in good condition.”

Mingo said, “Miss, what's going to happen to us? I likes it here in Wilmington.” Mingo was a handsome man. Wasn't only Kizzy said he was.

“Confederate officials have ordered civilians to evacuate. Put this case in the drawer beneath my seat. Once in the countryside, we may encounter Federal patrols.”

Mingo thought: This case heavy for how big it is. He said, “Yes, ma'am. They thievin' scoundrels all right.” The burgundy leather case slipped under the seat like a hand into a glove.

Marguerite continued, “The silver and gold coin we possess are in the portmanteau atop the carriage. Secure that case thoroughly.”

Mingo thought: I seen her put a bag of gold coins in that trunk, but that big trunk not so heavy as this little one. He said, “Yes, Missus, I rope it down.”

She said, “Jacob and Kizzy will have the front seat, and Jacob's necessities will be on the seat beside me. Why haven't you gone for the horses?”

Mingo thought: Because you keep me here yakkin'.

The hubbub outside the gates excited the horses. They were young horses, bloomy horses, maybe the best horses in Wilmington. Wasn't that Mingo's doing? And the carriage, all polished up—weren't half a dozen families in the city boasted such a well-kept rig. Drive Miss Marguerite down Market Street to her place of business, perched on that seat, didn't hardly nod to the other colored drivers—they were teamsters, Mingo was a coachman.

When one of the horses pricked its ears and started trembling, Mingo went to the tack room for blinders.

A month ago, when Master Abraham's fleet captured Fort Fisher and finished the blockade-running, most speculators had left the city. When Mingo asked were they leaving too, Miss Marguerite said no, they'd stay in Wilmington in case Master Silas wanted to find them. But the Confederate general gave his order to evacuate, and that was what they were doing. Mingo thought it would have been easier a month ago.

Kizzy wouldn't quit young Master Jacob. If it was up to him, Mingo would let Mistress hitch her own damn horses and he'd march into the parlor and put his feet up and wait for Master Abraham's soldiers to come. Kizzy was big with her first baby, and if the soldiers came quick, her baby would be born free.

Mistress was dressed like she was going to a fancy ball, yellow silk hoop skirt and blouse trimmed with lace at the neck and sleeves. Mistress looked like she didn't belong to the same country as the scared refugees streaming past the house, maybe not the same religion. Young Master Jacob wore a green velveteen suit with wide lapels, and a floppy green cap covered his head.

Kizzy's dress was too tight across her belly and pulled away from the buttons. Ugly dress. Kizzy bent to wipe young Master's snotty nose.

A four-hitch wagon rumbled by filled with white people, old and young. “You better hurry, Miss,” the driver cried. “Federals comin'.”

Marguerite dismissed the man with a wave.

Sometimes Mingo hated Marguerite. She was so sure her money could whip troubles that took grown men by the heels and laid them low. He hated her brat and her damn fancy gown.

“Thank you, Miss,” Kizzy said when Marguerite helped her into the carriage, and Mingo hated that too.

“Set out for Warsaw,” Marguerite advised. “The plank road would be best.”

Plank road's rotted, Mingo thought to say. Ever since the railroad built, plank road's fall to pieces. “Yes'm,” he said and cut the wheelhorse with his whip.

Only a few miles out of town they began to pass the poor folks who'd prayed for luck on their journey because they had no means to prepare for it. A disabled wagon spewing plundered trunks, a cart with a crumpled wheel, spavined horses with their heads drooping and feet splayed wide apart.

Marguerite's splendid carriage split the human flood like the bow of a ship. Some white men gave Mingo the ugly eye—why was a nigger riding up so high and mighty?—but the blinds were pulled over the windows and the door panels were burnished until they shone and the carriage eased by and they said nothing though their wives had been walking since dawn and their children were whimpering.

Four hours out of Wilmington, they left the foot traffic behind. Although the road was firmer, mud from the horse's hooves dirtied Mingo and wheel splashes streaked the carriage doors, and the sun was poised on the horizon.

This was the piney woods, stands of longleaf and loblolly pine so far as the eye could see. Mingo shivered. No telling what was in those woods. Mingo was a town man, yes sir.

Miss Marguerite lifted the hatch beside him. “Take the next lane, Mingo,” she said. “We'll seek hospitality for the night.”

But the lane didn't lead anywhere. After a promising start, it narrowed and the ruts deepened, and Mingo couldn't find a place to turn around until they came out on the riverbank, beside a tumbledown dock and warehouse that reeked of turpentine.

“This will do.” Marguerite climbed down. “This will do wonderfully. We have come far enough today, and Kizzy is tired. Isn't the river beautiful, Jacob? Hear the chirping? That's frogs talking to each other. Mingo, the wicker basket contains our supper. Brush and feed the horses, and if you fetch kindling, I'll make a fire.”

They'd packed a week's provisions: a beef roast, two cooked hams, and canned vegetables whose tins bore the labels of British firms.

As the woods darkened, Mingo collected firewood. In his hurry to be back with the others, he brought punky wood, which was hard to get alight and smoked. Marguerite was annoyed when smoke got in her eyes but made no complaint. The boy Jacob asleep in his mother's lap, they sat until their fire was a dim glow and more stars than Mingo ever wished to see washed the sky white.

The women and boy slept in the coach. Mingo climbed up on the roof and curled among the trunks and baskets.

Next thing Mingo knew, Mistress was yanking at his elbow, saying it was light enough to move on. “Yes'm,” he said. He had never been so stiff or so cold. When he went into the woods his manhood was so cold and shrunk he could hardly pee. Kizzy wasn't far away, being sick.

They were traveling north, more or less paralleling the Weldon railroad. The tracks were silent; no trains came. They spotted one other traveler, but he spurred his mount into the woods.

At noon, Mingo wanted to make a fire, eat, and rest a spell, but Mistress Marguerite didn't want to stop, so they made up sandwiches. Young Master Jacob asked to ride up top, and Mistress said he could. “If you pester Mingo or ask too many questions, you'll come back inside.”

Usually the boy jabbered like a young crow, but today he was quiet and pressed close to Mingo.

All morning, intermittently, the road had touched the railroad, whose shiny rails and sturdy wooden sleepers seemed to promise that despite present fears, they would eventually find a town and civilized, hospitable people. Around a bend they entered a broad empty valley where the Wilmington & Weldon Railroad had been wrecked.

Bonfire circles stretched along the roadbed for a mile. Fires had been built beneath trees and rails heated and wrapped around the trees like shoestrings. Some fires still smoldered.

The boy had been humming to himself but quit. “Mingo,” he asked, “why do they hate us so?”

“Well, honey, they don't hate everybody.”

“Are they going to make a new railroad?”

“Don't reckon.”

“Look, there's a boxcar they burnt up, too. Mingo, were those horses inside?”

“Appear to be.”

“Why would they burn up horses?”

“Honey, if I knew about these things, reckon I'd be somebody instead of drivin' your mother's carriage.”

“Look, there's a locomotive lying on its side.”

“Uh-huh.”

Guidon fluttering, the blue column came at them in a hurry and surrounded the carriage before Mingo had time to do a thing, and a trooper grabbed Mingo's lines and carbines leveled at his head.

“Please, Masters, don't shoot! We ain't done nothin'!”

One trooper jerked the window blind out of its sash. “Two women. One of 'em's white.”

Marguerite poked her head through the window. “My servant is heavy with child,” she said. “Do you intend to terrify her into having her baby here and now?”

The troopers were commanded by a beefy sergeant. “Just who the hell are you?”

“Mrs. Silas Omohundru, lately of Wilmington. And who are you, sir, to interrupt a respectable woman on the turnpike? Are you highwaymen?”

The sergeant grinned. “Now, ma'am. I expect you know better'n that. We're the fellows drivin' the rebel armies from the field.”

“Then shouldn't you be at your work? I understand that General Lee does not drive easily.”

“Oh, there's plenty fellows takin' care of Bobby Lee. Bixby, see what's in those trunks.”

Before anyone could protest, a soldier was on top of the carriage tossing trunks to the ground and two others were doing similar mischief at the boot. Little Jacob clutched Mingo's arm. “You leave my momma's things alone!” he demanded.

“You raisin' you a little rebel, ma'am? Already defyin' lawful authority.”

“If my husband were here, he would reintroduce you to lawful authority!”

“Oh, I'll just bet he would. Bixby, pry open that portmanteau.”

Marguerite's clothes were dragged from the luggage, her petticoats sabered and flaunted like banners. Business records were dumped, and invoices and ledger sheets fluttered across the burned landscape like hungry birds.

“Lookee here, a silver teapot. I believe we have got ourselves a rich lady here, Sergeant. A rich rebel lady.”

“Ma'am, why don't you and the nigger gal step out of the carriage. You, driver. Step down with the boy.”

“Got me some gold, Sergeant. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, hundred twenty, hundred forty dollars' worth!”

The sergeant tsked. “Rebel property is forfeit to Federal seizure.”

In her yellow gown, Marguerite was as bold as the first rose of summer. “I am unacquainted with uniformed highwaymen. Are soldiers' uniforms now the fashion among thieves?”

“Ma'am,” the sergeant replied, “I'll bet you are one hell of a fine lady. I'll venture you got a big white house with columns in front. . . . Bixby, you know those houses we been burnin'? She lives in one of them. And you got niggers to do your wash and tote your pisspot. Your husband an officer?”

“My husband's rank is no concern of yours. Were he in your place, however, he would not be waylaying your wife nor vandalizing her belongings.”

“I suppose that means he's better'n us.”

Startled, Marguerite said, “Why certainly he is!”

“Lady, that insult just cost you your horses. Bixby, cut 'em out of the traces. You there, nigger!”

“Yes, Master,” Mingo said.

“You and your woman can come with us. Big contraband camp at New Bern. Roof over your head, food every day, and nobody whip you. Your mistress got money we ain't found?”

The blue-clad sergeant was watching him like a hawk, and Mingo licked dry lips. “Some of it mine?”

The man roared his laughter: “Nigger, one hand washes the other.”

Kizzy clutched at her husband. “Mingo, don't . . .”

But Mingo hid behind the sergeant's horse. “It's under her seat,” he mumbled.

A soldier was at the seat in a flash and dragged the heavy burgundy leather case out and popped it open. “Jehoshaphat!”