Hannibal Watson's sudden reappearance in her life and his equally sudden and brutal demise had brought feelings of rage to the surface, emotions that she had almost forgotten she'd had or was capable of.
Some people thought that most slaves were happy with their lot and used that as a reason for perpetuating slavery. What fools, she thought. How could someone who was owned by someone else ever be happy?
Oh, there were those slaves who knew no other life and were owned by fairly benign owners who treated them well. Those slaves had a level of contentment simply because they could comprehend no other way. Kind of like a blind man who had never seen a sunset, she thought. And there were those slaves who realized that the world outside slavery could be savagely hostile to anyone with a dark skin and who wished to improve themselves. For them, freedom was frightening.
Freedom, shed decided, was like that blind man getting sight. Once perceived, it could not be replaced, and a real human would never let anyone take it from them.
Abigail Watson had never known freedom, but she knew people who had. One was her son. She had just received a letter from him up in Boston. It thrilled her that he was able to read and write and be able to do so openly. Abigail was self-educated, but since teaching slaves to be literate was generally illegal, she had prudently disguised the fact of her learning. Why, she wondered, did anyone have to hide the value of their mind?
But, more important, how soon would God's righteous wrath bring down the Confederacy? How could she help? Could she kill someone important? Wealthy and influential people frequently stayed at the Haskills’ hotel, but certainly no one whose loss would end slavery. Worse, any act like that on her part would result in her own execution, and it would be just as dreadful as Hannibal's. What kind of civilization would treat its people like animals and then destroy them as if they were even less than animals?
She would pray. Maybe the God who delivered the Israelites from captivity would have an answer for her.
“I am flat damned exhausted, and I don't even have to do a lot of the work,” said Billy Harwell as he sat on the ground in front of his and Olaf’s campfire and waited for dinner to cook. Tonight it was a kind of stew. Olaf cooked, and Billy didn't want to know too much about what went into Scandinavian specialties. If they tasted good, then that was fine with him.
When word first reached them that Lees army was headed north and across the Potomac, there had been a lot of marching and countermarching until fear that the Confederate army was hiding over the next hill had subsided. Then, however, General Meade had taken a page from Grant's book and decided that the soldiers under his control should be worked hard and thus be in shape to fight a coming battle. As a result, the marching back and forth had continued until the men's blistered feet subsided into calluses. Now they could march barefoot on coals if need be. Billy wondered why, since right feet and left feet were shaped differently, shoes or boots didn't reflect that. Instead, shoes were shaped the same, and only continued painful wear served to shape a boot into the shape of the foot. It worked, but it took so much time and hurt like the devil until the shoe was gotten under control.
“At least marching is better than digging,” Olaf said. Since Billy was a sergeant, he supervised the digging: besides, Captain Melcher didn't want him hurting his shooting hands. Olaf got out of digging since he was the company clerk.
Billy conceded the point. Another brilliant idea had been to take men from regular units and put them to work strengthening the defenses of Washington. It also served to familiarize them with the places where they might just be fighting someday. But did they have to familiarize themselves by using shovels? Hell, he thought, the forts were so large, so heavily gunned, and so numerous that not even a mouse would be able to sneak in.
Of course, he knew that wasn't true. Most of the forts in the thirty-seven-mile-long perimeter were garrisoned by full-strength units called “heavies,” to differentiate themselves from combat units that had lost men and were at far less than full strength, The heavies had never fought, never seen men killed, and some of them were overweight, out of shape, and looked like pastry, They had never fought in the war and had never left Washington City. Billy wondered just what they'd do if a horde of rebels ran at them, screaming and shooting. Piss their pants and run off was the unpleasant thought.
The men in the heavy units had responded to not-very-gentle questions from the regular troops by proclaiming their bravery and the fact that the forts and outer defenses were so strong that no Johnny Reb would even get close enough to cause damage,
They had a point. Billy conceded, Earthen walls, ditches, and obstructions like chevaux-de-frise would keep attackers at bay, chevaux-de-frise were interlocking rows of large pointed stakes that were laid in rows or angles, Billy had to admit they were fearsome and effective, An army caught up in their entanglements could be shot to pieces before they could finagle their way through,
In the distance some men started to sing. “Someone's cat's dying,” Billy said with a grin. Olaf laughed. Singing in the evening was a common recreation when it got too dark to read or write letters. Singing took no talent, and the men in the distance were proving the point. Songs by Stephen Foster were favorites, but so, too, were songs that lamented the war. “Lorena” was a favorite on both sides, and the men of the North liked “Camping Tonight” and a handful of others.
“I think it's 'John Brown's Body,'“ Olaf said.
“Yeah, but it's with the new words. Remember, now it's the ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic'“
“I liked the old words.” Olaf sniffed. “Why change it?” Billy yawned. It had been a long, tiresome day and he was getting sleepy. “Because nice people don't like to think about people's bodies moldering in a grave, even though John Brown sure as hell deserved it.”
“John Brown was a madman.” Olaf said.
Billy picked up his gear and crawled into the small tent he shared with Olaf and two other soldiers. “Yeah, he was crazy and killed people, and now all of us have got the crazies and are killing a lot more people. Christ. I hope Lee stays away. I hope he believes our ditches and shit are all too much for him.”
Olaf was puzzled. “They are, aren't they?”
Billy thought about the men in the untried, untested heavy companies. They were the weak link in the chain, not the fortifications. “Sure.”
Nathan closed the window softly. The air was temptingly fresh, but there was a chill in the night. The distant sounds of hundreds of men singing was haunting, as was the sight of so many campfires twinkling like stars that had landed on the ground but stayed alive. He knew what the men were doing. They were lonely, far away from home, and scared half to death. Singing and having others join in was a way of chasing away the demons. Sing tonight, for tomorrow we may die. As an officer, he hadn't sung with the men much lest he lose some of his precious dignity, but he'd listened to his men sing on many an occasion and often sang along in silence.
“What are they singing?” Rebecca asked. She was propped up in their bed and wearing, for the moment at least, a demure nightgown. “Anything they wish,” he grinned, “and all at once.”
He sat on the edge of the bed beside her and took her hand in his. She had given up any pretense of living with her brother's family and had moved in with him a couple of days earlier. So far, Washington society was preoccupied with the advent of the invasion of the North and hadn't noticed their scandalous breach of decorum. Bridget Conlin was delighted at the turn of events, and the two women had become close friends, with Bridget conspiring to do little things to pretend that Rebecca wasn't spending the night. Sergeant Fromm was discreetly silent, while General Scott appeared not to notice. Nathan thought he understood full well and that his silence meant tacit approval.