Within hours the farmhouse was vacated and again they were on the move. She rode sidesaddle on Autie’s favorite horse, Custis Lee. She traveled beside her husband, and when she tired she moved to an ambulance specially outfitted for her comfort, behind the command escort. That special privilege began a slow burn of resentment in the soldiers.
The road was bumpy, the journey a long one, the wagon’s bouncing rattling her bones till she was sore when she climbed down to her tent at night. When a snake crawled into the tent with her one evening, she ran back to the wagon to sleep, but she dared not show displeasure, fearing any tantrums would be cause to send her home.
One morning they were to cross swampland up a narrow, tree-choked trail. Up at dawn, they rode till mid-morning, when they stopped for a meal and to rest the horses, then carried on. Late morning sun poked through the tree limbs overhead, poured a yellow, pollened light over the land. The creak of saddles, the percussion of metal against metal, the thud of hooves and boots were a soothing cadence that gave a sense of progress despite their torpid speed.
She nodded off in the heat, the wagon’s hot canvas smelling of starch, daydreaming of being again a young girl at her mother’s side as she ironed, when an explosion shook the wagon and made the horses jump in their stays. The sound was so loud her ears rang afterward.
The column came to a ragged stop. Her driver climbed down to quiet the animals, their eyes white-rimmed in fear. Orders were shouted up and down the line to remain in place, but it wasn’t until one of Autie’s staff rode back that it was confirmed—a soldier had tripped a new weapon called a land torpedo. It was a barbaric way to wage war. Sherman called it a coward’s way to murder. They could not move forward without knowing the extent of the mining done to the road ahead.
They remained at a standstill for hours in the sweltering heat, restricted from going off the road to relax in the woods. Even pack animals and horses were not allowed to refresh at the nearby stream. She found the scene strangely bucolic, soldiers stripped down to shirts, the lace of trees against the noon sky, the greenish gloom of forbidden woods, the stamp of horses in their stays. Mosquitoes descended as numerous as raindrops to feast on any exposed skin.
It became stifling in the wagon. Perspiration rolled down her back, her chemise and petticoats thoroughly wet under the heavy blouse and skirts she wore. Trying to stay cheerful, she shared apples and water with the driver. She was fortunate to have a wagon full of food and water. Theoretically she could last days in such a privileged cage.
Hours passed.
She simply had to have fresh air, but her escort stopped her before she could place a footstep on the earth. Autie’s orders. She whipped the curtains closed, and quickly shed her corset and petticoats. She would wear only her cotton dress, modesty be damned. So freed, she stood up out of the wagon, lapping up any freshness in the heavy air like a dog. She was aware of the looks of soldiers around her: even though married she still enjoyed an admiring male glance, so she lengthened the time of her pose.
It was then that she heard a man’s screams, then the louder, ringing silence. Minutes later a stretcher went past, the wounded man blanketed with a sheet, his bloody leg still in its boot nestled next to his side like a newborn. Mercifully, he had passed out. Libbie bowed her head and said a prayer.
She offered to go and sit with the wounded soldier but was refused. The doctor must have thought her too will-o’-the-wisp to be of support. No one would say it to her face, but she guessed that hers was the only ambulance empty enough to accommodate the wounded man. She volunteered it, happy to ride her horse or join a supply wagon. The doctor accepted, but within a few minutes Autie countermanded her, to Libbie’s horror.
Later the doctor told her that it wouldn’t have mattered, the soldier never regained consciousness and died that night. She said another prayer for his mother, knowing the enormity that such loss would mean to the poor woman. Libbie could bring tears on just by picturing her own dear mother’s face. She resolved to read aloud passages from the Bible to comfort all close enough to listen. The men told her it was the closest to home they had felt in months.
In the afternoon, activity could be heard from the rear. Mounted cavalry herded a large group of soldiers between them. Libbie was shocked as they came close enough for her to recognize gray uniforms. Prisoners. Autie must have “borrowed” them from the latest battle. They were shoved to the head of the column.
What happened next haunted her for many years. Threatened by the end of a rifle or saber, the prisoners were poked down to a crawling position, shoulder to shoulder across the road, three rows deep. They proceeded to crawl like small children, no, like beasts of burden, forced forward to trip any land torpedoes with the weight of their own bodies if they did not manage to disable them first. No one cared how unlikely it was that a common soldier would have such advanced technical ability.
Travel became agonizingly slow. In the period while the prisoners were prodded ahead several hundred yards, all eyes watched the road, everyone dreading the concussion of yet another explosion. In between it was so quiet one could hear the wind in the trees, the chafing drone of insects. Libbie imagined she heard the whoosh of her own blood in her ears.
The column would come into motion and catch up in minutes only to endure yet another equally long wait.
The sight of men used in such fashion shamed her. She believed it lessened her husband’s mission, and she would speak to him about it. It did not seem moral, but she reconciled herself that, being a woman, she didn’t understand the ways of war. What strain Autie must have labored under and hid from her daily. She thought of his silences, which she formerly had attributed to displeasure with her, and now guessed their true cause.
Was it unforgivable weakness on her part that she wished to return to the ignorance of childhood? She had not imagined such cruelty of one man toward another. Worse, the man who ordered it was also the man she loved. She felt herself aged a decade in the first few weeks of her marriage.
What if Autie stepped on one of those traps and was wounded or even killed? Rather than sacrificing him she would gladly have a hundred Rebels, a thousand, crawl on their bloodied hands and knees. She knew this was an unforgivable Christian failing, this selfishness, this pride. She chose virtue and charity when it suited, ignoring its call when its practice became too difficult.
Bereft of other options, she prayed once more, as she did each morning, noon, and night for an end to this savage war.