Nine – The Story of Andrew Strong

July 1861

 

Like most people, Andrew had thought of Quakers as a good, simple, slightly eccentric, middle-aged group of people. A little bit like a maiden aunt, who managed to avoid personal involvement in the disasters of her time but was always on hand when they happened, ready with a cup of tea, a bandage and a kind word. So Jacob Chalfont’s family was quite a surprise to him. Jacob was anything but the Quaker legend of unremittingly staid aspect, opposed to theater, music or any but the most simple and pious lifestyle. His wife Eleanor made considerable efforts to be more than a housewife. She painted pretty water-colors, played the spinet and sang with a soft, true voice. She was an accomplished horsewoman and an excellent cook. Her daughter Ruth was uncomplicated, sunny and direct. She was the epitomization of the Quaker belief that goodness called forth the response of goodness. She was not ‘clever’. She had no feminine wiles. And Andrew treasured her.

He liked the way that men on the street cast envious looks at him, and he was secretly pleased when acquaintances tried to flirt with her. It was as if by doing so they were confirming his good fortune. Sometimes she made him feel like a great clumsy ox trying to pay court to a humming bird. He did not know why she loved him, nor could he imagine what there was about him that she could love. It constantly surprised him that someone as lovely and ashine as Ruth Chalfont could prefer a dull stick like himself to someone, say, like Jed. Jed, who ran at life headlong, sure of himself, afraid of nothing. Andrew shared his father’s uncertainties, his inclination to worry a thing through.

He watched David charming Eleanor Chalfont. She was still a handsome woman and her face had the same sweetness in repose as Ruth’s. Watching her eyes, Andrew was reminded of an evening long ago at Fort Walla Walla, when the sardonic Rexton Bunnett, the regiment’s resident cynic, had favored the officers in the mess with his lordly overview of how to handle women. Since Rex was reputed to have joined the frontier army as a Frenchman might have joined the Foreign Legion, in the aftermath of a tragic love-affair, they listened with respect. There was damned little else to do anyway. Enlisted men could take their pleasures with the Indian women who hung around the gates, and the non-coms usually had their wives or one of the washerwomen along Suds Row. Officers were true bachelors: simply because they had no alternative. Instead, they talked.

The secret of handling a woman is a very simple one,’ Rexton said, in the patrician drawl he affected, ‘although damned few men can do it. All you have to do, gentlemen, is to talk to them. Talk to them as if they were halfway intelligent, and they are yours.’

Like much of what Rex said, there was just enough truth in it to’ make it inoffensive. Men tended to see women the way they wanted to, anyway, Rex said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, they’re either goddesses or doormats. And I suggest to you that if you examined your hearts honestly, you’ll find the same thing applies to you.’

Andrew remembered his saturnine grin. It was a mischievous thing to say because it stuck in the mind, and, when you got right down to it, a man did tend to think of a woman as a goddess or a doormat. In fact, a man had to work damned hard not to think of them any other way. Well, he thought, Pa seemed to know about handling women. It was obvious that Eleanor Chalfont found him interesting. Attractive? Andrew thought. He had never thought of his father in those terms, yet it certainly seemed as if the thought had at least crossed Eleanor’s mind. As for David, he was as unaware of it as a child. He had not looked seriously at another woman since the day he fell in love with Joanna Ten Eyck. The thought made Andrew feel a surge of fondness for his father. We ought to spend more time together, he thought.

They said their farewells early. The Chalfonts had a twenty-mile drive to Centerville before them on the morrow. According to Jacob the first major battle between the Federals and the Confederates was imminent. The Rebels were quite near the capital, at Manassas Junction. If there was to be fighting, Jacob said, there would be wounded and dying men who would need help, comfort, solace. Eleanor and Ruth were both trained nurses. If no battle ensued, nothing would be lost. Andrew made no bones about his uneasiness.

I think it would be wiser to stay in the city, sir,’ he said. ‘I wish you’d reconsider.’

Dear Andrew,’ Ruth smiled, her eyes merry. ‘Thou art always such a Cassandra.’

Senator Grimes assures me there will be no danger, Andrew,’ Jacob said. He was a spare-built man with wide shoulders and large hands. His hair and Dundreary side-whiskers were an almost startling ginger color. His ‘skin, which never tanned, was reddened by the summer sun. ‘We shall be some distance from any fighting that might occur.’

Senator Grimes of Iowa and President Lincoln’s friend, Lyman Trumbull, were taking a party down to Centerville to see the troops, he said. Would they do that if there was any danger?

I suppose not,’ Andrew admitted. ‘Just the same, I don’t like it.’

Why not come with us, Andrew?’ Eleanor Chalfont said. ‘There will be more than enough room in our carriage. ‘

And thou canst protect us!’ Ruth teased. ‘From the wicked Rebels!’

Pa’s leaving for Culpeper tomorrow,’ Andrew said. ‘I’d like to see him off.’

Andrew, there’s nothing to stop you going along if you want to,’ David said. ‘I can manage perfectly well on my own.’

In the end, Andrew had his way, and truth be told, David was glad. He always felt he ought to spend more time with Andrew, get to know him better. He understood Jed, always had. But Andrew was a another matter. There was a barrier, a reserve – or so David felt – he could not penetrate. He was still trying to adjust to the decisions Andrew had taken about his future. Resigning from the army, becoming engaged to a Quaker girl, making a career in civil engineering, adopting a rigidly anti-war position: these were things David had to work hard to understand. Maybe you just never did understand some things, he decided, knowing that he had decided nothing at all.

 

David left for Culpeper early the following evening. It was about five when they rode over to the station at Alexandria, through streets crowded with people. Lowering rain clouds scudded across the sky. A cold, unfriendly breeze picked up scraps of paper and whirled them into the air like kites. The railroad station was crowded with soldiers, hawkers, newspaper vendors, women with children, old people.

Platform three,’ Andrew said, checking the notice board. ‘She’s on time, which is a change. Let’s hope there are no hold-ups. I’ll come to your carriage with you. Here, boy!’

He signaled a negro porter who ran over to get David’s bags. Andrew showed the man his father’s ticket and the porter nodded and went ahead of them, pushing through the knots of passengers and their friends thronging the platform. The big engine already had steam up. David climbed into his compartment and lowered the window.

You should have gone with the Chalfonts,’ he said. ‘Instead of wasting your Sunday on me.’

I enjoyed it, Pa,’ Andrew said. ‘I wish we could do it more often.’

You come down to the farm and see us,’ he said. ‘Bring Ruth. We’ll find her a horse to ride.’

We’ll see,’ Andrew said. ‘We’ll see what happens. I’ll be in touch.’

The train began to move as he shook his father’s hand. He thought David’s smile was sadder than tears could ever have been. I love you, Pa, he thought. I hope you know.

Take good care of yourself,’ David said. The train picked up speed and moved down the platform. In a surprisingly short time it was around the bend of the rails and out of sight. The interior of the station was suddenly gloomy and oppressive, and Andrew thought he heard the distant mutter of thunder again. He left the station and walked up the street, thoughts far away. He became vaguely aware of an air of excitement, a strange tension. He frowned. A knot of people at the corner of the street were looking up at a man standing in a mud-spattered coach who was shouting and waving his arms. The crowd grew larger. Andrew went across the street to hear what the man was saying.

‘ … panic!’ the man shouted. His voice was snatched away by the rising wind. Heavy drops of rain made wet spots the size of quarter dollars in the dust. ‘Blind panic!’ the man shouted hoarsely. ‘You’ve never seen the like of it! Blind, bloody panic! A rout! It was a rout, I tell you! The whole bloody army running like yellow dogs!’ Several carriages went by, clay clogging their wheel spokes, the horses tired and mud-spattered. The people in the carriages were huddled together, faces drawn and frightened. A dreadful premonition touched Andrew’s heart. He pushed through the crowd. People saw the look on his face and made way for him.

What’s happened?’ he said to the man in the coach. ‘What are you talking about?’

The battle!’ the man said, flinging a hand in the direction of the South. ‘Ain’t you heard, mister? Our lads took a beating down there, a hell of a beating! And that’s not the half of it, mister! They ran, ran like dogs!’

Our men ran?’ Andrew said. ‘Are you sure?’

Sure? Sure? Course I’m sure!’ the man snapped impatiently. ‘We was watching, wasn’t we? Seen ’em come running, running along the road, shouting the Rebel cavalry was coming, the Black Horse cavalry! Then all hell broke loose!’

He stopped for effect and got it. ‘We lost the battle?’ Andrew said. The lower half of his face felt stiff as if he had been out in the severest cold.

I’m here to tell you, mister!’ the man in the coach said. ‘I was there, wasn’t I? I seen it all. Carriages turned over, women screaming, soldiers collapsing with fear!’

You could be wrong,’ Andrew said, desperately. ‘A skirmish, perhaps, a column turned—’

Listen, mister, I seen soldiers, a thousand and more, running like Satan was chasing them, over the open fields, splashing through the runs, throwing off their gear as they ran.’

Where was this?’

On the Warrenton Turnpike,’ the man said. ‘Here, I’ll tell you what hap—’ But he was too late. Andrew had turned and was pushing his way out of the crowd. He ran across the street and hailed a hansom, and told the driver to take him to the Chalfont house on 18th Street as fast as he could go.

That’s gonna cost somethin’, mister,’ the cabbie said.

Damn your eyes!’ Andrew shouted. ‘Whip up your horses and get me there!’

The Chalfont house was not far from the Corcoran Gallery, a tall and elegant town house with Georgian windows that were ablaze with light when they got there. Andrew leaped from the hansom as it rocked to a stop and threw money to the driver without even looking how much it was. The front door was wide open. He ran inside, startling Jacob’s negro manservant, Washington, who was standing in the hall with his back to the door. Washington turned quickly, eyes wide with a fright that turned to relief as he recognized Andrew.

Oh, Mistah Strong, sah, what we goan do?’ he wailed. ‘What we goan do?’

What’s wrong, Washington?’

Oh, Mistah Strong, sah—’

Where is your master?’ Andrew snapped, cutting off the wails with an angry gesture. ‘Is he here?’

He inside, Mistah Strong, he inside, an’ he doan say nothin’, he jes’ settin’ there, starin’ at de fiah—’

Andrew pushed past the manservant and went into the drawing room. It was empty, but the twin doors leading into the library were open. He went into the book-lined room. Jacob Chalfont was sitting on the chesterfield facing the fire, his shirt-sleeved arms along its back. He wore no coat. There was half-dried mud on his breeches and his boots were streaked with clay and mire. His hair was mussed and his eyes were swollen. They were as empty of expression as seawater. He did not look up as Andrew entered.

Jacob?’ Andrew said loudly. There was no response, not even a flicker of the eyes. Oppressed by foreknowledge, swimming through the certainty of it like a man drowning in glue, Andrew went across to the sideboard and poured some brandy into a glass. He put it into the older man’s hand.

Here,’ he said. ‘Drink this.’

Jacob Chalfont looked up at him and great tears welled in his eyes, trickling down his face and plopping loudly on the leather of the sofa.

Oh God, Andrew,’ he said.

Drink,’ Andrew insisted. Jacob looked down at the glass in his hand as though it were an object from an alien planet. He swigged down the brandy in one swallow, coughing as it burned his throat. Then all at once a great sob racked his body.

Oh, God!’ he said. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God!’

What happened, Jacob?’ Andrew said urgently. ‘What happened?’

Jacob Chalfont said nothing. His shoulders were slumped as if bearing some crushing weight. His breathing was a series of long, halting inhalations followed by gulping, tearing sighs. He shook his head from side to side, oblivious to the tears streaming down his face.

Oh, Ellie, Ellie,’ he said. ‘Oh, God, Ellie.’

For Christ’s sake, Jacob, tell me what happened!’ Andrew shouted. His raised voice penetrated the fog of Jacob Chalfont’s distress. He looked up as though he was unable to understand why Andrew was shouting.

It was terrible,’ he said. ‘Awful! Andrew?’

Yes?’

They’re dead, Andrew. Ellie and Ruth. They’re dead.’ Andrew stared at Jacob Chalfont, bereft of speech. The word reverberated in his head, as if someone had struck a gong. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. ‘What?’ he croaked.

We didn’t know,’ Jacob whispered. ‘We were on a little hill, just outside of Centerville. On the Warrenton Pike, by a little stone bridge across Bull Run. We heard the guns, the sound of muskets. There was smoke and dust, and now and again we saw a skirmish line moving across open ground. Everyone was smiling. Senator Grimes brought a picnic, cold chicken.’

He stared at the fire, as though he could see pictures in it too awful to describe. He did not speak again until Andrew urged him to go on.

Colonel Miles’ headquarters reported that McDowell had won the day. Everyone cheered. There was champagne, the women all had pretty dresses on. There were people all along the pike, smiling, cheering. Oh God, oh God!’

He buried his face in his hands, sobbing. Andrew sat down and let him weep. Until the grief was poured out there was nothing he could do. He looked at his hands. Living flesh. I am alive. Alive, dead, words that had no meaning yet. Eleanor and Ruth are dead. It was strange; he could not feel anything. He got up, poured himself a brandy and sat sipping it until Jacob Chalfont’s sobbing became a sniffle and died away. Then he went over and put a gentle hand on Jacob’s shoulder.

Jacob?’ he said quietly. ‘You want to talk?’

Jacob Chalfont looked at him with eyes that seemed to ask forgiveness, understanding, help.

I can’t,’ he said.

You have to,’ Andrew said. ‘You have to tell me, Jacob. I loved them too.’

Yes,’ Jacob whispered. ‘Of course you did.’

Hundreds of people had gone out there, he told Andrew. They came in buggies, wagons, on horseback, in fine carriages. Some brought wicker hampers with food and drink in them. They set down blankets in the slanting fields on the eastern side of Bull Run, looking towards the woods bordering the streams concealing Lewis Ford and Ball’s Ford further down. The Lewis house on its bluff across the stream was clearly visible; so’ was the Henry house on the hill to its right. They could hear the thunder of the cannon clearly, see moving troops, galloping messengers, powder smoke rising in the clear sky. There was a festive air about the gathering.

Around noon, Colonel John Slocum’s 2nd Rhode Island Regiment shattered the Confederate line, and the rebel troops, under Generals Bee, Bartow and Evans, fell back towards Henry House Hill, where General Thomas J. Jackson had just arrived with reserves.

They’re beating us back!’ Bee shouted to the newcomers.

Well, sir,’ the former Virginia Military Academy instructor replied calmly, ‘let them come on, and we’ll give them a taste of the bayonet.’

Form, form!’ Bee shouted to his men, pointing up the hill with his saber. ‘There stands Jackson like a stone wall. Rally on the Virginians!’

Moments later he was torn out of the saddle by a bullet, and fell, mortally wounded; but his men held the line. The Confederate troops rallied and were shortly reinforced by Holmes, Early and Buell. General Beauregard ordered a counter-attack. The Union line was pierced and its soldiers driven from the plateau. Once more McDowell rallied his men and once more they drove the Confederates back into the woods. Suddenly, like the pricking of a balloon, the Union offensive lost its impetus. McDowell’s untried soldiers had been on their feet since the preceding midnight. They had nothing left to give any more. Detachment after detachment left the field and poured back across the fords and over the stone bridge on the Warrenton Turnpike. Unable to believe his good fortune, Beauregard sent Jeb Stuart’s cavalry to chase the retreating soldiers along the Sudley Road.

Even before the pursuers reached the pike it had become the scene of the most unutterable confusion and panic. As the Union wagon trains, ambulances, reserve artillery and retreating infantry appeared on the road, the civilians fled. There wasn’t anyone among them who hadn’t read in the papers about Stuart’s Black Horse cavalry. Nobody wanted to be around when they rode into the middle of this chaos, sabers swinging.

The road was choked with horses, carts, wagons and carriages,’ Jacob said. ‘They were hardly moving. The only place they could cross the run was at that little stone bridge. We were in our wagon, safe, I thought, ahead of the mob. I could see the-little bridge over Cub Run up ahead. I remember, I thought, if we can get past the jam there, we’ll be able to get clear. We could hear the sounds of guns behind us, It seemed to be getting nearer. People threw everything out of their carriages. There was debris all over the pike. In the run, everywhere. Some people cut the horses from their traces and galloped off, leaving the wagons blocking the road. The soldiers even left ambulances with wounded in them. And then the guns

His face was as still as death, his voice a dull drone, a monotone.

The Rebels brought cannon up. It was unbelievable. Like Hell. The shells hit a wagon. The horses were killed, the wagon smashed and turned over. People were spattered with bloodstained flesh from the animals. They were screaming. And the guns kept firing. The guns kept firing.’

He looked up at Andrew, his eyes haunted with memory.

Why did they keep firing, Andrew?’ he said. ‘Why would they fire on helpless women and wounded men in ambulances?’

I don’t know,’ Andrew said.

The guns had roared and roared again. Shells landed among the wagons and ambulances stranded on the pike. Soldiers ran like deer for cover, tossing aside their muskets and knapsacks.

There was a terrible noise, then smoke, screaming,’ Jacob Chalfont went on. ‘They were shouting that the Black Horse cavalry were coming. The soldiers just dropped their muskets and ran. And the guns were still banging, bang, bang, bang, all the time. And then … and … and then …’

Andrew could envision the scene as clearly as if he had been sitting beside Jacob in the wagon, with the sea of running men around them, the curses, the yells, the whooshing roar of the shells coming through the air, and the smashing flash of the explosion.

I woke up in the ditch,’ Jacob said. ‘I didn’t know how I’d got there, what had happened. And then I remembered. I was sitting there one moment, and then there was a great red booming noise. Then … nothing. I didn’t feel anything at all. I got up. My coat was in tatters. The wagon was … gone. Ellie, Ruth. I tried to find them. I thought perhaps they’d run for shelter or got across the bridge.’

He had searched for twenty minutes before he found them, he told Andrew. ‘Horrible,’ he said. ‘Oh God, Andrew, it was horrible. Like a … butcher’s shop. Unspeakable. You don’t know it’s going to be like that. You don’t realize—’

Don’t torture yourself, Jacob,’ Andrew said. ‘Try not to think about it.’

I don’t know how long I was there,’ Jacob said. ‘I don’t know. I lost track … of time. I could hear voices. I thought it might be Rebel soldiers. I had to leave them, Andrew. Thee understands? I had to leave them. I had no choice. ‘

I understand, Jacob,’ Andrew said softly. ‘Maybe they’ll let us go out there tomorrow and bring them back home. ‘

Yes, yes, perhaps that will be best,’ Jacob said, nodding urgently. ‘We can go out there tomorrow, yes, that would be best, wouldn’t it?’ His appeal for compassion was childlike. Andrew laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Sometimes touching helped.

Maybe you’d better get some rest, Jacob,’ he advised. ‘You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.’

Jacob frowned, as though he had already forgotten what he had to do on the morrow, and then nodded. He got to his feet very slowly like an old, old man.

Yes,’ he said. ‘Maybe thou art right at that.’ Andrew crossed the room and pulled on the bell rope. The negro manservant appeared immediately, as if he had been standing outside the library door, listening. Probably was at that, Andrew decided.

Let’s get Mr. Chalfont to bed, Washington.’

Yessah, Mistah Strong, sah,’ Washington’s face was a black rock hewn into an image of sadness as he helped his master up the wide staircase to the bedroom. As they undressed him, Jacob rambled, talking intermittently about the nightmare journey he had made back to the capital.

Somebody pulled me into a cart,’ he mumbled. ‘He told me his name. I must try to remember what it was, so I can write and thank him. Yes. Watmore? Watman? Watmough?’

He fell asleep like a child. Andrew nodded to the big negro and they went out of the room, closing the door behind them.

Missus is dead, sah?’ Washington said.

Yes, Washington,’ Andrew said. ‘Miss Ruth, too.’

Oh, sweet Lord!’ Washington said. ‘Oh, dat poah man. Oh, sweet Lord deliver us!’

I want you to stay with him, Washington,’ Andrew said gently. ‘You understand me? Stay with him all night. If he wakes up, you send for a doctor to give him some laudanum. I’ll come back tomorrow.’

Yessah, Mistah Strong, yessah,’ Washington assented. ‘Ah look after him real good.’

I know you will,’ Andrew said and went down the stairs. The front door was still wide open. He went out into the street. On the other side, a crumpled form in soldier blue lay sleeping by the fence. He stood on the sidewalk, swamped by an emotion so intense he thought it might stop his heart. Trembling, as though with fever, he heard a great roaring sound growing and growing inside his head. He found himself striking at the top of the gatepost with his clenched fist, consumed by a rage he had never felt before. For the first time in his life, he wanted to kill.

 

He went out alone to the bridge the following morning. The rain that had started the night before was falling heavily as he drove the carriage along the churned road. Everywhere the eye turned the landscape was a nightmare litter of equipment: shovels, axes, boxes of provisions, dead horses. Men without muskets still lay exhausted beneath the trees. The road was strewn with blankets and belts, coats, caps, knapsacks, rifles. The horses made heavy going through the glutinous mud. Rain battered Andrew’s face and cascaded down his rubber cape. He pushed grimly on.

An ambulance thrashed past, the horses splattered with mud and sweat, whipped into a laboring run by the cursing soldiers driving. Up ahead now Andrew saw groups of people coming out of the woods carrying the bodies of men in uniform. Whether they were dead or wounded he could not see and did not care. As he got nearer to the bridge across Cub Run two soldiers shouted at him to stop.

Where ya goin’, bub?’ one of them asked, his rifle held at port, rain bouncing off his kepi. ‘Ya can’t get through up ahead.’

I’m ... I have to find someone,’ Andrew said.

Didn’t ya hear what he said, mister?’ the second soldier said, lifting chin and widening eyes in an expression that spoke eloquently his feelings about lunatics who thought they could travel across country where there’d been a battle as though nothing had happened. ‘Ya can’t get through!’

My fiancée,’ Andrew said. ‘She was … we think she was killed here. Yesterday.’

In the panic, hey?’ the first soldier said. ‘Your fiancée, ya say?’

Yes,’ Andrew said. ‘Her name w ... is Ruth. Ruth Chalfont.’

It was strange, he thought. Like speaking the name of someone he did not know. It seemed to have no connection with Ruth.

Ya not some kinda goddamned ghoul, are ya?’ the second soldier said. ‘We had a lot o’ goddamn ghouls comin’ out here to look around, ya know.’

No,’ Andrew said. ‘Let me through. Please.’

The first soldier looked at the second one, who shrugged. ‘Put ya wagon over there,’ he said. ‘Ya gotta go on foot from here.’

Andrew nodded and turned the wagon off the road. He tied the horse to the branch of a beech tree. He sloped back to the road and lifted a hand to the two soldiers in thanks. They ignored him.

He saw dead horses which had been pulled to one side of the pike. They looked pathetic, like drowned rats. Burial details were hurrying to and fro, and civilians wearing white armbands to show they were hospital workers carried stretchers with wounded men to the huge tent which had been erected. The dead were piled like cordwood beneath a stand of trees, pitiful, ugly.

It took him three hours to find them. Eleanor Chalfont lay in a gully perhaps fifty yards from the broken bridge, her body torn apart like a rag doll ripped by a willful child. She lay with the mangled remains of one arm across the blood-soaked, drenched body of her daughter. Ruth lay on her back, her eyes wide open. A carelessly discarded knapsack had fallen so that it covered her jaw and neck. Andrew lifted it tenderly away and then dropped it, recoiling, as if from a physical blow, at the sight of the dreadful mess of pulped flesh and torn bone it had covered. He staggered to one side and emptied his belly into the ditch, retching until he was exhausted and shivering.

Then he stood up in the driving rain above the body of the woman he had loved, tears mingling with the water streaming down his face. The blinding rage of the preceding night had gone, to be replaced by a cold and iron resolve. He had once turned his back on soldiering, on killing, on the bloody attrition of war. Well, no more, he vowed. What the Rebel army had done at Centerville had made it personal, direct and unavoidable. I will learn to make war again, Andrew vowed silently. And this time I will do it well.

Five days later, he rejoined the army, with the rank of major.