Confederate Army, Virginia, 1862
‘Your father was a soldier,’ Stephen Joyce said to Patrick. ‘Not a uniformed soldier like you, but a soldier nonetheless. He died fighting the oppression of a foreign Crown.’
He paused. ‘I was his commanding officer.’
‘So history repeats itself,’ Patrick answered. ‘Perhaps fortune will favour me more than it did my father.’
‘I brought you this,’ Stephen said, ignoring the younger man’s barb. ‘The hours before battle are long. This may shorten them!’
Patrick took the book of poems. ‘Love Elegies … John Donne?’ he questioned.
‘Yes,’ Stephen answered. ‘A priest-poet. He could see deeply into the human heart and questioned all metaphysical things. He will provoke your mind.’
‘Thank you!’ Patrick said, some vague familiarity that he couldn’t place, niggling at him. ‘I shall treasure it.’
For Stephen the familiarity of the exchange was shot through with an intensity that melted away the years. It was the self-same book he had given to Patrick’s mother. She had given it back, wanting his copy, the one from which he had read to her. They had exchanged the books like vows, sealing their love in the eternity of verse. He wanted the boy to have it – something of her – a talisman to keep him safe. Stephen was aware of how intently Patrick now watched him. Though of a different colour to Ellen’s, the boy’s eyes had the self-same set – direct, uncovering, drinking in what you said – and what you did not say. He bid Patrick a good night.
When Patrick returned to the tent, Oxy was already under the covers but not yet asleep. Thinking of his Kizzie, Patrick imagined. Just as he himself was of Emmeline.
‘Oxy,’ he asked quietly, ‘are you afraid?’
‘Of course I am … but if a fellow could get enough sleep, he could then be speeding ahead of those slow-coach Yankee bullets.’
Patrick laughed. Oxy could take the sting out of anything with his sharp wit. Even death.
Then he wrote to Emmeline, the words tumbling unmanageably onto the page. He had not seen her since they had left before Christmas. It was different now, the pomp of their leaving Louisiana, the bands pumping out their ‘oom-pah-pahs’, the banners, the ladies’ fondly-scented handkerchiefs, fluttering them away to glory. They had been trained, roughly enough trained, Patrick thought, in the taking of orders, marching and the use of their weapons. It was enough, he supposed, to kill … or be killed. Now, in the early spring of 1862, they would be put to the test. Now they were in the heart of it all. Virginia, its state capital Richmond, also the Confederate capital. Its roads and rivers within striking distance of the other capital, Washington.
The letter to Emmeline was short, Patrick afraid he would reveal his fears to her. Now he must concentrate on the next morning’s battle.
Tomorrow he would train his eye on men he never knew. Shoot them dead … or be shot dead by them.
It was a restless night but blessedly brief. Reveille sounded at 4.30 a.m.
Before they broke camp, Father O’Grady, the chaplain, a robust and bearded Irishman addressed them. ‘Men! This is your first battle. Do not fear it. Put on the whole armour of Good. Your cause is just and you must be clear of mind, ready now before the throne of God, to die rather than forsake the cause … Trust … Obedience … Faith. Trust … Obedience … Faith,’ he repeated. ‘For the honour of your country and for Christ as Saviour, the true soldier is prepared to die in the path of duty even if it leads to the very mouth of the cannon. ‘Remember,’ he reminded them yet again. ‘Trust … Obedience … Faith.’
‘Twaddling Theology,’ was what Oxy called it.