"When we catch them, they should get the same treatment," the colonel declared. His tone left no room for dissent.
The train rounded a curve; shell-blasted trees fell behind, replaced by a vista of a crowded campsite. On frozen ground, among white tents, black infantry drilled, marching to the rear, then to the oblique, while George and his sullen companion rode by.
"Look at that spectacle," the colonel said. "Five years ago, no decent Christian would have believed it possible."
George turned and raised his eyebrows to indicate not merely surprise but disapproval. The colonel mistook it for interest and began proselytizing.
"Any intelligent man knows why it's happened — why the stability and moral fiber of this army and this nation are being undermined." The colonel leaned forward. "It's a conspiracy led by the worst elements of society."
"Oh?" George said above the whistling wind. "Which elements are those?"
"Use your head, man. It's obvious." He ticked them off on gauntleted fingers. "The crackpot editors. The free-love philosophers and perverts from New England. The greenhorn immigrants flooding our shores, and the Jewish usurers who are already here. The radical politicians. The New York banking interests. They're all in it."
"You mean the New York bankers consider Southern field hands to be potential customers? Fancy that."
The colonel was too intense to catch the straight-faced mockery. "They've plotted together to render the white man subservient to the nigger. Well, I tell you what the result will be. Blood in the streets. More blood than has ever been shed in this war, because white people will not permit themselves to be enslaved."
"Is that right?" George said, observing the crossing at the Jerusalem Plank Road coming up ahead. "I thought slavery was ending, not beginning. I do appreciate the enlightenment, sir."
"By God, you're laughing at me. What's your name, Major?"
"Harriet Beecher Stowe," George said, and dropped off the car.
The snow was thickening. He tramped toward the camp of the Battalion of Engineers in low spirits.
The camp rang with the noise of axes. The sudden cold weather had speeded the start of hutting. Three parallel streets had been staked out, and about a dozen timber cottages, no two alike, were already partly finished.
A headquarters orderly said Billy could be found in a work shed at the edge of camp. Welcome heat bathed George as he stepped into the gloomy building where a group of men crouched around a fire burning in a shallow pit in the dirt floor. With a stick or tongs, each man held a tin can near the flames.
Billy saw his brother, grinned and waved, then passed his tongs to the man beside him. As Billy hurried toward him, George thought, Lord, how thin and wan he is. Do I look that terrible? I suppose I do.
The brothers embraced, a hug and several slaps of the back. Billy's grin was huge. "How are you? I couldn't sleep last night thinking you'd be here today."
"Should have paid a visit weeks ago, but the rail line takes a lot of damage, so it always needs repair. Tell me, what in God's name is going on at that fire?"
"We're melting out the solder in the cans before we flatten them into sheets. From the sheets we build stoves. One of the boys in the battalion dreamed up the idea. Got to keep warm somehow. Looks like we'll be in Petersburg all winter. But come along to the mess. We'll find some coffee, and you can give me all the news."
The flurries had stopped, the clouds were breaking. Shafts of sun formed light pools on the bleak landscape. Seated at a grimy trestle table in a cold building made of unpainted lumber, George expressed shock at the sight of Billy's scarred left hand.
"A permanent souvenir of Libby," Billy said with a curious smile. "I have several."
After he described some of his prison experiences, the escape, and his wounding, they fell to discussing other topics: the South's virtually certain defeat, Sherman's brilliant triumphs, the whereabouts of all the members of the family except Virgilia. Then came a chance mention of the barrels of chicken and turkey meat promised for the last Thursday in the month; last year, a presidential proclamation had declared Thanksgiving a national holiday.
"I suppose we have a lot to be thankful for," Billy said. "I could have died in prison. Probably would have except for Charles."
"Any idea where he is?"
Billy shook his head. "Wade Hampton's been in some hot engagements around here, though."
"I gather the cattle raid is still a cause of some embarrassment."
"Some? Try monumental." In September, Texas Tom Rosser and four thousand riders had undertaken an adventure worthy of Stuart. Completely encircling the Union rear, they had rustled twenty-five hundred head of beef cattle from an abatis corral at Coggins Point, on the James, then driven the herd back to the hungry defenders of Petersburg — taking three hundred prisoners along at the same time.
"Some found the whole business pretty funny," Billy said. "Old Jeb's ghost tweaking Grant's nose — that kind of thing. It didn't amuse me much. I can't find humor in this war any more. Nor much enthusiasm for soldiering, either. If I ever get home, I'm not sure I want to come back to the army."
"The last time I saw Herman Haupt, he talked about the West. He predicts a boom in rail construction out there after the war. The idea of a transcontinental line will undoubtedly be revived. He said there would be great opportunities for capable engineers."
"Something to think about." Billy nodded. "Provided we ever get Bob Lee to surrender.''
"The siege surely does drag on," George agreed. "It's grim. They say the rebs are starving. Eating a handful of corn once a day, if that. I know they fired the first shot. I know they have to be whipped till they quit. But you're right: knowing you're part of something like that sours you after a while. I wanted duty on the lines. Helping run the military railroads is good, satisfying work. My black crews are fine. But I have days when I'm as low as I've ever been in my whole life."
Billy stared into his empty tin cup, held between hands that looked raw and red; the left one was the ugliest. "So do I. When that happens, I think about a conversation you and I had on the hill behind Belvedere. You talked about some things Mother once said to you. How she believed our family was like the laurel —"
"Hardy. I remember. I hope it's still true."
"Sometimes I wonder, George. So much has changed. Colored men in uniform. Railroads flying up and down the countryside carrying whole regiments. Dead men piled up like kindling — something no one ever expected. I wonder if any of the old things can survive. Including friendship with the Mains — excepting the one I married, of course."
George scratched the stubble on his chin. He had the same fears. Exhaustion sharpened them, exhaustion and depression brought on by the misjudgment and malingering that were as bad in the field as in Washington. By the endless counting of bodies. By the common agreement that the war would probably continue into next year.
Still, he was the older brother, and for some damn reason it was ordained that older brothers were always supposed to be wise and strong. Though he felt his effort was probably transparent and ludicrous, he tried.
"I ask myself the same question when I'm feeling down. My answer has to be yes, or I couldn't keep going. The verities will outlast all the changes — and help winnow the worthless ones. That's the meaning of the laurel, I think. Friendship — the love of our wives and our families and people we cherish, like the Mains — that's more permanent than anything else. That endures and helps us do the same. Otherwise, I'm not sure we could. We'll come through, don't worry."