A fragrant fire brightened the hearth of the parlor after supper. Patricia had resumed her music lessons with a local teacher, but a regular piano wasn't practical in the crowded suite, so George had bought a small harmonium. Patricia opened a carol book, pumped the pedals, and played "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen."

Constance came out of the bedroom with three large presents. She placed the packages near similar ones at the base of the fir tree decorated with cranberry strands, gilt-painted wood ornaments, and tiny candles. Buckets of water and sand waited behind the tree. All the gas had been shut off in the room; the light was mellow and pleasant-quite unlike George's state of mind.

"Sing with me, Papa," his daughter said between phrases. He shook his head, remaining in his chair. Constance went to the harmonium and added her voice to Patricia's. The young girl resembled her mother in her prettiness and her bright hair.

Singing, Constance glanced occasionally at her husband. His despondency worried her. "Won't you, George?" she asked finally, motioning.

"No."

William wandered in and sang "Joy to the World" with them. Puberty put a crack in his voice; Patricia giggled so hard Constance had to speak to her. After the carol William said, "Pa, can't each of us open one present tonight?"

"No. You've nagged me about that all evening, and I'm sick of it."

"George, I beg your pardon," Constance said. "He hasn't nagged. He's mentioned it only once."

"Once or a hundred times, the answer's no." He addressed his son. "We shall attend our church in the morning, and your mother will go to mass, then we'll have our gifts."

"After church?" William cried. "Waiting that long isn't fair. Why not after breakfast?"

"It's your father's decision," Constance said-softly. George paid no attention to her slight frown.

William wouldn't be persuaded. "It isn't fair!"

"I'll show you what's fair, you impertinent-"

"George!" He was halfway to his son before Constance stepped between them. "Try to remember it's Christmas Eve. We are your family, but you act as if we're enemies. What's wrong?"

"Nothing-I don't know-Where are my cigars?" He leaned on the mantelpiece, his back to the others. His eye fell on the sprig of laurel he had brought from Lehigh Station and kept on the mantel. The sprig was withered and brown. He snatched it and flung it in the fire.

"I'm going to bed."

The laurel smoked, curled, and vanished.

He slammed the bedroom door and splashed cold water on his face, then searched till he found a cigar. After raising the window, he crawled into bed with a stack of contracts he had brought home. The fine loops and flourishes of the copyists blurred before his eyes, meaningless. He felt guilty about his behavior, angry with everyone and everything. He dropped the contracts on the floor, stubbed out the cigar, extinguished the gas, and rolled up under the comforter.

He never knew when Constance came to bed. He was lost and far away, watching exquisitely slow shellbursts on the road to Churubusco, watching a great malevolent India-rubber head-Thad Stevens-loom steadily larger, the shouting mouth huge as a cave. Free every slave. Slaughter every traitor. Burn every mansion. In the ravening maw he saw Mont Royal afire.

He watched the road from Cub Run. The fallen horse. The young Zouave, crashing his musket down on the only target he could find for his fear and fury. The horse peeled its lips back from its teeth, demented by pain. The Zouave struck once more. The head opened like some exotic fruit, spilling its red pulp in pumping spurts that became a flow. Which was the animal? Which was the man? The guns changed everything.

The Zouave, the horse, the scene exploded as if struck by a shell. Deep in dreams, the dreamer retreated, whimpering with relief-only to see the Zouave approach the horse again, raise the musket again, bring the butt down again, the cycle restarting- "Stop it."

"George-"

"Stop it, stop it." He flailed at soft things wrapped around his body. He kept screaming "Stop it."

A young voice called out fearfully: "Pa? Mama, is he all right?"

"Yes, William."

"Stop-" A great, long gasp from George, and realization. Faintly: "-it."

"Go back to bed, William," Constance called. "It's just a nightmare."

"Jesus Christ," George whispered in the dark, shuddering.

"There." Her arms were what he had attempted to fight off. "There." She brushed hair from his wet forehead, kissing him. How warm she felt. He slid his hands around her and held her, ashamed of his weakness but thankful for the comfort. "What were you dreaming? It must have been horrible."

"Mexico, Bull Run-it was. I'm sorry I was so rotten tonight. I'll speak to the children first thing in the morning. We'll open gifts. I want them to know I'm sorry."

"They understand. They know you're hurting badly. They just don't know why. I'm not sure I do either."

"God, they must hate me."

"Never. They know you're a good father. They love you and want you to be happy, especially at Christmas."

"The war makes Christmas a mockery." He pressed his face to hers; both cheeks were cold. The room was freezing; he had opened the window too far. The air smelled of old cigars and of his sweat.

"Is it the war that's troubling you so badly?"

"I guess. What a little word, war, to bring so much misery. I can't stand the dishonesty in this town. The greed behind the flag-waving rhetoric. Do you know something? At the rate Stanley is selling bootees to the infantry, he'll have an enormous profit within a year. Practically a small fortune. And do you know that the shoes he's delivering will fall apart after a week of use on hard roads in Virginia or Missouri or wherever the damned disgraceful things are sent?"

"I'd rather not know things like that."

"What bothers me most is something Thayer said at the dinner. You don't build an effective army in ninety days. It takes two or three years."

"You mean he thinks the war may last that long?"

"Yes. The springtime war-short, sanitary-that was a cruel delusion. War's not like that. Never has been, never will be. Now everything's changing. Other men are taking charge, men like Stevens, who want slaughter. Can Billy survive that? What about Orry and Charles? If I ever see Orry again, will he speak to me? Long wars make for long hatreds. A long war will change people, Constance. Wear them out. Destroy them with despair, if it doesn't kill them outright. I finally faced that-and look what it's done to me."

She hugged him to her breast. Her silence said she understood his fears and shared them and had no answers for his questions. Presently he went to shut the window. Outside, it was snowing again.

48.

CHARLES HAD FIRED HIS shotgun in anger just three times during the autumn. Each time he had led a scout detachment well past the rifle pits Hampton's infantry had dug as part of the Confederate defense line; each time the targets were fleeing Yanks on horseback. He had wounded one but missed the rest.

That typified the months since Manassas: uneventful except for the spirit-lifting victory at Ball's Bluff in late October. In the North the engagement had produced accusations of bungling, even treason, directed against the Union commander who had led the Potomac crossing, then seen his men shot or drowned as Confederate fire repelled them. Shanks Evans, a South Carolinian who had ridden against Charles in horse races in Texas, had distinguished himself at Ball's Bluff, just as he had at Manassas. Promotion looked doubtful for him, though; he drank too much and had a violent temper.

The colonel's elevation to brigadier, on the other hand, looked certain. He was in favor with Johnston, who had been given the whole Department of Virginia in the reorganization after Ball's Bluff. Old Bory had lost out and was now relegated to command of the Potomac district, one of several in the department. As a practical matter, Hampton had been carrying the responsibilities of a brigadier since November, with three more regiments of foot, two from Georgia, one from North Carolina, placed under him. Calbraith Butler was commanding the cavalry, which did everything from probing Yankee positions to guarding paymaster wagon trains.

During the fall, Charles had found just one period of two days when he was free to visit Spotsylvania County. After a fast, exhausting ride, he had located Barclay's Farm easily, only to find the owner absent. The older of her two freedmen, Washington, said she had gone to Richmond with the younger one, Boz, to sell the last of her corn crop and a few pumpkins, eggs, and cheeses. Charles rode back to the lines in a bitter mood, made no better by hours of drenching rain.

The legion had hutted for the winter near Dumfries. Tonight, Christmas Eve, Charles was alone in the log-and-daub cottage he and Ambrose had put together with axes, sweat, and no Negro labor. Except for a few holdouts such as Custom Cramm III, most of the troopers had sent their slaves home rather than see them run away.

Tattoo had been sounded half an hour ago, and the final call for quiet would be skipped because of tomorrow's holiday. Ambrose had drawn patrol duty, riding out before dark in the direction of Fairfax Courthouse to conduct a routine surveillance of the Union lines. His detachment included Private Nelson Gervais, for whom Charles's epistolary skills had won a promise of the hand of Miss Sally Mills; the couple planned a wedding when Gervais got his first leave.

A small fire burned in the hut fireplace, constructed of bricks foraged in the finest cavalry tradition by First Sergeant Reynolds. The bricks ran to a height level with the top of the door; above, the chimney was mud and sticks. On the mantel, a plank resting on pegs, sat a cased ambrotype of Ambrose's parents and a photograph of Ambrose and Charles with ferns, columns, and the Confederate national flag in the background; such properties were a standard part of the kit of photographers who worked the camps.

The hut measured twelve feet on each side and included a pair of built-in bunks at opposite ends of the room, a rack for sabers and shotguns, and comfortable handmade furniture: a table of thick boards nailed to a keg; two chairs with curved backs created from flour barrels. Ambrose was a fine woodworker, though he complained that it was slave's work. He had carved the sign hanging outside above the door and insisted that doing so gave him the right to name the hut. But Charles had vetoed Millwood Mansion as too obvious an attempt to flatter Hampton. Ambrose settled on Gentlemen's Rest. Charles would have preferred something less sententious; he rather liked the name of the eight-man hut where Gervais lived, Phunny Phellows.

Though the fire made the hut cozy, Charles's mood was not the best. The evening had started badly when the salt horse served at supper proved inedible. Despite pickling, it was purplish and slimy. They had made do with teeth-dullers and whippoorwill peas.

Turkey, sweet potatoes, and fresh corn bread were promised for Christmas. He would believe a feast when he saw it. Charles's men hated the Commissary Department. They cursed its head man, Northrop, as floridly as they cursed Old Abe-sometimes more. The beef was getting so tough, Colonel Hampton had remarked last week, he was thinking of requisitioning some files for sharpening teeth.

Parcels from home helped to offset the recent and noticeable decline in the quality of rations. Charles had one such package, or the remains of it, on the table in front of him. It had arrived from Richmond this afternoon, preceded by a letter from Orry, who reported that he was now a lieutenant colonel in the War Department and stuck in a job he disliked.

As a precaution, Orry had written out a list of the contents of the package and sent it with the letter: two oranges-all he could locate; they had arrived squashed but edible. Two copies of the Southern Illustrated News; one featured a lengthy article about the victory at Ball's Bluff. The list showed four paper-covered novels, but these had been stolen from the badly torn parcel.

The damage probably accounted for the green mold forming on the two dozen baking-powder biscuits. With his knife, Charles scraped off some of the mold and ate a biscuit. They would do. He wiped the knife blade on his sleeve, which, like the rest of his uniform, had acquired a dirty cast no amount of washing would remove.

Orry had also sent three small crocks of jam for the biscuits; all arrived broken, the contents oozing around pieces of the containers. Charles had thrown the whole mess away. Finally, the package included a dark chocolate cake which looked as if a cannonball had dropped on it. That could be salvaged, crumbs and all. Charles knifed out a large wedge and gobbled it.

He pulled out his pocket watch. Half past eight. He had duties tonight, some official, some not; he supposed he might as well start. He scratched his beard, which he was permitting to grow because it kept his face warm. It was already more than an inch long, thus a convenient home for graybacks, but so far he had managed to avoid a serious infestation. Unlike many of his troopers, he washed as often as possible. He hated feeling dirty, and beyond that, if he were ever lucky enough to be alone with Gus Barclay, and if she were receptive to an advance, he damn well didn't want any crab lice in residence around his privates. That would scotch romance forever.

Her face came into his thoughts often these days. It had a special vividness tonight. He felt lonely and wished he were at Barclay's Farm, perhaps listening to her read Pope over cups of heated wine.

He shook his head. Mustn't let anyone else see his state; others in his care surely felt the same way or worse, and were less experienced at dealing with it. It was his duty to look after them.

He rose and plopped his hat on his head as a nearby tenor voice began "Sweet Hour of Prayer." He liked the melody and hummed along as he strapped on his revolver and took his gauntlets from their peg. He saw his breath as he ducked out the door; a light snowfall had begun. Ambrose planned to return by midnight, after which they were going to open a bottle of busthead bought from the sutler. Maybe they should organize a snowball fight first; the men were growing quarrelsome from inactivity.

Three messmates from down near the Savannah River came out of their winterized tent to gaze in wonder at the white flakes falling between great dark trees. Charles approached. "First you've ever seen, boys?"

"Yes, sir."

"Better look sharp, Captain Main," said another. "A snowball just might pop that hat off your head 'fore you know it."

Charles laughed and walked on down the row of winterized tents; the lower walls were palisaded logs, the roofs canvas, flat or peaked. The unseen tenor began "Away in a Manger." Two deeper voices joined. A burst of laughter from a card game briefly drowned out the carol. Charles kept walking, his boots crunching snow. It already covered the ground.

From a narrow lane between tents came a familiar sputtering sound. Angry, he turned into the lane. Sure enough, there was the malefactor with his pants and drawers down around his calves and his rear jutting over a soiled patch of snow.

"Goddamn you, Pickens, I've told you before-use the sinks. It's men like you who spread sickness in this camp."

The frightened boy said, "I know what you said, Cap'n, but I got a ter'ble case of the quickstep."

"The sinks," Charles said without pity. "Get going."

The trooper clumsily tugged up his clothing and limped away with a kind of sideways crab step. Charles returned to the street and walked toward the camp entrance, two elaborate pillars and an arch, fashioned of peeled saplings woven together. Quite a work of art, that gate. It would stand till spring, when they would surely take the field to fight McClellan.

Charles passed men standing guard and returned each salute without really seeing it or the man who gave it. Gus Barclay's face filled his thoughts. Outside a hut twice the size of his own, he said to the corporal on duty, "How's the prisoner?"

"He cussed a blue streak for 'bout a half hour, Captain. When I dint pay no attention, he shut up."

"Let's go in and release him. No one should stand punishment on Christmas Eve."

The corporal nodded, brushed snowflakes from his eyebrows and the bill of his kepi, and ducked into the hut. Charles followed. A certain reluctance mingled with his kinder impulse; the man put here just before supper call was the perennially rebellious Private Cramm. First Sergeant Reynolds had issued another order Cramm didn't like, and as the sergeant was moving away, Cramm hawked and spat loudly. Charles ordered him bucked and gagged for the night. Sometimes he wished Cramm were a Yankee, so he could shoot him.

Cramm sat on the dirt floor of the guardhouse, a single bare room feebly lit by a lamp. Above the stick tied in his mouth, sullen eyes watched Charles. Cramm's wrists were roped together behind his drawnup knees; a thick length of pine pole had been slipped between knees and forearms.

"You don't deserve it, Cramm, but I'm going to release you because it's Christmas Eve." While Charles said this, the guard knelt and unfastened the gag. "Escort him to his tent, Corporal. Stay there until reveille, Cramm. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Cramm made a great show of grimacing and twisting his head as if badly hurt. No gratitude was visible on his face; just his eternal contempt. Feeling his temper start to rise, Charles quickly left.

The snow fell like pillow down. The most important call of the night was yet to be paid. He would go right now. The thought relieved the anger Cramm always caused.

Passing the winterized tents again, he stopped. Inside a tent whose sign announced it was the home of The Fighting Cocks, a name chosen in honor of Sumter, the hero of the Revolution, Charles heard a young voice: "Lord God. Oh, Lord God. Oh, oh."

He recognized the speaker; it was Reuven Sapp, nineteen-year-old nephew of the doctor who had drugged Madeline LaMotte with laudanum for so long. The boy had the makings of a good cavalryman if he could get over letting his louder but less competent comrades intimidate him.

"Oh, Lord-oh." Charles tapped on the door and pulled it open without waiting for permission. Seated on one of the four bunks, the straw-haired boy jerked his head up. A letter dropped from his lap. "Captain! I didn't know anyone was close by-"

"I wouldn't have come in, but I heard a voice that sounded pretty low." Charles removed his hat, shook snow from it, walked down three plank steps to the dirt floor, which was excavated to a depth of three feet below ground level for added warmth. The hearth was dark, the tent freezing. "Where are your messmates?"

"Went out to see if they could club some rabbits." Sapp struggled to sound normal, but his eyes betrayed him. "That was pretty scrummy food tonight."

"Rotten. May I sit down?"

"Oh, certainly, Captain. I'm sorry-" He jumped up as Charles took a chair. He waved Sapp back to the bunk and waited, suspecting the boy would eventually tell him why he felt bad. He was right. Sapp picked up the letter. He spoke haltingly.

"Last August, I worked up the nerve to write a girl I like real well. I asked her whether she could ever look favorably on me as a suitor. She sent me a Christmas greeting." He indicated the fallen letter. "Said she's sorry but I can't be a suitor because I'm not respectable. I don't go to church."

"That makes two of us who aren't respectable then. It's a damn shame you got the news at Christmas. I wish there was something I could-"

Bursting tears interrupted him. "Oh, Captain, I'm so homesick. I'm ashamed of feeling so bad, but I can't help it. I hate this damn war." He bent forward from the waist, hiding his face in his hands, down near his knees. Charles twisted his hat brim, drew a breath, walked to the bunk, and squeezed the shoulder of the crying boy.

"Listen, I feel the same way myself, and often. You're no different from any other soldier in that respect, Reuven. So don't get after yourself so hard." The boy raised his wet red face, gulping. "I suggest we forget this and forget the rules about enlisted men drinking with officers, too. Stop by my hut after a while, and I'll pour you something to brace you up."

"I don't touch spirits, but-thank you anyway, sir. Thank you."

Charles nodded and left, hoping he had done some good.

He resumed his walk toward the shelters, built with sloping roofs and walls on one side to protect the horses from the worst of the weather. He heard the animals before he saw them. They were upset. His belly tightened as he spied someone crouching next to Sport, where he didn't belong. The man reached for something.

Three long strides, and Charles was on him. He caught the man by the collar, recognizing him; he was an aide to Calbraith Butler.

"That's my property you're trying to steal, Sergeant. I foraged those boards so my horse wouldn't stand on wet ground all winter. Go find some firewood for Major Butler somewhere else-and thank your stars I don't report you to him."

Taking a two-handed grip on the collar, Charles flung the thief away from the nervous horses, then booted him in the butt for good measure. The noncom fled through the falling snow without a backward look.

Sport recognized him. Charles peeled off his gauntlets, straightened the heavy gray blanket, and knelt in the mud to be sure the gelding's feet were squarely on the boards. He stepped to the trough holding the evening fodder. Almost all of it was gone. No surprise there; a cavalry horse would eat another horse's tail if he was hungry enough.

Charles fingered a bit of fodder left in the trough: coarse, dry straw; poor stuff. Winter pasturage was already scarce; thousands of cavalry and artillery horses were rapidly chewing away all the grasslands of Virginia. At least there would be another review tomorrow. Calbraith Butler ordered them frequently to keep the animals fit and the men busy.