Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [123]
“Yes, he surely will.”
I slipped outside as they hugged and rejoiced, knowing that I had no right to share in their joy. For me, the stakes had been raised. It was now more important than ever that the North win the war. “Here I am,” I whispered. I was willing to do whatever God asked me to do.
I waited to break the news to Jonathan until we had secured a travel pass and were on our way to Hilltop in a borrowed wagon. He would not rejoice over Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation.
“Can’t you see what he’s doing?” Jonathan asked. “Lincoln knows he can’t beat us any other way, so he’s dangling freedom in front of our slaves, hoping they’ll rise up against us.”
“Why is a slave uprising always your biggest fear?” I asked. “Maybe Lincoln is doing it because it’s the right thing to do. I know you don’t agree with me, but slavery is morally wrong. Other civilized nations have realized it. Great Britain outlawed slavery thirty years ago and—” Jonathan groaned. “Oh, no. I’ll bet that’s another reason Lincoln did it. We were this close to winning England’s support,” he said, holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Our victory at Antietam could have clinched it. But now Lincoln is claiming a victory and making the war into a moral issue by tossing in slavery. England will never support us now.”
I decided not to argue with him. We were both much too emotionally drained. As Jonathan raged on and on about Lincoln and the slaves and “those cowardly Yankees,” I let him vent his feelings without comment. But after we passed the picket lines and crossed the Chickahominy, nearing Hilltop’s property, he forgot everything else as he viewed his desolated plantation for the first time.
“The trees . . . Caroline, where are all the trees?”
The devastation was even worse than before the Seven Days’ Battles, before the two clashing armies had rampaged across Hilltop’s fields and blown what little remained of its forests into matchsticks with their artillery.
“All our fences . . .” he murmured. “All our livestock. Our crops . . . there should be crops in those fields, ready to harvest. . . .”
“The barn is still there,” I said with relief when it came into sight. “And there’s your house. At least they didn’t burn down your house.” But as we drove into the yard, I saw that the room that had once been our grandparents’ had been badly damaged by cannon fire, then crudely repaired.
Jonathan’s parents emerged from the house as our wagon drew to a halt. I watched them appraise Jonathan’s bandaged arm and the pine coffin in the wagon bed with stunned expressions, then slowly comprehend the reason for our visit.
“Oh, God . . .” Aunt Anne moaned, her hands covering her mouth. “Please tell me that’s not Will . . . tell me that’s not my son. . . .”
I felt as though I had dealt her and Uncle William the final, killing blow. As I looked at their stricken faces, I knew that regardless of who won this war, neither of them had the strength to restore Hilltop to what it once had been. All but three of their slaves had fled with the Yankees. Inside, their gracious home had been ravaged by months of hard use by careless soldiers, the lovely carpets and furniture and oil paintings stained and scarred and spoiled beyond repair. If my aunt and uncle lived carefully, they might scrape together enough food from the pillaged garden and orchard to provide a bare subsistence through the winter. But the Hilltop of my childhood had been destroyed.
I cried as we buried Will beside his grandparents and younger sisters, crying not only for him but also for everything else that was lost. In a way, Will was one of the lucky ones. His suffering was over.
When the funeral ended, Jonathan and I walked down the path to where the pine grove had been. All that remained of the beautiful, quiet sanctuary were weeds and tree stumps and the charred remnants of Yankee campfires.
Jonathan had managed not to weep as his brother was buried, but now I saw tears fill his eyes as he kicked at the remains of a Yankee campfire, scattering