Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [124]
“I curse them all!” he shouted. “The Yankees who did this to my land don’t deserve to live. I could kill every last one of them with my bare hands.” I suddenly realized what Jonathan must have understood all too well as he’d viewed the desolated plantation: Hilltop would now be his one day—what was left of it.
“Don’t you know that Egypt is already ruined?” I murmured.
“What?”
“Do you remember the night you brought me here to listen to the slaves’ worship? Eli preached that night. Do you remember what he said?”
“Vaguely. I remember it sounded seditious.”
“He said that God had heard the slaves’ cries, and He was going to set them free—just like He had once set Israel free from the Egyptians. He told them the Negroes wouldn’t have to lift a finger . . . that God was going to send plagues on this land to show the white folks His power, and in the end, all the slaves would go free.”
“Our slaves weren’t set free, Carrie—they ran away. And the Yankees are breaking the laws of their own land when they help them. The Fugitive Slave Law says—”
“Lincoln’s proclamation of freedom cancels that law.”
“Only if the North wins. And they aren’t going to win. We pushed them all out of Virginia once, and we’ll do it again if we have to.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” I said sadly. “By the time Pharaoh finished his showdown with God and the slaves were free, Egypt was ruined. I imagine it looked a lot like Hilltop looks right now.”
“Shut up!” Jonathan shouted. I knew he was furious with me, but I said what needed to be said, regardless.
“The final plague came on the night of Passover, when all the firstborn sons—”
“I said, shut up!” He grabbed my shoulder with his free hand, as if he wanted to shake me. “Isn’t it bad enough that my brother is dead? How dare you imply that this was God’s will? The Yankees are the ones who killed him, Caroline! The Yankees!”
“I’m sorry.” I tried to hold him, but he pushed me away.
He started down the path toward home, refusing my help, but he paused long enough to turn around and ask bitterly, “Does Charles know you’re a Negro-lover?”
Chapter Eighteen
November 1862
“The Union Army is going to try again,” I told Robert that November. “A new general named Burnside is moving his forces south to try to take Richmond. But first he’ll have to get past the Army of Northern Virginia.”
“That includes your fiancé’s regiment?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to discuss Charles, but Robert seemed determined to follow his movements as closely as I did. It was as if he enjoyed tormenting himself by comparing Charles’ triumphs to his own failures.
“The first battleground will probably be Fredericksburg,” I said.
“Where’s that?”
“About halfway between Washington and Richmond.”
Robert paced the tiny storeroom, as if he was the commanding general, plotting strategy. If I hadn’t known him so well, known that discussing battles and military maneuvers had been his passion since youth, I never would have had the patience to indulge his questions.
“Have you ever been to Fredericksburg?” he asked.
“No. It’s really very small—no more than five thousand people. But I know it’s on the Rappahannock River.”
“Who has to cross the river, the Yankees or the Rebels?”
“The Yankees do. I heard Mr. St. John and the other men discussing it after church last Sunday. The city is on our side of the river. They’re planning to destroy all the bridges before the Yankees get there.”
“Of course. We will be expecting as much. We’ll have to construct pontoon bridges. And we’ll have to control the high ground to do it. Are there any hills nearby?”
“Robert, I’m sorry, but I really don’t know. I’ve never been there.” I didn’t dare tell him that refugees were already fleeing Fredericksburg and coming to Richmond for safety. He probably would have begged me to interview them. “I did hear the men talking about Marye’s Heights, but don’t ask me where that is.”
“Burnside will have to move quickly,” Robert said. “That was McClellan’s problem—he moved too slowly, and . . .” He