Walter Williams - No Spot of Ground

Poe found himself withdrawing before Evania’s growing clarity. He moved their sleeping chamber to the topmost floor of the mansion, beneath a roof of glass skylights. The glass ceiling was swathed in heavy Oriental draperies to keep out the heat of the day; the windows were likewise covered. Persian rugs four deep covered the floor. Chinese bronzes were arranged to pour gentle incense into the room from the heads of dragons and lions.

With the draperies blocking all sources of the light, in the near-absolute, graveyard darkness, Poe found he could approach his wife. The fantastic decor, seen only by such light as slipped in under the door or through cracks in the draperies, heightened Poe’s imagination to a soaring intensity. He could imagine that the hair he caressed was dark as a raven’s wing; that the cheek he softly kissed was porcelain-pale; he could fancy, under the influence of the incense, that the earthy scent of Evania had been transformed to a scent far more heavenly; and he could almost perceive, as ecstasy flooded him, that the eyes that looked up into his were the large, luminous, angelic eyes of his lost love, the lady Virginia.

*

Poe sat in his tent and tried to eat an omelette made of eggs scavenged from Starker chickens. Fried ham sat untouched on the plate. Around him, the reserve divisional artillery creaked and rattled as the guns were set up on the Starkers’ slight eminence. The ravens gobbled and cawed.

Poe put down his fork. He was too agitated to eat.

A drink, he thought. A soothing glass of sherry. The Starkers must have some; it would be easy to obtain.

He took a gulp of boiled coffee, took his stick, and hobbled out of the tent. The sky had lightened, and the mist had receded from the Starker plantation; Poe could see parts of his own line, a flag here and there, the crowns of trees. His men were moving forward out of their trenches, forming up on the far side of the abatis beyond. Officers’ shouts carried faintly to his ear. The alignment was proceeding with difficulty. The battalions had become too confused as they marched to their places in the dark.

He remembered the Ravens in the cemetery, shrouded by gray gunsmoke as they were now hidden by gray mist.

Sherry, he thought again. The thought seemed to fill his mind with a fine, clear light. He could almost feel the welcome fire burning along his veins. A drink would steady him.

A color sergeant came running up from the Ravens, saluted, and took the two birds away to march with their brigade. Limbers rattled as horses pulled them out of harm’s way down the reverse slope of the hill.

Artillerymen lounged by their Napoleons and Whitworths, waiting for a target.

My god, Poe thought, why am I doing this? Suddenly it seemed the most pointless thing in the world.

An offensive would only make things worse.

A horse trotted toward him from the Starker driveway. Poe recognized Moses, another of Anderson’s aides, an eagle-nosed miniature sheeny that Longstreet had unaccountably raised to the rank of major.

One of Longstreet’s little lapses in taste, Poe thought; but unfortunately, as someone with pretensions to the title himself, he was honor-bound to treat the Hebrew as if his claim to the title of gentleman were genuine.

Sextus took Major Moses’s horse, and Moses and Poe exchanged salutes. There weren’t many men shorter than Poe, but Moses was one of them? he was almost tiny, with hands and feet smaller than a woman’s. “General Anderson’s compliments, sir,” Moses said. “He wants to emphasize his desire for a diversionary attack.”

“Look about you, Major,” Poe said. “What do you see?”

Moses looked at the grayback soldiers rolling out of their entrenchments and shuffling into line, the artillerists waiting on the hilltop for a target, officers calling up and down the ranks.

“I see that General Anderson has been anticipated, sir,” Moses said. “My mission has obviously been in vain.”

“I would be obliged if you’d wait for a moment, Major,” Poe said. “I may have a message for General Anderson by and by.”

“With permission, sir, I should withdraw. The general may need me.” Moses smiled. Dew dripped from his shoulder-length hair onto his blue riding cape. “Today promises to be busy, sir.”

“I need you here , sir!” Poe snapped. “I want you to witness something.”

Moses seemed startled. He recovered, a sly look entering his eyes, then he nodded. “Very well, sir.”

In a motionless instant of perfect clarity, Poe understood the conspiracy of this calculating Jew. Moses would hang back, wait for confirmation of Poe’s madness, Poe’s error, then ride back to Anderson to try to have Poe removed from command. Moxley Sorrel might already have filled the staff tent with tales of Poe’s nerves about to crack. Perhaps, Poe thought furiously, the sheeny intended to replace Poe himself !

Cold triumph rolled through Poe. Conspire though Moses might, Poe would be too crafty for him.

“When will the attack begin, Major?” Poe asked.

“It has already begun, sir. The mist cleared early to the west of us. The men were moving out just as I left General Anderson’s headquarters.”

Poe cocked his head. “I hear no guns, Major Moses.”

“Perhaps there has been a delay. Perhaps?” Moses shrugged. “Perhaps the wet ground is absorbing the sound. Or there is a trick of the wind?”

“Nevertheless,” Poe said, “I hear no guns.”

“Yes, sir.” Moses cleared his throat. “It is not unknown, sir.”

“Still, Major Moses,” said Poe. “I hear no guns.”

Moses fell silent at this self-evident fact. Poe whirled around, his black cape flying out behind him, and stalked toward his tent. He could hear Moses’s soft footsteps following behind.

Men on horseback came, reporting one brigade after another ready to move forward. Poe told them to wait here for the word to advance, then return to their commanders. Soon he had heard from every brigade but those of Gregg and Law? a messenger even came from Fitz Lee, reporting the cavalryman’s readiness to move forward at Poe’s signal. After ten minutes of agitated waiting, while the sky grew ever paler and the mist retreated to lurk among the trees, Poe sent an aide to inquire.

Poe gave an irritated look at his division waiting in their ranks for the signal. If the enemy had scouts out this way, they’d see the Confederates ready for the attack and warn the enemy.

Go forward with the four brigades he had? he wondered.

Yes. No.

He decided to wait till his aide came back. He looked at his watch, then cast a glance over his shoulder at Major Moses.

“I hear no guns, Major,” he said.

“You are correct, sir.” Moses smiled thinly. “I take it you intend to enlighten me as to the significance of this?”

Poe nodded benignly. “In time, Major.”

Moses swept off his hat in an elaborate bow. “You are known as the master of suspense, sir. I take my hat off to you, sir, I positively do.”

Poe smiled. The Jew was amusing. He tipped his own hat. “Thank you, Major.”

Moses put on his hat. “I am an enthusiast of your work, sir. I have a first edition of the Complete Tales . Had I known I would encounter you, I would have had my wife send it to me and begged you to inscribe it.”

“I should be glad to sign it,” Poe said, surprised. The Complete and Corrected Tales and Poems of Edgar A. Poe had been published at his own expense six years ago and had sold precisely two hundred and forty-nine copies throughout the United States- he knew precisely, because the rest of the ten-thousand-copy edition was sitting in a lumber room back home at Shepherd’s Rest.

“Before the war,” Moses said, “I used to read your work aloud to my wife. The poems were particularly lovely, I thought- so delicate. And there was nothing that would bring a blush to her lovely cheek- I particularly appreciate that, sir.” Moses grew indignant. “There are too many passages from poets that one cannot in decency read to a lady, sir. Even in Shakespeare-” Moses shook his head.