them when we got the news of the defeat at Bull Run and when we traveled south in the rush to the front lines that followed it ...”
“Good God, man, I don’t need to hear a recitation of your entire service ...”
I kept talking, right over the top of him. I was beside myself with the need to make my case: I did not see that I was vexing him beyond measure. “I’ve been through defeat with these men, I’ve been covered in their blood. No other chaplain—”
“Silence!” he shouted. He walked over to the window, which opened onto a remarkable prospect of faceted cliffs falling sharply to the crotch of the merging rivers. The light was failing and a red glow burnished the surface of the water. He spoke with his face turned toward the view so that he wouldn’t have to look at me.
“March, I tried to put this kindly, but if you insist on the blunt truth, then you shall have it. I have to tell you that McKillop is lodging a complaint against you, and some of what he plans to put in it is rather ... indelicate. I’m not about to pry into your personal affairs. You may be chaplain, but you’re, a soldier at war, and a man, and these things happen...”
“Colonel, if Captain McKillop has implied ...”
“March, let me do you a kindness. Do yourself one. Request reassignment to the superintendent of contraband. Who knows? You may be able to do a deal of good there.”
I left that makeshift office in a ferment of rage, mortification, and, yes, shame. For the surgeon’s complaint was not groundless. He had come looking for Grace to assist him and found us together in Mr. Clement’s chamber. I had pulled the rigolette off Grace’s beautiful head, buried my face in her hair, and tasted again the cool sweetness of her mouth. But then I felt the tears on her cheeks, and suddenly I was transported in memory to another time, another cheek wet with tears, and the thought of Marmee and what I owed to her fell upon me like a cold mist. I took Grace’s face in my hands and looked into her brimming eyes. She broke away from me.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“It’s too late,” she said, her voice trembling. “You are not the beautiful, innocent vagabond walking toward me under the dogwood blossoms, with his trunks and his head full of worthless notions. And I am not the beloved, cherished ladies’ maid ...”
I stepped toward her and embraced her again, but this time as one embraces a suffering friend. And so when McKillop came upon us a short time after, he found us so: Grace, with her hair all loose, her face buried against my shoulder. For a man like McKillop, who saw sin everywhere, it was enough.
To me, it was a grave transgression to have entertained those longings, and to have acted upon them even so far as I did. To that extent, I deserved this. But what greater punishment would it be if whispers of my momentary weakness should come to the ears of my dear wife, or scandal touch my daughters in their youthful innocence? Accordingly, I made my way back through the slippery streets to the tent camp on the town’s outskirts, took out my lap desk, and wrote up my request for transfer of service. And now that is done, and I have turned to this sheet, bound for the eyes of my wife—eyes whose wise luster is no less beautiful to me now than that day in her brother’s church so many years ago. When I had imagined this correspondence, I had thought to leave nothing in reserve that came gracefully into words. I thought I would commit to these leaves even those things which could not be easily spoken, and that at the end of my service it would endure as a loving record preserving an honest record of both our lives.
But today’s epistle is shrouded in words meant to mislead. After much reflection, I have decided to cast the matter of my transfer in an entirely positive light. Leave aside that which cannot be confessed. I also find I can write no word to her of my lesser failures. Of my inability to win the minds
“Good God, man, I don’t need to hear a recitation of your entire service ...”
I kept talking, right over the top of him. I was beside myself with the need to make my case: I did not see that I was vexing him beyond measure. “I’ve been through defeat with these men, I’ve been covered in their blood. No other chaplain—”
“Silence!” he shouted. He walked over to the window, which opened onto a remarkable prospect of faceted cliffs falling sharply to the crotch of the merging rivers. The light was failing and a red glow burnished the surface of the water. He spoke with his face turned toward the view so that he wouldn’t have to look at me.
“March, I tried to put this kindly, but if you insist on the blunt truth, then you shall have it. I have to tell you that McKillop is lodging a complaint against you, and some of what he plans to put in it is rather ... indelicate. I’m not about to pry into your personal affairs. You may be chaplain, but you’re, a soldier at war, and a man, and these things happen...”
“Colonel, if Captain McKillop has implied ...”
“March, let me do you a kindness. Do yourself one. Request reassignment to the superintendent of contraband. Who knows? You may be able to do a deal of good there.”
I left that makeshift office in a ferment of rage, mortification, and, yes, shame. For the surgeon’s complaint was not groundless. He had come looking for Grace to assist him and found us together in Mr. Clement’s chamber. I had pulled the rigolette off Grace’s beautiful head, buried my face in her hair, and tasted again the cool sweetness of her mouth. But then I felt the tears on her cheeks, and suddenly I was transported in memory to another time, another cheek wet with tears, and the thought of Marmee and what I owed to her fell upon me like a cold mist. I took Grace’s face in my hands and looked into her brimming eyes. She broke away from me.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“It’s too late,” she said, her voice trembling. “You are not the beautiful, innocent vagabond walking toward me under the dogwood blossoms, with his trunks and his head full of worthless notions. And I am not the beloved, cherished ladies’ maid ...”
I stepped toward her and embraced her again, but this time as one embraces a suffering friend. And so when McKillop came upon us a short time after, he found us so: Grace, with her hair all loose, her face buried against my shoulder. For a man like McKillop, who saw sin everywhere, it was enough.
To me, it was a grave transgression to have entertained those longings, and to have acted upon them even so far as I did. To that extent, I deserved this. But what greater punishment would it be if whispers of my momentary weakness should come to the ears of my dear wife, or scandal touch my daughters in their youthful innocence? Accordingly, I made my way back through the slippery streets to the tent camp on the town’s outskirts, took out my lap desk, and wrote up my request for transfer of service. And now that is done, and I have turned to this sheet, bound for the eyes of my wife—eyes whose wise luster is no less beautiful to me now than that day in her brother’s church so many years ago. When I had imagined this correspondence, I had thought to leave nothing in reserve that came gracefully into words. I thought I would commit to these leaves even those things which could not be easily spoken, and that at the end of my service it would endure as a loving record preserving an honest record of both our lives.
But today’s epistle is shrouded in words meant to mislead. After much reflection, I have decided to cast the matter of my transfer in an entirely positive light. Leave aside that which cannot be confessed. I also find I can write no word to her of my lesser failures. Of my inability to win the minds
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