Lincoln's Dreams

“I came to see Broun the night of the reception,” she said. “I made Richard come. I knew Broun knew all about the Civil War. I thought he might be able to tell me what the dreams meant.”

“Only Richard wouldn’t let you near him, and you got stuck with me.”

“Not stuck,” she said, and smiled at me the way she had that night in the solarium, that sweet, sad smile. “It’s you that got stuck with me.”

“We’re stuck with each other,” I said lightly. “And with Lee. But not today. Today we’re on leave. Are you hungry?”

“A little.”

“We’ll stop for lunch the next town we come to. We just came through Remington. There’s a map in the glove compartment. You can see if there’s a town coming up—”

“Stop the car,” Annie said. She had her hands on the edge of the half-open window and was looking back at what we had just passed. “Stop the car!”

She was out of the car before I had even pulled halfway onto the shoulder. She grabbed for the door handle and was out of the car and running toward the road.

“Annie!” I shouted, fumbling with the door. I leaped out after her.

She was standing on the edge of the shoulder, looking at nothing in particular, a rail fence and a plowed field, off in the distance a house with a wide porch. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides. “What is this place?” she demanded. “I know this place.”

Damn it. Damn it. I had thought we would be safe coming this way, away from Chancellorsville and the Spotsylvania Courthouse and the Wilderness. I had brought her this way on purpose because I thought it was safe.

“Did you dream it?” I said, dreading the answer.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I have the feeling that I’ve been here before. Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “We just went through Remington.” I opened the car door and reached in for the map. The engine was still running. I switched it off. It couldn’t be Culpepper. I had seen a sign for Culpepper in Remington. We were still at least ten miles east of it. I grabbed the map out of the glove compartment, snapped it open, and scanned the map, unable to find Remington.

We were only a few miles past Remington. The next town … The next town was Brandy Station, two miles away. We were north of Brandy Station. There wasn’t a monument symbol next to it on the map, or a cross, though there should have been. The whole damned state was a graveyard. That plowed field was probably full of yellow-haired boys and grizzled veterans and horses.

“I feel like I’ve been here before,” she said, and walked across the road. She didn’t look in either direction, and I was not sure that for her there was even a road there. A blue car whipped around the curve and between us. It missed Annie by inches, lifting her skirt in the wind it made when it zoomed by. She didn’t jump or step away from it, startled. She didn’t even know it had been there.

I ran across the road to her. “It’s Brandy Station,” I said. “There was a cavalry battle near here. Lee’s son Rooney was wounded. Lee saw him being carried off the field. I’m sorry.” I took hold of her arm. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. Let’s go back to the car and get out of here.”

She didn’t move. She didn’t resist me, either. She simply stood there, stock-still, in the middle of the road. “Did he die?” she said.

“Rooney? I don’t know. I don’t think so. It was a leg injury.” I tugged at her arm. “We can find out when we get to Luray.”

She shook her head. “I want to go back to Fredericksburg.”

“Why? They’ll have a library in Luray. We can look up Rooney there. He didn’t die. I know he didn’t die. He was at his father’s funeral.”

Annie was staring at the plowed field as if she could see it all, Rooney on a litter, his leg torn open, the bandage soaked through with blood. “None of Lee’s sons were killed in the war,” I said.

“I have to go back,” she said. “I can’t desert him like that.”

I could hear a car coming, the low roar rising in pitch as it started to round the curve. “Desert him?” I said angrily, and practically pushed her back across the road and into the car. “You’re not one of his soldiers, Annie. You didn’t sign up for this war.”

A jeep roared past, straddling the center line. I came around and got in. I started the car and roared off the shoulder and onto the road, whipping around the rest of the curve at the same speed as the jeep, wanting us out of sight of the plowed field, out of sight of Rooney on a stretcher. “I had no business bringing you here!”

“It’s not your fault,” Annie said.

“Then whose fault is it? I take you to Fredericksburg. Fredericksburg, for God’s sake, where they’ve got so many bodies they’ve got to bury them in groups! I read you a book about Antietam out loud! And then, just to make sure you dream about Brandy Station tonight, I bring you out here so you can see the battle for yourself. And I wonder why the dreams are getting worse!”