Candle In The Darkness Part 20

"You're right. And that brings me to the reason why I've come." He took a long, fortifying drag on his cigar, then exhaled, his words filling the room along with the smoke. "General Lee has spent the past few days inspecting the fortifications around Richmond. Sad to say, he has declared them woefully inadequate. He wants to construct a better system of defenses, but as you can guess, there is a serious shortage of manpower at the moment. One solution has been to use free Negroes."

"As volunteers?"

He studied me over the rim of his gla.s.s as he took a long drink. "No. As conscripts. But we are providing them with food and the same monthly wage our army privates receive. I don't think it's unfair to ask Negroes to defend their own homes, do you?"

"I suppose not."

"That leads me to the first difficult request I'm forced to make. You see, there aren't nearly enough free Negroes. We need more laborers. I understand that you have several male slaves-"

"Two. We only have two."

"Yes . . . well, if you could send even one of them, the Confederacy would be grateful." He puffed on his cigar for a moment before continuing. "My second request is for horses, and I'm afraid this isn't a voluntary matter. The army needs every one you can spare. You will be reimbursed, of course . . . but I'm afraid you must relinquish them."

How would I ever tell Eli? Those horses were as dear to him as pets. "How soon do you need them?" I asked.

"If you could have everything ready by tomorrow morning . . ." He finished his drink, rather than his sentence, and set the gla.s.s on Daddy's desk. "One final request. Your boy Eli has a reputation as one of the best hostlers in Virginia. Word is he knows more about what's wrong with a horse and what to do about it than anyone around. The Confederacy could use him. Please think about donating him to the cause."

"I . . . I will consider it."

I don't recall saying much else as Mr. St. John hoisted himself from the chair and bid me good-night, promising to return in the morning for my answer. If Daddy were home, he probably would have done his patriotic duty immediately, emptying the stables and sending both Eli and Gilbert away with Mr. St. John that very night. But Daddy wasn't home. I was the one who had to make the decision, and I couldn't bring myself to order either man to go off with the Rebels to defend his own enslavement. I wrestled with the decision for a while; then, not knowing what else to do, I went out to the carriage house to find Eli and Gilbert. I told them about Mr. St. John's requests.

"I don't know anything about horses," I admitted. "I have no idea how many we need to keep or which ones we should give to the army. But what's even worse is that I don't want to order either one of you to go away with these men unless you want to go. What . . . what do you think? What should I do?"

Eli's calm expression never changed, but Gilbert was visibly upset. He frowned at Eli, making angry sounds, and s.h.i.+fted from foot to foot in agitation.

"What's wrong, Gilbert?" I asked.

"Ain't the way it works," he replied. "Ain't our decision. Missy supposed to tell us what to do, then we do it. We your slaves."

"Well, suppose you weren't slaves. What would you recommend that I do?"

"I still your slave," he said stubbornly. "Missy supposed to give me orders."

But that was precisely what I was trying to avoid-giving orders. It frustrated me that I was forced to become the very thing I hated-a slave driver. Then I had an idea, born of desperation. If I was stuck with the system of slavery, then I would have to play by its rules.

"All right, Gilbert. Here are my orders: I demand that you and Eli decide how many horses we need and which ones to sell. I also order you to decide how many male slaves are needed to do the work around here and who can be spared for the war effort. I'll need your answers before morning." I stalked to the door, then turned around and added, "That's an order."

I heard Eli laughing as I slammed the carriage-house door. He still had a playful smile on his face when he and Gilbert came to the servants' entrance an hour later to tell me their decision. "We reckon that the one little mare is all you need to get around town," Eli said. "She can pull the buggy instead of the big carriage. 'Specially since Missy don't weigh much more than a sack of feathers. It pains me to say it, but you can sell the other three horses."

"What about the . . . the other matter?"

"I ain't going, Missy Caroline," Eli said gently. "I promise Ma.s.sa Fletcher I watch out for you and I determine to do that. You more important than horses. But Gilbert, here . . . he says he gonna go help with the digging."

"Are you sure, Gilbert?" I'd never known the wiry little man to do much manual labor. He was Daddy's valet, our butler, our carriage driver. I guessed his age to be in his early forties. "You don't have to help the Rebels, you know. They're fighting for the right to keep slaves."

Gilbert squared his shoulders. "I ain't doing it for them. I promise Ma.s.sa Fletcher I watch out for you and take care all his things. I don't know what them Yankee soldiers do if they come here, but I ain't intending to find out. This seem like something Ma.s.sa would want me to do." I held back my tears until the two men left, then braced myself for yet another loss.

Mr. St. John led our horses away the next morning. Then Tessie, Ruby, and I stood on the front steps and watched Gilbert march off with the Home Guard and a troop of free Negroes, carrying Eli's garden spade over his shoulder like a rifle.

Chapter Fourteen.

I awoke on the morning of July 20 with the realization that today would have been my wedding day. Sally remembered, too, and she drove up Church Hill to invite me to join her in attending the Confederate Congress, convening in Richmond for the first time. "It'll help take your mind off things," she promised.

"But I don't want to take my mind off Charles. I can't, not even for one moment. I . . . I don't know how to explain it." How could I explain the illogical notion I had that it was my loving thoughts, the strength of my will, and my prayers that kept Charles alive-just as a drowning swimmer, treading to stay afloat, dares not stop paddling for a single moment?

"I understand," she said simply, and she stayed all day with me, instead. We laughed, shared confidences, and dreamed of our futures once the war ended. I talked about Jonathan and reminisced about Hilltop. Sally told me stories about Charles' boyhood. As the lazy summer sun finally sank from sight, we felt as close as sisters-which we would have been if it weren't for the war.

Sunday, July 21, was a warm, tranquil day. I went to services at St. Paul's with Sally and noticed two things: that the wors.h.i.+ppers were almost exclusively women, and that President Davis wasn't in his usual pew, halfway up the main aisle on the right-hand side. I later learned that while we had pa.s.sed the Sabbath afternoon in peaceful conversation, enjoying a leisurely lunch and an afternoon stroll down the boulevard, the first b.l.o.o.d.y battle of the war had raged near Mana.s.sas, Virginia, on a creek called Bull Run.

As I had knelt in the hushed beauty of St. Paul's to recite the Lord's Prayer that morning, I'd had no idea that Charles crouched in a muddy ditch, silently reciting the same prayer as he watched ma.s.ses of enemy troops march steadily toward him like a dark blue wave. I didn't know that his lips had turned black from ripping open countless powder cartridges with his teeth, or that his voice had grown hoa.r.s.e from shouting the Rebel yell, or that his hands had trembled with fatigue and hunger by the end of the day. I hadn't pictured him bravely fighting a relentless enemy-loading and firing, then loading again, even as the sun blazed down and his shoulders ached and enemy bullets whizzed past his head. I didn't see him advancing forward, the earth shaking, fire flas.h.i.+ng from the barrels of enemy rifles aimed at him, his eyes red and watery with smoke and dust. I couldn't know that his ears rang from the deafening din until he could no longer hear the command signals, and that the Confederate line around him had faltered and fallen back. Nor did I know how he'd watched so many of his friends suddenly drop beside him, writhing, screaming, dying, and he'd stumbled over their bodies as he'd retreated. While I'd sipped mint tea, Charles had witnessed death in combat for the first time, the nauseating sight of a man's body torn apart, his guts spilled.

The first news came to us on that quiet Sunday in Richmond when Charles' father hurried home from Capitol Square late in the afternoon. "The fighting began this morning near Mana.s.sas Junction," he told us. "It has been going on all day."

I prayed as I never have before and later learned that a miracle had occurred as General "Stonewall" Jackson's brigade held the hill at the center of the Confederate line, and General Johnston's reinforcements arrived, and the tide of battle changed in the Rebels' favor. Charles knew the dizzying euphoria of victory as he raced forward behind a fleeing enemy, kicking aside their discarded haversacks and cartridge belts and blankets, strewn along the road.

Charles' father returned to the capitol to await more news, for the telegram that finally arrived saying, "Night has closed on a hard-fought field. . . . Our forces have won a glorious victory." General Beauregard, the hero of Fort Sumter, had routed Union General McDowell.

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As Monday dawned, wet and dreary, I wondered if it had all been a dream. Could it really be true that the South had won a great victory so close to the Union capital? Sally and I waited in her carriage outside the Enquirer Enquirer office for more news, with rain drumming steadily on the carriage roof, dripping from the building's eaves, and running down the cobbled streets. Slowly the reports arrived, not only confirming our great victory on that b.l.o.o.d.y Sunday but also telling of a spectacular Union rout. The Yankees had panicked and fled before the Rebels, littering the road with equipment and baggage as they retreated to Was.h.i.+ngton in a stampede. Spectators who had driven out on that lovely Sunday afternoon to watch the battle had been nearly trampled by their own retreating soldiers. The cries of "On to Richmond" were silenced by cries of fear that their own capital might now be threatened with invasion. office for more news, with rain drumming steadily on the carriage roof, dripping from the building's eaves, and running down the cobbled streets. Slowly the reports arrived, not only confirming our great victory on that b.l.o.o.d.y Sunday but also telling of a spectacular Union rout. The Yankees had panicked and fled before the Rebels, littering the road with equipment and baggage as they retreated to Was.h.i.+ngton in a stampede. Spectators who had driven out on that lovely Sunday afternoon to watch the battle had been nearly trampled by their own retreating soldiers. The cries of "On to Richmond" were silenced by cries of fear that their own capital might now be threatened with invasion.

I overheard many of Richmond's politicians speculating that Lincoln would sue for peace as a result of this stunning loss. After experiencing such bloodshed so close to their own homes, the people up north would lose heart for war.

Sally and I hugged each other in joy, knowing that we wouldn't be able to truly celebrate this good news until we learned whether or not Charles and Jonathan were safe. Any victory, especially a hard-fought one, meant casualties. After receiving the news, we returned home-while many of Richmond's citizens began making preparations for the avalanche of casualties that was certain to follow.

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On Tuesday I went to the central depot with all the other women to await news of our soldiers. Rumors circulated that a list would be posted, company by company, naming the men who had been wounded, who were missing, and who had died in battle. Sally and I waited, clutching each other's hand.

The train from Mana.s.sas finally arrived, returning President Davis to the city from the battlefield. Along with him came the first victims of the conflict. The dead arrived in pine boxes, stacking up at the depot in alarming numbers, awaiting s.h.i.+pment home. The wounded arrived on crutches and on stretchers and on makes.h.i.+ft pallets-more and more of them every hour. As I stood scanning their shocked, pale faces, praying that I wouldn't see Charles' among them, I overheard one of the doctors pleading with Mrs. Goode's husband, a city official, to find more places to care for them all.

"The Medical College Hospital is full," the doctor insisted. "You can't send us any more."

"All of the other hospitals are overflowing, too," Mr. Goode replied. "What am I supposed to do?"

"You must find more places for them."

"Where?"

"I don't know . . . take them to homes or schools or hotels, even warehouses-someplace where they're out of the sun and the dust. Someplace where they can rest and get a drink of water."

Everywhere I looked the wounded men lay, waiting on the train platform and on sidewalks and even on the city streets. Some of the men moaned and wept and begged for morphine or a drink of water, men with missing limbs and savage wounds and filthy, blood-soaked bandages. I was staggered by the knowledge that we didn't have enough hospitals to care for them all, enough ambulances to transport them there, enough doctors or nurses or beds or medicine.

Sally closed her eyes against the terrible sight, refusing to budge from our place near the ticket office as we waited for the casualty list to be posted. I longed to run home, but my greater need was to search for Charles and Jonathan among the mangled bodies. I forced myself to walk between the rows, searching each exhausted face, looking for a Richmond Blues insignia on each uniform. Some of the men grabbed the hem of my skirt as I pa.s.sed, pleading for help, for mercy, for the a.s.surance that they weren't going to die. By the time the list arrived, and I learned that neither Charles St. John nor Jonathan Fletcher was on it, I knew that it would be a long time before I could erase the horror of this day from my mind.

As I clung to Sally, weeping and thanking G.o.d for Charles' safety, the doctor I'd seen earlier suddenly interrupted us. "Ladies, please. I need your help . . . these men need your help."

"We're not nurses-" Sally began.

"You don't need to be. Please, just help me. Talk to the men, rea.s.sure them." I saw the fatigue on the doctor's distraught face, the bloodstains on his hands and coat. From what little I'd seen on the platform, I knew that he faced an overwhelming task.

Sally backed away from him. "I can't . . ."

He gripped her arm, refusing to let go. "I noticed that you were looking for someone's name a moment ago. A boyfriend? Husband? Brother? Suppose he was one of these wounded souls, lying on a train platform in a strange city.Wouldn't you want some kind, compa.s.sionate woman to help him? I'm not asking you to tend their wounds. Just give a soldier a drink of water. Help someone write a letter home-especially the ones who are dying. Help me feed the men who can't feed themselves. Talk to them, encourage them. . . . Please."

"Sally, we have to help him," I said. "You know we do."

The doctor's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank you." He relinquished Sally's arm, and after directing us to the City Almshouse where a makes.h.i.+ft hospital was being organized, he hurried away to intercept another group of women and beg for their help.

The scene at the City Almshouse so overwhelmed me that I staggered against the doorframe for support. Mutilated men lay wall-to-wall on the bare floor, leaving scarcely enough room to walk down the rows between them. Every square inch of floor s.p.a.ce was filled, yet still more injured men continued to arrive, filling the yard outside, waiting for someone to die and make a s.p.a.ce for them inside. Blood stained the soldiers' bandages, their clothing and faces, the floors, even the doorposts as bodies flowed in and out in a steady stream. I'd never seen so much blood in my life.

The matron seemed grateful to see us, but she had little time to spare for instructions, let alone pleasantries. "Start with that room," she said, pointing to a smaller room off the main hallway. "Most of them haven't eaten in two days, a lot of them need water. You'll have to help some of them feed themselves." She appraised Sally, whose beautiful face had turned the color of paper, and added, "Talk to them, miss . . . smile for them."

We rolled up our sleeves, fetched the food and water, and set to work. But less than a minute pa.s.sed after we'd entered the stifling room before the mingled smells of sweat and blood and sickness made my gorge rise. I battled to hold it down. As soon as the injured men saw us, they began clamoring for our help, moaning, whimpering. Dozens of them had survived amputations at the field hospitals, and as the morphine finally wore off, they screamed in shock and pain at the loss of their arms, their legs.

The first soldier Sally approached broke into anguished sobs, weeping, "My leg! Oh, G.o.d! They cut off my leg!" and Sally collapsed in a faint on top of him.

I ran into the hallway, calling for the matron. "Please, somebody help my friend, she's fainted!"

The nurse gave me a withering look. "Push her aside and help the injured man." She hurried past me toward another room.

I found smelling salts in Sally's reticule and revived her. When she finished vomiting into her handkerchief, I rinsed her face with the washcloth meant for the soldiers.

"I can't do this," Sally wept. "I can't look at those horrible amputated arms and legs. . . ."

"Don't. Look at his face. Pretend that he's Jonathan or one of your other beaux." My voice gentled. "Because someday he might be."

In the end, Sally stayed. We worked until late that afternoon, until neither of us could stand on our feet for another moment. If we had stayed until we were no longer needed, we would have been there for weeks.

That terrible day, I watched men die for the first time. Some of them struggled and grasped to hold on to life until the very end; others relinquished it with a peaceful sigh, a final exhaled breath. As Sally and I finally stepped outside into the thick July heat, I recognized that my own life hung from G.o.d's hand by a slender silver thread. Its fragility made it no less precious in His eyes, but it pointed to the need to treasure it, to protect life at all costs.

Injured men crammed the yards and sidewalks outside the almshouse, some of them too weak to swat away the flies that swarmed around their wounds. Like so many other Richmond ladies that day, I gave an ambulance driver my address, and by nightfall my drawing room was filled with wounded men to nurse and feed.

"Lord have mercy on their souls!" Esther said when she saw their wretched condition. Luella and Eli carried every mattress and cus.h.i.+on in the house down to the drawing room, every pillow and blanket they could find. Esther cooked gallons of soup, which was all that many of the invalids could manage to eat. Ruby tore some of our linen bed sheets into strips for clean bandages, and Tessie volunteered to change and dress their wounds, nearly fainting herself the first time she saw the damage that a Minie ball could inflict. Eli spent the next several nights sleeping on the floor alongside the men, the only one of us strong enough to help a man turn over.

Along with my work at the almshouse, I now endured allnight vigils at home by the soldiers' bedsides, making sure that no one had to spend the last hours of his life alone. On one such night, I sat with a young soldier named Wade, from Mississippi. I knew from the fetid smell of his shoulder wound and the ominous streaks that radiated from it like spokes that he would probably die. Wade knew it, too, and he struggled to die manfully, without weeping. He'd told me he was eighteen, but I didn't believe him. The soft fuzz on his cheeks and his trembling youthful limbs told me that he couldn't possibly be more than sixteen. Lying down made it difficult for Wade to breathe, so Eli helped him sit up, supporting him in his strong arms.

"Would you like us to pray with you?" I asked.

"I used to go to Sunday meetings. . . ." Wade mumbled. "Haven't been in a long time. . . ."

"That doesn't matter right now. G.o.d is always willing to hear your prayers."

Wade nodded weakly and closed his eyes. I held his hand in mine and signaled to Eli to pray.

"Oh, Lord Jesus," Eli began, "we ask you to-"

"No . . . no . . ." The boy began thras.h.i.+ng, tossing his head from side to side.

"Wade, what is it? What's wrong?"

"I don't want that n.i.g.g.e.r praying for me!"

I was too outraged to speak. I dropped Wade's hand, waiting for Eli to drop the boy to the floor and leave him there to die. Instead, Eli rested his hand on my shoulder to calm me.

"Go on, Missy Caroline, you pray for him."

"I can't." My voice shook with fury and contempt.

"Yes, you can, and you best do it quick."

Somehow, I managed to do it. I prayed and recited the Twenty-third Psalm until Wade finally grew calm and slipped into unconsciousness. Then I stood and fled to Daddy's library. I was trembling from head to toe. Eli followed a few minutes later, carrying the lamp.

"You all right?" he asked.

"I don't understand people like him. How could he say such a thing to you? And why did you make me pray for him after what he said?"

Eli set the lamp down on Daddy's desk. "That boy will have to face G.o.d pretty soon and give an accounting for all the hate he storing away in his heart. But you and I better not be storing any in ours. Let it go, Missy Caroline-right away, before it take root. Else we be just as bad as he is. The devil wants us to be like himself- telling lies and hating people. Jesus wants us to be like He is-loving our enemies and praying for them. Who you gonna be like?"

I sank into the chair behind my daddy's desk, then leaned forward to rest my elbows on it and covered my face. "It's too hard," I mumbled. "All this work, night and day, with scarcely a moment's rest-and then some of them are so ungrateful . . . insulting!" I exhaled, expelling my anger in a rush of air. When I felt calmer, I said, "Listen, Eli, you don't have to do this anymore. Go home and go to bed. You've been working harder than any servant should be expected to work."

I waited for him to leave, but Eli didn't move. When I finally lowered my hands and looked up, he was standing in the same place in front of the desk, gazing down at me.

"Some of these men never once thought about Jesus their whole life," he said. "But they crying out to Him now cause they hurt and afraid. Jesus wants to answer them. He wants to help that poor dying boy out there, but the only arms and the only voice He has is ours."

I covered my face again, feeling very small and ungracious compared to Eli. "I can't do this anymore."

"You have to," Eli said.

"Why?" I sounded like a petulant child, but I didn't care. "Who says I have to?"

"Jesus is our Ma.s.sa, and He say so. We're here to serve Him, not the other way around. Your daddy ain't saying to me, 'Sit yourself down, Eli. Tell me what you want to eat. Let me wait on you.' "

"I thought the Bible says I'm G.o.d's child."

"Comes a time when every child has to grow up and get about his father's business. Cousin Jonathan and Ma.s.sa Charles . . . didn't they grow up and go to work for their daddies? Time you grow up, Missy Caroline. Your heavenly Father needs you to be His servant."

I was exhausted and demoralized and discouraged. All I could think to say was, "It's too hard."

"You bet it's hard. Even Jesus struggled all night in the Garden. He didn't want to die. But He prayed, 'Not my will, but thine, be done.' A servant does what his ma.s.sa says and goes where his ma.s.sa sends him and doesn't quit until the job is done."

I closed my eyes, thinking, Tomorrow. I'll start all over again tomorrow Tomorrow. I'll start all over again tomorrow. But Eli wasn't finished.