I was uncertain what welcome I would receive at the pharmacy; despite the best efforts of the Rebel blockade-runners, its stores of drugs had been seriously depleted. Many of the hospital stewards and medical purveyors had been improvising, distilling their own drugs from medicinal herbs, and risking much to buy black market versions of medicines as they mysteriously became available.
Then, too, there was the uncertainty that roiled my stomach. I was a traitor, one way or another. I believed with all my heart that we had to end this terrible war, and that we had to put a stop to the madness of enslaving our fellow human beings. Yet as I walked the familiar corridors of Chimborazo, I inevitably encountered young men I knew: childhood friends, cousins, even patients I had cared for, who were now back in the hospital facing another round of recovery. Seeing them gave me vertigo. Whose side was I on? A Southern woman, a Northern sympathizer, in a love affair that was outside the bounds of all convention and law. Even after Chancellorsville and Lee’s brilliant victory, from the inside it was easy to see that the Confederate troops were diminishing in front of our very eyes. And although the Rebel government was bleeding money, the rumors were growing that new resources might be at hand from the Russians, who were supporters of the Southern cause.
When I arrived at the medical dispensary with my list of requested medicines, I was greeted by an old friend, medical purveyor Horace Clemson. He took my hands in his and drew me into his office. “Miss Cardworthy, you are a welcome sight. When are you coming back to Chimborazo?”
“I do not know,” I said, replying as candidly as I could. “Right now I am just trying to help restock supplies in the field hospital near Chancellorsville.” I handed him my list, which was, I knew, overly optimistic and dreadfully long.
“That was a mighty victory and an even mightier surprise,” said Clemson, running his finger down the list. “My, my. You’re not asking for much, are you?”
“I am asking for everything. I know you understand what a field hospital looks like the day after a terrible siege.”
Clemson sighed. “I do. Of course, there is more to come.”
“And it is hard to call something a victory when both sides are losing so much. Don’t you ever wonder.…”
Clemson had turned his back to me, surveying his shelves of tinctures and drugs. Morphine, in its various forms, was the most highly prized; one of my patients called it “angel wings,” because he said it took pain far, far, away, at least for a while.
Mr. Clemson turned back to me, holding a square wooden box that he had been filling with jars and stoppered flasks. “Don’t I ever wonder what?”
“What is the point of all this?”
Clemson shook his head. “There is no point. The Yankees want what they want, and we want what we want.”
“And what is it, exactly, that we want?” I said, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“We want the right to govern ourselves as we see fit.”
“Including the right to enslave others?”
Clemson carefully placed the wooden box on his high worktable.
“Miss Cardworthy, you seem unlike yourself. You have always been so willing to leap in and do what needs to be done. Have you…” he cleared his throat. “Have you developed concerns about the righteousness of our cause?” He asked in a neutral tone, but I suddenly realized once again how dangerous it was to speak at all freely. Exhaustion and fear were eroding my ability to stay focused.
I gestured at the chair near Mr. Clemson’s worktable. “May I?”
“Of course,” he said hastily, pulling it out for me. I sank into the chair gratefully.
“Thank you, thank you,” I said. “I have not lost sight of our cause or the nobility of those who fight to protect the rights of all people to govern themselves.” I took a deep breath. “If truth be told, I think I am just a little weary.”
Clemson leaned against the table. “When is the last time you had something to eat or drink, Miss Cardworthy?”
I smiled. “That, Mr. Clemson, is an excellent question. And the answer is…I simply do not remember.”
He leaned over and placed the back of his hand on my brow. I caught my breath; it was exactly the gesture my mother always used when she was worried one of us had a fever coming on.
“You are flushed,” he said, “but not too warm.” He took my hand and helped me to my feet. “Miss Cardworthy, I think you and I should cease our labors for just a short time and see what delights the officers’ mess might provide.”
Fortified by hearty, fragrant soup and crusty bread, both Mr. Clemson and I relaxed. “I must apologize,” I said, “for my earlier remarks. But even though General Lee has exquisitely outwitted the Union in these last terrible days at Chancellorsville, from my vantage point, it appears that our brave Confederate boys are disappearing like dying leaves on a tree. It is spring,” I said, looking out the window, and seeing beautiful dogwood and crape myrtle in bloom, “but on the fields and in the hospital, it feels like a cruel fall with a more dangerous winter to come.” I reached across the table and put my hand on Clemson’s. “It would be a kindness to let me know if you think I am overly concerned about the future.”
He looked up from his bowl and tore a chunk of bread apart with far more vigor than was required. “You are not overly concerned. Here we are, the pride of the Confederacy’s hospital. And yet, every day, I see us falling behind in so many ways.”
“Tell me what worries you most.”
“Not enough of anything and everything. The Union blockade is working better and better, and it keeps food, supplies, and medicines further and further out of reach. Many of our best physicians have left us, taken by disease, or exhaustion, or the pleas of their families to come home and help farm what is left of their lands. The ones we have now…” he trailed off, and shook his head. “Some are just very young, others have been pressed into service and are counting the days until they can leave these dreadful surgeries, others are simply drunks, landing in the military because it is the only job they can get.”
“This is not the same heroic Chimborazo I remember,” I protested.
“Nothing is what we remember,” Clemson said quietly. “But that is just my little world of work and wounded. The news that comes in from the patients themselves is even worse. The Confederacy is bleeding money and men.”
He pushed his bowl aside. “I have been here at Chimborazo since the start of the hostilities. Three years ago, men would come to us wounded, and they would start asking, right away, about when they could get back to their comrades. No matter how grievous the injuries, they were thinking about getting back.” He leaned closer. “Now, it is entirely different, Miss Cardworthy. The men who came here from Chancellorsville should have been giddy with victory. The fact that our boys prevailed was a surprise to all, and a terrible blow to the Union. But despite their pride in what they have accomplished, most of what we hear is, ‘When can I go home?’ And I cannot blame them. They are exhausted, and they know that there is more of the same to come. And the Union forces are better fed, better clothed, and better armed, and they have reinforcements: men and horses.”
A quizzical look came over Clemson. “How did you arrive here, Miss Cardworthy?”
“On Courage. The most loyal of friends. Why do you ask?”
His face seemed to turn circumspectly blank in an instant, as if an invisible washing cloth had strategically removed any hint of question.
“No reason in particular. I’m very happy you and Courage still have each other. Horses of his caliber are…rare treasures at this stage, and I’m sure there could be many calls on his service.”
“Indeed. We are so happy, Courage and I, to be able to serve in our own small ways.” Neither of us blinked. “After all,” I said, with just a small edge of tartness in my voice, “Courage and I are carrying your medicines back to the field hospital.”
We both stood. “Thank you for the soup and the company, Mr. Clemson.”
&nbs
p; He inclined his head in a gentleman’s bow.
“I wish you…and Courage…all the best, Miss Cardworthy. I have valued our friendship for many years, and I have admired your extraordinary service in our hospital.”
“My heart is in Chimborazo,” I said. “It is difficult to come here, and it is even more difficult to leave.”
“Ah, that solves a mystery,” said Clemson. “Many of us had wondered where you kept that mysterious heart of yours.”
I closed my eyes for just an instant and pictured Gabriel, playing the “Prince of Denmark’s March” in the woods. I thought of that Trumpet Voluntary and put a hand on the edge of the table to steady myself.
“You are you a music-lover, Mr. Clemson, are you not?”
“I am. But how did you know that?”
“I’ve often heard you humming in your dispensary, and I thought that music must bring you comfort and company for those long hours tending to your arsenal of medicines. What you called my mysterious heart just reminded me of a very beautiful piece of music, the ‘Prince of Denmark’s March.’”
“Ah, yes, the piece that’s usually played on an organ with the trumpet stop engaged. Brides often fancy that piece of music.”
“I am not a bride,” I said hastily, “but I heard it played not too long ago on an actual trumpet; not the trumpet stop on the organ, but a real horn, and it was so pure, and so glorious.”
“And where does the mystery enter the picture?” asked Clemson.
“How a piece of music that is more than 150 years old can feel as fresh as if it was composed that very moment by the person who is playing it. At least, that is how I heard the piece.”
Clemson spoke as if he were choosing each word, one at a time. “Miss Cardworthy, that trumpeter must be very gifted, and very fortunate to have you as his audience.” He cleared his throat. “Forgive my curiosity. You are perhaps keeping your news private, but I heard that you married recently. That is why I mentioned brides.”
“You are correct. I married a childhood friend, someone I value very much. Sadly, though, my husband and I are not able to share a home yet. We are both called to service in this war.”
“And he is a musician?”
“I do not catch your meaning.”
“Ah, I assumed you married your…trumpeter.”
“Oh, that is a long story for another time,” I said. “Shall we return to your office so I can collect the supplies you’ve so kindly assembled for me? Those who are less fortunate than we are awaiting your healing medicinals.”
CHAPTER 34
MAGGIE
OAKLAND
“Are we going to a wedding this month?”
Michael rolled over. “Beats me,” he said. “Whose wedding?”
I stretched and tucked myself into the crook of his arm. “I don’t know. I just woke up with wedding music in my head.”
“Too late. We’re already married.”
“Oh, good. I couldn’t deal with your mother or mine again over the tablecloths, the weird cousins, the rabbi, the priest, or the amount of skin a bride can or cannot show.”
“I’m happy to say I’ve forgotten all that over the past seventeen years,” said Michael.
“Isn’t it heavenly to be in our own bed in our own house?”
“It is,” he said. “With our own children and a molting cat and smelly dog and hot-and-cold-running Pac-12 sports available at the touch of the Harmony remote.”
I groaned. “Please tell me there’s not football on this very minute.”
“College, not NFL,” said Michael, craning his neck toward the nightstand, patting the surface methodically in a search for the remote.
There was a commotion outside the bedroom door, composed of equal parts clattering silverware and squabbling boys. “I’ve GOT it!” insisted Zach in a stadium-level stage whisper. “Just open the door.”
“Are you nuts?” said Josh, “Jeez, they could be like naked or having sex or something. You’ve got to knock.”
“Come in,” I called. “Fully pajama-ed parents are in the house.”
With that, the door banged open and Zach, careening only slightly, delivered a tray to the bed: a thermos of coffee, cream, sugar, two jelly jars of orange juice with the lids screwed on, and a tower of heavily buttered toast — rye for me, whole wheat for Michael. An empty yogurt cup held five dandelions. Their heads were bobbing and discharging seeds hither and yon.
“Nice work, guys,” said Michael, dosing his coffee with cream and sugar. “I could get used to this.”
I patted the side of the bed, “Hop on, you two, and tell us every single thing that happened while we were gone.”
Zach’s report: Anya had thrown Raider out of her bedroom once and for all, unable to withstand the unremitting incidents of flatulence. Lexie had come to see Josh five times — he brandished a small pad with hash marks on it, keeping score of his older brother’s romantic encounters. And Anya had taken them for pizza and let Zach order two extra sides of anchovies to put on top. “She’s the best,” Zach pronounced, and then, with newfound diplomacy, hastily added, “except for you guys, of course.”
Josh’s report: Aced his physics exam, Lexie’s mother had invited him for dinner tonight (and he had tentatively accepted, awaiting full parental approval), and Mrs. Harris across the street had her baby, and the boys had seen her and agreed that she was nothing special to look at. Plus, her name was Willow, and how random was that? Michael and I exchanged glances. We recognized the technique — bury the topic of keenest interest in the middle between good news (physics exam) and light gossip (new baby, named for a tree) in hopes of mindless parental nods of agreement.
“Pending a positive report from Anya,” I said, “dinner with Lexie’s family is fine.”
Josh barely controlled a look of triumph and shot his brother a look that clearly communicated, “Told you I could do it!”
Within a few minutes we were awash in a counterpane of toast crumbs, and the boys had clattered back downstairs. I surveyed the mess on the bed. “Do you think there’s any chance all those dandelion seeds will embed themselves in the toast crumbs, and we’ll be sprouting weeds here in bed?”
“You’re the gardener,” said Michael. “But offhand, I’m not sure there’s enough substance in the crumbs, unless you consider the dog hair part of the planting mix.”
He swung his legs over the bed, the remote temporarily abandoned and the sound of all-sports-all-the-time not yet disturbing the morning.
“Shower dibs first,” he said. “Hey, why’d you ask me about going to a wedding when you woke up?”
“I woke up with that beautiful wedding march in my head — not the usual, the other one.”
“You know, Mags, as a mere mortal, I’m not sure I can guess what ‘the other one’ might be.”
“Okay, it’s not dum-dum-de-dum.”
“Not ‘Here Comes the Bride’?”
“Other one. Trumpet voluntary….”
“Am in the shower. Let me know when you figure it out. Or stop being such a know-it-all and Google it like a normal person.”
“Normal is for chickens!” I shouted. No answer. I heard the water running and happily gathered all the pillows to enjoy on my own. I glanced over at my nightstand. iPhone 6 right there, every trumpet voluntary known to humankind and pluckable from memory with just a quick search. I lay back on the pillows — mine, all mine — and just let go, looking up at the ceiling to see what would come up. Google indeed. Google was for amateurs. Cinderella? Was there some Cinderella wedding march? Nope, getting it mixed up with the Sleeping Beauty waltz. Cinderella’s prince? And then it popped up as if it were painted on the ceiling. I threw off the covers, stalked into the bathroom, and opened the shower door.
“Maggie, shut the door! You’re letting in cold air.”
“‘Prince of Denmark’s Wedding March,’” I announced and closed the door. I picked up my phone, searched the piece, flopped back on the pillows, and let the music wash o
ver me. “Baroque, originally attributed to Purcell, but actually composed by Jeremiah Clarke,” I reported to no one in particular. “Ah, Maggie, you’ve still got it.”
Michael came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. “Are you out here congratulating yourself?”
“I am. You are so lucky.”
“Really? Shove over, let’s see just how lucky I am.”
“Not that kind of lucky, I’ve got a million things to do — and so do you.”
“Don’t you miss morning sex?” he said wistfully.
“I do,” I said, heading for the shower. “But the boys have soccer practice, and I want you to help me liberate that old steamer trunk from the laundry room, since Beau thought some of Alma’s papers might be in there. And we already know that Alma and Victoria were close, so maybe that will tell us something.”
Michael followed me into the bathroom, stood at the sink, and half-heartedly lathered up to shave.
“I thought the term was ‘soccer mom.’ How did your sexy Italian lover turn into a pedestrian soccer dad? You got my hopes up with that Princely Danish.”
I laughed. “I think you’ve just reduced one of the great Baroque pieces of music into a pastry.” I turned on the water and shed my nightgown. Michael caught my eye in the mirror.
“Not too late,” he said. “Shower sex isn’t half bad.”
“Later, Lothario.” I hummed the “Prince of Denmark’s Wedding March” with a darn fine imitation of heavenly trumpets, just slightly off key.
CHAPTER 35
The Spy on the Tennessee Walker Page 13