Savannah, or a Gift for Mr. Lincoln

by John Jakes

  Marcus wasn’t about to be penned. “Don’t stand for it, boys. If we do, we’ll get a cell or a walk to the gallows.” He fired his Colt.

  Winks’s right arm throbbed above the elbow. The sudden shock discharged his revolver as he dropped it; his bullet hit Spiker’s thigh. Spiker realized he was shot and collapsed on the carpet.

  Winks glanced down at the blood soaking his sleeve. Anger more than dismay animated his face. He couldn’t stay upright, fell sideways into a chair. Miss Vee, meanwhile, pressed palms to her round face and screamed like a steam bellows.

  Waves of pain rose in Winks, blurring his vision. Professor Marcus screwed up his mole-dotted face and sighted on Winks’s breastbone. Calmly, Winks thought, I am a dead man. It might have been so if Zip hadn’t hurled himself across the parlor, both hands flying to Marcus’s windpipe.

  Marcus’s gun hand was knocked askew by Zip throwing him to the floor. The Colt roared; the lead ball tore a cup-size hole in the wallpaper. Vee screamed louder.

  Zip crawled all over Marcus, knees in his belly, fists crashing against his ears, jaw, forehead. Marcus managed to shove Zip off, roll away. He jumped on top of his black adversary, reversed the Colt, and began to pound Zip’s skull. While this took place, Winks grabbed his bloody sleeve and gritted at Miss Vee, “Quit yammering and help that boy.”

  Miss Vee responded. She gazed from chair to chair, deciding which one to ruin; that gave Marcus a chance to whack Zip’s head again. Far from defeated, Zip in turn had his fingers clamped on Marcus’s throat. “You nasty man,” Vee cried as she broke her least favorite chair over the professor’s skull.

  “Oh,” he moaned, eyes crossing, and again, “Oh.”

  At the front door, a rectangle of foggy darkness, Sara appeared suddenly with Hattie in hand and Adam right behind.

  Supper at the City Hotel had lasted longer than expected—until after curfew. Mrs. Parmenter served a large casserole of rice and okra perked up with little chunks of tough chicken. Sparks served small tumblers of ale from an unknown source and seemed almost jovial. The meal finished, Mrs. Parmenter presented Sara with a small vial of Paris perfume saved since before the war. Sara had anticipated something like this and reciprocated with a lace-edged sachet filled with English lavender. She grew the shrub at Silverglass and had brought the dried leaves to town in a small pottery jar.

  More than once, Legrand sidled toward a mistletoe sprig fixed to the mantel. Each time Hattie smiled charmingly and skipped to the other side of the room. When they left the City Hotel, Sara encouraged speed from her companions, realizing the lateness of the hour.

  “My goodness” was all she could say at the sight of Vee’s parlor: Winks barely awake in a chair, his right sleeve leaking blood onto the bosom of his uniform; Spiker unconscious and bleeding on the carpet from his injured leg; Professor Marcus supine, plucking at his blouse and moaning while Vee sat on his legs to ensure his submission; Zip raising his head to peer at the new arrivals through eyelids already puffy from punishment. Pence had previously sneaked out the back way. Bitter smoke was dissipating slowly.

  Hattie wrinkled her nose. “Phew. Papa used to smell like that when he fired his rifle.”

  “Gunpowder,” Adam said with a nod.

  Sara knelt by Winks. “This poor man needs a surgeon.”

  Vee adjusted her bulk on the professor’s legs. “This one needs to be tied up before he does more damage.”

  “What did they want here?” Hattie asked.

  “The piano. They came to steal the piano.”

  “On Christmas Eve,” Sara said, struck with sadness at the thought of human beings sinking so low. Amelia trotted into the room and gazed at the carnage, comprehending none of it.

  Adam was more composed than the others. “I find some tools. Put this door back on its hinges.” Without waiting for permission, he disappeared down the hall.

  Zip sat up, massaging his head. His lower lip was cut and puffy, his right lid purpled and swollen shut. A racket on the stair announced three members of the provost guard, one a corporal. They burst into the parlor, rifle bayonets twinkling and flashing.

  “Who fired shots? Who wounded these men? Who owns this house? Give us your names. Ladies first. Everyone is under arrest.”

  “Ain’t this a howdy-do,” Zip said, which just about summed it up.

  The ladies and Hattie ignored the corporal and his minions while making Alpheus Winks as comfortable as they could in his chair; Sara refused to move him. Winks drifted in and out of consciousness, obviously hurting. Sara slit his sleeve using scissors. The ball seemed to have passed through the fleshy part of his upper arm. Whether there was bone damage, she wasn’t qualified to decide.

  Carefully, she bound his arm with a long strip torn from her petticoat and knotted it. Winks roused and cried out, but the tourniquet slowed the blood flow.

  Sara confronted the nonplussed corporal of the guard. “This man urgently requires medical attention. Send one of your soldiers to fetch a surgeon, without delay.”

  “Do you know his regiment?”

  “I believe he mentioned the Eighty-first Indiana.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Brewster, you heard the lady. Run.”

  Out the door went Brewster, just as Geary’s adjutant galloped up. Gunshots had been heard in the neighborhood. The adjutant demanded to know what had transpired.

  Vee and Sara obliged with a graphic account. The adjutant ordered Marcus and Spiker removed by ambulance to temporary confinement in the Chatham County Jail. Sara mentioned the arrest order. The adjutant immediately countermanded it. The corporal of the guard slunk out.

  “Let me be correct about the number of persons residing here,” the adjutant said. “Do both Negroes belong to the household?”

  Vee, bless her, promptly said, “The older one does—his name’s Adam. The other came here with the sergeant. He helped rescue us.”

  The adjutant leaned down. “Sergeant? Can you hear me? Are you able to speak?”

  Winks muttered.

  “I understand the young nigra belongs to you.”

  Winks groaned, which might have been a denial.

  “We’ll place him with other African refugees from outlying plantations. They’re camped all over town.”

  Winks roused sufficiently to say, “No, sir. He stays. Wasn’t for Zip, I’d be dead.”

  “Body servants are not condoned or permitted in the army.”

  “He’s not a servant, he’s—my friend.”

  The adjutant turned to Zip. “He said you’re a friend, not his bondsman. True?”

  Overjoyed, Zip said, “Yessir.”

  “Well, since you’re a free man of color, you can stay or go, as you choose.”

  “I stay right here, Captain.”

  Winks overheard, turned his cheek to the chair back, and shut his eyes.

  The exchange of gifts forgotten, everyone welcomed the long-bearded regimental surgeon and his orderly when they arrived shortly after the adjutant departed. The surgeon conducted a brief examination; then he and the orderly carried the limp sergeant to Vee’s bedroom and shut the door.

  Vee paced the parlor carpet, now permanently ruined by ink, grime, and gore. Sara held Hattie’s hand tightly. Zip stared at his shoes with his one useful eye. Adam whistled a one-note melody in the kitchen.

  Presently the surgeon came out of the bedroom, untying the strings of his bloodied apron. A pungent odor of chloroform followed him.

  “Looks worse than it is, I’m pleased to say. The ball tore a nasty hole in his flesh, but there’s no injury to the humerus or condyles, else we might have been faced with amputation.” Vee swayed dangerously and supported herself by leaning on the Chickering.

  “I dressed the wound and administered an opiate. He should sleep through the night. The sergeant won’t be able to tote a pail of water or fire his pistol, let alone rejoin his regiment, for some time. Otherwise, rest and recuperation should heal him up nicely. I’ll arrange to have him transferred to a
local hospital, though I must say I’ve inspected one such and found it sadly lacking. Medicines can’t be had, sanitation is questionable—most able-bodied doctors are serving in the war zones.”

  “He can stay here, with us, if you allow it.” Vee’s enthusiasm startled everyone, not least the surgeon. “He’ll be much more comfortable, and we owe him so much.”

  “A generous offer, Miss Roarlock.”

  “Rohrschamp.”

  “Sorry, sorry. I’d agree at once, but I’m reluctant to have a soldier quartered in a household with livestock.”

  Hattie marched up to him. “My pig’s neat and clean, Mr. Doctor. And she’s not livestock—she’s a pet.”

  “Is that correct, ladies?” Sara and Vee confirmed it. “Very well. I will write orders for the sergeant’s care. Spoonfuls of the opiate, which I’ll leave with you, must be administered per my schedule. His wound must be inspected and cleaned at regular intervals. His cold-water dressing must be changed frequently.”

  Vee blanched. “Certainly, I—I can do that.”

  Sara knew she couldn’t. She slipped an arm around her friend’s waist. “I’ll help.”

  The surgeon clapped his hat on his head, summoned his orderly who carried the medical bag, extended greetings of the season, and left them.

  What a dreary Christmas it promised to be: rain in the offing at daybreak, supplemented with lightning bolts and thunderclaps. The impending storm woke Hattie on her pallet in the parlor; Sara had insisted Vee share her bed. Zip and Adam slept on blankets in the kitchen, disturbing Amelia until she got used to them.

  No sooner had Hattie washed her face with cold water and brushed her teeth with a twig than another Yankee officer presented himself at the front door. Sara and Vee were already dressed and busying with pots of rice for breakfast.

  “Ladies, I am Major Hitchcock.” The visitor swept off his black campaign hat and stepped out of the rain. “I serve General Sherman. I am here at his express instruction.”

  Even though he represented the enemy, Vee remembered the day and responded politely. “Won’t you please sit down?”

  “No, thank you, I prefer to stand. The general deeply and personally regrets the incident of last evening. We have had reports of petty thievery and alcohol-induced rowdyism among our troops, but nothing so violent or crassly premeditated as the attempted robbery at this house. Marcus and Spiker will be brought up on charges, which I personally will draft. In civilian life, I am an attorney. The other malefactor, Pence, is the object of a wide search, but we fear he has deserted. He is not the first,” Hitchcock added with a weary air. “So many of our young men are eager for this war to end.”

  Sara said, “They aren’t alone. Thank the general for us, please.”

  “Are you ladies fully supplied with victuals? The general and his staff will enjoy a traditional Christmas dinner later today, and he would very much like to send a chef to prepare a similar meal for you.”

  Hattie was agog. Vee’s answer was a spirited, “We’d be most grateful.”

  “Consider it done. Good morning, ladies, and a merry Christmas to you all.”

  The belated exchange of gifts took place soon after Major Hitchcock left. The gifts were small and, as it turned out, handmade by each of the givers.

  To Sara and Hattie, Vee gave wooden picture frames, obviously antiques. Under the glass she’d mounted illustrations from Godey’s: two slender, rather anemic females, one per frame, stylishly dressed with gloves and hat. Vee had tinted portions of both pictures with watercolors—light green, pale blue, mauve.

  Sara’s gifts were identical sweetgrass baskets for holding small objects on a lady’s bureau. Hattie had sewn two pincushions of scrap calico stuffed with Spanish moss. They were wartime gifts, created with a certain desperation, and perhaps the more valuable for all that. All three recipients expressed great delight over their presents.

  Around noon the thunderstorms abated; white clouds appeared, with intervening patches of blue. South of the city, a raft poling from Coffee Bluff into the Little Ogeechee’s tidal current carried four young soldiers from the 85th Illinois. The soldiers enjoyed sightseeing amid the river islands and rice canals until the white clouds darkened and the blue patches vanished. Slanting rain began with hardly a warning.

  One of the soldiers spied a head bobbing in midstream. “Boys, that fella’s drowning.”

  Moments later, they hauled a soggy and terrified man onto the raft. He lay belly down, gasping and retching. They knelt around him. One asked, “You with the army?” His sodden clothes didn’t reveal it.

  “Y-yes.”

  “Where were you going in this weather?”

  “Trying to swim to the other side of the river.”

  “Not much of a swimmer, are you? What’s your name?”

  “I don’t guess I should tell—” An unlovely stream of water erupted from the nether parts of his stomach. He rolled onto his back, looking green.

  “Pence. My name is Pence. Save me, boys, I never felt so sick in all my born days.”

  Stephen spent Christmas afternoon mooning over Sara Lester. He’d conquered many a maiden’s heart, but in regard to the widow, he was, so to speak, butting his head against granite without leaving a mark.

  He daydreamed of New York at holiday time: the cheerful crowds, the enchanting lights decorating the department stores, the sparkle of fresh snow hiding the dirt and ordure of Fifth Avenue. He longed to rent a sleigh and dash along the wooded roads of the new Central Park, his companion sharing a lap robe and marveling at all the sights so amazing and new to her….

  Instead, he sat in Georgia. In the rain. Rebuffed.

  Admittedly, the mood in Savannah, if not precisely happy, was far different than he’d anticipated when the army marched from Atlanta. His notebook bulged with remarks copied down from Sherman’s soldiers:

  “Less malignancy toward Yankees than we have seen elsewhere.”

  “People seem glad we have come.”

  “There is a delightful entente cordiale between officers and ladies.”

  He should show that one to Sara.

  Stephen had the use of a desk in a corner of the editorial rooms of the Savannah Herald, née the Morning News, until the army turned out its staff of aging secesh and replaced them with members of its journalist corps, abetted by a few literate volunteers from the ranks. A nearby window afforded a melancholy view of rain-drenched Bay Street. Stephen had labored for two hours phrasing a dispatch critical of Gen. Jef C. Davis and his actions at Ebenezer Creek. The piece lacked snap. Further, his editor, Plumb, was such a hardheaded Unionist, he no doubt would spike any copy questioning the performance of senior commanders.

  Giving up, Stephen found the other Davis, of Harper’s, with his feet on another desk and his pad on his knee. Davis had decorated the pad with squiggles and arabesques. Stephen recognized ennui when he saw it.

  “What time’s the mess for the ink-stained wretches?” he asked the sketch artist.

  “Four. Bet you already know the bill of fare.”

  “Let me guess. Rice, followed by rice, then more rice. A slab or two of Georgia beef from the herd. Coffee. Canned milk if we’re lucky.”

  “Also a surprise.”

  “Ah. Rice pudding?”

  “Mince pie. I have it on good authority.”

  Stephen nudged Davis’s shoulder to direct his attention to Bay Street below the rain-speckled window. “Will you look at that?” He referred to an Army wagon with SANTA’S SLEIGH painted on the side. Crude antlers made of sticks were roped to the heads of two mules pulling the wagon through the wet and rutted sand. The driver wore long red underwear buttoned over his blue tunic and a cotton beard tied to his ears. Soldiers in ponchos sat in the wagon, amidst gunnysacks.

  A Negro child ran up beside the slow-turning wheels. A soldier reached in a gunnysack and handed down a rag doll. The child hugged it. The soldier grinned. The ersatz Santa guided the wagon around the corner.

  “Merci
ful heaven,” Stephen said. “Volunteers?”

  “I would guess so. Good for them.” He offered Stephen one of his pale green cigars.

  They lit up and puffed. Both men felt better. Now if he could only forget the widow Lester…

  At the Charles Green mansion, a party of twenty senior staff dined in General Sherman’s second-floor rooms. The general’s mess caterer, Captain Nichols, served up roast turkey with stuffing, accompaniments of vegetables, and excellent clarets and sparkling wines supplied by local merchants who wished to remain anonymous. Charles Green’s crystal, plate, and silver graced the table.

  Conversation was jolly and spirited. With much wine consumed and toasts drunk to the holiday, peace on earth, the Union, and other good causes, there were no expressions of guilt anywhere around the table.

  To Sara fell the task of cleaning the sergeant’s wound and applying new dressing. It was odious work, but she understood that her friend wasn’t up to it; if Vee undertook even part of the duty, Sara would have a second patient on her hands.

  Vee took over the relatively less challenging job of rousing Winks every few hours, measuring out his medicine, and spooning it down his gullet. In midafternoon she woke the Union soldier on schedule. He smiled at her. His eyes seemed clearer, more focused. Vee withdrew the spoon and said, “Might I ask you one or two personal questions?”

  “Why, I expect I can stay awake. Go ahead.”

  “Is there a Mrs. Winks at home?”

  “Yes, indeed there is.”

  “Oh. Do you—ah—have children?”

  “I don’t. She did. My brothers and me.”

  “I see, I see. Thank you so much.”

  “That all?”

  “Permit me to ask—in your wartime encounters, did you—I hope you won’t think me indelicate—did you ever”—she seized the moment, fearing it would never come again—“commit dishonorable acts upon the person of a civilian female?”