Last Cavaliers Trilogy

by Gilbert, Morris

  Jeb and his men rode on, shouting madly, into the thick of battle.

  The Federals watched as, time after time, the Rebel line had formed, hardened, and had run through the Union lines, capturing artillery and overrunning and capturing their supply wagons. Thomas Jackson had stood like a “stone wall,” and they had smashed themselves against his infantry time and time again. The Black Horse, with the larger-than-life Jeb Stuart at the head of the column, slashed through the blue lines, here and there, wherever it seemed the Yankees stood firm.

  “Where are our reserves?” the men demanded. They were wearied by thirteen hours of marching on the road, they were angry and disheartened, and finally men began to cry, “We’ve been sold out!” The rumor spread, and the Union troops faltered and then panicked. They turned and fled past officers on horseback, who were flailing with their sabers, urging them to stand. But the men were now afraid, and fear spread like a plague among them. They ran.

  Senator Monroe Collins and his wife suddenly were surrounded by crowds of frightened men who had thrown their weapons down. “The Rebels are coming!” was the cry. “The Black Horse, they’ll run us over! Save yourselves!”

  Collins managed to get his buggy turned around, but on the bridge across Bull Run, it suddenly broke down and blocked the fleeing pack of soldiers. Men splashed through the creek. Behind them Rebel officers shouted orders: “Chase ’em, boys! Run ’em down!”

  Jefferson Davis came to the battlefield and met General Thomas Jackson, who after this day was called “Stonewall.” Jackson was covered with dust, but his blue eyes flashed like summer lightning. “Sir, give me ten thousand men, and I can be in Washington tomorrow.”

  Davis was ready, but his commanding officers disagreed. One said, “Sir, our men are weary. The Yankees will have a guard around Washington. We can’t march that far and then fight our way through.”

  And so the battle ended as Jefferson Davis said, “We’ve come as far as we can. We’ve won the battle. The Yankees are whipped.”

  But even as he spoke, he doubted. And again he prayed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Winter had come, and the armies went into winter quarters. Both North and South planned campaigns for the spring, but during the bitter cold months, they mostly just brooded at each other across the Potomac River.

  The 1st Virginia Cavalry was quartered just south of Manassas. Sitting at a desk inside the farmhouse that he had rented for himself and his family, Jeb Stuart looked out the window. The sun falling on the white blanket caused the snow to glitter like tiny diamonds, and for a while he sat, enjoying the sight, but then he sighed and turned back to the figures on a paper he had before him. He continually pestered the commissary in Richmond for more supplies and equipment for his men.

  But the Confederacy was poor. Stuart also felt the pinch of inflation, for the Northern blockade of the Southern states in the East was working all too well. The salary of a brigadier was very modest, and Jeb worried, because even the necessaries of life—food, clothing, and medicine—were getting harder and harder to come by. He was pleased that his brother, William Alexander Stuart, owner of the White Sulphur and the Salt Works, among other enterprises, had voluntarily ensured Stuart’s life, making Flora the beneficiary.

  He heard Flora singing softly, and he left his office and went to the bedroom. He found Flora bending over Little Flora, who was lying in their bed, pale and thin. “Is she any better, my dearest?”

  Flora turned to him, fear in her eyes. “No, she isn’t. As a matter of fact, Jeb, I think she may be worse.”

  “I’ll have the doctor come by and look at her again.”

  “I wish you would. Still, it seems that the doctors can’t help her.”

  Moving over to Flora, Jeb put his arm around her then reached down with his free hand and touched the child’s brow. “She’s burning up with fever,” he murmured. Although Jeb Stuart feared nothing on the field of battle, this was a fear that gnawed at him constantly.

  They stood together looking down at the child who meant so much to them, and then Flora said, “I hope Jimmy won’t catch anything like this.”

  When their son had been born, Jeb and Flora had been glad to name him after her father, Phillip St. George Cooke Stuart. But after the Confederacy had formed and Colonel Cooke had stayed with the Union, Jeb had staunchly refused to have his son bear Cooke’s name. They had changed it to James Ewell Brown Stuart Jr., and they called him Jimmy.

  “We’ll pray, Flora. God’s will be done,” Jeb said, but his usually booming, jovial voice was quiet and sad.

  The entire South had been jubilant over the victory at Bull Run, and the people were still living on that excitement. They had won the battle, but the cost had been high. The hospitals in Richmond were filled, and many wounded soldiers had been taken into private homes.

  Jacob told Chantel, “I’ve been thinking, daughter, that it’s time for us to do something for God.”

  “What is that, Grandpere? I thought we were doing something for God,” Chantel replied.

  “We are, and I’m very proud of you. But I think we should start making regular visits at the hospital. I can get together some things to give the poor wounded men, perhaps, and you could help me give them out and talk to them.”

  “They love candy, they do,” Chantel said. Sweets were hard to come by these lean days.

  “We’ll take all we have, and this afternoon you and I will make our visits. Perhaps we could lead one of the wounded men to the Lord. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  “Yes, it would, Grandpere.”

  The field hospitals, during the summer, had been mostly a series of large tents pitched just outside of Richmond. But when the winter had come, and the hospitals were full, one of the large warehouses had been taken and converted into a field hospital. Cots were lined against the walls, and every bed was filled. A large woodstove was burning, throwing off a great heat, but it reached only within a few feet of the great barn-like structure with the soaring roof. It was not enough to heat the whole building, and most of the wounded were under all the blankets that could be found for them.

  “Why don’t you start over there with that row of men. I’ll take this one,” Jacob said. He smiled. “I know they’d rather see a pretty young woman than me, but tomorrow I will see them, and you can take this side. Try to encourage them all you can, child.”

  Chantel, wearing her vivandiere uniform, was a little apprehensive, but her heart went out to the lines of men, many of them terribly wounded. She stopped at the first bed.

  A young man looked up and asked, “Are you a soldier, miss?”

  “Oh no, I’m a female sutler, a vivandiere. This is my uniform, though, for ma grandpere and I serve the army. Do you like candy?”

  “Yes ma’am, I purely do.”

  “Good. I like candy, too, me.” She reached into the paper sack, brought out a peppermint candy, and handed it to him.

  Hungrily he popped it into his mouth. He was pale and obviously had taken a severe wound in the shoulder. He sucked on the sweet and said, “I always loved sweets. Reminds me of home. My mama used to make taffy for me. Sure wish I had some taffy,” he said wistfully.

  “Where is your home, soldier?”

  “I come from Bald Knob, Arkansas.”

  “That’s a funny name.”

  “Yes. Everybody laughs at that, but that’s where I’m from.” He sucked on the candy thoughtfully. “Don’t guess I’ll ever see it again.”

  “Perhaps you will,” Chantel said. “The good God may bless you and heal you.”

  “Are you a Christian, ma’am?”

  At that instant Chantel fervently wished she was a believer, but she knew she had to be honest. “No—no. I don’t understand this, me. I’m not like Grandpere and other people who know the Lord, so well, so easy.”

  “Oh,” the young man murmured, obviously disheartened. “I don’t understand it too good, either.”

  “Ma grandpere is a Christian, a
nd I know he would like to talk to you. Would you let me get him?”

  His white face and dull eyes brightened a little. “That would be good, miss. I’d like to talk to him.”

  Chantel turned and walked across the aisle between the two rows of beds. “Grandpere,” she said, “the young man over there wants to know about the Lord. Will you come and talk to him?”

  “Why, certainly I will. That’s why I’m here.” Jacob turned, and Chantel walked with him. “What’s your name, young man?” he asked.

  “Clyde Simmons, sir. I come from Arkansas. Caught this”—he grimaced and motioned to the stained bandage across his abdomen—“in a skirmish just off the river last week. It’s not getting any better, and the doctors don’t say much. Kinda makes me think I may not make it.”

  “None of us knows about that. I may go before you,” Jacob said gently. “But the important thing is to be ready to go.”

  “I know, sir. I’ve heard preachers, but it never took, it seemed like. Somehow just never seemed like the time.” He sighed deeply. “Seemed like I always thought there’d be more time.”

  “One thing about God, though, son,” Jacob said firmly, “is that He always has time. It’s never too late to come to Him.”

  Chantel brought a straight chair. “Sit down beside him, Grandpere. You’ll get tired. I’ll go visit some others, me, while you talk.”

  She continued her progress, stopping at each bedside and handing out sweets, but she kept looking back, and once she saw that her grandfather’s face was lit up as he talked, he was so happy.

  She turned another time and saw that her grandfather was motioning for her. She went to him, and he said, “Good news, daughter! Clyde here has confessed his sins, and he has asked Jesus to come into his heart. He’s a saved man now. I’m going to give him one of the gospels of John that we brought.” He took the small booklet out and handed it to Clyde Simmons, who took it and then said sadly, “I can’t read, sir.”

  “Well, my granddaughter here will read to you, won’t you, Chantel?”

  “Yes. I’d be glad to, Grandpere.”

  “Good,” Jacob said with satisfaction. “I’ll go visit a few of the other men before we go.”

  Chantel sat down and opened the Gospel of John. She began to read. “ ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God….’ ”

  As Chantel left the hospital with Jacob, she said, “I’m so tired. Why am I so tired, me? I haven’t done any real work.”

  “It is a strain, daughter,” Jacob admitted. “We see all these poor boys, some of them have little hope of living, and it not only tires our spirits, it drains us physically. But God’s going to bless us. Three of the young men asked Jesus into their hearts today. We’ll go get a good rest, and then tomorrow we’ll bring something else to them.”

  “You know, we have the supplies, Grandpere. I can make gingerbread.”

  “Yes, we have plenty of supplies,” he agreed. “Tomorrow you take enough to make gingerbread for all of them, Chantel. The hospital cooks will help you.”

  Chantel nodded. “I would like to see Mr. Simmons again. A friend of his said he’d read to him. That’s good. He looks so ill, Grandpere. Do you think he’ll live?”

  “I’m not sure, but I know if he dies, he’ll be in the arms of Jesus. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Chantel felt only sadness at the possibility of the death of the sweet young man. Again she thought, I don’t understand Grandpere, the joy he has with all this death and blood and sorrow. Sometimes it seems like the good God lets ver’ bad things happen to people. But then, I’m just an ignorant girl….

  The next day Chantel took the supplies for gingerbread to the hospital kitchen: flour, sugar, eggs, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.

  A very large black woman was the head cook, and she asked, “Where you come up wid all dis, little girl? I didn’t think there was a speck of cinnamon to be had in the South!”

  “Ma grandpere, he has it,” she answered. “For him, the good God provides.”

  They baked great trays of the soft, mouthwatering, sweet bread, filling the whole hospital with the spicy aroma.

  By early afternoon, when Jacob arrived and Chantel and the cooks brought the trays into the hospital, the men were jolly and called out to her, “Our vivandiere! Hello, Miss Chantel. We knew it was you, bringing us gingerbread.”

  Chantel blushed and helped hand out gingerbread to all the men. Then she went to Clyde Simmons’s bedside and said, “Hello, Mr. Simmons. I thought you might like for me to read to you a little today.”

  “Sure would. My friend Gabe here, he read some to me. But I know we’d all like to hear you read again, Miss Chantel.”

  Chantel looked at his friend, a short, solid young man with an open friendly face, who was missing a leg and was on crutches. “That was good of you to read to your friend,” she told him.

  Someone brought her a chair, and she sat down and began to read. A small crowd of the walking wounded gathered, and other men sat on the beds close around her.

  Chantel was reading Psalm 119. From time to time she looked up, and her heart felt a deep and profound sadness. They were mostly young faces, most of them filled with apprehension and fear. She well knew that the reputation of military hospitals was terrible. More men died of septic infection, or diseases that the wounded passed around, than on the field of battle. She let none of the grief show in her face, however, and she continued reading.

  There was a commotion at the door, and they all looked up. A group of officers came in. The contrast they made with the sick and injured bedridden men was startling—they all seemed tall and strong, bringing in the stringent smell of the winter outdoors, shaking the snow from their coats and stamping their boots to clear the mud from them. The doctors came to speak to them, standing in a group just inside the door.

  Chantel saw Clay Tremayne and Armand Latane among them.

  The group broke up, and the officers began to roam among the beds, looking for their men.

  Clay came to Clyde Simmons’s bedside, greeted the men around her, and then said, “Hello, Chantel. I had heard that you were a hospital angel now.”

  “Hello, Clay,” she said, a little embarrassed but pleased. “Grandpere and me, we visit the men, bring them things. I’ve been reading to them, me.”

  “She brought us a bunch of gingerbread, Lieutenant,” the man in the bed next to Simmons said. His eyes were bandaged, and his body was thin, but he was animated, which pleased Chantel.

  “You come to visit one of your men, Clay?” Chantel asked.

  “Yes, I’m here to see Private Mitch Kearny. He’s in my company.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve met Mr. Kearny, me. He’s just down the row here. I’ll take you to him.”

  She handed the Bible to one of the men and said, “Can you read, soldier?”

  “Yes ma’am, I can. Real good.”

  “Well, you take up where I left off while we go see the lieutenant’s friend.” The two moved down the aisle, and three beds from the end Chantel stopped. “You have a visitor, Mr. Kearny.”

  The wounded man was middle-aged and looked like he had been a farmer. He had lost an arm, which was a worry, as so many amputees died after the surgery.

  “You’re looking good, Mitch,” Clay said. “Did you get some of that gingerbread?”

  “Sure did. It was good, too. Thank you again, Miss Chantel.”

  Clay told him some of the news of what the unit was doing and told him of some of Jeb Stuart’s patrols.

  Chantel saw that Kearny seemed to be cheered, sitting up straighter in the bed, his eyes brighter than before. She looked around and observed that all of the men that the officers were visiting seemed heartened.

  Armand Latane came over to them, and Clay introduced him to Mitch Kearny. Kearny saluted with his left hand. “Heard about you Louisiana Tigers, Captain. Heard Major Roberdeau Wheat walked away from getting shot in the chest. Story goes that he was hit in both lungs
, but he argued with the doc and was so ornery that he lived through it.”

  Armand laughed, his white teeth flashing. “Us Cajuns, we’re too mean to die. Except for Miss Chantel, here. She’s too sweet to die.”

  “You’re a Cajun, Miss Chantel?” Kearny asked. “I wondered, with the way you talk and all. It’s pretty, I mean.”

  “Ah yes, we’re all pretty, too, Cajuns,” Armand said airily. He turned to Chantel. “I find myself in dire need of some new gold buttons, ma’am. Would a vivandiere have anything like that in her sutler’s wagon?”

  “Of course, Armand,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Only you still have money to buy gold buttons, you.”

  “Then with your permission, I’ll stop by later and collect.” Armand then added mischievously, “You can show me how to sew them on, Chantel, cherie?”

  “You know I’ll sew them on for you,” Chantel said dismissively. “Now get along with you, and go speak to Grandpere.”

  With a courtly bow, he went down the line of beds to where Jacob sat talking with a man with his arm in a sling and his head bandaged.

  Chantel turned back to Clay, who was watching Latane with smoldering dark eyes. “What is it, Clay? You and Armand, you don’t have a falling-out, do you?”

  “No,” he muttered. “Not yet.” He said his good-byes to Mitch Kearny, then asked Chantel in a low voice, “Would you walk me out?”

  “Of course,” Chantel said, and she took his arm as they walked slowly to the door.

  “I thought you might want to know,” he said with some difficulty, “General Stuart’s La Petite is very sick.”

  “Oh no,” Chantel said, distressed. “What is it she has, poor baby?”

  “The doctors say it’s typhoid.”

  Chantel pressed her eyes shut for a moment. “Typhoid,” she repeated softly with dread. “Such a terrible sickness, yes. Is she—?”