“I ... well, no.” She hesitated. She didn’t know much about the man she had married. “We haven’t had much time together.”
“Well, I must admit, I haven’t seen him much myself lately, but then, I’ve barely seen my own folks since the war began. My mother, bless her, must spend hours writing letters—and then hoping they can reach us. Anyway, the letter I received from Risa said that Rhiannon had written to Varina Davis, but that she felt someone should see her in person as well.”
“Do you know about the dream?”
“Something about a balcony, and a child. But I haven’t been able to see either the President or Varina in the last few days. He has been insanely busy, suffering from insomnia—and from crushing blows. You’ve heard that the Europeans have refused to recognize our government?”
“Yes.”
“He is losing too many men—and too many generals. But I’ve sent in a request to see Varina. When we arrive, we’ll see her. Set Rhiannon’s mind at rest.”
“She was so distraught. The dream keeps recurring. In it, there is always a little boy, falling from a balcony. She doesn’t know whether she’s dreaming about any of the Davis children, but she’s so upset. She’s described what she has seen, and both Risa and Alaina are convinced that the house she’s seeing is the White House of the Confederacy.”
“Well, cousin, get dressed. We’ll go right away. I’ll meet you downstairs. The executive mansion isn’t quite as open as it was at the beginning of the war, but we’ll go straight there and surely, since I sent my note, we’ll get an audience with Varina quickly enough. Maybe Rhiannon’s letter has already reached her.”
“Thanks, Brent.”
“I’ll be downstairs.”
She watched him go, closed the door, and dressed quickly. When she hurried downstairs, he was waiting for her. He had hired a carriage, and as they jolted along the streets on the outskirts, Tia was amazed at the changes that had taken place since the war had begun. All over, there were defense works set up. “In case Grant gets in close,” Brent told her.
“How close has he come?” she asked.
“Close,” he replied. He met her eyes, then squeezed her fingers. “But Lee meets him every time.”
She nodded, and looked outside the carriage again. There were people everywhere. More and more, the closer they got to the heart of the city. Wounded men in worn uniforms were in abundance.
So many men without arms ... without legs ... limping on crutches. The expressions on their faces were so lost.
“The city has changed, I guess,” Brent said. “Strange, I don’t see it as you do, since I have watched as it has happened.”
“Why is that building burned to rubble?”
“Ah, that was a munitions factory—burned by our own men when it seemed the Yanks might be getting in. People have fled the city, returned, fled the city, returned. It’s the capital of a nation at war. This is the price that is paid.”
In time, they came to the huge white house that was serving as the executive mansion for the confederacy. The street was lined with carriages there. Civilians and military men hurried about with grave faces. Fashionably dressed women—appearing just a little frayed about the edges—moved about on their business, most still accompanied by slaves and servants. There seemed to be a constant flow of soldiers on horseback.
“Here! We’ll alight here!” Brent called to their driver.
He helped Tia from the carriage and they walked from the street to the elegant house. Tia was amazed to see how neglected and overgrown the grounds were.
“Once ...” Brent said, pausing on the walk.
“Once what?”
“The house was beautiful, freshly painted, the grounds were beautifully cared for ... Mrs. Davis’s coach was usually ready to take her about the city ... she had such fine horses. She sold them long ago now. She hasn’t been about much lately. It’s said that Davis considers himself surrounded by foes. Most people believe that spies have penetrated even the White House. Davis has been ill, sleeping badly. He forgets to eat. I was at a meeting with him not long ago. It was a dinner, but he barely touched his food. He has Varina quite concerned as of late.”
“He must carry a great weight on his shoulders.”
“He does, indeed. You should hear the furor over Fort Pillow—though I must say, whatever happened was terrible.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well—perhaps some of the fury from the Yanks has to do with our accusations against them. General Dahlgren was to attack Richmond—he didn’t make it to the city. He had thought himself something of the conqueror, drinking blackberry wine at the home of our own Secretary of War, Mr. Seddon—with Mrs. Seddon. He was led astray by a guide—hanged the guide—but reached Richmond too late to tie up with Kilpatrick, who had already retreated. To make a long story short, he was killed. He had an artificial leg, acquired at Gettysburg, which was stolen—along with papers claiming that his intent was to fire Richmond and kill the Confederate cabinet. Lee sent photographic plates of the papers to General Meade, still directing the Army of the Potomac under Grant, protesting vigorously. The Yanks were up in arms over us, declaring the entire battle a massacre. Then, just a few weeks later, Bedford Forest’s famed Reb Cavalry storms Fort Pillow—five hundred some odd soldiers are holding the place with more than a third of them being black troops. About two hundred and thirty are killed, another hundred are wounded, and two hundred something are captured. That is, I must say, an absurdly high ratio of killed to captured. So the Yanks are stating that we’re all a lot of murderers, that it was a massacre—which it might have been, since over two hundred of the troops were black soldiers, and many men in the South are bitter and afraid of the blacks fighting against them—it might well have been a massacre. At any rate, all this goes on day in and day out, and there’s no good news, so Davis is suffering the torment of the damned.”
They had reached the house. Tia looked at her cousin, reflecting on the actions he had just told her about. It was no wonder there was so much hatred in the war. Both sides could be horribly ugly. She wondered if the bitterness would ever be lived down.
Not in my lifetime! she thought.
And suddenly, she just wanted to run away. From it all. She had dreamed of visiting the pyramids in Egypt, seeing London, Madrid, Rome. What a pity she hadn’t gone! Before she had seen the dead, dying, and maimed soldiers, before she had come to all but bathe in blood. Before she had seen so many people die, the children as well.
“Here we are. Perhaps my message has been received.”
They entered the foyer, and Brent gave his name to a servant, saying that they were friends and that he had written ahead to tell Mrs. Davis they were coming. They needed to see her as soon as possible, on a matter of urgency.
They were asked to wait.
Seconds passed, then minutes. The morning waned. Tia knew that Brent was anxious. He had left his patients to the care of others.
They stood outside, waiting. Brent talked more about Richmond, about the war, telling her that he had seen Sydney shortly before Christmas. Tia was glad to hear it, musing on the fact that Sydney remained in Washington.
“Well, she has married a Yank, you know.”
“Of course, but ...”
“No one made her return. She wanted to be in Washington, just in case he made it home for Christmas. There was some fighting then, of course, but the weather was wretched, halting the armies when God and mercy could not. She hoped that, due to the fact that the armies were most frequently up to their necks in snow, he might be spared—especially considering the fact that he had been injured at Gettysburg.”
“I knew that he’d been wounded. Julian told me,” Tia said.
“Yes, of course, Julian was there to perform the surgery.” He tapped his hat against his leg, growing impatient. “I am a colonel,” he told her ruefully. “But apparently, there are generals ahead of me.”
“Brent, go back to the hospital,
” Tia suggested. “You don’t need to wait for me.”
“I had thought we might be more impressive together. Especially as kin to my brother. Jerome is quite the celebrated hero, you know.”
“Of course. But you have patients who may be dying.”
“There are many other doctors on duty.”
“None so good as you.”
He grinned. “That’s true, of course, but they will manage without me for an afternoon.”
She smiled, glad that he was with her.
Yet even as he spoke, they started to hear shouts coming from inside the house. Then, pandemonium. People were running everywhere; cries could be heard. Brent stared at Tia, then tried to regain entrance. They were stopped by a heavyset man.
“No one will enter now!”
“What has happened, man? I’m a doctor!” Brent declared indignantly.
The man shook his head. “It’s too late now. There’s been an accident. Young Joseph Emory has fallen.”
Brent stared at Tia. She felt as if a river of ice suddenly filled her veins rather than blood.
“Excuse me, I will see the child!” Brent snapped forcefully, and pushed his way past the man. Tia followed.
But the boy and his family were on the ground level. There was too much confusion in the house for anyone to stop them as they saw the scene from above, then rushed back out of the entry and around to the ground level in the rear of the residence. As they came around the house, the sounds of sobbing seemed to be everywhere. Servants and children flocked about. They could hear the comments of the crowd that had formed.
“The President has been working so hard ...”
“Mrs. Davis brought him lunch every day.”
“She had just left the children, just left them to bring him his lunch.”
“The boy fell.”
“He was his father’s favorite, so they say.”
“He died right in his father’s arms.”
“Drew his last breath ...”
“The poor babe!”
And there, beneath the deadly veranda, was Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederacy, down on his knees. The grown man with worn, harried features held the lifeless body of his child in his arms. Silent sobs wracked his body. His wife was at his side, tears streaking down her face. She cried horribly. Tia bit down on her lower lip, noting that the first lady of the South was noticeably pregnant.
And in such a condition, she must endure this agony ...
Soldiers stood by awkwardly.
“Sir ...” A messenger had come with a despatch, Tia saw.
“Not mine, oh Lord, but thine!” Davis cried out. “Not mine, oh Lord, but thine! Not mine, oh Lord, but thine!”
Varina, tall, regal—and broken—stumbled to her feet. She said nothing, but looked at the soldier. The man turned away, his head lowered. The hardest heart would have felt a split. The beautiful child, five-year-old Joe, lay in his father’s arms. No human enemy could have done the damage to him that God had wrought that day.
Whatever urgent business challenged the Confederacy would have to wait. Varina went back down to her knees by her husband and her dead son.
Brent gripped Tia’s arm. She couldn’t move. She could only stare at the little boy, so beautiful, so sweet in death. How could they bear it? There was so much that was so very awful, she had seen young men cut down in their prime, and yet, this loss of a child seemed so unjust, so cruel, that she wondered if there could be a God at all. If there was, He must have been laughing at all of them, perhaps punishing them for the death they practiced so cruelly upon one another ...
Brent pulled Tia back, away from the growing crowd of servants and soldiers, onlookers and friends.
“Brent, is there nothing—” she whispered in anguish.
“He’s dead, Tia,” Brent said softly. “There is nothing I can do for a dead child.”
There was nothing he could do for the child, but he and Tia stayed for a while, waiting in the parlor with Mary Chestnut, Varina’s very dear friend, and others close to the Davises. Many people had come to help, yet few knew what to say or do—there was so little to say or do when a child was lost. As more and more messengers came and went, sent on to the president’s military advisor, Brent and Tia found themselves waiting in Varina’s little office on the ground floor. He was startled to see a pile of unopened mail lying on the footstool by her sewing basket. The top letter had a return address upon it: Rhiannon McKenzie, Cimarron, Tampa Bay, Florida.
His heart seemed to catch in his throat. Her letter had made it, just as they had made it. Too late. Perhaps destiny remained in God’s hands, and He allowed his people only to think that they could change it.
Tia seemed drained, unaware of anything. Her beautiful fair skin was almost snow-white against the ebony of her hair and eyes, she was so pale. She hadn’t seen the letter. When she turned away at last in response to something Mrs. Chestnut said, Brent unobtrusively picked up the letter and slid it into his jacket pocket.
It could do nothing now but cause the family further pain.
Taylor arrived in Washington aboard the ten-gunned steamer Majesty, a ship he’d boarded in St. Augustine. Coming ashore, he heard a newsboy hawking out the information that God had smitten the President of the Confederacy—little Joseph Emory Davis was dead.
Disembarking and leading Friar from his confinement in the ship, Taylor bought a newspaper, anxiously looking for word of Brent or Tia in the story. There was none. The anger which had begun a slow burn inside him when he’d heard of Tia’s journey had cooled once he’d returned to the base at St. Augustine—and he’d spent an evening with the McKenzies, especially Rhiannon, who had seemed more distraught than ever.
Yet, he still felt a churning turmoil within. A feeling of helplessness. Yes, he damned well meant to get down to Rebel territory and find her. But what then? What power did he have over her while the war raged? He wanted her safe.
Out of the range of fire.
She was in Richmond—and he wanted her back. That simple. He damned well meant to find a way to do it.
Reading the dire news regarding Davis, he discovered that the reporter was not nearly so judgmental as the newsboy hawking the papers. There was sorrow in the article for the loss of a child. The writer didn’t believe that Davis had lost his child because he had sinned before God—President and Mrs. Lincoln had lost a child during the war as well. The President’s beloved little Tad had died of sickness rather than a fall, but the pain endured by the parents had been the same.
Having reached Washington, Taylor reported to Magee’s offices, only to discover that the general was in the field. His presence in Washington, however, had immediately been reported to higher places. He was summoned from Magee’s base headquarters straight to the White House, where he found that Lincoln himself had decided to see him.
Though it must have been difficult enough just to keep up with the movements of his generals, Lincoln was aware that Colonel Taylor Douglas had been sent back to duty in Florida. Though other losses were far greater, he knew about Olustee, and he knew, as well, about Naval Lieutenant Long who had been lost with important despatches regarding navy movements. Taylor was able to report that his business in the south of the Florida peninsula with Long had been successfully concluded. “The despatches are returned, and he has been discharged, sir. He is in no state of health to continue pursuing this war.”
“We have lost him to the other side?”
Taylor shook his head. “We have lost him to the concept of war; he is weary and broken.”
“We are all weary and broken.”
Indeed, the President had aged greatly since the war had begun. The battles showed on his face, as if the loss of life lay in his heart at all times.
“No, sir, you do not break,” Taylor countered, and grinning ruefully, he meant his every word. “I am surprised that you can be so aware of such small events within the magnitude of this war.”
Lincoln shrugged, liftin
g his large, long-fingered hands. “Little things win a war, in the end. The Europeans helped us more than a dozen victorious battles when they refused to recognize the government of the Confederacy. As to Olustee ... well, I had hoped for Florida to return to the fold.”
“I am afraid she will not be so easy, sir.”
“But so many of her citizens are Unionists.”
“That is true, but my state is divided. And our best military minds have decided that the vast effort needed to win the state is not worth it—not when they have decided that Richmond must be taken and the deep South slashed in half.”
“I’m afraid that our greatest military minds are fighting for our enemy!” Lincoln murmured.
“Are you referring to General Lee, sir?”
“And others. But I think I have a man who will fight now.”
“General Grant?”
“You know him?”
“No, sir. He was fighting in the western theater; I was in the eastern campaigns until I was ordered to assess strengths when we undertook the Florida campaign.”
“You’ll know him soon enough. However, if we had Lee ... I understand he was your good friend.”
“A friend to many of us, sir. He was my teacher at West Point. A fine instructor, and a better man.”
“It’s been said he could be heard pacing a mile away the night I offered to make him head of the Union armies. He had such a beautiful, gracious home—now we bury our dead in his lawn. It is a bitter, bitter war, sparing no one. Old Jeff Davis apparently paced away the night his boy died. God knows, I can sympathize with the poor man, and he is, indeed, in my prayers. It’s far too easy to love our enemies and feel their pain—but much harder to know they must be beaten. I’m sorry to see the destruction and death we reap, but God help us, if we can just end it ... then we will reach out the hand of friendship, we will take our brothers back into our fold, and we will weep for our dead and our lost together.”
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