“Why don’t you go see about her?” she asked quietly, knowing without being told what Kitty was brooding about. “I hear things and I’ve heard that your mother isn’t well.”
“Not well? Where…”
“Where did I hear it?” The petite dark-haired woman smiled wryly. “Tom goes to the saloon a lot since he came back from the war, Kitty, if he can get there. It isn’t so easy for a man without legs to get around, you know. But he manages and he tells me some of the things he hears—like the way no one has seen your mother for several days now and Joe, the bartender, is grumbling about how she’s not…earning her keep.” Her voice trailed off, embarrassed.
Looking down the street, Kitty said, “I appreciate your telling me, Judith. I worry about her a lot, the way she is, what she’s become. Maybe if I hadn’t been forced to leave, things wouldn’t have happened to her the way they did. If she’s sick, then I’ll go to her, of course.”
Suddenly the door to the hospital banged open, and one of the younger, less-experienced doctors poked his head out, a panicky look on his face. “You.” He pointed to Kitty.
“That soldier, the one that developed gangrene in his arm, he’s worse and he’s calling for you.”
“I’ll go to him if you’d rather go see about your mother right now,” Judith said.
Kitty shook her head and started for the door. “We’ve grown rather close. Norman knew all along, I think, that he was going to die from that wound. He asked me to be with him when his time came, and I promised. I’ll go see about my mother later.”
Kitty followed the doctor down the dimly lit corridor, turning into a room at the end. The air was close, smelling thickly of chloroform and turpentine—and death. Beds were shoved so close together they were almost touching. Some patients had to lie on blankets upon the floor. With so many skirmishes going on in Virginia, Tennessee, and even in the western part of the state, all hospitals were filled to overflowing.
Private Norman Herring, a stocky, prematurely bald soldier in his late thirties, was moaning softly and writhing on the stained sheets. Hurrying forward, Kitty took his left hand, frowned at the yellow oozing from the bandage on the stump of the right arm. It mingled with a greenish pus. Gangrene. And it was bad. The surgeon had amputated as high as possible to the shoulder. Day and night the nurses had kept the dressing wet with iodine and tannic acid solutions, as well as camphorated oil when they could get it. Medical supplies were getting so scarce that in the past week three amputations had been performed without the comfort of anesthesia.
“Norman, I’m here,” she whispered gently. “Is it bad?”
He opened swollen, bleary eyes, trying to focus on her face. A wry smile twisted his puffy lips. “Ain’t bad. It’s about time for me to kick the old bucket, though, Kitty. I reckon an old man like me did pretty good to last in the war this long…” He paused, gasping for breath, and Kitty interrupted.
“Who says you’re dying? You just want some attention.” Judith had followed behind and stood squeezed in on the other side of the bed. Their eyes met and held, sending a silent message of agreement that the soldier was almost gone. Kitty could feel the heat of his fever as she held his hand.
“Get me a cloth and a pan of cool water, please,” she said to Judith. “Maybe we can bring his fever down.”
“No use…” he moaned, “almost over. Need to write a letter home, please, to Fayetteville.”
Kitty called to Judith, who was almost out of the door, and asked her to stop by the little room where she lived and bring back the fresh bottle of ink she had made from pokeberries, and a goose quill.
Judith was only gone a moment, and while she bathed Norman’s head with the cloth, repeatedly, wringing it out in a pan of cool water, Kitty tried to write the words as he dictated them: “Dearest Mary, I am going. I love you. Take care of the boys…remember me…remember our cause. I ain’t died for no good reason. If God will have me…I’m ready to go.”
He paused, gasping for breath as he did after every few words, and Kitty waited, pen poised in her hand, body rigid. She was about to look up when Judith whispered, “He’s gone, Kitty.”
She looked at him: his eyes stared upward, his mouth gaped, his head slumped back. Quickly, Kitty pulled his eyelids down, propped his mouth closed with the cloth that she took from Judith’s trembling hand, then pulled the foul-smelling sheet over his head. Kitty’s hand held the unfinished letter as they left the room together.
Judith and Kitty walked out onto the porch. The sun was almost down and gentle darkness spread over the earth. Somewhere, a bird sang his good night lullaby. An owl hooted way off in the distance. Peaceful, it was so peaceful, Kitty thought wearily, even in death.
“I guess I’ll never get used to the dying.” Judith sounded as though she were about to cry. “I’ve been here six months and I’ve seen a hundred soldiers die and it never stops hurting. Even when I don’t know their names or anything about them. Some of them scream for death because they hurt so bad. Others scream in terror because they feel the flames of hell licking at their souls, they say. Some just lie there, like Norman, and wait. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it…ever.”
Her voice broke and Kitty put an arm around her tiny waist. Judith was not meant to be a nurse, she knew, but it occupied her time away from Tom, her husband, who had never been the same since he had been sent home from Fredericksburg with both his legs amputated above his knees.
She’d had three children, but they had died of smallpox. Her work at Way Hospital #3 was all that kept her going.
“Think of the living,” Kitty said, hoping to console her. “Think of the soldiers who come here sick and wounded and leave to go back to their loved ones.”
“Back to what? The South is losing the war, Kitty. Why pretend? Our soldiers desert by the hundreds. Governor Vance says there are over twelve hundred in the mountains right now. Ever since that Conscription Act was passed in April of sixty-two, it seems our people are rebelling. All white males between eighteen and thirty-five have to report for duty for three years. My God, they turn and run the other way!”
She paused to take a deep breath, wanting, Kitty figured, to get out everything that she had been holding back. “And they rebel against the tax law, saying they have to tithe one-tenth of all the produce for distribution by the army at Richmond. And now the government has the right to take livestock, slaves, provisions, wagons, anything they want, and they set the price they pay for them. What’s going to happen to us, Kitty? They take our men, our food, our supplies, our homes. We’re losing. And what’s going to happen to us then? Will the Yankees kill us or make us rot in their prisons till we die?”
Her shoulders were shaking and Kitty patted her awkwardly. Everyone had their own despairs, she was reminded. Every single human being in the North and South had his own particular bitterness over the war. For Judith, it meant her husband’s legs and the subsequent collapse of their marriage. For Kitty, it had meant her whole world as she had known it.
“I think I will walk down to the saloon…if you’ll be all right.” She touched her shoulder.
Judith dabbed at her eyes with her bloodstained apron, nodding. “Of course, you go right along. I have to help with the supper tonight—what little there’s going to be. Dried beef and hot cakes. No molasses. No coffee. Those poor men. If we can’t feed our wounded, how can we expect to feed an entire army?” Turning, shoulders slumped, she disappeared inside the hospital building.
Gathering her worn shawl tighter, Kitty started down the steps. She hadn’t reached the bottom before an anxious voice called out from the shadows, “Miss Kitty, may I go with you, pleaser?”
Startled, she whirled about to see Lonnie Carter limping from the shrubbery shroud at the end of the porch. He still stooped with pain from the operation that removed from his side a ball whose impact had crushed several ribs. He wore a ragged, mismatched uniform, and his feet, like so many others these days, were bare.
“Lonn
ie, you startled me. I didn’t know you were over there. You should be inside, resting, so you can go home soon.”
“Home?” He sounded contemptuous. “Where is home, Miss Kitty, besides the grave? I’m from below New Bern, remember? The Yankees have my home. I’ve no place to go.”
Not knowing what to say, Kitty moved on down the steps, looking at him over her shoulder as he leaned over the porch railing. “I have to go into town now, Lonnie.”
“I know. I heard. And I want to go with you. You have no business walking down the streets unescorted. What if the damn ‘Buffaloes’ are around? It ain’t safe, Miss Kitty.”
She kept on going, looking straight ahead. She didn’t want Lonnie to see her mother. This was something that had to be done alone. From the hospital, there was a distance of only one block to reach Center Street which led to the Griswold Hotel on Walnut—and the saloon just beyond.
Few people were out. Goldsboro had changed so much that decent folk didn’t venture out after dark. The town was crammed with those running from the fighting or recuperating from wounds or seeking refuge from the bushwhackers. The atmosphere over the town was one of desperation and hopelessness, with death and destruction moving closer in an ever-tightening ring.
She thought about Nathan’s furlough of two weeks before. Their meeting on the front porch had been brief. She would not even have met with him had he not sent word to her that he would wait until she came out. Embarrassed, Kitty had no choice.
He had told her that he had been assigned to the Army of Tennessee under the command of General Joseph E. Johnston. His eyes shone with excitement as he spoke and she realized that Nathan had not yet grown weary of the fighting and whatever glory he had found in the war. He told her that President Davis had removed General Bragg from command of the army because of his hash of the Kentucky invasion the summer before, the way he had let victory slip through his grasp at Murfreesboro, and how he’d failed to make good use of his great victory at Chickamauga. And, afterward, Davis removed him, installing him as chief military adviser to himself, as president, and placing Johnston in his place.
“President Davis doesn’t have a lot of confidence in General Johnston,” Nathan had said. “We hear that he dislikes him a great deal personally, but there’s no great love for Davis from General Johnston, either. But one thing is for sure, the Army of Tennessee can fight but it’s never had adequate leadership. The men know Johnston and they trust him. And now they have their morale back. I’m anxious to join them in Georgia.”
“God speed,” Kitty had said tonelessly.
And he had grabbed her, crushing her in his arms, bruising her lips with his kisses. At first, Kitty did not respond, but then, slowly, felt herself weakening, yielding to him. And afterward, when he released her and stood looking clown at her with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, she hated her body for once again betraying her.
“Everything is going to work out for us, Katherine,” he had told her with confidence. “Just you wait and see. This war is going to be over and we’re going to be married—and we’ll forget all the unpleasantness of the past.”
Quickening her step, Kitty remembered his prophecy that “things will be like they were before the war”.
Shuddering, she knew that nothing would ever be the same for any of them again. It was hard to look back and remember the beginning when everyone seemed to want the war. In the spring of 1861, no one thought about the horrors of war. It all looked like a great adventure after the excitement of Fort Sumter, and the waving flags and loud brass bands, along with the chest-thumping orators, all combined to cast an aura of romance over everything and everyone. Thousands and thousands of young men had hurried to enlist, she remembered, feeling lucky to have the chance to fight. There was even news in the papers that neither government—the North or the South—was able to use all those men who crowded the recruiting stations in those first glittering weeks of the war. There were those who were rejected and returned home brokenhearted. And there were those who went off to camp afraid that the war would be over before they, themselves, joined the action.
And that was all over two years ago, Kitty thought grimly. And they had all had a taste of the war—or would, before it was over, it seemed.
Go back to the way it was? Nathan was a fool. No one can ever go back, especially after so much killing and bloodshed and hatred and agony. They would be hard-pressed to go on living when the war finally ended, whichever side was the victor. No one could turn and go back; rather one could stumble forward and try to meet the future as best he could.
Drunken laughter from the shadows made her wish she were not alone. But, if Lena was sick, there would be no one else to help. The men in her life would not—they only wanted to use her.
Pausing to take a deep breath, Kitty pushed the slatted, swinging saloon doors open and stepped into the smoke-filled room. There was instant silence as all eyes fell on her curiously.
A scowling yellow-haired woman with orange-painted cheeks stepped forward, blocking her path. “He ain’t here!” the woman said sharply.
Kitty snapped in reply, “I’m not looking for a man.”
“Ain’t one lookin’ for you, either, so get the hell out of here.”
There was a round of laughter and Kitty felt her cheeks burning.
“Hey, I know you.” She whipped her head about to see a man standing at the bar. “You work at the hospital. Your mother works upstairs.”
There was a fresh round of laughter.
She crossed the room boldly to where he stood. He was tall, gangly, his clothes thin and patched like every other man’s these days. His beard was thick and his eyes were hard and cold, but something in his voice told Kitty he might be willing to help her—and she was desperate.
“I hear my mother hasn’t been seen for a few days.” She spoke quietly so that the others wouldn’t hear. Gradually the din was picking up again as the talking, the clink of glasses, and the piano playing resumed. “Would you help me find her room? If she’s sick, I need to go to her.”
“Yeah, I guess you do.” He turned up his glass, and gulped down its amber contents, then slammed it down on the counter. The bartender quickly stepped forward to pour more liquid from a bottle. As he took another sip, Kitty waited, trying not to be impatient. Finally, he spoke again. “Yeah, Lena’s sick. Bad off. Leastways, I heard she was. I ain’t seen her. Don’t go for old women, myself, no matter how long it’s been since I took my pleasure. I like my women young…”
He winked at her. “Now then. I reckon I can take you upstairs to your momma’s room, if,” he added meaningfully, “me and you can get together later on.”
“You can go to hell!” Kitty whirled away from the bar and moved toward the stairway. She would find the room herself if it meant beating on every door up there.
The yellow-haired woman stepped forward. “Hey, you can’t go up there. It’s private up there. I got girls workin’…”
Turning to give the woman a glare to let her know she was not about to be stopped, Kitty froze where she stood. It couldn’t be! Not those evil, staring eyes from the shadows to one side of the room. The face was thickly bearded. But still, there was something familiar about the eyes that had turned quickly away. Icicles of fear began to freeze along her spine and she had to force her legs to move, to take her on up the steps.
Evil, foreboding, whoever that man was, he hated her—but why? He reminded her of Luke Tate, but he was probably killed a long time ago, she hoped—and if he lived, he would surely have more sense than to return to Wayne County.
Shaking herself, Kitty turned to the moment at hand. Lena had to be found. Whether she wanted help or not, she was going to get it.
The hall was dark and smelled musty. Tiny gas lanterns illuminated the worn, slick carpet with its patches of dried vomit. Kitty had worked around the smell too long not to recognize it. The walls were badly stained. It was a wretched place, she thought with revulsion.
Kitty knock
ed on the first door on the left. A man’s voice boomed out nastily, “I’m not through yet, and my time ain’t up anyway, so quit poundin’ on the goddamned door!”
She hurried to the other side of the hall. “Yeah, come on in,” a man called out happily. “I can take on two at the same time.” A woman giggled.
Disgusted and with a heavy heart, Kitty moved to another door. How could her mother live this way? How could she have done it? She knocked loudly and a few seconds later the door was yanked open. A naked woman stood there scowling. “Well, what the hell do you want?” she demanded. “I’m busy. See Big Bertha downstairs if you want a job.”
“I’m looking for Lena.” Kitty was barely able to whisper as her eyes fell on the naked man stretched out in the rumpled bed. Her gaze quickly moved back to the angry woman’s face. “Please can you tell me which of these rooms is hers?”
“Try the last door on the right!” The door slammed shut in her face.
She moved on down the hallway, hesitating outside the closed door before knocking gently. There was no sound from inside. She knocked harder, then leaned forward and called out softly, “Momma…it’s me…Katherine.”
There was only silence from inside. Grasping the knob, Kitty was relieved to see it turn. The door squeaked open to display a black hole of darkness. “Momma…are you in here?”
Kitty jumped, startled, as a feeble moan came out of the blackness. “Momma, is that you?” Her heart pounded fearfully. What if the sound was coming from a drunk man who might leap on her at any moment? This was a terrible place. Anything could happen. Why, oh, why had her mother degraded herself so?
“Here…” The voice was barely audible, but it was Lena’s.
“Wait…” Kitty hurried back into the musty hallway, stood on tiptoe to take down a lantern from a nail hanging on the wall, then approached the bed. In the flickering light, she saw her mother’s pale, stricken face, her eyes sunk deep into her head; and when she reached out to touch her forehead, it was hot with fever. “Momma, how long have you been like this? Why didn’t you send for me?”
Love and War: The Coltrane Saga, Book 1 Page 43