by Dorothy Love
The major came into the room. “I’m ready when the lady is, sir.”
The journey took me across the bridges and along a narrow winding road to a cluster of farm buildings set beneath a stand of old trees. As eager as I was to see Robert, when the carriage finally rolled to a stop I felt a moment of misgiving.
I had missed my husband terribly. I longed for the comfort of his daily companionship. But a solid year of constant uprooting and travel along with my worsening rheumatism had taken their toll. I was plump now, and gray haired. Daily I grew more firmly convinced that the South had been right to resist Northern tyranny. I worried that Robert would find me too much changed.
“Here we are, Mrs. Lee,” the major said. “Gooch’s farm. General Lee will meet you here and take you on into town.”
He helped me out of the carriage. And then there was my dear Robert, coming lightly down the farmhouse steps, a smile on his face, his arms spread wide in welcome. I was shocked at the change in him. His hair and beard were snow white. His entire countenance, which had always been youthful, now reflected the enormous weight of his responsibilities. But his bearing as he descended the steps was regal, his gray uniform impeccable, his black boots polished to a high shine.
Beneath the shade of an old hickory tree, we embraced.
“Dear Mary.” Robert drew apart to peer down at me. “I have been very anxious for your arrival. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking of it. Did the enemy treat you all right?”
“General McClellan was most solicitous.”
“Very good. Our hosts have prepared dinner.”
“I’m not hungry. I would rather go on to Richmond and get settled.”
“So would I, but I don’t see how we can refuse their hospitality.”
Taking my arm, he led me up the steps and into the house, where we were met with warm greetings and a surprisingly elegant repast. As soon afterward as was polite, we thanked our hosts and continued into the city.
I expected to share Robert’s quarters at the Spottswood Hotel, where he had established his headquarters, but I soon learned there was no room for me there. Richmond was overrun with refugees from across Virginia and elsewhere. Every house was filled to overflowing. Some had been converted to makeshift hospitals, forcing people to bed down in churches, abandoned schoolhouses, and outbuildings.
Robert had arranged rooms for me at a plain wooden two-story house on Leigh Street. He saw to my trunks, kissed my cheek, and returned to his work. I sank into my chair, feeling deflated. After so long a separation I had hoped for a few hours alone with him, but the first great lesson of my marriage had been that duty would always and forever come before personal pleasures. I could do nothing but wait for him.
As the summer unfolded I met my neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Caskie, who had a house at Eleventh and Clay Street. Their daughter Norvell was a lovely young woman, fond of fashion and of bantering with Robert when we dined with them. Mildred was back at school in Raleigh, and the other girls were visiting in North Carolina. I missed their endless chatter and took pleasure in Norvell’s talk of clothes and books and the handsome young Confederate officers who came and went from the city in an ever-changing parade.
One morning I was occupied with my knitting and only half listening as she described a wedding she had recently attended. Word of the burning of White House had just reached my ears, and I was too angry to think of such trivial matters as weddings and the latest styles in hats.
Custis came up the walk and knocked at the door. He had been ill and was taking care of his papa’s many requests while he recovered.
“Mother?”
“Come in, son.”
Custis bowed to Norvell. “Miss Caskie, I trust you are well.”
“I am. And how are you? I was just telling your mother about a lovely wedding that took place here last Saturday.”
I put down my knitting. “Custis, I found your father’s other pair of spectacles. He left them here one evening and forgot them. I suppose you ought to send them as soon—”
“Mother, I have come with terrible news.”
I steeled myself for the worst. “Your father—”
“He is fine, so far as I know. I’ve had a letter from Rooney.” Custis knelt beside my chair. “It’s the baby. He caught a cold, a severe one, Rooney says, and he did not recover.”
Norvell rushed to my side. “Oh, Mrs. Lee, I cannot imagine how difficult this is for you. Your poor little grandson. Is there anything we can do?”
Custis rose. “I’m certain your gentle ways and bright company will be a balm to my mother’s spirits, Miss Caskie. Especially as my father cannot come home just now to comfort her.” He patted my hand. “I’m sorry I can’t stay, Mother. You ought to write to Rooney. He is convinced his daily sins are the cause of this calamity.”
I went at once to Hickory Hill to offer Charlotte whatever solace I could.
In late August I returned to Richmond. The house on Leigh Street seemed strangely quiet. Daughter had come and gone, and so had my husband, who was now encamped near Orange Court House.
Mrs. Caskie invited me to tea, and I was glad for the distraction. We had just concluded our light repast when a visitor arrived. Mrs. Caskie went out to the porch to greet him and then brought him inside.
“Mrs. General Lee, this is Dr. McCaw. He is chief physician at the hospital up on the hill.”
The young doctor pressed my hands most warmly. “I have heard many lovely things about you, Mrs. Lee, since your arrival here. Mrs. Caskie tells me you have turned your house into a veritable sock-making factory.”
“One must have some useful occupation to pass the time, and my husband is constantly asking for more socks for the men in the field. It’s only a small thing, but the men seem to appreciate it.”
“Dr. McCaw, please do sit down,” Mrs. Caskie said. “We’ve just finished our tea, but I can make more if you like. It won’t take a moment.”
He perched on the edge of a horsehair settee. “Thank you, but I haven’t much time. I’ve come to ask a favor.”
Mrs. Caskie joined me on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap.
“I’m sure you have read in the papers that the number of patients at Chimborazo continues to grow as this war goes on,” he said. “Most of my patients are sick rather than wounded, but that doesn’t mean their needs are any less important.”
Mrs. Caskie said, “My husband says we might find ourselves caring for more wounded if the fighting increases. He says the presence of so many railroads serving Richmond virtually assures we will receive some battlefield casualties.”
“It’s possible. But my present situation requires many more hands to look after the soldiers we already have. My staff of physicians is adequate, but they can’t spend as much time as is needed in simply visiting with the men. Listening to their stories. Helping them write letters home.”
I thought of my husband and my own sons—all of them now in the service of the Confederacy—who might at any moment find themselves sick or wounded, alone and far from the comforts of family and home. “How may I help you, Dr. McCaw?”
The young physician beamed. “I hoped both you ladies might use your influence to encourage others of your acquaintance to visit my patients on occasion. It would certainly free up the doctors’ time, and the presence of a lady always elevates the atmosphere of any place.”
“I will help in any way I can,” I said. “I would like to visit the men myself.”
“So would I,” Mrs. Caskie said.
“Splendid.” The doctor got to his feet. “I ought to get back to the hospital. I cannot thank you ladies enough. Come anytime. Whenever it suits you. The men will be delighted, and my staff will be deeply grateful.”
“My goodness,” Mrs. Caskie said when he had gone. “I do hope we can help those poor men. When do you suppose we might visit? I will see about getting a carriage for us.”
“I promised Robert twenty-five pairs of socks weeks ago, and I have hard
ly begun to knit them. Perhaps when they are finished.”
“Let’s plan to go then. I’ll ask Norvell. I’m certain she will want to do her part.”
I returned home just as Perry Parks, the Arlington servant who had accompanied Robert to Richmond, arrived.
“Miss Mary!”
“Perry. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“The general sent me back from Gordonsville with Custis. We got to catch up to Mr. Robert this evening.”
“How is he?”
“Tired out some, after overseeing General Longstreet and General Hood. From what I know, they been busy cuttin’ the Yankees’ railroad lines and such. I look after him best as I can.”
“It’s good to see a familiar face from home. How are you?”
“I was feelin’ poorly shortly after Malvern Hill, but the general nursed me back to health. I tol’ him if he ever gets tired of soldierin’ he might find work up at that hospital up yonder. I tol’ Mr. Robert couldn’t any doctor have done no better.” He fished a letter from his pocket. “Custis said to bring by this letter that come for you this morning. He said he woulda brought it himself, but he’s busier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers.”
I glanced at the envelope. “It’s from my daughters.”
“How is young Miss Mary, and Miss Agnes, and Miss Annie? And Miss Mildred? I surely do miss them. I miss ever’body from Arlington.”
“Oh, Perry, so do I. All were fine, the last time I heard from them. Mildred is at school. Daughter just left to visit friends at Cedar Grove. Annie and Agnes are in North Carolina. It has been awhile since I had a letter from them.”
“’Spect you’re wanting to read it, then.”
Perry set off down the street. I went inside, removed my bonnet and gloves, and opened the letter.
August 25, 1862
Jones Springs, North Carolina
Dearest Mama,
Two weeks ago our precious Annie was stricken with typhoid. We are presently at Jones Springs which we hoped might offer a more efficacious climate for her recovery. The doctor at first prescribed the usual treatment—cold baths and the blue fever pills. She rallied for a time and begged me not to tell you and Papa, knowing how this news would worry you. She is failing. Last evening the doctor returned and prescribed brandy and cream mixed with morphine. I sit with Annie day and night and I pray hourly for her recovery, but I think you had better come.
Give love to Papa and my dear brothers when you see them and to Mary and Mildred when you write. I heard Mary was in Richmond but Mrs. Hardin, a friend of Mrs. Caskie’s, was here last evening and said she heard Mary planned a visit to Cedar Grove. Please hurry.
Your daughter, Agnes
A train was quickly outfitted for my use, and I arrived in North Carolina to find Annie still alive but wracked with palpitations and violent fevers that lasted for hours. Agnes had grown so thin and pale from looking after her sister that I feared for her well-being too.
“Oh, Mother, thank God you have come in time.”
Agnes led me into a dimly lit room where Annie lay shivering despite the summer heat.
“She has been like this for days. Last night I slept beside her to keep her warm, but nothing seems to help.” Agnes fell into my arms and began to sob. “I know we are supposed to pray ‘Thy will be done,’ but she is only twenty-three. Too young to die.”
I bent over Annie’s bed and called her name.
“She can’t hear you, Mama. The fever has made her deaf.”
Agnes touched Annie’s hand, and Annie opened her eyes.
“Mama.” It was a mere whisper in the silent room.
“Yes. I’m right here.”
Agnes glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. “It’s time for her morphine. The doctor says to give it to her every hour.” She mixed the drug in a small glass with a bit of brandy and cream.
We lifted Annie so that she could swallow, and soon she closed her eyes.
“She will rest for a few minutes now.” Agnes collapsed into the chair beside the bed.
“When was the last time you ate anything, child?”
Agnes shrugged. “I don’t know. The days and nights all run together. She has been so sick these last days I have barely had any sleep.”
“Is there food in the house?”
“Some eggs, I think. Maybe some milk.”
“I’m going to make you something to eat and then I want you to sleep. I will watch over your sister while you rest.”
“But you are exhausted too. I know the trip was hard on you, Mama, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You are too young to shoulder such a burden alone. You ought to have sent for me sooner.”
“Annie begged me to wait. She thought she would get better.” Agnes closed her eyes. “But I admit I am tired.”
I made my way to the kitchen and prepared a supper for the two of us, then I sent Agnes to bed and took up my vigil beside Annie. Between prayers for her recovery, I wiped her face and administered the morphine and wished for my husband’s steady arm. But we were alone in the long dark night, Agnes and I, with no one to help us save God.
As the bright days of autumn crawled by, Agnes and I settled into a routine. She looked after Annie in the daytime, and I took over at night, alone with my thoughts and fears. I didn’t know where Robert was or how to reach him. But sending for him would have been futile, for he was engaged in a cause more important than any one family, even his own.
Annie lingered, semiconscious, until very early in the morning of the twentieth of October, when she opened her eyes. Agnes came to my room to wake me. “She wants her hymnbook.”
In that moment I dared to hope the fever had broken and she would be well again. But by the time I dressed and got to her room, I could see the end was near.
Annie turned her head on her sweat-drenched pillow. Her small hand lay atop the hymnbook resting on the yellow counterpane. She clasped mine. “You are still here, Mama.”
“Where else would I be when my little girl needs me?” I spoke aloud, though I knew she couldn’t hear me. In that moment I recalled such precious memories from her years on this earth. Her bright laughter, her inquisitive mind, the way she and Agnes complained loudly and often about attending school at the “Staunton jail.” Her sweet and innocent attentions to the cadets at West Point when she was still too young to court them. Now she would never know the joys of marriage and the comforts of husband and home.
Her face twisted as the pain hit her, and she shivered violently.
Agnes brought the morphine, then climbed beneath the covers to try to keep Annie warm. “Oh, Mother, she is going. I can feel it. What can we do?”
I took Annie’s cold hands in mine and pressed them to my chest. “She is in the hands of God. He will do all things well for her.”
Annie opened her eyes. “Mama, I am ready to rise.”
The mantel clock emitted seven soft chimes. And then my darling Annie was gone.
We braided her hair and laid her out with flowers gathered from the garden. A friend offered his own cemetery plot, and there we laid her to rest.
Agnes packed our trunks. With hearts made even heavier by the necessity of leaving Annie behind, we returned to Richmond.
I never learned precisely how the news reached Arlington. I supposed Perry must have gotten word to his father. Somehow the news was delivered, and in early December I received a letter from Selina.
November 25, 1862
Arlington, VA
Dear Miss Mary,
There is no one this side of heaven who can know how much your heart hurts at the loss of your Annie. And there is nothing I can say that will ease the pain. Tell the general and the rest of your children that everyone here grieves with them. Miss Annie’s smile always reminded me of a light in the window of a dark house, how it could make you seem less alone when you looked at it. I have no doubt she is making some corner of heaven brighter now. But I don’t suppose that
will bring you much consolation. Any mother expects to pass on ahead of her own children, and I imagine this is a shock that will only grow less so with time.
You were the one who told me how a book can brighten the darkest of times, and when I heard Miss Annie had passed I got out the poem book you gave me when I was just a girl. Do you remember? In it was a poem which is too long to copy the entire thing, but I send you a few lines in hopes they will somehow comfort you.
Everything at Arlington is the same. Soldiers everywhere. The house dark and still of an evening. We had a snow the other night, the first one this winter, and I thought about the night you and I went sledding on the hill. I remember we hit a hard bump that lifted us both off the sled and I thought we would go flying off into the snowbank and break our necks, but you held on tight and we got over the bump and the rest of the ride was pretty smooth. I suppose that is what you must do now. Just hold on tight and get over this bump till life brings you better days.
Your humble servant, Selina Gray
PS: Here is the poem from Mr. WC Bryant, the same you used to read to me when I was small.
And then I think of one who in her
Youthful beauty died
The fair meek blossom that grew up
And faded by my side
In the cold moist earth we laid her
When the forests cast the leaf
And we wept that one so lovely
Should have a life so brief
Yet not unmet it was that one
Like that young friend of ours
So gentle and so beautiful should
Perish with the flowers.
After the loss of my home—which even savages would have spared for the sake of the former association with my father—after the loss of White House with its ties to my Washington kin, after the deaths of my little grandson and my dear Annie—all in the space of a single year, and despite my constant prayers for mercy, the cruel hand of death once more gripped my family. A few weeks before Christmas, Charlotte gave birth to a little girl who developed a lung infection and died before her parents could name her.