60
Richmond, Virginia, April 1, 1865
Charlotte reached the depot, panting from her wild dash through town. She gulped in a smoke-laden breath and started coughing. Tears, from both the coughing and the smoke, tracked down her cheeks. She dropped, exhausted, on top of a crate, ready to rest, if only for a minute.
There were only a few dark and empty trains on the tracks. If one of them was earmarked for Jeff Davis and other government officials, there should be lights and people inside. Did this mean Davis and the treasury had already escaped Richmond?
If Davis had escaped, then where were Jack and Braham? If they had made an attempt on the president’s life or tried to steal the gold, there would have been a ruckus. Even now. The only commotion was from the handful of panicked citizens arguing with guards who menaced them with bayonet-tipped rifles.
One of the guards raised his voice, “You’ll only be allowed to board if you have a pass signed by the secretary of war. Those with passes, come forward.”
A handful of families presented the necessary documents and ran toward the empty trains. The others, without passes, muttered their objections while snorting audibly as they passed around flasks of whisky.
There was nothing left for Charlotte to do. As history had recorded, Davis and the gold had escaped. Jack and Braham must have returned to the Van Lew’s. Walking back up the hill from the depot, Charlotte noticed another blaze. This one was along the water’s edge.
They’ve torched the Richmond-Petersburg Bridge.
The burning bridge reminded her of the story of a trainload of wounded soldiers who had been left at the Richmond-Petersburg Depot. Her memory was fuzzy, but she vaguely recalled the depot catching on fire when the bridge burned, and how a group of doctors organized a rescue party. What had been the outcome? How many were lost? She couldn’t remember.
Trudging on up the hill, she hoped to God she’d find Jack and Braham safe at Elizabeth’s. She turned the corner on Grace Street, anxiously searching for her men.
But how many wives and mothers and sisters and daughters would never see their men again because they’d died in the Richmond-Petersburg Depot fire?
If those in charge knew the building was going to burn, they could move the wounded out of harm’s way.
Charlotte hesitated near the wrought iron fence in front of Elizabeth’s house. Could she go inside and forget about the wounded? A nagging voice in her head said go inside to safety…but if she went to the depot she could do triage in the street if need be. The wounded men probably needed medical attention as well. Jack could take care of Braham for a little while longer.
Gathering her skirts, she dashed toward the crimson glow moving ever closer to the depot.
People weighed down with sacks of loot filled the streets, making it impossible for her to move quickly. The evening had started out chilly but had turned hot, and now sweat streamed down her face. She unbuttoned her collar. When it didn’t bring any relief, she slipped into the shadows, untied her petticoats, and let them drop to the ground. She turned away, leaving them where they lay, but immediately went back. Bandages were always needed. She scooped up the cotton petticoats and walked briskly toward the depot. Without the bulky petticoats, her hem dragged on the ground and swished dangerously close to the many small fires from sparks landing on anything flammable. Fearing her dress would catch fire, she found a ripped seam and tore several inches off the hem.
Navigating her way around the last few blocks of congested streets was slow going. Widespread disorder combined with fear created a dangerous cocktail, and Richmonders were slugging it down by the gallon. Soldiers rumored to belong to Gary’s Cavalry Brigade roamed the streets and smashed store windows with their musket butts. Then those same soldiers climbed through the broken windows and threw the doors open for swarms of looters.
Charlotte stayed in the shadows, away from the chaos and shouts, but she couldn’t escape the pungent odors of smoke and fear and sweat.
A Confederate straggler rushed out of a clothing store carrying large bundles on his back and another on top of his head. One of his bundles swiped Charlotte and sent her free-falling onto the street, where she landed facedown on her armload of petticoats in a resounding thud. After a moment or two she stretched and wiggled her fingers. Nothing broken or bleeding. She was very lucky, since shards of glass lay in a glistening layer covering the streets. If she had nosedived into them, her skin would have been cut to shreds.
Carefully she rolled over and sat up, and was repeatedly jostled by the swarm of looters. She had to get out of the way quickly. A break in the milling crowd gave her time to scramble to her feet. Stumbling over debris, she made her way to an unoccupied bench outside a general store with broken windows, a demolished door, and empty shelves.
The coppery taste of blood coated her tongue. She licked her bottom lip and discovered a cut on the inside corner. More sweat slid down the side of her face. When she wiped it away with the edge of a petticoat, it came away bloody. Not wanting to probe the wound with dirty hands, she ripped off a wide strip of the petticoat and bound it around her head, only to discover raising her arm hurt her shoulder. She must have strained it when she broke her fall. The fall had battered her head, scraped her knees, and twisted her shoulder, but she wasn’t broken.
She flinched when falling timbers crashed nearby and a chimney collapsed, dropping a pile of bricks only a few feet away. Her heart crawled up her throat and hung there. No serious injuries…yet.
Hurried footsteps ground the pebbles and crunched the broken glass as people streamed past her, like mice scurrying away from a clowder of cats, as her granny would have said.
In the distance, a tongue of flames licked over the top of one of the tobacco warehouses. The old South was fading away, and searing regret burned into her heart.
Stiff, blood-matted curls stuck to her forehead, and acrid smoke burned her nostrils. The fires would intensify, and so would the chaos. She had a choice. Turn back or try to save some soldiers.
The decision was made before she even took time to consider it. This was her city, regardless of the century. She wouldn’t shrug off her responsibilities when Richmond needed her most. She hauled herself up, climbed away from the bench and over the rubble of bricks, and trudged on, weaving through the throng, and avoiding men carrying large bundles.
Finding a clean patch on one sleeve, she wiped her face again, leaving behind dark pink splotches. At least they weren’t dark red.
If Jack could see her now, he would not be happy. It was so crowded and smoky he and Braham could have passed her on the street and not noticed her, especially in her condition.
Taking a circuitous route to avoid the worst of the panicky mob, she reached the depot to find it already backlit by the bright orange glow of flames engulfing the bridge. When the wind changed, as it was destined to do, the fire wouldn’t take long to reach the building. She dashed inside to find the doctor in charge.
“My God,” she said, coming to a standstill. As far as she could see, men sprawled on the rough wood floor, row upon row of injured and dying Confederate soldiers. How could they all be moved before the building went up in flames? She bit her lip against a surge of fear and cringed at the sharp pain from her forgotten wound.
A surgeon stood by the door watching the conflagration.
She stepped in front of him, getting close so he’d pay attention. “This building is about to catch on fire,” she said. “When it does, it will burn quickly. These men have to be moved now or they’ll be burned alive.”
He raised both brows in patent skepticism. “Charles Ellis, president of the railroad, assured us the men would be safe here.”
“He’s wrong. Take a look for yourself. Do you want to wait until the building’s burning to find out?”
“I’m not going to move two hundred injured men on the word of a woman who looks like she rolled out of a chimney.”
“How about on the word of a surgeon?”
/>
“Go home, surgeon.”
Charlotte returned his sardonic expression with a bland smile before stomping to within a foot of his face. How many times had she done this lately? “Listen, you son of a bitch.” She slammed her fists to her hips. “I don’t give a damn whether you believe I’m a doctor or not.” She leaned forward, getting nose to nose with him. “But this building will catch on fire. It will burn to the ground. And if your ego is more important than the possibility I’m right, these men will die.”
She shot past him and strode rapidly into the cavernous depot, searching for someone who might believe her. Several yards away, a man wearing a dirty white apron was tending to one of the wounded. “Excuse me, sir.” When he turned toward her, she rocked back on her heels, swallowed hard, and, with wide eyes, fell silent.
“Yes, what do you need?” he asked.
The man’s clear blue eyes, cool skin tone, and symmetrical face—ears flat against his head, straight nose sitting the perfect distance above his lips, sharp cheekbones, and a gently rounded chin—were dead-on identical to Jack’s, and to old paintings in the family portrait gallery. The man had to be Carlton Jackson Mallory, her six-times-great-grandfather.
Awkward? God, yes. She gawked.
“Are you looking for someone? If so, I can’t help you.” He turned aside, returning to his patient.
“Sir.” Her voice cracked. She poked his shoulder with her fingertip, feeling the tight muscles in his neck. “Sir, this building is about to catch on fire, and when it does, it will burn too fast to rescue everyone. We need to start evacuating…now.”
He was wise enough not to reject her out of hand, but his expression was skeptical. She gauged his mood before pressing on. There was no missing the tension in his body, the stiffness with which he moved, or the anxiety in his red and tired eyes. The enemy was coming, and while the end was imminent, his intensity was well-leashed, an admirable trait for a surgeon.
She touched his arm, pausing for the briefest of moments to figure out her best argument. “From one surgeon to another, I beg you to believe me.”
He glanced around the depot, sniffed the air. “Considering the amount of smoke outside, it seems safe enough in here.”
“Yes, but it won’t be when the fire on the bridge spreads to the roof.”
He squatted to check on another patient, pulling the man’s shirt aside to look at a shoulder wound. “What makes you believe it’ll happen?”
She peered over her grandsire’s head. “The wound you’re working on looks clean. No redness. An inch in a different direction and it could have shattered the clavicle or hit the subclavian artery. He would’ve lost his arm, part of his shoulder, or maybe his life. Do you want him to lose it now?”
Carlton Mallory took stock of her with a penetrating expression similar to ones she’d received during her surgical training.
“Look, I know there’s no reason for you to trust me. But I’m a student of the Greek philosophers. And logic and firsthand observation of the progress of the fire tell me this depot will catch fire, and these men are in mortal danger.”
He surveyed the ceiling, his eyes roving slowly from one corner to the other, his fingers rubbing his chin as if gauging the time it would take to burn. “Who’s your favorite?”
“My favorite what?” she asked, tracking his eyes.
He fixed his eyes on her, as if giving a final test. “Philosopher.”
The lives of hundreds of men now depended on her knowledge of philosophy, not on her medical expertise. She blinked. “Plato. Same as you.”
Thick lashes lifted, and he examined her more closely. Did he recognize a familiar trait in her face, or notice the hereditary bump on her ear Charlotte had traced back to his wife?
“Do I know you? What’s your name?”
Her eyes remained on his, unwavering. Telling him she was also a Mallory would be a mistake, although lying credibly was always a struggle. Behind her back, she interlaced crossed fingers with straight ones and squeezed hard. “Charlotte…McCabe.”
“I’m not convinced moving these men is the right decision. Still…” He hesitated for a moment, then made up his mind, and nodded. “There’s been enough dying, Doctor McCabe. Let’s get to work.”
Carlton Mallory summoned the other physicians. They trooped outside and reentered a few minutes later, still debating, then nodded their heads in agreement. The evacuation began, slowly at first. Charlotte hurried from patient to patient, identifying the ones who could walk without assistance, instructing them to move quickly away from the building. As the encroaching danger became more apparent to everyone, the urgency and speed of evacuation spread with the advancing flames.
A steady stream of soldiers, limping and shuffling, exited the depot, a pitiful stream of disheartened and broken souls. The smoky yard began to fill as dozens of them huddled on safe patches of ground.
Knowing time was against them, she kept one eye on the ceiling, expecting at any moment to see tongues of fire lapping at the eaves. The muscles in her arms, legs, and back cramped from the constant bending and pulling. All her life she had pushed herself to the point of exhaustion, whether it be long, complicated surgeries or running marathons. She had always been able to locate a pocket of reserve energy to make it to the end, but on this night, she had already reached the bottom of her last pocket.
All the doctors were running frantically in and out of the depot, hauling patients by their arms and legs, regardless of their injuries. Screaming men still in the building begged to be saved. Others crawled toward the door, leaving trails of blood.
Buckets of sweat rolled down her cheeks, her neck, under her arms. Hair hung in limp, matted shanks about her head. Her dress was ripped and ragged. Her brain, her muscles, her will were all impaired, fatigued by the beating she had taken hauling so many to safety.
“Get out. Get out,” Carlton Mallory yelled. He grabbed Charlotte’s arm. “The roof’s going to cave in. Get out right now.”
She jerked free. “I can save one more.” The roof was moments from collapsing, the fire chewing at the beams.
A man shrieked to her from the corner. “Help me, ma’am. Please, help me.”
Charlotte gauged the distance from where the man lay to the nearest door. When the roof collapsed, he would die horribly. If she hurried, maybe the two of them wouldn’t. Every muscle in her body tensed. Her brain flip-flopped from if I hurry to maybe I’ll die. Even in the smoke-filled air, she smelled fear, and knew it wasn’t only hers.
He begged while he desperately crawled forward, using his elbows to move him along. “Help me.” Empty trouser legs dragged behind him. He had given his limbs for the South. She could not let him die.
“Grab my arms. I’ll pull you.”
The roof crackled and groaned, and sparks rained down on them. With muscles screaming, she hissed through her teeth while she pulled harder. The heat from the flames singed her skin. Her feet slipped on the slimy floor.
Her strength and energy were gone. She humanly could do no more. The roof dropped chunks of flaming wood.
“Hurry.” The man’s face was distorted with terror and pain, his eyes blazing, reflections of the advancing fire.
Her grip on his arms weakened as the muscles in her back, biceps, forearms, and shoulders simply ceased to function. “No more.”
I’m sorry.
And then the fiery timbers supporting the roof plummeted toward them…
61
Richmond, Virginia, April 1, 1865
Braham and Jack left Gaylord at the boarding house where he had been staying. Since the rioting mob controlled the main thoroughfares, they had to weave through side streets, dodging rioters and avoiding the fires spreading into Richmond’s business center. Frightened women and children ran from their homes as flames licked at their doors and windows. The mad dash through the scorching heat back to the Van Lew’s drained Braham, twisting and squeezing him like a sponge until he had nothing left.
H
e licked peeling lips and gasped for breath. “Need to stop—”
There had to be protection from the roar and crackle of the flames and shattering glass, but where? Sparks carried by an intensifying south wind danced on the tops of most of the buildings and rained down into the street, now hot and littered with fiery debris. Thank God Jack had the foresight to bring boots for him. He owed the man his life.
Jack grabbed Braham’s arm, tugging hard. “If we stop, we’ll burn. Come on. Only a few more blocks.”
Braham staggered up the street, coughing, while exploding shells soared high into the night’s sky, a pyrotechnics display—a dangerous one—raining burning chunks of wood and melting glass down on top of homes and businesses. At the rate the fire was burning, there would be nothing left of the city by morning.
Only the strength of his own will held him together for the last few blocks.
When they reached Church Hill and the Van Lew mansion, the fire was several blocks behind them. Exhausted, they trudged up the stairs at the back of the house and entered, startling three of the women servants who huddled in a corner.
One of the women came forward with a lighted candle held high. “What do you want?”
Braham leaned against the wall, gasping, and began a slow slide to the floor. His legs had turned to mush along with every other muscle. He doubted he could get up again, much less find the energy to wash. There was a dull ache at the backs of his eyes from the smoke, and from days of restless sleep in a cold cell with little food. He lowered his head onto his knees, praying everyone would leave him alone to sleep or die. At this point, he didn’t care which.
Jack moved farther into the room. “It’s Jack Mallory.”
The woman turned to the others. “It’s Miss Lizzie’s guest.” There were a few beats of silence before the woman asked. “Who’s the man on the floor?”
The Sapphire Brooch Page 39