by Jeff Andrews
“Cease fire!” The captain yelled. He jumped in front of the line waving his sword, a horrified look on his face. The muskets went silent. Captain Claiborne stared at the fallen soldier, then faced his own men, his eyes seeming to plead for forgiveness.
Henry gritted his teeth and nodded to the captain. Smoke. Confusion. How was he to know?
A blast of musketry from their right flank tore into the Fourteenth. Soldiers cried out as they dropped. Henry spun around. A line of Union troops, their muskets at charge bayonet, pushed straight at them through the undergrowth. A soldier to Henry’s right turned and ran, then another dropped his musket and took flight. Behind him, the company was breaking ranks and racing to the rear.
“Wait . . . hold the line . . .” Henry glanced at the Yankee charge. “Damn!” He turned and joined the rout.
Hurdling deadfalls and tearing through briar tangles, Henry raced past other soldiers, slowing only when the forest finally thinned and the ground rose to form a low ridge. “We . . . we can hold here,” He hollered. “Form a line. Defend.”
Henry grabbed a soldier running past. “Make a stand. Turn and fight. We can hold.” He spun the soldier around to face the retreating company and then grabbed another. Some kept running, but many stopped and reloaded.
Captain Claiborne broke through the tangles, sword in hand, and climbed the rise. “Good work, McConnell. Set them on line. We’ll hold here.”
The troops gathered in the semblance of a formation. “There, to the right front. Hold your fire until they break clear,” the captain called. He paced nervously, then glanced at Henry, nodding in silent acknowledgement, and commanded, “Fire!”
The long blue line wavered, but kept coming.
“We can’t hold,” Captain Claiborne yelled. “Fall back, fall back.” He waved his sword. The small band of butternut and gray again raced to the rear.
Henry fired his musket at the on-rushing Yankees, then joined the retreat. Racing through the forest, his foot caught on a fallen limb. He stumbled forward, gashing his forearm on a broken branch, and scrambled back to his feet. He had to keep running.
Briars ripped at his legs.
Ahead, through the underbrush, the reserves formed in double ranks on a slight rise. There they guarded the Fourteenth Virginia’s withdrawal. The soldiers manning the reserve position waved and shouted encouragement to Henry and the others who were racing for the safety of the rear. Henry reached the small embankment and grabbed the hand held out to him. A bearded, weather-beaten face grinned down at him from under a floppy slouch hat. Suddenly, his forehead seemed to explode in pain. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears, blocking the sounds of battle. The friendly rebel disappeared, replaced by swirling, unfocused shapes of green and gray . . . then darkness.
Chapter Thirty-three
June 1862
“You holding up, boy?” Banjo pulled a worm from the tobacco leaf and pinched in half.
Isaac straightened, shielding his eyes from the midday sun. From one end of the field to the other, slaves slowly walked the rows, picking juicy bugs from the leaves. “I seen worse,” he said, biting the head off a worm.
“I reckon I don’t hear much from your mama no more,” Banjo said, “not since Abraham been sold away. Come suppertime, she sets a plate for ol’ Banjo, but she ain’t much on talking.”
Isaac reached for another worm. “Mama’s been aching right much for Pa—I ain’t never seen her all broke up like that—and Tempie, she’s having a troubling time too; she’s been real quiet and Mama worries.”
Banjo lowered his voice. “Is that why you’s still here?”
“Lord knows, I ain’t staying for long, but I can’t be running right now, not with Mama needing a man around.”
“You, get back to work,” Patrick hollered as he spurred his mount and galloped to the edge of the field closest to Isaac. “Damn it, O’Farrell, do you job. Those lazy nigras are costing me money.” He shook his whip at Sean O’Farrell, then slapped the horse’s flank and took off at a gallop toward the big house.
Sean picked his way through the tobacco to the row Isaac was working. He smiled and shook his head. “Patrick, meaning Mr. McConnell now, he’s been pushing hard lately, so you boys best be saving your socializing for the evening campfire.”
“Sorry, Mr. Sean. We didn’t mean to get you in no trouble.” Isaac lowered his head.
“Nah, ‘tis no trouble.” Sean smiled and rested his hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “Don’t you be worrying yourself. I’ll not be around much longer anyway.”
“Is you leaving?” Isaac looked into the green eyes of their overseer.
“Things are changing, Isaac. It’s not like before. I can’t abide Mr. McConnell’s new ways, and I’ll not be taking the whip to any one of ye—and that’s what he be asking.”
“Boss,” Banjo whistled through his teeth. “Don’t you worry none, we’ll have this here field cleared of worms by sundown.”
_____
A piercing scream jarred him awake. Henry bolted upright, instinctively reaching for his musket. Yankees? Sunlight streamed through an open window. He blinked and looked around. What was this place? He tried to stand, but the motion sent a throbbing pain through his forehead.
“You’d best lay back and rest.” Strong hands lowered him to the bed. “You’re one lucky young man.”
He opened his eyes again. A woman close in age to his mother leaned over him, her dark hair pulled back and tucked inside a lace bonnet. She wore a starched white apron smeared with blood.
“I heard a scream . . .”
“Yes,” she said, “’tis unfortunate that war brings so much pain.” She straightened the small pillow beneath his head. “Many here suffer wounds far more serious than yours.”
“Where am I?” Henry cautiously touched the bandage on his forehead.
“You’re in Richmond. This is Chimborazo Hospital. A musket ball creased your skull. You bled quite freely and you were unconscious for a day or so, but the doctor says you should recover fully. You’ll be back on your feet in about a week. As I said, you’re one of the lucky ones.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am, who are you?”
“You may call me Mrs. Templeton. I’ve been nursing here since the hospital opened last October.”
Henry surveyed the room. “It seems strange to see a woman working, a white woman, that is, and especially tending to the wounded.”
“I do what I can to ease the suffering,” she said.
“And that slave?” Henry pointed to a black woman at the far end of the room.
Mrs. Templeton turned her head. “Oh, that’s Sally. She’s a free woman. She works here for wages, just as I do.”
“Wages?” Henry said. “Your husband lets you work for wages?”
“My husband, may God rest his soul, was killed at Manassas Junction last summer. I either work or I take charity. Now get some rest and stop worrying yourself about things that aren’t your concern.” She daubed his cheek with a damp cloth.
Henry studied the long, low clapboard room. Six open windows on each side let in what little breeze the humid day might offer, while daylight splashed off the whitewashed walls. Outside, a large yellow flag dangled limply from a pole. Thirty or forty beds, most occupied. Flies buzzed piles of bloodied rags that littered the floor.
“Well, did we whip ‘em?” Henry asked. “Did we push those blue bellies?”
She patted his hand and stood to leave. “General Joe Johnston’s been wounded. General Lee commands the army now, and he’s pushing the Yankees down the peninsula. Now, get some rest.”
The stench of festering wounds and bodily waste hung in the air. Henry fought an urge to gag. He eased onto his pillow and stared at the bare rafters. He’d only been wounded in battle, but Townsend . . . Henry closed his eyes, trying to push the image away. He’d fought a good fight, died a soldier’s death. At least he hadn’t suffered. And a free black woman . . . working for wages . . . ? Henry drifted.
A whimper from the next bed pulled him back to consciousness.
The soldier didn’t look much older than Henry. Curled in a ball, he clutched his stomach. “Ma’am, you there? Help me. I’s burning up. Help, please . . .”
With great effort, Henry raised on one elbow. Mrs. Templeton was tending to a patient on the far side of the room. “Ma’am? Mrs. Templeton?” Henry called. “This here soldier needs help. He’s in terrible pain.”
Mrs. Templeton tossed the bandage she was rolling onto an empty bed and crossed the room, placing her hand on the soldier’s brow. “He has the fever. There’s nothing we can do for him. I’ll try to come back later and cool him, but there are other patients that need me more—some that might still live.”
“Maybe one of the other nurses,” Henry asked, “or that nigra woman, Sally?”
“We’re all busy, young man. Look around. All these boys are in pain. Each gets tended to in his own time.”
“Wait, ma’am . . . can I help? How . . . how do I cool him?”
She smiled. “See those rags?” She pointed at a pile on the floor. “Soak one in water and hold it to his forehead. It won’t cure him, but it will help with his pain.” She turned and resumed her rounds.
Henry sat up and swung his feet to the floor. The room seemed to spin. He tucked his head on his chest and waited for the motion to stop, then slowly picked up a rag and dipped it in the washbowl on the stand between their beds. Two wobbly steps and he eased himself onto the stranger’s bed. He held the wet rag to man’s forehead. Light hair, blue eyes, hands used to hard work—had the look of a farmer. The stranger’s face softened as the cooling water seeped the pain from his burning head.
“The name’s Henry . . . Henry McConnell. Fourteenth Virginia. I got shot over at Seven Pines.”
The man raised a hand slowly and placed it on top of Henry’s, holding the wet cloth. He licked his lips. Henry moved the rag over his mouth and squeezed. Drops fell to the soldier’s tongue. The man swallowed, then whispered, “Coleman, James . . . James Coleman. Nineteenth Mississippi.” He struggled to get out the words. “My . . . my boy, Tommy . . .”
“You’d best rest, mister. Don’t be wasting your strength.” Henry wet the cloth and returned it to Coleman’s forehead.
“Bless you, Henry McConnell. Tell my Nancy I been thinking on her . . .” The soldier closed his eyes.
Henry changed the cloth again, then journeyed to his own bed and laid down. Seemed like a mess of suffering for a fellow that hadn’t even been shot. Maybe, if his fever was to break, he’d get himself a furlough and visit his Nancy.
_____
Stifling heat greeted the dawn. Henry slowly opened his eyes. Stagnant air clung to the rafters and blanketed the wounded in its foul stench. His bedclothes were soaked in sweat and his head still hurt, however, the throbbing had eased. It seemed like days since he’d eaten—three or four eggs and a slab of bacon would sure taste good. Would they have real coffee? That Coleman fella was probably hungry too—had he gotten any rest? Henry rolled over and faced his neighbor’s bunk. Stripped of bed sheets, the straw mattress was rolled at the foot of the empty bed.
Chapter Thirty-four
June 1862
Morgan lay face down while Florence rubbed oil on his back. Ella fanned herself in a rocking chair beside the bed. A breeze wafting through the open parlor windows brushed his bare skin, bringing merciful relief from the humid afternoon.
“Miss Ella,” Florence said. “It ain’t rightly none of my business, but last year when I was down to South Boston buying foodstuffs I seen a slave pushing his mistress in a chair what had wheels.”
“Yes,” Ella replied, “I’ve read of them. Are you suggesting that my Morgan needs such a chair?”
“That he do, ma’am.”
“No, it’s out of the question,” Ella said. “He’s not ready for such a contraption. The poor dear’s bedridden.”
“Begging you pardon ma’am, but Massa’s all laid out ‘cause he got no place else to be, but even now he sits up some and he can move his hands, his arms too. Watch.” Florence stopped massaging. “Massa McConnell, Miss Ella’s setting right here. She wants to see you move that hand.”
Ella? Sure was nice of her to stop by. If she was home, that meant she’d already bought out all the shops in Richmond. Could he move his hand for her? Sure . . .
“Florence, look,” Ella said. “It is moving! He’s moving his hand. Can he hear me?”
“Miss Ella, I been telling you for months, ain’t nothing wrong with that man’s ears. He don’t miss a thing.”
Damned right. And there’ll be some explaining to do, once his faculties returned—and they would, thanks to Florence.
“But what could he do in a wheelchair? He needs constant watching.”
“Miss Ella, you set him out on that porch in the evening or early morning, you brings him to the table when the family gathers, you might even push him down by the paddock. I reckon that dapple mare’s been missing him something awful.”
“But Patrick does not want his father doing anything that might cause a strain. Patrick says rest will do him best.”
“Miss Ella, ain’t meaning no disrespect, but I been healing folks nigh on thirty years, and I can tell you, rest only helps them what’s tired. Massa McConnell ain’t tired, ‘cept he’s tired of laying around this here bed all the day long.”
Damn right! Morgan lifted his hand and thumped the mattress. Twice.
“Very well. I’ll be in South Boston tomorrow. There’s a new hat in the millinery that I wish to try on—it came all the way from New York. While I’m there, I will see about having one of those wheeled devices delivered, if one is available.
“It’s too warm in here.” Ella waved her paper fan. “I shall be on the porch if you need me.” Her footsteps crossed the carpet to the wooden floor.
Morgan waited until the footfalls had faded, then whispered almost inaudibly, “Thank you . . .”
Florence spoke in his ear. “Again, Massa, slowly . . .”
“Thank you.”
She resumed his massage. “Florence is gonna get you in that wheelchair, then she’ll be hitching that contraption behind a plow mule and hanging an ear of corn to his front, just to see you go.”
Morgan’s chest heaved in a silent laugh. Florence rubbed oil into his shoulders. He closed his eyes, imagining that he was sitting on the porch, looking over his fields again—what a joy that would be. God bless her. A mockingbird called from a tree outside the window. He dozed.
“Massa McConnell.”
Florence? He opened one eye.
“I don’t mean to trouble you none, but I sure misses that time before you was taken ill. I reckon I can speak my mind—least ways you don’t complain none when I do. Things is different these days. I’ve been missing my Abraham something terrible, and folks down at the quarters is saying how they’s feeling the whip. It ain’t like before . . .”
Morgan struggled, but could not form the words. She was right, and it wasn’t how he wanted his slaves treated . . . He lifted his hand and dropped it to the mattress. Things would change, Florence, they would . . .
“I can see you’s trying to talk, Massa, but you oughtn’t push yourself. I declare, you keep straining like that, you’s gonna pop out your eyeballs. You’d best stick to one or two little words ‘til you gets your health back. Miss Ella’s gonna be surprised when I tells her how you can talk some.”
He banged his hand on the mattress and strained as he whispered, “Don’t tell her . . .”
_____
Isaac straightened and wiped his brow. Picking bugs from the tobacco had been early morning or cool of the evening work before Massa McConnell fell sick. Now, there was no escaping the searing midday sun. “This heat’s a misery, little brother. You’d best drink you some water.” He pointed to the bucket in the back of the wagon.
Joseph squashed the tobacco worm he’d just picked off the leaf, then walked to the wagon a
nd scooped a dipper of the warm liquid. “How about you, Isaac? You thirsty?”
Two horsemen came into view from the direction of the big house. “Never mind that water,” Isaac called. “There’s riders coming. Get back to work.”
Joseph dropped the dipper in the bucket and started walking through the tobacco rows when the riders turned off the road and came straight at him.
Patrick trotted his horse alongside Joseph and reached down, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and lifting him until his bare feet dangled helplessly. “This is what you must deal with—lazy nigras.” Patrick glanced at Big Jim, who was mounted on the other horse, then he dropped Joseph to the ground.
“There weren’t no call for that, Patrick.” Isaac took a step toward the riders. “That boy’s been doing a man’s work. He just stopped to fetch me a drink.”
The tip of the blacksnake whip cracked like a pistol as it caught Isaac’s bare shoulder. “That’s ‘Massa McConnell’ to you, boy.” Big Jim pointed the butt of the whip at Isaac. “This here is one uppity nigger, but he’ll be learning his place soon enough.”
Isaac grimaced, but did not cry out. Instead, he stared at the ground and braced for the next blow. The whip cracked again, ripping his flesh. Others in the field stopped what they were doing and watched.
“The rest of you lazy niggers get on back to work or you’ll be feeling the same,” Big Jim hollered. He snapped the whip across Isaac’s back again, driving Isaac to his knees. “And you’d best be calling me ‘Mister Jim’ from now on.” Big Jim grinned, then turned his horse and followed Patrick across the field toward the big house. Isaac stumbled to his feet.
Joseph rushed to his side. “How come Big Jim’s setting up on that horse and cracking that whip like he was somebody?”
Isaac brushed the dirt from his knees. “I reckon we has us a new overseer, little brother.”