This Time Forever

by Linda Swift

  "Ay, God, it makes me uneasy to see it. Like something bad is about to happen."

  "Something's sure to happen all right, with half the armies of both sides staring each other in the face for weeks. We know Bragg and Hardee and Polk and Breckinridge are here and rumor says Rosecrans and God knows how many more have come down from our Union stronghold in Nashville. It's going to be one hell of a battle, and I hope we have enough medical supplies to get us through it."

  "Listen, do you hear that music?"

  Philip cocked an ear toward the river. "One of our bands is playing 'Yankee Doodle.'"

  "Well, I'll be damned if that don't sound good."

  A Rebel band broke into Dixie, and soon the bands from the opposing armies were in a contest of sounds, matching patriotism song for song. Then one band began to play "Home Sweet Home" and company by company the others joined in. Soldiers began to sing, Philip and Jeb among them. Philip thought of Katherine Kingsley standing beside the piano, her sultry voice and eyes caressing him as he played, and he was filled with an intense longing for home. His thoughts were brought back to the present when the singing stopped and Jeb blew his nose loudly and spoke in a ragged voice, expressing the same wish.

  "I'd give all I might ever have to be home tonight. I'm that sick of the fighting and killing."

  "If the Rebs drive our armies back to Nashville, we'll be closer to Kentucky than we've ever been. Maybe the time is right to make a break."

  "And if they don't? What then?"

  "We could still try and reach our lines when we're on the battlefield tending the wounded." Philip knocked out his pipe and put it in his pocket. "It's risky, but the way this war is going, we could be sawing Rebel bones forever."

  "Ay, God, what a sobering thought."

  The men went through their nightly ritual of being shackled, then settled down. Philip lay in the dark, unable to sleep. He had been involved in the war for two years now, much of the time helping Confederate soldiers. Getting back to the Union lines remained his high priority but he knew he would just be trading one hell for another, the only difference being whose cause he helped. He closed his eyes and willed sleep to come.

  Just before sunrise, the Confederate forces moved forward, and Philip awakened to the sound of musketry and cannon, interspersed with the blood-curdling Rebel yells he'd grown accustomed to. All day, the lines advanced and retreated in the deafening uproar of battle, and in every lull, more wounded were brought to the field hospital until their numbers far exceeded the available cots and they lay in rows on the muddy ground. A cold drizzle had begun early in the day, and as night came again, it turned into a steady downpour.

  The battle sounds finally ceased as both sides bedded down among the wreckage and corpses and prepared to sleep, but the singing of the surgeons' bone saws and the screams of the men they worked on continued into the night.

  "The Rebs are saying the Union Army was routed today," Jeb said in a low voice as he returned from the campfire with a supply of the hot liquid that passed for coffee. "They took a great number of prisoners, too, and they're claiming victory."

  "Nobody wins with this many dead and maimed," Philip said bitterly. He had been trained well to treat the sick and wounded, but not to put shattered men back together again, and it made him feel woefully impotent in the face of so much failure.

  "Word is there's long lines of wagons heading through the darkness along the Nashville Pike. Ay, God, do you reckon our army's loss was as great as what we've seen on this side?"

  Philip grunted. "It must be worse than this if they're retreating."

  "I saw a glow light up the sky again out there. Like a warning of some kind." Jeb shivered as he gave a steaming cup to Philip and lifted his own. "It'd be nice to have something a little stronger to celebrate the occasion, but anyway, a happy new year to you, Captain." The two men drank in unison, then Jeb took up his saw and prepared to sever another screaming soldier's badly damaged arm. "Ay, God, and what a way to start it."

  New Year's Day was quiet except for a few half-hearted skirmishes and Philip and Jeb rested from their long night's work. It had now become clear that the Union armies had not returned to Nashville after all; that the wagons had been filled with their wounded being taken to the capital's hospitals.

  "If the Rebs had been half as smart, they'd have planned to evacuate their injured to Chattanooga," Philip mumbled.

  "There's bound to be more fighting," Jeb said thoughtfully. "When it comes, I want to make a move. Will you come with me?"

  Philip was silent, weighing what he had against what he stood to gain. He felt almost certain his father had been involved in his aborted transfer to New Orleans but there had been no evidence of intervention since. Surely, if his family had been able to help him, he would have already been exchanged. Finally, he nodded. "All right, McCallon. I'm with you."

  "Let's make our plans, then," Jeb said in a low voice. And the two men began to plot their strategy for the next day as carefully as the generals plotted the campaigns of their entire armies.

  Both Union and Confederate armies remained entrenched facing each other on the following day as torrential rain rapidly raised the level of the river. It seemed as though neither side was willing to attack but finally late in the day five brigades of Graycoats, with unfurled flags and fife and drum, set off across the valley. And according to plan, Philip and Jeb volunteered to join the stretcher-bearers going onto the battlefield at the first lull in fighting.

  "Darkness will fall before all the wounded can be brought in," Philip said, in a persuasive argument, and their guards agreed and gave them permission to go.

  At sunset, the guns grew silent and in the choking smoke and shadows, Philip and Jeb went forward as the retreating Rebels returned. Armed with large white bandages to wave in surrender when they approached the Union lines, they stumbled over tangled dead cornstalks and bodies, unable in the dusk to distinguish friend from foe.

  "Look yonder," Jeb pointed to the rise on the other side of the valley, "our men are retreating, too."

  "If we can make it over the top behind them, we'll be safe from Rebel fire." Philip began to run. "Come on."

  A single shot rang out from a hill to the left and Philip broke into a sprint. "Hurry, we've been spotted!"

  Another shot echoed from behind and Philip increased his speed toward the slope ahead. Hearing no answer from his aide, he glanced back and saw that Jeb lay sprawled on top of another fallen soldier's body. He hesitated only a fraction of a second before turning back. Crouching low with bullets still zinging past him, he made his way to the wounded man.

  "Jeb. Jeb!"

  "Run, Captain," Jeb said in a thick voice.

  Ignoring his words, Philip demanded, "Where did they hit you?"

  "Here." A loose hand fell against his chest, and Philip tore open the man's coat and saw the spreading circle of blood even in the near-darkness as another bullet whizzed by only inches from them and found its mark in the body beneath Jeb.

  Grabbing the white cloth inside Jeb's coat, Philip quickly folded it into a small square and attempted to staunch the flow. "Hold on, McCallon. I'll get you back to the field tent and sew you up good as new."

  "Too late—for me," Jeb gasped. "Save—yourself."

  "You can make it, McCallon. You're no quitter."

  Philip struggled to lift the semi-conscious man in his arms and staggered to his feet. A bullet grazed his shoulder, but he was scarcely aware of the stinging pain in its wake. Stepping over and between and sometimes on the prostrate bodies in his path, Philip kept moving with single-minded purpose.

  The smoke and darkness slowed him, but kept the bullets from hitting their mark with accuracy. He took another hit on his left thigh and stumbled on, grunting and cursing. Sweat rolled down his face—at least he hoped it was sweat, and partially blocked his vision. He could see the lights from camp, but the closer he got, the more danger from Rebel guns. It was too dark for the Rebs to see their blue coats or t
hey'd be goners for sure. If he could only stop the shooting at close range, he might have a chance to make the field tent in time. His lungs on fire, heaving for each labored breath, he shifted Jeb to his shoulder and grappled for the white strip of cloth he carried inside his own coat. Waving it with his free hand, he sucked in as much air as his stinging lungs could take and let go with a passable imitation of the nerve-shattering Rebel yell.

  "Hold yer fire, men!" he heard a soldier call. "It's one of ours."

  "Damned if it ain't," another voice answered.

  "Looks like it's the Yankee doctor," a third man observed as Philip reached the medical tent and collapsed on the ground. "What the hell—"

  Getting his breath, he shouted, "Quick, bring the pannier." Bleeding freely now, he crawled to his medical supplies and groped for the instruments he needed. Then kneeling on the ground beside his aide, he pulled the blood-soaked bandage from Jeb's chest and shut his eyes for a moment against the dizziness that washed over him. The flesh was torn around the gaping hole where the Minie ball had entered, and gently turning the unconscious man, he saw where it had blasted through his body, leaving an opening in his back. And still Jeb's valiant heart pumped weakly, pushing his life's blood out with every beat.

  Jeb opened his eyes and saw Philip bending over him. "Captain—" he coughed, blood spurting from his mouth.

  Philip wiped it away and bent lower to hear the man's faint words. "My Bible—give—my mother."

  "McCallon, I'm not going to let you die—" Philip pressed the bandage tighter to stanch the steady flow, refusing to accept what he didn't have the power to change.

  "Tell—her I—love—" another shuddering cough, and Jeb lay still.

  Philip bent his ear to Jeb's bloody chest but there was no sound until his own weeping filled the silence. Lying in the near-frozen mud of a winter cornfield in the Tennessee Valley beside Stones River, the war had ended for Private Jeb McCallon.

  • ♥ •

  Chattanooga, January 1883

  "Why, Father, what on earth are you doing home at this hour of the day?" Lydia asked as Josiah Wakefield rushed into the parlor where she was playing the pianoforte.

  Without bothering to remove his greatcoat or answer her question, he issued an order. "Go find your mother at once, and send Betsy for Clarissa and her sister." He went directly to the sideboard in the dining room and poured himself a straight shot of bourbon and downed it with one long swallow.

  Lydia, sensing some imminent disaster, hastily did as her father asked. Soon, Florence and the three younger women were seated in the parlor, waiting for some explanation from the head of the Wakefield family. Their wait was brief since Josiah was a man of decisive action, used to getting right to the heart of things.

  "Ladies, my apologies for such a hasty request for your presence if you were inconvenienced, but I fear we are in for a much greater inconvenience before the day is out."

  Lydia gasped. "Father, you don’t mean the Federals—"

  Josiah shook his head. "No, no, dear. Nothing of the sort. But as we’re aware, there has been a terrible battle at Stones River these past few days. The losses have been beyond belief on both sides, and the number of wounded equally shocking." He took a deep breath as they watched him with dread. "The Union, as you know, holds Nashville, and they’ve retreated with their medical wagon loads of soldiers to hospitals there. The Confederates, on the other hand, are falling back to Chattanooga."

  "But we don’t have hospitals—" Florence began, but her husband cut her off.

  "Right. And the call has come for some who have large homes to make space available for the wounded men."

  "Oh, but we—" Florence began again, but Josiah once again interrupted.

  "Senator Brabson’s home will be used. And of course, I offered Whitehaven, too. And that’s why I’m here. The medical wagons will begin arriving late tonight or tomorrow. And there is much to be done. The furniture will have to removed from the downstairs, except for the heaviest pieces, to make room for the cots." He looked at each woman in turn. "I expect that all of you will need to be removed to a safer place, also."

  "We can go to Fleur-de-Lis, father," Lydia offered quickly. "Mother Townsend and Mary Jane are already there."

  "We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it," Josiah told her. "For now, we must direct the servants with moving the furniture." He nodded toward his wife. "I think you should be in charge of that task, my dear."

  "I’ll pack my things, father. And see that Beau and Ruane are ready to leave," Lydia offered.

  "And you, Clarissa. Can you gather bandages and medical supplies for use with the wounded?"

  "Yes, Father Wakefield," Clarissa assured him. "A large amount of our Soldier’s Aid supplies are boxed for mailing, but we can use them here."

  "Wonderful." He turned to Angeline. "And you, my dear, will you help your sister in whatever way she asks?"

  Angeline nodded, and Josiah went on as though talking to himself. "And I will see to securing cots and bedding. I have Napoleon waiting in the carriage, and I need to be on my way. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve obtained what will be needed. Oh, and someone speak to Harriet about preparing a large quantity of food. I’m sure the men are near to starved from the stories I’ve been hearing." Giving his wife a quick peck on her cheek, he said goodbye to the others and disappeared into the front hallway.

  "Come on, Angeline," Clarissa rose and beckoned her sister to follow. "First, we’ll have one of the servants bring all the medical supplies into the dining room and then we’ll sort them according to purpose and stack them on the sideboard."

  A frown crossed Angeline’s face. "Where do you suppose they’ll cut off the soldier’s arms and legs? And where will they put them?"

  Florence Wakefield turned white. "Dear heaven, surely they won’t do that here, not in the house?"

  "It’s going to be a hospital now, Mother," Lydia said with resignation. "That’s what they do in hospitals."

  "Just the same," Florence said faintly, "I don’t think your father thought of that when he offered Whitehaven for the army’s use."

  "Well, we certainly won’t be here while all those disgusting things are going on." Lydia shuddered with distaste. "I’ll give Harriet Father’s message before I go upstairs."

  Florence rang for Luke and the others left to take care of their assigned tasks. As she and Angeline went to supervise the moving of the medical supply boxes, Clarissa tried to imagine Whitehaven filled with wounded men. A strange sense of excitement came over her. At last, they were going to learn what the war was really like. Then she remembered her father-in-law’s words. But they would have just a glimpse and then they’d be whisked away to the safety and boredom of Fleur-de-Lis. If only she dared stay here and help the wounded, but it was not something a lady—a married lady besides—could do.

  • ♥ •

  Darkness came early at this time of year, and Whitehaven was ablaze with lights when the first wagons filled with weary soldiers reached the city. Everything was in readiness—the elegant furniture had been moved to the second floor and attic, carpets had been rolled up and stored in the carriage house, and rows of cots lined the walls of the downstairs rooms. Pitchers, pans, and basins had been collected and stacks of bandages and other medical supplies filled the dining room sideboard. And, in the kitchen, soup simmered in every available pot and loaves of freshly baked bread were piled high on the table.

  Harriet, Luke and the other slaves, having been informed of the new status of Whitehaven, waited with trepidation to learn what the conversion would bring. And the Wakefield women, their assigned tasks successfully completed, waited in the upstairs foyer, now serving as a small sitting room. They wore dark mousseline traveling dresses and their portmanteaus and trunks were packed for the night's journey to Fleur-de-Lis.

  Voices in the lower hallway announced the arrival of Josiah and the first of the Confederate visitors, and the women stopped their talking to eavesdrop unabashedly o
n the men's conversation.

  "Welcome to Whitehaven, Lieutenant Johnson."

  "Thank you, Mister Wakefield. Words cannot say how much we appreciate the use of your home as one of our hospitals."

  "It's the least I can do, Lieutenant. I have two sons fighting for the cause, and lost a fine son-in-law at Antietam."

  "Ah, yes, I'm sorry for your loss, sir." After a short pause, the voice continued. "The wagons will be arriving momentarily, so would you like to show Captain Burke and me the arrangements you've made before the sick are brought in?"

  The conversation faded as Josiah conducted a brief tour of the rooms below, then sent one of the servants to invite the ladies to join them in the lower hallway as Luke served the men glasses of whiskey.

  "Oh, dear, must we?" Florence smoothed her hair and looked alarmed at facing the new tenants of Whitehaven.

  "Only for a moment, Mother," Lydia said, "And then I'm sure Father will arrange for us to leave before those pathetic men arrive."

  With a resigned sigh, Florence followed Lydia down the stairs.

  "This is so exciting," Angeline whispered to her sister. "Just like the newspaper stories. Are you coming?"

  "In a moment." Instructing Polly to get Robert and Beau ready for their journey, Clarissa was the last to join the group at the foot of the curved stairway where Josiah was completing the introductions of the other women. "And this is my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Clarissa Wakefield. Ladies, may I present Lieutenant Johnson and Captain Burke?"

  Clarissa made a slight curtsey to the lieutenant as he took her proffered hand and bowed politely. "My pleasure, madam."

  Then she extended her hand part way toward the captain before she saw that he wore a faded Federal uniform. She stopped and glanced uncertainly at Lieutenant Johnson.

  "Captain Burke is a Confederate prisoner, ma'am," he told her, "but you have nothing to fear. He is also a surgeon, and will be in charge of the hospital here."

  "Oh, I see." Unsure what protocol dictated, again she tentatively extended her hand. It was taken with a touch so gentle she would not have felt it except for the tremor that passed between them at the contact, causing her to look up into the most penetrating eyes she had ever seen.