This Time Forever

by Linda Swift

  As Clarissa secured the last bandage on the unconscious soldier lying on the table, she was suddenly overcome by a pain so sharp she gasped and doubled over, holding her abdomen. Philip was beside her in an instant, his face concerned. "What is it?"

  "I—it was just—" Another pain took her breath away.

  "Miss Giles?" Philip called, and Angeline came hurriedly from the adjoining room. "Finish up here. Polly?" He said to the woman right behind her. "Help me get Mrs. Wakefield upstairs."

  "Oh, Lord a’mercy, is it her time?" Polly asked even as she locked her arm with Philip’s around Clarissa’s waist.

  "I think—yes." Philip guided Clarissa into the hallway, supporting her weight, as they wove among the resurrected cots that lined it.

  Clarissa bit her lip to keep from screaming when another pain washed over her. It was too soon. This couldn’t be happening. Her baby would die. She felt herself being lifted in Philip Burke’s strong arms, felt the hard muscles of his chest against her back, and gave herself up to the sensation of floating as he carried her up the stairs. He was a surgeon, the best there was. If anyone could save her baby, he could. She sighed and leaned her head against his sturdy shoulder, knowing that she was safe, that he would take care of her.

  • ♥ •

  Clarissa, lying in her canopy bed which had long been stripped of curtains, faced a bare window from which she could see the battleground in the early morning light. The wounded and dying from both North and South were being brought to Whitehaven, and she struggled to rise and go downstairs to tend the suffering men.

  "No, Missa, you lay y’self down." Firm black hands blocked her movement, eased her shoulders back against the sheet. "You cain’t be gettin’ up, now."

  A stabbing pain shot through Clarissa’s abdomen and she buried her face in the rumpled pillow and bit her lip against the scream that rose in her throat.

  "The battle—" she protested weakly. "I have to help."

  "Only hep you be givin’ is to this baby, Missa," Polly said firmly.

  "But Major Burke—"

  "Miss Angeline down there doing what can be done. Now you try to drink this broth and get your strength back for what you gotta do."

  Clarissa resigned herself to Polly’s orders and tried to swallow the thin liquid, but she gagged on the first spoonful and shook her head. The child in her womb moved, and she rolled to her side to accommodate its shifted position.

  "Best you stay on your back, Missa," Polly cautioned.

  "My back hurts too much to lie still, Polly." Clarissa sighed. "And anyway, I don’t think the baby is coming anytime soon."

  Polly’s worried frown reflected Clarissa’s own concern. This baby was taking a long time to be born, much longer than her first had taken. She was afraid, not for herself, but for the baby inside her.

  "Please, go back downstairs and help Major Burke and the others, Polly. There’s nothing you can do for me."

  "I got my orders from the Major." Polly shook her head stubbornly. "I stay here." She sat down in a chair near the window where she could keep a watchful eye on her mistress and the battle as well.

  Clarissa tried to sleep as the morning dragged on, but her intermittent labor pains and the noise of exploding cannon and rattle of musketry outside proved too much of a distraction. It seemed longer than yesterday afternoon since that eerie fog descended as Hooker’s men scaled Lookout Mountain and her labor began. Still, she had stayed with Philip through the night, assisting him in surgery, until he noticed her pain and put her to bed. Now, according to the wounded soldiers they had tended in the night, the Army of Tennessee on top of Missionary Ridge was all that remained of the Confederate forces. As Clarissa wondered how much longer it would be until the siege was broken, her water broke, and with the sudden gush of warmth, her pain intensified.

  "Polly, I think—" She clutched her middle and writhed in agony.

  "I have to tell Major Burke." Polly was up and out the door before Clarissa could protest.

  Minutes later, Philip was kneeling beside her, his slender hands lifting her dressing gown, gently probing her distended abdomen. Even in her pain, her arms ached to reach for him.

  "Not yet." His voice sounded far away, and she had trouble concentrating on his words, which came through waves of pain. "The baby isn’t in the right position. We’ll have to wait a while, see if it turns, and then if not, we’ll have to help it."

  She became aware of Polly bathing her face with a damp cloth. She heard the voices of Philip and Polly talking in low tones and once she thought she heard her sister speaking from the doorway. But everything was blurred now, and she could only focus on the white-hot waves that washed over her again and again.

  Philip looked down at the woman who bore her pain with no less dignity that the soldiers she’d tended, and pondered what he must do. God help him, even in excruciating labor with her hair tangled across her feverish face, she was the most desirable woman he had ever seen.

  By late afternoon, the baby had not turned. Philip’s efforts to change the position of its head had failed. Already exhausted by her two-day ordeal with the battle casualties, Clarissa was too weak to endure a long labor, and the baby’s heartbeat was growing fainter. There was a chance the umbilical cord was twisted around its neck and his probing had tightened the loop. He weighed the odds and made a decision, took a deep breath.

  "Polly, bring hot water from the kitchen. And clean cloths. And a bottle of whiskey. Be quick."

  Clarissa heard Philip’s voice coming from far, far away, fading in and out. "We’ll have to take the baby. It won’t be long now. Here, drink this."

  He raised her head above the pillow and put a glass to her lips. She opened her mouth and the fiery liquid poured over her tongue and down her throat. She spluttered, coughed.

  "A little more."

  She drank. She could hear the sounds of battle growing closer, the shriek of shells exploding.

  A crumpled cloth was lowered over her face. "There, Missa. Take a deep breath."

  "Hold her hands, Polly. Don’t let her move."

  Clarissa scarcely felt the knife, its blade no sharper than the thrusts of pain that cut through her consciousness. Then something was being lifted from her, relieving the heaviness she felt inside. A long moment of silence followed before she became aware of a wailing sound, a boom of cannon, and Philip’s reassuring voice. She was floating high above the room, the mountain where the cannon roared. A shell exploded, splintering light enveloped her, and then the darkness.

  Polly lighted the lamp and Philip swathed the incision with whiskey, wrapped it in a clean bandage. Then he attended the newborn baby boy and motioned for Polly to take him away. He sat beside the bed, waiting for the effects of the chloroform to wear off. Outside, it was dark now, and the sound of battle was over. At last report, the Union had taken the Ridge. He looked at the woman lying so still, her golden tresses spread like a halo in the lamplight. How had he come to be here in this place? And how could he love another man’s wife and wish the baby she had birthed was his own?

  • ♥ •

  As the lamp cast flickering shadows in the silent room, Clarissa drifted somewhere between sleep and waking. "My baby?" she whispered weakly.

  "You have another son, Clarissa," Philip told her softly, stroking her hand as he spoke. He used her given name with tenderness, not caring about propriety at the moment.

  "Is he—"

  "He’s going to be fine. A little small, but he has a lusty yell, just like the Rebel soldiers."

  "Philip?" In her mind, she always thought of him this way, and now, she was too weak to censor her thoughts. She moistened her lips, then went on. "What is your name...your whole name?"

  "Philip Elliot Burke."

  She tried to focus on his face bent toward her and failed. "You saved my son’s life. His name will be Elliot Malcolm Wakefield. See that it is recorded in the Bible that way."

  "I’ll see to it." He touched her cheek with his lips
. "Thank you. I’m deeply honored that your son will bear my name." And would to God that my blood also ran in his veins, he added silently.

  "And the battle?" she asked faintly.

  "The struggle is over. Bragg’s Army has retreated."

  Clarissa moaned softly as the effects of the sedative wore off and she became aware of the dull ache in her lower abdomen. She tentatively touched the bandage that covered her incision and Philip gently removed her hand.

  "Let it be." He pulled the quilt up to cover her, placing her arms on top of it. "You must use utmost caution until you are healed. And I will cleanse and dress the wound every day, else you could be a victim of the dreaded childbed fever."

  Clarissa gave him a slight nod. She was so tired that it was difficult to keep her eyes open, but she fought to prolong this moment of intimacy. She gazed at his shadowed profile in the dim lamp light until exhaustion finally overtook her, and she slept.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Chattanooga, June 1864

  Angeline sat in the wisteria-scented shade of the gazebo, savoring a moment of privacy with her two letters before she returned to the house. The first, from Devon, she recognized by its uneven childish printing. She had taught Devon the alphabet and the rudimentary essentials of reading and writing during the months he was a frequent visitor at Whitehaven, and since General Sherman's orders had sent the armies of the Cumberland, Ohio, and Tennessee marching into Georgia, it had paid off.

  She opened the envelope carefully, unfolded the single page it contained, and began to read.

  Resaca, Georgia

  May 18, 1864

  My darling Angel,

  We have been camped at this place called Resaca for many days now and I wanted to write again before we leave here. We move forward and the Rebs move back, and so on and on it goes. Word is that we are going to begin our march to Atlanta soon now. So far our number of dead and wunded is small. Pray that we can take the city without a grate loss.

  We are eating well as men are sent out every day to take food and whatever else is needed from the farms. Our suply wagons are full and there is much waste but the free slaves who follow us pick up some of what we throw away.

  I think of you every hour that I am awake and you are in my dreems when I sleep and I wear the braded ring of your gold hair always. I miss you more every day and long for the war to be over so that we can be together as man and wife. I love you with all my heart and thank God that you love me the same way.

  Give my best to your sister and the captin. I miss all of you and long to be there with you. And take care of yourself till I return.

  Your loving servant,

  Devon O'Conner

  Angeline clutched the letter to her heart, closing her eyes against the tears that pooled as her fingers traced the braided ring of Devon's hair she also wore. Then when she had regained her composure, she studied the other letter. It bore a Richmond postmark, but the handwriting was unfamiliar, and a look of foreboding crossed her face, even before she opened it and began to read.

  Richmond, Virginia

  June 20, 1864

  My dear Miss Giles,

  I am writing to you on behalf of your fiancé, Nathan Forsythe, who is presently in the hospital where I serve as a volunteer. I am sorry to tell you that Major Forsythe has been wounded, but I assure you that he is doing as well as can be expected, considering the extent of his injuries and sends you his loving regards.

  Major Forsythe did not tell me the circumstances of the battle where he received his wounds, but as I have heard the story from others, I am taking it upon myself to enlighten you concerning his bravery in the face of danger.

  I do not know if you have heard of the terrible battle at Cold Harbor which occurred over a period of days from June 3 to June 7. General Grant threw his considerable forces at the Army of Northern Virginia in three separate attacks and all were repelled by our brave men. And it was during the time between these attacks when the wounded Union soldiers lay screaming on the field between the lines that their own general refused to ask permission to bring them in. It is said that Grant's despicable actions were due to the tradition that the first commander to make such a request is considered the loser of the battle. God save his soul if this was his reason for allowing so many to die.

  And it was in this situation, I am told by others who witnessed it, that Major Forsythe, having more compassion on those poor men than their own general, risked his life and ran onto the battlefield to bring in a Union soldier who was begging for mercy. And in so doing, he was hit with Union artillery and severely injured.

  I know you must be filled with pride at the bravery of your fiancé even as you grieve for his suffering. And I pray that he will soon be able to travel and return to your loving care. Meanwhile, be assured that he is receiving good medical attention. This hospital, which is operated by Captain Sally Tomkins at her own expense, is the best facility available in Richmond.

  Major Forsythe has requested that you bear the news to his dear mother and father as he feels that it would be better for them to receive these sad tidings from you than from a stranger through a letter. May God strengthen you and your family in these trying times.

  Very truly yours,

  Miss Martha Tate, Volunteer

  Sally Tompkins Hospital

  Angeline read the letter a second time, her heart pounding, then grabbed her bonnet and ran toward the house in search of her sister.

  "Miss Angeline, what you runnin' like the devil after you for?" Polly looked up from the hall floor she was scrubbing. "And not even wearing a bonnet. You gonna be black as me 'fore long."

  "Where's my sister?" Angeline gasped.

  "Why, she upstairs feedin' Masta Elliot, I reckon. But wh—"

  Angeline was running up the steps before Polly could finish.

  Clarissa sat in a small rocking chair, Elliot at her breast. She looked up quickly at the sound of her sister's feet on the stairs, and, seeing the expression on Angeline's face as she stood breathless before her, quickly eased the sleeping Elliot from her breast and closed her bodice.

  "Why, Angeline, whatever is the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost." Clarissa caught sight of the letters Angeline held in her hand and her eyes widened in alarm. "Is Devon—"

  "It's Nathan," Angeline said quickly. "He's been wounded." She gave the letter to Clarissa and waited silently while she read it.

  "How very brave he is," Clarissa said as she held out the letter to her sister. "But what a sad story. I can't believe the general's heartlessness." She shook her head. "It's a miracle that Nathan wasn't killed."

  "Yes," Angeline said tonelessly.

  Clarissa looked at her sharply. "Surely you—"

  "Of course I'm thankful that Nathan's life was spared," Angeline answered the unspoken question in her sister's eyes. "But I'm also thankful it was Nathan instead of Devon who was hurt. Is that sinful, sister?"

  Clarissa thought for a minute, remembering Philip Burke's words about loving those whom we ought not. "No, I don't suppose so. It is beyond your power to control."

  "And now I must go to Cedarhurst and tell his mother and father." Angeline wrung her hands together. "But how can I pretend to be the distraught fiancée when I feel this way, when it's Devon O'Conner I love?"

  "I don't imagine they will notice your pretense in the turmoil of their own shock and grief, Angeline." She stood before she spoke again. "I'll put the baby down for his nap and then I'll help you pack. You should spend the night at Fleur-de-Lis and come back tomorrow."

  "Won't you come with me, Clarissa?"

  "It's better if I stay here, Angeline. Major Burke needs at least one of us to help with the wounded coming on the trains from Georgia."

  "Yes, of course." Angeline's face brightened. "Oh, I almost forgot. Devon sent you and Captain Burke his regards. His company is still at Resaca, but he says they'll be on the march to Atlanta very soon."

  "More bloodshed," Clarissa said sadly. "Oh, thi
s ungodly war. When will it ever end?" Turning her mind back to the matter at hand, she asked, "Would you like Polly to go with you?"

  "Oh, no, you need her here. I'll just see if Luke can drive me this afternoon before I start packing."

  Clarissa watched Angeline rush back downstairs, then took the sleeping baby to her room. Elliot was six months old now, and beginning to fill out, in spite of his premature birth and her own lack of nutrition these last months since she had been nursing him. Her recovery from his birth had been painfully slow, but with Philip's diligent care she had avoided infection. It had vexed her to obey his implacable orders to give up caring for the soldiers these many weeks, but he remained deaf to all her pleas to do otherwise.

  And to think, Elliot's big brother had never seen him. A wave of longing for her other son caused her eyes to fill with tears, and she blinked them away. Robert had even spent Christmas at Fleur-de-Lis since it hadn't seemed safe to have him travel on a road filled with the retreating soldiers, and she herself had not yet been strong enough to make the trip. And then Beau had taken sick with smallpox and there had been the danger of Robert getting sick and passing it on to the baby. Oh, how she had worried until she was sure Robert had been spared from death, or the horror of pock marks on his handsome little face.

  Perhaps she should have Angeline bring her son back to Whitehaven, now. She thought of the hospital still full of soldiers, the lack of servants, the scarcity of food, and knew that it would be better if she left him at Fleur-de-Lis for a while longer. With a wistful sigh, she turned from the cradle and went to help her sister pack.