“It’s beautiful,” she said, gasping.
His fingers plucked a string. “My father said it sounded like one made when Columbus was sailing for America.” Shaking his head, he laughed. “Like he would know how a good musical instrument is supposed to sound. A guy named Miremont made it. He’s French. Papa bought it at the New York Crystal Palace nine years ago.” His arms shook as he withdrew the violin. He found the bow.
Grace’s heart beat rapidly. Ryan McCalla had been her second patient. The first had died, and she swore that this young man would not. That had been a desperate struggle, his leg infected as it had been. One doctor, a cynical cad from New Orleans, had said Ryan should be sent to the hopeless ward. When another had suggested immediate amputation, the New Orleans man had scoffed and said: “Why bother?”
Dr. Landon, however, must have read something in Grace’s face, seen the tears in her eyes, for he had stepped forward and announced: “Gentlemen, he is my patient, and I will see him walk out of this place on his own two legs.”
A song came from across the hall, and she cringed. She didn’t like that song, but every soldier around Corinth was singing it these days.
Tucking the violin under his chin, Ryan McCalla waited until they finished the verse. When they repeated the verse, he stretched the bow across the strings, and played.
I’ll put my knapsack on my back,
My rifle on my shoulder.
I’m goin’ away to Shiloh,
And there I’ll be a soldier.
A legless man three cots over laughed. Another man joined in the song. Ryan’s toes tapped as he played, and, no matter how much she disliked the song, Grace Dehner smiled. She could never figure out why every soldier in the South had to sing either a happy war song or a sad love song.
He stopped suddenly, although the men in the room and across the hall kept singing. Ryan lowered the fiddle, and stepped around Grace. “Hello, Sergeant.”
“Corporal McCalla,” came a gruff voice, and Grace turned, frowning.
She hadn’t met one sergeant she cared for.
“This is my nurse,” Ryan said excitedly. “Miss Grace, this is Sergeant Rutherford. Weren’t for him, I’d be buried up in Tennessee.”
Well, maybe she’d make an exception for this barrel-chested, bearded man.
Sergeant Rutherford grunted something that might have been a hello, and Grace realized she had better go.
“Sergeant! Hey!” Ryan McCalla sounded like an excited twelve-year-old on his birthday. “Hey, Little Sam isn’t dead. I got a letter from my mother, and she says …”
Grace walked out, down the stairs, leaving the noise of that song behind her. A clock began to chime, telling her it was time to go home. She stepped outside into the blast furnace, and made her way from the Corona Female College.
Dust blew in her eyes. More than a month ago, the streets of Corinth had been a mud bog; now water was scarce. Eighty thousand Confederates had crammed into the city, and most of them were sick. Those who had been fortunate enough to escape the carnage at Shiloh were now being felled by dysentery. Even those who were well looked broken-hearted.
It was a matter of time, people kept saying, before the Yankees resumed the fight. Before General Grant, or whoever was commanding the Northern troops, turned Corinth into a Shiloh.
Locomotives belched smoke at the depot, and Southern officers belted out orders, sending white men and slaves running around like ants.
She stopped at the Waldron Street Christian Church to pray, and to get the wretched smell of death, of disease, of the stink of stagnant water from Dismal Swamp out of her nostrils. Afterward, she hurried home.
* * * * *
Thursday morning found her throwing up in the privy, wiping her mouth, then walking back to the college over her parents’ protests.
“Grace,” her mother called, “we must pack! We are leaving today. General Hardee insists …”
The words meant nothing to her. She didn’t answer; she had to go to the hospital. Hospital. Not college.
Town surprised her. Men frantically escorted their wives to the depot. Slaves, already sweating in the miserable heat, carried trunks. Children cried. It wasn’t just civilians at the railroad station, either. A train pulled out carrying cheering Confederate soldiers. She didn’t understand any of this, and hoped she’d never understand war.
Once inside the college, she changed into a frock, put a bonnet over her hair, and hurried upstairs, hoping to hear fiddle music. Or was it a violin? She’d have to ask Dr. Landon.
In the geography room, she stopped at the door, and gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth, thinking she might throw up again. The bedroll was empty.
“No,” she choked out, but quickly lowered her hand.
Ryan McCalla wasn’t dead. She spotted the case on his bedroll, and sat down beside it, picking up the note.
“He left late last night, young lady,” the legless man said. His voice broke into sobs. “And if them blue devils hadn’t taken away my limbs, I would have gone with him.”
Grace unfolded the note, feeling tears stream down her cheeks.
Mrs. Grace:
We are pulling out. I must rejoin my regiment. I cannot thank you enough. I know I would be dead were it not for your kindness and compassion and that mule-head of yours. Ha. Ha. Please take care of the Miremont for me. I sha’n’t have much use for it where I go.
Good luck. God’s will be done, I might come back for it someday. Until then, I remain
Your obt servant,
Ryan McCalla
Corporal, Second Texas
Infantry, CSA
Chapter
Twenty-Three
June 7, 1862
Corinth, Mississippi
Colonel Miller was a prisoner of war. Captain Clark was dead, joining Folker, the Masterson cousins, countless others. No one knew what had happened to Rémy Ehrenreich, but they assumed he had been captured. A few men suggested that he had deserted, but Caleb Cole knew better. Rémy was on his way south with Madison Miller, and most survivors of what soldiers were calling the Hornet’s Nest. Or, he, too, was dead.
A few weeks back, Caleb had overheard that Private Joseph von Arx, that kid so happy to show off the scratch in his arm, had died of blood poisoning somewhere in Illinois. Caleb thanked God that the cut on his hand had not become infected.
Three hundred Missourians from the Eighteenth had survived the bloodletting at what the Union Army called the Battle of Pittsburg Landing. Newspapers had other terms for it: Near-disaster … a perfect slaughter … that drunkard’s folly … It hardly sounded like a hard-earned Northern victory.
General Henry Halleck had assumed command of Grant’s forces, and had continued the drive south, slowly, methodically, with so much caution, Caleb figured, had Halleck been in charge at Pittsburg Landing, there would be no more army of the Tennessee. For weeks after the battle, they would march a few hundred yards, then dig rifle pits, throw up earthen breastworks, wait, wait, wait.
Maybe all that caution had paid off. After all, here stood Caleb, in Corinth, Mississippi.
The Rebs had sneaked off. Maybe Halleck had wanted them to get away, so he wouldn’t have to fight them. Most of the residents had gone, too, leaving behind only doctors, nurses, and the most grievously wounded Confederates.
The Eighteenth made camp on the grounds of something called the Corona Female College, and Caleb helped ease Seb Woolard onto his bedroll. There were no tents any more. The tents of the Eighteenth Missouri had been left back at Pittsburg Landing, filled with bullet holes, destroyed by artillery shells, or trampled in the muck. He used his own blanket to cover the shivering boy.
“Want some water?” Caleb asked, uncorking his canteen.
“I can’t swallow.” Seb struggled to speak those three words, and Caleb barely understood him. Seb squeezed his eyes shut, biting back pain.
“My ears ache something fierce, Caleb.” Caleb put the back of his hand against Seb’s forehead. He was burning up.
“I’ll get the surgeon.” Caleb rose.
“No!”
Caleb heard that, all right. He squatted beside Seb again. He couldn’t blame Seb for that. The Army had sent to the Eighteenth a contract surgeon to take care of the wounded. So far, the sawbones had procured all the morphine for himself and, now that the drug had worn off, was busy consuming all of the alcohol allocated for the Eighteenth Missouri’s surgical needs.
“Just let me die, Caleb.”
“You’re not going to die,” Caleb said. “You can’t die.” There was no one else left.
Behind him came the curse and sigh, and, as Caleb turned, he saw a ragged, long-legged girl—yes, a girl, who almost matched Caleb’s height, and towered over just about anyone he’d ever known—stepping off the cobblestone path and approaching them. She set a black satchel into the burned-up grass, and pulled down the blanket Caleb had stretched over Seb. Leaning down, she let her long fingers work around Seb’s throat.
“How long has this been going on?” she asked. Seb looked almost as shocked as Caleb must have. He tried to answer, but his voice was gone.
“Are you a doctor?” Caleb asked.
She turned, her face harder than anything Caleb had seen since Pittsburg Landing.
“I’m assistant to Doctor Kenton Landon, the finest surgeon ever to leave the Thames River and the greatest medical mind in Tishomingo County. Surely you’ve heard of him, or are all you Yankees ignorant?”
“Yes, ma’am.” It was all Caleb could think to say.
She started to say something, but a smile cracked her façade, and she went back to examining Seb. Caleb realized what had made her grin. Yes, I’ve heard of Doctor Landon, or, Yes, all of us Yankees are ignorant.
“He has a high fever. Lost his voice. Suffering from chills, and his jaw and throat are tender. Can’t swallow, can he?”
“No, ma’am.”
“What else?”
Caleb thought. “He has complained of headaches, and his ears have been hurting him, too.”
“That figures.”
A minute passed. Then another.
“What is it that ails him?” Caleb asked as she reached into her satchel.
“Well, it isn’t cholelithiasis.”
“Oh.” He blinked. That must be good.
“My guess is quinsy.”
Which didn’t sound as awful as cholelithiasis.
She snapped the satchel shut. She hadn’t pulled anything out, and slowly rose. “Tonsils have swollen.”
Caleb grimaced. “Will you have to cut them out?”
“Doctor Landon is likely too busy with more serious ailments, especially considering this boy’s an armed invader in our home. I’d recommend gargling with chlorate of potassium, but we don’t have that. No quinine. No morphine, either.”
Caleb snorted in contempt. “We don’t, either. Surgeon used it all for himself.”
Her face changed, and the tension in her body was released. Shaking her head, she stretched out a long arm, and it took a moment for Caleb to realize she was asking him to help her to her feet. He moved quickly, awkwardly, and pulled her up.
She brushed the dead grass off her wrinkled skirt, pushed sweaty bangs off her forehead, and said, her voice softer now: “Take a flannel cloth, soak it in hot water, wring it out, put it on his throat. I’ll ask Doctor Landon if he knows of a poultice that might help. Meanwhile, have him breathe in some steam.”
“Steam?”
“You know how to boil water, don’t you?” The edge returned.
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”
She picked up her bag, and started away. “He must be a good friend of yours.”
The snigger escaped Caleb’s throat before he could stop it, and that made her turn. Their eyes locked, and he shrugged, embarrassed. “I just don’t want to see anyone else die.”
He didn’t know what he had said. Certainly he didn’t mean to make her cry, but she was sobbing now, knees bending, sinking to the earth, lifting her head and letting out a piteous wail. Nearby Missourians turned to stare, and Caleb rushed to her. He hesitated, then reached out. He mouthed, “Ma’am,” but couldn’t say anything. Didn’t want to upset her even more. At last he kneeled in front of her, and felt her lean into him, drenching his shoulder in tears and snot. She wrapped her arms around him, squeezed.
Behind him, he heard Corporal Vaughn say something rude, and Caleb vowed he’d make that Weston brigand eat those words. Just as suddenly as the dam had burst, the tears stopped, and she pushed him away, mumbling something, scrambling to her feet, wiping away the tears, leaving bits of dead grass on her cheeks.
“Just do what I say,” she said, “and maybe your friend will be all right in a few days.” She started running to the deserted town.
Caleb caught up with her before she was off the campus.
“You forgot your bag, ma’am.”
“Stop calling me ma’am. I’m seventeen years old.”
“I just turned seventeen myself.” He tried to think of when.
“Good for you. I’ll be eighteen in August.”
“You want your bag, ma- … uh … well, what should I call you?”
“The name’s Grace Dehner.”
“I’m Caleb Cole.”
“That’s alliterate.”
“No, ma’am,” he said, angrily. “I’m not like Seb Woolard. I can read and write.”
She stopped, turned, and laughed. “Are all you Yankees so dense?”
He tried to smile at her, and shrugged, realizing his misunderstanding of her Southern accent. He held up her black bag, and her eyes hardened once again, and she snatched it.
“Give me that!”
From inside came a strange sound. Not medicine bottles rattling, but rather an out-of-tune musical note.
“I was bringing it to you,” he protested.
“Well, thanks.”
It was his turn to get angry. “What riles you so? I was bringing you that grip. You left it behind. And I didn’t ask you to look in on Seb. I didn’t ask to be here. I was supposed to be keeping Missouri safe and in the Union. I didn’t do anything to you, lady.”
“Didn’t you?” She pointed. “This was my home, Caleb Cole. Look at it now. My parents have gone. Miss Prudence even left. Doctor Landon now finds himself treating sick Yankees as well as dying Southern men. Look around you, Caleb Cole. This was a vibrant city, full of laughter. I used to race Johnny James down this street, and I beat him every time. Now he’s gone off to fight. So don’t tell me this is none of your doing. You’re a Yankee.”
“Like I said, Miss Dehner. I didn’t ask to be here. I wish to Sam Hill I was slopping hogs back in Putnam County.”
He had taken five steps when she called out his name. He turned, half expecting to find her pointing a Derringer at him, but, instead, she tilted her head toward town.
“Walk me home, Mister Cole?” Not an order, but a suggestion. That woman had more moods than she was tall.
* * * * *
“This is where you live?”
The brick two-story looked practically deserted. It took a moment before he realized it was a church.
“Where do you expect me to live? In that contraband camp?”
“How about a home?” He could be just as feisty.
“It burned down. When our Army was evacuating.”
“I’m sorry.” He meant it, too.
She climbed the steps, pushed open the door, and went inside, lighting a candle. Reluctantly he followed her, and, inside, she put the bag on a pew, unfastened it, and pulled out a …
“Fiddle?” He shook his head.
“A Miremont,” she corrected. She offered it to him.
<
br /> “Ma’am, I can’t even play a jew’s-harp. Now, I can call pigs, but I can’t carry a tune.”
“It’s all right. I just want you to see it, hold it.”
He took it, his thumb accidentally striking one of the strings, the note echoing in the cavernous church.
“It’s …” He let out a breath. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is.” Her voice sounded different. He looked at her. “It belongs to a corporal in the Second Texas Infantry. His name is Ryan McCalla. I just wanted you to see it, touch it, so the next time you find yourself in a battle, you think about that beautiful instrument, and you think about who you’re fighting. Because he’s no different than you, Caleb Cole. That’s what I wanted you to see. Thanks for walking me home. I’ll check on your friend tomorrow.”
He handed her the violin, tipped his hat, and shook his head. “Miss Grace,” he said, “your beau that plays that fiddle …”
“He’s not my beau, mister!”
“Sorry, ma’am … uh … Miss Grace. That fellow is different than me. Because if he can play that instrument, he’s a better man that I am. Thanks for your hospitality. I’m sorry to have been a burden to you.”
He was at the door when he stopped, slowly comprehending what the young woman had just told him. He turned so quickly, he startled her, and she was balling a fist, preparing for the worst.
Instead, Caleb asked meekly: “Ma’am, what did you say that Reb’s name was?”
Chapter
Twenty-Four
September 3, 1862
Tupelo, Mississippi
The bugle sounded, as Ryan knew it would. All that night, he had been unable to sleep, but now glumly he tossed off his blanket, pulled on his boots and hat, and joined the silent procession.
His limp was gone, his thigh rarely even aching these days, but that was to be expected. Shiloh seemed like an eternity ago. On May 29, he had pulled out of Corinth with the rest of the Second Texas, moving forty miles south along the Mobile & Ohio Railway. With Colonel Moore promoted to general, William Rogers had assumed command of the Second, and Captain Ashbel Smith had been promoted to lieutenant colonel. After a corporal from Company B had painted Shiloh onto the regiment’s battle flag, they had resumed those mundane drills, finally moving to Tupelo, and had sent Lieutenant Colonel Smith back to Texas in search of conscripts to fill a void.
And There I’ll Be a Soldier Page 19