“I come from Bald Knob, Arkansas.”
“That’s a funny name.”
“Yes. Everybody laughs at that, but that’s where I’m from.” He sucked on the candy thoughtfully. “Don’t guess I’ll ever see it again.”
“Perhaps you will,” Chantel said. “The good God may bless you and heal you.”
“Are you a Christian, ma’am?”
At that instant Chantel fervently wished she was a believer, but she knew she had to be honest. “No—no. I don’t understand this, me. I’m not like Grandpere and other people who know the Lord, so well, so easy.”
“Oh,” the young man murmured, obviously disheartened. “I don’t understand it too good, either.”
“Ma grandpere is a Christian, and I know he would like to talk to you. Would you let me get him?”
His white face and dull eyes brightened a little. “That would be good, miss. I’d like to talk to him.”
Chantel turned and walked across the aisle between the two rows of beds. “Grandpere,” she said, “the young man over there wants to know about the Lord. Will you come and talk to him?”
“Why, certainly I will. That’s why I’m here.” Jacob turned, and Chantel walked with him. “What’s your name, young man?” he asked.
“Clyde Simmons, sir. I come from Arkansas. Caught this”—he grimaced and motioned to the stained bandage across his abdomen—“in a skirmish just off the river last week. It’s not getting any better, and the doctors don’t say much. Kinda makes me think I may not make it.”
“None of us knows about that. I may go before you,” Jacob said gently. “But the important thing is to be ready to go.”
“I know, sir. I’ve heard preachers, but it never took, it seemed like. Somehow just never seemed like the time.” He sighed deeply. “Seemed like I always thought there’d be more time.”
“One thing about God, though, son,” Jacob said firmly, “is that He always has time. It’s never too late to come to Him.”
Chantel brought a straight chair. “Sit down beside him, Grandpere. You’ll get tired. I’ll go visit some others, me, while you talk.”
She continued her progress, stopping at each bedside and handing out sweets, but she kept looking back, and once she saw that her grandfather’s face was lit up as he talked, he was so happy.
She turned another time and saw that her grandfather was motioning for her. She went to him, and he said, “Good news, daughter! Clyde here has confessed his sins, and he has asked Jesus to come into his heart. He’s a saved man now. I’m going to give him one of the gospels of John that we brought.” He took the small booklet out and handed it to Clyde Simmons, who took it and then said sadly, “I can’t read, sir.”
“Well, my granddaughter here will read to you, won’t you, Chantel?”
“Yes. I’d be glad to, Grandpere.”
“Good,” Jacob said with satisfaction. “I’ll go visit a few of the other men before we go.”
Chantel sat down and opened the Gospel of John. She began to read. “ ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. …’ ”
As Chantel left the hospital with Jacob, she said, “I’m so tired. Why am I so tired, me? I haven’t done any real work.”
“It is a strain, daughter,” Jacob admitted. “We see all these poor boys, some of them have little hope of living, and it not only tires our spirits, it drains us physically. But God’s going to bless us. Three of the young men asked Jesus into their hearts today. We’ll go get a good rest, and then tomorrow we’ll bring something else to them.”
“You know, we have the supplies, Grandpere. I can make gingerbread.”
“Yes, we have plenty of supplies,” he agreed. “Tomorrow you take enough to make gingerbread for all of them, Chantel. The hospital cooks will help you.”
Chantel nodded. “I would like to see Mr. Simmons again. A friend of his said he’d read to him. That’s good. He looks so ill, Grandpere. Do you think he’ll live?”
“I’m not sure, but I know if he dies, he’ll be in the arms of Jesus. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Chantel felt only sadness at the possibility of the death of the sweet young man. Again she thought, I don’t understand Grandpere, the joy he has with all this death and blood and sorrow. Sometimes it seems like the good God lets ver’ bad things happen to people. But then, I’m just an ignorant girl….
The next day Chantel took the supplies for gingerbread to the hospital kitchen: flour, sugar, eggs, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.
A very large black woman was the head cook, and she asked, “Where you come up wid all dis, little girl? I didn’t think there was a speck of cinnamon to be had in the South!”
“Ma grandpere, he has it,” she answered. “For him, the good God provides.”
They baked great trays of the soft, mouthwatering, sweet bread, filling the whole hospital with the spicy aroma.
By early afternoon, when Jacob arrived and Chantel and the cooks brought the trays into the hospital, the men were jolly and called out to her, “Our vivandiere! Hello, Miss Chantel. We knew it was you, bringing us gingerbread.”
Chantel blushed and helped hand out gingerbread to all the men. Then she went to Clyde Simmons’s bedside and said, “Hello, Mr. Simmons. I thought you might like for me to read to you a little today.”
“Sure would. My friend Gabe here, he read some to me. But I know we’d all like to hear you read again, Miss Chantel.”
Chantel looked at his friend, a short, solid young man with an open friendly face, who was missing a leg and was on crutches. “That was good of you to read to your friend,” she told him.
Someone brought her a chair, and she sat down and began to read. A small crowd of the walking wounded gathered, and other men sat on the beds close around her.
Chantel was reading Psalm 119. From time to time she looked up, and her heart felt a deep and profound sadness. They were mostly young faces, most of them filled with apprehension and fear. She well knew that the reputation of military hospitals was terrible. More men died of septic infection, or diseases that the wounded passed around, than on the field of battle. She let none of the grief show in her face, however, and she continued reading.
There was a commotion at the door, and they all looked up. A group of officers came in. The contrast they made with the sick and injured bedridden men was startling—they all seemed tall and strong, bringing in the stringent smell of the winter outdoors, shaking the snow from their coats and stamping their boots to clear the mud from them. The doctors came to speak to them, standing in a group just inside the door.
Chantel saw Clay Tremayne and Armand Latane among them.
The group broke up, and the officers began to roam among the beds, looking for their men.
Clay came to Clyde Simmons’s bedside, greeted the men around her, and then said, “Hello, Chantel. I had heard that you were a hospital angel now.”
“Hello, Clay,” she said, a little embarrassed but pleased. “Grandpere and me, we visit the men, bring them things. I’ve been reading to them, me.”
“She brought us a bunch of gingerbread, Lieutenant,” the man in the bed next to Simmons said. His eyes were bandaged, and his body was thin, but he was animated, which pleased Chantel.
“You come to visit one of your men, Clay?” Chantel asked.
“Yes, I’m here to see Private Mitch Kearny. He’s in my company.”
“Oh yes, I’ve met Mr. Kearny, me. He’s just down the row here. I’ll take you to him.”
She handed the Bible to one of the men and said, “Can you read, soldier?”
“Yes ma’am, I can. Real good.”
“Well, you take up where I left off while we go see the lieutenant’s friend.” The two moved down the aisle, and three beds from the end Chantel stopped. “You have a visitor, Mr. Kearny.”
The wounded man was middle-aged and looked like he had been a farmer. He had lost an arm, which was a worry, as so many amputees died a
fter the surgery.
“You’re looking good, Mitch,” Clay said. “Did you get some of that gingerbread?”
“Sure did. It was good, too. Thank you again, Miss Chantel.”
Clay told him some of the news of what the unit was doing and told him of some of Jeb Stuart’s patrols.
Chantel saw that Kearny seemed to be cheered, sitting up straighter in the bed, his eyes brighter than before. She looked around and observed that all of the men that the officers were visiting seemed heartened.
Armand Latane came over to them, and Clay introduced him to Mitch Kearny. Kearny saluted with his left hand. “Heard about you Louisiana Tigers, Captain. Heard Major Roberdeau Wheat walked away from getting shot in the chest. Story goes that he was hit in both lungs, but he argued with the doc and was so ornery that he lived through it.”
Armand laughed, his white teeth flashing. “Us Cajuns, we’re too mean to die. Except for Miss Chantel, here. She’s too sweet to die.”
“You’re a Cajun, Miss Chantel?” Kearny asked. “I wondered, with the way you talk and all. It’s pretty, I mean.”
“Ah yes, we’re all pretty, too, Cajuns,” Armand said airily. He turned to Chantel. “I find myself in dire need of some new gold buttons, ma’am. Would a vivandiere have anything like that in her sutler’s wagon?”
“Of course, Armand,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Only you still have money to buy gold buttons, you.”
“Then with your permission, I’ll stop by later and collect.” Armand then added mischievously, “You can show me how to sew them on, Chantel, cherie?”
“You know I’ll sew them on for you,” Chantel said dismissively. “Now get along with you, and go speak to Grandpere.”
With a courtly bow, he went down the line of beds to where Jacob sat talking with a man with his arm in a sling and his head bandaged.
Chantel turned back to Clay, who was watching Latane with smoldering dark eyes. “What is it, Clay? You and Armand, you don’t have a falling-out, do you?”
“No,” he muttered. “Not yet.” He said his good-byes to Mitch Kearny, then asked Chantel in a low voice, “Would you walk me out?”
“Of course,” Chantel said, and she took his arm as they walked slowly to the door.
“I thought you might want to know,” he said with some difficulty, “General Stuart’s La Petite is very sick.”
“Oh no,” Chantel said, distressed. “What is it she has, poor baby?”
“The doctors say it’s typhoid.”
Chantel pressed her eyes shut for a moment. “Typhoid,” she repeated softly with dread. “Such a terrible sickness, yes. Is she—?”
Clay finished her unspoken question. “They don’t think she’s going to make it. You know, Chantel, you really helped Miss Flora when she was ill. I think you were a real comfort to her. Maybe you could stop by and talk to her. She’s glad to be with General Stuart, of course, but she doesn’t have any real close friends in Richmond. I think she’d be glad to see you.”
“I will see her,” Chantel said. “Maybe I can help with La Petite.” She sighed. “I don’t know about losing a child, me. But I know about losing ma mere. Sometimes friends can help when no doctors can.”
Chantel went to the Stuart house, unhitching faithful Rosie and riding her the two miles to the little farmhouse. She passed through the hastily erected log huts that Stuart’s men had built for the winter, and many of them called out to her as she passed. They never called out rude or suggestive things anymore. They had all come to know their vivandiere and were as proud of her as if she were a star on the stage. Sutlers, particularly beautiful vivandieres, were very scarce in the blockaded Southern army.
She reached the house, and after she knocked on the door, it was a long time before it opened.
She saw that Flora had dark shadows under eyes, and her hair had not been carefully done as it usually was. Her blue eyes were shadowed with weariness and sadness. But at the sight of Chantel, they brightened a little. “Chantel, how wonderful it is to see you. I’ve been thinking about you. Please come in.”
Flora led her into the sitting room, seated herself on the sofa, and patted the seat next to her for Chantel to sit by her. “I’ve been thinking about you, because you’re such a wonderful nurse. When I first came to Richmond, I was so ill. I don’t know what we would have done without you, Chantel. And now … our La Petite is ill.”
“Yes, Miss Flora, Lieutenant Tremayne tells me this. I came to see you and to see La Petite, sweet baby. How is she doing?”
Flora sighed and dropped her gaze. “She’s not well at all, Chantel. She is very sick.”
Jeb came in and kissed Flora then smiled rather weakly at Chantel. “How are you, Miss Chantel? It’s so kind of you to come by and see my Flora. She gets lonely here in camp sometimes.”
“I brought some chamomile, for tea,” Chantel said. “And honey, too. Maybe La Petite, she can drink some tea. Even when you’re very sick, it makes you feel better.”
She and Flora made tea; then Flora took her in to see La Petite. She slept, her body wasted away to that of an infant. The little girl’s eyes fluttered open once, and she smiled a little at Chantel. Chantel took her fevered hand and murmured little endearments to her. But Little Flora never stayed awake for long, and in a few minutes she had passed out again.
Chantel could see very clearly that the little girl could not live long. She offered to help Flora in any way she could and asked if there was anything that she and her grandfather could bring them.
In a distant voice, Flora answered, “Thank you, Chantel, but there’s nothing in this world that you could bring to help La Petite now. But you come back, please. She was glad to see you, I think.”
She left, deeply saddened. It was things like this that confused Chantel about the Lord. How could He take a sweet, innocent little child like La Petite? How could He do such a terrible thing to good Christian people like Miss Flora and Jeb Stuart? Chantel didn’t know. She thought that she would never know.
Two days later little Flora Stuart died. The doctors did all they could, but typhoid was a devastating disease with a high mortality rate, especially among children.
Chantel and Jacob called on the Stuarts.
Flora was so devastated she could hardly speak, holding herself stiffly erect on the sofa in the sitting room, her eyes haunted and filled with sorrow.
Jeb stood by her, his hand on her shoulder. “God has taken our little girl, Mr. Steiner. But Flora and I know that she is with Him, and she suffers no more. And one blessed day we’ll see her again in heaven.”
“It is a good thing to know the Lord Jesus in these terrible times,” Jacob said, his eyes glinting with unshed tears. “He alone can comfort us in this dark night of the soul. She rejoices, General Stuart, and those who are left behind must know that and rest in Him. May the peace and blessings of God be on this house, and on you both, now and forever.”
When they left, Chantel found that she was almost angry. “I’ll never understand God, Grandpere,” she said in a low, tense voice. “It seems that if ever He would bless someone, He would bless Miss Flora and General Stuart.”
“And He has blessed them,” Jacob said gently. “The Bible tells us that when someone dies, we must rejoice. I know that we cannot be happy and carefree on the outside. But when we know the Lord Jesus, our hearts have joy and peace always. Even when a child dies. Because we know that this earth, this old terrible world, is not our home. Our home is in heaven, a glorious place, where there are no more sorrows, no more tears. General Stuart and Miss Flora may be here, yes, and they will grieve. But their hearts are already at home with Little Flora and with the Lord Jesus. There they will always be, forever, and they will be at peace.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The burden of office lay heavily on Abraham Lincoln, and not the least of his problems was General George McClellan. McClellan was a small man and was already called Little Napoleon by some of his admirers.
In all truth, he had more confidence in himself than any man ought to have. It was revealed in a letter to his wife in which he wrote: “The people think me all powerful, but I am becoming daily more disgusted with this administration. It is sickening in this extreme and makes me feel heavy at heart when I see the weakness and unfitness of those in charge of our military.”
The president often discussed military strategy and tactics with McClellan, but he saw quickly that McClellan had little confidence in anyone’s opinion except his own.
Once a secretary, who had overheard McClellan speaking arrogantly to Lincoln, said angrily, “The man is insolent! You need to get rid of him, Mr. President.”
Lincoln had said merely, “I will hold McClellan’s horse if he will only bring us success.”
A year had passed since Bull Run, and there had been minor battles, but only one major battle in the western theater, the Battle of Shiloh. It had been bloody, and as usual the Confederates had been outnumbered, but they had driven the Yankees back, licking their wounds.
Lincoln was anxious to move on, and he had pressed his views upon McClellan, telling him, “General, you need to follow through on the same plan we had for the first attack. We could still go right through Bull Run, and we have a powerful enough army now to overcome any resistance.”
McClellan flatly refused to admit that this plan had any virtues. He stubbornly insisted that Lincoln was not a military man, and he must leave the disposition of great armies, and the military plans, to the generals. In particular, to him.
For their part, the South had been lulled into a sense of false security by their victory at Bull Run, although strategically they had accomplished little. The only grand strategy that was working at this time was the North’s blockade.
The Southern economy went downhill quickly. Meat was fifty cents a pound, butter seventy-five cents, coffee a dollar fifty cents, and tea ten dollars. All in contrast to cotton, which had fallen to five cents.
The South was hemmed in, and the blockade was working all too well. Their only hope was to be recognized by England or a foreign power that would encourage the peace party in the North to declare the war over.
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