She did know that Lee’s army had left; she’d learned from the Gettysburg Compiler that he’d set out on July Fourth with a wagon train of Confederate wounded, heading south—a convoy that had been a shocking seventeen miles long.
“Oh,” Caroline said, in belated response to Rogan’s announcement.
Rogan was watching her closely now, as though assessing emotions she hadn’t successfully hidden. Then, grimly, he told her, “If you’re worried about the Army of Northern Virginia paying a visit, you can put that out of your mind. According to our scouts, they’re limping south at a snail’s pace.” Rogan paused, then said, “This war might have been over, once and for all, if our own General Meade had the gumption and foresight to chase the Rebels down and finish the fight before Lee could pull that ragtag, barefoot army of his back together. Instead, like McClellan, Meade seems to suffer from a case of the slows, as the President would say, and another opportunity is gone.”
Caroline didn’t tell him she knew that, didn’t tell him she’d followed the course of the conflict in the newspapers, when they were available. And she’d always garnered some information from Jacob’s letters, for all that he’d written almost nothing about battles or commanders, preferring to gloss over the horrors he’d witnessed and the hardships he’d endured. She knew little about most generals and their proclivities but, like most Northerners, she was well versed in the legend that was Robert E. Lee.
He’d worn a blue uniform then, not gray, Caroline thought sadly, serving under a banner of stars and stripes, rather than the flag of rebellion. Later, Lee had returned to West Point as its chief administrator, and many of his former students and colleagues were high-ranking officers now, some fighting with him, and some against.
As the head of the Army of Northern Virginia, he was a truly formidable opponent. It seemed to Caroline, especially in light of Rogan’s remarks, that the North was in sore need of a general as bold and clever as the Confederate commander.
“Can he be defeated? General Lee, I mean?” she asked tentatively.
“Yes,” Rogan said without hesitation. “He is a man, not a god, though you wouldn’t guess it to hear the stories. He’s neither young nor in the best of health. A good number of his troops are barefoot and half-starved, and his horses are dropping beneath their riders, from hunger and exhaustion.”
“Why doesn’t he quit and go home to his family? Allow his army to do the same?” Caroline said.
Rogan sighed, shook his head. “I don’t think the man has it in him to quit,” he said, with conviction and regret.
“You sound as if you know General Lee,” Caroline observed. “Personally, I mean, and not simply by reputation.”
“I met him once, before the war,” Rogan answered, looking away, and then back. “He came to dinner at Fairhaven—that’s Bridger’s family plantation, outside Savannah. I used to spend some vacations there, between terms at school.” He smiled somewhat wistfully at the memory. “It was a revelation, for an orphan like me.”
“You were impressed by Lee?”
“Yes, partly.”
“Partly?”
“The general wasn’t famous then, remember. He was a mere colonel at the time, if I recall correctly, a dignified man with a gray beard and fine manners, a friend of the Winslow family. I’m afraid I was a lot more interested in the house and the land and the way Bridger’s family lived—fine clothes, the best food and wines, blooded horses in the stable, and a house so big and so grand that it rendered me speechless the first time I saw it. And their kindness toward me was...memorable. Bridger and his father and sister could not have treated me better.” He paused again, obviously remembering a more gracious time and place. “You see, my mother was a housemaid in a mansion on Park Avenue when I was young,” he added presently, his voice quiet and somehow sad. “So I’d had glimpses of the way rich people lived, when I was a servant’s brat and expected to stay out of sight. At Fairhaven, I was a guest, with all the attendant privileges. I wore Bridger’s clothes, ate like a king and rode horses with a far better pedigree than my own. I danced with girls so pretty they might have stepped out of a book of fairy tales—and, since I was all of fifteen years old that first time, it probably won’t surprise you that I was far too callow to appreciate an introduction to the colonel.”
Caroline smiled, imagining Rogan as a boy of fifteen, dining in such lofty company. She imagined him as raw-boned and awkward, tall for his age, still growing into his height, probably eager to make a good impression—or simply to avoid making a fool of himself.
She would’ve liked to hear more, not about his summers at Fairhaven, though that was interesting, but about his real life, especially as a “servant’s brat” and a “street urchin.” Alas, this was not the time or place for such an exchange; there were other things to discuss.
“What is to be done with Mr. Winslow?” she asked. “He is, as you must know, still in no fit condition to travel.” Neither, she thought but did not say, were many of the Union wounded, who were to be hauled to Harrisburg like so much freight, and shuttled onto a train bound for Baltimore. Having heard more of the history Rogan and Bridger shared, she understood Rogan’s desire to protect his friend a little better.
Rogan sighed, rubbed his chin with one hand, and replied, “Frankly, I was hoping he could stay right here. As soon as he’s well enough, he’ll leave on his own. Perhaps in civilian clothes.”
“And if he does not recover?”
The suggestion alone caused Rogan visible pain. “He will get better,” he insisted, as though he could will it so. “He’s half again too cussed to die, especially behind Yankee lines. I’ll leave money for Bridger’s keep, along with a uniform—Union blue, in case he needs to maintain the charade—and a pair of boots before I go. Probably hide them somewhere in the kitchen house after dark, so there won’t be any questions.”
Caroline folded her arms. She’d seen Jubie and Rachel leave earlier and saw them pass by now, headed back to the house, and she half expected her daughter to reappear, wanting more of Rogan’s attention.
“Suppose word gets out that I’m harboring an enemy officer? What then?”
“That would be a problem,” Rogan said. “Better to make sure word doesn’t get out.”
“But if it does?”
“Then you tell the truth. Bridger couldn’t be moved, and you acted out of plain human compassion.”
“How simple you make it all sound, Captain McBride, with your plans and your offer to pay Mr. Winslow’s board and room. It’s all so easy—for you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Mrs. Hammond. This situation is anything but easy for me. I don’t like leaving my friend behind, too sick to defend himself. I don’t like burdening you with a problem that should never have been laid on your shoulders in the first place. And I sure as hell don’t like having to load several dozen wounded men into wagons and driving them over rutted roads, under a hot sun, all the way to Harrisburg. Because I know how much they’ll suffer, and then suffer again crowded into railroad cars like so many cattle!”
Caroline was sorry now for her harsh words, but resisted the impulse to backtrack or apologize. “Perhaps,” she ventured bravely, “you will pass this way again, once Mr. Winslow has recovered, and collect him yourself.”
Rogan regarded her in silence for a minute or two, as if puzzled or intrigued by the suggestion. “Perhaps I will,” he said thoughtfully. Then, as though he’d resolved something in his mind, he added, “Most likely, though, Bridger will be long gone from here before I have an opportunity to return.” He paused again, as if rallying internal forces, and a faint flush stained his neck. “With your permission, I’ll write to you. To ask after Bridger and send along whatever provisions he might need.”
Caroline pretended to consider her reply, though in truth, she very much liked the idea of receiving correspondence from Rogan McBride, and she h
oped his letters would contain more than inquiries regarding Mr. Winslow’s progress of recovery. Of course he could not be expected to include sensitive military information, such as planned troop movements, because of the risk that his letters could fall into enemy hands, but perhaps he would tell her a little about the things he saw and heard and thought.
Jacob, with the best of intentions, had mostly sought to shelter Caroline from the hard truths of battle, only informing her occasionally about the more mundane aspects of army life.
She loved Jacob for his efforts to shield her from the ugliness and horror of his experiences, but now that she’d seen some of the ravages of war for herself, first in the hospital tents of Washington City and more recently here on her own farm and in her own town, she had changed in unexpected ways. She knew sorrow would always be her companion, no matter what happiness life might hold in store. And while her innocent illusions were forever lost to her, she had been forced to seek and find inner resources she had never imagined she might possess.
“I should like to correspond with you,” she told Rogan. “But there are terms.”
He smiled wearily at that. “Of course there are,” he said, without rancor.
Caroline drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I will respond to your inquiries about Mr. Winslow’s state of health honestly, in detail and as promptly as possible. I will keep a record of any costs I undertake on your friend’s behalf and, should your contributions exceed the amount required, you may trust that I will set the excess funds aside to be returned to you at the first opportunity.”
Rogan raised one eyebrow slightly. “More than fair,” he replied. “Those are your...terms? If so, they ought to be easy to meet.”
“There is one thing more,” Caroline said. Why was it so difficult, she wondered, to make even a simple request? The Captain had asked—practically decreed—a far greater undertaking of her, hadn’t he? And without noticeable hesitation, for that matter.
He waited, saying nothing, a smile dancing in his eyes. Whether his expression was a show of patient respect or of some private amusement, Caroline didn’t know.
“You must give a reasonable account of your experiences and your opinions,” she blurted, on a single rush of breath. Then, relieved that she’d finally gotten past her own reluctance, she added more slowly, “I want to know the true state of things, as you see them from day to day, with no concessions to my...being a woman.”
He smiled again—at her involuntary blush, she presumed.
“I am not fragile, though my late husband might have perceived me as such.”
“No, I see that,” Rogan said. He seemed strangely pleased by her demands, rather than put off, as some men would have been. “Far from fragile, Caroline Hammond, you are a remarkably strong and generous woman with a fine mind and a great many other noble attributes that I will keep to myself for the present, lest I be accused of flattery.”
“Thank you,” she said, averting her eyes for a moment, in the hope that he wouldn’t see how flustered she was.
When Rogan gave a brief, hoarse laugh, Caroline’s eyes flew back to his face. “You’ll have your unvarnished description of events,” he promised her, “at least as I view them. It remains to be seen how thankful you’ll be after you’ve had to put up with Bridger for a while longer. He’s fairly easy to deal with now, but once the fever breaks and he becomes his genuine self again, you’ll probably want to throttle him personally—or have him horsewhipped.”
Caroline smiled at Rogan’s comments, surely made in jest. She remembered her brief exchanges with Mr. Winslow before the infection and fever had set in. The Rebel captain seemed to be primarily a gentleman, well-bred and endowed with a corresponding measure of Southern charm, a practiced quality that was easily assumed when called for, yet somehow inherent to his nature.
She would deal with Winslow as best she could, from day to day, keeping their differences constantly in mind. In due time, he would be gone—one way or the other.
“When?” she heard herself ask. “When will you and the others be leaving, I mean?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Or perhaps the next day.”
Too soon, she thought once again. Rogan and the others would be gone too soon.
And yet not soon enough. She knew she had a great many things to tend to.
There was nothing more to be said, and she acknowledged Rogan’s answer with a nod. She turned back to her vegetable patch, where she crouched and began yanking stray sprouts from among the viable plants, the ones that would provide nourishment.
Like sorrows, and just as common, weeds seemed to spring back from the earth mere minutes after they’d been pulled up by the roots and thrust aside.
18
Hammond Farm
July 12, 1863
Bridger
He slept restlessly, half-aware of the waking world around him but unable to rise to it. His flesh burned with heat, even as hard chills wracked him, fit to splinter his very bones.
He was in a bed inside a house, he realized. A real bed, with a soft mattress and crisp cotton sheets that smelled faintly of fresh air. He clung to the blessed normality of that ordinary scent, followed it back and back, to the time before, when he had taken such graces as cleanliness and comfort, and so many other things like them, as his due.
Hot biscuits, for example, smothered in rich butter or Cook’s thick sausage gravy, peppery and steaming on a china plate. Flourishing rose gardens and spacious, venerable houses where longcase clocks ticked off the leisurely hours. Sultry summer nights, scented with promise. Regular baths in a copper tub, long enough for his tall frame and deep enough to soak in. Heirloom bureaus and wardrobes, bulging with garments laundered in soapy water and dried in the sun; supple breeches and shirts starched and pressed to perfection; finely made, polished boots.
Stables full of handsome, spirited horses, every one of them fast and muscular and boasting a flawless bloodline—
Home.
The yearning for Fairhaven, and all it represented, fell upon him suddenly, with a weight so crushing that it forced the breath from his lungs and left almost no room to draw another.
Then as he dragged in one painful breath, he clung to what remained of his reason as a sailor might cling to the mast of a storm-tossed ship.
He thought about his sister Amalie—the only immediate family, other than his father, that he had left. The sister he loved so much. And wondered how she was managing the responsibilities that came with a place like Fairhaven.
His relationship with their father had never been what Bridger would have desired; his older brother had always been the clear favorite. Amalie rarely mentioned their father in her letters. He pictured her sitting on the porch swing with a puppy on her lap and a book of poetry in her hands...
In his responses to her letters he’d told her little about his experiences of war and grief—he’d wanted to spare her, he supposed. And her letters to him had focused on their home, both the estate and the city of Savannah, that inevitably made him nostalgic. She’d written about their friends, her own work with the local Ladies’ Aid Society, her concern about him... He had been wounded and suffered pain, suffered it still, but he hadn’t, so far, experienced the unspeakable agony of severed limbs and shattered bones and organs spilling from a belly slashed open by a bayonet or a sword, or blasted to fragments of bloody gore by a minié ball.
As he lay there, in the clean bed, in a room he didn’t recognize, Bridger concentrated on forcing himself to move from one breath, one heartbeat, to the next. He closed his eyes, hoping to sleep.
Instead, he found himself drifting somewhere between wakefulness and sweet oblivion. The pain was still with him, but at a remove; it had softened from a searing spike to a vague nuisance.
“Captain Winslow?” The voice came from somewhere above him—familiar, insistent, and most definitely
an intrusion.
Wrenched back to the surface, Bridger opened his eyes and found himself gazing straight into a face he recognized.
Caroline Hammond’s.
Everything came back to him now: the smoke and flames, the screams of rage and agony, the blinding chaos of full engagement, and the simultaneous events of coming face-to-face with Rogan just as a sword pierced his shoulder from behind. He recalled a flash of white-hot pain as the point tore through his flesh, another as it was wrenched free, followed by the long, slow fall from the saddle.
He recalled Rogan pulling him over the smoldering ground, depositing him in a thicket of brush, leaving him there. Bridger had tried to crawl from his hiding place, intending to get back into the fight by whatever means availed themselves, but the effort had not only proved futile, it had sapped the last of his strength. He had no idea how long he’d lain there on the fringes of the continuing skirmish, helpless and bleeding.
In time, Rogan had returned, cut away his gray tunic, replaced it with another. He remembered his friend speaking to him in low, urgent words that had not registered in Bridger’s brain and eluded him yet.
Later, in Mrs. Hammond’s kitchen house, Rogan had told him he’d been loaded into a wagon and brought to this farm to recover—and to hide.
He noticed the pervasive silence.
No voices rising on the sweltering summer heat. No wagons coming and going.
“Where,” he croaked, “is Rogan?”
“He’s gone,” replied the Widow Hammond, pursing her mouth slightly.
“Gone?” Bridger tried to sit up and failed.
The widow’s face softened a little, and her eyes, hazel at present but capable, he somehow knew, of shifting to pale shades of blue or green, or darkening to gray. “I didn’t mean to alarm you,” she said. “Captain McBride is very much alive. As far as I know, he’s fine.”
The Yankee Widow Page 22