But what did that matter? This was war. Rules and chivalry no longer counted.
Did promises and honor?
Hunter put his head in his hands and groaned. Could nothing in this bloody war be clear? What had happened to the world he once lived in where things were black and white, right and wrong, good and evil? Did that world even exist anymore?
Making his decision, he signed the papers and called for Private Malone.
Had he believed in God, he would have prayed he was doing the right thing.
Chapter 19
Let this lie heavy on thy soul tomorrow.”
– Hunchback Richard
December, 1863
A knock at the door interrupted Hunter as he was finishing a report to General Stuart. “Enter and make it quick.”
“Just some paperwork for you to sign, sir.” Malone handed over the correspondence.
Hunter scribbled his name across the pages without reading them until he reached the last one. “What’s this?”
Malone leaned over the desk to look at the document. “Oh, that’s your authorization to have that boy moved from Libby to Castle Thunder. It’s just a formality to have your signature.”
“What prisoner?” Hunter leafed through the paperwork, looking for a name.
Malone took the papers and flipped to the last page. “Andrew Sinclair,” he said unconcernedly, handing them back.
“I never sent this prisoner to Libby!” Hunter continued to stare at the last page, his hand beginning to tremble slightly.
“Oh yeah, that’s the order that Major Simms changed. I’ll just send it down for him to sign.” Malone started to take the papers from Hunter.
“What do you mean he changed the orders?” Hunter’ snatched the paperwork from Malone’s grasp.
“He-he came to headquarters that night after you’d ridden out. He said that since you weren’t here and he outranked everyone else, he had the authority to change the orders.” Malone shifted his feet under Hunter’s sharp gaze. “He did outrank you,” he added meekly.
“He has no authority over me! I don’t care if he’s a blasted general!”
“I’m sorry, sir, I—
“You mean to tell me this prisoner, this Andrew Sinclair, has been in Libby for the past …” Hunter looked at the date on the paper again. “Four months?”
Malone nodded.
Hunter closed his eyes, trying to imagine what she had gone through, then closed them tighter, trying not to. Four months in that hellhole surely equaled four years on earth.
He strove to push all thoughts of the prison out of his mind. The deed was done. There was no time now for either sorrow or regret. All he could do is try to mend the mistake. But Hunter heard her voice even now as if she stood right beside him. I prefer death to prison.
“Have Johnny get my horse,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “Inform Lieutenant Carter he’s in command until I return.”
“Yes, well, it is Christmas,” Malone offered.
Hunter gazed a moment out the window. “Then I suppose the men can have a short furlough.”
“Is that an order, sir?”
Hunter picked up a pen and scribbled on a piece of paper. “It’s an order. See that it’s carried out to the letter, Malone.”
“Yes, Captain.” Malone started to back out the door.
“And Jake—”
“Sir?”
“See that no one changes it!”
* * *
Captain Hunter paced in his library, waiting for the doctor to finish his examination. He had not slept in three days, nor had it entered his mind to do so. After seeing the limp, motionless mound that had been loaded onto his wagon in Richmond, he’d made the decision to drive straight through. If not for the slightest hint of green showing through the figure’s half-open lids, he would not have been sure he’d been given the right person.
When the doctor finally entered, Hunter handed him a brandy he had already poured. “Well?”
Doctor Hobbs patted his sweaty brow with a handkerchief and nervously downed the entire contents of the glass in one swallow. Known more for his gruffness and lack of sympathy than his bedside manner, Hunter thought it unusual for him to be displaying so much duress.
“What in the hell happened to that girl?”
“That’s not important now,” Hunter said impatiently, taking the empty glass from his hands. “How is she?”
“How is she? She’s got a broken femur that was never set. She’s malnourished, dehydrated, and suffering from exposure, any one of which could kill her. Together . . .” He never finished the sentence.
Hunter searched Hobbs’ face for any sign of hope. He had seen the unnatural bend of her leg at the prison, had been told she had “taken a fall.”
“But she’s got a strong will. She can fight.”
“Aye.” Hobbs’ sat down beside the warmth of the fireplace as if suddenly chilled to the bone. “If the old scar she bears is any indication of her will to live, she’ll fight.”
“Scar?”
“She’s been whipped.” Hobbs stared vacantly into the fire as if trying to imagine the atrocity. He sighed heavily and looked at Hunter. “Someone darn near ripped her in half.”
Hobbs stood and poured himself another drink. “Looks like it happened a number of years ago,” he said, grimacing as the amber fluid rolled down his throat. “Healed quite nicely, I must say.”
Hunter looked into Hobbs’ eyes and could tell they both thought the same thing. She was still very young. She must have been but a child when it occurred.
“She’s made it this far. I’m certain she’ll fight.” Hunter knew well her fighting instincts and wondered if they would be enough to save her.
“We can hope,” Hobbs replied, though his tone conveyed none. “Unfortunately, sometimes the body is weaker than the soul.” The doctor turned his attention to his medical bag, and shoved a small vial into Hunter’s hand. “If she wakes up, she’ll need this.”
“If?” Hunter stared at the bottle of laudanum.
“If,” the doctor repeated. “I’ll give her a fifty–fifty chance.” He closed his bag with a loud snap. “And that’s being optimistic.”
He turned to leave with Hunter following close behind. “But what can we do for her?”
With his hand on the doorknob, Hobbs paused. “Nothing really. Just let her rest. Keep her comfortable. And wait.” He squinted through tiny spectacles up at Hunter, who stood a good foot taller. “She has to heal on the inside before she can heal on the outside,” he said in a grave voice. “The body and the soul are too closely bound for one to suffer without the other. And I would hesitate to guess, after seeing her injuries, which is suffering more.” Tipping his hat, he opened the door. “Good day, Captain Hunter.”
Hunter put a hand on his forehead and pressed his temples. He had to ride out tonight and didn’t know how soon he’d be able to return. His servants would have to be relied upon to take care of his new charge.
Heading back up the stairs, he paused in the doorway and watched her breathe through half-closed lips, her chest rising and falling under the covers so slightly and so infrequently that at times he could barely distinguish if she breathed at all.
For the most part she looked as motionless as a corpse, her face pale as death. Her hair, which had been snarled in a tangle of filth and mold, had been washed and combed by the servants. The long-neglected tresses now rested in soft blonde waves on the pillow. She lay on her back, exactly as she had been placed a few hours earlier, the covers tucked neatly up to her chin.
Hunter moved closer and looked at the thin arms protruding from the rolled up sleeves of one of his cotton shirts. His focus was drawn to her right hand curled unnaturally in a fist atop the blanket, seemingly unwilling to relinquish a ring that hung loosely from its perch on her bony finger. He looked closer, though he knew it was the same ring she had worn the last time he had seen her. Daniel’s ring.
He blinked in surprise
at her tenacity. The doctor had been perplexed that the uninjured hand had been bound, fingertips to palm in putrid, bloodied rags. It was not hard to conjecture why. By doing so, she had saved the ring from prison thieves. But what permanent damage the bandages may have caused remained unknown.
Hunter’s gaze traveled to a vicious bruise above her cheek and a cut above her eye. Even in sleep, the torture she had endured was evident upon her countenance. He swallowed hard at the cruelty of war. What had compelled her to endure an incarceration so tedious and painful—and unnecessary?
But that is the way of war, he reminded himself. And this is no innocent, guiltless child, but a cunning, dangerous enemy. This is the foe he had vowed to defeat—and the stranger he had sworn to his brother he would protect.
Hunter sighed and placed his hat back on his head. How he would resolve his opposing intentions he had no idea, but there was no sense in worrying about that now—not with the slim chance that she would even survive.
From the corner of his eye, Hunter caught a movement in the doorway, and saw his servant Mattie standing there with a stack of fresh linens.
“I can come back later, Massa.”
“That won’t be necessary. I was just leaving.”
As he passed Mattie in the doorway, Hunter stopped for a moment. “I’m riding out tonight. Be sure to send Zach with a message if there’s a change.”
“Yes, Massa,” was all Mattie said. But Hunter detected a puzzled look on her face as he turned and left the room.
Chapter 20
“He shed soft slumbers on mine eyes, in spite of all my foes.
I woke and wondered at the grace that guarded my repose.”
– Psalms 3:5
Andrea’s broken body was falling. She did not know where it fell from or where it was falling to, only that it spun and spiraled out of control in a gaping darkness full of pain. She waited to hit bottom, waited for the end to come. But the bottom never came, and the end never followed, and the pain did not recede.
But little by little the darkness fell away, until it became more like a deep, hazy fog.
Sometimes in this fog Andrea saw images of herself as a little girl lying on the banks of the Ashley River in her Mammy’s lap, watching the clouds float by. Other times she saw her father’s face, red with rage and contorted with hate—always with a whip in his hand.
The dreams made her heart pulse, and the pulse made her body throb, and the throb left her falling back into darkness to escape the pain. But still the dreams came, confusing and bewildering her, because she could not figure out what was memory and what was fantasy, what was real and what was not.
At times, Andrea thought she heard voices. They seemed to be right beside her, yet sounded muffled, like they were talking to her under water. “I declayah, she alive on de inside, but dead on de outside,” she thought she heard one say. She tried to speak, to tell them she was not dead, but her two lips had seemingly fused into one.
In desperation, she tried to reach them, to tell them she was there. But the figures never heard her, so she just lay quietly for what seemed like days, but just as easily could have been hours or weeks, and waited for the haze to recede.
* * *
When Andrea awoke again, everything was still far away and hazy, yet she could sense a dim light, a warmth that drew her out of the darkness. She concentrated on moving her fingers, concentrated hard. She felt a soft blanket and realized she was no longer in the dark abyss that haunted her dreams.
The sound of breaking glass interrupted her concentration. “Izzie, what is you about?” a stern woman’s voice filled the room. “You clean that up, you heah?”
“She moved her fingers,” a younger voice exclaimed.
“Is you awake?” the first voice asked, sounding skeptical.
Andrea tried to open her eyes. How could eyelids be this heavy? She had wrestled horses with less effort than this. She paused a moment to summons her strength, and then slowly they complied, revealing two black faces, mother and daughter perhaps, bending over her. They stared at her as if she had performed a miracle or had risen from the dead. “Thirsty,” was all Andrea could manage to say.
One of the women helped Andrea sit up while the other held the glass of water.
“It miracular, Izzie,” she heard the older woman say, before falling back against the pillow. “Go get Zach. Tell him to fetch Massa drekly. She livin’ agin.”
Sometime later, though she didn’t know if it was the next day or the next week, Andrea awoke to the sound of someone humming beside her bed. “Where am I?” she whispered in a hoarse voice.
“Don’t you go worryin’ about where you is, Mistis. We gonna take good care of you.”
Andrea nodded and floated back into the darkness. She wanted to ask about her leg. Was it still there? But waves of pain erased the questions from her lips. She wanted to talk, yet she wanted to sleep. Sleep, more than anything, seemed to help her escape the pain.
But sleep no longer seemed possible, and there was no such thing as a world without pain. Nerve and muscle alike racked her with agony. Even the blood in her veins seemed afire, the searing heat stabbing her with lightning bolts of torment.
Struggling to open her eyes at last, Andrea took the first look at her surroundings. Her gaze fell first on the veiled light that entered through a slot in the closed drapes of a window. She blinked at the brightness, a light so intense to her sensitive eyes that it seemed alive. She longed to stand in it, to feel it. Turning her head, she studied the rest of her surroundings. She appeared to be in a room of comfort and elegance, lying in a great poster bed of mahogany on a downy feather mattress.
Without warning, a plump, black woman burst into the room with a tray. “Natchally, I thoughts you might be awoken today. How’s about condescendin’ to a little brekfest?”
“Where am I?” Andrea’s mouth felt strange. She wondered if she spoke loud enough for anyone to hear.
“I tol you, don worry ‘bout where you is.”
“Where am I?” Andrea said, louder this time. Although her voice was feeble, she was amazed she could actually speak.
“I cain’t prezactly say. But you’s in the home of my massa.” The woman’s tone was indignant.
“Who is your master?”
“Don’t you worry none bout dat. Ole Him a good man. Take good care of you.”
Andrea saw the tray of food just inches from her hand. Without thinking of the end result, she reached up and gave a weak pull. The servant screamed in astonished surprise when dishes tumbled and crashed to the floor.
“I demand to know where I am!” Andrea clenched her teeth against the pain that seized her body.
“And I demand that you stop this behavior this instant,” came a deep voice from the doorway.
Andrea looked up and blinked, hoping a second look would change the image before her. The light coming through the door behind him almost blinded her, yet his identity was unmistakable.
“You,” was all she could say, or at least, thought she said. Andrea looked him up and down, believing he might not be real, that she might be dreaming again. His boots and uniform were mud-spattered, as if he’d ridden a long way in a short amount of time, yet he appeared to be tall as an oak tree, his eyes sparking with the light of battle. She blinked, trying to take in every detail of this soldierly figure that radiated a presence and power that filled her with rage.
“I’s sorry, Massa. I din’t know you was home.” The servant moved away from the wall and picked up a piece of glass.
“I just arrived,” Hunter said in a low, unemotional voice. “You can clean up this mess later.”
Mattie backed toward the door, keeping her eyes on Andrea. “Careful, she got de devil in her head,” she whispered before exiting.
“Miss, in the future, I would appreciate it if you could try to act civilized in my home.” Hunter strode into the room.
His biting words made Andrea angry, and the rush of blood the anger sent thr
ough her body brought with it so much pain that her eyelids trembled. “In your home?” Even to her own ears the words sounded as if they came with great effort and from a great distance. Andrea took a deep ragged breath and tried again. “Have I not endured enough of the South’s hospitality?”
* * *
Hunter raised one eyebrow, amazed at the girl’s quick tongue so early in her recovery. But when he gazed upon her pain-filled countenance, a feeling of sympathy arose in him.
“I apologize on behalf of the Confederacy for your treatment,” he said in a gentle voice. “There was a … miscommunication concerning your imprisonment.”
She squinted at him with a look of pure revulsion. “Mis-communi-cation?” She stumbled over the word, as if it were more than her muddled brain could manage. “So I am a prisoner here, now?” The look on her face, even with her weakness, was hostile. “Here for you to take out your vengeance?”
“Miss, you are not a prisoner here. You are free to leave as soon as you are able.”
“I am able,” she retorted, making an attempt to rise. Although she appeared to make a valiant effort, her head barely made it off the pillow.
For a moment, Hunter pitied the girl for what she had tolerated in prison and what she would endure in her recovery. Her weary and distrustful eyes stared strangely, as if unable to comprehend the events that were yet unfolding.
Deciding to let her rest, Hunter turned to leave, but stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “You need not fear your treatment here. I pledge my word.”
He waited for a response, but none came. The girl had become occupied with the ring on her finger, staring at it as if it were new to her—or she just now remembered from whence it came.
“Daniel is here?” she asked, not removing her eyes from the ring.
The question caught Hunter by surprise. “Yes, he is here.”
Her countenance grew peaceful. The knowledge of his brother’s presence, even in death, apparently gave her some sort of comfort.
Deciding that silence was his best ally, Hunter exited the room and hoped a good night’s sleep would cure his houseguest’s irritable demeanor.
Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia Page 16