“It’s Rooney!” Mulvaney growled but turned to the girl with a smile. “He can’t talk American good, but he’s a pretty fair cook. You give him a hand.”
“I’m glad to know you, Chin.” Rooney smiled. She had never known a Chinese, but she felt that she would be safe with this one. That was always the test with any male: Will I be safe with him? “Maybe you can teach me to make Chinese food.”
“Ah yesss!” Chin’s head bobbed up and down, and he grinned, exposing yellow teeth. “You be glate hep to Chin, Looney!” The thin, undersized cook had never mastered the r of the English language, but he said, “You know how to fix pot loast?”
“He means pot roast,” Mulvaney said, grinning. “Come on, we’ll see if Bugs and your brother got anything fer your room.”
Rooney perched on a high stool, peeling potatoes with quick, efficient motions of a small knife. Across from her, Chin chopped meat into small strips with swift, accurate blows of a razor-sharp cleaver. This never failed to amaze Rooney, for the diminutive cook used his left hand to position the meat, his nimble fingers shoving portions of the rich red beef into place. Chin never seemed to look at the meat and withdrew his bony fingers just in time for them to escape being cut off by the blows of the heavy cleaver. He jabbered constantly as he worked, and Rooney had grown fond of him.
“You’re going to chop all your fingers off one day, Chin,” she remarked when the cook slammed the gleaming cleaver down, missing his fingers by a fragment of an inch, slicing the tough beef cleanly.
“Ho! Chin nevah miss!” As if to show his helper the truth of his words, he sent a staccato echo as he struck the beef a rapid series of blows. Each blow, Rooney saw with amazement, sliced a thin section of raw beef from the bone, and when the sound stopped, Chin held up the slices, triumph in his black eyes. “No fingas!” he crowed, then laughed silently at the girl. “You tly now?”
“No!” Rooney smiled, shaking her head. “I’ll stick to peeling potatoes. What kind of pies do you want me to make for supper, Chin?”
“Ah—thlee apple and two laisen.” Gathering up the beef, Chin proceeded to pull down pots and pans, making a terrific clatter, while at the same time raising his shrill voice to ask, “You like it heah, Looney?”
“Yes. Buck and I both do.”
“I glad,” Chin pronounced. “You fine young womans! Make good pies.” His wise eyes came to rest on her as he tossed the ingredients for the meal together. He was a lonely man, cut off from his homeland by thousands of miles, and there were only a handful of Orientals in Richmond. He had lost his wife and children to an epidemic of cholera that had broken out aboard the ship bringing them to America and had never married again. His only interests were reading a small collection of books printed in his native language and playing cards. He was an inveterate gambler, and he had been overjoyed when Rooney had accepted his offer to play cards. He was, Rooney quickly discovered, a terrible gambler. She never played with him for money, of course, but even over their simple games Chin got so excited that she learned to beat him easily. “Don’t get excited when you have a good hand,” she had cautioned him. “And sometimes just act excited when you have a bad hand.” But Chin was incurable and lost his wages at the gambling tables as soon as he received them. “You’re really working for nothing for Mr. Mulvaney, Chin,” she censured him more than once. “He pays you for working, and you turn right around and give it back to him at the card tables.”
“I beat him next time!” was his inevitable reply.
Rooney had learned to survive the dangers of the Royal—primarily by keeping herself out of sight as much as possible. She worked hard in the kitchen, only going out to serve in the dining room when necessary. And she never went to the bar or the second floor—never! It was not so dangerous for Buck, so he sometimes went up the inner stairs, but Rooney had learned caution in a hard school. Always she left the kitchen by the outer door that opened into the alley and climbed the rickety stairs that led to the small closet, then climbed the ladder to the small room she shared with Buck. She had said once to Buck, “Let’s make a rope ladder; then we can come up here and pull it up after us. Nobody could ever get to us.”
“Aw, that’d be too hard,” Buck had answered. He had learned to fit into the world of Richmond’s lower denizens, the men and women who roamed the raw streets and alleyways. He was a sharp lad and was earning money, making himself useful to Mulvaney and other saloon owners along the street. There was always need for someone to take a bottle or a message, and men were careless with their money.
Rooney was aware that Buck was being hardened by the life they were forced to live, and despair came to her when she could find no way to protect him. She worried over his future, wanting him to have more than he did. All the love she could not lavish on parents, she gave to him. Until recently he had remained fairly innocent, but he was growing up, Rooney saw, and the boys he was beginning to spend time with were a bad influence.
She sat there peeling potatoes and listening to Chin tell about his youthful days in China. It was quiet in the kitchen, and she liked being in the kitchen with the little cook. Rooney had learned to enjoy the simple things, savoring them for the moment. Her life had been a tightrope, and only by some sort of miracle had she been able to keep her purity of body and mind in the midst of a raw and violent world.
The door swung open abruptly, and Rooney’s mother came in. “I gotta have some money, Rooney,” Clara demanded. “I know you got some, so let’s have it.”
Rooney reached into her pocket and took out the three dollars she had left from the small amount that Mulvaney paid her. She handed the sum to her mother, who snatched it and stared at the girl suspiciously. “This all you got?”
“Yes, that’s all.”
Clara stuck the bills into her bodice and started to speak but was seized by a coughing fit. Her thin body was racked by the deep, tearing coughs, and Rooney leaped up and ran to get a glass of water. Holding it toward her mother, she said urgently, “Mama—drink this!”
Clara seized the glass, and the water spilled over her chin as she tried to gulp it. Finally she sputtered and the coughing grew milder. Taking a shallow breath, she stared at Rooney with hollow eyes. “I got to go to the doctor,” she muttered hoarsely. “I ain’t feeling good.”
“Maybe he’ll give you some medicine for your cough,” Rooney encouraged her. Timidly she placed her hand on her mother’s shoulder, adding, “Maybe you should take a few days’ rest.”
Clara gave Rooney a look of anger mixed with despair. “There ain’t no rest in this business.” She turned to Chin. “You got any cough medicine, Cookee?”
“Ah yesss.” Chin bowed with a sharp, jerky motion, turned, and went into the door that led to his small room just off the kitchen. He came back at once with a brown bottle in his thin hand. “Vely good for you,” he insisted, then added a warning, “but make you sleep long time!”
The sick woman stared at the bottle, pulled off the cap, and sniffed at it. Blinking her eyes, she gasped, then looked at Chin. “Smells bad enough to be good. Thanks, Cookee.” She gave Rooney a weary glance, asking, “You feelin’ all right?”
“Yes, Mama.”
Suspicion came to Clara Smith’s faded eyes. “Stay away from these men. None of them is any good.”
“I will.”
Clara lifted the bottle, drank two swallows, then lowered it. A contortion twisted her features, and she gasped, “What is this stuff, anyway?”
“Vely good for sick womans,” Chin insisted, his head bobbing up and down. Concern came into his smallish eyes as he added, “Not much. Too much and womans die!”
His words caught at Clara, turning her face suddenly still. She lifted the brown bottle, stared at it, then muttered, “There’s worse things than dying, Cookee.” She gave Rooney a look filled with bitterness, turned, and left the room.
“She vely sick,” Chin said quietly, shaking his head. “Not a good place for sick womans!”
All afternoon as Rooney helped Chin with the cooking and later when she washed dishes, she thought about her mother. She had been ashamed of what her mother did for a long time, but there still remained a love for her. Finally she said good night to Chin, left the kitchen, and climbed the stairs and then the ladder up to her room. Carefully she lit the lamp, then took off her dress and undergarments and washed as well as she could, using a large enamel washbasin. All the water had to be hauled up to the room, but Buck had devised a method so that both of them could bathe. He’d found a twenty-gallon wooden barrel and—with Mulvaney’s help—had hauled it up to the tiny room. The difficulty was in filling it with water, but he and Rooney had solved that by hauling up water from the alley using a rope and a two-gallon wooden bucket. Now as Rooney bathed herself with fresh water, she relaxed. When she was clean, she dried off, put on a thin dress she used for a nightgown, and went over to sit down at the makeshift desk—really a part of a door over two boxes. Picking up a book, she sat there and read until she grew sleepy, then put the book down. It was a story about an orphan named Jane Eyre, and somehow the book spoke to her. She read poorly, making the words out slowly, but even so, the plight of the young English girl touched her heart. Funny that I can feel so sorry for a girl who’s not even alive, she mused as she sat hunched over the book. With all my troubles, it’s silly to read about somebody else’s.
Going to her cot, she lay down but didn’t go to sleep at once. Finally fatigue caught up with her, and she drifted off. The noise of Buck climbing the ladder woke her instantly. She sat up and waited until he stepped inside, then said with a touch of rebuke, “It’s too late for you to be out, Buck.”
Buck shrugged and tossed his cap on the floor. He began undressing but made his defense by saying, “Big poker game across the street at the Chez Parée, sis. Some big wheels in it.” He stripped off his shirt and, as he washed, added, “I took them some whiskey and sandwiches, and then one of them sent me downtown with a message. Gave me five dollars.”
Rooney didn’t like it but knew that both of them had little choice. “What was all that noise earlier tonight?”
“New bunch of soldiers come in—from Alabama, I think.” Buck pulled off his trousers, then his shoes and socks. Stretching out on the narrow cot, he closed his eyes.
“Do the men say the Yankees will come here?” Rooney’s world was delicately balanced. Any small event could send it rocking, and as poor as her condition was, she clung to it desperately. She knew little about the war. For her the only issue was: Will the Yankees come? If they came, she might lose her place, and she could not face that.
“Dunno, sis.” Buck opened his eyes and said, “There’s been lots of our men hurt in battle so far. One of the men in the poker game was a soldier—a doctor.”
“What did he say?”
“Said it was real bad. He said he’d cut off arms and legs until they made a pile high as his head!”
“How awful!”
“Some of them wuz Yankees, though.”
Rooney tried to shut the image of such a bloody scene from her mind. “Where do they take the wounded soldiers, Buck?”
“The officer said they haul them back to Richmond in wagons. Said lots of ’em are took to houses, and the people take care of them.” He thought hard, then added, “He said there’s a big hospital here, out on the edge of town. Can’t say the name of it right…Shimboozo—somethin’ like that.” He was very sleepy and muttered, “He said they ain’t no space or near enough doctors, and some of the wounded have to be put on the floor. Says some of ’em will just die with nobody to take care of ’em.…”
Rooney glanced over and saw that Buck was asleep. Rising, she went to him, leaned over, and kissed his cheek, then turned and blew out the lamp. For a long time she lay in bed thinking of the wounded men who were dying because there was nobody to take care of them.
“I could at least get them water and wash their clothes.” She lay still, and a determination came to her. “I’m goin’ to that place. If Mr. Mulvaney will let me!”
Phoebe Yates Pember, matron at Chimborazo Hospital, looked up from the raw stump where a leg ended and stared at the youthful girl who’d come into the infirmary. The ward was packed with cots, and some of the men with less serious wounds were on blankets on the floor. The smell of blood, urine, and sweat filled the room, and there was a constant low muttering from men in pain.
“Well, what is it?” she demanded, staring at Rooney. Mrs. Pember had not slept well in a long time, and her nerves were ragged. It was not only the constant strain of men dying for the lack of simple care, but the opposition she had received from the doctors. They had let her know that male nurses were needed, not female! But she had a letter from President Jefferson Davis stating that he would be pleased if the medical department would give Mrs. Pember charge over a ward—and none of the doctors had the nerve to deny that letter!
But the staff had made Mrs. Pember as uncomfortable as possible, withholding supplies and giving her the most worthless of the male nurses and orderlies. And they had assaulted her verbally if not physically, making their talk around her as crude and rough as possible.
But Phoebe Yates Pember had forged ahead, throwing herself into the work of saving wounded Confederate soldiers. Ignoring the opposition of the staff, she had struck Chimborazo Hospital, Ward 12, like a small tornado. When her energy had produced the smallest death rate in her ward of any in the entire hospital, the doctors were forced to shut their mouths, though her success seemed to anger instead of please them.
Some help had come from the women of Richmond, but not nearly enough. Mrs. Pember looked at the girl with large blue eyes and snapped again, “Yes, what is it?” The stump she was working on was not well done, and she silently raged against the carelessness of the “surgeon” who had done such a poor job on the soldier.
“I’ve come to help with the soldiers, ma’am.”
Mrs. Pember began to bandage the stump; then, looking up, she spoke more gently. “Help with the soldiers? Are you a nurse?”
“Oh no! I—I just thought I might do something. I could feed them and get them things—maybe help with the washing.”
“What’s your name?”
“Rooney Smith, ma’am.”
“Do your parents know you’re here? You’re very young, and this is rough work.”
“My mama…won’t care.” Rooney stumbled over the words, then lifted her chin and stated, “I’m used to rough living. All I want to do is help.”
A smile came to Mrs. Pember. “All right, Rooney. I’m glad you’ve come. How much would you like to work?”
“Oh, I can work all morning, Miz Pember! I cook in the afternoons, so I couldn’t work then.”
“That will be fine. Now if you’ll just stay with me, I’ll show you how to change bandages.” She hesitated, then said, “Some of the wounds are very bad. Do you think you can do it?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” Rooney answered quietly. “I’ll try.”
Mrs. Pember liked the girl. She distrusted people who made rash promises, and Rooney’s reply pleased her. She turned to face the young soldier with the missing leg. “Think you’d like to have this pretty young woman for a nurse, Billy?”
The soldier was no more than eighteen. He was so thin that his eyes looked enormous in his face. But he smiled faintly and nodded. “Sure, Miz Pember. I’d like her just fine.”
“Get Billy some fresh water, will you, Rooney? And try to get him to eat a little soup.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rooney agreed. Quickly she got the water, then sat down and smiled at him. “This looks like good soup, Billy. I’m going to sit here and feed it to you, so just make up your mind to it!” He reminded her of her brother, Buck, and Rooney was glad to see him smile weakly.
“Yes, Miss Rooney, I’ll sure do my best,” he whispered. Billy Cantrell had been thinking of his own sweetheart, Ruth Wentworth—wondering how she would feel when a one-legged man came back to her. He’d been t
hinking about how Ruth loved to dance, and the thought had brought despair to him. Somehow it helped that this young girl was willing to sit with him. Maybe Ruthie would have him with one leg after all!
CHAPTER 4
SHADOW BLUFF
The Richmond Grays fought savage battles since their baptism of fire at Bull Run. Their ranks were thinned, and the shock of battle had dulled their spirits. The entire Confederate Army was shrinking from combat losses, and General Lee sought desperately to fill the empty ranks and garner supplies for the coming onslaught of the Army of the Potomac.
But even in that “slack” period between fall and spring, there were skirmishes all along the borders of Confederate territory. One of these involved a small Federal force that suddenly appeared along the northern border of Virginia. A daring young officer, Major Phil Ramsey, had obtained permission to raid the scattered troops now guarding that area. He had planned a surprise attack, but his force had been detected by scouts who had relayed the news to Richmond. The Richmond Grays were part of the force that had been sent to deal with the attack and had engaged in a sharp battle with Ramsey’s men at dusk. They had fought themselves into a stupor, and all were thinking of what would happen at dawn. Lowell looked up bleary-eyed at a large hill or plateau that rose more than a hundred feet high ahead of them. “What hill is that, Sarge?”
Sergeant Waco Smith was sitting down, his back against a tree. A bloody rag was tied around his forehead, but he looked more alert than the members of his squad. “I dunno,” he said, shrugging. “This is your country, ain’t it? You’re supposed to know it better than me.” Waco was a Texan, and his heritage showed in the .44 he kept strapped to his side, just as he’d worn it when he was a Texas Ranger. He looked past Lowell to Clay, asking, “You know that hill, Captain?”
Clay Rocklin nodded, then came to sit down in front of the fire. “I think it’s called Shadow Bluff,” he said. He had impaled a piece of beef on his bayonet and held it over the fire. When it started to sizzle, he eyed it critically. “Looks good. I’m hungry as a wolf.”
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