Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga)

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Not enough meat for our company, Clay.” Lieutenant Bushrod Aimes had come over and squatted down beside Clay. “‘Course, there’s not as many of us eating now. The Yankees whittled us down some this afternoon.”

  Clay nodded. He and Aimes were old friends and shared many memories. “Guess that’s right.” He looked over at the sleeping men, adding, “Leo didn’t make it, Bushrod.”

  “How many of us does that make?”

  Clay shook his head, counting silently. “I don’t know the count for sure, but I’d say about a dozen.”

  Bushrod stared at him, his eyes red rimmed and his face drawn with fatigue. “That’s almost a quarter of the company. We can’t take much more of this, Clay.” He stared up at the looming face of Shadow Bluff and shook his head. “I hope we don’t have to take that hill tomorrow.”

  “I think we’ll have to try.” Clay pulled the meat out of the fire, tore off a morsel, and tasted it. “About right.” He cut the meat into portions and called out, “Lowell, you and Mark come to supper. Enough for you, too, Bushrod.”

  “I’ve eaten.” Aimes got up and walked over to where the first platoon was camped, saying, “Watch yourself in the morning, Clay. Don’t let any of your boys be heroes!”

  Mark Rocklin had come over to sit beside Clay. He looked dark and saturnine in the gloom, his face highlighted by the flickering tongues of yellow flame. He had served as an aide to Colonel Benton since enlisting but had wrangled permission from the colonel to accompany the attacking force. Taking a portion of the meat, he chewed it, watching as Clay dealt out slices to Lowell and Waco. He felt old and out of place among these young men, though at the age of fifty-two he was able to outmarch many of the younger men. He was a handsome man, his features patrician and his hair almost as black as that of his nephew Clay Rocklin. Glancing over at Lowell, he asked, “Still thinking about joining the cavalry, Lowell?”

  “In a minute if I had the chance,” Lowell said with a big grin. He had always admired his uncle Mark, and the two of them had grown very close since Mark had enlisted. “Don’t see many dead cavalrymen, do you?”

  Mark laughed suddenly and nudged Clay. “You didn’t teach this young whelp much respect for tradition, did you?”

  Clay smiled at Lowell, but his eyes suddenly became serious. “I’m going to teach him some respect for those Yankee sharpshooters.” He waved his chunk of meat at Lowell, adding, “You keep your head down tomorrow, Lowell.” He’d had to pull the young man down more than once in the battles and had seen too many go down for good.

  Lowell grinned, jibing at his father, “You always stay down, don’t you, Captain Rocklin? Never see you moving around when the lead starts flying.” He enjoyed the look on his father’s face, for Clay was always moving about when the situation was worst.

  Waco, seeing the expression on Clay’s face, remarked slyly, “Seems like I been through all this before. Remember Bull Run? The three of us—and Lieutenant Rocklin, too—was staring at the Yankee guns jist like we are now.”

  Lowell nodded. “I never will forget the way you charged up that hill to get Dent, Father. Right in the teeth of the Bluebellies. You remember that, Waco?”

  “Sure do!” the Texan said with a grin. “I was saying hello to Saint Peter all the way up. Bob Yancy was with us, too, as I think on it.”

  Lowell grasped his knees, his face rapt as he thought of that battle, shook his head slowly, and gave his father a look of admiration. “I don’t think Dent would have made it if you hadn’t led us up that hill.”

  Clay was uneasy as always when anyone referred to that time. He himself saw nothing heroic about that wild charge—not for him, at least. It was his own son who was in danger, and a man could do no less.

  Clay said brusquely to Mark, “Keep this young firebrand under control, will you?”

  “Do my best, but you know how these Rocklins are—stubborn as blue-nosed mules!”

  All three of them laughed at Mark’s definition, and Waco watched them with interest. “Must be nice to have kin beside you,” he remarked.

  “Not very smart,” Clay answered at once. “We ought to be scattered out so that we’d have less chance of all of us getting hit.”

  Waco looked up at the hill in front of them. The Federal campfires winked out of the darkness like malevolent eyes, and the Texan shook his head. “I got a feeling about goin’ up that blamed hill in the mornin’, Captain.” He shaved off a morsel of meat with his bowie knife, put it in his mouth, and chewed it slowly. “I shore don’t want to go up there. Let the Bluebellies have it!”

  Clay looked at the bulky mass of Shadow Bluff, and a chill ran through him. “I guess we don’t have much choice, Sergeant. They’re there, and we’ve got to drive them back.”

  At dawn the attack began, and Clay had time to say to Waco, “We’re going to get hit hard. Watch out and try to save as many as you can!” Then he advanced at the head of the men into the raging battle. He lost sight of Lowell and thought, I hope Mark takes care of him!

  But both Mark and Lowell were in the front of a line that hit the Union center. Mark held Lowell back for a while, but the younger man ran straight at the enemy. Mark cried out, “Lowell—you fool, get down!” When he saw that Lowell was not going to stop, he ran after him.

  The Federals opened up with a volley that tore huge gaps in the gray-clad ranks, with salvo after salvo of exploding case shot. Mark saw Lowell go down, and with a wild cry he ran to where the young soldier had fallen. But before he got there he was struck in the stomach by a force that lifted him off his feet and threw him backward. The sun seemed to explode, and as pain ripped through him, he thought, My God! I’m being killed! And then he fell into a blackness that blotted out pain and thought instantly.

  Clay’s face was black with powder, and he called out, “Don’t press the attack, men. They’re retreating, and that’s what we came for.”

  As the battle finally ended, Waco turned to Clay and said, “Your boy Lowell and Mark got hit, Captain.”

  The two of them hurried to where some of the wounded had been placed under a towering elm. Clay stumbled toward them, bent down, and saw that Lowell’s eyes were open. “Son! Are you hurt bad?”

  Lowell licked his lips but seemed fairly alert. “N–no, I don’t guess so. Just got sliced across the shoulders. But Uncle Mark, he’s in poor shape.”

  Clay took a deep breath and squeezed Lowell’s hand. He turned to Mark and saw the crimson blood that stained the gray uniform—and his heart sank. A belly wound. He’ll never make it!

  But Clay regained control quickly, saying, “Go back to that farmhouse, Sergeant. Commandeer all the wagons they’ve got. We’ve got to get the wounded to the hospital!”

  As Waco dashed off to obey the command, Clay looked at the wounded men who were groaning and writhing on the ground. His eyes were filled with grief, not only for his own kin, but for all of them, Northern and Southern men alike. He bent over and whispered, “Son, I’m taking you and Mark into Richmond. You’ll be all right.”

  Lowell nodded weakly. “We gave ’em the best we had, didn’t we, sir?”

  Clay nodded wearily. “Yes, Lowell, you did real fine! All of you boys did real fine!” Then he took a deep breath and rose to his feet. The battle was over, but as always, the suffering was only beginning.

  The trip back to Richmond was hard on the wounded. Three of them died on the way and were buried beside the road. Finally they reached Chimborazo, and Clay got the wounded admitted. He waited outside until the surgery was over, then moved into the ward where Lowell and Mark were lying on cots.

  The surgeon was still there, and Clay asked, “My son and my uncle—Doctor, how are they?”

  The doctor was a short, heavy man with tired eyes. Glancing at Lowell, he nodded. “He’s not bad. He’ll make it.” His eyes turned to the still form of Mark, and he shook his head. “I’m not hopeful about your uncle. Took a minié ball in the belly. I dug it out, but you know how bad a stomach wound can b
e.”

  “What are his chances, Doctor?” Clay asked, his eyes fixed on the two still forms.

  “God knows.” The doctor shrugged wearily, then turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER 5

  “JUST A FEW SCRAPS OF SILK!”

  Within a week Chimborazo had become the biggest thing in Rooney Smith’s life. She did her work with Chin in the afternoon and spent her evenings in the tiny room over the Royal—but she lived for the mornings.

  Rising early, she dressed quietly, descended from the garret room to the alley, then made her way through the deserted streets of predawn Richmond to the hospital. Chimborazo Hospital was a sprawling affair perched on a high hill near the western side of Richmond. It eventually numbered 150 wards, each under the care of an assistant surgeon. The wards were housed in one-story buildings, 30 feet wide and 100 feet long.

  At first Rooney had been confused by the jumbled fashion in which the wards were scattered but quickly learned that they were all grouped into five divisions, or hospitals. Mrs. Pember was in charge of Ward 12 in Hospital 2, and it was in that ward that Rooney worked.

  As she climbed the steep incline leading to the hospital, she thought of how quickly she’d learned to help with the soldiers. Mrs. Pember had only let her clean at first, but when it became obvious that Rooney was a natural nurse, able to clean patients and change bandages quickly without flinching at the dirt, the smells, and the awful wounds, the matron had at once used her in this capacity.

  The sun was creeping over the city, bathing the white hospital buildings in a golden red glow as Rooney entered the building where Mrs. Pember had her office. She passed through the center of the ward, speaking to men who were awake, remembering some of their names. Their eyes followed the slender young girl as she moved down the aisle, but there were no rude remarks.

  She paused beside the bed of one of the patients who was sitting up staring at her. “Hello, Claude,” she said, coming to stand beside him. He was a new patient, having come in only three days earlier, and he was, on the whole, a rather sorry specimen. He was lean as most of them were, but his hair lay over his shoulders in lank strands, and his fingernails were long, like claws.

  “Claude, when are you going to let me cut your hair and your nails?”

  The soldier stared at her and blinked with determination. “Never!” he spat out. “I done promised my ma I wouldn’t cut my hair till the war’s over. And I use my fingernails ’cause I couldn’t get a fork when we wuz on the march.”

  Shaking her head with amusement, Rooney said, “Why, Claude, your mama would purely thrash you if she saw that dirty ol’ greasy hair! And we’ve got plenty of forks here—you know that!”

  But Claude shook his head stubbornly, and Rooney gave up. “If you’ll let me clean you up, I’ll write that letter you’ve been after me to do.”

  The eyes of the soldier brightened, and he sat up straighter. Then he seemed to consider this a weakness because he slumped down and shook his head. “I promised my ma,” he muttered.

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  Rooney left, and the man on the bed next to Claude, a pale young man of eighteen with one arm, jibed, “Claude, you ain’t got good sense! That purty young thang wantin’ to purty you up, and you laying there sulled up like a pizen pup! I allus knowed you Georgia crackers wuz dumb!”

  Rooney didn’t hear this remark, but later when she came out of the supply room with fresh water and bandages, Claude said abruptly as she passed, “Wal—I reckon you can do it, then.”

  Rooney wanted to laugh, but she had learned that most of the young men were highly sensitive, so she said only, “That’s fine, Claude,” and set about cleaning him up. As she worked with a pair of scissors, cutting his hair carefully, Claude’s friends began calling out advice. “Don’t let them things slip and cut his ears off, Miss Rooney. He’s ugly enough as he is!”

  “Save them fangernails, nurse. They’re the purtiest thing they is about ol’ Claude!”

  “Better hose ’im down with turpentine, Miss Rooney!”

  Rooney smiled at them, knowing that it was a lonely life they led. Most of them were from Georgia and had no visitors. There was nothing to do for those who were bedfast except lie there and stare at the ceiling, and even the more mobile of the wounded could only talk or play endless games of cards. Her heart went out to them, and when she wasn’t actually tending to their physical needs, she usually sat and talked to the worst cases or wrote letters home for the men.

  “There!” she announced finally, rose, and stepped back to admire her work. “Don’t you look nice! Wait—I saw a mirror in the office.” She disappeared through the door and was back soon with a small round shaving mirror. “Look at yourself,” she commanded.

  Claude cautiously held the mirror up, as though it were a musket that might explode in his face. Billy Willis jibed, “Thet mirror is doomed! It’ll break into a million pieces with a mug like that lookin’ into it!”

  But Claude had fixed his eyes on the mirror. He held silent and still for so long that the room grew quiet. Finally he lowered it and stared at Rooney. “Did you do all that?”

  “I guess so, Claude. Do you like it?”

  There was a long pause, and the tall, lean soldier stared at Rooney with astonishment and admiration. What in the world is he thinking? Rooney wondered.

  Then Claude lifted his hand, stared at the neat nails. He moved his fingers as if to be sure that they actually were his own. Finally he crooked his index finger at Rooney in a gesture of command.

  When Rooney leaned forward, Claude’s voice dropped to a low pitch. “Air you married?”

  “No, I’m not, Claude.”

  Claude Jenkins rose higher in the bed. He pushed his hair with one hand into a semblance of a wave. A faint color fluttered over his hollow cheeks, and stretching out a long bony finger, he gently touched Rooney’s arm and with a constrained voice whispered mysteriously, “You wait!”

  Rooney giggled, and hoots went up from the patients. As Rooney moved down the ward, changing bandages, she was pleased at the way she’d handled the matter. Later, when she met with Mrs. Pember to get instructions, she found that the matron had heard of the incident.

  “I suppose you’ll be leaving us, Rooney,” Mrs. Pember said, catching the girl off guard.

  “Why…why, no, ma’am! I don’t have any thought of such a thing!”

  Mrs. Pember’s face was placid as a rule, but now she smiled, which made her look much younger. “You won’t be marrying Claude, then?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Pember,” Rooney exclaimed, her face rosy, with a smile on her lips. “That’s just some of his foolishness!”

  “The whole ward was talking about it. I’m glad I’m not going to lose my best nurse.” The matron noticed the flush of pleasure that came to the girl’s cheeks at the compliment and wondered again about Rooney’s circumstances. She was a woman of quick discernment and knew most of her staff well, but Rooney came and left, saying nothing of her life on the outside. A sudden thought came to her, and she asked cautiously, “You’re not married, are you, Rooney?”

  “Oh no, ma’am.”

  “I thought not, but girls are marrying very young these days. Too young, I’m sure.” She studied the smooth cheeks of the young woman and asked, “None of the men have…bothered you, have they?”

  “Oh no, Mrs. Pember,” Rooney replied instantly. “They’re all so sick, and most of them are real scared. A few of them try to flirt with me, but they don’t mean anything by it.” A soft compassion appeared in Rooney’s large dark eyes, and she added thoughtfully, “I have to nurse my little brother when he gets sick. He’s only thirteen, and these are grown men, but somehow some of them remind me of him—kind of like they are little boys.”

  “You’ve done fine work with them, Rooney. Not only with the bandaging and other work, but they all like you.” A weariness came to Mrs. Pember’s black eyes, and she said softly, “They need a woman’s gentleness, and the
y see that quality in you.”

  “Well—it’d take a pretty mean person to treat them bad,” Rooney said. “They got hurt fightin’ for the South, so the least we can do is to take good care of them.”

  “Please, just don’t marry Claude!”

  Rooney giggled, then asked, “I’ll bet some of them try to take up with you, don’t they, Miz Pember?”

  “Why, I wouldn’t allow such a thing!”

  The matron’s reply was sharp, but the next day Rooney was going through the ward with her when Mrs. Pember got a taste of male admiration.

  After showing Rooney how to apply a particularly difficult type of bandage, the matron straightened up to find a tall, rough-looking soldier staring at her directly. Rooney noticed the man, too, and wondered if he would speak to Mrs. Pember.

  The soldier was evidently on a visit, for he looked healthy and strong. And he had a pair of bold gray eyes that he fixed on Mrs. Pember, giving her his full attention. Mrs. Pember gave him stare for stare, but if she hoped to embarrass the tall soldier, she was not successful.

  Without taking his eyes from the matron or saying a word, he began to walk slowly around and around her in a narrow circle. His sharp eyes took in every detail of Mrs. Pember’s dress, face, and figure, his eye never fixing upon any particular feature but traveling incessantly.

  Rooney wanted to laugh, so comical was the soldier’s rapt attention, but she didn’t dare. Let’s see how she handles this kind of thing, she thought. She watched as Mrs. Pember moved her position, but the soldier shifted his to suit the new arrangement—again the matron moved, but the tall soldier, his eyes fixed upon her, moved constantly. Rooney would not have been surprised if he had asked her to open her mouth so he could examine her teeth, but he never said a word.