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

by Gilbert, Morris

  Rooney had left the gas-generating wagon where it stood on the battlefield and had made a comfortable bed in the other one. She’d gathered the shredded balloon canopy and used the silk to make a thick mattress.

  The second day after the amputation, she’d faced the surgeon, whose face was gray with fatigue, asking, “Doctor, can I take him to the hospital?”

  “Yes. Get him there soon.” His eyes were bitter as he looked at the men lying under trees with no cover at all. “Most of these will die before they get there—and some of them even afterwards.”

  “If you’ll have the nurses put him into the wagon, I’m ready to start,” Rooney said. She ran at once to the wagon and drove it back to the hospital. Going to Lowell, she said brightly, “Lowell, we’re going home!”

  Lowell was lying on a cot with a blanket over him, pulled up to his chin. A pallor had drained all the natural color from his cheeks, and his eyes were dull and listless. He looked up at her and gave a brief nod but said nothing. The shock of the operation had been great, and he had lost far too much blood. After he had regained consciousness and looked down at the stump of his right leg, he’d clamped his lips together and said nothing. When the surgeon had tried to cheer him up by saying, “You’ll be up and around on a brand-new leg before you know it,” he had stared at the man with bitterness.

  Soon Rooney was on the road, which was crowded with marching men; now and then a troop of cavalry rode by, sending clouds of choking dust into the air. She stopped after an hour of this and pulled off to the side. Holding a canteen, she stepped into the wagon and knelt beside Lowell. Taking a handkerchief, she soaked it and removed the film of dust from his face. “This dust is bad, but we ought to be out of it soon,” she said. When his face was clean, she asked gently, “Does it hurt much, Lowell?”

  “No, it’s all right.” His tone was flat and spare, and his features were fixed as he stared up at the top of the wagon cover.

  Rooney wanted to do more, but there seemed to be no way to comfort him. Pouring some of the water from the canteen into a cup, she said, “Drink more water, Lowell. The doctor said for you to drink as much as you can.” He lifted his head and drank half the water, then muttered, “That’s enough.”

  Rooney put the canteen beside him, then returned to the wagon seat and spoke to the horses. They resumed their plodding journey, and Rooney kept them at it all day. She paused at noon, pulling the wagon off to the side of the road, beside a muddy stream. The horses were thirsty, but she didn’t let them drink too much. She fed them a little grain, then climbed into the wagon. Lowell looked at her blankly, and she tried to show a cheerful spirit. “I need to check your bandage, Lowell,” she said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Now don’t be that way. The doctor said to check it often.” She ignored his argument and looked carefully at the bandage. It was caked with dried blood, and she said, “I think it’s all right. The bleeding’s stopped.”

  It was hot under the wagon cover. Lowell’s face was oily with sweat and plastered with the fine dust that fell over everything. She poured some water into a basin, soaked a square of cloth, and cleaned his face. “It’ll be cooler when the sun goes down,” she encouraged him. “I’ll pull off the main road to make camp.” She paused for his reply, but he closed his eyes without speaking, and she left and resumed the journey.

  In midafternoon she crossed a wooden bridge and saw that the creek under it ran into a grove of hickory trees. A dirt trail followed the stream on the far side, and it looked solid, so she turned the team to follow it. Sixty yards from the main road, the trail entered the trees, and at once she found a spot beside the brook wide enough for the wagon and shaded by the towering trees.

  Jumping to the ground, she unhitched the team and took them to a small meadow intersected by the creek. The grass was dry but would do for forage, and she tied the horses separately by long ropes to sturdy trees. They could reach food and water easily and would be fresh in the morning.

  Returning to the wagon, she pulled the bolts that held the back section of the main frame and lowered it. Lowell, she saw, had pulled himself to a sitting position and was watching her with listless eyes.

  “Lowell, this is a good place to camp. I’ll make you a bed, and then we can get you out and you’ll be more comfortable.” She pulled several of the blankets from the floor and made a neat pallet not five feet from the back of the wagon. Moving him would be difficult, but she knew he needed to get out into the cooler air. Don’t let him see how scared you are, she told herself fiercely. Hiding her apprehension, she moved to the rear of the wagon.

  “Can you pull yourself over here, or should I get in and help?”

  “I can do it.”

  He twisted around and carefully pushed himself forward with his hands until he was on the edge of the wagon bed. She took his good leg and carefully lifted it over the edge, then said, “Now you hold on to me and let down—be careful you don’t bump your wound.”

  Lowell stared at her. He had fever and was filled with bitterness at the loss of the leg. But the intense heat of the wagon had been terrible, in addition to the pain the rough ride sent through him. He glanced at the stream with its cool shade and nodded. Through pale, tense lips he muttered, “I’m too heavy for you.”

  “You’re only going right there. Just come down and put your arm around my shoulders.”

  Lowell had a fear that if he moved he might tear the stitches free—but at the same time didn’t much care. He shrugged and slowly moved over the edge. It proved to be easier than he had thought, for he held himself carefully, bracing against the bed of the wagon, and his single foot touched the ground. Then she was against him, her arms bracing him tightly, and he moved one arm around her neck.

  “That’s it! Now let’s just move right there to those blankets—just two steps.…”

  Lowell let go of the wagon and the world seemed to reel. But Rooney held him tightly, saying, “That’s it—just one step—good! Now another—now let yourself down.”

  She handled him very well, but it was with a grunt of relief that he sank down on the blanket. Looking up, he grunted. “Good to be out of that wagon.”

  “I know. Why don’t you sit with your back against that tree? I know you’re tired of lying down.”

  Lowell agreed, and it felt very good to be sitting up on solid earth without the jolting of the wagon. As soon as he was comfortable, she ran to the wagon and found a cup. Going to the creek, she filled it with fresh, cool water and brought it back to him. “This will be better than what we’ve had,” she said with a smile.

  His mouth was parched, and the cool water was the best drink he’d ever had. He sipped it slowly, letting it drain into the dried tissues of his mouth. He’d heard the wounded who couldn’t be brought in cry for hours for water, and now he knew what torment they had been going through.

  The coolness of the water—and of the slight breeze that came through the trees—refreshed him, and he sat there sipping the water and watching Rooney work. Procuring a hatchet, she chopped some dry wood from a fallen hickory, built a quick fire, and then began to throw together a meal. She worked rapidly and efficiently, and once when she looked up and met his eyes, she smiled, saying, “I’m going to fix us a good supper!”

  When the meal was ready about an hour later, she carefully ladled some of the rich stew she’d made into a bowl and brought it to him. “No white tablecloth and silver tonight,” she said cheerfully. “No time to make biscuits, either, but we’ve got half a loaf that’s not too bad.”

  Lowell accepted the bowl of stew and the spoon and took a bite. It was very hot, and he sputtered. Blowing on a fresh spoonful, he tasted it and looked at Rooney, who was watching him. “Good,” he said briefly. “Real good!”

  Rooney was pleased. “I made lots of it, so eat all you can.”

  The two of them sat there eating slowly, and Lowell found that he could not eat more than half of his portion. “Just not very hungry,” he mu
ttered.

  His face was flushed, and Rooney thought, He’s got fever. It was what the doctor had warned her of, but she said only, “You can have some more later. Let me get you some fresh water. We’ve got plenty of that.”

  The sun went down slowly, and after Rooney cleaned up the dishes and stored the stew in a closed pot, she said, “I’ll just take a little walk—see what’s down the creek.”

  “All right.”

  She walked away and followed the creek for two hundred yards. There she stopped to wash her face and tend to her personal needs. It was growing darker, and she stood beside the stream, praying for God to take the fever away.

  Finally she turned and made her way back to the small camp and discovered that he was lying down and had fallen asleep. She moved softly to the wagon, got a blanket, and made a bed for herself across the fire. It was early and she was not sleepy, so she sat there quietly. She could hear the traffic on the road, but it was muted and did not disturb Lowell.

  Overhead the leaves of the hickory trees rustled, seeming to whisper secrets to each other, and through the leafy fringe she could see the star-spangled sky that covered the earth.

  Once she got up and moved to kneel beside Lowell. Touching his cheek lightly, she was shocked by the heat of his body. Bad fever! I’ve got to get it down like the doctor said.

  She went to the wagon and grabbed some of the silk scraps. Finding a gallon bucket, she went to the creek and filled it with cool water, then went back to Lowell, who was tossing now with a fitful mutter.

  “Lowell. Wake up.” She had to call his name several times, and when his eyes opened, they seemed blank. “I’ve got to get your fever down,” she said. He only stared at her, and she began taking off his shirt. He blinked but made no resistance. When his shirt was opened, she took a square of the silk, dipped it in the cool water, and then removed it. Wringing some of the water out, she opened the cloth and spread it over Lowell’s body. He jumped at the touch of the cold material, and she murmured, “Be still, Lowell. It’s all right.”

  For two hours she kept up the treatment, getting cool water from time to time. His body was so hot that the cool, wet fabric was heated almost at once, but she worked on doggedly.

  At one time he grew delirious, calling for his grandmother. “Is that you, Grandmother?” he would mumble and try to reach for her.

  “Yes, Lowell, this is your grandmother,” Rooney would whisper. “Lie still now, and Jesus will take care of you.”

  He would peer at her through fever-bright eyes and then seem to be reassured, only to go through the same thing a few minutes later.

  Finally the fever went down, and Rooney breathed a shaky prayer of relief. “Thank you, Lord!” she said, then dried Lowell and put a dry shirt back on him.

  She went to her pallet, tired as she had ever been, and fell to sleep at once. Time passed over her, and she had no sense of it. Finally she heard Lowell speak and came awake at once.

  “Yes, Lowell?” Rooney was groggy but got to her feet and went to kneel beside him. “Are you all right?”

  Lowell’s head was down, but as he lifted his face to her, she saw the despair in his eyes by the light of the stars and the moon. He had always been a young man with a cheerful air, but now he was filled with bitterness.

  Glancing down at his stump, he stiffened, then looked at her. “I wish it had killed me!” he stated flatly.

  “No, that’s not right, Lowell!”

  “Right? What does that mean? Is it right for a man to creep around for the rest of his life a hopeless cripple?” His eyes were deep wells of anger as he whispered bitterly, “Don’t talk to me about what’s right!”

  Rooney reached out to touch him, but he shoved her hand away roughly. “Leave me alone!” he said, his voice thick with anger.

  “Lowell—don’t be like that!”

  “I’ll be what I please—and I’ll tell you one thing, Rooney…”

  When he paused and looked down at his leg, he seemed to have forgotten what he had meant to say, so that Rooney asked, “What is it, Lowell?”

  Lifting his head, he clenched his right fist and shook it at the heavens above. Then he said in a grating tone, “I’ll never believe in anything again!”

  PART THREE

  Rena

  CHAPTER 13

  CLAY GOES RECRUITING

  In 1863 spring came to Virginia so suddenly that it caught people by surprise. The sullen cold that had lain over the land seemed to leave overnight, bringing warm breezes. So sudden was the change that it was almost like walking out of one room into another. The grass that had been touched by September’s frosty hand emerged in short emerald tongues. The woods put on their summer greenery, and the rivers ran clear within their banks.

  But if relief had come to Virginia in the form of warm weather, wounded and dying men from old battles filled the hospitals and many of the homes of the land. Death became as familiar as birth, and almost every family struggled with the loss of a young man, cut down by the bloody scythe of war.

  The Confederate Army had enjoyed a brief respite, for the Northern army had withdrawn to Washington—but only to prepare for another onslaught as soon as the problems of winter warfare were behind them and thinned ranks could be filled by the new recruits. Lee well knew that the Army of the Potomac would be back in greater force than ever—and he knew also that such tactics could only end in defeat for the South. He began to think of forcing the war, of leading his Army of Northern Virginia north. He well understood that he would have to fight the politicians who would scream that he was leaving Richmond unprotected—but there was no greater gambler in Virginia than Robert E. Lee. As the crippled army began to rebuild, more and more he turned his mind toward the North, hoping that one successful attack would carry the message of total war to the people who had never heard a shot fired.

  But as Lee began to move in his mind toward launching an attack, the South had to go on. It was more difficult now, for they were cut off from their supplies. The sea route was closed by a vigilant U.S. Navy, which had thrown a tight net around most of the coast. Only a few fleet clipper ships were able to run the blockade, and they could not bring in the enormous supplies required to keep the South fed and clothed. Coffee and tea were gone—many were drinking “Richmond coffee,” which might be made from roasted acorns. Household stores vanished, and only what could be grown locally was found in the almost-empty stores of Richmond.

  The Southern army had to depend on a very few factories—and on captured arms. The cavalry did good service here, and General Jeb Stuart captured so many Federal supply trains that he was insulted when some of the mules he captured were of poor quality. He sent a message to President Lincoln:

  President Lincoln:

  The last draw of wagons I’ve just made are very good, but the mules are inferior stock, scarcely able to haul off the empty wagons; and if you expect me to give your lines any further attention in this quarter, you should furnish better stock, as I’ve had to burn several valuable wagons before getting them in my lines.

  (signed) J. E. B. Stuart

  But humor was not common in most of the South, for the war had become a long, drawn-out affair that was not going to the Southern advantage.

  In the wards of Chimborazo, packed to the walls with wounded men, the doctors and nurses worked so hard that it was difficult to keep a cheerful face. Mrs. Pember was one who managed to achieve this, for she understood that the wounded needed more than physical care. She spoke of this once to Rooney during a brief respite one evening. Rooney left Buck at Gracefield and had come to the hospital to offer her services again now that the work on the balloon was sadly behind her. She shared a tiny room with another nurse, and her presence helped relieve the overworked staff.

  “I’m glad you’ve come, Rooney.” Mrs. Pember nodded, a tired smile on her thin face. “You’re always so good for the men.”

  “They’re so scared—most of them,” Rooney answered. She took a sip of the sassafr
as tea, then shook her head. “Lots of men would rather die in battle than come to a hospital.”

  “I know. They’re young, and many of them have never been sick nor away from home. Now they’re thrown into this big place where they get very poor care, though we do our best!”

  “Some of them cry when they think no one is watching.”

  “Yes. And so do I.” Mrs. Pember saw that the girl was surprised and asked, “Don’t you, Rooney?”

  “Why…yes, ma’am, I do,” she confessed. She was tired after a long day, but there were still things to do. “Billy Rosemond died last night. I’ve got to write his mother, and I don’t know what to say.”

  “That’s always hard,” the older woman said heavily. “All we can do is tell them their men died easily.”

  “Billy didn’t!”

  “I know, but what good would it do to tell his mother that?” Mrs. Pember laid her dark eyes on Rooney and said gently, “Sometimes kindness is better than the truth.”

  The two women sat in the small office, quietly drinking the strange-tasting tea and speaking from time to time. Finally a knock at the door caused them to look around. “Come in,” Mrs. Pember said.

  The door opened, and both women were startled to see Clay Rocklin enter. “Why, Captain Rocklin, come in!” Mrs. Pember said, rising to greet him. “I didn’t know you were back in Richmond.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Pember. Hello, Rooney. I came in to try to get supplies for the company.” Clay nodded, and they saw that he was worn thin, his eyes weary. “I hate to bother you at this time of night, but I’ve got a problem.”

  “Sit down, Captain.”

  “No, I can’t stay,” Clay said quickly. He looked at the two women, then shook his head. “I’ve just come from my home, and I’m worried about my mother.”