by Diaz, Debra
She went crimson, remembering her words to “Andrew.”
“You devil,” she scolded. She knew he was keeping a light tone to bolster her spirits.
He released her and took up his greatcoat. She helped him put it on, smoothing down the collar and running her hands over his shoulders. He put his gloves on and picked up his hat. Then he stood looking at her, the candles flaring and bringing out a brilliance in his dark and fathomless eyes.
“Pray for us,” he said.
“Yes, Clayton, without ceasing. I’ll think of you every minute of every day.”
“Put out the lights, darling.”
She turned to blow out the candles. She heard the window slide quietly upward; an icy draft of air swept through the room. She went quickly back to the window as he stepped out onto the balcony.
He straightened, put on his hat and looked back one last time, then with a swift movement over the rail he was gone. He would walk, she knew, to the livery down the street where his horse was kept.
Catherine stood in perfect stillness for a moment, fighting the temptation to fall on his bed and give in to mindless sobbing. The embers from the dying fire gave a red glow to the room. Suddenly the door swung open and Mrs. Shirley stood outlined in the doorway, blinking at her owlishly.
“He’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“I was just coming to lock the door. Are you staying or leaving, Mrs. Kelly?”
For once Catherine felt grateful for the other woman’s brusqueness and utter lack of empathy. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and said, “I’m going to my room. Goodnight, Mrs. Shirley.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Christmas season advanced upon them, but Catherine took little interest in it. Sallie went humming about the house, decorating with holly and wreaths, supervising the installation of a huge Christmas tree, and spending half a day trimming it with blockade-run bonbons and strings of popcorn. The aroma of cookies and cakes baking for the soldiers (and once the acrid smell of burned candy) filled the house.
Catherine wanted to scream. She wanted to tear down all the ribbons and holly and hack the tree to pieces with an axe. Didn’t Sallie know a battle would soon take place that would affect their future forever? Didn’t she know men were going to die horribly in that battle?
She took to eating meals in her room—what little she ate. It wouldn’t do to have everyone wondering why she was so worried. She hoped they thought her nervous state was due to Andrew’s illness, for Mrs. Shirley reported daily that Captain Kelly was not any better. Dr. Edwards came by and gave a bewildering description of his symptoms and said he must remain isolated until the crisis was past.
Catherine was in the kitchen one day preparing a tray to take to his room, when Ephraim came in from the dining room. He took one look at her face and said, “Miss Catherine, you seem mighty anxious about Mr. Andrew. Is he worse, ma’am?”
“N-no.” One thing she positively could not do was lie to Ephraim. “Why does it have to be Christmas? I don’t feel like all this celebrating. Sallie is driving me mad. Oh, I wish it was all over!”
“Now, Miss Catherine, don’t you be talking that way about Christmas. Why, it’s the best time of the year, besides Easter. You supposed to be at peace at Christmas…let the Prince of Peace fill your heart. You got to have faith that everything will work out all right.”
“Oh, you don’t know, Ephraim. You just don’t know!”
“What I don’t know?” he replied. “I know there’s nothing too big for God to handle. Looks like you’re trying to snatch a burden away from Him and carry it all by yourself, and looks like it’s way too big for you!”
She picked up the tray and started for the stairs.
Ephraim said, more gently, “Miss Catherine, things look bad at night. Most everybody has what they call a dark night of the soul, at least once in their lives. But morning always comes, sooner or later. Remember what the Bible says? Weeping lasts for the night, but there’s joy when the morning comes.”
She said her prayers in a different spirit that night and felt a little better the next day. She even helped Sallie make a fruitcake Saturday morning, listening absently to the other woman’s idle chatter about the growing scarcity of currants and raisins and all such essentials to gracious living.
In the afternoon, Mrs. Shirley reported that the dreaded battle had begun about ten that morning. Dr. Edwards was to be their source of information, which he would receive directly from the War Department. Sometimes he would come himself, other times he would find ways to impart messages to Mrs. Shirley.
Catherine flew to her room and got down on her knees beside the bed. Her prayers were so wildly and feverishly uttered that she made herself get up, take down her Bible and read it until she was calmer. Then she knelt again and asked God to protect Clayton, to bless the Confederate Army and its officers, and to keep General Lee out of harm’s way.
She felt unsatisfied with her prayer until she remembered she really ought to add, “Thy will be done.” She wrestled with the thought. She wanted her will to be done; she wanted Clayton to emerge safely from the battle, and she wanted the Confederates to win. How could she even entertain the prospect that the reverse might happen?
What was it that Ephraim had said, not long ago, about the exercise of one’s faith being what life was really all about? It had something to do with her study of Elijah, which she could barely remember because it seemed to have happened a hundred years ago. She had known then what he meant. Now her fears had clouded her mind and her faith seemed far away.
“Oh, Lord, help me,” she sighed, rising from her kneeling position to fall in a forlorn heap across the bed. “Help me to trust You.”
Dark night of the soul, Ephraim had called it. That was exactly what she felt—as though she were forever standing on the very edge of dawn, unwilling to move forward, fearful of what shadows might come to life in the light of day.
Lack of sleep had left her in a state of near exhaustion. She fell at once into such a deep slumber that she did not rouse until suppertime. Immediately she sought out Mrs. Shirley.
“Is there any news?”
There was not. She went down to supper and forced herself to eat. If she stopped to listen she could hear the low, pulsating sound of artillery fire, distant though it was. Martial music could be heard intermittently from Capitol Square and the park. Mrs. Shirley told her that a crowd had gathered there, a gay and confident crowd, as they awaited news of the battle.
On Sunday she went to church and came back heartened by the service and the thoughtfulness of many members of the congregation who asked after Andrew. Catherine escaped telling an outright lie by saying, “Dr. Edwards said” thus and so. She did not like the deception but realized she had no choice.
That afternoon Mrs. Shirley had a report. “There has been hard and desperate fighting at Fredericksburg, madam. The town has been destroyed, but our troops are holding their position. They’ll not get into Richmond this time.”
The next day it was official—the Confederate Army had won a decisive victory, at staggering cost to the enemy. The Federals had abandoned the field and Burnside, dazed with defeat, had crossed his troops back over the Rappahannock River.
But Clayton did not return. Another day passed, then a week. His name did not appear on the casualty lists, but Mrs. Shirley said it wouldn’t because his name had not been on the muster rolls and the medical corps would have no way of knowing him. Catherine found this hardly comforting, for it implied that Clayton was unable to tell anyone who he was.
She plunged herself into nursing at the Harrison Street Hospital, where many of the wounded were being transferred from other areas near the battle. There were so many hospitals in Richmond, both real and makeshift, that Catherine could not have possibly visited them all in search of Clayton. Dr. Edwards promised to let her know as soon as he heard anything. He looked sad and harried, in spite of the fact that the South had scored a major triumph.<
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Many people in Richmond were saying the war was over. Newspapers reported dissension in Lincoln’s Cabinet, and it seemed obvious the North was tired of its poor leadership. Certainly there could no longer be any doubt about the fighting ability of the South.
Mrs. Shirley just shook her head. “General Lee is not optimistic.”
It was Christmas Day when they got the news. Too anxious to spend the day at home, Catherine had been at the hospital since dawn. At noon she had just finished assisting with an amputation—an ordeal that always left her drained and sick at heart—when one of the orderlies passed her a note. She unfolded it with shaking hands and read: “Come to my office. Dr. Edwards.”
She felt a queer, plummeting sensation in her stomach. She moved as quickly as she could among the hordes of wounded men, doctors, nurses and visitors until she reached the corridor that led to Dr. Edwards’s study. She remembered the night she’d come here with Clayton, and as on that night she felt like a person walking in a dream, observing everything but not taking part in it.
She knocked on the door and entered when she heard the doctor’s voice. He was standing beside his desk, waiting for her. Mrs. Shirley was there, too, sitting on the sofa. Her eyes were red from crying.
“Come in, Catherine. Close the door, child.”
She closed the door and stood staring at him.
“I’ve just received a message from the War Department. Clayton was wounded during the hard fighting around Marye’s Hill just outside Fredericksburg. I have the report right here in front of me.”
The doctor paused, but Catherine stood frozen. He picked up a paper from the desk and adjusted his spectacles, reading directly from the report.
“‘Major Pierce was near General Cobb when the general received a bullet that severed an artery in his thigh. Realizing General Cobb required immediate medical attention, Major Pierce was helping to carry him from the field when he, too, was struck by a bullet. He refused to release his hold on the general, shielding him with his body, and was struck by a second bullet. He did not collapse until he had the general out of harm’s way. However, General Cobb died shortly thereafter from loss of blood.’”
She found her voice, but it was faint. “And…Clayton?”
The doctor looked up. “All I know is that he is alive. He received surgery at Charlottesville. He’s being transferred here. Now, dear, I must see to my patients. Mrs. Shirley will tell you the rest.”
She was hardly aware of Dr. Edwards patting her arm and going out the door. She looked at Mrs. Shirley, who had recovered from whatever emotion had brought forth her tears and was now sitting ramrod straight.
“What kind of surgery, Mrs. Shirley?”
“We have been given no details, Mrs. Kelly. The reason we have heard nothing for so long is that he was simply unable to communicate with anyone from our department. And as I suspected, his name was not released to the casualty lists. There was also some concern about his suitability for traveling, but they have decided to risk it.”
“Who are they?”
“Our superiors. It’s been decided he is to convalesce in your home, as Andrew Kelly, in order to carry out our work. If he—” Mrs. Shirley paused and seemed to swallow hard but went on, “dies, it will be as Captain Kelly and he will be buried as Captain Kelly. Someone else will then take over the case against Mr. Ingram.”
“But what can Clayton do while he’s wounded? You’re not a real nurse and neither am I. He needs to be under a doctor’s care!”
The other woman shrugged. “It has been suggested that you, madam, should attempt to get the needed information from Mr. Ingram.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Are you willing?”
Catherine sat down. She knew instinctively that with a little use of wiles and subterfuge she might be able to inveigle some sort of information out of Bart. But she also knew, instinctively, that Bart could be mean. There were times she had seen a coldness in his eyes that boded ill for anyone who crossed him. If she were discovered—but this was Clayton’s work and he needed her.
Mrs. Shirley had been watching her and now said, as if merely stating a dry and unimportant fact, “You’re in love with Major Pierce.”
Catherine said, just as matter-of-factly, “So are you.”
For once Mrs. Shirley seemed completely taken aback. She stared at Catherine with her mouth open.
“That’s ridiculous!”
“How old are you, Mrs. Shirley?”
“Old enough to be your mother, I daresay.”
“But not old enough to be Clayton’s mother. I’ve always assumed you were a widow.”
Mrs. Shirley said, with a trace of haughtiness, “Never assume, in this profession.”
“You mean spying.”
“Of course. I should like to refer to it as espionage, or counterespionage, as the case may be.”
“How did you come to be in this profession, Mrs. Shirley? And where is your husband?”
“Am I under some sort of suspicion, Mrs. Kelly?”
Catherine shook her head. “No, but I’ve been wondering.”
“I was a governess in President Davis’s household, while he was still a senator. I have certain…intellectual abilities and it was he who placed me in the department with Major Pierce and the others. Moreover, I have never been married. I thought it best to depict myself as a widow, for various reasons.”
Catherine could not imagine Mrs. Shirley frolicking with the president’s children. She held back a shiver.
“You should know Major Pierce was opposed to your taking any further role in this mission. He said as much before he left. But our superiors—and I might add they are very high up—have decided otherwise. The major will be in a weakened condition. I will be his eyes and ears. You will coax whatever information you can out of Mr. Ingram. When we discover the identity of the mastermind of this operation, we will have broken up a major ring of traitors to the Confederacy—not to mention the would-be assassins of General Lee.”
“How do we know that such a person exists? Maybe Bart himself is the leader.”
“Mr. Ingram is not clever enough,” Mrs. Shirley said mildly.
“Maybe he’s smarter than we think.”
“There is sufficient evidence to suspect the existence of at least one other player in this game, madam. I must ask you to accept my word.”
Catherine tightened her lips and decided to change the subject. “How are we going to get Clayton into the house?”
“It’s simple enough. Everyone knows of Andrew’s illness. An ambulance will bring him here, to this hospital, so that he can be under a doctor’s care. I, of course, shall become Andrew for the ride to the hospital. A few days later Andrew, this time Major Pierce, will return, recovered from his illness but naturally very weak.”
“I see.” Catherine waited a moment, then added, “Mrs. Shirley, if I’ve…misjudged you, I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Shirley began putting on her bonnet. “You really should not be so quick to form opinions about others, Mrs. Kelly. First, even second, impressions are often wrong.” With quick, impatient movements, she pulled on her gloves, wrapped a shawl around her thin shoulders, and left the room.
***
Catherine went home that night feeling almost giddy with relief. Clayton must not be too severely injured, she reasoned, if he was well enough to travel. The very fact that he was coming home was enough to lift the awful burden she had carried with her since his departure.