Blood Moon (30 page)

Chapter Fifty-Five

Towards the end of June, an eerie quiet descended upon Richmond. The noise of soldiers’ thumping boots on the capital’s streets had subsided into the soft tiptoeing whispers of a population gripped in fear. The dreadful news of battles right on the capital’s doorstep had not been surprising to most, but no one had been fully prepared for the massive Yankee army advancing on the capital.

Reality struck hard. The South was in peril, its people fighting to save its fledgling constitution and their dreams of a prosperous future free of Lincoln’s and Washington’s iron grips. The zest for fundraising balls and parties waned and was replaced by an even greater enthusiasm to build and stock hospitals. The surgeon general’s requests had come through the capital building and into the ears of Richmond’s elite with startling speed, and the rich set out to accommodate his needs with equal pace.

All the wondering about if or when the enemy would advance towards the capital was over. The Yankees had gained ground, sweeping across the countryside like an unstoppable swarm of locusts, just waiting for the right time to devour Virginia’s hallowed soil.

The conversation in the Bartlett household of late had been focussed on the newly erected Chimborazo Military Hospital, a sprawling maze of buildings earmarked to treat wounded Confederate soldiers. Mrs Bartlett, with her usual zeal, was determined to offer the services of the Richmond society ladies, no matter how distasteful the task of nursing might be, she informed the surgeon general upon her arrival at the facility.

Mercy had heard that the hospital was a great achievement, but as she stood staring at the long framed buildings stretching from the edge of a ravine for as far as she could see, she believed the only great thing about it was its sheer size. When the women inspected the interior of the buildings, Mercy noticed that many of the male attendants were walking aimlessly around, paying little or no heed to sick or wounded patients. She was not impressed by what she was seeing, but she defended the attendants to the other women. It was obvious to her that these so-called nurses were, for the most part, Confederate soldiers, injured or sick themselves and now determined not to return to their armies’ front lines.

              Mercy watched Mrs Bartlett’s mouth clucking away with her chicks in the far corner of the ward. As she watched the ladies shake their heads, cover their mouths and noses with handkerchiefs, and then leave the ward one by one, she instinctively knew full well that not one of them was planning to give her time to nursing these poor unkempt men lying between dirty sheets and threadbare pillows.

God’s truth, what a mess, Mercy thought, after the women had left her alone in the ward. Brimming chamber pots sat on the floor. Dirty and bloodied rags lay where they had been carelessly dropped, and untidy trolleys were scattered in the aisles. The poor patients were moaning out to attendants, who scurried away like frightened mice, as though afraid to get their hands dirty. If this was the hospital being readied for the fundraisers’ inspection, what would it be like when it was full to capacity, with injured men coming through the doors in droves? Mercy thought. The state of the place was apt to kill men just as soon as cure them. She couldn’t think of a worse place to work, yet she was excited by the idea of doing just that.

She spotted a doctor talking with a patient at the end of a long row of beds. She stared at the sick man between the sheets, and for just a second, she felt her pulse race wildly. At first glance, he had looked remarkably like Jacob, with the same dark beard and unruly coal-coloured hair, but as she walked closer, she decided that the resemblance ended there. Jacob was handsome. He could almost stop her heart just by looking at her. This man’s face was older, gaunt, with sharp uneven features. He was nothing like her Jacob.

Her breathing steadied, but her thoughts were now filled with Jacob and the terrible danger he was in right now on the front lines. She cursed the thought but imagined Jacob here, wounded or sick. Wouldn’t she want him to have the best possible care? Just thinking about him ending up here in a bed ignored, without a comforting word or proper nursing care, was enough to give her the impetus she needed to speak her mind. She was going to start working here right now, and no amount of dissuasion from the women would stop her.

She took a quick look into the hallway and saw that the women were still there talking to the surgeon general and no doubt offering money instead of their hands. It was not money that would improve this place, Mercy thought; it would be hard-working people with a mind to scrub floors and surfaces, boil sheets and pillowcases, and tend to these poor soldiers as best as possible. There was nothing worse than a body lying in a bed and smelling like a sewer, unable to wash itself.

The doctor noticed Mercy standing alone at the doorway. He approached her and smiled. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Actually, Doctor, I believe I can help you. My name is Mercy Carver. I grew up in London, in a cesspit of filth and disease. I’m no stranger to hard work or sickness, and I’ve seen my share of bloodied men. I would like to offer you my services starting right now. This place needs a good clean, and I believe that’s a job I’m good at.

“I’m sure the other ladies will be more than happy to put their hands in their deep pockets and shovel their money into this hospital, but I don’t think they’re so keen on working here – so this is why you need me.” Mercy took a deep breath and looked at him expectantly.

The doctor smiled and studied Mercy’s determined expression. He took her arm, walked her into the hallway, and then stopped just out of earshot of the other women. “Young ladies shouldn’t have to see the terrible sights in a hospital,” he said, “but even the surgeon general’s begging for help. You will be working hard and seeing things you won’t like. We have a few men down with fever and dysentery, and there will probably be a lot more in the coming days or weeks. Do you want some time to think about your offer?”

“Time? I don’t think there is any time. I’m not an expert in war, but even I’m guessing that you will be overflowing with damaged bodies very soon. I know all about sickness, Doctor, and this is why you can’t turn me away. Our brave soldiers are defending the city. For all we know, the battle has already begun and they are going to turn up here like a rip tide any minute. I have a very strong constitution, and a place like this doesn’t scare me. It just makes me want to make it better.”

Mercy heard Mrs Bartlett’s shrill voice and waved at her impatiently. “Doctor, I have to leave now. So shall I come back this afternoon?” She looked hopefully at him, raising her eyebrow enquiringly. “Well, Doctor?”

“Yes, please come back as soon as you can. I’m much obliged and so are the patients.” He smiled again and gave her a lingering look before walking away. He turned again to face her, clearly having had an afterthought, and said, “Miss Carver, wear an old gown. Whatever you wear, it won’t stay clean for long.”

Mercy walked briskly towards the little crowd of elegantly dressed socialites just exiting the building and issued her apologies when she caught up with them. “Mrs Bartlett, I’m going to start work this afternoon. It looks to me as though they could use some help, and I have submitted my services.” She stared at the faces one by one, and just as she’d thought, not one of them stood with her.

“You cannot work here, my dear. Why, you’ll make yourself sick in no time, and you’ll look as filthy as an old rag doll,” Mrs Bartlett told her. “I’ve never seen such a dire sight. I declare, I’m quite overcome – I can hardly breathe.”

“It is dire, and that’s exactly why we should aid these poor men. All it will take is a good scrub and a few boiled washes to get this place cleaned up. I am working here. My heart’s set on it, and you know me: there’s no talking me out of something I’m set on doing. Do you really mind, Mrs Bartlett?”

Mrs Bartlett was annoyed. A disapproving scowl sat on her narrow lips, pressed so tightly together that they almost disappeared completely. Mercy stood her ground. She was defying Mrs Bartlett in front of the women, but she couldn’t care less. She was bloody angry with the lot of them. They had skulked around this place, unable to abide the coarse smells that had hit their delicate nostrils and unwilling to go within six feet of a patient crying out for help. Then they’d had the cheek to give their seal of approval, when in reality not even the surgeon general cared what these women thought, as long as he got some money off them. 

“I did think about nursing, but I decided against the idea,” Mrs Bartlett declared. “I believe it will take a particular type of woman to deal with the sick, perhaps one who is used to poverty and disease herself. I’m sure she would be well used to emptying chamber pots and wiping brows. The ladies and I will raise money for our gallant army, and that is a glorious cause of which we can be very proud. You, Mercy, must do what you feel is best, but if you are going to work here, you must promise me that you will not bring any sickness or awful smells into my house. The last thing the senator needs is to take ill while he’s trying to save the Confederacy. Don’t you agree, ladies?” she asked them. The women nodded, entirely in agreement …

Chapter Fifty-Six

Jacob lay his head down on a makeshift bed on the side of the road, his horse’s bridle held loosely in his hand. His saddle as a pillow, unrolled blanket for a mattress, and his grey coat covering his shoulders seemed particularly comfortable tonight after the past couple of saddle-sore weeks. He was exhausted, body and mind, yet sleep was as evasive as it had been the last fourteen nights.

They had broken camp earlier, somewhere up the road leading to Mechanicsville, just as darkness had fallen, and they had marched within sight of campfires belonging to General Jackson’s command. He stared up at the cloudless sky with a scattering of stars and an almost full moon and thought back to his days in Yorktown, where boredom had crushed his spirit. Those days were long gone, he thought. Lately, there had been no sitting around a campfire wondering why the hell nothing was happening and feeling useless. Ever since the battle of Williamsburg, he and his men had gone on one mission after another, rarely spending more than one night in the same place, and it had felt good.

Jacob also felt optimistic about the way the Army of Northern Virginia was shaping up. General Lee, now in command, had lengthened the Confederate defensive positions around Richmond, deciding in his wisdom that the South was not of a mind to defend the capital in a long-drawn-out siege or war of attrition but instead would attack the Yankees and drive them back to where they had come from.

Jacob already knew what was going to happen in the morning. The Yankees had more than a hundred thousand well supplied men poised on its eastern flank,while his army had tenuous lines along the swampy Chickahominy River
.
It was going to be a brutal, pivotal action, leaving the battle of Williamsburg looking like a small skirmish in comparison.

He paled just thinking about the day ahead. Dawn was only an hour or so away, but he could already feel the adrenaline pumping and racing through his veins, giving him a burst of energy that he didn’t want until the very moment he needed it. There were no formulas or rules to keeping a body safe and alive in battle, he thought. He could lie here for the next hour and plan how he was going to avoid cannon fire, bullets, or sabres, but the truth in his mind was that God himself, with all-seeing eyes, chose who would live or die.

He shivered and pulled his grey coat around his neck. He had seen the enemy up close not two weeks ago, straddling the
Chickahominy’s northern and southern banks. Under General Jeb Stuart’s orders, he and his men had
circumnavigated the entire Union army’s position, getting away free and clear without being pursued back to Richmond. It had been a daring four-day ride, but they had managed to get a good look at the enemy’s weaknesses and had reported this vital information on their return.

Jacob smiled with a sweet memory. The Yankees hadn’t seen them riding like night devils, not even when he and his men had burned a couple of Union supply ships while they were right under tens of thousands of Union noses. The Yankees had a massive army poised to take what wasn’t theirs to own, but they were not unbeatable. No, sir, he thought, they could be licked.

He sat up, trying to settle his nerves and relax his tense muscles. If only he could have one damn night without filling his mind with fearsome thoughts of guns, cannons, blood, and death, he thought. He looked at young George lying not five feet away, staring wide-eyed at the night sky. In the moonlight, his face was as white as chalk, and no doubt his mind was filled with imagined horrors. Jacob instinctively knew what the boy was thinking about. There was not a man here who wasn’t thinking the same thing.

“George, get some sleep,” Jacob told him. “It’ll be dawn soon enough.”

“Heck, Captain, I ain’t seeing me having more than a couple of minutes shut-eye at best.  I got the shits. I reckon if a bullet don’t get me tomorrow, the cramps will.”

“Well, keep it in your pants, George, ’cause there ain’t no Yankee going to be waiting for you to wipe your grey behind,” Jacob said.

“I’m lying here thinking about my ma and pa. Gosh darn it, I’d hate to get myself killed, for their sakes. They already lost Elizabeth, and Nathan’s gone to the wind. It would cut them up real bad if anything happened to me. You ever think about dying?”

“Nope, I don’t reckon I do,” Jacob lied. “I think about going home and planting cotton. Dying will mess up all my plans. It ain’t in the cards for me, George, and it ain’t in yours neither.”

“All the same, I got a letter in my pocket for my ma and pa. I wrote it earlier, just in case I don’t make it tomorrow. I’d hate it if they didn’t find where I was buried. Will you keep it for me?”

Jacob sighed, awash with sadness. He had a letter in his pocket too. He had written it to Mercy earlier on a scrap of paper. There was never enough paper to go around, especially earlier today, after the orders had come down the line. He’d watched his men frantically writing to family and friends as though their very lives depended on the hurried words. He had done the same, writing to Mercy, telling her how much he loved her and hoping it wouldn’t be the last time he told her.

The men were taking advantage of an army postal service that delivered mail just about every day to Richmond and its suburbs. Getting letters to Portsmouth wasn’t so easy or quick, but this was one of the reasons he’d wanted Mercy nearby, in the capital. She’d get this letter by midday, and it would set her mind at ease. She was curious and stubborn. From Senator Bartlett, she would already have weeded out all the information she needed regarding his whereabouts. Knowing her, she’d ride out to watch the battle and get a couple of potshots off at the Union army at the same time.

He shifted his thoughts, remembering that George was still waiting for an answer. “George, give your letter to the post wagon. It’ll be here in about an hour.”

“I got one too,” Tybrook said in the darkness. “I can’t sleep neither. I keep thinking about what we have to face in the morning. I heard tell the Yankees have got twice as many men as us.”

“Tybrook, don’t worry about what they have. You just keep thinking about how strong we are. We’ll lick them ’cause they’re on our ground. We’ll do our jobs, and we’ll do them well. No Yankee officer or soldier is going to march into Richmond, and that’s a fact. I reckon we have the stronger army with better men, and when the Yankees see us in a few hours, they’ll be the ones shitting themselves. We’ll be the ones yelling at their backs when they run away.”

Jacob wished he believed completely in what he was saying, but doubt and dread resided in the back of his mind. He wished the battle to begin. He wanted to believe that the fear he felt now would be replaced with passion and courage in the face of the enemy.

“I reckon we should get ourselves some coffee and see to the horses; there ain’t no point lying here any longer with damn ants in our pants. It’s almost time, boys. Wake the men …”