Nan Ryan (46 page)

“Honey,” Hannah looked at her surprised, “you mean you is goin’ over to his house? Why, you know what folk’ll say if they see you.”

“Since it’s broad daylight, I’m sure they will, but I don’t care. Dawson Blakely saved my life. He is badly hurt and I’m going to him.”

Dawson’s card room had been turned into his sick room, a bed brought in and placed by the windows. The green felt tables had been moved out and replaced with easy chairs and couches. Dawson smiled when Kathleen walked in and he patted the bed beside him.

“No, Dawson, I’ll have a chair,” Kathleen laughed.

“Well, at least pull it up here close to me.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” she drew a straight-backed chair to his bedside. “Dawson, you’re amazing, you’re already beginning to look better.”

“That’s because you’re here,” he smiled. “You know you shouldn’t have come though, what will people say?” he teased.

“Good Lord, you, too? Since when did you start caring what people say?”

“Love, I don’t give a damn what they say about me, it’s your reputation I’m concerned about.”

“That’s terribly gallant of you, Mister Blakely, but save your concern. It no longer matters to me.”

“Kathleen Diana, you are quite a girl,” he smiled and took her hand.

“Are you just now finding that out?” she answered and together they laughed.

Kathleen came to visit Dawson every day, staying from early morning until sundown. She read to him from the many volumes of books lining the walls of his big library. She fed him from a tray sitting across his middle. She drew the curtains in the late afternoon so he could rest and doze. She combed and brushed his dark thick hair. She rubbed soothing lotions into his arms and legs. She worried over him like a mother hen, never tiring of her chore, and Dawson Blakely loved every minute of it.

Doctor Pitt came by each day to check on Dawson and he never failed to frown when, every time he came, Kathleen was at Dawson’s bedside. Kathleen paid no attention to his looks of displeasure and questioned the doctor at length about Dawson’s condition.

“He’s doing remarkably well for a man so recently shot,” Doctor Pitt assured her. “Perhaps it’s all this Florence Nightingale treatment he’s receiving from you that is making him mend so rapidly.”

“I certainly hope so,” Kathleen smiled. “Goodbye, Uncle Rembert, see you tomorrow,” and she closed the door behind him to return to Dawson.

On the morning of July 3, Dawson awoke with the sun and called to his servant, Jim, to come and give him a shave. “Jim, get me out a fresh white shirt, will you?”

“Why? You is still sick, Mister Dawson. You ain’t goin’ nowhere. You best jest put on clean pajamas for another week or two.”

“All right, but get me the nicest pair I own.”

Jim brought Dawson a new pair of dark silk pajamas and helped him put them on. He gave Dawson a close shave and plumped up the pillows behind him.

“How do I look, Jim?” Dawson asked his old friend.

“You is lookin’ good, Mister Dawson. Won’t be long ’til you be as handsome as ever.”

Dawson lay propped up in his bed, eagerly waiting for Kathleen to arrive. He was feeling better with each passing day and almost dreaded the time when he would be completely well. It would mean Kathleen would no longer be coming to visit. He must not worry about that now; any minute she would flounce into his room, the blond hair falling around her delicate face, the billowing skirts swaying prettily as she walked. Dawson smiled and waited for the magic moment.

By mid-morning when she had not arrived, Dawson was irritated and disappointed. It wasn’t like her to be late and he certainly didn’t appreciate it. He wanted her here, not just for part of the day but all day long. Didn’t she know he needed her badly? His poor, wounded body was aching and he longed for the feel of her tiny, soft hands rubbing him soothingly. The long, lonely day dragged on; Kathleen did not come.

Each morning before going to Dawson’s, Kathleen went to the square where the casualty list was posted. Her heart pounded in her chest each time she looked at the long list of wounded and dead in battles for the Confederacy. She sat in her carriage and waited for the dreaded list to be posted, then sighed with relief when Hunter’s name did not appear on it.

On the morning of July 3, she sat visiting with Becky Jackson, the two friends waiting together for the daily posting. Becky’s husband, Ben, was now with General Lee’s army at the Battle of Gettysburg. She, like Kathleen, held her breath each day as the killed-in-action were posted. The street was crowded with carriages and buggies as other families waited for word of their loved ones. Morning after morning, Kathleen and Becky heard the screams that went up from heartbroken mothers, wives, and sweethearts as they found the name of their loved one on the list.

At nine o’clock, the long paper was posted and everyone crowded anxiously around. Kathleen and Becky squeezed each other’s hands and went to look. Leading the list was Colonel Hunter Alexander, the very first name. “No, no,” Kathleen murmured and swayed against Becky. Becky put an arm around Kathleen’s waist, but without a word her worried eyes went on down the list. Ben Jackson’s name was there, killed in action at the Battle of Gettysburg. Becky screamed and fell into Kathleen’s arms. The two life-long friends had both lost their husbands on the same horrible day. Mindless of the milling crowd looking at them, the two women stood, holding to each other, sobbing; their worst fears had become reality.

Three days later, the two girlfriends stood at the cemetery together in the hot July sun while a memorial service took place for their fallen husbands. While their children held to their skirts and cried, the two pale, brokenhearted women heard the mournful sound of a lone trumpet playing “Taps” as they looked down at markers over empty graves. Denied even the comfort of having their husbands’ remains returned to them, the two women and their children mourned their terrible losses and knew the bodies of their husbands would never rest in the graves laid out for them.

Dawson heard the news of Hunter Alexander’s death and wanted more than anything to go to Kathleen and comfort her, but he knew he couldn’t do it. When his servant told him the shocking new, he turned his eyes to the ceiling and murmured, “My poor tortured Kathleen. My poor unfortunate darling.”

The long, sad summer was a terrible ordeal for Kathleen. Overcome with grief, she refused to go anywhere, not even to church. She didn’t go to Dawson’s, though she did inquire about his condition when Doctor Pitt came to Sans Souci. She spent long, lonely hours in Hunter’s room, touching the books he had studied so diligently, lying on the bed where he had slept for five years, looking in the closet where all his clothes still hung. Everywhere were reminders of him, even in the drawing room where the grand piano sat untouched since last he played it. The ache in Kathleen’s heart never left and the pain in her stomach was so severe, she was often nauseated and started losing weight.

Scott, too, was despondent over the loss of his father. Many nights after he had gone to bed, Kathleen would hear him crying alone in his room. She hurried to him each time and took him in her arms as together they cried for the dear, kind man who would never again hold either of them.

At dusk on a hot August night, someone knocked on the door of Sans Souci. Kathleen was upstairs in her room, Hannah in the kitchen. Seven-year-old Scott Alexander opened the front door and looked up to see a tall, dark man standing before him.

“Sir?” Scott looked at him.

“Scott,” Dawson said softly, removing his hat, “I’m Dawson Blakely, a friend of your mother’s.”

“I’m sorry, Mister Blakely, my mother is not feeling well, she’s upstairs lying down.”

“I understand. I just came to pay my respects.”

“Come in, please,” Scott offered.

“Thank you, Scott.” Dawson stepped inside.

Scott led Dawson into the drawing room and invited him to sit down. “Did you know my father, Mister Blakely?”

“I didn’t know him well, Scott, but I had met him. I just wanted you and your mother to know that I’m terribly sorry about his death.”

“Thank you. My father was a hero, you know.”

“Yes he was, son, he was a very brave man and I know you are proud of him.”

“Mister Blakely, how did you know my name is Scott?”

Dawson smiled at the dark boy, “I met you once a long time ago. You were much too small to remember.” He rose, “I must be going, I hope I didn’t impose on you.”

“Not at all, Mister Blakely. Do come back to visit. Maybe next time you come, my mother will be well enough to come down.”

“You take care of your mother, Scott,” Dawson said and started to the front door. Hannah came waddling in from the kitchen when Dawson and Scott reached the hall.

“Oh, Mister Dawson,” she came to them. “Scott, darlin’, why don’t you go on in the kitchen, I have your supper ready for you.”

“All right, Hannah. Goodnight, Mister Blakely. It was nice of you to come,” and he headed for the kitchen.

As soon as Scott was out of sight, Dawson grabbed Hannah’s shoulders and whispered, “How is she? Is she going to recover?”

“Oh, Mister Dawson, I’s so worried ’bout her. She won’t hardly eat and she won’t go anywhere, she won’t hardly leave her room. That po’ baby sufferin’ sompin awful. Jest breaks my heart to see her like this.”

“Hannah, I’d give anything if I could go up to her and …”

“No, you knows you can’t do that.”

“Hannah, if I could just see her for a minute, I …”

“Mister Dawson, I wishes you could, too, but you know it ain’t right.”

“I know, of course I can’t, I shouldn’t have come here, but I just had to know how she is. Hannah, let me give you some money to help out, at least let me do that much.”

Hannah shook her head, “No, she won’t take it, but you is mighty nice to offer. How is you feelin’? You over your awful wound yet?”

“Almost as good as new,” Dawson smiled at her. “I will go now, Hannah, and I’ll not be coming back, so, please, take good care of her for me.”

“ ’Til the day I dies, Mister Dawson.”

Thirty-four

The November sky was gray and bleak, threatening to spill more rain on the already-soaked city of Natchez. The two-day drizzle had ceased at dawn, but the sun made no appearance, as though afraid of being chased away by the dark, ominous thunderheads still filling the sky. The dirt streets had turned into mud puddles in many places and the wooden sidewalks were almost deserted of people, save the milling Union soldiers with time on their hands and nowhere to spend it.

Dawson sat in the upstairs office of Crawford Ashworth. He balanced a cup of coffee on his knee and looked out the rain-spattered window. His mood was almost as gray as the day and he yawned, hardly hearing what his attorney was saying to him.

“I tell you, Dawson, if the war drags on much longer, I am going to be out of business. I lose more of my old clients every day. The population of Natchez is dwindling steadily as more of the men are killed and their wives and children flee to be with their families in New Orleans and other cities less devastated by the conflict.”

Dawson set his coffee cup on Crawford’s big oak desk and folded his hands in his lap. “I don’t see how it can possibly last much longer. The south is like a punch drunk fighter, knocked unconscious but refusing to fall down. We were beaten when Vicksburg and Gettysburg fell simultaneously. We should have cashed in our remaining chips then. Thousands more lives are going to be needlessly lost in a war that is, for all intents and purposes, hopelessly lost.”

“Well, I don’t know, Dawson, we did beat the Yankees at Chickamauga,” Crawford’s eyes brightened.

“Crawford, at times I think you’re as naive as the rest. That much-heralded victory was erased just last week. Hooker’s Union troops easily took Lookout Mountain at Chattanooga, a supposedly impregnable position. Face it, it’s over. We’re outnumbered in every way; I’m telling you, the Confederacy is dead. I knew from the start we would get no help from France or England and now even you and the rest of the diehards finally agree. I’ll tell you something else, every trip I make to Europe becomes more treacherous. It’s growing increasingly difficult to make it through the ever-tightening blockade. It’s just a matter of months or perhaps a year at the outside that we can get any supplies in.”

“I know that’s true, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it. Why don’t you give it up? It’s too dangerous, you could be killed. Don’t you have enough money?”

Dawson smiled his lazy smile, “Why, Crawford, you make me sound like nothing more than a greedy opportunist.” He shook his dark head in mock despair. “Did it ever occur to you what I don’t do it for the money alone? Believe it or not, wealth, though it certainly is not distasteful to me, has never been my only motive for risking my neck. I, too, love the Confederacy and like to feel I’m doing something to further the cause. I may not be a respected war hero, but I feel I’ve contributed something.”

“Dawson, of course you have. Running the blockade is most important, but I’m worried about you, son. If the cause is lost, as you say, then why keep taking chances? That’s all I meant; I worry about you, you could be killed.”

“It’s debatable whether or not that would be any great loss,” Dawson answered flatly.

“Now, Dawson, why do you talk like that? You’ve everything in the world to live for. You’re young, healthy, handsome, and very, very rich. What more could any man want?”

Dawson raised his thick brows and the hooded eyes peered up at Crawford, “I can think of something.”

“My boy, when are you going to get that notion out of your head? That reminds me, though, she’s coming to see me today.”

Dawson immediately straightened in his chair, “When?”

Ashworth looked at his gold pocket watch, “Actually she should be here any minute. She said around eleven o’clock and it’s ten ’til.”

Dawson’s eyes sparkled and he said hopefully, “Do you think I could just stay and say hello? I haven’t seen her since Hunter’s death. I promise I’ll go as soon as I’ve offered my condolences and had the chance to look at her.”