The Lady and the Officer (36 page)

“Grant sent his Fourth Corps of infantry to attack our troops west of Fredericksburg in Orange County. There were heavy losses on both sides. Then he engaged Lee again in Spotsylvania County a few days later. According to reports, the Yankees lost more than thirty-five thousand men and yet continue to fight. Grant cares not a whit as to how many men die.”

“Lord, have mercy on their souls.”

“That's not the worst of it. When General Stuart heard that the Yankee cavalry crossed the South Anna River, he decided to circle around Yellow Tavern and cut them off from the rest of the army.”

“Yellow Tavern? That's barely ten miles from here.”

“Yes, such was the reason for Stuart's hasty action. His cavalry turned the Yankees back. Our boys had them on the run, but a sharpshooter—or scalawag straggler by some accounts—pulled a pistol and shot General Stuart off of his horse.”

Madeline could hear the pain in her uncle's voice. J.E.B. Stuart was one of Robert E. Lee's favorites, along with the rest of the Confederate Army.

“They took him to Chimborazo. President Davis is on his way there right now with several guards. I must join them there to bring the president back to Richmond. The men from the home guard may be needed at the garrison to shore up the city's defenses. General Beauregard has been placed in charge of protecting the capital. That devil, Sheridan, has torn up railroad lines and destroyed several bridges. We can't get the wounded—ours or theirs—back to the hospital to be treated. This war is no longer fought by civilized gentlemen with a code of honor.”

“Has it ever been?”

If Uncle John answered his wife, Madeline couldn't hear his response.

“But why are you packing if you're merely bringing President Davis back from the hospital?”

“I don't know where he'll send me afterward. Don't you see, Clarisa? If those Yankees break through our line, the capital could be lost, and with it goes all hope for a new South.”

“Richmond in the hands of Yankees? God would never allow it.”

Madeline peeked around the door frame to get a glimpse of her uncle's face.

“God turned His back on both sides long ago. This is man's war, and the outcome will not have His grace no matter which side wins.”

Aunt Clarisa staggered to her feet. “I'll send Esther up to pack your valise. You'll come with me to the kitchen—”

“I have no time,” he interrupted. “I need to get to—”

Aunt Clarisa interrupted her husband with equal vehemence. “Esther can pack faster than you, so you'll have a chance to drink a cup of milk and eat a sandwich. We'll wrap the leftover bread and cheese to take with you. Who knows what difficult situation you'll ride into?”

Madeline scampered up the stairs so not to be discovered. From the landing, she watched her aunt and uncle head down the hall toward the kitchen, both seeming older than their years. But at the moment the Duncans' premature aging wasn't foremost on her mind.

Grant had send his
Fourth Corps
to fight west of Fredericksburg—James's corps. He could be lying dead in a farm field while she eavesdropped in the comfort of a mansion. Or he could be lying on a filthy cot awaiting his turn with a surgeon's bloody blade.

He might be dying alone without the one who loved him at his side.

T
WENTY

 

E
ARLY
J
UNE
1864

C
larisa waited at the parlor window as the church bells chimed nine and then ten o'clock. She refused to retire to her bedroom until her husband arrived safely home. Surely he wouldn't spend another night at the war department. With the Yankee cavalry and their sharpshooters so near Richmond, President Davis wanted his staff close so they could be protected. If John didn't come home tonight, she would send Micah to his office in the morning with a fresh change of clothes. Just when she had begun to doze in her chair, a clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones roused her senses. A conveyance was stopping in front of their house. Clarisa strode into the foyer as quickly as a dignified matron was permitted. Pulling open the door, she watched her beloved husband climb down from an unfamiliar carriage. Illuminated by the faint glow of gas lamps, John approached with a hitch in his step. Though he looked as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders, he smiled when he spotted her in the doorway.

“Why on earth are you still up, wife? You know I would have woken you when I got home.” His gait was that of an old man.

“How could I sleep not knowing if you were alive or dead?” Clarisa met him halfway down the walk, not caring if passersby saw her in her dressing gown.

“Still among the living, I'm grateful to say.” He slipped an arm around her waist. “You shouldn't fret so much, my love. The job of the Confederate treasurer isn't the same as a captain or lieutenant leading his valiant regiment into battle. I'm in little personal danger.”

Together they climbed the steps, and after they had entered the foyer, Clarisa closed and locked the door quietly behind them. “Plenty of civilians have died, so please don't take chances. Who brought you home tonight—Colonel Haywood or one of the other members of the home guard? I didn't recognize the crest on the carriage door.”

John hung his coat and hat on the hall tree where Micah would see
them in the morning. “One of the war correspondents for the newspaper. The man sells stories to anyone with coin. Apparently, I was on the way to his hotel.” In the parlor, he poured a brandy at the sideboard.

“Spirits on an empty stomach, John? I'll bet you haven't eaten in hours. Bring your snifter along, and I'll slice some bread and cheese.”

He complied without argument. In the kitchen he slumped onto a chair used by Esther when peeling potatoes or making pie crusts. “Whatever you have handy, Clarisa. I won't have you fussing over me in the middle of the night.”

“It's a wife's prerogative to fuss.” She sliced fresh bread from dark, coarsely-ground wheat and then cut into a wedge of soft farmers' cheese Madeline had bargained for at the market. “I hope it wasn't that horrible Jonas Weems. Why didn't one of the home guards accompany you? One of those Yankee deserters or vagrant riffraff could have accosted you. Our streets aren't safe at night.”

John pressed the thick slice of cheese between two slices of bread and took a bite. “Of course not Weems. I would be more likely to shoot that man on sight than to climb into his carriage. As for Colonel Haywood, he has been reassigned to a field commission, along with most of the other guards. General Lee needs every able-bodied officer on the battlefield.” He swallowed a mouthful as though savoring a rare piece of steak.

“Including Joseph Penrod?”

“Yes, dear heart, including Major Penrod. He's been sent to join General Beauregard's corps.”

Clarisa lowered herself to the other kitchen chair. “What shall I tell Eugenia? She was hoping to see her beau more since there's been a break in the weather.”

John chewed another bite of sandwich before meeting her eye. “A break in the weather means a resumption of the war. Tell our daughter the truth. Eugenia isn't a child anymore, and I don't want you treating her like one, despite whatever… limitations you believe she possesses. This is war, and Eugenia should be aware. She cannot cling to the memory of old Richmond any longer.”

Clarisa nodded but averted her gaze. She had insulated their daughter as much as she could in the vain hope all would be well one day. After
the death of “Jeb” Stuart earlier that month, Richmond's favorite son, her illusions of a Confederate victory had diminished. “Who is left to protect the president, his family, and members of his staff?”

John patted her hand. “Rest easy. Plenty of invalid soldiers surround the Davis home and the war department offices. They might not be fit to march in their regiments, but they are willing to give their lives for the Cause. Sentinels are posted everywhere in town, more plentiful than ever. These good men will be loyal until their last breath.”

Clarisa felt little relief. From what she heard at sewing guild, much treachery was afoot in the city. “How goes the fighting? You've said little since the death of General Stuart. Surely that ghastly battle must have concluded.”

John finished his sandwich with two bites and wiped his mouth. “While Stuart was fighting Sheridan's cavalry north of town, General Lee trounced Grant in the area the Yankees call the Wilderness. Their losses were almost eighteen thousand, while we lost but eight thousand. Yet despite our victory, Grant didn't retreat as expected. Instead, he dogged Lee's army and attacked a few days later west of Fredericksburg. Is there no limit to the number of Union recruits? How can Lincoln replace his soldiers so easily?” He took a long swallow of brandy.

“Perhaps the men are new immigrants.” Clarisa refilled his snifter with cool water from the pitcher.

John drank deeply and cleared his throat. “After eleven days of fighting, Washington newspapers described the Spotsylvania Courthouse battle as inconclusive—no clear victor determined. We lost
half
the number of men they did. How can that not be a Confederate victory except for the fact a madman refused to retreat? I heard the commander of the sixth corps was killed. Generals John Sedgwick and James Downing are Grant's key officers. I wish no ill will on my fellow man, not even in wartime, but could the loss of Sedgwick finally turn Grant back to lick his wounds?”

Clarisa had no answer. Military matters never held any interest for her, but the name James Downing grabbed her attention. “Let's pray that General Grant comes to his senses and goes home.” She stood and held out her hand. “Let's go to bed, John. You must be exhausted. I'll bring up a cup of chamomile tea to help you relax.”

“I'll have no trouble sleeping. Thank you for the sandwich. It tasted finer than a fancy meal served to our most esteemed guests.” He drained his glass of water and climbed the back staircase reserved for servants. On a night such as this, he was probably too tired to walk to the front hall.

And she was too tired to take exception to his breech of etiquette. As Clarisa waited for the water to heat, she tried to absorb all he had said. Although it hardly seemed possible, the terrible loss of life would continue into summer. Until when? Until every able-bodied man in the South lay moldering in his grave, along with half the sons and husbands from the North? Despite the hateful rhetoric, those Yankees were nothing but farmers, shopkeepers, and boys too young to even select a vocation yet.

Carrying two cups of tea in case John changed his mind, Clarisa also wearily climbed the back stairs to the upper hallway. Like her husband, she was too tired to walk to the front of the house. What did it matter anyway? Who would see her break long-established propriety between master and servant? At any time Micah and Esther could pack their meager possessions and move north. Certainly employers in New York or Connecticut could afford to pay better wages and serve better meals than coarse bread, pickled corn, and apple preserves.

As she was about to enter her bedchamber, a light in Madeline's room caught her attention. Clarisa eased open the door to find her niece sitting at the dressing table with her head in her hands. “Madeline, my dear, is something wrong?”

Closing her bottom bureau drawer, Madeline turned to face her aunt with a tear-streaked face. “Nothing of a physical nature. What ails me cannot be mended with either salve or poultice.”

“Then you heard the news about Colonel Haywood?” Entering the room, Clarisa leaned wearily against a bed post.

“News? What news? I've heard nothing.”

“He's been reassigned to General Lee and sent to Petersburg, where the danger is far greater than at the offices of the war department.”

Madeline paled, her mouth pulling into a grimace. “In that case I truly regret my actions.”

“Would you care to elaborate?” Clarisa handed her niece one of the two cups of tea, thinking she needed it more than her husband.

“Despite my efforts to discourage him, he continued to believe I might develop feelings for him. He deserves a woman who can love without reservation, with her whole heart.”

“Leading on a man is playing with fire. It's the cruelest kind of dishonesty. Why would you do such a thing?”

Madeline winced. “It hadn't been my intention, Aunt. I told him from the start I was in love with another. But when I returned in February, he thought his attention would be welcomed. I supposed I considered it harmless flattery.”

“Are you saying you care nothing for him? What about the photo taken at the Rhodes' ball?” Clarisa struggled to keep her voice level. “The colonel showed the tintype to your uncle more than once.”

“I feel friendship but nothing more. Having the photo taken was a mistake.”

“It seems that you no longer consider deception harmless,” Clarisa chided. “I would like to see the picture.”

Madeline peered up at her. “It's gone. It was stolen from me weeks ago.”

“Who would do such a thing?”