The Sword (35 page)

As Chantel left the hospital with Jacob, she said, “I’m so tired. Why am I so tired, me? I haven’t done any real work.”

“It is a strain, daughter,” Jacob admitted. “We see all these poor boys, some of them have little hope of living, and it not only tires our spirits, it drains us physically. But God’s going to bless us. Three of the young men asked Jesus into their hearts today. We’ll go get a
good rest, and then tomorrow we’ll bring something else to them.”

“You know, we have the supplies, Grandpere. I can make gingerbread.”

“Yes, we have plenty of supplies,” he agreed. “Tomorrow you take enough to make gingerbread for all of them, Chantel. The hospital cooks will help you.”

Chantel nodded. “I would like to see Mr. Simmons again. A friend of his said he’d read to him. That’s good. He looks so ill, Grandpere. Do you think he’ll live?”

“I’m not sure, but I know if he dies, he’ll be in the arms of Jesus. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Chantel felt only sadness at the possibility of the death of the sweet young man. Again she thought,
I don’t understand Grandpere, the joy he has with all this death and blood and sorrow. Sometimes it seems like the good God lets ver’ bad things happen to people. But then, I’m just an ignorant girl….

The next day Chantel took the supplies for gingerbread to the hospital kitchen: flour, sugar, eggs, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.

A very large black woman was the head cook, and she asked, “Where you come up wid all dis, little girl? I didn’t think there was a speck of cinnamon to be had in the South!”

“Ma grandpere, he has it,” she answered. “For him, the good God provides.”

They baked great trays of the soft, mouthwatering, sweet bread, filling the whole hospital with the spicy aroma.

By early afternoon, when Jacob arrived and Chantel and the cooks brought the trays into the hospital, the men were jolly and called out to her, “Our vivandiere! Hello, Miss Chantel. We knew it was you, bringing us gingerbread.”

Chantel blushed and helped hand out gingerbread to all the men. Then she went to Clyde Simmons’s bedside and said, “Hello, Mr. Simmons. I thought you might like for me to read to you a little today.”

“Sure would. My friend Gabe here, he read some to me. But I know we’d all like to hear you read again, Miss Chantel.”

Chantel looked at his friend, a short, solid young man with an open friendly face, who was missing a leg and was on crutches. “That was good of you to read to your friend,” she told him.

Someone brought her a chair, and she sat down and began to read. A small crowd of the walking wounded gathered, and other men sat on the beds close around her.

Chantel was reading Psalm 119. From time to time she looked up, and her heart felt a deep and profound sadness. They were mostly young faces, most of them filled with apprehension and fear. She well knew that the reputation of military hospitals was terrible. More men died of septic infection, or diseases that the wounded passed around, than on the field of battle. She let none of the grief show in her face, however, and she continued reading.

There was a commotion at the door, and they all looked up. A group of officers came in. The contrast they made with the sick and injured bedridden men was startling—they all seemed tall and strong, bringing in the stringent smell of the winter outdoors, shaking the snow from their coats and stamping their boots to clear the mud from them. The doctors came to speak to them, standing in a group just inside the door.

Chantel saw Clay Tremayne and Armand Latane among them.

The group broke up, and the officers began to roam among the beds, looking for their men.

Clay came to Clyde Simmons’s bedside, greeted the men around her, and then said, “Hello, Chantel. I had heard that you were a hospital angel now.”

“Hello, Clay,” she said, a little embarrassed but pleased. “Grandpere and me, we visit the men, bring them things. I’ve been reading to them, me.”

“She brought us a bunch of gingerbread, Lieutenant,” the man in the bed next to Simmons said. His eyes were bandaged, and his body was thin, but he was animated, which pleased Chantel.

“You come to visit one of your men, Clay?” Chantel asked.

“Yes, I’m here to see Private Mitch Kearny. He’s in my company.”

“Oh yes, I’ve met Mr. Kearny, me. He’s just down the row here. I’ll take you to him.”

She handed the Bible to one of the men and said, “Can you read, soldier?”

“Yes ma’am, I can. Real good.”

“Well, you take up where I left off while we go see the lieutenant’s friend.” The two moved down the aisle, and three beds from the end Chantel stopped. “You have a visitor, Mr. Kearny.”

The wounded man was middle-aged and looked like he had been a farmer. He had lost an arm, which was a worry, as so many amputees died after the surgery.

“You’re looking good, Mitch,” Clay said. “Did you get some of that gingerbread?”

“Sure did. It was good, too. Thank you again, Miss Chantel.”

Clay told him some of the news of what the unit was doing and told him of some of Jeb Stuart’s patrols.

Chantel saw that Kearny seemed to be cheered, sitting up straighter in the bed, his eyes brighter than before. She looked around and observed that all of the men that the officers were visiting seemed heartened.

Armand Latane came over to them, and Clay introduced him to Mitch Kearny. Kearny saluted with his left hand. “Heard about you Louisiana Tigers, Captain. Heard Major Roberdeau Wheat walked away from getting shot in the chest. Story goes that he was hit in both lungs, but he argued with the doc and was so ornery that he lived through it.”

Armand laughed, his white teeth flashing. “Us Cajuns, we’re too mean to die. Except for Miss Chantel, here. She’s too sweet to die.”

“You’re a Cajun, Miss Chantel?” Kearny asked. “I wondered, with the way you talk and all. It’s pretty, I mean.”

“Ah yes, we’re all pretty, too, Cajuns,” Armand said airily. He turned to Chantel. “I find myself in dire need of some new gold buttons, ma’am. Would a vivandiere have anything like that in her sutler’s wagon?”

“Of course, Armand,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Only you still have money to buy gold buttons, you.”

“Then with your permission, I’ll stop by later and collect.” Armand then added mischievously, “You can show me how to sew them on, Chantel, cherie?”

“You know I’ll sew them on for you,” Chantel said dismissively. “Now get along with you, and go speak to Grandpere.”

With a courtly bow, he went down the line of beds to where Jacob sat talking with a man with his arm in a sling and his head bandaged.

Chantel turned back to Clay, who was watching Latane with smoldering dark eyes. “What is it, Clay? You and Armand, you don’t have a falling-out, do you?”

“No,” he muttered. “Not yet.” He said his good-byes to Mitch Kearny, then asked Chantel in a low voice, “Would you walk me out?”

“Of course,” Chantel said, and she took his arm as they walked slowly to the door.

“I thought you might want to know,” he said with some difficulty, “General Stuart’s La Petite is very sick.”

“Oh no,” Chantel said, distressed. “What is it she has, poor baby?”

“The doctors say it’s typhoid.”

Chantel pressed her eyes shut for a moment. “Typhoid,” she repeated softly with dread. “Such a terrible sickness, yes. Is she—?”

Clay finished her unspoken question. “They don’t think she’s going to make it. You know, Chantel, you really helped Miss Flora when she was ill. I think you were a real comfort to her. Maybe you could stop by and talk to her. She’s glad to be with General Stuart, of course, but she doesn’t have any real close friends in Richmond. I think she’d be glad to see you.”

“I will see her,” Chantel said. “Maybe I can help with La Petite.” She sighed. “I don’t know about losing a child, me. But I know about losing ma mere. Sometimes friends can help when no doctors can.”

Chantel went to the Stuart house, unhitching faithful Rosie and riding her the two miles to the little farmhouse. She passed through the hastily erected log huts that Stuart’s men had built for the winter, and many of them called out to her as she passed. They never called out rude or suggestive things anymore. They had all come to know their vivandiere and were as proud of her as if she were a star on the stage. Sutlers, particularly beautiful vivandieres, were very scarce in the blockaded Southern army.

She reached the house, and after she knocked on the door, it was a long time before it opened.

She saw that Flora had dark shadows under eyes, and her hair had not been carefully done as it usually was. Her blue eyes were shadowed with weariness and sadness. But at the sight of Chantel, they brightened a little. “Chantel, how wonderful it is to see you. I’ve been thinking about you. Please come in.”

Flora led her into the sitting room, seated herself on the sofa, and patted the seat next to her for Chantel to sit by her. “I’ve been thinking about you, because you’re such a wonderful nurse. When I first came to Richmond, I was so ill. I don’t know what we would have done without you, Chantel. And now … our La Petite is ill.”

“Yes, Miss Flora, Lieutenant Tremayne tells me this. I came to see you and to see La Petite, sweet baby. How is she doing?”

Flora sighed and dropped her gaze. “She’s not well at all, Chantel. She is very sick.”

Jeb came in and kissed Flora then smiled rather weakly at Chantel. “How are you, Miss Chantel? It’s so kind of you to come by and see my Flora. She gets lonely here in camp sometimes.”

“I brought some chamomile, for tea,” Chantel said. “And honey, too. Maybe La Petite, she can drink some tea. Even when you’re very sick, it makes you feel better.”

She and Flora made tea; then Flora took her in to see La Petite. She slept, her body wasted away to that of an infant. The little girl’s eyes fluttered open once, and she smiled a little at Chantel. Chantel
took her fevered hand and murmured little endearments to her. But Little Flora never stayed awake for long, and in a few minutes she had passed out again.

Chantel could see very clearly that the little girl could not live long. She offered to help Flora in any way she could and asked if there was anything that she and her grandfather could bring them.

In a distant voice, Flora answered, “Thank you, Chantel, but there’s nothing in this world that you could bring to help La Petite now. But you come back, please. She was glad to see you, I think.”

She left, deeply saddened. It was things like this that confused Chantel about the Lord. How could He take a sweet, innocent little child like La Petite? How could He do such a terrible thing to good Christian people like Miss Flora and Jeb Stuart? Chantel didn’t know. She thought that she would never know.