Triumph (33 page)

“Mrs. Douglas!” the young woman called, hailing her.

Cecilia Bryer was about Tia’s own age, slim, pretty with soft red hair and green eyes. She had a quick smile for Henson, but she looked tired, worn, old for her age, as did most people who involved themselves too deeply in the realities of war.

“Miss Bryer, how do you do,” Tia said carefully.

“Well enough, for myself.” In a no-nonsense manner, the woman offered Tia her hand. “We heard about your arrival, of course. News travels swiftly in a small camp such as this.”

“I arrived unexpectedly.”

“Through great difficulty, I understand. Your husband explained the going was quite rough, that you traveled hard to reach him. Those are my clothes you’re wearing. I understand that your things were terribly muddied and damp.”

“Yes—something like that,” Tia said. “And I’m so sorry, I didn’t know I had your belongings. Thank you, I apologize ...”

“There’s no need. I’m glad to have the luxury of several changes of clothing. I believe we are far better supplied than our Rebel counterparts.”

“We make do,” Tia said quietly.

Cecilia arched a delicate, flyaway brow, as if surprised that a woman in a Union camp who was married to a Union colonel would still align herself with the South.

“Well, my father is glad to help any man.”

“So is my brother,” Tia said quickly. The girl frowned, thinking she was speaking about Ian. “My brother Julian, a Confederate surgeon.”

“Oh, yes, we’ve all heard about Julian—he was spirited into St. Augustine once to help General Magee!”

“Yes.”

“Well.” The girl smiled suddenly. “Whatever your affiliation, Mrs. Douglas, I’m glad that you seem to have a generosity of the soul. There is a young man in our infirmary who is dying—and he is an old friend of yours.”

“Who is it?”

“Canby Jacobs. He said his parents have a little cattle ranch a few miles west of your family home near Tampa.”

“Canby, yes. I went to school with his sister, years ago.”

“Come with me, if you’ll see him.”

“Of course I’ll see him.”

“He said that you may not. That you might consider him a traitor, and not want to have anything to do with him.”

“I will see him gladly.”

“Good. Follow me.”

Tia followed Cecilia Bryer through a number of single soldier’s tents. She saw in the distance that some of the men were going through drills. A few were at leisure about the camp, tending to their laundry, writing at makeshift desks, reading. One lone soldier played a sad lament upon a harmonica, but stopped as they passed him by. “Mornin’, Miss Cecilia,” he said, nodding to them both.

“Good morning, Private Benson,” Cecilia said. Tia noted that he had no left foot.

They continued on to the large hospital tent. There were at least forty, maybe fifty beds in it. Flies buzzed; men groaned. Orderlies and nurses, male and female, moved about, changing bandages, talking to the soldiers, bringing water and what aid they could.

It was not as bad as the battlefield had been. They were not lying strewn about in pools of blood with slashed, missing, and mangled limbs.

But the soldier on the bed to which Cecilia led Tia was in very bad shape. A large, fresh bandage, already beginning to show the color of blood, covered half his torso. The left side of his face was covered with a bandage as well. She wouldn’t have recognized him as Canby Jacobs if Cecilia hadn’t told her his name.

“His lung is mostly shot away,” Cecilia whispered to Tia. “There’s nothing more we can do but keep the wound moist and clean. Take care if you change the bandage again.”

Staring at Canby, Tia nodded. She walked over to the bed. His one good eye was closed. His hand was upon his chest. She clasped it in both her own. His eyes opened. Deep and blue. The visible half of his lip curled into a smile. “Miss Tia, can it be!”

“Canby! Yes, it’s me. It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see me, but I don’t look so good, eh?”

“You’ll get better.”

“No, I’m dying,” he said flatly. “It’s all right. I made my choice. I knew what I was fighting for, and what I’m dying for, and I believe that I was right, and that God will be glad to greet me. I’m awful glad, though, that you agreed to see me. Thought you might not. My folks split up over this, you know. My mother is in Savannah now. Pa died with the Massachusetts Fourth Artillery last spring.”

“Canby, I’m so sorry. I’ll write to your mother.”

“You needn’t write to her, Tia. She said that her son was dead the day I signed up with the Union.”

“She can’t have meant it. No mother—”

“Not all folks were like yours, Miss Tia!” he said, then smiled again. “I always had such a crush on you. Even now, I can see you when your father had his fine parties at Cimarron! Why, you danced and you teased—and you were nice to every fellow there, including ugly poor boys like me!”

“Canby, you were neither ugly nor poor!”

“So you married Colonel Douglas—now that’s mighty fine. He’s a good fellow, Miss Tia. You’ll see that more when the war is over. Reckon, though, I shouldn’t be so surprised that you did come to see me. Your father is one mighty fine man, one I sure do admire. He loves both his sons, no matter what path they chose. Guess he taught you the same.”

“I do love both my brothers.”

“And Colonel Douglas.”

“And my friends, Canby, no matter what side they chose!” she told him. She didn’t want him to see the way she was noting how quickly his bandage was filling with blood. “Canby, I need to change this bandage for you.”

“No, just leave it be.”

But she called to an orderly for a fresh bandage. The limping fellow who glanced her way knew what Canby needed.

As he came over with fresh linen for the wound, Canby said, “Tia, I do need you to write for me—to my wife. I found a right pretty little thing while I was in training camp first of the war, up in D.C. Her name is Darla. Darla Jacobs. And we got us a fine little boy, a real beauty. Can you tell her that I died thinking of her, loving her, and not to grieve too hard or too long, but raise our boy to be a happy child and a good man. Will you tell her ... tell her that I died with faith and courage.”

“Of course, Canby.”

The orderly had arrived with fresh linen. Tia carefully started to remove the old bandage. Her heart seemed to stop in her throat. Half his chest had been blown away; the lung was raw and exposed.

She quickly applied the new, dry bandage.

“Sing to me, Tia. ‘Amazing Grace.’ I remember when you and your ma used to do that at the piano at Cimarron. Your pa would gaze on you both so proud, and you were just like a pair of nightingales, or Rose Red and Rose White, your ma so blond and you so dark! It was so beautiful, I thought the angels could hear!”

“I’ll sing, Canby. You save your breath.”

“Miss Tia, there ain’t nothing to save it for! I got the one lung left, so might as well speak while I can. Father Raphael is on his way over. Most companies have Episcopal ministers, but here we got lots and lots of Irish fellows. So we’ve got ourselves a Catholic priest!”

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

“Sing for me. I think the angels will listen to you, Miss Tia, more than a priest.”

She smiled, squeezed his hand, and began to sing, very softly. But as she drew in breath for the second verse, another soldier called out, “Louder, please, miss, for all of us!”

And so she did. And when she had finished the last verse and looked down, Canby was already dead. He had died with a slight curve to his lips, as if he had, indeed, seen the angels coming.

She had seen so many men die. They died the same in Union blue as they did Confederate butternut and gray.

She lowered her head, tears sliding down her cheeks as she held his lifeless hand.

In Dr. Bryer’s private quarters, Ian had spread a number of maps over the camp desk, describing the main situation of the war as he had seen it in the last meeting he had attended in D.C. “As far as the situation here, little has changed. I have often given my opinion—that nothing less than a major thrust against the peninsula will work. The people here are tenacious, and those who would declare for the Union are often too afraid of repercussions if they state themselves Federals. To win a major battle, you would need a major army. The blockades, however, are tightening. Colonel Bryer, you’re to have a few more weeks in the field, then I’m afraid that our captured wounded and missing must be abandoned. You’re to return to St. Augustine, the men will be given light duty there, and then returned to heavier duty with the Army of the Potomac.”

“These men have been through a lot,” Colonel Bryer said. “It was an even battle, and a bloody one, and these men were wounded by swords, cannon fire, bullets, and bayonets, as in any other battle.”

“And so the time spent in St. Augustine will be considered a vacation by many of the soldiers,” Ian said.

“I fear the war will go on here as it has—with neither side gaining much in victory, but losing many in death,” Taylor said. He looked at Ian. “I assume you have new orders for me as well?”

Ian nodded, handing him a leather-bound, waterproofed case. Reading the paper within, Taylor looked up at Ian. “This will be like looking for a needle in a haystack!” he said.

“I know. I admit—I’m glad they gave you the duty, and not me.”

“And why do you think they have done so?”

Ian stared at him for a minute. “Because you’re Indian,” he said flatly. “They will always believe that because of your blood, you know the swamp a little better, you are a little craftier—more able to manage such a duty.”

“What is the duty?” Bryer asked curiously. “If I am allowed to know. I have served some time now with Colonel Douglas. I have served with no better man.”

Taylor glanced at Bryer, somewhat surprised by the crusty old soldier’s dedication to him. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “But I’m afraid that the mission is to be confidential. I’ll be leaving you in a few days’ time.”

“Colonel Douglas,” he began, “I know my rank and I know my work, but I am a medical man, and not prepared to lead this camp as you have done.”

“I had thought I was to be leaving this morning,” Ian said; “but a messenger arrived from St. Augustine this morning, asking us to delay bringing in so many units of cavalry along with your sorely wounded men. I will be staying here for a time before taking the companies to St. Augustine. Then I, too, will rejoin the Army of the Potomac, just a little later than I had expected.” Ian turned back to the maps again. “On the ninth of March, Lincoln put Ulysses Grant in overall command of the armies. These are the goals: Meade remains head of the army under Grant and is to attack Lee’s army, as we have attempted throughout the war. General Butler is to take his forces up the south bank of the James River from Fortress Monroe, Siger is to sweep through the Shenandoah Valley, Sherman is to attack Atlanta and Banks is to ride on and assault Mobile.”

“And it will end the war?” Ayers asked.

Taylor let out a grunt. “If it all succeeds.”

“Grant doesn’t care how many men he kills,” Bryer added.

“Ah, but we complained that too many of our generals were overly cautious! Meade should have chased Lee after Gettysburg. This fratricide might have ended by now,” Taylor said.

“But do you think we can win soon?” Bryer asked.

Taylor stared over at Ian, then shrugged and pointed to the map. “Renowned Confederate General P. T. Beauregard is in here somewhere—and he’ll do his damned best to detour anyone from Richmond. Jubal Early could catch up with the men in the Shenandoah—”

He broke off suddenly, listening. Someone was singing. A plaintive ballad, in a high, clear voice, both sweet and powerful.

“My sister,” Ian murmured.

“I know,” Taylor said, rising. He slid his despatch into the inner pocket of his frockcoat and started out of Bryer’s living quarters. The small tent was not far from the larger one where the colonel and his nurses tended to the wounded they had managed to gather. Since the day was warm, the canvas walls had been rolled up so that the breeze could cool the injured men.

Tia was seated on a camp chair in the middle of the tent. Someone had supplied her with a guitar; she strummed the chords lightly as she sang her song—one popular with both Northern and Southern soldiers, promoting neither side, but ruing the cruelty of death.

She had a rapt audience.

The soldiers with camp cots lay upon them; amputees with bandaged stumps sat on the ground or leaned against trees just outside the enclosure. Nurses and orderlies had halted in their tasks. And even Cecilia had stopped her busy fretting around “her boys” to enjoy the fact that, for once, they seemed to have forgotten their pain.

When Tia finished her song, they applauded.

“Play ‘Dixie’!” someone called to her.

Her eyes shot up with surprise as she looked for the speaker.

“Ma’am, it’s me, over here. My name’s Corporal Hutchins. I was born right smack on the Suwannee River, though I went to school up in New York. I’m still a Southerner—I just don’t cotton to the idea of breaking up the Union. So play ‘Dixie’ for me, if you will. The boys won’t mind.”

“You could play any danged thing you want, Mrs. Douglas, and we won’t mind a bit!” another man called.

And so she sang “Dixie.” Then someone asked her that since she was in a Union camp and they had all enjoyed “Dixie,” would she mind terribly doing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and she hesitated, but then she sang the song. And when she was done, she handed the guitar back to one of the men and thanked them.

“Don’t you worry none about Canby Jacobs, Mrs. Douglas!” the man who had asked for “Dixie” called out to her. “We fellows will put in money from our pay, get him properly embalmed so that he can be returned to that young wife of his!”

“Maybe he wanted to be buried on Florida soil,” she said softly.

“He loved Florida, but he loved his wife more.”

“Then that will be very kind, sir, if you can see that his body is returned to his wife. Properly put back together.”

She started walking through the tent. Taylor was still some distance from her, and he was sure she hadn’t seen him yet.