Dark Chaos

by Ginny Dye

Carrie turned away and stared out over the masses of people gathering for General Jackson’s funeral. She knew Spencer was speaking the truth. How many of these somber-faced people knew that no matter how the war ended, the way of life they had always known would be changed forever? How many of them knew the war they were fighting for “states’ rights” had somehow evolved into a war for “equal rights?”

  Spencer seemed to read her mind. “It ain’t just that things gonna be different for blacks, Miss Carrie. I reckon they gonna be different for you, too.”

  Carrie swung around to gaze at him again. “What do you mean?” she asked even though she was fairly sure she knew.

  “You ain’t never gonna be satisfied to just be a Southern lady,” Spencer observed then chuckled. “But from what I’s can tell, you wadn’t never satisfied in the first place. I reckon you gots dreams too big for the South.”

  “Maybe not,” Carrie murmured. She knew she would have to go to the North to get her education, but maybe she wouldn’t have to stay in the North. Would the war make people change how they viewed women?

  “That’s what I mean,” Spencer replied. “There be women who be workin’ just like men now. With all the men done gone, women be findin’ out they can do things they never figured they could. Knowin’ things like that changes folks.”

  Carrie smiled. “You’re a wise man, Spencer. I think both of us will have to fight for our freedom to be the people we want to be.”

  A sudden loud noise caught her attention. She turned to stare down the street. Far in the distance she could see a dark mass moving toward her. “What in the world is that?” she asked. “It’s too early for the funeral procession.”

  Spencer stood on the carriage seat and shaded his eyes against the sun. “It sho be a lot of somethin’ headed this way.” He stepped back down. “I guess we know soon enough,” he said calmly.

  Carrie watched as the black mass drew closer. Then gradually she heard the cries and yells of the crowd. At first it sounded like cheering, but as the sound grew clearer she recognized angry tones. Soon she could pick out the taunts and calls.

  “You got what’s coming to you, Yankee!” an angry voice broke above the rest.

  “That’s what you get for coming down here where you don’t belong and killing our men!” another burst out.

  Carrie leaned forward, glad the carriage was sitting on a high rise of ground. From here she had a clear view of the street. “They’re Union soldiers!” she cried.

  “I reckon they be prisoners from the battle just over,” Spencer observed.

  “There are thousands of them,” Carrie whispered in a shocked voice. The street was full of marching men as far as she could see. Units of mounted Confederates rode alongside. “Where in the world are they going?” She knew from conversation with her father that the prisons down by the river were almost full.

  “I reckon they’ll be putting them men out on Belle Island,” Spencer said in a grim voice.

  Carrie didn’t know very much about the makeshift prison camp out on the island surrounded by the James River rapids. Her heart pounded as she wondered whether Robert was right then marching through a city somewhere up North. Had he been taken prisoner? Was he being ridiculed and taunted by people lining the streets?

  The angry calls of the crowd grew louder.

  “I hope you die in that prison out there!” one well-dressed lady screeched.

  “Y’all killed Stonewall Jackson!” an elderly man hollered, waving his cane wildly.

  Carrie watched as the people surrounding the old man ducked to protect themselves from his wicked cane. “Those men didn’t kill Jackson,” she protested. “It was our own men. It was an accident!”

  The old man heard her over the tumult and turned toward her threateningly. “That doesn’t matter. They would have killed him if they had the chance. And if they weren’t down here invading our country in the first place, nothing would have happened to our general!” His eyes flashed as he raised his cane again.

  Carrie stared at him in fascinated horror. She tried a different approach. “That could be your son out there, sir. How would you want him to be treated?”

  If anything, the old man’s eyes grew angrier, almost bulging from his reddened face. “It couldn’t be one of my sons!” he screamed hoarsely. “They’ve both been killed by those Yankee marauders! I’d give anything to know they were in a Yankee prison somewhere.” His words seemed to sap him of his frantic energy. He lowered his cane while his body sagged as if the memory of his boys was more than he could take.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Carrie said sympathetically, her heart aching for his loss.

  “Oh, what does it matter?” The old man suddenly looked every bit of his age. He turned away, mumbling under his breath.

  Carrie watched as the long line of prisoners streamed by. Her heart ached for each one. The tired faces bore expressions of fear, defiance, sorrow, and pain. Many of the men had been wounded and hobbled down the street on crutches or with their comrades’ help . Some of them stared boldly at the angry crowd assaulting them. Most kept their eyes down, staring stoically at the street. She watched as long as she could stand but then turned away with a shudder.

  “War ain’t a pretty thing,” Spencer muttered.

  “It’s a horrible, wicked thing!” Carrie cried. “All of those men have someone at home who cares about them. When will this war ever end?” She battled the despair pressing down on her and tried desperately to find the hope she needed for just that day. Visions of Robert parading through a street overwhelmed her. Was he alive? Dead? Wounded?

  Carrie sagged against the seat. It was the same barrage of questions she had been battling since the war had begun. She had thought time might make them easier to handle, but time only wore her down and made the questions more fearsome and terrible.

  Finally the long line of prisoners disappeared into the distance, and the dust from their pounding feet settled again. Now that their anger had been released, the throngs of people were once more somber from their grief. Suddenly, all Carrie wanted was to go home to the quiet of her room, but she knew her father depended on her to be there. He would never understand if she wasn’t there for the funeral of one of the South’s greatest heroes. Respect for Robert held her there as well. She knew how highly he had esteemed the man he had served under.

  Carrie had lost track of time when she heard the boom of a gun from the Washington Monument just above where she sat. She tensed and lifted her head to peer down the street. The funeral procession was beginning. As the crowd grew silent, the too-familiar “Dead March” drifted toward them on the breeze. Men reached for their handkerchiefs, and women cried openly as the hearse eased into view.

  Four white horses decorated with black plumes pulled the hearse. The pallbearers were all generals. Following close behind was Stonewall Jackson’s mare, Little Sorrel, led by a servant. The saddle was empty, save for Jackson’s boots strapped to it. Tears misted Carrie’s vision as the somber procession filed by. The thud-thud of minute guns accompanied the long line of convalescing soldiers who had pulled themselves out of beds from Richmond hospitals to honor their fallen hero. Many of them wore bandages and moved on crutches, but their expressions were resolute.

  President Davis, looking drawn and haggard, and Vice-President Stephens rode behind them in an open carriage. Members of the cabinet walked behind two by two. Then came the long line of city and state officials, followed by a multitude of city employees, friends, and common citizens. Carrie searched until she located her father. He was walking erectly, his face resolute. He never glanced in her direction.

  The bright sun seemed a cruel mockery as a dark pallor spread across the Confederate capital. People lined the street long after the procession had disappeared and seemed to find comfort in their universal mourning. Finally they began to drift away.

  Carrie knew it would be many hours before her father would be home. She turned to Spencer. “I’d like you to take me down to t
he black hospital, please.”

  Spencer hesitated before he then looked at her directly. “I don’t reckon that be such a good idea, Miss Carrie.”

  “Why not?” Carrie asked in surprise. “We always go down there on Tuesday. There is still plenty of time left. There are people who need me.”

  “Yessum, I know all ‘bout that,” Spencer said patiently. “If it wadn’t for you, them poor coloreds down there wouldn’t have nobody to look after them. They think you an angel, sho nuff.” Then he shook his head. “I’s just don’t figure you should be going down there today.”

  Carrie could feel her frustration growing. It had been over a week since she had been there. The crush of wounded filling Chimborazo had kept her from going to the tiny hospital down on the river front in the black part of town. Nothing would stop her now. “I want to go,” she said firmly.

  Spencer shook his head stubbornly. “You done run into trouble down there before, Miss Carrie. Peoples in this town be pretty riled up about they hero being shot. Theys ain’t got nobody to take it out on so they’s gonna do what they usually do. They’s gonna take it out on the colored. Lots of them figure this war wouldn’t be happening if the North wadn’t so set on seeing us free.” He took a deep breath. “And that ain’t the worst of it. There been talk of coloreds fightin’ with the Union. If folks wadn’t riled before, they sho be now,” he said emphatically.

  “What’s that got to do with me?” Carrie demanded even though she knew very well what it had to do with her.

  “Folks ain’t gonna take kindly to a white woman going down into colored town,” Spencer said patiently, his voice imploring her to be reasonable. “You be in right much danger every time you go down there. But this time be different. Some folks just gonna be lookin’ for trouble. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Carrie patted her waistline. “I’m prepared for trouble,” she said grimly. “You know my father makes me carry a gun ever since that trouble last year. I’m a good shot,” she added. She realized Spencer’s stubborn expression hadn’t softened one bit, so she stood up and stepped from the carriage. “I’m going. With or without you,” she announced dramatically, knowing he would never let her go alone. “There are people there who need me. I will not let my fear of ignorant people stop me from doing what needs to be done.”

  Spencer sighed and picked up the reins. “I don’t know why I ever try to argue with you. I declare - you be the stubbornest woman I ever done met. Your daddy is gonna have me shot sho nuff if something happen to you.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Get in the carriage, Miss Carrie. You know I’s gonna take you.”

  Carrie grinned and got back in. “Thank you,” she said sweetly.

  Spencer rolled his eyes and clucked to the horses. “Darn fool crazy thing!” he muttered under his breath as the carriage began to move down the street.

  Carrie was relieved to see the streets emptying as they headed down the hill from the Capitol toward the river bottom. In spite of the confidence she had displayed to Spencer, she knew she was taking a huge risk coming down here. She still had vivid memories of the band of drunken men who had tried to stop her months before - angry because she was treating the blacks. One of her father’s friends had saved her but told her disdainfully that if she continued doing such a fool thing he would not step in to aid her again. She now carried a gun tucked into her waistband, but there had been no more threatening encounters. Why, then, was she so nervous tonight? She yearned for Janie’s company, all the while glad her friend had not been able to get away from Chimborazo. Together, the two of them made a difference in the lives of their patients. Dr. Wild even came down whenever possible to help with the more difficult cases.

  Carrie tensed and reached for her weapon when two scruffy-looking men stepped out into the road and glared at her carriage. Spencer, his back ramrod straight, didn’t even look at them. He just continued to drive straight forward. The two men glared at her for a long moment, then scowled, and turned away. Carrie sank back against the seat in relief but still gripped the pistol. Something about the air today spoke of trouble brewing. Please God, let it be my imagination.

  Pastor Anthony waited outside the ramshackle building when the carriage rolled up. Looking around nervously, he met her as she stepped down. “Are you sure it’s a good idea for you to be here today?”

  Carrie managed a casual laugh. “My services are no longer good enough for you?” she teased. “Or have all my patients gotten well and gone home?”

  Pastor Anthony grabbed her arm and pulled her into the building. As they reached the door, he turned back to Spencer. “Put the carriage in back and come inside. It’s not safe for you out here.”

  Carrie tried to control her growing alarm. “Has something happened?” There was no teasing now.

  “Two of my parishioners were attacked this morning. For absolutely no reason.” He shook his head sorrowfully, his voice edged with anger. “The group of cowards who jumped them said they were going to do away with them before they could escape to the North and join up with the Union army.”

  “Did they kill them?” Carrie asked anxiously.

  “They’re two of your new patients,” Pastor Anthony replied, his normally kind blue eyes flashing. “It’s a miracle they’re still alive. They were beaten up pretty badly.”

  Carrie tightened her lips and reached for her bag of supplies. “Show me where they are.”

  The usually cheerful little hospital was quietly somber as she walked briskly down the aisle. There were smiles sent her direction, but there was none of the loud greetings that usually heralded her arrival. Normally bright eyes were now hooded and fearful. Carrie wanted to shout out they were safe here. She remained silent. She couldn’t bring herself to lie.

  Carrie stifled a groan as she approached the beds of the two beaten men. She was sure the two would be unrecognizable to family or friends now. Their faces had been beaten to a pulp; cuts and lacerations were evident on the rest of their bodies. One man had had both arms broken. They were obviously both in shock. Carrie pushed down the anger at whoever had done this and tried to concentrate on saving them.

  One of the ladies acting as a nurse hurried up. “I done cleaned them up as best I could,” she said breathlessly. “I done found some of that stuff you made up from the persimmon bark and cleaned all their cuts the best I could.” She paused then whispered fearfully. “You think they’s gonna make it, Miss Carrie?”

  “They’re going to be fine,” Carrie stated briskly, hoping she was right. There was no telling how much brain damage might have been done by the savage attack. It would be days before anyone would know. “I want more blankets on them,” she ordered, then turned to Pastor Anthony. “Please bring me a bottle of my stramonium leaves and maypop root. It will alleviate some of their pain.” Carrie turned back to her patients. She needed to set the broken bones first.

  It was almost dark when Carrie left the hospital. She had hoped to get away earlier, but two weeks’ absence had left a lot to be done. Every part of her ached from fatigue.

  Pastor Anthony accompanied her to the carriage. “I wish I could take you home,” he said anxiously. “But I feel I have to stay here at the hospital.” He gazed around at the deepening shadows. “They may need me.”

  Carrie reached out and touched his arm. “We’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Spencer and I have done this plenty of times.”

  Pastor Anthony nodded and stepped back reluctantly. “Be careful.”

  Carrie waved as Spencer picked up the reins. “See you soon,” she promised, swallowing her fear as she looked down the road into the dark pockets cast by the surrounding buildings. Spencer urged the horse into a fast trot. Carrie knew he was as anxious to reach her father’s house as she was. She leaned forward, silently urging the horses to hurry.

  They had gone less than one hundred yards and had just rounded a curve when the horse jarred to a halt, rearing up in its traces and pawing the air wildly. Carrie gasped and slammed
back against the seat as Spencer grabbed the sides of the carriage to keep his balance. She had just straightened herself when a group of about ten men stepped from the shadows of a building. The man in the lead calmly coiled the long whip he had just snapped in front of the horse.

  “Miss Cromwell, I presume,” he drawled in a nasty voice.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Carrie remained seated, fighting to remain calm. “Who is asking?”

  “Me and the boys here,” he snarled. “The name is Pickett.”

  “Well, Mr. Pickett, if you’ll excuse us, we must be on our way,” Carrie snapped.

  The skinny, disheveled man stepped closer, hefting his whip in his hand. “Yeah. It ain’t real safe to be out this time of the night.” Suddenly he reached out and grabbed the horse’s bridle. “But I don’t reckon you’re going to be on your way just yet.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Carrie could feel her heart pounding in her ears. Spencer was ramrod straight, motionless in his seat. Suddenly she realized she had put not only herself but also him in grave danger. Visions of the two men beaten earlier that day rose to taunt her.

  “Now, Miss Cromwell, we ain’t aiming to do you no harm. At least not tonight,” he sneered with an evil grin.

  “My name is Mrs. Borden,” Carrie said arrogantly, hoping the idea of a husband would cause them to think twice about whatever they intended to do.

  “You mean there’s a Mr. Borden who lets his wife come down to take care of a bunch of niggers?” Pickett snarled. “He must be one of them cowards who are letting other men fight for his country.”

  “Captain Borden,” Carrie said coolly, “has just fought in the battle against Hooker’s forces.” She took a deep breath and continued angrily. “May I ask where you and your men were while that battle was being fought?”

  Pickett blanched with anger but then quickly uncoiled his whip. “I reckon I’ve heard all your female trash I intend to listen to. It’s obvious from all the talk that you don’t know the proper place of a Southern woman. I know all about your being a nigger lover.” He moved closer to Spencer. “I reckon this be one of your niggers, ain’t he?” He motioned to the men behind him. “I reckon we’ll rough him up like we did them two this morning. That’ll be one more that won’t be fighting with them Yankees.”