Charlotte picked a handful of pebbles from the basket and sorted through them in her palm before dropping several of the small stones into her boot. “They’ll march straight for the Capitol building, where they will unfurl the flag and raise the Stars and Stripes.”
Elizabeth clasped her hands together and pressed them under her chin, as if in prayer. “The Union has always seen Richmond as the holy grail of the war effort, believing when they captured the city the horror would end.”
“Seven hundred fifty thousand dead,” Charlotte told her. “This war will always be a central, tragic chapter in American history.”
Elizabeth clutched her chest as she gasped for a breath, shock on her flushed face. “Seven hundred fifty thousand? My heart breaks for all the wives and mothers and sisters.”
Charlotte got up and tested the feel of the stones, which she’d placed evenly across the bottom of the boot for maximum discomfort, against the sole of her foot. She took a few steps, hissing between her teeth. The sensation was similar as walking barefoot across broken shells on the beach. There was absolutely no chance she’d forget which leg was supposedly injured.
Elizabeth remained sitting, distracted and muttering, her face now pale as she fingered the brooch pinned to her neckline.
Charlotte returned to the settee, relieved to take the pressure off her already-tender foot. She shucked her boot, removed half the stones, and tried again. She only needed a reminder, not excruciating pain.
“I know you’re curious about the information Jack and I share with you.”
Elizabeth waved her hand in a shooing motion. “No, no. I have no reason to doubt you. Although I do pray the number of war dead is exaggerated.” She fell into a troubled silence for several moments then roused herself. “How can the country recover from a loss of such magnitude? An entire generation of men—husbands, sons, fathers, brothers, friends—gone.”
Elizabeth reached for the decanter of sherry and crystal glasses on a small table next to the settee. Distractedly, she lifted the narrow-necked bottle while gazing out the window. “You seem to know the future, Charlotte. Tell me this. Will the South ever recover?”
Charlotte took the decanter from Elizabeth and poured two glasses. Then she sipped slowly, considering her answer. Finally, she decided to tell Elizabeth the truth. “The war has decimated the South, as you know. It’s lost its manpower, roads, bridges, railroads, and will soon lose most of the labor force upon which it depends. A cycle of poverty is beginning. Income and wealth have already plummeted and will continue to do so. The Old South will take almost a century to recover before it emerges as the New South.”
Elizabeth tipped up her glass and emptied the contents in one long swallow, her eyes tear-glazed. Her shoulders lifted and dropped on a shuddering breath. “I wasn’t prepared to learn we have such a dire future.”
Letting both warmth and apology show in her voice, Charlotte said, “I could have been less direct. Would you have preferred I coated the South’s future in sugar to make it easier to digest? This devastates me, too. Richmond is my family’s home.”
“We’ve done what we had to do to get through the war. We’ll do what we have to do to recover.” Then the steel in Elizabeth’s voice seemed to melt, though the gritty determination in her eyes did not. “I’ll leave you now to finish your preparations.” Elizabeth left the room, sniffling, and quietly closed the bedroom door behind her.
Charlotte went to the window and gazed out over the lush gardens toward the James River, listening to the cannon and musket fire in the distance. She didn’t have a view of the river from her house near the hospital, but she enjoyed the view from Mallory Plantation, where she spent most weekends.
She and Braham had ambled along the banks during his recovery. Their animated conversations had skittered across the river’s surface like skipping stones. Had there been any other time in her life when she experienced such contentment? Why was he able to feed her soul in ways no other man ever had? Why couldn’t she have found him in her own time?
She blinked and shook her head, making no sense of it.
Once the brooch had plucked her off the reenactment field, her life was no longer her own. Some puppeteer had a tight hold on her marionette strings, letting her periodically believe she was in charge of her life, but she had actually lost a great deal of control. Someone, or something, was pulling her strings, directing her movements. It was time to dance to her own music again.
She set her mouth in a hard, thin, resolute line. After today, there’d be no more adventures, no more danger and uncertainty. The twenty-first century was waiting for her return, and she was ready to go.
But wait a minute. There might still be a chapter to write. If Braham remained in prison, he would be marched south and would be out of Washington on April 14—the date of the assassination. He wouldn’t have a chance to change history…but would he be able to survive until Lee surrendered?
She had returned to the past to stop Braham from changing history. But if she allowed him to die in captivity, she’d never recover from the guilt. She was damned if she did, and damned if she didn’t. She snatched her slouch hat off the bed, forced self-flagellating thoughts from her mind, and limped from the room.
54
Richmond, Virginia, April 1, 1865
Dr. Carlton Mallory hobbled down Eighteenth Street toward Castle Thunder, humming low in her throat to warm her vocal cords for her male speaking voice. The distant din of cannons thundered over the city. Army supply wagons rumbled through streets clogged with bewildered people who roamed aimlessly. They were all waiting to see what would happen next. If she told the citizens the Yankees wouldn’t hurt them, they wouldn’t believe her anyway.
Over the trees, osprey soared through the warm air, patrolling the shoreline, their sharp, hooked black bills and white heads gleaming in the tranquil blue sky, while the sun dropped slowly in the west. The dang birds were probably more vigilant than the Confederate Army. Too bad they couldn’t swoop down and carry Jack off and drop him in the river. Her brother’s brilliant idea had lost its appeal a couple of blocks back, when jabs of pain from the stones in her boot began to ricochet up her leg. From experience with running injuries, she knew pain reflected in tightness around her eyes. Ah, well. It would enhance her cover story, although at the expense of her foot and leg.
She patted her breast pocket. The crackling of paper reassured her that the signed order was still there. She hoped the sweat trickling down from her armpits and between her bound breasts didn’t soak the order, making it unreadable before she could produce the document for the prison guards. Although it gave her the authority to evaluate all sick and wounded prisoners held in all the Richmond prisons, she certainly didn’t plan to visit all the facilities, but it was imperative the guards believed her assignment wasn’t exclusive to Castle Thunder.
Jack was positioned on the corner across the street from the prison, exactly where he had planned, and was already shouting news of the evacuation to passersby. “It’s time to say your mournful good-byes,” he yelled from the corner like a man on a soapbox. “The city will soon fall to the hated Yankees.” His shouts provided a beacon for people who were swarming the streets searching for safety. Prison guards remained at their stations, although their glances and mutterings suggested even they were distracted by Jack’s proclamations.
The dark wood of Castle Thunder’s Cary Street entrance loomed closer with each hobbled step. How many soldiers and civilians had been dragged through the passage, wondering if they would ever emerge alive? She imagined men and women clinging to the doorframe to keep from being thrown into a forgotten pit. Charlotte didn’t plan to be another quill mark in the prison’s ledger.
Her uniform was fittingly stained and worn and created the perfect costume for the role she was playing in the afternoon tableau Jack had scripted. She was used to telling patients what to do, and expected them to follow her orders. Jack, on the other hand, studied people and had a far
better understanding of human motivational and situational behavior. He believed if he added to the guards’ stress, their anxiety would reduce the attention they paid to their jobs and to Charlotte. She wasn’t fully convinced, but she hoped he was right.
She was only a few yards away from her destination when a red-haired soldier skedaddled from Jack’s corner, ran across the street, and dashed toward the door of the prison, where a gaggle of soldiers had gathered on the doorstep.
“What? The army’s evacuating?” The reek of the soldiers’ fear surged through the crowd like the leading edge of an incoming tide.
“Yep. Tonight.” The red-haired soldier’s voice wobbled slightly. “Depot’s already pressed with civilians trying to get out of town ’fore the army leaves.”
Another soldier raked fingers through his disheveled hair. “I need to get my family on a train right quick.”
The red-haired soldier shook his head. “Only a few left going to Danville. No room on ’em. Folks are bein’ told to go home or try the packet boats on the canal.”
“Boats? Ain’t no boats to carry nobody anywheres unless you can pay with gold.”
A guard who had been listening from the door came out onto the stoop. “Won’t do no good to go home. Damn Yankees will bust down the door and shoot ’em dead.”
Another soldier rocked back on his heels, leaned against the wall, and shoved his hands under his armpits. “What about President Davis and the rest of the government?”
The red-haired soldier stretched his neck, looking up and down the street like he expected to see the Union Army marching toward him with guns cocked and loaded. “Heard they’re packing up to leave tonight, too.”
The rocking soldier stopped rocking. “Jesus.”
The redhead punched him in the arm, flashing a nervous grin. “Didn’t hear no news about him. Reckon he’ll stay or go, depending on who needs him more.”
There was a smattering of nervous chuckles.
Charlotte hobbled up to the group. “We’re evacuating,” she said. “President Davis is moving the government south. I’m here to count the number of prisoners who can’t walk without support. Step aside. Let me through.”
The soldiers came to attention, saluting. “Yes, sir. We heard. What happens to us if Richmond falls?”
Charlotte leaned on the silver-handled malacca walking stick on loan from Elizabeth. “You’ll keep fighting. If General Lee believes the Confederate cause is best served by abandoning the capital, you’ll follow him.”
“Can I help you, sir?” the red-haired soldier asked, holding the door for Charlotte to enter. “I’m on guard duty.”
“Good. You can escort me to the sick bay.”
As soon as she stepped past the prison door, the smell of rot and decay assaulted her. The building had no ventilation, and the stifling air was like an impenetrable thicket of poison ivy. She angled her body back toward the exit and, without thinking, pressed her foot down hard on the stones, knocking herself off balance in an effort to avoid the pain. She toppled sideways, slamming her shoulder into the wall.
The soldier grabbed her arm. “You okay, sir?”
“Damn leg,” she said. The stones were stark reminders of what she was doing and why.
The red-haired soldier, a private, told a guard stationed at a desk inside the door, “We’re evacuating Richmond. The doctor’s got to count the prisoners who cain’t walk.”
A coarse man, roughhewn, reeking of well-aged perspiration, and built like a bull, saluted her. Then he lowered his head, studying her. “Never seen you ’afore, Major. You got an order?” he asked in a deep, staccato voice. He set his jaw and slapped the desktop with stubby fingers tipped with dirty, bitten nails.
She pulled the order out and handed it over. “Can’t have just anybody walk in off the street and demand to see your prisoners, can you?”
He read the document, or appeared to, before handing it back. “Like I said. Never seen you ’afore.”
“You heard of Mallory Plantation? We’ve lived there for over a hundred years. I was with the Second Corps of Northern Virginia until I was wounded last month. Just now getting out, starting to walk a bit.” She was jabbering and needed to shut up. “Can’t stand for long. Haven’t been able to operate, but I can do this job while others treat the wounded and prepare to evacuate.”
The private, beanpole thin and jittery, moved closer to the desk. “We don’t have much time. Yankees is comin’.”
The sergeant’s brow creased as he eyed the private. A moment of intimidating silence saturated the air around the desk. Then the sergeant hawked and spat a blob of tobacco juice, which landed on the floor with a splat, missing the spittoon by mere inches. Charlotte tamed her rolling eyes and moved her foot away from the dark brown spot, one of many wet patches on the wood plank. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of her face, but she ignored it, letting it plop to her collar. He waved Charlotte away as if she were an annoying fly. His lips compressed, showing only the edges of decaying teeth. “Private Franklin will show you to sick bay.”
“And if I need anything else—” The front door blew open.
Six guards rushed in, crowding the entry. She inched back out of the way before they could crush her with grossly sweating bodies reeking of unwashed male, fear, and onions. The distraction was a welcome relief, and untied one of the many knots in her stomach. The men and their concerns should keep the sergeant occupied while she searched for Braham.
“Richmond’s being evacuated—”
“They’re opening the banks—”
“On a Sunday afternoon—”
“So customers can get their money to leave town—”
The sergeant worried the flesh of his lower lip with one of his crooked yellow teeth as he followed the conversations. “I ain’t got no money to get out.”
“The mayor announced to the city council—”
“The government’s leavin’—”
“Two militia companies are staying to protect the city—”
The sergeant spat again. This time he hit the spittoon. “Doubt they’ll be able to protect the city from looters. Nobody wants to stay. Don’t blame ’em none.”
The buzz of activity surrounding the sergeant’s desk continued. He gave the red-haired private a dismissing wave. “Whatever the major needs, see he gets it.”
The private pointed down a hallway. “This way, sir.”
When they reached the end, he pushed opened a door. A guard leaning haphazardly on the back legs of a chair, dropped his feet, jumped to attention, and saluted. Charlotte gagged at the filth and fetid smell in the room.
“We’re evacuating,” the private said.
The guard’s eyes widened. “When?”
“Tonight.” The private swung his head, doing a sweep of the room, his eyes darting quickly from one row of prisoners to another. “The doctor’s here to count the patients who can’t walk.”
“Got several. Where we takin’ ’em?” the guard asked.
Charlotte continued breathing through her mouth, avoiding the man’s sweet-sour odor. “South.”
“By train?” the private asked.
She shook her head. “No trains. No wagons. No ambulances. Those who can’t walk get left behind.”
The bare rafters supporting the floor above creaked as soldiers moved around upstairs. Sturdy bars covered open windows, leaving the prisoners exposed to weather and temperature extremes. Dark splotches covered the dank prison walls. She hated to guess what caused them. Even the naked posts and beams were splattered with stains. Although she couldn’t see the ticks, fleas, and rats, she knew they skirted the room, spreading disease. Even thinking about the vermin made her scalp itch.
The floor was slick with slime, and wet as well. Patients lay moaning on straw mats on the floor. Several patients, lying in their own filth, had pustulant sores. Others had wounds wrapped in old, bloody bandages. All the semi-naked men appeared emaciated. Those who were aware enough to notice her a
rrival tracked her movements with vacant eyes.
Man’s inhumanity to man. Robbie Burns got it right. But her favorite verse on inhumanity was from Alan Paton: There is only one way in which one can endure man’s inhumanity to man and that is to try, in one’s own life, to exemplify man’s humanity to man. Her grandfather had taught her the verse, and it had probably been largely responsible for her decision to go to medical school instead of law school.
But right now, she had to endure man’s inhumanity. “I’ll start at the far end and work my way back here.” She needed a minute or two to compose herself, to shut down feelings, and turn off her emotions. Her cane thudded rhythmically against the floor as she shuffled down the long line of straw mats.
Her mind flashed to Lincoln’s most prominent feature—the perpetual look of sadness. He’d been to the battlefields, he’d read the prison reports. No wonder he was so burdened with sorrow. She doubted she’d ever make it through a day in the future without having flashes of these men who’d been treated like rubbish.
When she reached the end of the row, she knelt beside the first patient. If he had been dead for a week, he couldn’t have smelled worse. No bath in months, a bloody bandage around his leg. She didn’t need to remove it to know the tissue beneath was gangrenous. He was a shell of a man with sunken eyes and a cachectic body.
“What’s your name, soldier?” she asked.
His eyelashes fluttered and, after some effort, he opened his eyes and said in a weak voice, “Private Jeff Dougherty.”
“What hurts?”
“Not much don’t hurt, sir. I want to go home.”
She clasped a very dirty hand, but he barely had the strength to squeeze her fingers. “Just a few more hours,” she said. “Can you hang on?”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“How old are you, soldier?”
He didn’t change his pained expression, but something nameless passed between them. “Sixteen on my last birthday.”
He was merely a boy who would never grow to manhood.
The Sapphire Brooch Page 34
