by Linda Swift
"Hear, hear."
"God bless you."
"How about it, boys, have you any words?" called someone in the group and Talmage responded.
"We'll make quick work of those government dictators."
"And we'll show the Abolitionists they can't tell us what to do with our property," Sylvester chimed in.
"Bravo."
"Well said."
Josiah waited a moment for further comments and then continued, "And now, my daughter has asked me to invite you to help yourselves to the refreshments in the dining room and then enjoy the dancing and visiting with one another."
The group dispersed, some to the scrumptious buffet, others to the ballroom.
"Would you like some refreshments, Malcolm?" Clarissa asked, determined to play the dutiful wife in spite of her husband's surly mood.
"Only more of this," he waved his empty glass and a servant appeared with a tray from which he took another whiskey.
The musicians struck up a lively tune in the room across the hall and Clarissa said wistfully, "The dancing has begun. Do you think we might—"
"Dancing, in your delicate condition?" Malcolm scoffed.
"Malcolm, the others are waiting." Sylvester said as he came to stand beside Clarissa. "Are you joining us in another hand of cards?"
Malcolm lurched to his feet. "Union gunboats couldn't keep me away. Time to recoup my losses." Without so much as a word to his wife, he clamped a hand on his brother-in-law's shoulder and followed him toward the library.
Clarissa made her way to the ballroom and slipped into one of the chairs along the wall. It took only a moment to spot Angeline, radiant in the borrowed plum silk gown, dancing with her attentive escort. How innocent her sister was, and how hopeful of the future, just as she had been only a year ago. But perhaps, for Angeline, the future's promises would come to pass. If only the war would end quickly and life in the South could go on as before.
Nathan whispered something to the musicians and with a flourish of notes, the music stopped. Then, holding Angeline's hand, he announced their engagement. Amid the congratulations, Talmage stepped forward and asked for the group’s attention.
"Friends and family, not to be outdone by my cousin, I also have an announcement to make." He motioned for a young dark-haired girl to join him. "Tonight, Miss Mary Jane Townsend has consented to become my wife."
During the new wave of enthusiastic response, Clarissa met Angeline's eyes across the room. Surprise mirrored surprise. It was obvious to both that Talmage had proposed to Sylvester's pretty sister on the rebound.
Things were happening so quickly it made Clarissa's head ache. As she watched the dancers whirl about the crowded floor she felt as though her own life was spinning out of control and she was keeping step to music she couldn't hear, propelled by a hand she couldn't see.
The long evening finally came to an end and Malcolm and Sylvester rejoined Talmage and Nathan as the guests bade them farewell and wished them a safe return. The four of them standing together in their new uniforms, three bearing such a striking family resemblance, presented a vivid tableau of Southern manhood eagerly embracing the coming war.
When only the family members were left, Lydia instructed a servant to fetch the remaining wraps. Moments later, Clarissa was surprised to see Lydia's personal maid approaching with her cashmere shawl. As Malcolm took it from the lovely quadroon, his hands lingered on hers and the intimate look that passed between them caused Clarissa's face to flush with anger.
"Goodbye, Ruane," Malcolm said softly before he turned to place the shawl on his wife's shoulders.
As the carriage bumped over the rough road in the darkness, the two couples inside made no effort at conversation. The newly-engaged Nathan and Angeline held hands, sadly aware of their imminent parting; while Malcolm and Clarissa remained rigidly apart as though an unseen passenger sat between them.
"I am Malcolm's wife. and this doesn't matter," Clarissa told herself over and over, and by the time they could see the lights of Chattanooga in the darkness, she was almost convinced that it was true.
CHAPTER FOUR
Manassas Junction, Virginia, July,1861
Philip leaned his aching back against a tree trunk and bent to massage his blistered feet. They had been marching for four days and he had become painfully aware of how unfit he was for soldiering.
It had been more than three months since his arrival in Washington and subsequent assignment to Lincoln Hospital. There he had mostly treated cases of fatigue from over-zealous marching by new recruits, diarrhea due to spoiled provisions, and injuries acquired in brawls that broke out among the troops whose tempers flared when confined to such close quarters.
Chafing at the misuse of his surgical skills, he had volunteered to accompany McDowell's army to Manassas Junction where a large force of the Confederate Army was encamped. Tonight, he was having second thoughts about the wisdom of his impulsive act.
"Captain Burke! Captain Burke!" The young fellow who had been assigned as his assistant limped toward him. "I've picked up a bit of news at the mess I thought you'd be interested in."
"The best news I could hear is that we'd not be marching tomorrow, Private." Philip winced as he pulled a heavy sock over one foot he had covered in salve.
"Better than that, sir," Jeb McCallon grinned, "they're saying Beauregard's army is a few miles from here just beyond a stream called Bull Run. And we're going to attack in the morning."
"Then I guess we're about to learn how well prepared we are." Philip thought of the regiment's single medical wagon with its meager store of supplies.
"Will we be setting up our tent here in the morning, sir?"
Philip considered the question thoughtfully. "I think we'll follow with the regiment's wagon trains and stop wherever they do. There's no one assigned to bear the wounded on stretchers, so we need to be as close as possible to the troops at the firing line."
"Then I'd best be getting some rest, sir. Good night."
Philip bade his young assistant goodnight and sat staring into space as the lengthening shadows of dusk blended into darkness. Behind him, the sounds of soldiers bedding down for the night took on a more significant meaning than on the previous nights. Tomorrow, they would go into battle and some would die. A feeling of dread, mixed with a strange sense of anticipation, caused him to shiver though the night was pleasantly warm.
For the first time, he regretted that he had re-enlisted for three years when Lincoln's call had come last month. But it had already become painfully clear to him that his brother Edward had been right, that it was going to be a long war, and he felt duty bound to defend the Union against the rabid secessionists. It had not been an easy sacrifice with the dreams he had of starting a practice in Oswego and of Katherine Kingsley at his side. Or more correctly, in his bed.
The lovely Katherine had written to him as she had promised, and a frequent correspondence had developed between them. He reached into his coat pocket and brought forth a crumpled envelope which contained her latest reply. He unfolded the single page of monogrammed vellum paper and although he could barely see the words in the fading light, he could visualize them from memory.
Oswego, New York
July 10, 1861
Dear Philip,
I have received your most welcome letter and am thankful to know that you are still in Washington. In another month, your service will be over and you can return to begin your practice. I see your mother often and she is most anxious to have you home again. She is well except for her anxiety for your safety.
I have been spending time with both your mother and Dorothea at the Ladies Aid Society where we roll bandages and do all sorts of things to help the Union cause. Your father and Thomas are spending long hours at the foundry, trying to keep production at a maximum. Virginia and Edward are quite busy at the newspaper, as you must imagine, so that we see little of them.
I shall look forward to your return when we may have an opportunity to ge
t to know each other better.
Very truly yours,
Katherine Kingsley
Philip wondered if Katherine had other suitors. She had seemed receptive to his interest and her letters had further verified that. He cursed himself for not paying more attention to her at last year's Christmas dinner when she'd first come to his attention. Perhaps if he had gotten to know her better then… But that was water under the bridge, now. He would keep writing to her and when he got leave, he would consider a formal proposal.
Meanwhile, he had to prepare himself for tomorrow's battle. Who could say if a decisive victory might lead to a full surrender of the Confederacy and mark the end of this war?
Philip slept deeply and was awakened at dawn by the sounds of soldiers preparing to march. The mess wagons were loaded to move and each man was on his own for breakfast. Jeb ground coffee beans in a bucket with the butt of his musket, then brought a cup of the boiled brew and Philip drank it hastily and choked down a bit of hardtack to keep up his strength. Even in Washington, the food had been his biggest adjustment to military life but at least there one could supplement the meager army rations with a more palatable fare for a hefty price.
Falling in with the wagon train which supplied the regiment, Philip and Jeb took turns leading the horses along the rough terrain that led to Manassas Junction. The sun grew warm and Philip cursed the heavy wool coat he wore, the burning blisters on his sore feet, the hot-headed abolitionists and secessionists who had brought about this damnable war, and most of all, his own misguided sense of duty that had brought him here.
They lurched along, flags flying, drums beating, with little sense of direction; soldiers calling to one another, some companies singing, the rumbling of wagons and cannon, of horses neighing, even an occasional rifle shot from some over-enthusiastic soldier.
Suddenly, over all the chaos, the sound of cannon fire up ahead signaled the beginning of the battle. Company commanders shouted orders, green recruits made fumbling attempts to follow the commands, and somehow the lines moved forward in some semblance of order.
"Here is where we'll stop, Private." Philip jerked the reins of the skittish horses and pulled the wagon to the side of the makeshift road. He loaded his own pistol and cocked the firearm and laid it beside the top box of bandages.
"Shall we throw up the tent, sir?" Jeb asked excitedly.
"Yes, there may be surgery needed if any are badly wounded," Philip told him and they commenced at once to ready the tent and set up a cot and lay by surgical instruments.
They didn't have long to wait. The battle raged furiously and reports from the front confirmed that the Confederate line had been broken and Rebel forces were fleeing. McDowell, certain of victory, halted the fighting to give his troops a chance to regroup. It was during this pause that the able-bodied soldiers began bringing the wounded and dying to the medical wagons.
Philip, with Jeb's aid, made valiant efforts to save what men he could but the grotesque wounds were unlike anything he had ever seen before.
"Ay, God, sir, look at this one," Jeb yelled as another makeshift stretcher was brought in.
Philip finished binding up a severe shoulder wound and released the patient to his weary comrades who were waiting nearby, then gave his attention to the new arrival.
"Another Minie Ball," Philip confirmed, ripping the remainder of the soldier's uniform away from his thigh to expose the long bone smashed into fragments. He considered the location of the injury and knew he had but one choice. "We'll have to amputate."
"But, sir—"
"Get the instruments ready, McCallon," he growled, then motioned for the stretcher bearers to lift the man onto the cot which served as an improvised operating table.
Because of his training at Harvard, Philip was certain that cleanliness was somehow related to healing and he deplored the unsanitary conditions in which he was forced to work. Washing his hands as best he could, he took the steel blade and prepared to remove the bleeding limb. "McCallon, the chloroform," he barked; then to the other men, "Hold him down, tight."
Taking a deep breath, Philip cut away the torn flesh, then sawed the bone and stanched the flow of blood with stitches. And finally, he bandaged the short stump and said, "It's finished."
At that moment, the chloroform wore off and the soldier turned his head and saw Jeb walking away with what remained of his severed leg.
“No!" he screamed, "God, no!" The stretcher bearers held him down until he passed out again, then Philip motioned them to take him further back where they might find an ambulance wagon to dispatch him back to Washington to the hospital.
McDowell ordered a second attack, and the carnage multiplied. In a few hours the stack of severed limbs beside the medical wagon had reached a sickening height, there no longer being time for Jeb to dispose of them where they couldn't be seen. Philip quickly learned to evaluate the type and location of the wounds the injured bore and select those he had a better chance of saving.
"Grape shot, arm smashed." A nod. "Minie ball, intestinal." Motioned aside. "Sword wound." A nod.
The hopeless cases bled to death while Philip and Jeb worked feverishly to save the chosen ones. And then amid the seemingly endless procession of battered humanity, came the soldiers in retreat. Orders were given to move the wagon trains, and Philip and Jeb made ready to join the rag-tag procession. Soldiers were rushing pell-mell toward the rear, others were sauntering along as though it had been a game and they were finished playing. And behind them all, the sound of Confederate cannon threatened but did not follow.
As they hurried back toward Washington, Philip became aware of civilian conveyances along the route, at times even blocking the retreat in their own haste to reach safety.
"Ay, God, reckon what the fine carriages are doing on this road, sir?" Jeb asked with a puzzled frown.
"Looks like the whole damned town came out for the show," Philip said in disgust. Men were suffering and bleeding and dying by the thousands, if he didn't miss the mark, and here were people making a holiday of it.
Philip gritted his teeth and plodded on. What he had seen today, no—what he had been a part of today—was unthinkable in a civilized society. There had to be better organization. More medical supplies, more attendants, a better way to treat the wounded in the field.
"McCallon, see if you can confiscate a horse for me. Beg, borrow, or steal it if you have to. I must get back to the hospital faster to help with the casualties."
"Yes, sir." Jeb disappeared into the confusion of the crowd.
If the army couldn't furnish supplies, there was one way he could obtain what was needed. He'd ask for leave and go home to Oswego and request that the town donate the necessities. He knew Edward and Virginia could be counted on to make an appeal for donations through the newspaper. And, of course, his mother and Dorothea were active in the Ladies Aid Society and they would be able to help. And don't forget Katherine Kingsley, a small voice reminded him, but it wasn't likely that he could forget the woman whose image was in his mind by day and his dreams by night.
He thought of her letter folded in his pocket and wanted to touch it just to reassure himself of a normal world out there beyond the grisly nightmare he was experiencing. But stained with the dried blood of dying soldiers, he dared not contaminate anything so pure, and he cursed the war and stumbled on.
• ♥ •
Chattanooga, July 1861
The relentless sun bore down on the vine-covered gazebo with all the intensity of summer in the South. Not a breeze stirred in the morning stillness and Clarissa fanned herself with the envelope before she opened the letter and re-read it once more
Richmond, Virginia
July 2, 1861
My dear Clarissa,
The package from home was most welcome. As I have said before, the army rations are not sufficient to satisfy a gentleman's palate and our Negroes are unable to purchase what we need here. Please convey my gratitude to my dear mother and to Harriet for their
efforts. I also speak for Talmage, Sylvester, and Nathan.
We are all fit and have adjusted to the rigors of army life fairly well in spite of the lack of comfortable quarters. There are thousands of soldiers milling about and a sense of confusion most often prevails.
By the time you receive this, we will have moved out of the city to an encampment at Manassas Junction which is only twenty-five miles from Washington. Imagine that. There is a rumor that we are preparing to take the capitol and bring an end to the war. If this comes to pass, I should be home shortly after the birth of my son. And yes, I am certain that the child you carry is a boy who will perpetuate the Wakefield name. I hope that you're in good health in the final days of your confinement and that the birth will go as it should.
The weather here is not as warm as in Tennessee at this time of year. And we have gotten reports from men who have scouted the Shenandoah Valley that it is very temperate and scenic, as well.
Give my best regards to my parents and to my sister and to yours. I'll endeavor to keep you posted on my whereabouts but don't concern yourself if my letters are less frequent as the fighting begins. We're looking forward to engaging the enemy as the tedious preparation has been rather boring for men of West Point. Talmage is still chafing over being given only Lieutenant Colonel rank instead of Colonel, as the rest of us, but it is due to his not having graduated from the academy before our enlistment. And because of our familiarity with musketry and marching, we four have been assigned to instruct the officers of separate companies who are unrefined volunteers, completely ignorant of military ways.
Very truly yours,
Malcolm J. Wakefield
He never spoke of love, and she was resigned to the knowledge that none existed between them. She supposed Malcolm only wrote to her because he knew she would share the letters with his family. More than three months had passed since the morning he and the others left, looking so splendid in their new uniforms, but it seemed much longer than that.
