by Linda Swift
"I'm sure the general didn't want to risk being trapped like Pemberton was at Vicksburg, Polly." Clarissa took down her hair and began to brush it slowly. "And a good thing he left when he did, with all those Union soldiers marching through here the very next day. So there didn't seem much point in sending Robert to Rossville with both armies going that way."
"But then Masta Josiah say get that child ready again and I do and now he change his mind."
"Well, how could he know there was skirmishing along the LaFayette Road until his own carriage was run off and overturned? It's a miracle he wasn't killed instead of just getting injured."
"That the truth."
"So we'll just have to keep Robert here and hope the fighting stays south of us." Clarissa laid down her brush. "I think I'll slip out to the veranda for a little while. We won't have many more warm evenings before cool weather." She pulled on her dressing gown and tied it loosely about her. "Don't wait up for me."
Stepping into the adjacent room, she kissed her sleeping son and stood looking down at him with pride. He was a handsome child, and such a good boy. And she had to admit that she was happy to have him here with her still, in spite of the possible danger.
Going down the stairs, she listened to the familiar sounds of the soldiers sleeping. The cots in the hallway were empty now, and pushed against the walls. There had been few casualties in the time General Bragg's forces had occupied the city; the hospital mostly treating dysentery and fevers and occasional broken bones or bruises from fights in the camps.
Tip-toeing past the snoring guard, Clarissa stepped onto the moonlit veranda and made her way toward a wicker chair facing the river. It was only as she sat down that she saw the glow of Philip Burke's pipe.
"Oh, excuse me, I thought—"
"That you would be alone? I was just finishing my pipe."
He made a move to stand, but she said quickly, "Please don't go. It is I who have intruded."
"I scarcely think so. This is your home after all, Mrs. Wakefield." He settled back in his chair and took another puff.
"Let's not belabor such a trivial matter, Captain Burke. I'm glad of someone to talk to."
"Then I'll stay for a while longer with your permission."
"Yes, do. The quiet seems eerie. As if we're suspended in motion, waiting for something to happen."
"Waiting for all hell to break loose." He didn't appear to notice his offensive language and she forgot it with his next words. "I've experienced this before. It's the lull before the battle."
"Do you really think so?"
"It's inevitable, with the Army of the Tennessee on the march and the Army of the Cumberland right on their heels."
"Perhaps General Bragg will just go on to Atlanta."
"With thousands of battle-ready troops at his command?" Philip asked drily. "Not likely."
"When do you think it will begin?" Clarissa asked with dread.
"Perhaps tomorrow. If not tomorrow, soon."
Clarissa shivered. "I wish my son was back at Fleur-de-Lis. What if the Union—"
"Have you forgotten I am a Union officer? You and yours will be safe as long as I'm here."
"Thank you, Captain."
Clarissa silently regarded the man who sat near her, his features highlighted each time he drew on the coals of his pipe. It was difficult for her to remember that he was a prisoner, but that must have been the thought uppermost in his mind all these months. And as he had reminded her, he was a Union officer. If the city was captured by the enemy, he would become her captor. It was not a pleasant thought.
The night sounds of early autumn filled the silence—dry flies and tree frogs and raucous insects too numerous to be identified. Clarissa became aware of Philip's eyes on her and a warm sensation began in the pit of her stomach and spread to her breasts and thighs. She watched his slender hand as he knocked the ashes from his pipe and imagined the hand touching her. She felt her heart flutter, and said with a catch in her voice, "I should go in now. It's getting quite late."
He stood at the same time she did, and they were only inches apart. Clarissa felt his warm breath on her face and dared not look up.
Her hair was luminescent silver flowing about her shoulders in the moon glow and Philip reached out to touch it and willed himself to stop. But his hands, with a will of their own, moved to her shoulders and she raised her head and met his eyes.
In a dream-like motion, they closed the space between them as their mouths slowly met, and with a long-repressed hunger they sated themselves. Their bodies melded, soft against hard, silk against wool, and a fire blazed between them that blotted out all else except their awareness of each other. He brought his hand to the back of her head and wove his slender fingers into her silken tresses; the kiss deepened as his tongue became a licking flame in her mouth. When the kiss finally ended, the flame licked the hollow of her throat and the rise of her breast as he pushed aside the fabric of her gown. Fire burned against her flesh in every place his tongue touched, and she arched against him, eager to be consumed by it.
"Clarissa, my beautiful Clarissa," he whispered. "No matter how hard I fight this, I can't stop wanting you. There's never an hour that you're not in my thoughts. I am obsessed by you."
She moved her hands from his chest to caress the sides of his face and he groaned with pleasure. "And I, you."
He cupped her against him and she linked her arms at the back of his neck as he bent his head to take her mouth again with greater intensity. "I tell myself that you are married, but it doesn't matter in what I feel. And I think you feel it, too."
"Yes, oh, yes," she whispered.
He held her away and looked into her eyes. "I was engaged to a fine woman. But I've told her I can't marry her now. It would be impossible when it's you I want."
"Is it she who writes you letters?" Clarissa asked curiously.
"Yes, she did, but not anymore."
"Oh, Philip, I'm so sorry."
"My father arranged an exchange for me while you were away."
Her heart plummeted, and she asked sadly, "And you'll be going soon?"
"I refused it. I couldn't bear to leave you."
Joy surged through her at his words. "You did this for me?" Her voice was filled with wonder.
"I've burned all my bridges, Clarissa, because of you. I know you could never be happy in my world, and now, I doubt that I could, either. And you would be scorned here in your world if you should break your vows for me." He stopped, hesitating to say what was in his heart, then plunged on. "But we could go West when the war is over, make a new world of our own. You, me, and Robert."
"My husband would never allow Robert to leave Whitehaven."
"We'd find a way. I have money. We'd get a lawyer and go to court, and swear that he abused you."
"How did you know—"
"Just a guess. Clarissa, darling, you've got to leave him. You can't live with a man who could do that to you."
"It was because I defied him to return to the hospital."
Philip cradled her head against his shoulder. "I'd like to kill him for hurting you. Please say you'll divorce him and be my wife."
Clarissa grew very still. Never had she expected to hear these words. And this was what she wanted more than anything on earth. But it was impossible. And when she told him the secret she hadn't yet shared with anyone, he would reject her and not want anything more to do with her. She would no longer be desirable to him when he knew, and she wanted to prolong this moment to remember for the rest of her life. "Philip, please say you love me."
"I love you, my darling Clarissa, now and forever."
"And I love you."
He lifted her chin and his lips brushed the tip of her nose, her eyelids, and the corners of her mouth. She moaned and pressed against him, memorizing the sensation of being held in his arms and feeling cherished and wanted. Their mouths met in a clash of passion and she dueled with his thrusting tongue until he vanquished her will. Pulling away, he tasted
the salty tears on her face.
"You're crying. What is it, my love?"
"It's—" she faltered, drew a deep breath, went on. "I love you, Philip Burke, and I will always love you, but I can never go away with you. I made a choice and my life is here, with my son and—" she hesitated, "and the child I'm carrying."
"You're pregnant now?" Philip grew still. "But when—oh, of course. When you went to your husband at Fleur-de-Lis. You slept with him even though he abuses you? Do you take pleasure in pain?"
"No!" Clarissa spat out the words. "I hate his touch. But he is my husband. And you reminded me of my duty to him before I left, remember?"
"So you blame me for your...condition?"
"I blame myself...and God. But what is done, is done. And now there will be two reasons instead of one that I must keep my vows. I imagine a divorced woman would be looked down upon, even in the West."
"We could say that you were a widow."
"Would to God that I were!" The words shocked them both and they stared at each other in the darkness. "God forgive me."
"It's my fault. I shouldn't have spoken. I shouldn't have touched you."
"It wasn't your fault, Philip."
"I wish that were true." He reached for his cold pipe and put it in his pocket. "Goodnight, Mrs. Wakefield. Sleep well."
"And you, Captain."
He watched her go, her dark green dressing gown trailing behind her as she mounted the stairs and felt a pulsing desire to follow and take her with all the passion he possessed. Guilt and despair overwhelmed him at this feeling of need for a Confederate soldier's wife. He had promised her that she would be safe with him, but the real issue was whether she was safe from him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chattanooga, September 1863
At dawn the following morning Bragg's forces stopped at Chickamauga Creek to face their pursuers, and as the day wore on, the sound of cannon and the smoke of battle could be faintly heard and seen as far away as Chattanooga.
Philip and Clarissa faced each other with restrained politeness, their passion of the previous night buried by layers of self-recrimination and resolve. They took stock of their supply of medicine and bandages and made hurried preparations for what lay ahead, knowing the poorly equipped field hospitals would prove inadequate for a battle of the proportions expected, and that they would soon receive the overflow. But it was late afternoon before the first wounded soldiers began to pour into the city.
Then wave after wave they came, Gray and Blue, bloody and blackened and blown apart. At first, Philip and Clarissa tried to care for them all without assistance, but the numbers were overwhelming, and more had to be done to keep men from dying while they waited for attention in the hallway and on the veranda of Whitehaven. Finally, in a desperate effort to save as many as possible, Philip directed Angeline to assist him and told Clarissa to work independently with Polly's help on the cases he deemed less serious. Robert was confined upstairs in his room, cared for by Betsy, away from the confusion and horrifying screams and curses and moans that reverberated through the house. All the other slaves and whatever able-bodied men accompanied the injured were also pressed into service, many carting off the dead for whom help was too late or too little.
"There's no more ether," Clarissa told Philip as she searched through their dwindling supplies.
"What about the chloroform?"
"It's running low."
"We'll have to use it sparingly and when it's gone, we'll use the morphine."
"And then?" she looked at him with apprehension.
"Whatever liquor can be found. And after that, we'll have to let them scream until they pass out from the pain."
She nodded grimly and went back to work.
It was near dawn when Philip thanked the exhausted women and bade them get some sleep. Polly helped Angeline up the stairs, but Clarissa stayed behind for a private word with him.
"What are the men saying about the battle?" she asked in a hushed voice.
"Reports are that the fighting isn't over in spite of all the carnage. They say Longstreet is expected to arrive tonight with reinforcements for Bragg. But our Union Army is holding strong."
Clarissa was too tired to notice Philip's alignment with the enemy. "Then we can expect many more wounded tomorrow. Where will we put them? And what in God's name can we do for them?"
"We'll put pallets on the floor. And when our bandages are used up, we'll have to substitute sheets and blankets." He shook his head. "Believe me, whatever we have to offer, it will be a thousand times better than what those poor devils are getting in the field hospitals."
"There's some liquor in the cabinet upstairs. And more in the cellar. I'll ask Luke to get all of it tomorrow."
"Fine. It'll serve a two-fold purpose. Cleanse the wounds and dull the pain." He looked with concern at the woman who stood before him in her blood-streaked apron. "You need to rest now. You've done a surgeon's work today, and you've done it well."
"Thank you."
"No, it is I who thank you."
Wearily, she put one foot in front of the other and dragged herself up the stairs, and removing only the bloody apron, fell onto her bed fully dressed and soon slept.
Philip watched her with a worried frown. She should not be doing this kind of work in her condition; the heavy lifting, and tending wounds too horrible to imagine. But she was a stubborn woman and he knew she would take affront if he demanded that she stop. And he would probably come out the loser in any battle of wills with her just as Josiah Wakefield had on more than one occasion. But standing up to her brute of a husband had been the cause of her battered face when she came back from Fleur-de-Lis. He clenched his fists at the thought of any man hurting her. He hoped the sonofabitch took a bullet through his heart. It would solve a lot of problems for both of them.
• ♥ •
When morning came, there were suffering patients to be tended and fed and the three women set about the task with forced effort, hoping to be finished before the next onslaught of casualties arrived. About noon, the first of them began to trickle in, giving conflicting reports of the ongoing battle.
"Old Rosey’s done it now," one Confederate soldier said as he put down the stretcher he had helped to bring in. "He ought to of let well enough alone after he routed us from Tullahoma."
"We’ve done got the damn Yankees trapped this time," his companion added.
"The Butternuts should’ve kept on running," a Union soldier gasped between moans as Philip cut off his jacket and prepared to remove what was left of a now-useless arm. "We’ve got ’em hemmed up, now."
Which side was one to believe? Clarissa wondered silently.
The day wore on, and Philip and the women did what they could with their meager resources. Along toward night, when it became clear that the Union forces were retreating, the news was cause for celebration until it also was learned that they were falling back to Chattanooga.
Clarissa felt a chill of apprehension. What would happen to them when the Yankees occupied Whitehaven? Would Philip be able to keep his promise for their safety?
A sudden commotion at the front door caused her to look up from the pallet where she and Polly were placing an unconscious patient just as a soldier staggered in carrying a limp form slung over his shoulder.
"Aye, somebody help me with this mon, quick," he yelled hoarsely and looking about him wildly, saw Clarissa and lurched toward her.
There was something familiar about the dirt-streaked soldier whose dust-covered blue coat appeared almost gray and Clarissa took a step to meet him, motioning for Polly to bring the stretcher.
"Here, soldier, we’ll take him now."
"He’s bleeding bad...grape shot..." he panted as the women relieved him of his heavy burden and he sank down on the floor of the hallway. "The field doctors...threw him aside."
He gulped air as if he were drowning. "But he’s your—"
A paroxysm of coughing stopped his words, and the women didn�
�t wait for him to recover. Rushing with the stretcher into the empty library, they eased the comatose soldier onto the table and began to remove his blood-soaked clothing. From the looks of him he had received a whole volley of ammunition and Clarissa shuddered at the torn flesh, exposing tissue and bone. The man’s face was blackened with the smoke of battle except where a wound on his cheek was bleeding profusely.
"Quick," she told Polly. "Give me water and a rag. Then get Captain Burke."
Dipping the rag in the cool water, Clarissa bathed the still-unconscious soldier’s face. The light had grown dim and at first she still didn’t recognize the disfigured features of the wounded man. Then suddenly, her breath stopped and her hand grew still as she realized that she was looking into the face of her brother.
"Dear God, no!" she whispered.
"Missa, the Cap’ain’s coming," Polly said breathlessly. "I had—what is it, Missa? What wrong with you?"
"Oh, Polly, look." She turned agonized eyes toward her slave. "It’s Lawton."
"Polly said there was—what’s wrong?" Philip’s glance went from Clarissa to the man on the table and back again. "What’s going on here?"
"Please, save him," she pleaded. "He’s my brother."
Without another word, Philip cut the remaining clothing from Lawton Giles’s upper body and attempted to stanch the flow of blood. But with every vein he closed, another seemed to open. Clarissa worked beside him, never revealing by look or sound the agony it cost her to watch her brother’s life ebb away while they were helpless to prevent it. Bending to catch the faint heartbeat with his stethoscope, Philip heard nothing. He listened for a long moment, needing to be certain before he raised his eyes to answer Clarissa’s unspoken question.
"He’s gone," he told her gently. "I’m sorry."
"No!" she cried. "Not Lawton." She bent and wrapped her arms around his lifeless body and cradled his head against her breast, then stood rocking him back and forth. "He’s just a boy," she sobbed, tears streaming down her face. "He can’t be dead. He hasn’t lived yet." She lifted wounded eyes to Philip. "He’s only sixteen years old."
Philip clenched his hands until they were white as he fought the almost overpowering impulse to take the grieving woman in his arms. Instead, he watched helplessly as she kissed her brother's bloody face and stepped away.
