High Hearts

by Rita Mae Brown

  Hazel Whitmore, hand on her bosom, watched. She had the sinking sensation that Charlottesville had been only a rehearsal.

  Kate fed the driver and his helper and gave them food for they were returning immediately to the field hospital. Thomas Freeman was his name; he had a cobbler’s shop on Market Street on Spring Hill. Said he’d started out last night at sunset.

  At nine in the morning, the day warming considerably, the women heard the muffled drums of a funeral procession.

  “I wish they’d stop,” Rise complained between clenched teeth. “How can we keep up morale with that?”

  Another wagon came to the door. “Dear God in heaven,” Miranda whispered. Most of the men in the wagon looked dead. As they were unloaded, a few were discovered to have died during the jolting, punishing journey.

  Kate turned to Lutie. “We have no more beds, bunks, or mattresses of any sort.”

  “No blankets neither,” Sin-Sin added.

  “We can take the cushions off the church pews.” Lutie was forceful.

  Kate spun on her heel. “Let’s go!” A light cart was hurriedly hitched, and Lutie drove around the block to the austere and socially correct St. Paul’s.

  Kate knocked on the sexton’s door. A haggard gnome of a man answered. He’d been up all night, too. “Mrs. Vickers, enchanting even in the face of misfortune.”

  “Mr. Gibson, we are here to relieve you of the pew cushions.” His face registered horror. “We’re out of beds, bunks, mattresses, even blankets. If you can give us old vestments, old anything, we’ll take it.”

  “But I must ask permission of Father—”

  “There isn’t time to worry about him. Help us, Mr. Gibson.”

  “Father John will be most upset.”

  “For the love of God, Mr. Gibson, men are dying!” Lutie exploded.

  “Yes, yes, I take your point.” The sexton hurried into the church to gather what the women needed, thinking he’d rather face the Yankees than Lutie.

  The two-wheeled cart brimmed with long pew cushions, old vestments, and sheets, as Lutie and Kate spun around Grace Street to head down Eighth. As they passed the Catholic church on the corner, a group of ladies known to Kate flagged them down. She explained what she had done, for they too were desperate for supplies.

  As Lutie clucked to the horse, one lady, Deborah Castle, said a trifle loudly, “Well, if the Episcopalians can do it, we can do it better!” Within seconds the good ladies were ransacking their church.

  “Better, my foot!” growled Lutie.

  JUNE 3, 1862

  The Yankees fell back on the roads like sand sliding through an hourglass. Neither army moved toward the other, but McClellan did not evacuate. Reports were that he was digging in and would attempt to capture Richmond sooner or later. Lee, quiet and thoughtful, seemingly everywhere on his horse, was scorned by many of Richmond’s armchair generals and intellectuals before he took over for Johnston.

  Criticism was a Richmond vice practiced from its first discovery. A Captain Christopher Newport in 1607, finding the rapids of the James River where Richmond now stands, also found himself in an argument with Powhatan, son of the chief, who was not thrilled at the sight of Englishmen. A few men in Newport’s party also offered abundant criticism of their captain and the site at the rapids because they thought they were going to find the South Seas or, at the very least, El Dorado, the city of gold. Continuing Richmond’s ancient tradition of finding fault and proclaiming so loudly, people moaned that Robert E. Lee, a handsome and genial man, was good for engineering and little else. Behind his back they called him the King of Spades.

  Between the muffled drum rolls, the cursed “Death March,” and the mournful clatter of wagons still bringing in wounded, Lutie caught snippets of the criticism. She had to laugh. How did she know if it was true or not? She wasn’t on the field with a rifle. But she did know that if God had perfected the human being, he would have left out the tongue. Wide awake, Lutie stared into the night. What time was it? She tiptoed across the richly inlaid floors. Two-thirty in the morning. She’d fallen asleep sitting next to Brittle Smith.

  As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw that every lady there was asleep in a chair. Even though Evangelista, bitching at high pitch, kept the food coming, the women’s energy had flagged.

  Time folded like a spyglass collapsing in on itself. So much frenzied activity and emotional drama in such a short sleepless span gave events a hallucinatory aspect. She padded upstairs and washed herself in the large basin in her room. She changed her bloodstained dress for a clean, navy blue cotton one. Perhaps the blood wouldn’t show so much. She thought it must upset the men to see the women splashed with red. She returned to Brittle Smith and felt his forehead. It was cool. She checked his pulse. He was dead. Poor fellow, she thought, perhaps he’s better off.

  A low moaning caused Sin-Sin to stir. She sat between a Yankee from the One Hundred Third Pennsylvania and a strapping Southerner from the Palmetto Sharpshooters. The two, when put beside one another, gave no indication of a cheerful convalescence as they continued the war verbally. Hazel mediated, questioning each man in turn about his home, until she plucked the common thread which would allow them to get along: Each man kept bees. They babbled about clover versus blooming trees and how to keep the black snakes out of the hives. Later, when Hazel returned, the South Carolinian remarked, “He’s a fine fellow for a Yank!” These compliments, with disclaimer, were returned by the Pennsylvanian.

  “Am I gonna die?” the South Carolinian asked, fright clinging to each word.

  Sin-Sin, roused, whispered, “Shh, you ain’t gwine to die. Auntie Sin-Sin be right here. She shoo away Old Satan who wear a big shoe. No one comin’ for you.”

  Lutie gave Sin-Sin a cup of hot coffee. The two sat next to one another and kept an eye on the South Carolina man. “I makes pots,” said Sin-Sin to him. “You have anyone on yo’ place makes pots?”

  He shook his head no. His mind wandered, and he became more frightened. Sin-Sin gently spoke to him, hoping he’d get a grip on himself. “When I was a sprig, Mammy Rachel ran the show.”

  “Mammy Rachel,” Lutie murmured, remembering that ancient departed major domo. Memory is the true function of age, she thought.

  “Mammy was the head womans of the dyein’ room. Nothin’ that woman didn’t know ’bout dyein’.”

  “I’m not going to die, am I, Auntie?” He clutched her hand.

  “No. Thass why I tellin’ you ’bout the only dyein’ gonna happen. Mammy Rachel knew every kind of root, bark, leaf, and berry that made red, blue, green, whatever color she wanted. She’d set the dye pots over coals, fill ’em with water, and then she put in her potions—roots, bark, her secrets. Then she boil the juice out, and then she strain it and put in salt and vinegar to set the color. After the wool and cotton carded and spun to thread, Mammy take ’em hanks and drap ’em in the boilin’ pot. She stir ’em up and lift ’em out, and she hang ’em up on the line to dry. Every color of the rainbow. Then when they dry, she take ’em in to the weavin’ room where more magic happen. Thass how I come to pots. I love Mammy Rachel’s colors, and I want to make colors on somethin’ that last longer than clothes.”

  “He’s asleep.” Lutie squeezed Sin-Sin’s shoulder.

  “Must mean I doan tell a good story.”

  “Let’s walk down to the capitol. The smell gets fierce in here.”

  “Put on yo’ shawl.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, Sin-Sin. I hate it when you tell me what to do.” She threw on her shawl.

  The light flickered in the street lamps. They heard the roll of wagons a few streets over. Soon they stood in front of the Virginia state house, a Greek revival building drawn up by a young Thomas Jefferson.

  “I wonder if he knew when he was young how great he was?” Lutie stared up at the Ionic columns.

  “Mebbe when God give you a great gift he protects you from knowin’ ’bout it. Otherwise you get lonesome. There be no one to
talk to.”

  Lutie put her arm around Sin-Sin’s waist. How easy it was for Lutie to forget just how deep Sin-Sin’s mind was. She wondered how many white people had stopped to listen to what was actually being said by their servants but then she wondered how many people, white or black, have frank communication with one another. “I wish Colonel Windsor would come. I don’t know how much longer we can hang on without

  “We jes do what we have to do.”

  “Did you know that the hotels sent out their biggest carriages to gather the wounded? The Broad Street Hotel, the Powhatan, the American, all of them. Bet the interiors are ruined. But who cares anymore? If a sick boy can lie down and feel a little comfort under his bones, so what if he bleeds on the rug.”

  “Well, it’s not yo’ rug.” Sin-Sin smiled.

  “Why do I talk to you?”

  “ ’Cause we friends of the heart.”

  JUNE 5, 1862

  Rain slashed at the windowpanes. It was ten-thirty in the morning, and still no medical officer had called at the Vickerses’ house. A big, handsome man, Joseph Rutledge from the Sixth South Carolina was hemorrhaging badly. When brought in from the battlefield, he had a hole in his bicep the size of a cherry tomato. Two hours ago the artery burst—why, nobody knew—but they had to stop the bleeding or he’d die. The women pressed on the exposed artery to cut off the blood. Every twenty minutes they changed places because they’d lose strength after that. His lower arm, not having received blood for those two hours, was cold. Essentially that lower arm was dead. It would have to come off, and if a surgeon didn’t get to the house within the next twelve hours, the lower arm would begin to putrify. Jennifer, on duty with Rutledge now, fingers deep in the wound, was keeping up a cheerful round of stories. Clear and composed, Joseph betrayed no sign of panic.

  Lutie and Kate retired to the kitchen.

  “This is nigger work, Miss Kate, and I am no nigger,” announced Evangelista. “I am a quadroon born on the island of Haiti!”

  “Whatever you are, Evangelista, if you don’t pull your weight, you’re going to be black and blue.”

  Sin-Sin pushed through the door for a pot of boiling water.

  “Where are you going with that?” Evangelista demanded.

  “We got a situation!” Sin-Sin snatched hotpads and picked up the pot. In so doing, she pushed a dishrag on the floor. Seeing it, Sin-Sin said, “Somebody coming who be hungry.”

  “That’s one superstition bound to come true,” Lutie said.

  Evangelista stomped on the dishrag. “I refuse to continue in this degrading work!”

  “Fine. How would you like to take out the bedpans?” Color rose in Kate’s cheeks.

  Sin-Sin reentered the kitchen and put the pot of water on the stove. “You gonna wear yourself out with this grexin’ and groanin’. You sure can tote yourself, girl!”

  “How could you understand, Sin-Sin?” Evangelista tossed her head. “You were born to this.”

  “Horse shit!”

  “Evangelista, you do not possess a useful temperament, and I haven’t the time to fool with you. Stay in this kitchen, or I’ll beat you within an inch of your life, so help me,” Kate snarled.

  Evangelista, sullen, chewed her lip.

  “Miss Kate!” Di-Peachy shot through the door. “Colonel Windsor is here with another gentleman.” Lutie hurried out the door with Kate on her heels.

  Sin-Sin and Evangelista eyed one another.

  “You got the big head talkin’ to the missus that way. But I know you too refined for this grubbin’.” Sin-Sin honeyed her.

  Her high opinion of herself confirmed, Evangelista renewed her rapport with Sin-Sin. “I know you have to take up for them when they’re in the room.”

  “Uh huh. Naught is naught and figger is figger, all for the white man and none for the nigger.”

  “I’m a quadroon.” Evangelista turned up her nose.

  “Jes a figure of speech. Can’t expect the white ladies to understand yo’ position. They used to rough-hewn women such as myself.” Sin-Sin’s eyes gleamed. “Why doan I takes yo’ kitchen duty for the next few days? I can still tend to my mens if I has authority over the other servants ’round here.”

  “Well …”

  “Like I said, you too refined and delicate for this work.” Evangelista puffed up as Sin-Sin continued to talk. “The other girls is jealous! I seen it in their eyes and the way they moves about. Jealous ’cause you be a quadroon. Jealous ’cause you speak pretty. Jealous ’cause you good-lookin’. Why, honey, that po’ girl, Dinah, they have to put a sack over her head for her to catch a man.” Evangelista beamed with pleasure. “And you closest to Miz Kate. You got the power. That be the hardest rock to carry.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Evangelista sighed the sigh of the powerful, temporarily weary of her burden.

  “Iffin’ I takes yo’ place in the kitchen, you can be more useful elsewhere. You got to keep yo’ nose close to the others. No tellin’ what trickeration they up to, times being what they are.”

  “I’ll speak to Miss Kate this minute.”

  “Jes one little thing. You know them dresses Miz Kate give you?”

  “She never keeps a dress for more than a year.” Evangelista inherited Kate’s giveaways.

  “I like you to give me one.”

  “Sin-Sin, excuse me for saying so, but I believe your figure is a trifle fuller than Miss Kate’s.”

  “Oh, I knows that. I wants to give it to Di-Peachy for a present.”

  Evangelista wrestled. She desperately wanted out of the kitchen, but Di-Peachy was beautiful and Kate already showed too much favor toward the girl. After a few minutes’ struggle, she said, “All right.”

  As Evangelista left in search of Kate, Sin-Sin laughed to herself how Evangelista was so easily weaseled out of her place. It had not occurred to Evangelista that Sin-Sin would now be giving the orders in this house.

  Joseph Rutledge was being operated on in the back room off the large supply room. His arm hung over the edge of a tub, the fingers curled upward.

  Major Bullette, the assistant surgeon, silently observed Lutie and Kate. They performed well but he thought these highborn women would get tired of the daily drudgery of nursing soon enough. Their life of opulence and luxury did not equip them for hard labor. Once these two women grew tired of being useful the others would follow like glamorous sheep. He sighed as the rain came down in sheets accentuating the misery of the suffering men.

  Colonel Windsor and Major Bullette operated the entire afternoon. Gangrene nibbled at some of the wounds. The doctors cleaned them with nitric acid, an excruciatingly painful process.

  A tray full of bullets taken from the men rested on a table. Another bullet hit the porcelain tray with a clatter, rolling to the center with the others.

  “Using soft lead,” Jeffrey grunted.

  The bullets were bent, twisted, and in some cases split. He didn’t remember many being like this at Manassas or at Charlottesville. The base of the bullets had three concentric rings, clearly marking them as Yankee. When a bullet was extracted with two rings, the doctor knew the South had shot one of its own. The wounded soldier was never told the truth.

  Big Muler carried in George Dawson, Lynchburg Artillery. A bullet had entered through the upper left portion of his back and was lodged somewhere within.

  Major Bullette held a rag with chloroform over Dawson’s mouth. Lutie was grateful that they had anesthesia. Layer by layer, Jeffrey’s scalpel carefully followed the progress of the bullet.

  “Colonel,” Lutie said, holding Dawson’s wrist, “we’ve lost him.”

  “Goddammit!” Jeffrey threw his scalpel in the pan. “I beg your pardon, ladies.”

  “No apology necessary, Jeffrey.” Kate addressed him in the terms of their long-standing friendship.

  “I thought we could pull him through.” He wiped his face. “Maybe I should have cut in faster instead of trying to make such a neat job of it. Gone in and gone out.”
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  “You did everything you could,” the major consoled him. “He couldn’t take the shock. Many can’t.”

  “I hate losing a man on the table. You think I’d get used to it. I just hate it.” His jaw clenched.

  Lutie skirted a pile of bloody bandages and motioned for Big Muler to remove Dawson’s body. Whoever died in the night was covered and laid in the small stable behind the house. The dead carts would come once a day to pick up the bodies and body parts. No matter how hard they worked, and the city praised their organization and efforts, the stench became appalling. To make matters worse, flies were everywhere.

  Jeffrey gulped a hot cup of coffee brought by Di-Peachy. Bullette requested tea.

  Patting his lips with a small handkerchief, Jeffrey warmly said to Lutie, “Seems to rain whenever you and I have our work to do, doesn’t it, Mrs. Chatfield?”

  “Let the weather do its worst, Colonel. We’ll brave it.”

  Di-Peachy brought in a camphor bottle to disguise the smell. Kate told her to take it and open it in the hallway. Perhaps it would freshen the rest of the house. This room was hopeless.

  “I say, Mrs. Chatfield, are you kin to the horse Chatfields?”

  “She is Chatfield, Major.” Jeffrey smiled at Lutie. “I’m sure you miss your beautiful estate, but God bless you for coming here.”

  “I’m a soldier in the shadow army of the Confederacy.” Lutie quietly smiled back at him. “But I don’t have the sash of an officer. I get to tie an apron around my waist instead.”

  “Shadow army?” Bullette asked.

  “I think of the women of Virginia as a shadow army. You have your duties, and we have ours.”

  Kate smiled in agreement. “Are we ready? We’ve got three left.”

  “Let’s get on with it.” Jeffrey cracked his knuckles.

  JUNE 6, 1862

  The two synagogues closest to the capital formed a Hebrew Military Aid Society. Kate almost cried for joy when she opened her front door early in the morning to behold two ladies carrying bedding, bandages, and a crate of medicines.