The Dixie Widow
Page 17
Hale stared at the money, then looked at Thad with a strange expression. “You’re doing a lot for a couple of your enemies, Novak.”
Thad shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think of it like that, Hale. Way I see it, the enemy is death—and we’re working together to keep Davis Winslow out of his way.”
“What about Davis?” Ezra asked.
“By the time you’re on the train, he’ll be cleaned up and in the hands of the best doctors in Richmond.”
They waited until six before leaving the hotel. Dawn was just breaking as they put Davis into the wagon and drove off. As they moved toward the river, Thad said, “This train takes mostly supplies toward the south. I put some Confederate money in with the other so you won’t make anybody suspicious. Don’t know where you’ll wind up, but anywhere is better than Richmond.”
They got to the station and waited until the train’s whistle blew a warning blast. “So long,” Thad said, shaking hands with them. “Be careful—I’ve got too much invested in you two to lose you now!”
“It’s going to be hard for me to fight from now on, Thad,” Hale said, uncomfortable at the thought. “I wouldn’t like to think I was shooting at you.”
“The same here,” Ezra added. “I didn’t know there were any Rebels like you around.” The whistle blew another warning, and Lee said, “About Davis. I’d like to know if he makes it. Send me a letter, will you? Address it to Sickle’s Corps. I’ll get it.”
The men had to run to make it, but with one short sprint they hit the steps and clung to the door, waving at Thad until the train moved out of sight.
Thad flicked the reins, and the horse moved down the street. It was not far to Chimborazo, and by the time Novak pulled up in front of the hospital, the sun was up.
He tied the horse, walked up the front steps, and asked the first orderly he met, “Where can I find Mrs. Wickham?”
He took the instructions, wound his way around the maze of buildings, and came to one marked Number 3. As he stepped inside, the first person he met was Belle Wickham. She was carrying a pitcher in one hand and had towels draped over her other arm.
“Why—Thad!” she exclaimed; then her face sobered. “Is something wrong? Someone sick at home?”
“No, Miss Belle. Far as I know they’re all right. Can I talk to you?”
“Of course. Come this way.” She led him to her office, put the things down, and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Well, I just came in from duty. Got a scratch on my side—” He saw her look of alarm and said hastily, “Oh, it’s nothing, really. But I brought back an officer, and he’s in terrible shape. Going to die if something don’t happen.”
“You want us to take care of him?” Belle asked.
“Well, yes, but I know about all this red tape,” Thad went on. “By the time we get all the papers and stuff, he’ll be dead. And besides, they might stick him in someplace with some sorry help. If I could ask a favor, Miss Belle, I’d like for you to see to him personal.”
Belle gave him a direct look. “It would be against regulations, Thad.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know.” Thad had no arguments, and stood there with his hat twisted in his big hands. Finally he said, “This fellow is special to me.”
Belle dropped her head, unable to face the plea in Thad’s dark eyes. She knew he was right about all the red tape, and suddenly the maverick streak in her broke through. “One of my boys died last night. I’ve got a bed available. Where is your friend?”
“Outside in my wagon.”
“Bring him in while I get the bed ready.”
She left, wondering how she would justify this action to the officials, but didn’t worry much. They would never fire her, she knew. By the time she got the bed changed, Thad was coming in with the limp body of the officer in his arms.
She motioned toward the bed, and Thad laid him down. As Belle moved forward, Thad stepped back to watch her reaction. He knew she had met Davis Winslow. He remembered the time Captain Winslow had brought him to Richmond, and Belle had entertained him at a dance.
He had known all this, had weighed it in the balances, and finally decided that it was a gamble he had to take. But now as she bent over Davis, he wondered if he’d been a fool. Even if he is a lot skinnier—and has a beard, Belle’s not a fool! She’ll recognize him for sure.
But when she turned back after looking at the sick man, her eyes held only concern. “He’s in bad shape, Thad. I’m not sure you got here in time.”
“I been worried, Miss Belle,” Thad told her, and a great surge of relief welled up in him. “His leg is real bad.”
“Help me undress him,” she urged, and the two soon had the unconscious man in a clean hospital gown. Thad felt strange about pulling a man’s clothing off in front of a woman, but Belle was long past such modesty. She looked down at the soldier and shook her head. “I want Dr. Stevens to look at that leg right away. You stay with him, Thad.”
Fortunately she wasn’t there when Davis began tossing on the bed. Thad saw the man’s eyes open, so he leaned over him. “Are you all right, Davis?”
“I—guess so.” His voice rasped and he looked around. “Where am I?”
“In a Confederate soldiers’ hospital, Davis.”
“Am I—under arrest?”
“No! No!” Thad replied, bending over and whispering, “Davis, this is Chimborazo Hospital. I had to bring you here—but the only way I could get you in was to tell them that you’re a Confederate officer.”
Davis tried to comprehend as the young man related their successful escape. Focusing his eyes on Thad, he shook his head. “It’ll never work. They’ll find out.”
“Maybe so, but it’s a chance we have to take, Davis—the only one you’ve got. Now you listen to me. I can’t stay with you. I’ve got to go back on duty, but if you keep your mouth shut, they won’t find out. I got papers for you. Just remember you are Lieutenant Owen Morgan. Got that? Owen Morgan.”
“Owen Morgan,” Davis whispered. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Thad—did Perry and Ezra get away?”
“Sure did! On their way right now!”
A smile split Davis’s shrunken lips, and he lifted a hand, which Thad squeezed. “Thad—thanks for—everything. Grandfather will be glad.”
Thad lifted his head and saw Belle coming though the door, and he cautioned, “Don’t forget—keep your mouth shut, Davis. Here comes the matron. Can you do it?”
“Yes.”
Thad didn’t know all the details of Belle’s experience as a spy in Washington, but he knew a little. His biggest fear was that Belle would recognize Davis; another, that Davis would be so filled with hate toward her for deceiving his family that he would give himself away. Thad stood ready to silence him if he should make a mistake.
“Miss Belle, he woke up,” Thad said. “I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Owen Morgan. This is Mrs. Belle Wickham, Owen.”
Belle looked down into Davis’s ravaged face. “I’m glad to meet you, Lieutenant.”
Davis felt as if he were in a dream. He had spent months hating Belle Wickham; now she was bending over him. He had an impulse to shout, to scream, calling her all the names that had run through his mind. He glanced at Thad. The agonized look on Thad’s face stemmed the vitriolic flood. He took a deep breath and nodded slightly.
“I’m glad to meet you, Miss Wickham,” he said weakly.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BACK TO THE WORLD
Day arrived with piercing light and the noise of movements about Davis. Hands touched him, and sometimes when his leg was handled, great fiery shards of pain seemed to devour him. The light hurt his eyes, and he would try to slip back into the warm darkness—but the hands would not leave him alone. He grew angry, thrashing his head from side to side as they put food into his mouth, but they kept on relentlessly until he swallowed it. The hands were soothing, sometimes applying cool cloths to sponge his fever-hot body. This was the best part of his day.
One face appeared in both his dreams and his infrequent moments of consciousness. More than once a vision of a woman with dark hair and eyes like ebony pools would flicker through his mind—then he would open his eyes to find himself looking into that face. And he was always disturbed when he saw her, either in a dream or when conscious, her face so close he could see the tiny flecks of light in her dark eyes. During those times, he would stare at her, wondering why her face confused him. He wanted her to tell him something, but didn’t know what it was. Sometimes she spoke, urging him to eat; other times she would sit silently beside him, and he would lie there studying her face until finally sleep would overtake him and he’d drift off into a dream of some time in the dim past—and she would be there, too.
One day he awoke—suddenly. One moment he was in the dark tunnel; the next, lying on a bed staring at a man and a woman who were standing beside him.
The man was tall and thin, and had a shock of snow-white hair and a pair of steady hazel eyes. “Well, now,” he said in a rumbling bass voice, “he’s decided to come back to the real world, Miss Belle.”
Davis glanced at the woman, and memory flooded back. He remembered some of the escape from Libby, and Thad warning him to be quiet, that he was here under the guise of a Confederate officer. What was the name? He couldn’t remember, but Belle furnished it.
“Well, Lieutenant Morgan, how do you feel?”
Davis licked his lips, considered the question, and replied, “Hungry.”
The doctor chuckled deep in his chest. “Well, he’s going to make it, I reckon.” He picked up a black bag from the bed. “Get some real food down him, keep the dressings changed.”
“Yes, Dr. Stevens.”
He started walking to the next patient, then swung back. “Lieutenant, you behave yourself! I’ve invested too much time and effort in you to lose you at this stage—and Miss Belle’s done more, so you mind her, you hear?”
The doctor turned to the patient on the next bed, and Belle said to Davis, “I’ll get you some solid food for lunch.”
He nodded. Davis lay studying his surroundings as the doctor and nurse moved from patient to patient. It was a long, narrow room with windows along one short wall. He could see the black, bare branches of large trees, dripping with the slow rain that fell slantwise. The other three walls were bare except for shelves over the beds, some of them holding lamps with blackened chimneys. Two rows of beds stretched the length of the room—all occupied by patients in gray gowns. Some of them, he saw, were sitting up, but most were lying down.
“You finally woke up, didn’t you, sir?”
Davis turned his head to find a young soldier with yellow hair and blue eyes looking at him shyly. He had a thin face with a childlike countenance, and Davis said, “Guess so.” He remembered the name Thad had spoken. “I’m Owen Morgan.”
“Yes, sir. My name’s Lonnie Tate.”
“How long have I been here, Lonnie?”
“Why, it’s been nigh onto a week since you got here, Lieutenant.” He lifted a hand so thin Davis could see the blue veins like a lacy network on the back, and counted the days off on bony fingers. “That’s right, sir, this is Tuesday and it was last Tuesday they brought you in.”
Davis blinked his eyes. “Don’t remember much.” He looked down at his leg, which was not very swollen anymore. Moving it cautiously, he grimaced at the pain, though it was no longer as fierce. Carefully he rolled over on his side facing the boy, and asked, “You get hit bad, Lonnie?”
“Well, my arm’s all right now, just about—but my belly’s still not right.” He lifted the blanket and exposed a mass of bandages crusted with blood. He studied his abdomen, then shook his head. “Most fellers would have been dead already with a hit like I got—but Miz Belle, she jest wouldn’t give up on me.”
A shiver ran through Davis at the sight of the wound, and he was glad when the boy lowered the blanket. He knew Lonnie had spoken the truth—that intestinal wounds from the tearing action of mini;aae balls were usually fatal. The balls were conical lead slugs weighing over an ounce, and caused fearful damage—smashing long bones into fragments and ripping through the body with deadly effect.
“Where’s your home, Lonnie?” he asked.
“Jasper, Arkansas. Guess maybe you ain’t never heard of it?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, it’s in the mountains. We got us a farm there, some of it’s sort of hilly, but we got ‘bout forty-five acres of good bottom land. And Pa’s got his eye on a farm that jines ourn. Reckon he’ll buy it—and when I get home, I’m goin’ to get to farm it myself.”
“That sounds good.” Davis smiled at the boy’s excitement, and lay there as Lonnie outlined exactly how he would plant his crops and raise what he called his “critters” for meat. The monotone made Davis sleepy, and he was paying little heed to the boy until he cried out. Lonnie was clawing at his stomach, his face contorted in pain.
“Doctor!” Davis called, looking wildly toward the door. He continued to yell for help until Belle came running into the room. She saw the boy’s distress and rushed over to pull his hands away from his abdomen.
“Let me be!” he screamed. “It itches!”
But she restrained his hands with all her strength. “Don’t fight, Lonnie!” She looked up and saw an orderly entering the ward. “Elmer,” she called, “come hold his hands.” When the man had a firm grasp on Lonnie, Belle reached up to the shelf over the boy’s bed, poured some cloudy liquid into a glass from a brown bottle, and forced it between his jaws. “Don’t let him go,” she whispered in prayer, her hands trembling as she worked.
Finally the orderly said, “It’s taking hold now, Miz Wick-ham. You want me to stay with him?”
“No, Elmer. You go on with your work. I’ll change his bandages while he’s asleep.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Elmer Gibbs was in his sixties, a small, kind-looking man. He studied the boy’s twisted face, saying quietly, “Poor boy!” Then he left the room, and Belle pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down.
She was very pale, Davis saw, and her upper lip beaded with perspiration. When Tate lay still, she rose and went to a cabinet beside the door, returning with bandages and a basin of water. She removed the soiled dressing and washed the wound. As she worked, Davis noted that the flesh was pulled away from the raw lips of the wound, exposing the intestines. Finally she applied some medication and put on fresh bandages.
Putting the blanket back over the boy’s slight form, she leaned back and closed her eyes. As she sat there, Davis studied her, and memories of Lowell swept over him. He had been admiring her skill—and her willingness to face a raw wound—but now he thought of how she had brought about the death of his brother, and the hatred that had been dormant during his sickness revived.
He rolled over on his back, closed his eyes, and didn’t look up as he heard her walk away. For a long time he lay there, thinking of Lowell, and the anger and bitterness grew. He tried to think of something else, but he could not quell the rage that rose when he thought of Belle Wickham.
Finally he napped, and was wakened by Gibbs, who fed him some boiled chicken and a bowl of peas, which he ate hungrily, then fell into a deep sleep. He was awakened later by another orderly, and saw that it was dark outside. “Got some supper for you, Lieutenant,” the man said, and Davis roused himself to eat more chicken and drink some buttermilk. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Six-thirty.” The bushy-browed orderly with a droopy mustache answered. “You want some more? Miz Wickham says to give you all you want.”
“No, thanks. That’s plenty.”
The orderly left and Davis l
ooked up to see a man with one arm missing regarding him curiously from the bed directly across the room. “Howdy, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’m Coy Willing—Third Mississippi.”
Davis nodded and gave his name, and the lanky Willing said, “You sure gave everybody a time around here, Lieutenant Morgan. We all thought you must be a general at least, the way Miz Wickham had everybody hopping. You must be real important.”
“No, not very,” Davis replied. He moved his leg, and pain shot through him, catching him off guard. He groaned, and lay back until it passed.
“Leg still bothering you, ain’t it, sir?” Willing nodded. “Dr. Stevens wanted to take it off. You know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Wal, he did. Him and Miz Belle got into an orful fuss ‘bout it. Never seen Doc Stevens get so mad! They stood right there over you and fought like two yard dogs!”
“I didn’t hear it.”
“Naw, you was out, but you gotta thank Miz Belle, ‘cause she just stood there and let Stevens holler, and just kept saying no until he give up.” He shook his head in admiration. “She sure is a stubborn woman.”
Davis looked down at his leg with a strange feeling. He had never feared death, but he had feared being left a cripple. The thought of it had haunted him, and he remembered saying to Perry Hale when the leg had become swollen and infectious, “Don’t let them cut it off, Perry. I’d rather die than drag myself around for the rest of my life.”
Willing asked, “What’s your outfit, Lieutenant?”
Davis suddenly realized he had no idea. A wrong word could be fatal, so he closed his eyes, murmuring, “Sure am weak . . .” and pretended to doze off. He heard Willing say, “He’s weak, ain’t he, Frank?” but lay there quietly until somebody came and turned out the lamps. He did sleep then, but it was no longer like a long black tunnel with no end.