In The Face Of Death (26 page)

“No, Ma’am. My massa’s gone back to the mill on the Little Coosa. Should be along with a new team of mules real soon now. We got to get the flour to the railroad at Kingston. They want it for the army.” He glanced apprehensively at the sky, as if trying to guess the hour.

“All right,” said Madelaine, and went on, thinking that it was dangerous to leave a load of valuable flour in the care of one unarmed man. She let her mare choose the places on the road she wanted to walk, and patted the revolver she had tucked into the muff on her arm.

The roadhouse was not promising, being little more than a two-room frame house with sleeping compartments in the loft and communal dining at long plank tables in front of the hearth. Madelaine decided to continue on, though she realized her mare was tired; it was late afternoon and it was possible to cover another three or four miles before the horse would have to rest.

It was dark when Madelaine resumed her journey, letting the mare walk steadily. The special vision of her blood made the night brighter than for the truly living, and she took satisfaction in making the most of the increased energy the night gave her. Finally, an hour or so before dawn, she drew up at an empty auctioneer’s barn and found a stall where the Foxtrotter could rest; it was time to give the mare her well-earned oats and a bucket of water; a short while with her saddle off her back and the bit out of her mouth. Madelaine gave the mare a cursory grooming and used the next several hours to stretch and nap, so that when she once again was back on the road, she was as refreshed as her mare.

Rome, when she reached it the following afternoon, was bustling with men in butternut uniforms, most of them mud-caked, in a general air of confusion that made her wonder how they had managed their successes in the field. By the time Madelaine arrived at the station-house, where mail was handled and tickets were sold for the stage coach that linked Rome with the railhead at Kingston, she understood from the talk among the soldiers that the new Southern Confederacy had lost two strongholds in Tennessee: Fort Henry and Fort Donelson, though there were rumors of a great victory coming in the west.

The stationmaster greeted her with suspicion when he heard her accent. “You’re not a Georgian, are you?”

“No. I am French,” she said. She knew her riding habit needed brushing and her coffee-colored hair was no longer neatly secured at the nape of her neck, for she could feel long strands of it against her skin. “I am here on behalf of a friend, who has received news that her brother in the army is ill.” It struck Madelaine that the stationmaster probably thought she was acting on her own, and that the friend she mentioned was a convenient fiction. She held out the envelope Susanne and she had addressed with such care.

“Tennessee,” said the stationmaster critically. “Shakers.”

“Is something wrong?” asked Madelaine, feeling the man’s hostility in the way he looked at the envelope.

“This’ll have to go to Kingston, and from there to Chattanooga. It will cross the river on the ferry to the McMinnville Road, and go from there to Woodbury. That’s as close as we can carry it.” He rattled this off, and moved a little, revealing a newspaper pinned to the bulletin board behind him. It was an issue of the
Cincinnati Commercial
sporting the headline: GENERAL WILLIAM T. SHERMAN INSANE.

Madelaine stared at it, reading the words with complete disbelief, as if they were in a foreign language she had never encountered before. Though she had speculated that the Union officer she had heard about might be Tecumseh, she had not actually supposed it could be true. Reminding herself that she had been wondering about the officer named Sherman who had been discharged from the army, she made herself focus on the page. She found it difficult to breathe, as if the act of comprehending the headline was wholly enervating. It said William T. Sherman, just as the plaque on his desk in San Francisco had; there could be no doubt that this was Tecumseh. She indicated the paper, and trying to appear little more than politely curious, asked, “Pardon me, but how old is that? The Cincinnati paper?”

“Date’s December 11th. Got it down here a week later. Had copies shipped all over the South.” He spat a brown stream of saliva and tobacco into the brass cuspidor. “Yankees. Just goes to show. They’re all insane, if you ask me. Word is, they’re giving that fellow another command, back in Kentucky again, where they know all about him. How’re they going to win a war with such generals?” He hitched his thumb in the direction of the displayed newspaper, adding derisively, “And even the Yankees know he’s crazy.”

“A command? In Kentucky?” said Madelaine, feeling suddenly very foolish. She decided she had to account for this lapse, and began, “I am afraid I don’t understand very much about how the—”

“Yankees’ll lose Kentucky if they ain’t careful,” the stationmaster informed her with a chuckle. “Sending a crazy man there. You’d think they want the South to win. Probably do. Most of Winfield Scott’s officers are Southern.”

“You expect the North to lose? Because of this General Sherman?” said Madelaine, recalling how Tecumseh had reveled in his success that night he and his volunteers had restored order to San Francisco’s streets. What could have thrown him into such despair—for she had no doubt he had been overset by one of his fits of desolation—that he was thought crazy?

The stationmaster smiled and made a serious mistake with Madelaine. “This ain’t nothing for you to bother yourself about, Ma’am. You got nothing to fear from that crazy man, or any other Yankee soldier ever coming here. Don’t you worry about it, you’re safe.”

For an instant Madelaine wanted to shout at him for daring to try to placate her; she wanted to defend Tecumseh, for she knew with the certainty of their bond of blood that no matter how dark his mood might be, he was not insane. Something of this must have shown in her violet eyes, for the stationmaster drew back a little and muttered about not wanting to give offence. “But you probably don’t know how things look to us, you being French and all.”

Madelaine accepted this with a single nod of the head.

“But the thing is, Ma’am, a lot of folks around here are worried that we won’t have this thing settled before the end of summer, and that makes them fretful.” He leaned forward, his manner more conciliatory. “Once England comes in on our side, the Yankees’ll give up.”

“Do you think England will do that?” asked Madelaine, schooling her features to an expression of sincere interest.

“It seems hopeful, at least that’s what they’re saying in Atlanta. England, and maybe France, too. With England on our side, those New York bankers won’t want to pay for any more guns, that’s for certain.” He held up the letter Madelaine handed him. “I’ll make sure this gets off today. You tell your friend that he should get it in a week or so, when the Shakers come into town for their mail.” He nudged her arm with one wide finger. “They say that the men and women marry but they don’t live as man and wife. Those Shakers. They make good, plain cloth, and good, plain furniture. I’ll say that for them.” Again he spat. “You got Shakers in France?”

“Not recently, and not by that name,” said Madelaine, who recalled a few of the more austere Christian communities of the past. Saint-Germain had seen some of them for himself; she had only read of them or heard his accounts.

“Then you wouldn’t know,” said the stationmaster. “But chances are they’ll take better care of him than any army doctor could.” He smiled deprecatingly at Madelaine. “Just remember. You got no reason to worry about the Yankees. We’ll have them running for home before August.”

Madelaine handed him a small, gold coin. “Is this enough for the letter?” She did not want to hear anything more about fighting, not with this news of Tecumseh to ponder.

“You get change for that,” he said, handing her two badly-printed bills. “Jeff Davis is making sure we’re a real country now.” His pride was obvious.

As Madelaine accepted the banknotes, she found her eyes drifting back to the headline: GENERAL WILLIAM T. SHERMAN INSANE.

At New Springs Farm, near Buchanan, Georgia, 29 April, 1862

Word has come from Fox Woman that she is leaving her traditional home for the Choctaw Nation in Indian Territory, because she is afraid of what this war may do to her if she remains where she is and the fighting spreads. She is not the only one of her people to make such a choice. . . . Her nephew says that she would rather face disunity among her own people than continue here, where both sides are her enemies. . . . I am saddened to know she is in such desperate straits, but it is not within my power to assuage her. . . . As someone who fled the Revolution in France, I cannot castigate those who are doing now what I did then.

Five more Buchanan boys are dead. They were killed on the 6th of this month at a battle on the Tennessee River. General Albert Johnston also died there, and many of the reports I have read consider his loss a dire thing for the South. A messenger brought back what effects of the dead soldiers could be found, though none of the bodies has been sent back here for burial. The messenger, who stayed with the Thatcher family, is hardly of an age to shave yet, but he has the eyes of an old and frightened man. . . .

I have learned from this messenger that Tecumseh was also part of that battle. I know he is alive still, but I begin to fear for him. We are hearing accounts of terrible slaughter and frightful injuries, wounds that no man would want to live with, and men who welcome death to end their suffering, knowing it for a kindness. Those condemned to linger in agony know better than anyone how cruel survival can be. . . . And many of the dead are now being embalmed, so that their bodies may be returned home without overmuch decay. I do not know what embalming would do to one of my blood, for embalming does not destroy the nervous system, and as such, should not be fatal. None of the Pharaohs ever rose after embalming but their brains were gone as well as their blood. Yet since embalming drains the body of blood, and for us more surely than any other, blood is life, it could be that it would be sufficient to bring the True Death. . . . If Tecumseh falls in battle and is embalmed, I fear he will be lost forever. . . . I must write to Saint-Germain and find out what embalming might do to one of us. . . . How I may get a letter to him in these times, however, with the North blockading Southern harbors, I cannot guess, and once I have such information, how do I convey it to Tecumseh? . . .

Army suppliers have come to Buchanan, as they have to many of these small towns, requisitioning supplies, and leaving behind documents stating the value of what has been taken, all this with the promise that the full value may be redeemed at the end of hostilities, or on the first day of the New Year, whichever comes first. All these farmers will have to do is journey to Richmond, Virginia to claim the sums owed. Susanne has admitted some irritation in that regard, for who, she asked me when the suppliers were gone, is going to leave a farm in the beginning of winter and travel all the way to Richmond, and back again while Yankees are abroad in the land?

She has had a second letter from Walter, who is gradually improving but is by no means well yet. He tells his sister that the Shakers are very good people, who have the strongest faith he has ever encountered. . . .

I am planning to leave shortly on another ride to Rome. This will make my third time on that road, and I begin to hope that I now know all the places I may safely stop for rest. I will have to ride the blood-bay gelding this time; the mare has yet to recover from the bruise to her hoof and she is not up to the rigors of the trip. I hope she improves enough for my next journey to Rome. . . . Perhaps I should look to purchase another horse or two while they are available. . . .

It was a hard ride for Madelaine, for she was delayed by a large company of soldiers on the road, many with bandages and make-shift splints protecting wounds which showed signs of festering. Occasionally she would see a man borne on a stretcher, one trouser-leg pinned up or cut off, the stump still oozing from the recent amputation. Watching these men filled her with pity and revulsion, and she had to resist the urge to offer to tend the more severely injured. By the time she reached Rome, she was unsettled, and resented the time she had to wait in line for the stationmaster to serve her. Only the realization that the
Cincinnati Commercial
had been taken down brought her any satisfaction; at least she did not have to read those damning words about Tecumseh. In its place was a list of casualties arranged by regiment, dead first, wounded second; those missing were listed last.

“It’s you again,” said the stationmaster as Madelaine reached his cage. “I thought you might be along one of these days.” He gave her a familiar smile, his wide face spreading wider than she thought possible. “What can I do for you this time?” The innuendo was so obvious it was as comical as it was annoying.

“I have another letter,” Madelaine said, trying not to notice the welcome the stationmaster offered her.

“For Tennessee, to the Shakers,” he said, shaking his head in feigned disappointment. “Sorry, little lady. The couriers have been ordered to carry military dispatches only, and letters if there’s room left over. Unless you have a little extra to pay, so the courier will tuck it in his shirt.” He indicated the open place behind the stationhouse where coaches and wagons were loaded. “But it won’t be long now. A month or two at most, and we’ll have trains here. The army needs it for their supplies, or we’d’ve had to wait until the Yankees are whipped. Once the railroad spur is complete, things’ll be different.”

“You mean because of your unfinished railroad you can’t accept this letter for delivery,” said Madelaine, very coolly.

“Not right now. Unless you want to give the courier something to make it worth his while, if you take my meaning.”

“That I do,” said Madelaine, allowing her temper to show. “But I don’t suppose it would be wise for a foreigner to bribe a postal courier, would it? Not during a time of war. Both of us could get into trouble.” She had made just such an error in her effort to leave France at the height of the Terror and the memory of it still burned.