In The Face Of Death (36 page)

“Well enough; you’re right, I don’t know him, I only know his work,” said Wainwright, acknowledging her demand for discretion. “But it doesn’t change anything.” He took more straw and wrapped another jar, taking longer than usual while he framed what he would say next. “I will not speak of him to anyone but you. I give you my word on it. So long as he doesn’t hurt you. If he hurts you, Miss, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“He will not hurt me,” said Madelaine, and hoped it would be so.

Atlanta, Georgia, 2 September, 1864

Word has come that General Hood is abandoning the city and setting fire to many of the warehouses as he and his troops retreat, so that the Union Army will have none of their supplies. They say Hardee is gone already. . . .

Working here with the wounded, I have heard the men saying that this is truly Good Friday, and that the one in Spring is nothing compared to this. . . . Few things can so improve the spirits of these men as the knowledge that they have triumphed at last, that their sacrifices have secured something of worth for their cause.

Saint-Germain might have less charitable thoughts for this occasion, and with all his experience, his reasons are surely more cogent than mine, but I cannot help but be grateful that the worst of this fighting is over for a time. I cannot but think that it will redound to Tecumseh’s credit that he was not forced to level the city in order to claim it as his own. . . . I understand that General Thomas has been as close to gleeful as it is in his nature to be. . . .

I had word but two days since that Silas Wainwright has been permitted to join a group of Confederate soldiers sent west to build new roads and improve the roads that are there already. . . . He wanted to inform me he would be departing with another fifty or so men for St. Joseph in Missouri, and from there would start across the plains. He said he hopes the stories I told him about my travels were true, for he intends to use them as lesson books for himself. They have been informed that they are expecting to winter in Fort Sedgwick, which he has been told is on the Ogallala Trail. . . . He says that he is hoping to find land of his own in the West and make his home there, away from all the battlefields and cemeteries. . . .

Tecumseh visited the wounded men briefly, and had a few words with me in private. He was already grumbling about the politicians and what they could be expected to do now that Atlanta was won. . . .

“We cannot stay here through the winter, much as you might want to; we would become too easy a target for Hood and Wheeler and that damned Forrest,” Sherman declared to the wounded men lying in the nave of Saint Eustace Church. The pews had long since been broken up for firewood by the people of Atlanta, and now the vacant building provided needed shelter. “I will do what I can to get as many of you as need it transportation to hospitals in the north, and I will hope that many of you will be fit enough to return to service.” He strode between the pallets, talking rapidly, his steely eyes bright. Out of courtesy to these men he had left his sidearm and sword with his aide. “I want every one of you who requires evacuation to inform my aides, or the surgeons, or the women from the Sanitary Commission, or your nurses, so that you will get the care you have so richly earned.” He paused to light his cigar, then tossed the match aside. “We have work to be done yet. General Grant and President Lincoln are expecting us to do our part in ending this war, and I have told them we will.” He blew out a long cloud of smoke. “It will be of no help to you or to our work if you try to remain while you are not fit. Sadly, we must anticipate other casualties in this fight, and we will have to do all we may to make it possible for the army to move as quickly as it can. We will have new casualties to contend with along the way, and cannot afford to carry any from here who need great attention. So if you will not be ready to march with us, then be prudent, and go north to the hospitals, where you may receive care without danger of new wounds, or the uncertainties of our national conflict.” He stopped by one of his younger officers, a captain from a Michigan infantry regiment. “How badly are you hurt?”

“My right hand’s mangled, sir,” answered the young man.

“Can you pull a trigger still?” asked Sherman with a quick, encouraging look that passed for a smile.

The captain shook his head slowly. “Don’t think so, sir.”

Sherman regarded him a moment. “That’s unfortunate for us; you will be with your family by Christmas. Your country is grateful for your sacrifice, Captain.” He rocked back on his heels and resumed his pacing. “It was wise to tell me the truth, and I respect you for it. No false claims will answer now. I cannot ask men to wager their lives on comrades who are not able to support them.”

One of the nurses, a pale widow from Kentucky, came forward. “General, there are one or two cases . . . difficult cases . . . it would be better . . . you should see them for yourself.”

“Before I leave, I will,” Sherman promised her, and went back to addressing his men. “They’re going to try to cut us off here, the Rebel armies will. It is what they must do if they are to salvage anything from our campaign. They will want to stop our supplies getting through and seize them for themselves. And they will want to cut us off here for the winter.” He bit down so hard he nearly cut his cigar with his teeth. “It’s what any responsible fighter would do. And so we cannot remain here, waiting to be starved out, picked off by sharp-shooters. We must move, and move soon.” He paused by a man who was half-delirious with pain. “Have you nothing to give him?” he demanded sharply.

Madelaine, who had been watching from the doorway to the choir, came forward. “I have almost none of the anodyne left, General. If I could have a day or two to search the woods, I could prepare more—”

“No.” The word was absolute. “I will not risk losing any one of you who tend my soldiers. And there are bands of rebels in the woods and fields, and they would not treat you well.” He indicated the nurses and the women from the Sanitary Commission. “All of you, make note of that. You must stay within our lines, or I cannot answer for your safety.”

A few of the women looked frightened, but one of them, a woman of about thirty-five, raised her head. “I’ve lost a husband, an uncle, and three brothers to this war, General Sherman. What can a few Rebels offer me that they have not already done?”

“Rape, for one,” said Sherman bluntly. “And mutilation to follow, if not death.” He saw the shock this inspired. “We are at war, ladies. You are the comfort of the enemy. And in such a war as this, no one is counted indifferent to the conflict. You would be used harshly for the very goodness of your acts.” He glanced toward Madelaine. “Even you, Madame, French though you may be. As you reminded me not long ago, even the Indians have taken sides.” He regarded the suffering man. “If there is anything that can be done to help you, I will see it is done.”

The man did not answer; his eyes were fixed on a vision only he could see. He murmured, “Harry. Harry,” in a soft, languid tone.

“What chance?” Sherman asked, his voice lowered.

“No chance,” said the oldest of the nurses. “It will be over in an hour or two.”

Sherman nodded once, and moved on down the line of pallets, pausing to speak to many of the men as he went. He was as patient as Madelaine had ever seen him, never rushing any man to finish, never leaving a man until he had heard him out.

Forty minutes later, he joined the nurses at the back of the church, and looked at the young widow from Kentucky. “What cases did you want to bring to my attention?”

“Madame de Montalia has charge of them,” said the young woman. “She has more . . . tolerance than most of us.”

“Well?” Sherman demanded. “What about these cases? What makes them different that these? Is it disease? Have they taken an epidemic fever?” His alarm made his inquiry sharp, and a few of the nurses looked askance at him for his manner.

“Not any epidemic, no.” Madelaine sensed his concern and answered steadily. “We have put them in the building at the back, where they can be kept securely. The doors are stout and the windows small enough to prevent escape.” She indicated the door that led to the path to the back of the building. “If you will come this way?”

“Will you need any assistance?” asked the oldest woman from the Sanitary Commission. “Shall we send Enoch with you?”

“No; I think the General and I can manage those two between us; Enoch has duties enough here,” Madelaine answered, convinced that the dedicated former slave had more than his share of tasks to attend to. She stepped out into the heat of the afternoon, raising one hand to block the slanting rays of the sun from her eyes.

“She hasn’t taken to you, has she?” Sherman inquired as he followed her out. He took quick stock of his surroundings and set the pace toward the building at the rear of the church.

“She does not approve of me,” said Madelaine, disliking the need to admit it. She had to move quickly to keep up with his long-legged stride. “My methods distress her. And some of the others as well.”

“Small wonder.” He smoothed the front of his tunic and asked, “What is the matter with these men?”

“They are . . . troubled. . . . The war has made them. . . .” She faltered, looking for an acceptable word.

“Insane? Is that what you mean? Is that what you do not want to tell me? You saw that paper?” Sherman suggested, aware of her embarrassment. “Oh, you need not hesitate to say it. I take no offence. Insane are they? There is no terror in that word for me, not any more, given the way it was bandied about in the press.” His face softened. “How good of you to care.”

Madelaine stared down at the path. “They are . . . very bad.”

“Very bad?” He touched her sleeve, the greatest contact he permitted himself with her in public. “How bad is that?”

“You will see,” said Madelaine, and drew a key from her pocket to open the door. “Take care how you go in.” She blocked his way. “In fact, you had best let me go first. They know me, most of the time.”

He stared at her, his brows drawing down, his look now forbidding. “If they are so dangerous—”

“I can deal with them, Tecumseh,” she said quietly. “I have been doing it for nine days now.” With that, she opened the lock and shoved back the bolt keeping the door closed. “I will call you.”

“You will not,” said Sherman, and positioned himself to go through the door immediately behind her. “What sort of poltroon do you think me?”

“No sort,” said Madelaine, unwilling to argue with him at this moment.

He stood very straight as she turned and closed behind them. “God. The stench!” For the little building was worse than an outhouse in high summer.

“Corporal Lucius Hayward rubs himself in excrement,” said Madelaine more calmly than she felt. “He spends most of his time on his knees, praying for forgiveness.” She indicated the nearer of two doors. “I’ve put him in this room. He will probably not notice we are here.” She went to open it, calling out “Corporal Hayward, it is Miss de Montalia,” as she went through the door.

From his long hours on the hard floor, the corporal’s knees were grotesquely swollen. His face and hair were matted with filth and he plucked constantly at the numerous scabs on his arms as he muttered prayers in a steady, cracked, sing-song voice. There were only scraps left of his uniform, and those were so mired that it was almost impossible to determine his rank or regiment. He paid no attention to Madelaine and Sherman, except to turn away from them to hide his determined pulling at his scabs.

Madelaine stepped up to him, and put her hand on his shoulder. “Hayward, it is Miss de Montalia. I have come to see how you are doing.”

The corporal continued his prayers as if he had not heard her. His eyes remained fixed on a part of the ceiling as if watching something large and arresting there.

“You will be given your supper soon. I want you to eat it this time. You will not honor God’s bounty if you don’t eat the food He has made available to you.” She could feel Sherman’s pity and revulsion and the effort it cost him to remain still, but would not allow herself to be distracted from tending to the man on the floor. “I will have Enoch bring you water. You must promise me you will drink it. God does not wish you to die of thirst, Corporal Hayward. God does not wish you to die at all.” She stepped back from him, watching him closely.

Sherman’s face was stark as he looked from the corporal to Madelaine. “Good God, what happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” said Madelaine candidly. “By the time he was brought here, he was . . . as you see him now. We could not get much useful information about him except what his comrades told us. He was in the Heavies, in some hard fighting, and seeing what his shells did and what became of his fellows. . . .” She swung the door open and went out into the little anteroom.

“But that is
appalling!”
He did not raise his voice much above a whisper, but the intensity of his emotion was like a shout. “And you’ve been . . . Madelaine, I cannot permit this.”

She looked directly into his forbidding eyes. “If it were you in there, would you say the same thing? Not that it would matter; I will do what must be done as long as I can,” she went on before he could deny her question. “Who else is there to care for him? He would be abandoned and left to die if it were up to the nurses alone. They are afraid of him, and the women of the Sanitary Commission are disgusted.”

“And you are not?” Sherman challenged. “Do not think to deceive me on that point, Madame.”

Madelaine gave a little, shaking sigh. “Perhaps I am, but not as they are. How many more men like that do you think there are in this war?”

“Too many, far too many,” he muttered, and squared his shoulders. “What about the other?”

This time Madelaine could not entirely conceal her apprehension. “He is a more . . . difficult case.” She nodded toward the other door. “We have to keep him locked in.”

“Locked in twice?” Sherman exclaimed, his frown turning thunderous. “Why is that, pray?”