Love and War: The Coltrane Saga, Book 1 (47 page)

Kitty made rounds at the hospital to visit the patients when she was not with the surgical team. She was called on to write letters for illiterates; sometimes prepared special dishes for those of poor appetite who had to be coaxed to eat. She tried to comfort the homesick, bathed the brows of the feverish, and many nights knelt beside the bed of a dying man and prayed for his immortal soul.

Tragedy…misery…these passed before her eyes as a part of her daily routine, but she had long ago developed a strength which enabled her to maintain her composure under the most trying and difficult of circumstances. She did not fancy herself as any kind of stoic heroine; she felt she was merely doing a job, a service, and expected no praise, no compliments, wanting only to do her job and be treated as an equal of the men staff members. She never tried to get out of any of the dirty work involved in the hospital operating procedures. She would take up a shovel and help dig ditches in which to bury amputated limbs, and several times, when help was scarce, she had dug trenches for latrines. Of course, she lacked the physical strength of the men, but her spirit was never lacking.

For a few weeks, she had lived in the house with Mary and her family, but she soon tired of the social activities and requested permission to live at the hospital. She was given a small room which she shared with another nurse and all her waking moments she spent working. She was able to keep her mind occupied, so there was little time to think of Travis or wonder if Nathan or her father was alive.

The news of the war flowed through the hospital like the blood on the battlefield, fast and furious. Lee’s army had begun a second invasion of the North The South hoped that Lee could capture an important city such as Harrisburg, Baltimore, or Washington, relieving the pressure on Vicksburg in the west and possibly bringing a victorious peace and an end to the war. There was hope, too, that a great victory on Northern soil would cause England to offer mediation and aid, and there was also the strong desire to transfer the war from the ravaged state of Virginia. Supplies were also terribly scarce for Confederate soldiers. Some were out of shoes. There were reports of starvation. Desertion was becoming more and more common. Morale was getting lower and lower.

With an army at a peak strength of seventy-five thousand men, Lee crossed the Potomac River in the middle of June. Word came that Lincoln had replaced “Fighting Joe” Hooker with a Pennsylvanian named George C. Meade, a General. And by the end of June, a Federal army with a strength reportedly totaling over ninety thousand men was said to be moving northward from Maryland into Pennsylvania in search of the Confederates who had turned southward in search of supplies. Advancing from opposite directions, the two mighty forces collided head-on at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

Richmond and the hospital staff waited anxiously for news of the terrible battle said to be exploding. On July 3rd, General George Pickett’s men charged across an open field directly against the center of the Federal line. But Pickett’s assault failed and half of his men were killed. The battle ended. Vicksburg fell the next day, and Kitty, along with everyone in the South, felt more defeated and emotionally stunned than ever before in the war.

Lee retreated back to Virginia, and both armies took up strong positions on opposite banks of the Rapidan River, each awaiting possible movements by the other. And the wounded poured into the hospital at Richmond, and once again, the world of blood and tears melted into time that seemed to stand still.

It was a hot August afternoon. Kitty sat at the bedside of a young man who had lost both his arms, writing a letter for him. One of the nuns appeared in the doorway of the long room, her eyes searching for someone and then falling on Kitty. She waved frantically.

Kitty got to her feet, told the soldier she would return later to finish his letter.

“Don’t hurry,” he quipped with amazing good nature. “I might get impatient, though, and finish writing it with my toes.”

Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed his cheek, smoothed back his tousled red hair, and then hurried down the aisle that separated the rows of beds to the wide-eyed nun who stood wringing her hands impatiently.

“Kitty, several wagons have arrived crammed full of wounded soldiers, and more are due to arrive any minute.” The nun’s voice was shaking. “There’s been a skirmish somewhere, and our men took quite a beating. The doctors are frantic and have to have help…”

“Well, of course, let’s go.”

Kitty started through the door, heading for the building where the operating rooms were. The nun reached out and grabbed her arm. “No, please, there’s a boy…”

Kitty paused, noticing that the woman was crying.

“They say he’s done for. It…it’s my nephew, and the doctors say there are others who are in greater need of help. Please, in the name of God, Kitty, won’t you see what you can do?”

Her heart went out to the grief-stricken woman, but Kitty reminded her she did not have the skills of a professional doctor.

“But won’t you at least look at him?” she begged, her nails digging into Kitty’s arm. “He’s out there in that horrible building where they leave them to die so their screams won’t be heard over here and frighten the others.”

She knew the building and always dreaded having to go there herself. It sat way back at the edge of the hospital compound, and the stench of the dying was overwhelming. Twice she’d had to stumble outside and vomit before she could force herself to tolerate the odor.

“I’ll do what I can,” she said quietly, knowing in advance that if the surgeons had turned the boy away, there was nothing to be done for him. There were hundreds of men, all terribly wounded, all waiting their turn for treatment. There was not enough time, or manpower, to try to save the life of a man when it was obvious that his life could not be saved. Word spread about the building known as “The Coffin”, and when a soldier realized his stretcher was being taken in that direction, he would sometimes go into such fits that he would have to be tied down. There were reports that several had been so stricken with terror that their hearts had just stopped beating; the soldiers were dead before they ever reached the building.

Kitty paused outside the door and turned to the nun. “Do you think you should go in?” she asked compassionately.

“Oh, yes,” the nun answered, nodding quickly. “I spend quite a bit of my time here. My only medicine is prayer, Kitty, and that is all that helps inside, God is the almighty doctor here, and with His help, and yours, a miracle could happen.”

Kitty stepped inside. Flies seemed to be everywhere. The air was thick and pungent with the odor of decaying flesh. A few nurses, their faces covered with masks, moved about cleaning up vomit and blood, giving morphine to ease the pain and suffering as much as possible.

The nun led the way to the third bed on the left. A young boy of perhaps sixteen or seventeen lay there. Even with the sheet covering him, Kitty could make out the outline of bowels protruding from the gaping wound in his abdomen. Taking a deep breath, she called to a nurse to bring bandages and morphine.

“They just brought him in a little while ago,” the nurse whispered as she handed the items to Kitty. “He’s in shock, doesn’t know what’s going on. Why waste bandages and morphine when it’s going to be over soon?”

“Because sometimes you have to think about the living!” Kitty said, more sharply than she intended, nodding to the nun who had fallen to her knees, her crucifix clasped in trembling hands as she murmured her prayers.

She drew back the sheet, swaying at the sight of the exploded belly. How had he lived this long, she wondered. There was nothing to be done. Most of the lower extremities had been blown away. And, too, both legs would have to be amputated all the way to the trunk.

As Kitty stood there, wondering what to do next, the boy’s eyes opened and he looked up at her. She noted they were blue—as blue as the huckleberries back home that grew on the vines around the old barn.

All around them was the smell of death, the sound of men weeping and calling for loved ones, God, or Jesus, and the cries of agony and pain. Flies buzzed noisily in the midsummer heat. Someone vomited. The nun was praying quietly, her words inaudible.

Kitty started to speak, but the boy was moving his lips, his eyes rolling upward. “I…see… Jesus,” he whispered. His head lolled to one side. And she knew he was gone. She felt for a pulse. There was none. She placed her hand over his heart. There was no movement.

Placing her hand on the nun’s shoulder, Kitty said quietly, “He’s gone. I’m sorry.”

The woman stood up, tears streaming down her cheeks as she fingered her rosary, hands still trembling. “What…what was that he said,” she asked, “just before he died?”

“He said,” Kitty repeated for her, “that he saw Jesus.”

“Praise God. Jesus took him home. We’ll meet again one day.” And a joyful smile spread over her face.

Kitty felt the same sense of peace. She had seen men die in agony, and she had seen them pray their agony into the release of a peaceful death. She wondered sometimes which hurt the most, the fight to the end or the quiet acceptance; but she knew that when her time came, she would hope to have the kind of faith that carries a person into eternity with the knowledge that life is not over—but merely beginning.

She pulled the sheet up and over the boy’s head. It was then that she heard the voice behind her, speaking her name. At first sound, it was like a dream, a stupor brought on by the shock and tragedy of death and the whole macabre atmosphere of the “Coffin Room”.

“Katherine…dear God, it
is
you.”

She could not move. She continued to stare down at the covered body of the dead soldier, fighting to control the sudden nausea churning in her stomach. It was not real. It was not happening. It could not be so.

A hand touched her shoulder, then fingers tightened to make her turn. Closing her eyes, she would not allow the hope that was rippling through her body to kindle into a flame that would be doused into nothingness.

“No…” she whispered, a half-moan rising in her throat. “No…it isn’t so.”

“Katherine, look at me, please…” the voice begged.

When she opened her eyes, she was looking at the floor and the first thing she saw was the spit-polished Jefferson boots. Gaze traveling slowly upward, she took in the dark blue trousers with black velvet stripe on each side and edged in gold cord, a bright red sash of silk about the waist of the gray officer’s tunic with its black facings on the stand-up collar, gold stars, and the initials “CSA”.

And then, realizing that she had to get it over with—face this man and know once and for all that it was just a dream—she lifted her eyes to his face.

Nathan was staring down at her.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

For over an hour they sat silently beneath the spreading chestnut tree on the little knoll overlooking the hospital compound, too overcome with emotion to speak. Finally, Kitty raised her head, which was pressed against his chest as he held her, and with trembling fingertips traced the dear, familiar lines of his face.

“It is you,” she whispered. “How I’ve prayed for this moment.”

“And so have I. Katherine, when I went home after hearing that they’d found Doc’s body, and there was no trace of you, I…” His voice shook with emotion. “I wanted to die myself. God, how I’ve lived in agony these years.”

“General Lee told me he’d try to find you for me, but I couldn’t believe that a man so important would really find the time, the means, with the war going on.”

“I was down in Mississippi with Pemberton’s army, and General Lee probably found that out. He probably also thought that I was one of the thirty thousand soldiers who surrendered there on the fourth of July when Vicksburg fell.”

She heard the bitterness in his voice. She had read of Pemberton’s surrender to General Grant in the
Richmond Daily Dispatch
, and had cried, wondering if Nathan had been among those sent home promising to retire from the war—or if he was even still alive. Then it dawned on her that he had been there—and he hadn’t gone home. He was here—in Richmond. Sitting up to stare at him curiously, she asked, “Then what are you doing here? I read that Pemberton sent out a white flag through the lines and asked for terms, and General Grant sent back word there would be ‘unconditional surrender’, but when he realized Pemberton would not agree to that, Grant said the Confederates could surrender and go home. He was criticized by Mr. Lincoln for not sending you all to prison.”

“I wasn’t there
then
,”
he said meaningfully, and she blinked, puzzled. “I wasn’t going to wait around to see what would finally happen and maybe wind up rotting in some Yankee prison for the rest of the war, so me and some of the other men slipped away.”

“Deserted?” she asked cautiously, hating that she remembered David’s warning that maybe she wouldn’t want to find Nathan after all. In just the short while they had been reunited, she sensed the drastic change that had taken place. Somehow, he was not the same. Of course, the war had made men of boys, heroes of cowards, and some just the opposite. And then there was the bitterness. Who could witness the tragedy of death, the agony, the horror, and remain the same throughout? She had changed, also. They would have to get to know each other all over again, and it would happen because the mutual feeling of love was still there. She could
feel
it.

“No, I didn’t desert.” He looked at her as though the subtle accusation had hurt. “I just didn’t want to be a part of any surrender terms. I didn’t go home, did I? I came here and reported for duty, didn’t I?”

“I’m sorry.” She was instantly contrite, ashamed for thinking such thoughts. But she had heard that General Lee had sent word to the Secretary of War that there had been frequent desertion from the North Carolina regiments, and only three months ago, Lee had written to the Secretary to say that unless something was done immediately, the number of North Carolina troops in his army would be drastically reduced. But morale was extremely low, and desertion was common among the soldiers. She was just glad that Nathan was not himself a deserter.