Shadow of Dawn (17 page)

T
he Christmas season
advanced upon them, but Catherine took little interest in it.
Sallie went humming about the house, decorating with holly and
wreaths, supervising the installation of a huge Christmas tree, and
spending half a day trimming it with blockade-run bonbons and
strings of popcorn. The aroma of cookies and cakes baking for the
soldiers (and once the acrid smell of burned candy) filled the
house.

Catherine wanted to scream. She wanted to
tear down all the ribbons and holly and hack the tree to pieces
with an axe. Didn’t Sallie know a battle would soon take place that
would affect their future forever? Didn’t she know men were going
to die horribly in that battle?

She took to eating meals in her room—what
little she ate. It wouldn’t do to have everyone wondering why she
was so worried. She hoped they thought her nervous state was due to
Andrew’s illness, for Mrs. Shirley reported daily that Captain
Kelly was not any better. Dr. Edwards came by and gave a
bewildering description of his symptoms and said he must remain
isolated until the crisis was past.

Catherine was in the kitchen one day
preparing a tray to take to his room, when Ephraim came in from the
dining room. He took one look at her face and said, “Miss
Catherine, you seem mighty anxious about Mr. Andrew. Is he worse,
ma’am?”

“N-no.” One thing she positively could not do
was lie to Ephraim. “Why does it have to be Christmas? I don’t feel
like all this celebrating. Sallie is driving me mad. Oh, I wish it
was all over!”

“Now, Miss Catherine, don’t you be talking
that way about Christmas. Why, it’s the best time of the year,
besides Easter. You supposed to be at peace at Christmas…let the
Prince of Peace fill your heart. You got to have faith that
everything will work out all right.”

“Oh, you don’t know, Ephraim. You just don’t
know!”

“What I don’t know?” he replied. “I know
there’s nothing too big for God to handle. Looks like you’re trying
to snatch a burden away from Him and carry it all by yourself, and
looks like it’s way too big for you!”

She picked up the tray and started for the
stairs.

Ephraim said, more gently, “Miss Catherine,
things look bad at night. Most everybody has what they call a dark
night of the soul, at least once in their lives. But morning always
comes, sooner or later. Remember what the Bible says? Weeping lasts
for the night, but there’s joy when the morning comes.”

She said her prayers in a different spirit
that night and felt a little better the next day. She even helped
Sallie make a fruitcake Saturday morning, listening absently to the
other woman’s idle chatter about the growing scarcity of currants
and raisins and all such essentials to gracious living.

In the afternoon, Mrs. Shirley reported that
the dreaded battle had begun about ten that morning. Dr. Edwards
was to be their source of information, which he would receive
directly from the War Department. Sometimes he would come himself,
other times he would find ways to impart messages to Mrs.
Shirley.

Catherine flew to her room and got down on
her knees beside the bed. Her prayers were so wildly and feverishly
uttered that she made herself get up, take down her Bible and read
it until she was calmer. Then she knelt again and asked God to
protect Clayton, to bless the Confederate Army and its officers,
and to keep General Lee out of harm’s way.

She felt unsatisfied with her prayer until
she remembered she really ought to add, “Thy will be done.” She
wrestled with the thought. She wanted her will to be done; she
wanted Clayton to emerge safely from the battle, and she wanted the
Confederates to win. How could she even entertain the prospect that
the reverse might happen?

What was it that Ephraim had said, not long
ago, about the exercise of one’s faith being what life was really
all about? It had something to do with her study of Elijah, which
she could barely remember because it seemed to have happened a
hundred years ago. She had known then what he meant. Now her fears
had clouded her mind and her faith seemed far away.

“Oh, Lord, help me,” she sighed, rising from
her kneeling position to fall in a forlorn heap across the bed.
“Help me to trust You.”

Dark night of the soul, Ephraim had called
it. That was exactly what she felt—as though she were forever
standing on the very edge of dawn, unwilling to move forward,
fearful of what shadows might come to life in the light of day.

Lack of sleep had left her in a state of near
exhaustion. She fell at once into such a deep slumber that she did
not rouse until suppertime. Immediately she sought out Mrs.
Shirley.

“Is there any news?”

There was not. She went down to supper and
forced herself to eat. If she stopped to listen she could hear the
low, pulsating sound of artillery fire, distant though it was.
Martial music could be heard intermittently from Capitol Square and
the park. Mrs. Shirley told her that a crowd had gathered there, a
gay and confident crowd, as they awaited news of the battle.

On Sunday she went to church and came back
heartened by the service and the thoughtfulness of many members of
the congregation who asked after Andrew. Catherine escaped telling
an outright lie by saying, “Dr. Edwards said” thus and so. She did
not like the deception but realized she had no choice.

That afternoon Mrs. Shirley had a report.
“There has been hard and desperate fighting at Fredericksburg,
madam. The town has been destroyed, but our troops are holding
their position. They’ll not get into Richmond this time.”

The next day it was official—the Confederate
Army had won a decisive victory, at staggering cost to the enemy.
The Federals had abandoned the field and Burnside, dazed with
defeat, had crossed his troops back over the Rappahannock
River.

But Clayton did not return. Another day
passed, then a week. His name did not appear on the casualty lists,
but Mrs. Shirley said it wouldn’t because his name had not been on
the muster rolls and the medical corps would have no way of knowing
him. Catherine found this hardly comforting, for it implied that
Clayton was unable to tell anyone who he was.

She plunged herself into nursing at the
Harrison Street Hospital, where many of the wounded were being
transferred from other areas near the battle. There were so many
hospitals in Richmond, both real and makeshift, that Catherine
could not have possibly visited them all in search of Clayton. Dr.
Edwards promised to let her know as soon as he heard anything. He
looked sad and harried, in spite of the fact that the South had
scored a major triumph.

Many people in Richmond were saying the war
was over. Newspapers reported dissension in Lincoln’s Cabinet, and
it seemed obvious the North was tired of its poor leadership.
Certainly there could no longer be any doubt about the fighting
ability of the South.

Mrs. Shirley just shook her head. “General
Lee is not optimistic.”

It was Christmas Day when they got the news.
Too anxious to spend the day at home, Catherine had been at the
hospital since dawn. At noon she had just finished assisting with
an amputation—an ordeal that always left her drained and sick at
heart—when one of the orderlies passed her a note. She unfolded it
with shaking hands and read: “Come to my office. Dr. Edwards.”

She felt a queer, plummeting sensation in her
stomach. She moved as quickly as she could among the hordes of
wounded men, doctors, nurses and visitors until she reached the
corridor that led to Dr. Edwards’s study. She remembered the night
she’d come here with Clayton, and as on that night she felt like a
person walking in a dream, observing everything but not taking part
in it.

She knocked on the door and entered when she
heard the doctor’s voice. He was standing beside his desk, waiting
for her. Mrs. Shirley was there, too, sitting on the sofa. Her eyes
were red from crying.

“Come in, Catherine. Close the door,
child.”

She closed the door and stood staring at
him.

“I’ve just received a message from the War
Department. Clayton was wounded during the hard fighting around
Marye’s Hill just outside Fredericksburg. I have the report right
here in front of me.”

The doctor paused, but Catherine stood
frozen. He picked up a paper from the desk and adjusted his
spectacles, reading directly from the report.

“‘Major Pierce was near General Cobb when the
general received a bullet that severed an artery in his thigh.
Realizing General Cobb required immediate medical attention, Major
Pierce was helping to carry him from the field when he, too, was
struck by a bullet. He refused to release his hold on the general,
shielding him with his body, and was struck by a second bullet. He
did not collapse until he had the general out of harm’s way.
However, General Cobb died shortly thereafter from loss of
blood.’”

She found her voice, but it was faint.
“And…Clayton?”

The doctor looked up. “All I know is that he
is alive. He received surgery at Charlottesville. He’s being
transferred here. Now, dear, I must see to my patients. Mrs.
Shirley will tell you the rest.”

She was hardly aware of Dr. Edwards patting
her arm and going out the door. She looked at Mrs. Shirley, who had
recovered from whatever emotion had brought forth her tears and was
now sitting ramrod straight.

“What kind of surgery, Mrs. Shirley?”

“We have been given no details, Mrs. Kelly.
The reason we have heard nothing for so long is that he was simply
unable to communicate with anyone from our department. And as I
suspected, his name was not released to the casualty lists. There
was also some concern about his suitability for traveling, but they
have decided to risk it.”

“Who are they?”

“Our superiors. It’s been decided he is to
convalesce in your home, as Andrew Kelly, in order to carry out our
work. If he—” Mrs. Shirley paused and seemed to swallow hard but
went on, “dies, it will be as Captain Kelly and he will be buried
as Captain Kelly. Someone else will then take over the case against
Mr. Ingram.”

“But what can Clayton do while he’s wounded?
You’re not a real nurse and neither am I. He needs to be under a
doctor’s care!”

The other woman shrugged. “It has been
suggested that you, madam, should attempt to get the needed
information from Mr. Ingram.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Are you willing?”

Catherine sat down. She knew instinctively
that with a little use of wiles and subterfuge she might be able to
inveigle some sort of information out of Bart. But she also knew,
instinctively, that Bart could be mean. There were times she had
seen a coldness in his eyes that boded ill for anyone who crossed
him. If she were discovered—but this was Clayton’s work and he
needed her.

Mrs. Shirley had been watching her and now
said, as if merely stating a dry and unimportant fact, “You’re in
love with Major Pierce.”

Catherine said, just as matter-of-factly, “So
are you.”

For once Mrs. Shirley seemed completely taken
aback. She stared at Catherine with her mouth open.

“That’s ridiculous!”

“How old are you, Mrs. Shirley?”

“Old enough to be your mother, I
daresay.”

“But not old enough to be Clayton’s mother.
I’ve always assumed you were a widow.”

Mrs. Shirley said, with a trace of
haughtiness, “Never assume, in this profession.”

“You mean spying.”

“Of course. I should like to refer to it as
espionage, or counterespionage, as the case may be.”

“How did you come to be in this profession,
Mrs. Shirley? And where is your husband?”

“Am I under some sort of suspicion, Mrs.
Kelly?”

Catherine shook her head. “No, but I’ve been
wondering.”

“I was a governess in President Davis’s
household, while he was still a senator. I have
certain…intellectual abilities and it was he who placed me in the
department with Major Pierce and the others. Moreover, I have never
been married. I thought it best to depict myself as a widow, for
various reasons.”

Catherine could not imagine Mrs. Shirley
frolicking with the president’s children. She held back a
shiver.

“You should know Major Pierce was opposed to
your taking any further role in this mission. He said as much
before he left. But our superiors—and I might add they are very
high up—have decided otherwise. The major will be in a weakened
condition. I will be his eyes and ears. You will coax whatever
information you can out of Mr. Ingram. When we discover the
identity of the mastermind of this operation, we will have broken
up a major ring of traitors to the Confederacy—not to mention the
would-be assassins of General Lee.”

“How do we know that such a person exists?
Maybe Bart himself is the leader.”

“Mr. Ingram is not clever enough,” Mrs.
Shirley said mildly.

“Maybe he’s smarter than we think.”