The Lady and the Officer (19 page)

“Micah, I'll take a brandy in the parlor with my pipe,” Uncle John said before brushing a kiss across his wife's head as he left the dining room. “For Christmas you can whittle me a new pipe from a corn cob, dear heart.”

“Good night, Uncle,” murmured Madeline.

“Good night, Madeline, Eugenia. Sleep with sweet dreams of fair skies for your outing.”

The next day dawned cool and bleak with low clouds threatening to open at any moment into torrents of rain. Yet the two young women didn't cancel their trip to the docks. Eugenia eagerly anticipated market day as a break to her
ennui
, and Madeline couldn't wait to transfer the note, tucked in the inner flap of her reticule, into the callused hands of Captain George of the
Bonnie Bess
.

Elliott glanced at his pocket watch for the third time, but not because he was in a hurry to confer with Jefferson Davis. With no good news to present, he didn't care if their meeting was postponed indefinitely. He stared out the window at a dismal city. Rain continued to fall, dampening spirits as well as Richmond's already muddy streets.

The paneled door of the executive office swung open, and John Duncan greeted him with a smile. “Good morning, Colonel Haywood. President Davis will see you now.”

“Thank you, sir.” With hat in hand, Elliott entered the elegant,
high-ceilinged domain of the president of the Confederate States of America. Duncan's tiredness paled in comparison to Davis's. The man's face had sunk beneath his cheekbones, causing his sharp nose to stand in sharp relief. He'd gained a hawkish appearance after losing at least thirty pounds since the start of the war.

“Thank you for waiting, Colonel. Please have a seat.” Davis pointed to a leather chair in front of his desk.

Elliott scanned the room. Two aides stood against the wall, their side arms unstrapped. Davis's staff members served as bodyguards in addition to the protection Elliott kept posted. Maps, dispatches, and handwritten rosters covered every inch of the desk. Clutched between his fingers were more papers to add to the clutter. “Thank you, sir.”

President Davis tossed the sheet he'd been reading onto the desk. “I hope you have better news for me, Colonel.”

Lowering himself to the edge of the chair, Elliott chose not to answer the question directly. “General Lee has withdrawn his troops south of the Rapidan River, while Meade's army is encamped close to the town of Brandy Station. For the past week, Meade tried to push our boys back. Apparently, a ford of the Germanna River changed hands five times. It is once again ours, sir.”

The president gritted his teeth. “Seven days of fighting and yet we gained nothing.”

“True, but we haven't lost ground, sir. By all reports the campaign around the town of Mine Run has been declared a stalemate.”

“The Yanks have no trouble replacing the soldiers they lose. I, on the other hand, have no more men to send General Lee. Our efforts to recruit in Georgia and the Carolinas have yielded either men too old to march or boys too young to shoot straight.”

Elliott merely cleared his throat. He had nothing positive to add.

“Give me the casualty report from the hospital.” Davis stood and walked to his window, clasping his hands behind his back.

“I have it here, sir.” After shuffling through the stack for the correct piece of paper, Elliott conveyed the statistics of the dead, amputees discharged from service, and wounded returned to their regiments to serve out enlistments.

Midway through the report, Davis turned and slapped an open palm
down on the desk. “Unacceptable! What are those surgeons doing? They kill more than they save. Are they all blind or drunk?”

“According to the chief surgeon of Chimborazo, more are dying in the wards from typhus than the festering of wounds.”

The color rose in Davis's usually pale complexion. “I shall direct General Lee not to attempt additional engagements this year. He must establish a suitable winter camp and restore his men. In the spring we will attack Meade's rabble with a renewed army.”

“I will personally deliver dispatches to the commanders, sir,” Elliott said as he scrambled to his feet.

“The first one I need sent is a request for another prisoner exchange. My officers are languishing on Johnson's Island in Ohio. Who knows if they can survive a winter on Lake Erie? Some of those boys never saw snow before.”

“I will deliver your request, sir, but rumor has it that Lincoln would refuse any future officer exchange. He knows our need is greater than theirs.”

Considering Davis's facial expression, Elliott regretted sharing this information even though it surely wasn't gossip. He'd seen it printed in a Baltimore newspaper.

The president pinched the bridge of his nose as though another headache had arrived. “That will be all for now, Colonel. Thank you for your patience this morning. You may return to your duties until I complete my directives.”

Elliott saluted and left the executive suite with a sour taste in his mouth. He wished the news had been better, but boasting and overwrought arrogance hadn't served the Confederacy thus far. If they were to win this war, they must recognize their weaknesses as well as their strengths.

The guard posted at the office of the home guard was asleep at his post, his head lolling against the doorjamb. Based on his ghastly pallor, Elliott suspected the soldier still suffered blood poisoning from his arm amputation. “Look sharp there!” he ordered on his way past.

Once he had returned to his office, he stared out the window at the street below. How he'd loved coming to the city from the plantation as a child. While his grandparents had been alive, his family home had been a happy place, filled with good things to eat and the sounds of children at
play. Now Elliott could barely stand the sight of his broken father or godless brother. Only the thought of seeing Mrs. Howard Sunday mornings kept him from slipping into despondency. Pulling his map of Northern Virginia closer, he studied the approximate location of General Meade's encampment. One of his aides interrupted him before he could plot the best way to approach the camp.

“Excuse me, Colonel, but a Mr. Jonas Weems wishes to see you.”

“I don't know any Mr. Weems. Send him away.” Elliott scraped his hand down his face.

“He's a newspaper man for the
Richmond Times Dispatch
and says the matter is of the utmost importance.”

Isn't every matter these days?
Elliott's eyes rolled back for a moment. “Send him in, Lieutenant.”

A few moments later a rotund, middle-aged man pulled off kid gloves and extended a hand. “Colonel Haywood, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. I believe our fathers belonged to the same club in town. But that club is no more, I'm afraid.”

Elliott half rose to shake hands. “A pleasure, but I'm afraid I can grant you only five minutes, sir. I'm awaiting urgent dispatches from President Davis.”

“Five minutes will be more than ample. I come with concerns of a rather personal and delicate nature.” Weems lowered his voice despite the fact the aide had left the office.

Elliott pushed his map aside. “What personal matter do we have to discuss? I've never laid eyes on you before today.”

“A tall, blond woman has been seen Sunday mornings in your family's pew.” Weems consulted a small book that had gone unnoticed thus far. “A Mrs. Madeline Howard.”

“You feel whom I sit with in church is your business, Mr. Weems, or worthy of the
Richmond Times'
attention?” Elliott didn't hide his irritation.

“Certainly not, sir. I'm a journalist, not a gossipmonger. But I've learned on good authority that Mrs. Howard hails from Pennsylvania and was briefly associated with a Yankee hospital up north.”

“She does and yes, she worked in a humanitarian capacity for which I will always be grateful. Mrs. Howard saved my life, sir.”

Weems blinked several times. “Astonishing, Colonel. The coincidences in life must truly give one pause. Then was it her humanitarian nature that brought Mrs. Howard to our city? Perhaps to assist at Chimborazo Hospital? I visited there recently, and the need for nurses is great.”

“I don't believe so, sir. Please speak your business frankly. I have no time for innuendo.”

“Innuendo? I'm here with nothing but respect for your service to the Confederacy, but I must beg you to consider a possibility. The enemy often sends the fairer sex to trick those with a trusting nature—a Trojan horse, if you will. This wouldn't be the first time an officer divulged military information. From one gentleman to another, a pretty face and comely figure can often mask a devious heart.”

“Mrs. Howard is no Delilah. And I will thank you to keep your baseless opinions to yourself.” Elliott pushed back from the desk.

“In October someone conveyed information regarding Lee's planned assault near the town of Bristow. Division commanders insist their maneuver came as no surprise to the Yankees. A houseguest of the Duncans would have access to sensitive details.” His aspersion hung in the air like the stink of rotted meat.

“I don't discuss military matters between hymns at St. Paul's Church, and neither does John Duncan at his dinner table.” Elliott stood so that he towered over the short journalist, but then he leaned precariously close so there would be no misunderstanding. “I suggest you obtain proof before you smear the good name of a gentlewoman such as Mrs. Howard.”

Mr. Weems turned pale as though finally aware he'd overstepped whatever good intentions he had. “I beg your pardon, sir, for giving offense. I will leave you with a humble word of caution, nothing more.” He bowed low from the waist, plopped his hat on his head, and hurried from the room, leaving Elliott both furious and confused.

E
LEVEN

 

D
ECEMBER

F
rom her bedroom window, Madeline watched snow falling on a bleak city. It offered no blanketing, softening effect as it did up north. Instead, the snow quickly melted, creating a slushy mess in the streets.

“Maddy, breakfast!”

Eugenia's call pierced her reverie. Since moving in with the Duncans, Madeline felt her social position diminish. She was treated more like an older sibling rather than a widowed matron accustomed to answering to no one.

“I'll be down shortly,” she hollered, falling easily into the role. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. The mansion was drafty and under heated due to the high price of both coal and firewood.

“Think warm thoughts and go to bed early.” Aunt Clarisa's often-repeated advice to Eugenia made Madeline smile. She'd grown up believing the South to always be warm. With a final glance out her bedroom window, Madeline caught a glimpse of a soldier in a plumed hat making his way down the flagstone sidewalk of Forsythia Lane. With his head bent against the wind, the man tried to dodge puddles along the way. Even at this distance, she could see that his coat was too threadbare to provide much protection.

Where was James on this sunless Monday? Had the Union Army built quarters or commandeered abandoned farmhouses to house their officers? Or did a general sleep in a canvas tent with damp grass beneath his bedroll? Madeline shook away thoughts of a man whose face grew more obscure with each passing day.

Worry not about what you cannot change, but endeavor righteously with what you can.
Her grandmother's favorite saying had been stitched onto a scrap of muslin cloth. Madeline had framed the sampler and hung it in her living room… in a house that existed now solely in her memory.

“Good morning, my dear,” Aunt Clarisa said the moment she entered the dining room. “I trust you slept well.”

Smiling, Madeline slipped onto a dining room chair. “Yes, ma'am, I did.”

“There's an extra quilt in the trunk at the foot of your bed,” Aunt Clarisa said as she held up a porcelain cup to the butler.

“I found it, thank you. Just one egg and toast, please, Micah. No sausage gravy today.”

“You need to eat enough to maintain your strength. The ladies' auxiliary needs both you and Eugenia every day this week.” Aunt Clarisa scooped a mound of fried potatoes onto everyone's plates.