Spring Will Come (8 page)

             
Thomas shrugged.  “The last I heard our President didn’t even know there was going to be a battle until he heard the gunfire. Evidently neither he nor Lee had been advised of a design to attack the enemy.  Once he heard the gunshots, our President rode out to the battlefield. I was told General Lee had to order him back from the front before he got shot.”

             
“President Davis used to be an army officer himself, didn’t he?”

             
“Yes.  And old habits die young.”

             
“Did he go back?”

             
“Yes, but not before helping rally the troops.”

             
“One of the soldiers who came in last night told me they pushed the Union troops back.”

             
Thomas nodded.  “They did.  But we paid a high price for it.”

             
“Matron Pember said somewhere around 5,000 were killed or injured.”

             
“Including General Johnston,” Thomas said grimly.

             
“General Johnston!”  Carrie exclaimed.  “What happened?”

             
“I don’t really know.  All I do know is that he was severely wounded and will be out of service indefinitely.”

             
“Who is leading our troops?”

“General Smith.”

              Carrie studied her father.  “You don’t sound pleased.”

             
Thomas shrugged.  “I don’t know much about the man.  I’ve simply heard our President is not overly impressed with him.  It could just be talk.  One thing for sure,” he said heavily,  “Smith will have his chance to prove himself.  There is sure to be more fighting today.”

             
Carrie nodded and drank the last bit of her tea.  “The sky is getting light.  I’m going back to the hospital.”

             
“So early?  You’ve only had a few hours of sleep.”

             
Carrie shrugged.  “I suppose you’ve had more,” she said wryly and then managed a small laugh at her father’s rueful expression.  “I thought as much.  There are thousands of wounded men in our city.  Sleep seems to lose some of its importance.”  She was reaching for the final morsel of her biscuit when a loud boom penetrated the morning air.  “Father!”  She ignored the teacup that went clattering to the floor as she jumped up from the table and sprang to the window. 

             
“It’s begun again.”  Thomas said solemnly as he stood close beside her and stared out.  “I have to leave now.  They will need me at the Capitol.”  His face was hard as he turned to gather his papers.  Then he turned back.  “Take care of yourself, Carrie.”

             
Carrie stared at him, certain there was more he wasn’t saying.  Their conversation from a week ago played through her mind.  She knew that if the city fell, the government would flee before the Union occupied it.  They would move to another location and continue the fight.  Her father had begged her to go with him if he was forced to evacuate with the rest of the government.  She had refused.  She still believed her place was here in Richmond.  She would face whatever came.   Both of them had cried when she told him her decision.  Carrie simply knew she must stay - she belonged here - and she must be where Robert could find her. 

             
Carrie wrapped her father in a big hug.  “I love you.  And I’m very proud of you.”  She forced a smile, not willing to believe Richmond would fall. 

             
Thomas laid his hand on her face for a long moment and then kissed her cheek gently.  “I love you, too.”

             
The sound of cannon and gunfire followed Carrie as she hurried up the hill toward the hospital, her fatigue forgotten.  Somehow, in spite of the already crowded condition of the city, there must be more room made to accommodate the fresh flow of wounded from the newest battle raging.  Richmond was indeed discovering the price it would pay for offering itself to be the capital of the Confederacy.  The shadows of glory and honor were quickly ebbing into the deep darkness of reality and responsibility.  Laughter and confidence were disappearing beneath the moans and cries of the wounded.  Grim determination had already replaced casual lightheartedness.  The whole city was at war. 

             
When Carrie reached the top of the hill, she saw there were still wagons with men waiting in them.  She shuddered as she realized they had been there all night – alone with their pain and fear.  As she walked quickly down the wide street surrounding the 150 buildings, she gazed out over the sight.  People were everywhere, hurrying in and out of buildings.  Stretchers were being carried; food was being delivered.  She could smell the smoke from the bakeries as they worked to produce thousands of loaves of bread a day.   Soon the aroma of fresh bread would spread through the air, competing with the odor of soup made in the boilers taken from the tobacco factories down the hill.  And, of course, the brewery was turning out beer as fast as it could. 

             
Rounding the corner, Carrie stopped suddenly and held her hand against her mouth, trying to control the gagging reflex in her throat.  She wanted to scream her horror at the pile of severed hands, legs, and arms piled outside one of the surgical buildings.  Already the mound was attracting swarms of flies as it cast off its deathly odor.  Carrie closed her eyes tightly and forced her legs to carry her past the awful scene.  These buildings were full of young men who desperately needed medical help.  Somehow she must block out her own feelings of helpless horror and give them hope.

             
Almost running when she finally reached her ward, Carrie took one deep breath and ducked into the building.  Immediately she was thankful Dr. McCaw had insisted on plenty of ventilation for all of the buildings.  Even so, the air was thick and heavy. 

             
“Howdy, Miss Cromwell.” 

             
“Good morning, Johnny,” Carrie said brightly.  “And how are we doing this morning?”  She took special care not to stare at Johnny’s bandaged stump.  Instead she concentrated on his eyes.  They were still bright with fever, but he was at least alert.

             
“Oh, I’m all right, I reckon.  My arm hurts right much.”

             
“I’m sure it does.”  Carrie spoke soothingly as she reached for a water pitcher, filled his glass, and held it to his lips.  “Drink plenty of water,” she urged.  “It will help wash that fever right out of your body.”

             
“Tastes right good, Miss Cromwell.  I’m real thankful for what everyone is doing.”

             
“It’s the least we can do, Johnny.  We just want you to get well.”

             
Johnny smiled weakly then managed a real grin.  “You heard how we pushed them Yankees back?”

             
“I certainly did,” Carrie assured him.  “Y’all did a fine job.

Johnny seemed eager to tell his story.  “The fighting was mighty fierce, Miss Cromwell.  Why, most of the time me and my unit
was fighting down there in that swamp.  When we first got to fighting, that water was up to our knees.  I even saw a snake or two slither by.  I reckoned they were trying to get away from all that noise.” 

             
Carrie shuddered as she listened. 

             
“When I done got shot, I reckoned I was just going to slip down into that water and drown.  Then one of the boys came by and propped me up against one of them stumps.  I guess my mama’s prayers was answered sure enough ‘cause I didn’t catch no more bullets.  I guess I passed out at some point, ‘cause the next thing I knew I was in one of them ambulance wagons heading this way.” 

             
Carrie tried to force out of her mind the picture of Robert fighting in conditions like that.  The only way she knew how to deal with the not knowing was to give all she could to the men surrounding her.  Gently she washed Johnny’s face and hands.  “Drink some more water, Johnny.”

             
“What you trying to do, Miss Cromwell?  Drown me?”

             
Carrie laughed, a genuine laugh, as Johnny looked at her suspiciously.  “The water is good for you.  You don’t want that fever to take you, do you?  Drink as much as you can.  I promise it will help.”

             
Johnny still looked at her suspiciously, but he drained the glass she offered him. 

             
“I sure would like some of that water, ma’am.”

             
Carrie turned quickly and met the eyes of a young man two beds down.  “Why, of course!”   She filled a glass with water and hurried to him.  “What’s your name?”

             
“Alexander Bedford, ma’am.”

             
Carrie looked at him closely.  She was almost certain she had seen him before, but the dirt and strain on his face made it hard to tell. 

             
“I’m from Bedford Plantation about fifty miles down the river.”

             
“Of course!  My father, Thomas Cromwell, knows yours.”

             
“And I know who you are, Miss Cromwell.  I was there two years ago when that gray Thoroughbred of yours beat Nathan Blackwell.”

             
“I think the man riding my horse, Granite, would like to take some of the credit for that,” Carrie said with a laugh.  The tournament at Blackwell Plantation, when Robert had ridden Granite to victory, seemed an eternity ago.  It had been a time of lighthearted fun, when her largest concern was whether Robert would capture enough of the rings to be declared winner in the competition.  She forced herself back to the present.  “How badly wounded are you?”

             
“Well, I suppose I’m luckier than most.  I caught a couple of balls in my left leg, but they decided to leave it on after I objected most strenuously to their suggestion of taking it off,” Alexander said indignantly.  Then his voice dropped.  “I realize they may still have to take it, but as long as there is a chance...”

             
Carrie laid her hand on his arm.  “I know the doctors will work as hard as they can to save it.”

             
Alexander nodded.  “Yes.  Of course, they will.”  Then his eyes filled with pain.  “I have so little to complain about.  My best friend... Mark.  He - he didn’t make it.  I watched him die.  A bullet hit him in the head...”  He gulped as his face twisted in agony.  “At least he went quick.  I don’t think he even felt it.”  His eyes darkened as he traveled back to the horrors of the day before.  “Men were falling all around me.  I barely managed to drag myself behind some trees after I got shot.  There were about five hundred of us who took part in that charge.  Less than half of us made it out.” 

             
Carrie listened, white-faced, as Alexander told his story.  It was a wonder he was alive.  How long would he have to deal with the horrors of his memories?  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. 

             
Alexander shook his head and looked at her as if he were surprised to see her there.  “I’m sorry, Miss Cromwell.  I shouldn’t be burdening you with stories like that.  You’re a lady.”

             
“A southern lady, Mr. Bedford.  Which means we’re all in this together,” Carrie responded crisply.  “You drink that water; then I’ll pour you another glass.”

             
Alexander laughed then nodded his head toward Johnny.  “I think you’re right.  She’s trying to drown us.” 

             
Carrie laughed with him and then moved down the line of soldiers and talked with each one, while she was dispensing water, fluffing pillows, straightening linen, and doing anything else she could to try to make them more comfortable.   Sickness and pain seldom made sense, no matter what the cause.  Somehow, since she had come to the hospital that morning, she had realized she could waste energy with anger and frustration, or simply accept what was and do the best she could to make a difference.   If she wanted to be a doctor, she was going to spend her whole life surrounded by senseless pain and suffering.   She would have to deal with it.