Candle in the Darkness

  Early the next day, the sounds of battle began all over again, the artillery resounding endlessly from Richmond’s hills. The carnage was unimaginable. By the end of the second day, all of Chimborazo’s three thousand beds were filled, as well as the floor space between them. The ambulance drivers continued to dump their cargo of mutilated men at the hospital, regardless of the fact that we were full, and returned to the battlefield for more. The hospital was comprised of one hundred fifty small, whitewashed buildings, spread out over a forty-acre plateau; when these facilities overflowed, the administrator ordered tents to be set up. These also quickly filled, forcing us to lay the wounded on the ground between the tents. Richmond had set up more than forty hospitals, large and small, but they still overflowed with the deluge of wounded that week.

  The plague of flies that tormented all these poor, suffering souls seemed biblical in its proportions. Many soldiers survived their wounds and hasty field amputations only to be killed by one of the diseases that quickly spread in the suffocating heat. There were not enough bed sheets in all of Richmond to tear into bandages, not nearly enough drugs to deaden the pain, not enough help for the exhausted doctors who wept as still more ambulances arrived. Eli worked tirelessly beside me, lifting soldiers out of the ambulances in his brawny arms, carrying away the bodies of men who had died, making room for more. Gilbert drove Aunt Anne’s farm wagon back and forth from the battlefield all day, heaping it with wounded.

  “I seen too many young men die today,” Eli told me with tears in his eyes. “They in the prime of they lives . . . Such a terrible waste.”

  I couldn’t even speak of what I’d seen and experienced. By the end of the third day I returned home mute, certain that I’d never find the courage to return to the hospital again. Only the loving nourishment of Esther’s meals and Tessie’s enfolding arms gave me the strength to go back.

  The battles continued the next day and the next, lasting an entire week. Each morning I gathered my courage to drive downtown and read the casualty lists. The stench of death in the sweltering city was so horrific I had to travel with a handkerchief pressed over my nose and mouth. The city couldn’t dig new graves and bury the dead fast enough, and the corpses quickly swelled and stank in the heat as they piled up.

  “Look away, Missy Caroline,” Gilbert warned whenever we had to pass an open wagonload of the dead, headed for Hollywood or Oakwood cemeteries. With so many casualties, there was scarcely time for proper burial services as neither the clergy nor the gravediggers could keep up.

  If General McClellan had received the information I’d brought, he hadn’t taken advantage of it. I was amazed to learn that the week-long battles hadn’t begun because he and his massive army had finally attacked us, but because our own Confederate forces under General Lee had launched an offensive strike, determined to push the Federals back down the Peninsula. I was even more amazed when the sounds of battle gradually receded in the distance day after day. The largest army ever assembled on American soil was, in fact, retreating—from Mechanicsville to Gaines’ Mill, to Savage’s Station, to Frayser’s Farm, and finally to Malvern Hill. From June 25 to July 1, Lee had attacked and won in battle after battle. His only defeat had come in the last battle at Malvern Hill, where Confederate troops bravely charged up an open slope and were mowed down wholesale. According to General Daniel Hill, “It was not war—it was murder.”

  General Lee halted his offensive after Malvern Hill. But I couldn’t comprehend the news that McClellan continued to retreat, all the way to Harrison’s Landing and the safety of his gunboats on the James River. By summer’s end, he and his vast army were preparing to leave the Peninsula.

  Once again Richmond had been spared—but there were no victory celebrations this time. Far too many people were in mourning. The price of victory had been costly—twenty-one thousand Confederate soldiers killed, wounded, or taken prisoner that terrible week. It seemed that every family in Richmond knew someone who had been among the casualties. Miraculously, my loved ones had been spared. After what I’d done, I knew I would never forgive myself if Charles had been killed.

  I didn’t have time to visit Robert that terrible week, or the next. But when the long hours at the hospital finally eased, I returned to Libby Prison with a parcel of food and some more books. I couldn’t help feeling angry with him.

  “I did what you asked me to do, but the war didn’t end,” I said without a word of greeting. I knew that I was unfairly discharging my stockpile of grief and disappointment at him, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  Robert was incredulous. “You did? You really delivered it?”

  “Yes. I carried your Bible across to the Union lines and gave it to a colonel named Drake. But a fat lot of good it did for me to turn traitor. Your precious army is in retreat.”

  “Retreat? But . . . that can’t be true.”

  “Oh, it’s true, all right. At the rate they’re running, they’ll be back in Washington before the leaves fall. According to all the newspapers, Lincoln has replaced General McClellan.”

  Robert looked as though I had punched him in the stomach. “Caroline . . . I don’t know what to say. I mean, that’s what the jailers told us . . . but we didn’t believe them. We thought it was idle boasting. How could our army be defeated? And why are they retreating? We have the Rebels outnumbered. . . .”

  “Here’s the paper,” I said, tossing it to him. “Read it yourself.”

  “No . . . no . . .” The paper fell to the floor as Robert slumped down onto the bench and leaned against the brick wall. For a moment, I thought he might start banging his head against it. Too late, I realized that a Union victory would have meant his freedom.

  “McClellan let us down,” he mumbled. “We put all our hopes in him . . . and he let us down.”

  I reached for his hand. “I’m sorry, Robert. I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”

  “What’s wrong with our leaders?” Robert shouted. He thrust my hand aside. “What are they doing? What are they afraid of?”

  “Robert, listen to me—”

  “How long do they think we can stand it in this place?” The despair I saw in his eyes made me suddenly afraid for him.

  “Tell me what else I can do to help,” I said as calmly as I could. “I want this war to end as badly as you do. Tell me what to do.”

  Fury quickly replaced the despair I’d seen in his eyes. “I need to go back and fight. Help me escape.”

  The idea terrified me. I knew I couldn’t possibly help Robert escape, but I didn’t dare destroy his hope a second time. “H-how? Do you have a plan?”

  “If I think of one, will you help me?”

  “I’d like to help you . . . if I can,” I said carefully. “Now, here, why don’t you eat the food I brought you?”

  I stopped bringing Robert the newspaper for a while. I was afraid he would become even more depressed than he already was if he read how Union troops had retreated once again after a second battle near Manassas Junction in August. Charles and Jonathan had marched north with General Longstreet to take on the Union forces under General Pope. The second battle they fought at Manassas had proved even bloodier than the first, but once again our Confederate forces had been victorious.

  And once again I breathed a sigh of relief as Sally and I read the casualty lists together. She and her mother had returned to Richmond along with the Confederate Congress once the Peninsula crisis was over. Aunt Anne and Thomas had returned to Hilltop. Except for the chronic shortages of food and the constant worry over Charles, my life had resumed its normal wartime routine.

  In his next letter, Charles told me how hard he and the other men had fought at Manassas, and how some of Stonewall Jackson’s men had thrown rocks at the enemy when they’d run out of ammunition. Then we learned that the Confederates had kept going, marching north into Maryland to invade Union territory.

  The next time I visited Robert he confronted me. Before the door to the storeroom had even swung closed, he asked, ?
??Is it true what the guards are saying? They’ve been taunting us, telling us that the Rebels have invaded the North. Is it true?”

  I could only nod as I sank down onto the bench. Robert was a different person when he was angry.

  “How many men does Lee have? What’s he after? Why won’t you bring me a newspaper?”

  “Because I knew that the news would upset you—as it obviously has. I come here to be a comfort to you, Robert, not to make you angrier and more frustrated than you already are.”

  “All right . . . all right . . .” he said, calming himself. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “There has been a second battle at Manassas—”

  “At the same battlefield? Who won?”

  “The Confederates did. Your General Pope underestimated the size of our forces and had to retreat—”

  “Again? What’s wrong with those fools?”

  I saw his anger building dangerously. With every Union defeat, it seemed as though Robert relived his own defeat and what he called his “shameful” surrender at Ball’s Bluff. I decided to pour out the rest of the news all at once and get it over with.

  “The Rebels crossed the Potomac River into Maryland on September the fourth. A lot of people in that state are Rebel sympathizers, and the papers say some of them might enlist in the fight.We need more soldiers after our losses here last summer. The South is also hoping that Britain and France will support their cause, and a victory on Northern soil might finally persuade them to help us. Besides, General Lee knows that a lot of Northerners will lose heart for the war if blood is shed on their own soil this time.”

  Robert’s restless frustration was painful to watch. “You have to help me get out of here,” he said. It had become his desperate, unending refrain. “Please. I want to go back and fight.”

  I avoided telling Robert for as long as I dared that the Federal Arsenal at Harper’s Ferry had fallen to General Stonewall Jackson’s men. He would find out soon enough when some of the twelve thousand captured Union prisoners arrived at Libby Prison. Then, two days later, I heard about the horrific battle that had been fought at Antietam Creek outside Sharpsburg, Maryland. Sally and I went downtown to read the casualty lists, and for the first time I felt helpless disbelief when I saw what I had long dreaded seeing— my loved ones’ names.

  Among those listed as killed in action was Jonathan’s older brother, Will Fletcher. His entire eight-man artillery squadron had been struck down together. And Jonathan was listed among the wounded.

  Sally and I had both seen enough wounded men over the past year to expect the very worst. Even so, when the casualties from Antietam began to arrive, Sally and I rose before dawn each morning, determined to meet every train and ambulance coming into Richmond until we found Jonathan. Just as we were about to leave on our daily round of searching the second morning, Esther hurried into the foyer to tell me that her son, Josiah, had arrived at my back door bringing news. We ran outside to him.

  “Where’s Jonathan? Is he all right?” I asked without a word of greeting.

  Sally was right beside me. “Is he still alive?” she asked.

  Josiah’s dark face was unreadable. “Massa Jonathan been shot, Missy. I’ll take you to him and you see for yourself.”

  I wanted to ask about Jonathan’s injuries, but I was afraid—and not only because I dreaded the answer. Josiah still inspired fear in me, in spite of the fact that he now looked like a walking mountain of rags. His anger had always seemed barely controlled, like a banked fire that might burst into flames at the slightest breath of air. I avoided saying any more to him than I had to.

  Josiah had walked up Church Hill to my house, so we decided to drive to the hospital in Sally’s carriage, which was waiting outside. Josiah climbed up beside the driver to direct him. Josiah didn’t know the name of the hospital, but it wasn’t huge Chimborazo.

  By the time we pulled up in front of Winder Hospital on the city’s west side, Sally was distraught. “You go in the room first, Caroline. I can’t bear to look. I’ve seen so many mangled bodies, and if dear, sweet Jonathan looks like that . . . if he’s mutilated . . .”

  “All right. Stay out in the hallway,” I told her. “I’ll go in.” I couldn’t hide my annoyance. I don’t know why she thought this was any easier for me. I had loved Jonathan since we were children.

  I found him lying on a straw-filled pallet beside hundreds of other soldiers. His eyes were closed, his face paper white. I’d seen so many faces like this before, so many thousands of blood-soaked bandages, but this time tears came to my eyes. This time it was Jonathan. The left side of his tattered uniform was stained brown with crusted blood, the sleeve torn away. Blotches of fresh red blood colored the dressing around his arm. I quickly counted all four of his limbs. None of them ended in a bandaged stump.

  “Thank God,” I said aloud. I sank to my knees beside him.

  Jonathan opened his eyes. He smiled when he recognized me. “Hello, beautiful. Are you here to dance with me?”

  “Not today.” I took his uninjured hand in mine. I could hardly speak. I’d seen so many wounded men who hovered near death that I was grateful beyond words to see that Jonathan was very much alive. “How are you? Can I get you anything?” I finally asked.

  He shook his head. “They already told me they’re low on morphine. I’m okay. . . .”

  “Thank God,” I repeated.

  “Yes, thank God it’s only my left arm,” he said, exhaling. “Thank God it was only a bullet and not a Minie ball. Hurts like the devil, though.”

  I’d seen what the dreaded Minie ball could do, shattering bones and mutilating limbs so badly that the wounds almost always required amputation. Even so, I could tell by Jonathan’s sweaty brow and white lips that he was in a great deal of pain.

  “Doctor says the bone is broken but not shattered,” he told me. “The bullet severed some sort of artery, though, and I guess I lost a lot of blood. Good thing Josiah got me to a field hospital in time.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of wounds, Jonathan. You’re very fortunate that it didn’t do more damage than it did.”

  “That’s because the bullet had slowed down considerably by the time it hit me.”

  “I don’t understand. . . . How do you know that?”

  “Because it went through the neck of the man kneeling beside me first. Killed him.” He paused, biting his lip, then said, “My arm should heal if it doesn’t get gangrene or erysipelas.”

  “That’s why we’re going to take you out of here and nurse you at home.” I turned to the door, remembering Sally. I motioned for her to come into the room. “In fact,” I told Jonathan, “I brought you your very own private nurse.”

  Sally began to weep as she knelt on the floor beside him. “Oh, Jonathan . . .” Jonathan wrapped his free arm around her and pulled her close.

  I stood then and went out to find Josiah so he could carry Jonathan to the carriage. I heard men moaning, weeping, and knew it could have been so much worse. He might have lost an arm or a leg as so many of these men had. And I silently thanked God that it wasn’t Charles lying dead beside Antietam Creek instead of Will.

  It took a few more days for my cousin Will’s body to arrive in Richmond. The battle at Sharpsburg had accumulated more casualties than any single battle to date, but they wisely chose to send the living home first. Jonathan quickly improved thanks to Esther’s cooking and Sally’s constant nursing. He was still weak on the day Eli and I came back from the train station with the coffin, but he insisted on going to Hilltop with us for his brother’s funeral.

  I hadn’t let Jonathan read that morning’s newspaper. I didn’t want him to know about the stunning announcement President Lincoln had made after declaring Sharpsburg a Union victory. When Tessie had read the headline—Lincoln Vows to Free Slaves in Rebel States—she’d wept tears of joy.

  “Read the story out loud to me, honey,” she begged. “I can’t see the words for all these silly tears.”

  “Le
t’s go out and share it with the others.” We took the newspaper outside to the kitchen, and I read it aloud to all the servants. According to Lincoln’s proclamation, the slaves in all of the rebelling states would be emancipated as of the first of January, 1863.

  “Tell me in plain English what that means,” Esther said.

  “Means that if the North wins this war,” Eli told her, “we all be set free. There be no more slavery down here.”

  “Grady gonna be free, too?” Tessie asked, still wiping her eyes. “He gonna be able to come home?”

  “Yes, he surely will.”

  I slipped outside as they hugged and rejoiced, knowing that I had no right to share in their joy. For me, the stakes had been raised. It was now more important than ever that the North win the war. “Here I am,” I whispered. I was willing to do whatever God asked me to do.

  I waited to break the news to Jonathan until we had secured a travel pass and were on our way to Hilltop in a borrowed wagon. He would not rejoice over Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation.

  “Can’t you see what he’s doing?” Jonathan asked. “Lincoln knows he can’t beat us any other way, so he’s dangling freedom in front of our slaves, hoping they’ll rise up against us.”

  “Why is a slave uprising always your biggest fear?” I asked. “Maybe Lincoln is doing it because it’s the right thing to do. I know you don’t agree with me, but slavery is morally wrong. Other civilized nations have realized it. Great Britain outlawed slavery thirty years ago and—” Jonathan groaned. “Oh, no. I’ll bet that’s another reason Lincoln did it. We were this close to winning England’s support,” he said, holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Our victory at Antietam could have clinched it. But now Lincoln is claiming a victory and making the war into a moral issue by tossing in slavery. England will never support us now.”

  I decided not to argue with him. We were both much too emotionally drained. As Jonathan raged on and on about Lincoln and the slaves and “those cowardly Yankees,” I let him vent his feelings without comment. But after we passed the picket lines and crossed the Chickahominy, nearing Hilltop’s property, he forgot everything else as he viewed his desolated plantation for the first time.