High Hearts (50 page)

“Curious,” Kate remarked to Lutie. The cannons belched for two days, but few wounded filtered into Richmond. Every now and then an ambulance cart would clatter past the house, but an odd silence prevailed.

“I think this battle may not be fully joined,” Lutie said.

“Yes,” Kate replied. “My husband once said that danger has a bright face. I expect he’s seeing it now.”

“Ever notice how in times of trouble, people invent reasons for it?”

“Such as?”

“A woman loses a valuable shawl. She says to herself, ‘This is my punishment for being short with dear Aunt Helen.’ ”

Kate chuckled. “I do that all the time.”

“Humans are unwilling to believe that great suffering and disaster can be inflicted without moral justification.”

“I usually have the strength to bear great suffering, someone else’s great suffering.” Kate smiled.

“Where is the baron these days?”

Kate’s eyebrows twitched upward. “I do hope, Lutie, that is a non sequitur.”

“Well, of course it is, Kate.”

“Miss Kate, someone is here to see you,” Evangelista softly interrupted.

“At eleven-thirty? It must be the wounded at last. Let’s see.

“Miss Kate, Miss Lutie should stay inside for a minute.”

A cold spear burrowed in Lutie’s stomach. Kate put her hand on Lutie’s shoulder. “Let me go first. Wait here with Sin-Sin.”

Kate nervously hurried outside. The ambulance cart had one body in it, Henley. A blanket covered his wounded right leg and his severed left. His face was completely white. “Oh, no!” She buried her face in her hands.

The ambulance driver was distressed to see such a beautiful woman in tears. “Fine-looking man. The general told us to bring him here soon as we could get away. Terrible fight today, ma’am. Couldn’t go out for the wounded ’til long after sunset.”

Kate composed herself. “I thank you for bringing him here. If you wait a moment, I shall have him carried in.”

Jensen and the stable boy quickly ran to the wagon. Kate instructed them. “Put the colonel in my room. We may need the other rooms for wounded. Jensen, find some ice if you can. We’ll pack him in it.”

She squared her shoulders and walked into the house. Lptie and Sin-Sin, motionless, waited. Di-Peachy had joined them.

“My dearest Lutie—”

“It’s Henley, isn’t it?”

Kate broke down and cried. She had so wanted to be a source of support for Lutie. “Yes. But wait, let us get him upstairs before you look at him.”

“Lord God, no!” Sin-Sin’s throaty voice shook.

Di-Peachy remained silent. A father found and a father lost.

“Please step into the kitchen until Jensen prepares him.”

Twenty minutes later, Lutie, Sin-Sin, and Di-Peachy followed Kate upstairs.

Lutie walked into Kate’s bedroom. Aside from his marbled whiteness, he didn’t look that bad. Silvery curls framed his face.

“He looks like the boy I married,” she whispered. “Death stole his years.”

“Don’t lift up the blanket, Lutie.” Kate moved between her and the body.

“What happened?”

“Lost his left leg and part of the right. There’s no need to look.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Yes, but those men weren’t your husband.”

Lutie leaned forward and ran her fingers through his curls. Sin-Sin came behind her to catch her if she fainted.

“The ambulance driver also handed me these letters,” Kate gently informed Lutie.

“He wrote one to Baron Schecter, too. The driver told me that half the army is talking about it. The other half will find out tomorrow.”

“What?” Lutie forced herself to stay reasonable.

“Schecter is with A.P. Hill. Henley couldn’t have known that the baron was perhaps two hundred yards from him. His letter was delivered minutes after he died.”

“What did it say?”

“ ‘Dear Baron: I regret not being able to give you satisfaction. It seems I satisfied a Yankee first.’ ”

Lutie laughed until her laughter turned into tears. “He never broke stride.” She placed her face next to his cold cheek and sobbed.

Even
The New York Times
carried Henley Chatfield’s obituary. They called him “the greatest horseman of modern times.” The London
Times, Le Matin de Paris
, the St. Petersburg paper, and papers throughout Europe noted his passing. But the event in his life that passed through time was his note to Schecter. Whenever an outsider would ask what it meant to be a Southern gentleman, inevitably the story of Henley Chatfield writing a note while he lay dying on the Mechanicsville battlefield would be recounted.

Old Cold Harbor Road, deeply rutted, was intersected by numerous farm roads in equally deplorable condition. Geneva rode toward the noise in front of her. A hot battle raged and cavalry was not a part of it.

Stuart’s force, spread out, was sweeping a wide front from Old Cold Harbor Road as far north as Old Church Road, almost to the Pamunkey River.

Mars cast his men out like a net, and they picked over the fields, each man within sight of the other. Occasionally an overturned wagon would break the monotony, but the Federal cavalry eluded them. So did the Federal infantry who had withdrawn in the night to superior defensive positions.

Geneva tried to put together the pieces of this scattered puzzle based upon what she had seen with her own eyes and what she had heard from others. Used for information and to screen Jackson, the cavalry hadn’t been assigned a combat role. This infuriated Geneva. She also knew Jackson lagged behind. The guns barked perhaps three miles distant from where she rode. Someone was mixing it up in the direction of the Chickahominy. Why didn’t the Yankees come out into the open fields where everyone could maneuver? The temperature in the swamps was five to ten degrees hotter than on the meadows. Artillery men nearly fried, for their guns also produced heat. Vines grew thick amidst the trees, choking movement in swamps and bogs.

The gentle farmlands along Old Cold Harbor Road would make an excellent battlefield as well as a splendid place for cavalry to wheel, clash, wheel, and clash again. A cluster of woods or a glistening pond added interest to the rolling wheat fields and corn. She passed a lovely peach orchard and was
sorry it was too early in the season for the gnarled trees to bear fruit.

“What’s he doing up there?” wondered Geneva aloud, to herself. Mars was about two hundred yards ahead of the thin line.

“Ants in his pants,” Banjo declared.

Nash, riding on the other side of Banjo, was less kind. “Wants everyone to notice him, the conceited ass.”

Geneva, accustomed to Nash’s consistent antipathy to Mars, said nothing.

“Good land,” said Banjo. “Appears the farmer built himself a spite fence.” He pointed to a stone fence about six feet in height. The gray fieldstones, carefully positioned, fit into each other like interlocking fingers.

A sheet of flame startled them. Federals appeared from behind the fence. More Yankees, mounted, spun around outbuildings and the farmhouse.

Mars grabbed his left arm.

“Colonel!” Geneva screamed.

“Stay back here!” Nash ordered.

Geneva spurred Dancer with Banjo right beside her.

Another burst of fire hit Mars’s horse. A bullet passed about one inch below the animal’s eyes. Crazed and dying, the animal charged the fence, then surged over the high barrier. More gunfire spit.

Geneva and Banjo were now fifty yards behind Mars. “I’m going over!” Geneva shouted to Banjo, her head resting low near Dancer’s outstretched neck.

Banjo nodded, wondering how the hell she could clear that stone fence. Colonel Vickers’s horse had done it only with a burst of superior, final strength.

“Dancer can clear anything! Cover me!” With that she grabbed Dancer with steel calves, leaned forward with her seat deep in the saddle, and fed the bay the bit. Dancer, ripping huge hunks of earth as she ran, gathered her bulky hindquarters under her and shot over the solid fence with a foot to spare. Banjo’s jaw dropped on his chest. He skidded to a stop at the fence, tucked his feet on his saddle, and sprang to the top of the fence as gracefully and economically as a gray cat. He fired both pistols into the scattered Yanks, oblivious to his exposed status.

Mars was stumbling away from his dead horse who collapsed
on the other side of the jump. His mare’s feet didn’t touch the ground, she folded like an accordion. Blood covered Mars’s left side.

“Swing up, Colonel.” Geneva leaned over and helped him up. Banjo cursed the Yanks and continued to cover them.

“You can’t jump back over with me. Save yourself, Jimmy,” Mars commanded.

“Can’t hear you, Colonel.” Geneva galloped along the wall looking for a way out. Bullets slammed into the stone.

“Get back, you walleyed sons of bitches!” Banjo screamed. A bullet tore his cap off. He didn’t miss a beat.

“Flaming hell!” Nash jumped up beside Banjo. The two men ran rightward on top of the wall, firing and cursing together.

Out of the small, enclosed apple orchard, a Yankee captain ran forward, waving a white handkerchief. He stood still and motioned with his left hand that there was a turn up ahead.

As she approached him, Geneva slowed.

The Federal captain, clear green eyes, called up to her, “Anyone who can jump like that deserves to live! Get out of here!”

“Jimmy Chatfield, Charlottesville, Virginia. Find me when this war is over!” She dug into Dancer’s flanks and barreled through the small opening in the wall where a portion had fallen into disrepair.

Banjo and Nash, seeing the escape, vaulted off the wall.

“By God, you’re a fine fellow!” Banjo slapped Nash on the back, exuberant at their exploit. Banjo ran underneath the wall until he found his cap. Jubilantly he picked it up and stuck his finger through the hole. “Those factory boys are improving their marksmanship.”

Geneva thundered to a nondescript little crossroad, then cut hard left toward the sound of artillery. She knew a field hospital would be stationed somewhere behind the main line of infantry dispute.

Mars’s head leaned on her back. She glanced down. Dancer’s left flank was deep red with the Colonel’s blood. She felt hot liquid soaking through her left side where his arm swung up and back as they flew onward.

When she saw the yellow hospital flag, she sent up a silent prayer. Arms and legs lay outside the tent. The earth was slippery with blood. She reined in her grateful horse, slid
down, and gently pulled Mars off. He was conscious but foggy.

Two orderlies met her and put Mars on a litter. She followed them to where they laid him. For a moment she didn’t notice her surroundings. The screams and sobs meant nothing to her. She leaned over Mars, tears splashing on his face. “Don’t die, Colonel, please don’t die! I love you! I never knew how much I loved you!”

His eyes fluttered open as he whispered, “But I did.” He closed his eyes.

She put her head to his chest. His heart was beating.

A major, covered from head to toe in blood, knelt beside Mars. He took his pulse. He pulled an eyelid back. “On the table!” he shouted.

“I’m not leaving him,” Geneva cried.

“Do as you please, Sergeant, but don’t pass out or vomit near me. I’ve got enough to do.” The surgeon brushed by her.

Mars was slapped on a table after a fresh bucket of water was thrown on it. Behind him was another table and one was behind that, a row of torture. Immediately behind the Colonel, she saw a foot being tossed on the pile as though it were a ham hock. A bloody stump confronted her. The surgeon feverishly tied off the artery with waxed thread.

The surgeon and his assistants worked like a well-oiled machine. They cut off Mars’s tunic and the shirt underneath. They examined his upper body to see if he’d taken any more wounds.

An orderly rapidly washed the left arm.

“No chloroform,” the surgeon said. He stared into two holes on Mars’s bicep. Then he pulled the arm away from the body. “One in. One out. Forceps!”

A master sergeant handed him the long steel instrument after wiping it on his bloody apron. Another man held the arm down. Plunging into the ugly tear, the surgeon probed for the bullet. He saw no signs of shattered bone, but he couldn’t feel the bullet either.

“Do you want the scalpel, sir?”

“When I want it, I’ll ask for it!” he snarled. He probed again, none too deliberately. “Ah!” He played with the forceps and extracted a bullet, perfectly shaped.

“May I have that?” Geneva tearfully asked.

“Huh?” The surgeon had forgotten she was there. He tossed it to her.

“Will he live?”

“He’s lost a great deal of blood, but he ought to make it.” He spun to face the next case, a man shot through the throat. Mars was carried away from the field tent and put in a grove of trees. Geneva followed him. Once she was sure he was still alive, she fetched Dancer. Removing her tack, she led the exhausted mare by throwing the bridle reins around her neck, then put her on the other side of the grove. Geneva brought her a bucket of water and a bucket of corn. The orderly chatted that they’d taken supply wagons from the Federals and the corn was one of the prizes. After Dancer drank her fill, Geneva pumped up more water and gave the horse a sponge bath.

A wounded man called to her, “Blooded, ain’t she? Where’d you get her?”

“My father, Henley Chatfield, bred her.”

A cloud of dissatisfaction blotted his serene composure. “I’m sorry ’bout him.”

“Why, what happened?”

Terribly upset that this tall, skinny boy didn’t know the truth, the wounded man quietly said, “He was killed yesterday at Mechanicsville. Took it calm. Wrote letters.”

Geneva stared at the kind face of the battered man. She touched her finger to her cap by way of thanks and walked back to Mars. She sat cross-legged beside him and buried her face in her hands. Racking sobs convulsed her. Those wounded who were conscious whispered one to another. Soon they knew Henley Chatfield’s boy, a young one at that, was among them.

One man, considering himself luckier than the rest because he’d lost only three fingers from his hand, came over. “Sergeant, would you like a belt of whiskey?”