Shadow of Dawn (3 page)

Catherine unconsciously twisted her hands
together. “Andrew, I hardly know what to say, or…or how to tell you
how sorry I am all this has happened and I wasn’t there to help
you. Mrs. Shirley said you didn’t want me to see you, but Andrew, I
would have come in a moment and it wouldn’t matter what you looked
like. You’re my husband.”

“You’re very kind,” he said, without moving.
“I knew you would be. We still don’t know each other very well. Can
you hear me, Catherine? My throat was damaged and it’s difficult to
speak.”

She nodded, and again felt tears start to her
eyes. She bit her lip to stop them, then remembered he couldn’t see
them. Nor could he see her nod. She managed to say, “Yes, I can
hear you.”

“For a while I’ll need to spend a lot of time
alone. I require a great deal of sleep. Mrs. Shirley will see to
everything, so you needn’t worry about me. I ask that you be
patient with me, Catherine, and perhaps it won’t be long before I
begin to feel more…normal…more human.”

Catherine knew he would be able to hear the
tears in her voice. “I’ll be patient, Andrew. You’ve suffered so
much. I…I wish there was something I could do to help you.”

“Thank you, Catherine. And now, I must
rest.”

She wondered if she should embrace him, but
decided it might be painful for him. “Can I help you to the bed?”
she asked, dashing her hands over her wet cheeks.

“No,” he answered. “I’ve already memorized
the room.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No. Thank you.”

She went to the door. “Andrew?” she said
softly.

“Yes, Catherine?”

“I’m glad you’re home.”

***

Catherine woke the next morning with a sense
of having gone to bed with a heavy heart. It seemed no lighter
today. However, she had many things to do—besides her regular
chores, she had to prepare to give a talk on the prophet Elijah in
her Sunday school class tomorrow—and she realized there was little
to be gained by moping about the room.

She washed and dressed and, as usual,
struggled with her hair. Waist-length, auburn in color and contrary
in temperament, she could never coax it into a neat roll or braids
and it refused to suffer the indignity of curling tongs, at least
in her inexperienced hands.

And as she did every day, she gave up with a
growl of exasperation and stuffed it into a net, choosing a color
to match her dress. The neck and short sleeves of the olive green
dress were edged sparingly with lace; she did not like ruffles and
bows and dresses which fairly dripped with ornamentation. She left
such furbelows to Sallie, who usually managed to look like a
well-wrapped Christmas gift. And, Catherine thought as she made her
way downstairs, that’s just about what she was.

Martin’s first wife had died not long before
both of Catherine’s parents had succumbed to an outbreak of typhoid
three years ago. Catherine had come to Richmond to live with
Martin, her mother’s brother. She had finished her formal education
by then, but read avidly, especially anything to do with history,
and secretly wished to be a teacher.

She was never sure how she was to accomplish
this, since girls of her social standing did not work outside the
home. They married, had babies, and ran the household—which usually
involved not only their husbands and children but a number of
servants as well. But then she’d married Andrew and knew she would
probably never become a teacher.

Sallie Ingram, a distant cousin of Martin’s
first wife, had stopped by on her way to visit New York and never
left again. It was Christmas, two years ago, when rumors of war
were already flying across the nation.

Sallie had seen that Martin was wealthy, had
a lovely home, and while still handsome at sixty-three, was
probably too old to go into battle. The sweetly ingenuous Miss
Ingram instantly captivated Martin, too long a widower. Catherine
was embarrassed for him, but she really had nothing against Sallie
and was glad Martin seemed happy.

Sallie’s older brother, Bartlett, whom she
called Bartie and everyone else called Bart (Catherine had, more
than once, mentally referred to him as Bratty) had moved in with
his sister and brother-in-law just after the onset of the war. He
worked as a clerk in the attorney general’s office.

A delicious aroma of bacon and coffee wafted
into the main hallway. Catherine went through the dining room and
into the kitchen where Hester, the cook, was beating eggs in a
bowl.

“Good morning, Hester.”

The elderly black woman did not look up but
answered warmly, “Good mornin,’ chile. Lawdamercy, I can see this
won’t be ’nough eggs an’ I already done sent Jessie to town to get
some more butter.”

“How many do you need?” Catherine asked,
looking into the bowl.

“’Nough for two more people.”

“Well, use my helping. I’ll not eat eggs
today, and give someone half of Bart’s. He never eats all of
his.”

“I was hopin’ you’d say that.” Hester gave a
characteristic cackle, along with an engaging, semi-toothless
grin.

“I wanted to remind you to send Andrew a
tray. I’m not sure if he’s awake yet. Perhaps Mrs. Shirley will let
us know. And I don’t know if she’ll want to eat with us or in her
room.”

“I’ll see to it, Miz Catherine.”

When Catherine returned to the dining room,
Martin and Sallie were just seating themselves. Ephraim appeared,
his brown face bearing the lines of age and a long-held, pleasant
patience, his medium frame held proud and erect, his white hair
adding to the impression of quiet dignity. He transferred the
dishes Hester set on the sideboard to the long mahogany dining
table and began to pour the coffee into porcelain cups. Plates were
filled with bacon and ham, scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy,
buttered grits and hotcakes dripping with honey.

“Ephraim,” Catherine said, “what would you
say is the most important characteristic of the prophet
Elijah?”

Ephraim reflected. He knew most of the Bible
by memory, having been taught to read by Catherine’s grandfather.
He’d belonged to her parents and he, with his granddaughter,
Jessie, had been imported to the Henderson residence along with
Catherine. Martin’s housekeeper had recently died, and Ephraim
proved to be worth his weight in gold. The butler never spoke until
he knew exactly what he was going to say, and when he did speak it
was with precision and a clear enunciation, scorning both the
dialect of most slaves and the southern drawls of the white people.
He did occasionally have a lapse of grammar but never of good
manners. Nor had he, since arriving in Richmond, ever missed a
service at the First African Church.

“I believe,” he said slowly, replacing the
silver coffeepot on the sideboard, “that Elijah’s most important
trait was his faith, Miss Catherine. After everything he did for
the Lord and after what that old Jezebel put him through, and even
if he did feel sorry for hisself sometime, he kept the faith. And
that’s what life’s really all about, Miss Catherine.”

“Goodness,” laughed Sallie, delicately
spooning sugar into her cup, “I believe you ought to be a preacher,
Uncle Ephraim.”

Ephraim did not wince but Catherine knew he
hated to be called Uncle Ephraim. It was the custom to add Uncle or
Aunt to the names of faithful servants once they had reached a
certain age, but Ephraim believed the appellation sounded
undignified, well meaning though it was. Sallie apparently never
noticed she was the only one who addressed him by that term of
affection.

“He
is
a preacher,” said Catherine.
“Do you still preach every fourth Sunday, Ephraim?”

“Yes, ma’am. In fact, tomorrow’s my day, and
I might just use Elijah. I’ve been mostly talking on Moses
lately.”

“About letting your people go, no doubt.”
Bart Ingram came into the room and took the place next to his
sister. “Isn’t there a law against that?”

Again Ephraim refrained from comment, bowed,
and left the room. Catherine kept her eyes on her plate so no one
would see her annoyance. She could never tell if Bart deliberately
tried to be obnoxious or if he just couldn’t help himself.

Bart and Sallie looked a great deal alike,
though Bart’s hair was more sandy than blond and his eyes more gray
than blue. He kept his moustache and hair closely clipped, and his
clothes always looked freshly ironed. He was keenly aware of his
own good looks—another trait he shared with his sister.

“How are you, Catherine?” he said cheerfully,
helping himself to what was left of the eggs. “I’m sorry I couldn’t
be here to meet Andrew. I take it he’s not up yet?”

Martin cleared his throat. “Ah, Bart—”

“It’s all right, Uncle Martin.” Catherine put
down her fork. “Andrew’s injuries were worse than any of us
imagined, Bart. He prefers to remain in his room, though I’m sure
he wouldn’t mind if you went up and spoke to him.”

“Indeed?” Bart looked questioningly from one
face to another.

“Well, he’s blind,” Sallie said, with a
glance at her husband. “And he…he wears a mask.”

“A mask?” Bart’s eyes grew rounder and he
looked at Catherine.

“It’s a hood of some kind, to cover his eyes
and face,” said Sallie. “There was a fire.”

“I say, well, that’s terrible news,” Bart
said at last. “I’m sorry, Catherine. Of course I’ll speak to him. I
didn’t know Andrew that well, but it seems a terrible shame.”

Catherine nodded. Her throat felt as if it
were closing up and in a moment she would start crying. She
rose.

“I’m going to walk to the church, Uncle
Martin,” she said evenly. “I forgot my class book last Sunday and I
need to study it. I won’t be gone long.”

“Take the carriage, my dear. Tad’s sick with
a head cold but Joseph will drive you.”

“Thank you, but it’s such a nice day I think
I’ll walk.”

Catherine went upstairs to get her shawl. As
she was leaving her bedroom, she saw Mrs. Shirley come out of
Andrew’s room carrying a tray. The plate was empty. Catherine
turned, crossed the sitting room and started down the opposite
hallway. Mrs. Shirley stood with the tray and did not move.

“I’d like to see Andrew,” she said, confused
by the nurse’s manner.

“Not just now, if you please. He’s just eaten
and he’s not ready to see you.”

Taken aback, Catherine didn’t know what to
say.

“Perhaps after lunch,” said Mrs. Shirley.

“Why, I suppose…very well.”

Catherine turned to recross the sitting room,
then slowly descended the stairs. She heard Mrs. Shirley following
at some distance behind her.

Well, that was odd. Maybe Andrew made a mess
when he ate. He had said his throat was damaged, and maybe…maybe
all his teeth had been knocked out. Catherine’s heart constricted
and she tried not to keep thinking, Poor, poor Andrew.

She hurried out the front door and down the
porch steps. The sun spread a golden radiance over the November
morning and the air was crisp with the slightest chill. She would
much rather walk than wait for Joseph, the sixteen-year-old
gardener, who was unfamiliar with the complexities of hooking up
the carriage. In fact, she loved to walk to church, crossing the
wide streets and strolling down the red brick sidewalks beneath
stately oaks, their dry red and gold leaves crackling under her
feet.

The beautiful, once peaceful city had doubled
in population since being named the capital of the Confederacy and
had become something akin to one huge army camp. Soldiers could be
seen at any hour rushing down Broad Street, either on foot or on
horseback, toward the government buildings or the Executive Mansion
occupied by President Davis. Regiments marched daily to the beat of
military drums or to the music of a full brass band. Constant
choking dust, the rattle of army wagons, and the drilling of troops
were all commonplace now, all part of the frantic pace to which
life had accelerated.

The influx of government workers and their
families, as well as job seekers of every description, crowded the
city still further. With its paper mill, its many factories and
iron works, Richmond was the only industrial city in the South and
thus of crucial importance to the Confederacy.

Hope had been running high since the early
victory at Manassas. Even so, the alarm bell in the tower of
Capitol Square had rung often that year, as the Yankees expended
mighty, and futile, efforts to take Richmond. The United States
Navy had made its way up the James River to within eight miles of
the city. On land, federal troops had come within eleven miles.
Each time they were driven back.

There had been much excitement that summer
during what came to be called “The Seven Days Battle.” The rapid
firing of cannon could be plainly heard throughout the city, the
battle again ending in victory. People had cheered in the streets;
they’d laughed and reiterated the popular saying that one
Southerner could lick a dozen Yankees. The Yankee war cry of “On to
Richmond” became, at least for a time, “Away from Richmond!”