Spinning the Moon (36 page)

Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war,

That this foul deed shall smell above the earth

With carrion men, groaning for burial.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

W
e had been brought to Meadowland, an antebellum mansion in Tunnel Hill, about ten miles north of Dalton and the Confederate Army. Sherman had made this imposing Greek Revival structure his temporary headquarters, and Sarah and I had been sent to a room and unofficially told to stay out of the way.

She and I talked about her kidnapping, and she seemed to have suffered no long-term ill effects except for an aversion to being left alone. A woman with a child Sarah's age had been sent to care for her, and Sarah regarded the whole thing as a sort of adventure. William had come to see her only once since their reunion, and I told him the truth of my relationship to Sarah. He had reacted to the news with only a shrug and a “Poor Julia” before casually changing the subject. I still hadn't told Sarah, my reasons for my hesitation not clear to even myself.

My first sounds of war came from far away, almost as an afterthought. I sat in a rocker on the upstairs balcony, reading aloud to Sarah. I had paused to look at her and was admiring the way the light made her green eyes shift colors when a soft boom vibrated the air. I stood, the book sliding off my lap. Another boom percolated in the distance as puffs of smoke rose on the horizon and disappeared into the blue morning sky. The soft strains of “The Star-Spangled Banner” crept over the hills and trees to tease my ears. The staccato beats of drums reverberated across the hills.

Sarah ran to look over the railing, her eyes alight with excitement. “Are those soldiers?”

I stood paralyzed, my legs shaking and my arm hurting again. I wondered where Stuart was and if he was safer in a prison than on a battlefield. Or if he was even alive. “Yes, Sarah. Lots of soldiers.”

We stayed on the balcony the entire day, my nerves frayed and my imagination running wild. But I couldn't leave the sounds of battle.

Eventually, a young Irish maid called me to dinner. She brought Sarah down to eat in the kitchen, and I went to the dining room, where I was once again surrounded by Sherman and his staff. This was the first time I had seen the general since Stuart had been taken away, and I vowed not let the night pass without speaking to him alone.

Midway through the meal, a courier rushed into the dining room and handed the general a telegram. He read it quickly, a large grin splitting his face. “It is from McPherson,” he said, referring to General James B. McPherson, commander of the Army of the Tennessee. Sherman slammed his fist on the table, making the china and crystal shimmy. “I have got Joe Johnston dead!”

I demurely took another spoonful of soup while the men did a lot of back clapping and other congratulatory gestures. I glanced up to find William staring at me, his eyebrow raised. I put my spoon down and lowered my gaze.

I couldn't share in any jubilation. I longed for word of Stuart, my fears for him growing with each passing day. I swallowed my food and bided my time.

I lay awake in my bed for a long time that night, waiting for the last of the guests to say their goodbyes. Then I slipped from the room with a shawl thrown over my nightgown.

I found the library in the darkened house, only to be disappointed that it was empty. I helped myself to a glass of Scotch, then brought it out to the foyer. I smelled a freshly lit cigar coming from up above. Stealthily, I crept back up the stairs and walked out onto the upstairs balcony. The pale moonlight shone through the banister slats, creating a line of dark soldiers marching in formation across the wooden floorboards.

The balcony appeared to be deserted. I leaned over the railing,
taking deep breaths of the cool evening air, trying to swallow my disappointment. I knew I could convince General Sherman of Stuart's innocence if I just had the opportunity to speak to him alone. My palms grew moist as I thought of my plan to convince the general if my words failed to sway him. I stood and started to take a sip of the Scotch but stopped, my lips pursed over the rim, my other hand resting on my abdomen. I moved my head, the distinctive odor of fresh cigar smoke drifting over to me. From the corner of my eye I saw the unmistakable end of a cigar glowing red in the dark.

“Madam.”

The suddenness of the sound caused me to drop the glass, sloshing liquid over my bare feet and bouncing the glass off the porch. I heard the delicate sound of shattering crystal as it hit the brick steps below.

“You startled me.” I bent to wipe the dripping Scotch off my legs with the hem of my nightgown.

“Apparently.” I heard the smile in the general's voice. “I hope our talking did not keep you awake.”

I shook my head. “No. Actually, I was waiting for everyone to leave so I could talk with you.” I hid a yawn behind my hand. “Besides, I haven't been sleeping well lately. Too many scary thoughts.” I straightened, feeling the sticky liquid drying on my bare skin.

“Scary thoughts,” he repeated after me. “Well put.” He took a long sip from his glass. I heard him swallow in the stillness of the night. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

I knew he would expect my bluntness. “My husband. He's as responsible for saving your life as I am.”

“Really?” He brought the glass up to his lips and took another sip.

“Pamela Broderick kidnapped my niece. She threatened to kill her unless I followed through with her plan to murder you. Stuart found Sarah and brought her to me so I wouldn't have to go through with it. He risked his life to save me—and you. He doesn't belong in a prison camp.”

He paused, and I could hear his deep breathing. “Yet he is still a rebel officer, and he was captured. Why should I release him so he can return to his army and fight against me?”

I ground my toe into the floorboard. “He risked his life to save me.
I will do anything to save him. Anything.” I let my shawl fall to my elbows, looking at him sharply.

His hand with the cigar froze midway to his mouth. I stepped closer to him, near enough to smell the Scotch on his breath. He appraised me boldly. “Madam. Are you making me an offer?”

I forced myself to hold his gaze. “I will do anything you ask in return for the release of my husband.”

He took a slow drag on his cigar, his eyes never leaving my face. “You are an attractive woman, Mrs. Elliott. And I am honored that you hold me in equally high regard.” The warm breeze stirred my nightgown around my feet, cooling my flaming skin. “But I am afraid I cannot accept your generous offer.”

I bit my lip, holding back my disappointment. My desolation. “Why?”

Half of his mouth turned up. “Madam. I am in command of the Military Division of the Mississippi with more than one hundred thousand men. I pull a bit of weight in the ranks.”

“Then why? Why won't you help me?”

“I did not say I would not. If your story is true, which I suspect is the case, then, despite your husband being a rebel officer, he is innocent. I owe you my life—releasing your husband is the least I could do.”

The air seemed to have been sucked out of my lungs. “Do you mean you were willing to release him before I even opened my mouth? And yet you let me make a fool of myself?”

He took a slow drag from his cigar. “On the contrary, Mrs. Elliott. I had yet to hear a complete accounting of your husband's involvement in the assassination plot.” He slowly blew out the cigar smoke. “Besides, you have shown me how much you love your husband. Any man whose wife loves him with such devotion deserves a second chance.”

“Oh,” I said, for lack of anything better.

“Do not be embarrassed, Mrs. Elliott. War does things to people—it changes us. You were merely doing what you thought you had to do to ensure your husband's safety.”

I turned away from him, staring out over the railing and into the night. “I'm not that type of woman, and I appreciate your understanding. On behalf of my husband and me, thank you.”

We were silent for a few moments before the general spoke again. “I would like to try to convince you to stay here, in safety. It is going to be rougher from here on out, and I think you would be more comfortable staying put.”

“No.” I shook my head, my loosened hair swinging about my face. “It's very important that I get home. I'm going to have a baby, and I need to get home.”

A flash of white appeared above his beard. “Congratulations, Mrs. Elliott. My wife and I welcomed six children into our lives, soon to be joined by number seven.” He stopped to stare out at the darkened sky, both hands gripping the railing and the cigar clenched in his teeth, trailing smoke. Quietly, he said, “It is almost hard to imagine a new life amid all this destruction.”

I closed my eyes on the darkness, seeing a deserted farmhouse in the middle of a barren field. “War is hell, isn't it, General?” I said, opening my eyes and noticing the bent shoulders on the tall frame silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

“That it is, Mrs. Elliott. That it is.” He flicked cigar ash over the railing, then watched the particles filter through the night air.

I turned to leave. “I suppose I should try to get some rest. Good night, General.”

He turned his head toward me. “Good night, Mrs. Elliott. I will see to your husband's release.”

“Thank you,” I said again, then closed the door behind me. As I stood in the darkened hallway, I heard the light tread of feet moving quickly down the stairs and across the foyer. I dismissed an uneasy feeling, then went to my bedroom.

*   *   *

As it turned out, despite his proclamation over dinner the previous night, Sherman did not have Johnston dead. General McPherson had neglected to push his advantage at the little town of Resaca, and was now facing a growing Confederate Army. And so we moved south, toward Atlanta and General Joe Johnston's army. The Southerners were now digging into defensive positions around Resaca, about ten miles south of Dalton and a mere fifty miles north of Atlanta.

Sarah and I were left with the entire army wagon train at Snake
Creek Gap while the separate divisions took their places around Resaca. The sound of cannon began in the early-morning hours of May 14, shaking the earth with their bombardments and creating a heavy cloud of smoke across the valley and over the bald hill that stood as the blind sentry over the battlefield. I began pacing and biting my fingernails. I even tried reading a book to Sarah. But the battle sounds permeated the air around me and could not be escaped.

By the second day of battle, I refused to be a bystander any longer. I had at least one working arm and I had every intention of putting it to good use. I left Sarah in the care of the cook, whose bosom was as ample as her helpings of corn bread, then trudged along the wagon train, asking for the field hospital. Men pointed and stared, but none tried to stop me.

The smell of burning flesh hit me first. The flaming piles of severed limbs stacked outside the surgeons' tent told me I had reached the right place. Gritting my teeth, I walked inside and entered hell.

Surgeons in blood-splattered aprons sawed into wounded flesh, oblivious to the screams and moans around them. Two doors, ostensibly ripped off of nearby farmhouses, served as makeshift operating tables. Scalpels, saws, and horsehair sutures were laid out on a blanket and hastily replenished as they disappeared.

As soon as one limb had been lopped off, the patient was whisked away on his litter and another one would be brought forward. Using the same bloody saw, the surgeon would again attack a wounded limb, allowing it to plop into a quickly filling basket.

I stood still, being shoved in every direction from the fast-moving people around me, unsure where I could step in and help. Someone grabbed my arm. “Are you a nurse?”

Numbly, I nodded.

“Good. Come make yourself useful.”

He brought me to an operating table. “Hold him down,” I was instructed. The man speaking had dried blood spattered in his beard and across his forehead. Tiny glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and his eyes appeared overly large as he looked up at me.

Not willing to make excuses for my shoulder, I stood behind the wounded man's head, my hands on his shoulders, and held firmly. The
young sergeant stared up at me, panic plain in his eyes. “Ye can't let them take off me leg. It's an imported leg, it is. Straight from Ireland.”

The surgeon probed at the open wound with his index finger, studying it intently. A minié ball had shattered part of the bone, spreading pieces of lead, dirt, and torn uniform through the leg. He shook his head.

I looked back down at the patient, trying to keep my voice steady. “You will die if you don't allow the doctor to take it off.” He struggled slightly, but I held firm. “Do you have a wife?”

He stopped struggling and nodded. “And six wee ones.”