The Better Angels of Our Nature (31 page)

“Doc,” Jackson said in a tone that warned his patience was wearing thin.

“I don’t know where she is, but when I see her I’ll tell her you were asking after her.”

Andy grabbed his shoulder as he turned away. “You go in there now, Doc,” he said quietly, “and you tell her I’m waitin’ right here, cos if I go back without her the gen’al will send the provost marshal.”

“For one itty bitty little girl?” Cartwright grinned incredulously.

“For one itty bitty little girl, and keep your darn voice down.”

Cartwright’s grin waned and then vanished completely, to be replaced by a hopeful smile. “Well, I guess he’s had time to calm down by now, right?”

“Don’t go stakin’ yer egg money on that, Doc. He’s been fightin’ with those gall-darn reporters most a the mornin’ and right now he’s fixin’ to spit nails.”

“And you? You think she oughta stay, right?”

“If it were up to me I’d have her and you sent to the Dry Tortugas.”

“Thanks for your support. She’s down at the Landing. I sent her there with two patients.”

“I’ll wait.” The aide settled down under a tree with his pipe.

Half an hour later, when Jesse drove the ambulance wagon into the hospital camp Cartwright made sure he was there to meet her. She stood beside Jackson’s outstretched booted legs and said, “I’m ready, sir,” like she was going most nobly to her own execution.

The Hoosier removed the hat from his leather face, blinked small gray eyes against the sunlight, got lazily to his feet, and rammed his enormous hat over his thick gray hair. Not a word was exchanged as they rode to Sherman’s headquarters. Jesse tried, but finally gave in to the aide’s stony, disapproving silence.

Sherman glanced up furtively and saw the girl standing just beyond the tent flaps, Captain Jackson close beside her, looking stern. She seemed smaller somehow or perhaps it was because the aide was so large by comparison. “That will be all for the time being, Captain Hammond,” he told his adjutant. He wanted to have this unpleasant interview out of the way as quickly as possible. “Enclose the sketch done by Captain Kossack of the engineers. As soon as the detailed reports from the brigadiers and colonels are in your possession, give them to me for endorsement and such remarks, as I deem proper. Until all the brigadiers and colonels make their reports I cannot venture to name individuals, but all can be certain that in due season I will name all those who preferred to keep back near the steamboat landing as well as those who kept in our front line. Also find out what’s happened to Colonel Stuart’s report of his operations during the time his brigade was detached.”

“Yes sir.” Hammond got to his feet. He saluted Sherman and looked briefly at Jesse as she passed.

“Sir—” she murmured, for hadn’t he always treated her kindly during their brief contact?

Hammond smiled sympathetically. He had no idea why this boy was suddenly out of favor with Sherman, but the Ohioan was notoriously unpredictable. He could change from friend to foe overnight, leaving the victim confused as to how and why he had fallen from grace. Andy gave her a little push into the commander’s presence.

“Captain Jackson and Captain Van Allen, please remain. I may need witnesses.”

Jackson gave a brisk “Gen’al.” He was prepared to be witness, judge, and executioner.

Marcus said, “Sir, with your permission I would rather be excused.”

“Permission denied.” Sherman’s face was already red, his hair already bristling on the crown of his large head. His gaze moved slowly and with contempt over Jesse’s attire as she stood quite still and straight before his desk, the bandage just visible beneath her hat, her enormous eyes on his face, not afraid, but wary, as though knowing she would have to keep her wits about her, and always,
always
soft with worship.

Unwisely, she spoke first. “How is your hand, sir?” She leaned across the desk to touch it.

“Never mind my damn hand.” He winced as he rested it on his lap, out of her sight as well as out of her reach.

“If you had allowed me to continue to treat the wound it would have been completely healed by now.”

“Shut up!” he shouted, raising his good hand. “I didn’t have you brought here to discuss my hand—and remove that hat! It’s government property.”

Jackson removed it for her, snatching it from her head. Now it was her turn to wince with pain. The bandage beneath had revealed itself to be bloodied at the spot where the ball had struck flesh, and was now sitting at an unintentionally comic angle.

Sherman’s eyes flickered but his voice remained wrathful. “Why are you
still
wearing the uniform and rank of a corporal in the United States Army?”

“I have no other clothes, sir.”

“You may keep the coat and pants until clothing more suitable to your gender can be found. Captain Jackson”—he tossed a small pocketknife across the table. “Remove the badge of rank, sir.”

Jesse’s hand went instantly up, her small fingers enclosing the now grubby, hard-earned stripes, protecting them from the aide’s onslaught. Without a word, he removed her fingers and began to cut away at the meticulous little stitches she had used to sew the precious chevrons to the sleeve of her oversized jacket. Jesse’s gaze remained unflinchingly on the commander, who was reading, or was pretending to read, a report open on his desk, while she stood rigidly to attention.

Marcus lowered his gaze; more than uncomfortable now, he was mortified.

Finished, the Hoosier placed the knife and the stripes on the table. Jesse’s hand returned to examine the empty space on the sleeve, as if unwilling to believe that this awful deed had been done. Then the hand dropped once more to her side.

Throughout the proceedings, Sherman had kept his eyes on the report open before him. Now he raised his eyes and his hoarse intense voice was like thunder. “How
dare
you inveigle your way into the good graces of me and my officers with this outrageous deception?” He removed the cigar stub from his mouth. “You passed yourself off, for reasons best known to yourself, reasons I cannot begin to understand, nor would I wish to, as something that you are not!”

“I am whatever you wish me to be.”

“I
wish
you to be gone from my camps!” He closed one set of papers and opened another, in reality neither had any bearing on this interview, but as always, he was nervy and restless. He got to his feet. The hands were now playing with the tarnished buttons on his frock coat. “I have reports here of your behavior during the battle. I am reliably informed that you were seen giving soldiers at the Landing instruction on the loading and firing of their weapons?” He spoke laughingly, with disdain, but his eyes were like silver darts that pierced her neck, shoulders, back, as he circled her like a hunter circles its prey.

One of Sherman’s reliable informants had been James McPherson, and another, none other than Sam Grant himself, and along with the information had gone a recommendation, that the boy be promoted. Outrageous!

“In the terrible noise they couldn’t hear their rifles firing or feel the kick of the butt against their shoulder,” Jesse said. “They just kept on loading and loading without realizing that their muskets had failed to discharge. Some of them were so afraid that they had forgotten to bite the end off the paper cartridge before ramming it home—they were cramming the breeches with unfired rounds.”

“And you, a
female,
took up your musket and demonstrated how to shoot Rebels?”

“No sir, I didn’t use a musket. I was busy showing others how to use theirs.”

“Because, of course,
you
are an expert.”

“Not an expert, but I did have the best of teachers.” She turned her head to look up at him. “Do you recall you instructed me on the use and loading of a rifle on my first night at Pittsburg Landing? You advised me to learn the necessities of camp life from my elders so that I would stand a better chance of survival. Those boys did not have the benefit of your advice. Had they, so many more would now be alive.”

Sherman took himself off to the opening, held up the tent flap a moment, shook his head briefly that he wanted nothing from the officer in charge of the headquarters guard, and let the flap fall again. He stood there a second longer staring at the canvas, fumbling with those buttons, then he turned, taking a fresh cigar from his pocket. Andy stepped forward to light it for him. The Hoosier frowned. There was something wet on the old man’s lashes.

Then he had once more composed himself. He sat down and started to drum his fingers on the table. “Where is your home?”

“This encampment is the only home I know.”

Sherman placed his cigar on the edge of the table, clasped his hands together, rested his elbows on the table and his bewhiskered chin against his hands as he studied her in silence a long-drawn-out moment. His eyes glittered. After an inconclusive growling noise, he replaced the cigar in his mouth and went back to tapping. “Are you a runaway or an orphan? Why are you here?”

“I came to serve you.”

Sherman bit down hard on the cigar, so hard, in fact, that it broke off and fell to the desk.

Marcus closed his eyes as Sherman said, “Do you know what an insane asylum is? Do you want to spend the rest of your life locked away, because that will be your fate if this…this game…continues.” Making an effort to become more restrained he said, “I am beginning to suspect you are in some way mentally”—he flicked his fingers against his temple—“deranged, mentally enfeebled—”

Sherman stared at Andy, who misunderstood the look and said obligingly, “Crazy as a coot, dotty as a daisy, mad as a—”

Sherman stopped him with a glare.

“Have I not served you loyally in the past six weeks, sir?” Jesse said quietly.

“Your loyalty is not in question. Only your gender.” He paused, significantly. “And it would seem
your sanity.
”

Jesse’s sudden smile was indulgent, and her tone chiding. “You know I’m not insane, sir.”

“You are
strictly
confined to the hospital until I can arrange for your departure. If I see your ugly nose back here for any reason, any damn reason at all, I will personally chop it off! You will also return your mount to the teamsters. The horse belongs to the United States army; it is for use by soldiers, not civilians, especially not female civilians. You will tell no one,
no one,
about any of this. Is that perfectly clear? Now get out of my sight—
and stay out
!”

At the tent flaps, she paused and turned around: “Would you also like me to return your drawers, sir?” She showed him the bleached cotton just visible above her pants.

That afternoon Sherman discussed the matter with a Miss Pinchot of the Sanitary Commission and it seemed his description of the girl was hardly designed to enthuse the woman. In fact, when he was finished, Andy removed his hat, scratched his head, and was forced to remark to his fellow aide, “If that’s how the old man sells a bill a goods, it’s darn lucky he ain’t a snake-oil salesman, his family’d starve to death before he sold a single bottle.”

There were a few new faces in the recovery tent that morning, one of those faces belonged to a Southern soldier Dr. Nash had treated for a leg wound. The wound was improving; his cough, however, appeared to be getting worse. As Jesse plumped up the young officer’s pillows, she found a double tintype in a velvet-lined silver-plated case, of the kind carried by wealthy officers. One photo showed a likeness of typical proud Southern parents, the other photo was of a boy in an elaborate cadet uniform. Jesse just had time to rub blood off the glass with her sleeve and read the first half of the inscription before the young man snatched it away.

“Please, that’s mine—” he said fearfully, holding the case tightly to his narrow chest.

“Louisiana Seminary of Learning and Military Academy,” Jesse said, “General Sherman’s Academy at Rapides Parish?”

“You know it?” The boy stared at her in amazement.

“If you tell me your name, sir, I’ll ride over to division and let General Sherman know that you’re here.”

“That would be wonderful, Corporal.” The boy’s sudden excitement faded as quickly as it had come. He lowered his gaze. “Oh, but he wouldn’t remember me.” He opened the case and gazed at it dreamily. “This photograph was taken in November ’60.” He was convulsed then with a coughing fit.

When Jesse called Nash’s attention to thick mucus tinged with red, which the boy had coughed up into a handkerchief, he said, “Let the doctor at the prison camp worry about him.”

The surgeons tried not to interfere with each other’s patients, unless asked, but there was nothing else for it. Jesse told Cartwright.

“What do yer want?” Captain Jackson inquired in his deep growling voice as he stood before the entrance to the headquarters tent, effectively barring the way to the girl. “Didn’t the gen’al tell yer not to stick yer ugly nose outside the hospital?”

“When General Sherman returns would you please give him this message, sir? He’ll want to know.”

Jackson took the note and nodded his head in his slow, deliberate way. He stared at her suspiciously for a full minute, his eyes getting smaller and his wrinkles getting deeper, before he hoisted his large hat aloft and scratched his head. She was too clever for a female, too clever by half.

“How’d you know the gen’al ain’t here? And where’d yer get the horse? You were told that horses ain’t for female civilians.”

“I loaned him from Surgeon Cartwright, sir. All the wagons are being used to transport the wounded to the Landing. I had no other way of getting here.”

“You ever heard a walkin’?” asked the man who had once insisted on carrying her
and
her sack of peaches on his horse. “Get along with yer—go on—” he said brutally, shooing her away with his hat as though she were a scavenging dog. “Get along now, go on, get.”

Jesse got.

If she’d “got” with a little less alacrity, she’d have met up with a young colonel of her acquaintance.

Five minutes after her departure, Thomas Ransom dismounted, thanked the orderly who led his horse to the corral, and walked the short distance to the Fifth Division Headquarters tent, where he was met by Marcus Van Allen. Marcus felt deep admiration for the fellow New Englander. Stories of his heroism during the battle had come to headquarters from various sources. How he had rallied the hodgepodge of regiments, and led them forward, together with the shattered remnants of his own Eleventh, under a heavy fire, pushed them gallantly on, blood gushing from the head wound he’d got earlier in the day, until they were but two hundred yards from Cobb’s Rebel artillery. He had then ridden up and down the line, waving his saber and directing small arms fire into the Rebel battery, encouraging and rallying his men around Jones Field until the reluctant Ohio boys had fled. At this moment, he looked tired, no doubt still suffering the effects of his latest wound.