The Better Angels of Our Nature (32 page)

“Captain, where I can find Corporal Davis?”

“Jesse?” Marcus’s expressive eyes flickered with surprise, but were almost immediately masked. Now he remembered, something about Jesse bringing the colonel off the hospital ship and nursing him. Perhaps Ransom merely wished to thank “the boy.” Surely the old man couldn’t object to that? He thought quickly. “He’s no longer at division. The medical department was short of orderlies. General Sherman had him transferred to Dr. Cartwright’s hospital. If you would care to write down any message I’ll have it delivered to the—to Jesse.”

“No, Captain, that won’t be necessary. Thank you for your time.”

“Wait—” Van Allen blurted out after the departing figure, “—sir—are you intending to ride over there yourself? I only ask because—well, you should inquire simply for Jesse Davis, not
Corporal
Davis.”

Ransom stared at him a moment, then walked slowly back. “I don’t think I understand.”

“General Sherman would be the one to explain, sir.” Marcus winced then, at his own cowardice, and saw himself transferred to a small outpost on the Gulf Coast for the duration.

“In that case, would you ask General Sherman if he has a moment to spare me?”

“The general took an expedition to break up the Charleston and Memphis Railroad, sir.”

“I’ll await his return.”

Sherman, caked in mud, thoroughly exhausted, but most gratified by his successful expedition, had just dismounted when Andy gave him Jesse’s note. Sherman read it.

“Cadet Wylie Leander Jarreau of the Louisiana Military Academy, now lieutenant, Company F, Fourth Louisiana Infantry, is in Dr. Cartwright’s care. Lieutenant Jarreau is comfortable and not in any danger.”

“The girl said you’d wanna know, Gen’al,” Jackson said.

“Yes. One of my old cadets is in the hospital. I’ll take five minutes for a hot drink and then I’ll ride over there.”

The Hoosier then broke the news about his other visitor, adding, “Marcus said he seemed mighty determined to get some answers from you.”

“Did he indeed.” Sherman frowned. All right, determination deserved the truth. Damn it, the girl had fooled both of them. He rubbed his uninjured hand over his horse’s face. “Well done, boy, you did your full share of work today, didn’t you? You deserve a rest. Have a fresh mount saddled,” he told the orderly who came to lead the animal away. “And give this animal a good rubdown and some oats.” He looked at Andy. “I’ll see Colonel Ransom and then visit my cadet.”

“Come in, Colonel, come in, sir. Sit down,” Sherman said in his usual sharp manner, gesturing with his unlit cigar toward the camp chair before his desk. “Do you smoke?” he asked the Vermonter as his orderly lit the cigar for him. “Bring coffee, will you.” He had heard much about Thomas E. G. Ransom, all of it highly complimentary, even from John McClernand, who usually reserved his greatest praise for himself.

“Thank you, sir,” Ransom said formally, resting his sword against his thigh as he seated himself, crossing his long slender legs. “I don’t smoke.”

“You find me in high feather, Colonel Ransom, high feather, sir. General Halleck wanted me to destroy the bridge and trestles over the Memphis and Charleston Railroad. I left early this morning with one hundred troops of the Fourth Illinois cavalry and a brigade of infantry to go up the Tennessee thirty-two miles to Chickasaw Landing onboard the
White Cloud,
took along two gunboats. We reached the railroad bridge across Bear Creek, just at the corner of Alabama, drove off its defenders, and burned the span along with five hundred feet of trestles, a good day’s work.”

The orderly brought coffee. When he had gone, Sherman tasted the pale liquid and made a face. “Can’t make coffee worth a damn—not like—” He stopped, looked pained a moment, and returned to a more comfortable subject. “—Yes, my men succeeded perfectly. General Halleck is delighted—delighted. This has been a chief object with him. Whiskey?” He reached behind him and snatched up the half-empty bottle with his right hand. “Pass your cup, Colonel.”

“Not for me, thank you, sir.”

“Then I’ll have your shot as well as my own.” Nothing was going to destroy the general’s great good humor—not this strikingly handsome officer with his rather pompous manner, or the disturbing news that one of his old cadets was in the hospital. Not when he had a copy of a letter given him by Henry Halleck that “Old Brains” had written to Secretary of War Stanton commending his performance in the battle as “contributing largely to the glorious victory of the 7
^th
,” and recommending him for promotion to major general of U.S. Volunteers, to be dated April 6. “How’s the head?” he asked, using his cigar to point.

Ransom no longer wore a bandage but the raw furrow plowed by the Rebel ball was still very visible on his scalp. “Better, thank you.”

“Your head—my hand—we make a fine pair, sir, a fine pair.” Sherman could have added, and we both had the same fine nurse, but he didn’t. “I heard the enemy tried to get you twice before. Was it their bad aim, do you suppose, or your good luck?” Sherman laughed his strange hiccuping laughter. “I survived so many near misses on the sixth that my staff lost count. You and I will survive this war, Ransom, what do you say, sir?”

“I’d like to believe so, sir.”

Sherman drank his whiskey. He tried to decide if this officer was hostile or merely frosty.

“Major Jackson tells me you want to know why I sent Jesse Davis to the hospital to work?”

Ransom sat forward, his sculptured jaw, bordered on both sides by the bushy side whiskers, thrust out determinedly. A slight color had risen in those pale cheeks.

“Yes sir, that’s true. I cannot begin to imagine what misdemeanor Corporal Davis has committed to earn your displeasure, and since I know him to be of the highest character, an honest, compassionate, and courageous little fellow, incapable of any crime that would warrant such treatment, I would like to protest most strongly.”

Sherman held the Vermonter’s steady gaze.

“In that case, Colonel, what I am about to tell you will come as something of a shock.”

15

Our immortal ranks

Despite his persistent coughing, Cadet Wylie Leander Jarreau, now feeling he was among friends, liked to talk, and the subject he chose while Cartwright examined him was not one destined to improve the surgeon’s mood.

“Superintendent Sherman was a good friend to us all, like a father. All the cadets loved him, even those he was forced to discipline. He encouraged us to visit him in his private quarters at the weekends. We would fill his room to overflowing while we listened enthralled to his wonderful stories of army life and his adventures in California. He did not wish to leave us at all, you know, when Louisiana seceded, he believed he had no choice, but must leave and go back North. I recall it as if it were yesterday, he came into the classroom that mornin’ and began to explain to us how he felt about
us,
about the impendin’ war and how we would be fightin’ on different sides. How he could not bear to think of us as his enemies—he became so choked that he could not continue his little speech and he merely put his hand on his heart and said,
You are all here—
”

At midnight, the man himself came to the hospital. Jesse was waiting for him. With a “Good evening, sir,” she raised her hand in salute. Remaining there in silence as if she did not exist, the grim-featured Ohioan squinted into the dimly lit interior.

“Cadet Farreau is in the third cot on the left-hand side, sir,” Jesse told him. Sherman started in that direction, Jesse followed. The general leaned over the cot and lifted the slender white hand. “Cadet Farreau?” he said softly.

The boy opened dulled blue eyes.

“Wylie, do you not remember your old superintendent?” Sherman’s pretense of mortified indignation did the trick. Recognition flooded the pain-filled depths.

“Oh yes…yes…sir—” The boy’s hand tightened around the general’s hand. “I was afraid—that you, sir, would not recall your humble pupil.”

“Come now, sir, how could I forget one of my favorite students?”

“You were…the only one who ever could get my name…quite right.”

Sherman growled with laughter. “Yes, yes, I remember, you were called Willie by some, William by others, and I believe Mr. Vallas even called you
Wilhelm
on more than one occasion.”

This made the poor lieutenant laugh so much that he began to cough and then to choke. Jesse raised his head and put the canteen to his lips, wiping the excess liquid from the corners of his mouth. She passed the wooden fan slowly back and forth over the boy’s face. When she turned from the cot she saw Sherman staring at her, but he looked quickly away and spoke to young Wylie.

“How are you feeling, Cadet Farreau? Well, now, we’ll send you home as soon as we can arrange your parole. You look as if you’ve been living on army rations too long, my boy. Tell Jeff Davis I said he has to feed my old cadets better food than we served at the seminary or else he too may expect a riot on his hands.”

Wylie was laughing so much his entire frail body gave into a fit of coughing. Jesse put a cloth to the boy’s mouth as he brought up a small lump of rusty-colored sputum. Sherman frowned his concern. The boy held the cloth in his hand. He was having trouble catching his breath. “Excuse…excuse me, sir—”

“Excuse you for what, my boy?” Sherman pushed the damp hair off the cadet’s pale brow. “Tell me, how many of my old boys were here during the battle?”

Farreau began to name those who had fought on Sunday and Monday and Sherman slowly nodded that large tufted head of his, his eyes clouding with sadness as the faces of those mentioned paraded once more through his memory, as they had paraded that day in early February, before he left Louisiana to go back North.

“Sir, do you remember our half-holiday Saturday evenings, when we were privileged to be allowed to drop in on you in Professor Boyd’s quarters and listen to your instructive conversation? The evening, sir, one of our number asked you the question, sir, if we have a war, what are
you
going to do? You were silent for a long…while, sir…and then you said, my boy, you don’t know what war is. I do and sincerely hope we will have no war, for it is a terrible thing. But if we do I will say that I was reared and educated by the United States—I will not live
out
of the United States. My duty I owe to the United States and I am going there—”

Jesse saw the boy’s lips begin to tremble and saw tears fall from the corners of his eyes to disappear into his curly brown hair. She saw Sherman, the old superintendent, touch his fingertips to those tears while his own eyes grew moist.

“War did come…sir…and it
is
a terrible thing, yes it is terrible—”

“You shouldn’t talk anymore, Wylie,” Sherman told him in a thickened voice. “You must save your strength. We’ll talk again in a day or so, I promise.”

“Sir—will you please write my mother. She will think me negligent if I do…not let her know my situation.”

“I’ll write your mother this very night, and let her know that
I personally
will try to arrange for your exchange or parole. You will be home with her very soon, my boy, and sincerely hope you shall remain there.”

As Sherman turned from the cot, he looked beyond Jesse, again, as though she were invisible and addressed instead the orderly beside the next cot.

“Ask Dr. Cartwright if he has a moment to talk with me.” He blinked his eyes and moisture stood out on his sandy-colored lashes. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Ten minutes later the surgeon explained, “It’s not the leg wound that bothers me, that’s healing well. It’s that cough. Mucus gets that color due to bleeding in the lung tissue. It might be pneumonia. But he admits that his losing weight and that the cough has been troubling him for a long time—it could be the early stages of consumption.”

“Thank you, Doctor, for all you’re doing for the boy. You can of course have no idea the depth of feeling I have for my old students at the seminary.”

“Oh, I think I can guess.” Cartwright compressed his lips and struck Sherman lightly on the chest, just over the heart region. “They’re all there.”

It took the brilliant mind but a moment to grasp the significance of these words, then he said, “Can you do anything to alleviate his condition?”

“I can certainly suggest some forms of treatment. If it is the beginnings of consumption he’ll need lots of rest in a clean place with dry air, close attention to diet, plenty of eggs, milk, cod liver oil. I’ll start him on a general tonic containing iron and quinine, perhaps some fortifying herbs—and lots of fluids.” The surgeon scooped the heavy fringe out of tired eyes. “He won’t get any of that in a prison camp. He needs to go home. But if he doesn’t take care of himself the disease will come back and in a couple of years he’ll be dead.”

“Don’t worry, Doctor, I will see that he’s exchanged as soon as possible. If you would be so kind as to write out your recommendations for treatment and recovery, I’ll enclose the letter to his mother with my own. I’m sure she would be most grateful to you.”

“Waste of time. We both know when his leg heals he’ll be back trying to kill Yankees.”

“I’m sure he’ll have the good sense to stay home. I believe he’s had enough of war in his young life.”

“You wouldn’t like to make a bet on that, would you?” Since the commander chose to remain silent, the surgeon said, “One more thing, if you want to thank anyone, thank Jesse. If it wasn’t for her diligence the boy would have coughed his lungs out. Maybe that’ll get you to reconsider your decision and let her stay with me.” His eyes blinked behind the small round lenses. “I mean with the medical department.”

“Had she saved the lives of every cadet in my seminary, Dr. Cartwright, I would not, sir, reconsider my decision. I’ll send some clothing and a change of underwear for Cadet Farreau. Good night, sir, and again, thank you.”

Sherman found Jesse waiting beside his horse.

“What do you want?” He snatched the reins from the orderly’s hand, his pitted cheeks reddening.

“To see you, sir.”

“Well, you’ve seen me.” He mounted up and sat there a moment staring into the horizon, lit up by a hundred camps fires. When finally he spoke, he might have been thinking aloud. “Imagine, only one year ago I had charge of General Beauregard’s own sons—Henri and Rene—in my academy. Their father had set his heart on West Point for Rene after his time with us, he was an intelligent student, in fact I made him my adjutant. Then came the war. I believe he is now at the military academy of South Carolina. I presume that state was grateful to their father for presenting them with the ruins of Fort Sumter.” He took out a cigar and turned it over in his fingers as he said, “That fellow Farreau, a fine young man, he was only at the academy from November ’59 ’til spring ’61, so had very little time to achieve anything of note, but he liked to read, and was a keen observer of human nature.” He drew his gaze back to the girl’s face, his expression hardening as if he had just remembered her treachery. “Be at my headquarters tomorrow at dawn.”

If the commander’s ability at selling a bill of goods left much to be desired his “advice” to the girl on how to conduct herself in her conversation with Miss Pinchot was another revelation that left Jackson and Van Allen in a state of confusion.

“Change into those.” Sherman used his cigar to indicate the dress, Quaker bonnet, and shawl on the campstool. “Tuck all that hair under the bonnet, we don’t want anyone identifying you. If you wish to become a nurse for the Sanitary Commission you must make a good impression on this woman. If you scratch and seem at all dim-witted she will refuse to take you and that’s an end of it. Speak only when you are asked a question and do not reply with chapter and verse. Do not ramble.”

Just like
you’re
doin’ now, thought Captain Jackson, looking at Marcus out of the corner of his eye.

The woman from the Sanitary Commission looked at Jesse and Jesse looked at the woman from the Sanitary Commission. The woman smelled of carbolic soap. Jesse on the other hand smelled of horseshit. That she smelled of horseshit was no accident. She had made certain of that by walking back and forth across the corral dragging her oversized brogans through fresh deposits of the steaming waste until they formed an extra-thick layer on the scuffed black leather. After all, no institution with the word “sanitary” in its title would want a nurse who smelled of horseshit. Her face, thanks to deposits of gunpowder from the barrel of a cannon, was streaked with dirt, and her features, though barely visible, it was true, were made uncharacteristically ugly by a scowl she’d been practicing all morning in Cartwright’s cracked shaving mirror, coached, it had to be said, by the surgeon. Her diminutive frame was overwhelmed by a calico dress of a horrid dark green around which she had thrown a brown woolen shawl that would have caused even the most pious of New England grannies to shudder. Though the crowning glory was the Quaker bonnet, concealing as it did Jesse’s crowning glory, those magnificent short red curls. What’s more, she spent the entire interview scratching. It was a brief interview, two minutes and forty-two seconds, to be exact.

Miss Pinchot’s interview with Sherman was of equal brevity. “General Sherman, it’s entirely out of the question. I cannot possibly take her. She scratches constantly. She is moronic.” The woman snorted and waved a hand under her nose as the general purposely blew cigar smoke in her direction. “I had heard from my colleagues that you were
not a gentleman,
and I see with my own eyes that they are quite correct.”

“Madam, if that is the worst crime of which I am accused by the time this war is over I shall consider myself a candidate for sainthood.
Good day to you!
”

“I should have pressed the point,” said Sherman a tad defensively, Marcus thought, when the Sanitary representative had left. “I should have asked if she could suggest an orphanage, but that damn woman was obviously not open to rational discussion.”

“Not open at all, sir,” the New Englander agreed.

In a fluster of righteous indignation Miss Pinchot found herself colliding with a redheaded soldier not far from the general’s tent. “Get out of the way, you clumsy little pup!” said the woman, giving this soldier a bad-tempered push.

Jesse Davis grinned as the woman flew off into the distance, a clever trick indeed without a broomstick.

“Get in here!” Sherman bellowed as Jesse hovered. “Damn you, and damn the Sanitary Commission. I’m stuck with you until I can think of some place else to send you. What in hell did you say to that woman to make her so agitated—and what’s that confounded smell?” The sharp scimitar-shaped nose lifted. A few seconds were sufficient for all in the tent to find their eyes watering; Sherman had ordered a large cake of lye soap to be brought, which he banged on the edge of his table, flakes flying in every direction. “Take yourself off to a private spot along Owl Creek, where you will thoroughly wash yourself from head to toe, including your hair, and do not imagine that you can remain here one second longer than it will take me to write to Mrs. Sherman’s cousin, Sister Angela, who runs the Union hospital at Memphis. If that pious lady doesn’t want you, I will contact the bishop of New York, who is a family friend, but be advised, girl, I will not rest until I have you off my hands.”