My Vicksburg (11 page)

I was taken aback that Landon should give the time to write such a note about me. For a brief moment I had a glimmer of hope. Did he still consider me part of his family? How far did the boundaries of his disinterest go?

"Yessir, I can write," I told Dr. Balfour.

"Don't overdo it," he cautioned.

I wrote three letters that morning. One for an Irish boy who had a wife in Georgia and who'd had an arm amputated and was here for a fever that followed. "They think I'm gonna die," he said bitterly. "Well I don't aim to die. An' if they send a priest, tell the good Father I don't need him."

"Why can't you tell him?" I asked.

"'Cause, as soon's I write this letter to my wife, I aim to have a dose of this here whiskey a friend smuggled to me yesterday"—he reached his good arm under the cot and picked it up and showed it to me—"an' go into blue heaven land. An' I'll be there when the good Father comes in. An' I don't want to be waked. Sure'n it's what I deserve, considerin' what I gave for my country, isn't it?"

I agreed and set about taking down the letter.

The second one, I was just about to approach when a male nurse came up behind me. He was a colored man. "'Scuse me, Miss Corbet, but Dr. Balfour, he say, doan get any closer to this here man. He done got typhoid."

I looked into the nurse's kindly face, then past him to the far corner of the room where Dr. Balfour was looking toward us. He was waving me aside.

Then, from my place on the floor, about six feet from the bed, I looked at the young soldier with typhoid. "Oh, please, Miss, take down my words. They aren't much, but I've got to let my wife know I'm still alive."

I looked at the colored man. "Go and ask Dr. Balfour if I can do it standing here," I said. Then I waited while the male nurse made his way between the cots and conferred with the doctor. Then maneuvered his way back again.

"Doctor say you gonna be one difficult woman, and then Doctor say, okay, but not one step closer or he send for your brother right now."

That, according to Dr. Balfour, was the worst threat he could level at me. I nodded my head, yes. And since young Edward Baldwin overheard the whole thing and I didn't have to explain, he commenced dictating his love letter to his wife loud enough so that at least twelve other patients could hear it.

All talk around us stopped. No one moved. They all lay still and some had tears coming down their faces. And Edward Baldwin poured his heart out for all of them it seemed, especially when he said: "If I don't make it out of here, my dear Rosemary, I want you to know I will always be with you, no matter where you go or what you do. I will always be at your side. And we will meet again in heaven."

The third letter was for a man from "Nor' Kaaaliana, Miss. But afore you put my words to paper, kin you just somehow git me a biled sweet purtatur? I do so long for one. I ain't had a one since I left home an' my mama's cookin'."

I told him as soon as we got the letter written I'd ask the cook, but that I had a hurt hand and it was starting to throb and his was the last letter I could do today.

"Lord a'mercy, then cud you all jus' move me away from this here dead man in the cot next to me? I mean I wuz used to seein' men die on the field, but I thought this here hospital wasn't fer dyin' in. Please, Miss?"

I said yes and grabbed a nearby orderly who had heard the request and in five minutes the dead man was removed. Then we went about with his letter. And true to my word, I ventured into the kitchen, which was really just an adjoining tent, to order a "biled sweet purtatur" for my charge.

On the way back, at the far end of the tent near the kitchen, I saw her.

Sarah Clarke.

It
was
her, wasn't it?

What was she doing here? And then it came to me. It was Sarah Clarke, and she was sick or hurt.
Stupid,
I told myself. And she was
here,
right under our noses, and none of us knew it, maybe not even Dr. Balfour. He'd told me he didn't know all of them yet, hadn't he?

I stood, stunned for a minute, like I was nailed to the floor. And then I did what I knew I should do. I walked over to her bed. "Hello, Sarah."

I heard her gasp. I saw her adjust the bedclothes closer, as she must be accustomed to doing so people couldn't see her bosoms and know she was not a man.

Or was it so that people couldn't see that one arm was amputated up to the elbow?

"Hello, Claire Louise," she said.

Our eyes met. She held my look. I wet my lips, which had gone dry. She gave a little grin and gestured with her head to my bandaged hand.

"You join up, too?"

"No, I cut it trying to get a revolver out of Pa's gun case. It's a long story. What about you?"

"I got hit with shell fragments. Skirmish near McConnellsburg, Pennsylvania. Isn't that a kick in the head? I wanted to make it to Gettysburg. They're still fighting over there, I hear." She sighed. "Well, they fixed me up in the tent hospital, then shipped me here on the train. I didn't want to come. But I had no say in the matter. They found out I was a woman and I was cashiered out. Look here, Claire Louise, you can't tell anyone I'm back. Nobody. My family's not around, so I don't worry about them. But don't tell yours. And especially not Landon. I'd rather they cut off my other arm before he knew."

I drew in my breath and let it out slowly. "More secrets," I said.

"What?"

"Landon and I are, well, to be polite call it estranged. We scarce talk. And all because of secrets. I can't do that anymore, Sarah. No, I'm not going to go home, to your house or mine, and tell everybody you're here. But if it comes to dueling at twenty paces to protect your secret, I won't play that game, that's what I'm saying."

"What happened between you and Landon? Was it on account of me?"

"No."

"Where is he?"

"Doctoring at Milliken's Bend hospital."

"Thank God. They almost sent me there. Look, I understand your plight. I don't want to drag you into my affairs. Just give me a couple of days. I have a slight fever, which can follow an amputation. It was only done four days ago. I'm going to ask the nurse for some medicine and make sure I eat good and skedaddle out of here first chance I get."

"You mean you're running away?"

"That's what I mean. I don't ever want Landon to see me like this. I'm going to the depot and catching the train. I'll be gone in two days."

"Can I get anything for you?"

"No. Just stay out of it, sweetie. When all of this is over, maybe we'll see each other again. Don't worry about me. The war has toughened me up. Go now, before you get in trouble. Oh, and the story I'm giving old Balfour there is that I don't want my family to know, either, yet. I'm going to an aunt's house in Raymond. All right?"

Raymond. It was below Jackson. "Yes," I said. But it was not okay. There was something wrong here. Something all wrong. And I had to think about it in the open air, and not be muddleheaded this time.

I left the hospital at noon, just as the shelling stopped, and walked to our house, determined to get that piece of wallpaper, determined to put my mind to what I was going to do now about Sarah, determined to test my mettle and
not
tell anyone I happened to meet about her being home.

I let myself in the house and went straight to the kitchen to get a pair of scissors and a knife.

Neither Clothilda nor Andy was home. It was strange to have the house so silent. It was filled with spirits. I felt it right off. The grandfather clock stood guard in the hall, chiming away the hours as if there were somebody who cared. I went upstairs to my bedroom.

The glass on a back window was shattered because of heavy shelling, but otherwise there was no real damage. Some items had fallen off my dressing table. I looked around and decided to take the paper from the wall by the shattered window.

It was not a difficult job, except for my injured hand. I had to move slowly and carefully, but soon I had a whole
sheet of wallpaper, from ceiling to floor. I rolled it up, pleased with myself, then went downstairs, put away the knife and the scissors, and went on my way to the newspaper office.

It was on Crawford Street, two blocks west of Dr. Bal-four's home. As I approached I could see that the building itself had been hit several times with shells. The large front window was boarded up. I tried the front door. It was open. I went in.

"Be careful of the floor," called a voice from the back. "Don't fall through."

I looked down and sure enough in several places the floor wasn't there and the boards around it were blackened as if burned.

Mr. Swords came forward, grave, middle-aged, and wearing a cap with a visor. "We been hit several times. My type has twice been scattered all over the floor. You're the little Corbet girl, aren't you? Your pa's away. How's the rest of your family?"

When I saw the condition of his newspaper office, I had to say "fine, thank you." After all, here was a man who was fighting his own war against the Yankees, a man they couldn't burn out, smash out, or drive out. He went right on publishing his words. Don't have any more newsprint? Well, I'll just ask the folks for wallpaper.

"I brought you some wallpaper, Mr. Swords."

He exclaimed over it. He said it would comprise the first page of tomorrow's edition. "July third, tomorrow,"
he said, lowering his voice. "My scouts tell me that the white flags are going up. There's going to be a truce while Grant and Pemberton talk.

"It isn't surrender, Claire Louise. It's just common sense. We're out of everything. Our soldiers are weak and starving. So are our citizens. We have nothing left to hope for or fight with. What we do is an honorable thing." He took the wallpaper from me and smiled. "I'll save a copy for you," he said. "I've already got people asking me for copies to save for future generations. You come by when it's all over. Yours will be in this bottom drawer of my desk." He pulled out the drawer so I could see. "Your name will be on it."

"Thank you, Mr. Swords."

"Thank you, child. You'd best get home now. Give my best to your family."

I went right home, and when I got to the door of our cave, I was surprised and frightened to see Mercer, Pa's horse, tethered outside.

Pa was home!

All thoughts of surrender of Vicksburg and my wallpaper, my injured hand, and the possibility of resumed shelling, fled. Pa was home. All would be right with the world.

I went inside.

He was there, seated at the dining table, having a cup of real coffee with real sugar in it. Ma was there, too.
James was on his lap. He had his coat off and it was thrown aside with his sword and sidearm and hat.

He looked up as I came in. "Ah, here she is. Our wandering letter writer," he said. His voice was just a little weak. His face just a little pale.

I stared at him for a minute, imprinting him on my mind. "Hello, Pa," I said.

It had been a long time since that night in the church basement when he'd said good-bye to me. A lot had happened. I felt as if I'd traveled a great distance through a tunnel and was only now starting to see the light at the other end.

He set James off his lap and I went to him. "No kisses," he said. "I don't know yet what kind of foul fever I've got."

"I see you still do as you're told," he murmured in my ear when I didn't kiss him. "How are you, Claire Louise?"

"I'm fine, Pa."

"Where have you been? Your mother's been worried about you. She says you often wander about town without telling her where you're going."

I stood straight in front of him. "I was at the hospital, writing letters. Then I went home to cut a piece of wallpaper to give to Mr. Swords because he needs some to print his paper on, and Mama said I could do it. And then I took it to his office, which has been hit so many times by shells. Oh, it's just terrible, Pa! And then I came home."

He was eyeing me, the way he did when he listened to
you and read between the lines. He could tell if you were lying if you swore on a stack of bibles in front of you.

I purposely did not mention Sarah Clarke. It wasn't lying if I just didn't talk about her, was it?

I didn't mention her because it was such a big thing that she was back and she was lying in that hospital bed with one arm destroyed and talking about taking the train and running away that my mind had not yet accepted it.

What to do? Get word to her family and my brother and make a riot?

Say nothing and let her go so she's never found again? Like I did with Robert?

Or seek out Landon and tell him? Use her for my own ends, to make things up with Landon?

Suppose Landon didn't care anymore. Suppose he said, "Let her go, I don't care."

Suppose he was repelled by her cut-off arm.

Landon wouldn't be like that, I told myself. He's a doctor. It won't bother him. He loves her.

But what will he think of me? Using Sarah to get back in his good graces. He'll think I'm a humbug, I told myself. Won't he?

Well, he thinks I'm worse now. So I might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, or however the saying goes.

All this while, which to me seemed an eternity but was only a minute, Pa held my hurt hand in his big, soft gentle one. "Your mother told me what happened to your
hand," he said quietly, "and how Landon fixed it for you. So now I'm to go into my study and find the glass in my gun case all smashed up, is that it?"

I lowered my eyes. "Yessir. But Andy said he'd fix it."

"We can't always fix what we ruin, Claire Louise," he said softly.

"I know."

"It seems to me that you've done some things around here that can't be fixed. Is that true? I've heard you've behaved right badly."

I shifted my weight. "Pa, can't you scold later? I'm powerful hungry and I have things to tell you and Mama."

For a moment I saw a glint of amusement in his blue eyes. But only for a moment. He said all right. He said he was about starved, too. And we all ought to have some good vittles and more coffee.

He said he could scold even better on a full stomach.