Chapter Seventeen
June 1863
Vicksburg, Mississippi
Vicksburg, Mississippi
The shattering sound of a shell explosion close by startled Kendall. She jerked her hand away from the paper and held her breath for a moment. The oil lamp on her rough wood desk rattled. The walls about her seemed to groan and shiver.
But then there was nothing more. She exhaled a long and shaky sigh. Vicksburg had been under siege for over two months now, and she was still trying to accustom herself to the sounds of the shells that continually poured into the city. The hospital, situated far from the river, was generally safe, although several shells had shattered two wards, killing the men who rested in them.
Kendall paused a moment and listened, but no more fire whistled through the air. The Yanks had called it quits for the night. She looked at the letter she had been writing, and then slowly ripped it to shreds.
She was insane to be writing about Brent. Insane to be thinking about Brent. She hadn’t seen or heard from him in nine months. Not since he had left her without so much as a whispered goodbye.
She had heard of him, of course. Captain Brent McClain was still a Confederate hero. The southern papers claimed that he alone kept a fifth of the Rebel armies eating, and said that he was responsible for taking or destroying fifty Federal ships.
Where was he now? Kendall idly tapped her quill on the desk. Had he ever returned to the bay? Had he ever cared enough to wonder if she was all right? She hadn’t heard from Amy since February, not long after she had made the move to Vicksburg.
It had simply been impossible to stay by the bay after Brent left that last time. The Rebel’s Pride had been taken from her. And she had been certain that Brent would never return.
Not to her.
She hadn’t dared return to Charleston; as long as there was breath in his body, she would never trust her stepfather. And although it made her a bit nervous to know that John Moore was serving under Farragut somewhere along the Mississippi, no one had believed that the Yanks could beat back the Rebel armies opposing them on the western front. Vicksburg was impregnable, surrounded by mountains and facing the river. In February, when Kendall had made her decision to assist David Armstrong at the hospital, no one had even imagined that Vicksburg could come under a siege such as this.
No one in the South, at least. The Confederates, from the very beginning, had little to fight with except courage and bravado. But no matter how courageous the men, their willpower alone could not withstand the strength and number of Yankee guns concentrated on them.
Kendall stood and stretched, placing her hands low on her sore back as she did so. She was so tired. Yet no matter how she pushed herself, she couldn’t forget Brent. Somehow it had been bearable—hard but bearable—to be away from him when she could believe he would come to her again. When she could allow herself to dream of sharing a future with him.
But the dream was as dead as the eloquent grace that had once been Vicksburg. Memory did not dim, but plagued her daily. Even after all this time, she would see his face when she tried to grab a restless hour’s sleep. And it was the laughter that she remembered. The cavalier smile that rakishly cut across his rugged features, gray eyes that could smolder to a summer heat with more power to warm than the sun.
Kendall winced and bit firmly into her lower lip. If she was going to remember Brent at all, she would be wise to remember that his temper had a bite like a pronged whip, that he could be insolent, arrogant, and irritatingly superior. He was the fool who was determined to get himself killed.
Why wasn’t it possible, she wondered bitterly, to run away from love? Red Fox had told her she could never do so . . . and time and distance were proving him right. He had tried so hard to dissuade her from leaving. She was acting like a child, he had said impatiently—just as Brent had told her. Brent would be back; he would expect to find her.
But she couldn’t believe that Brent wanted to find her . . .
She missed Red Fox. He was the closest friend she’d ever had. She missed his quiet words, his presence, the calm and stoic beauty of his spirit.
And she missed him because he was a tangible link to Brent...
She had to forget Brent, bury herself in work until exhaustion overwhelmed her and cleared her mind of the dreams.
She worked from dawn to dusk. The siege was flooding the hospital with so many wounded soldiers that it was sometimes difficult to maneuver between the stretchers.
The Confederate General John Pemberton was trying desperately and valiantly to hold the city, but the Union’s General Grant was a determined man. And the people of the old southern city had been strong and resolute, adapting stalwartly to hardship.
But as the weary weeks wore on, courage and gallantry were fading to obscurity along with the food supply. Horses, dogs, and cats found their way to dinner tables. And as the supply of those beasts dwindled, roast rat sometimes became the evening meal.
There was a tap on the door of her tiny room. “Yes?” Kendall called out quickly, glad to be jolted from her morose state.
“I need you, Kendall. That last shell caught several men. They’re bringing them in now.”
“Coming, Dr. Armstrong!” Kendall called quickly. She smoothed her hands over the skirt of her dress and mechanically glanced in the tarnished mirror above the simple washstand. Something in her own reflection caught her attention, and she paused with a wince, running a finger over the hollows under her cheekbones.
She looked terrible. Purple shadows lurked beneath her eyes and she thought she resembled a skeleton—all eyes and bone. Sighing, she tucked a straying lock of hair back into her chignon and resolutely turned away from the mirror.
Dying men probably didn’t care too much what she looked like, as long as she had a gentle touch and offered water for their parched throats.
David Armstrong was much like his brother—a strong and gentle man, an indefatigable worker. Kendall had grown as attached to him as she had to Amy and Harry. She met him in the hallway where he was rolling up his sleeves and strolling toward a washstand.
“Down the hall, Kendall, we’ve three amputations.”
Kendall paled visibly, but nodded. She hated this part of her work more than any other. The men screamed and fought. They cried and pleaded and begged for mercy.
But gangrene was one of the worst enemies of the war for either side. The rotting infection could kill where shots left off.
“Have we any anesthetic?”
Dr. Armstrong leveled his eyes to hers unhappily. “No.”
Again Kendall nodded, fighting nausea.
“Come along,” Dr. Armstrong said crisply.
Kendall followed.
She could not save the poor young soldier from losing his leg, but she knew she was invaluable to Dr. Armstrong. Most of the South’s able-bodied men were on the front line in the defense of the city and could not be spared for hospital work. She knew Dr. Armstrong well now; she had his saws and other instruments ready before he could ask for them. And she was there with the dressings for the stumps, and with soothing words for the patients and a gentle touch. Yet still she feared she would be sick each time she attended in surgery, causing further distress for the already agonized patient.
Dr. Armstrong worked quickly, expertly, and methodically. At last the third man was taken away; the echoes of his screams faded from the hallways. A male orderly wrapped the human refuse of torn and severed flesh and took it away. Kendall stared numbly after him.
Dr. Armstrong slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Do you know,” he murmured softly, “the hardest thing for me is the birds. All this carnage goes on, yet the birds see only that spring is changing to summer. And the flowers . . . they continue to grow. Ah, well. Life will always go on, Kendall. A time to sow, a time to reap.”
Kendall glanced at him, startled by his fancy. He was always so busy—kind, but direct.
He smiled at her. “Kendall, you should be dressed in beautiful silks and muslins and flirting with all the fine youths at a ball. I can just imagine you, child, as you should be. So lovely. Carefree again, with no anxieties. This is not, I’m afraid, much of a place for a fine young lady.”
Kendall grimaced. “Dr. Armstrong, I’m not terribly sure that I ever was a fine young lady.”
He shook his gray head sagely. “My girl, you will always be the finest of ladies. And you’re strong. You will survive all of this suffering. Many, I’m afraid, will not.”
Kendall felt a tug at her heart. “Do you believe that we . . . that we will lose Vicksburg?”
“Kendall, it’s not a matter of belief. Look about you. We’re all starving to death. Vicksburg is already a shell. Its citizens scurry to seek shelters in caves and in the basements of haunted remnants of homes. And every day there are more and more Federals. General Pemberton is making a valiant stand, but how long can a tattered, barefoot, and starving army hold off men who are well fed and well supplied and twice their number? Yes, unless a miracle occurs, Vicksburg will fall. Just as the South—”
He cut off his words hurriedly, seeing her stricken expression. “Don’t pay any attention to me, Kendall. I’m just a tired old workhorse, worn out before my time!” She still appeared stricken, and vulnerable. Again Dr. David Armstrong sought to undo the pain he had so obviously caused her. “We should receive some morphine tomorrow,” he said cheerfully. “We’ve sent a man across the river to steal through the Union lines to a contact. We’ll meet him together, tomorrow night.”
Kendall smiled vaguely. “Morphine,” she murmured. “That will be wonderful.” Tomorrow they could chop up men who wouldn’t scream quite so loud. What a pathetic blessing.
“Go on to bed now, Kendall. Get some sleep.”
She went to bed, and she slept. But her sleep was plagued with horrible nightmares. A man in gray screamed on the operating table. And when she turned to see him, it was Brent.
She woke up shaking, then forced herself to seek sleep again. But she saw the operating table again. And there was another man lying on it. His flesh was copper-bronze, and he bled from numerous wounds. He turned to her and whispered, “Revenge!”
It was Red Fox.
Then he bolted from the table, and she saw that he was chasing her. She ran, but before her loomed Brent, covered in blood, his handsome gray frock coat tattered and ripped, his feet bare. His eyes accused her.
She was trapped between them. And she covered her face with her hands and sank to her knees, screaming. They were the men who had once loved her, had once cared for her. And she had brought them to the greatest agony . . . and in her dream, she was afraid.
She awoke again—her scream drowned out by the sound of a bursting shell. It was morning. Kendall struggled up and washed her face. She raised her eyes to the mirror and noticed that the dark circles beneath her eyes seemed to have darkened overnight.
She reminded herself again that the wounded men would hardly care what she looked like as long as she tended to their needs.
* * *
The day seemed to stretch on forever. Grant was bombarding them from land; Admiral Porter bombarded them from the river. Along with the wounded soldiers came injured civilians—old men, women, and children—caught in the line of fire. Seeing the children hurt Kendall the most. Gaunt, ragged little scarecrows, they didn’t understand anything about the war. They only knew that they hurt.
At last the shelling ceased for the day. Doctors who slept during the day awoke to work through the night. Kendall retreated to her cubicle of a room in the hospital and studiously tried to wash the stench of death and decay from her body.
“Kendall!”
She heard Dr. Armstrong’s voice along with his tap on the door. “Yes?”
“Are you coming with me?”
“Oh!” The morphine, yes! He had asked her to come along. “Yes, yes, I’m coming, right now!”
Hurriedly she donned pantalettes and a simple cotton gown and threw open the door. Dr. Armstrong offered her his arm gallantly. “Come, my dear,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll escort you through the streets!”
It should have been depressing to walk through the haunted streets. To view the burnt-out shells of once grand homes. But as they walked through the darkness and the silence, David Armstrong talked, pointing out the various homes and telling her amusing anecdotes about the people who had once resided in them.
And summer was in the air. The freshness of the river breeze was a vast improvement over the stench of death that clung to the hospital.
They turned left, away from the city and the Rebel batteries. A soft whistle sounded on the air, and Dr. Armstrong halted, holding her arm tensely. But a young boy scampered from a clump of bushes to meet them.
“Doc Armstrong, I don’t know what’s gone wrong. I can see the boat, but she’s not coming in. Look out yonder. You can see her driftin’ on the water? When the moon comes out from the clouds—see? There. Why isn’t he bringing her in? Billy should be through the lines!”
Dr. Armstrong was silent as he stared out at the river. “I don’t know,” he murmured at last. “But the current is going to take that little rowboat away real soon. I wonder if he got the morphine?”
Kendall looked from the boy, who couldn’t have been more than thirteen, to the aging doctor. As if reading her thoughts, the boy started speaking again, a little catch hoarsening his voice. “I’d try to get her, but I can’t swim, Dr. Armstrong. Ma was always sayin’ she’d tan our hides if she ever caught us in the river or the creek.”
“I can go get her,” Kendall volunteered.
Dr. Armstrong stared at her as if she had gone insane.
“No, Kendall, I can’t send a woman out—”
“Certainly you can!” Kendall insisted with annoyance. “This boy can’t swim, and—sorry, Dr. Armstrong, but you’re too old. Besides, the wounded in that hospital simply couldn’t afford to lose you.”
As she spoke, Kendall began to rip at the seam of her dress. She was going to have to get rid of the bulk of the material, or she would drown herself. She didn’t dare tell Dr. Armstrong that she was scared silly. She still wasn’t a strong swimmer. And she tried to convince herself that as long as she didn’t panic, she would be fine. The boat wasn’t far away, but it was drifting farther.
“Kendall, we’ll go for someone else.”
“There isn’t time. The morphine will drift out to the Yanks, and I’m quite certain they won’t gift wrap it and send it back!”
She tossed off her shoes, then noticed that the young boy was staring at her. She laughed to ease the tension. “Listen,” she murmured, looking down at her pantalettes and her short, ripped bodice, “I do realize this can’t be the latest from Godey’s, but we can consider it the costume for lady swimmers.”
“Kendall,” Dr. Armstrong began to protest uneasily. But she didn’t wait to be stopped. She plunged through the weeds at the river’s edge. The water was cool at night, and she gritted her teeth as she mentally braced herself against it—and the worry over what creatures might be lurking there. She quickly stretched out her arms to swim, loath to keep her feet on the muddy bottom any longer than necessary. For several strokes she cut through the water, then paused, kicking furiously, to search for the small, drifting rowboat. Dismay chilled her heart as she saw that it was still several hundred feet away. She should turn back . . .
But memory of the men screaming in the operating room kept her going. She took a deep breath and began to swim again, trying to maintain slow, easy strokes. She paused, eyeing her objective once more. It was so far! Again she took a deep breath, reminding herself it was safer to keep going than to allow her limbs to grow too chilled.
She began to swim again, forcing herself to be as methodical as Dr. Armstrong. She glanced up. Just a little farther . . . just a little farther.
And at last, she was upon the rowboat. She reached for the gunwale and gripped it, then leaned her cheek against the wooden hull, breathing deeply and resting before trying to haul herself from the water into the boat.
A feeling of pride and happiness enveloped her. She had been frightened, but she had managed to get the boat. And because of it, so many men would find solace from pain . . .
Suddenly a scream tore from her throat as hands clamped over hers, rough hands, strong hands, tugging at her. “Come aboard, spy!” a voice invited cheerfully.
“No!” Kendall screeched, fighting the hands in raw panic. But she was dragged from the water and deposited on the middle thwart of the boat.
“I’ll be damned, Sergeant! It’s a woman.”
“I won’t argue with you there, Private Walker,” a pleasant male voice responded lightly. “It certainly is a woman.”
Kendall stared with wide-eyed desperation from the blue-clad man in the bow to the blue-clad man at the stern, now calmly rowing them along with steady strokes to the opposite shore.
“Wait!” she pleaded, suddenly certain that the sergeant was a decent sort from the gentle quality of his voice. “Wait, please! We need the morphine!”
“What morphine?” the sergeant demanded, his leathery face frowning into a thousand wrinkles. “There was never any morphine aboard this boat, lady. Just small arms. We took her from a man trying to smuggle arms into Vicksburg.”
“But I don’t understand—” Kendall began.
The sergeant laughed. “Sorry, lady, your man was no philanthropist. He probably decided he could make more money with weapons than he could with medicines. But don’t worry, ma’am—he’s going to sit out the rest of this war in a Union prison.”
Prison . . . dear God, Kendall thought belatedly. These men were Yankees, and they were taking her to the Union line. She was sitting before two Yankees in nothing but her bodice and pantalettes—dripping wet—and they were taking her to the Union line.
She leapt to her feet, causing the boat to wobble precariously. But before she could dive back into the water, the sergeant flung his arms around her legs, and she crashed down hard on the midship thwart.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he muttered, “but we’ve come up with a number of pretty spies, you know. You’re going to come with us to see the lieutenant.”
Kendall didn’t feel the bruises on her ribs where she had fallen. She closed her eyes, her mind suddenly gone blank with terror.
* * *
She would never be able to say that they weren’t kind to her. As soon as they reached the shore, the soldiers gave her a blanket to drape about herself. Any man who offered her so much as a licentious stare was harshly reprimanded.
She was taken over a half mile of shoreline to a spot where Yankee tents were pitched in abundance. Thousands of men in blue sat around campfires, yet they merely paused in their evening meal to watch the procession as she was led through their midst.
At last they stopped before a large tent. The sergeant slipped beneath the flap quickly—and just as swiftly slipped back out to hold it high, indicating that she should enter.
She stood still, her hair dripping and clinging to her face as she stared at the young lieutenant who sat behind a field desk.
She was surprised when he instantly and politely rose. He smiled, and she saw that he was even younger than she had first thought, his features merely worn by the ravages of battle. His eyes were a golden hazel, alert, yet tired. His manner was quietly authoritative.
“So you’re our Confederate spy,” he murmured.
“I’m not a spy,” Kendall replied, more tired than nervous. She met his gaze boldly and defiantly. “We needed morphine. I swam out to get it.”
“We found that rowboat filled with arms.”
“So I heard.”
“Did you? Then did you hear that once we had taken it, we used the boat as bait to discover who has been slipping into our ranks to steal arms?”
“What is your name, ma’am?”
She hesitated. “Kendall,” she murmured. “Kendall . . . Armstrong.”
“Have you eaten, Miss Armstrong?”
“I . . .”
“Foolish question. No one in Vicksburg has eaten well for quite some time.”
The lieutenant strode past her to the tent flap. “Private Green! Fetch some rations for our Rebel guest—pronto!”
“Yes, sir!”
He smiled at Kendall again as he came back into the tent, sweeping his arm politely to indicate that she should take the squat folding chair across from his field desk. With little choice, Kendall sat.
“Lieutenant,” Kendall murmured, “I assure you I’m not a spy. It would be rather useless to be one at this point, don’t you think, sir? Vicksburg is in a desperate plight. Yet there is no information that could really save the city, is there?”
“Save it—no,” the lieutenant replied. “But prolong this misery, yes. We know that the arms carrier had contacts on the shore. Ah . . . here is your meal. Please, eat.”
She would have liked to turn up her nose at the food; she could not. There was fresh beef on the plate. And bread—with no mold. Summer corn swimming in creamy butter . . .
“Thank you,” she said shakily, practically attacking the food as the delicious aromas assailed her.
“Eat slowly,” the Yankee lieutenant advised her, not unkindly, as he returned to his own chair and surveyed her. He plucked a dark liquor bottle from beneath the desk and set it on the table.
“Do southern ladies accept a swig of whiskey?” he queried almost whimsically.
“This one does,” Kendall said softly.
He rummaged through a drawer until he found a glass. Kendall tossed down the liquor offered her in a single swallow. It stung her throat, but it warmed her. She turned her attention back to the most delicious meal she had ever consumed. She barely noticed that he silently stared at her.
“I’m not really sure what to do with you,” he said at last. “For tonight we’ll put you in the tent next to mine—under heavy guard, of course. By tomorrow morning my men should be able to scrounge up some clothing for you. And I’ll speak with the general.”
Kendall at last set down her fork and sat with her hands in her lap, eyes downcast. She wasn’t about to argue with this man. She didn’t think that he believed her to be a spy. And it seemed likely that he would eventually release her.
Private Green was called back. She was led to another tent with a clean cot—and rough, but warm blankets.
She assumed she would toss restlessly, and nervously, all night, but she didn’t. Amazingly, sleep overwhelmed all thoughts of fear and anxiety. She slept deeply—and dreamlessly.
* * *
She awoke to the sound of bugles—reveille—and then the cacophony of clanks and rustles as thousands of soldiers fell into ranks.
She pulled her blanket about her as she listened to the sounds of the Yankee camp, closed her eyes tightly once more, and prayed.
“Dear God—please! Please make these people release me before they discover that I’m the missing wife of a Federal naval lieutenant.”
“Miss Armstrong, I’m tossing a gown in to you. Please dress immediately. Private Green will be waiting to bring you to my tent.”
Kendall held her breath as a deep russet cotton gown was tossed into her tent. It was the lieutenant who had spoken—as polite as he had been last night. Yet there had been something different about his voice . . .
She didn’t want to crawl out of the cot. She was suddenly terrified to face the day.
Brent McClain! she wailed in silent, furious reproach. You took my ship and demanded that I play a safe role—a woman’s role—in this war. On the ship I could have fought. Here I cannot. I am helpless. You arrogant bastard, you have done this to me!
But that wasn’t really true. He had wanted her to stay in Florida, in the safe harbor . . . but she had gone to Vicksburg and innocently determined to catch a drifting rowboat.
She couldn’t have done differently, she thought with a sigh. And she forced herself to rise—and don the russet gown.
Her suspicion that something had changed overnight became positive knowledge as she entered the tent of the young lieutenant.
He was not alone. Two older and very severe-looking officers were seated on either side of him.
The lieutenant didn’t rise. Nor did he indicate that she should sit. He stared at her with cold accusation.
“To my left, madam, is Quartermaster Jordan of the United States Navy. I’m sure you’re aware that our assault on Vicksburg has been a combined effort of army and navy. Quartermaster Jordan recently transferred to our front from a short stint at Key West. He saw you come in last night. And he’s quite certain that he recognizes you. He says you were aboard a Confederate schooner that blew a Union ship straight to hell. What do you say to the charge, ma’am?”
“I deny it, of course,” Kendall murmured, trying to speak with conviction and still the tremors that shook her.
“Furthermore,” the lieutenant continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “he tells me it was rumored that the woman taking our Federal ships was the wife of a fellow naval officer. Your name is Kendall Moore, madam, not Armstrong.”
They had her—and they knew that they had her. She felt as if the entire world were slipping away from beneath her feet—but she was determined that they not know it.
She stiffened her spine, squared her shoulders, and slightly lifted her chin.
The lieutenant pushed back his chair and stood and approached her.
“You are guilty, madam, of acts of sabotage against the United States armed forces. The penalties for that are grave, Mrs. Moore. Under normal circumstances, we would be forced by law to send you to a prisoner-of-war camp. I would thank God, if I were you, Mrs. Moore, that I was married to a naval officer. We will place you in your husband’s custody—”
“No!” Kendall interrupted sharply—icily.
“What?” The young lieutenant appeared confused.
“I said no. I do not want to be placed in my husband’s custody.”
“I don’t think you understand. The alternative is prison.”
“I understand perfectly,” Kendall said with cool dignity. “I prefer prison.”
The young lieutenant stared at her, noting the stark purpose and determination in her beautiful clear blue eyes. Seconds ticked by.
At last he threw up his arms in exasperation. He strode around to sit behind his desk and scrawl on a piece of paper.
“This grieves me,” he said huskily. “I never thought I would have to condemn a woman to such a fate. Mrs. Moore, won’t you please reconsider? Your husband will certainly be angry, but as you’re his wife in the sight of God—”
“No, Lieutenant,” Kendall interrupted firmly. “I will not reconsider.”
The young man winced. He scrawled his signature on an official paper.
“Private Green!” he called sharply, never taking his eyes from Kendall.
The private appeared quickly in the tent, saluting. The lieutenant rolled and bound his order and handed it to the private. “Arrange an escort. Sergeant Matling can be in charge. Mrs. Moore is to be taken to Camp Douglas in Chicago. She is to be held there for the duration of the war,”
Camp Douglas. Kendall felt her heart sink. It was reputed to be the Andersonville of the North; a place riddled with lice and disease and famine . . .
Her lips started to quiver; she pressed them firmly together, forcing herself to keep her chin high. Even Camp Douglas would be preferable to John Moore . . .
* * *
Or so she thought until she reached the prison four days later. Hell couldn’t have been worse than Camp Douglas.