Mary B. was especially delighted with her new nurse. Other women, no matter how selfless their original intentions, were simply unable to withstand the emotional strain of the work. Usually they withdrew their services in less than a week, amid tearful apologies and ladylike sniffs.
She glanced up from a young private and saw Margaret smoothing the brow of a soldier whose face had been disfigured by an exploding shell. Everyone else around him had been killed instantly, and even more alarming than his terrible wounds had been his prolonged silence, expressing nothing but a heartfelt yearning to join his dead companions. Margaret had spent extra time with the soldier, speaking in soothing tones, patiently but persistently urging him to recover.
After ten days her persistence paid off, and he mumbled for her to leave him alone. Margaret redoubled her efforts, deciding that if she could truly irritate the man, he might recover simply to be able to leave her.
It worked. Instead of wallowing in miserable self-pity, he began to complain bitterly about the nurse who was always at his side, continuously telling bad jokes, always quoting some trite homily. Soon his fever was down, and he was sitting up in bed, watching the nurse glide from bed to bed. By the time he realized what she had done, he, too, had become a devoted admirer.
There was a commotion up front, but Margaret had learned to ignore the sounds of new arrivals until she was asked to help. Otherwise, she would simply be in the way.
Dr. Parish and Mary B, were in deep discussion, nodding in agreement, swift decisions that could alter a man's chances of recovery.
"Margaret, an officer has just been brought in." Mary B. stood over her, a strange expression on her face.
"Really? How odd. We don't usually treat officers." Margaret returned to her patient, but Mary B. did not move. She looked up, a sudden terror coursing through her. "No, it's not Ashton?" she uttered.
"No," reassured Mary B. quickly. "No, please. It's not your husband, but it is your brother-in-law."
"Eddie?"
Mary B. nodded as Margaret rose to her feet. "Where is . .." "Right in front," she answered.
"Could someone tell Ashton? He's in a meeting with—"
Again, Mary B. answered before Margaret could complete the sentence. "We've already sent someone."
Margaret hesitated for a moment. "What are his wounds?"
"He's been shot in the left shoulder. Dr. Parish is looking at him now."
Eddie was there, wounded just like any other soldier. But any other soldier would be grateful for her help, for her attention, even for her touch. Eddie hated her. No matter how Lizzie or Ashton tried to reword it, under the benign guise of simple brotherly concern or youthful passion, he hated her.
"Margaret, what on earth is wrong?" Mary B, had pulled her aside, her green eyes questioning.
Margaret's gaze darted restlessly to her folded hands. "He honestly despises me," she whispered.
"My presence would not help him, and I might even do more damage by simply showing my face. Does he know I'm here?"
"No," Mary B. replied, wanting to ask more but not wanting to make her friend uncomfortable. "I'll look after him. But I will say this, he must not have much in the judgment department."
Margaret shrugged as Mary B. picked up her skirts and stepped down the aisle to Eddie. Feeling an uncomfortable sense of defeat, Margaret turned in the opposite direction to get as far away as possible from her brother-in-law. Maybe one day they could be friends. But certainly not today.
Ashton sat in the president's office, wondering if anyone besides General Longstreet truly understood how difficult the next phase of the war would be. Lee exuded an air of absolute confidence, and President Davis seemed to cling to that bravado, perhaps with the notion that wishing it vehemently could make it come true.
At this point they were no longer making plans to invade northern soil. After Gettysburg, they had simply tried to foil an all-out northern invasion of the South. Should Richmond or Atlanta fall like Vicks-burg, they all knew—as did everyone in the Confederacy—that the war would be lost.
"So are we agreed, gentlemen?" Davis tapped his foot on the carpet, the only visible sign of his agitation. "Our first priority is to block both Sherman and Grant. The seasons are on our side. But by spring we must put an end to these two generals."
Lee nodded distractedly, ideas already forming in his mind. Ashton was silent for a moment, unsure if what he was about to say would be taken seriously.
In the two hours since this conference began, it was as if he could suddenly see the entire situation clearly, perhaps for the first time. Their position now was obvious—the numbers of men in both armies, the success of the Yankee blockade that had been keeping food and vital materials from the Confederacy. He took a deep breath, knowing how his thoughts would be received. But, for his own peace of mind, they needed to be said.
"The losses have been horrendous, President. On both sides. What will we do if we are able to prevent the Union army from invading?"
"What do you mean, General?" Davis had stopped tapping his foot.
"We will be exactly where we are right now, sir. Only with fewer men and a weaker morale. The Yankees, however, will keep on coming. Have you seen how well equipped they are? Even the privates are better dressed and fed than our officers."
"Just what are you implying, General Johnson?" Davis was using his frosty, imperious tone, but Ashton was not intimidated. Lee's eyes snapped to his, a warning look there, but Ashton continued.
"It has just occurred to me, looking at this map," Ashton's hand swept over the detailed parchment, "that even if we manage to repulse the Union Army on our most vulnerable fronts, we still must actually invade and conquer all of this," he gestured to the vast northern and western states, "if we are to win."
There was a brittle silence as Ashton persevered. "Unless England truly sides with us, I fear we are doomed to fail."
"That, sir, is treason," spat Davis.
"No. What I believe, I trust, will go no farther than these walls." Ashton pushed back an errant strand of hair. "I will fight, to my death if necessary. But I needed to tell you what I believe."
There was a gentle knock on the door, and a burly guard entered the room.
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen." The guard was clearly distressed at having to enter a room filled with the nation's most powerful men. "I have a message for General Johnson. His brother, Major Edward Branch Johnson, has been wounded, and has just been brought to the hospital."
"Chimborazo?" Ashton asked standing up, naming the largest hospital in Richmond.
"No, sir. He's at Miss Cox's hospital."
Ashton turned to the three men, leaning down to collect his gloves and hat. "Gentlemen? May I please . . ."
"Of course, General." Davis was a trifle less angry as he dismissed Ashton. Lee also rose to his feet.
"Ash, let me know as soon as possible how Eddie is faring." Lee grasped the younger man's arm.
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
As he pivoted to leave, a small piece of paper fluttered to the carpet. Longstreet was about to stop him, but Lee held up his hand. "No, Pete. "I'll give it to him later. He needs to get to Eddie."
President Davis picked up the paper when his eyes unconsciously raked the side with Ashton's distinctive handwriting. A phrase caught his attention, and he read the note.
"President Davis," murmured Longstreet, "I hardly think you should . . ."
The expression on his face quelled him. The president cleared his throat and handed the note to Lee.
"General, I believe you should look at this." His voice was weak, and as Lee scanned the paper, Davis walked to the door and closed it softly.
"My God," rasped General Lee, feeling behind him for a chair. He sat down heavily, his eyes darting over the paper.
"What is it, sir?" asked Longstreet, baffled by the strange behavior of his commanders, Lee remained silent, and President Davis was the first to answer. "The paper, General Longstreet, appears to
be some sort of cipher. But from what I can gather from General Lee's reaction, he too has reached the same conclusion. Ashton Johnson is a spy."
CHAPTER 15
They were going to amputate Eddie's left arm.
Margaret paced from bed to bed, glancing over at the small circle—Dr. Parish, Mary B., and the soldiers who had brought Eddie to the hospital. She didn't dare approach her brother-in-law, for fear that the anger and frustration and pain he must be feeling would be hurled at her. She wasn't being a coward, her mind rationalized, she simply didn't want him to expend the energy he would so desperately need in order to recover.
Perhaps it would do him some good to scream at her, for as the details were emerging of how he had been wounded, she realized that Eddie was going to have to direct his fury at some point other than the enemy. He had been shot by one of his own men, a young skirmisher who aimed his uncertain carbine at the first noise he heard. In the dull light of the morning, Eddie and his five soldiers had been mistaken for a Yankee patrol.
A respectful silence settled over the room, as if someone very important had entered the ward, but Margaret didn't bother to see who it was. Instead she busied herself with sorting clean rags by size. A large hand rested on her arm, and she turned around, knowing immediately that it was Ashton.
She didn't wait for him to ask, "He was shot in the left shoulder," she said quietly, staring into his somber visage. There was a gentleness there, a slight vulnerability, that made her place her hand over his. Very few people, she realized, had ever seen this facet of him.
"Ash, he was wounded by his own men, a case of mistaken identity," Her mouth felt dry, and she licked her lips, trying to phrase the next piece of information as delicately as possible. "Dr. Parish believes it is necessary to amputate."
The only perceivable reaction Ashton displayed was a convulsive clench of his fist, and Margaret, with her hand covering his, was the only one who was aware of it. He took a deep breath, and she felt an overwhelming need to touch him, to cradle him against her, but they were being watched. The most she could do was tighten her hold on his fist.
"No," he whispered.
At first she thought he was denying the severity of the wound, rejecting the idea of his brother being so seriously injured.
"I will not let them amputate," he said, his eyes meeting hers.
"Perhaps you had better speak to Dr. Parish . .."
"Margaret, the only cure doctors seem able to attempt is amputation. They wanted to hack off my leg at Gettysburg, remember?"
"And do you remember Spence Pender?" she countered. "He would probably be alive right now, teasing me about one thing or another, if his leg had been taken off. Ash, it might be the same thing with Eddie."
Ashton was silent for a few moments, weighing her words. At last he gave her a wan smile. "Maybe I should consult my brother and the doctor before I make any medical decisions."
"I believe they would both appreciate that," she replied, reaching up to run her fingers softly over his face.
A strange expression crossed over his brow. "Margaret, I need to tell you something—"
"General?" Dr. Parish had no qualms about interrupting anyone, no matter what their status. In the hospital, his domain, he outranked them all.
"Your brother has a ball lodged in his left shoulder. I believe it has shattered the bone, and the best solution, in my opinion, would be to amputate." The doctor glared unflinchingly at Ashton.
"What does my brother say?"
Dr. Parish gave a dismissive grunt, "He says what they all say, that he would rather die than lose his arm. Believe me, General, most young men change their minds mighty fast when they realize they might actually die."
"I'll speak to him," said Ashton, pushing his hand through his hair as he started to walk to his brother.
"Ash," Margaret whispered. "Shall I contact your mother?"
He stopped, and with a genuine smile, shook his head. "Not yet, Mag. We have enough problems just now."
He did not urge her to accompany him to Eddie, and she realized that he, too, felt that would be a mistake. She watched him walk away, the broad shoulders squared, the expressions of awe on the faces of the patients as he passed. Even the Union men stared in fascination, and one actually saluted. But Ashton didn't see them; his eyes were already ahead, on Eddie, Margaret returned to the rags, stacking neat piles of torn cloth as if it were the most enthralling task imaginable. Her mind whirled, trying to recall what paltry medical facts she could, wondering if some other treatment besides amputation could help Eddie.
So absorbed in her own thoughts was she. mechanically folding bandages, that she wasn't aware of the hushed confusion that suddenly overtook the hall.
The patients knew something was wrong as soon as the four large Confederate soldiers entered the ward. One remained at the front door, the only open exit. The other three marched toward Ashton, who was speaking to Eddie.
"General Johnson, you are to come with us,"
Ashton's eyes snapped up, disbelieving.
"I am busy at the moment, soldier," he said with an unmistakable edge to his voice, then he returned his full attention to Eddie.
His brother swallowed, looking up at the soldiers' looming over his bed. Even through the gauzy pain, he recognized something was very wrong.
"Ash." He closed his eyes. "Better see what they want."
Impatiently, Ashton stood up, and the soldier who spoke whispered something into his ear. Ashton's face was impassive as he reached into the pocket that had earlier held the parchment. It was gone.
Ashton glanced over at Margaret, her back turned, graceful arms moving as she worked on the bandages. He needed to speak to her, to explain what had happened, to ask her what the scribbled words meant.
"Sir, you are to come with us immediately," repeated the soldier.
Margaret stopped working, an uncomfortable prickle creeping up her arms. She stiffened, trying to figure out what was wrong. Then she noticed the eerie quiet of the hospital, a sense that she was being watched, that something urgent and compelling was occurring.
Without thinking, she dropped the rags, heedless as they fell to the filthy floor, and spun around.
Ashton, flanked by two enormous soldiers bearing rifles, was being ushered from the hospital. Another soldier was behind them, as if to prevent him from escaping their escort.
"Ashton!" Her voice was shrill and unnatural, startling to her own ears, but she was vaguely aware that no one else seemed surprised by her shout.
Ashton turned to her, his face blank, but a betraying look caused her hand to fly to her mouth. His eyes seemed unnaturally bright as he stared at her. Then he mouthed a simple sentence.
"I love you."
Before she could react, the soldier to the rear placed his hand on her husband's shoulder and guided him forward. Ashton did not resist.
The air hung heavy with a strained silence. Margaret realized that her hand, still over her mouth, was trembling.
Never had she seen Ashton, or any officer, virtually shoved through a door by mere privates.
Something was terribly, awfully wrong.
The knowledge that Eddie disliked her didn't even enter her consciousness as she raced to his bedside. She didn't hesitate a moment, and grabbed her skirts the instant the front doors swung shut.
"Eddie," she uttered as she knelt by her brother-in-law. For the first time since she met him, he turned to her with eyes clear of malice.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was harsh in pain and confusion. She reached for a tin mug filled with clear water and carefully tilted it toward his lips, cupping his head with her hand. His eyes, a gray-blue, she realized for the first time, flicked to her with a brief spark of gratitude, and he sipped the water.
Eddie Johnson, Margaret noticed, was quite hand some.
"I work here. Lizzie left for The Oaks, but I'm staying on." She then switched back into her nurse mode. "How are you feeling?" His uniform was splashed
with blood and cut away at the left arm. The bandage was already stained, and even under the caked dust Margaret could tell his face was pale.
"The hell with me, Mag. What happened to Ash?".
Margaret looked up to see who was listening, but the soldiers who had come with Eddie seemed to be staring at the closed front door, muttering to themselves. "I don't know. Did you hear what the soldier said to him before they took him away?"
"I'm not sure." Eddie closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. "I think I heard something about a piece of paper."