Corbett was unconscious now, and Ashton used his elbow to hold him in place, the same arm that held the reins.
But it was too late for escape. He was now surrounded by bluecoats, all pointing rifles at his head.
A single, frantic thought entered his mind: Margaret. He couldn't leave her, not like this. There was so much to say, so much needed to be made clear between them.
With a speed that stunned the approaching Federals, Ashton leaned in his saddle, still balancing Corbett, and scooped up the Union soldier who had struggled with the young man. Gripping the pistol, he rode slowly to an opening in the lines, using the startled Union soldier as a human shield.
Waffles stumbled once under the weight of the three men, but the horse seemed to understand the urgency of the situation and recovered his footing. Ashton thought, distractedly, that the Union man needed a bath.
Within a few moments they were almost to the edge of the forest. Soon his own pickets could cover for him.
The Federals, mounted and armed, stood in open-mouthed wonder, still not believing the audacity of the man holding one of their own men.
"Sir?" It was the Union soldier Ashton was gripping.
"Yes, soldier," Ashton replied gruffly.
"I believe I am going to be sick." The man had a faint Irish accent.
"Soldier, please. I will let you go as soon as I reach my own lines, and my own men will cover your return. I vouch for that. But I beg of you, please do not soil this uniform . .."
The man moaned, and Ashton, realizing he was almost safe, gently lowered him to the ground. He heard the click of rifles, and shouted.
"Hold fire, men. Let this soldier return to his camp. He has just saved my life."
And finally, Ashton and his rescued soldier were safe. Once back at camp, the men reveled in their success, telling and retelling the story of their general and his escape. Ashton himself sat with his men for a while, enduring the painfully lavish praise, slightly embarrassed.
It was a relief when at last he could return to his own tent and, just as the orange sun rose over the trees, he wrote a letter to Margaret.
CHAPTER 12
Margaret first noticed the man skulking about The Oaks four days after Ashton's departure. A linen towel, damp after her morning washing, was still in her hands as she glanced out the window of her room. From the corner of her eye she saw something move, a rustling in the distant trees, and she paused, wondering who in the world would be rattling the bushes at this early hour.
Instinctively, she stepped away from the window and continued to watch from the cover of a partially closed shutter. The man looked vaguely familiar, even at the distance of some four hundred yards. She rubbed her eyes, and it came to her who the man was.
It was one of Ashton's scouts.
For an instant she felt a surge of pure joy. Was Ashton coming home? Then the scout, perhaps aware that he had been seen, disappeared. She waited for him to reappear, for his bright red hair to again flash within range, but it never did. It was as if he had vanished.
Carefully folding the towel and placing it on the wooden rack, her mind worked frantically, trying to determine why the scout may have returned. Clearly it wasn't to retrieve an extra pair of socks.
Then it hit her. The scout was on surveillance duty. Suddenly bits of extraneous information lined themselves up and presented a vivid picture to her. The hostility she had seen in everyone from Mrs. Thaw to Eddie, the tail-end glances she would catch when she spoke, Ashton's reluctance to tell her of his own whereabouts.
The plain truth was painfully obvious. Everyone, including her own husband, thought she was a spy.
Before anger could replace the raw hurt, Margaret noticed another movement about a dozen yards from the spot where Ashton's scout had been hiding.
"What the . . ." she whispered to herself, stunned by the sight of another furtive man in the shrubbery. This one wore a slouchy gray kepi and seemed to be following Ashton's scout. Margaret pulled up a straight-back chair to her hidden spot. This was rapidly becoming a most fascinating show.
Finally the two scouts, circling around each other, moved out of her line of vision. Unless she stuck her head out of the window, she would be unable to follow their path until they returned.
She bent down to lace up her half boots, gaiters, she heard them called, her eyes still focused outside. There was another movement, and her mouth dropped open. From where the rustling was, this would have to be a third man. He was placed a little further back than the twirling pair, his gaze intent on both of them.
Were they all Confederates? She was fairly certain that Ashton's scout was there to watch her. But who sent the other men?
She stood up in clear sight of the three men, exposed fully in the open window. She squelched the almost overwhelming desire to wave at them, perhaps applaud. Instead she pretended to be simply stretching in the crisp autumn air.
All movement stopped. There was absolutely no indication that three grown men were lurking in the bushes.
"Thank you," she muttered in their general direction. For without their unintended help, she would not know exactly what the members of her new family thought of her.
And without their aid, she would have been able to convince herself that Ashton trusted her completely.
Breakfast at The Oaks, Margaret was rapidly learning, offered a very good argument for staying in bed. Although food in general was scarce, it was most apparent at the day's first meal. Traditional breakfast fare—eggs, bacon, cornmeal pancakes—was almost nonexistent. When it was found, when one of the scrawny hens gave up an egg, or a precious hog went to its final reward, Aunt Hattie invariably held the treat until supper. It was too special to waste on breakfast.
The entire household, as with every meal, would dutifully gather around the massive dining room table. There were special china breakfast plates, and a plainly patterned set of silverware, as if the war had not reduced the menu to commeal gruel. An ornate coffeepot, made of china but covered with a metallic glaze called lusterware, proudly held a brew made of everything from corn husks to peanut shells.
Ashton's mother remained distant. At first Margaret felt she simply didn't like her new daughter-in-law, but after a while she realized that Eliza Johnson seemed to be operating in a state of permanent despair. Only her sister Eppes seemed capable of bringing a smile to her thin face, usually by making some sort of silly, strange comment.
One morning Aunt Eppes declared that it was the Yankee women who started the war, for it was well known in the upper circles of Washington that the southern hostess, particularly the Virginia hostess, was far and away the most delightful breed in the world. The northern women, jealous of the attention and praise lavished by their husbands on the charm of southern women, planted the idea of war into their husbands' minds in order to free themselves of the competition. Another morning Aunt Eppes stated that General Quarles should have done the honorable thing by marrying her daughter Lizzie.
"Oh, Mother." Lizzie sighed. "Please. Let us not bring up that tired subject again. You know full well that it was I who broke the engagement with the general, not he. I was not in love with him, Mother. And by mutual consent, after I explained my feelings, we decided not to marry."
"But your cousin Sam Jones says . .." began Aunt Eppes.
"Sam is also a general now, Mother, and has little enough time to bother with gossip." Eppes drew a hurt expression, her forehead dissolving into deep lines, and Lizzie winked at Margaret. "I am sorry, Mother."
But Ashton's mother smiled, and Eppes, upon seeing her sister's face, gracefully changed the subject.
This morning, however, the four women remained silent, each involved in her own contemplation. Margaret wondered if she should mention the men outside and decided against it, for fear of sending Aunt Eppes swooning. Perhaps she could confide in Lizzie.
"I've been thinking," Lizzie announced, causing the other women's heads to snap up.
"Very good, my dear
," said Aunt Eppes.
Lizzie grinned at Margaret, who returned the smile before Lizzie continued. Then her face became serious, all traces of the impish grin vanished. "Mother, Aunt Eliza, and Mag—I really want you to hear what I have to say."
Margaret was curious now and put down her spoon. "With Eddie and Ashton away, so gallantly serving the cause, it seems to me that we should do more than knit socks and save lint to make bandages."
Aunt Eppes was about to speak when Lizzie continued. "I believe we should turn The Oaks into a hospital and nurse soldiers right here."
Both Eppes and Eliza gasped, but Margaret felt the stirrings of excitement. For days she had done nothing but mope about aimlessly, certainly no good to the household or Ashton, and positively no good to herself. Even the scouts would soon grow weary of watching Margaret pace in circles.
This would give her purpose, direction—not to mention she would be of genuine help to men who desperately needed aid.
"Oh, Lizzie," exclaimed Margaret. "What a terrific idea! When I rode here last week, we passed homes with wounded soldiers on lawns and under trees. Surely we can ..."
"No!" cried Eliza. "We will be ruined, I tell you. Four women alone in a household with strange men! Think of our reputations, Lizzie. Mag, too. Why, it simply isn't proper."
Lizzie had been prepared for this exact response from the older women and had even expected it from Mag. But strangely enough, Ashton's wife seemed eager to help. Lizzie cleared her throat before she began speaking again in calm, deliberate tones.
"Aunt Eliza, before the war it would, indeed, have been unseemly. But this is a different time and circumstance. The hospitals are overflowing, the nurses there are worked to exhaustion." She waited a moment, then spoke in a softer, less strident voice. "I'll ask my friend from Richmond to come here. She's helped arrange several hospitals, and she'll show us exactly what we need to do."
Eppes had regained her voice. "Lizzie, your aunt Eliza is right. It would be most indelicate. It is absolutely out of the question."
Margaret gathered the nerve to speak. "If Ashton or Eddie is wounded, I certainly hope any woman nearby, Yankee or Confederate, doesn't feel it's indelicate to nurse him."
There was a silence, and Eliza turned slowly and stared at Margaret as if for the first time. Margaret met her gaze unflinchingly, and she saw a slight softening around Eliza's mouth.
"You are right." She swallowed, her eyes suddenly moist. "Lizzie, make whatever arrangements you must. I'm sure Eppes and I will be happy to do our part."
Eppes was about to speak when Eliza's firm voice stated, "As I said, Eppes and I will do our part." And Eppes simply shook her head and returned to eating her breakfast.
Lizzie had written to her friend, an apparent human tornado named Mary B. Cox who had organized a half dozen hospitals in Richmond. A letter came to Lizzie by return mail, stating that while she was unable to leave Richmond at the moment, Lizzie and Margaret were welcome to travel there and see firsthand the workings of a hospital.
While Lizzie was busy with their travel plans, Margaret sat alone in her room, reading and rereading a pair of letters she had just received from Ashton.
Margaret was amazed to have the letters in her hand two days after the postmark indicated they had been mailed. This was the Confederacy in the last year and a half of the Civil War, and the fragmented mail system was still more efficient than in computer-driven, peacetime twentieth-century New York.
His first letter vaguely indicated his whereabouts, somewhere on the Tennessee-North Carolina border. Yet other than a few scattered references to camp life, the letter could have been penned by a business traveler resting before his next call.
The second letter mentioned a raid, and Margaret was surprised and delighted that he confided in her. Then she realized that he was merely trying to deflect credit for his daring escape. Of course, she had heard all about his close brush with the enemy, the Petersburg and Richmond newspapers were filled with her husband's last-moment dash over enemy lines.
Upon hearing of his narrow escape, Margaret was unable to find joy in his audacious ingenuity. Instead she fought the urge to cry at the very danger everyone else seemed to applaud. What about the next time? she wanted to scream. So he was very clever and lucky. What did it matter if he was caught or killed in the end?
She also knew that this event had not happened before, the first time history played itself out. This was a new twist. Surely she would have read about this exploit in her studies. It was exactly the sort of tidbit that scholars relish—the little anecdote that would illustrate how spunky the Confederates were and how very amusing history could be.
Alt things considered, she couldn't wait to reach Richmond. Anything was better than sitting in enforced idleness, waiting for precious letters that may or may not arrive, and wondering what life-threatening misery her husband was enduring at that precise moment.
"No, please," Ashton groaned, rubbing his flat stomach in genuine pain.
Sam Walker looked up from his own plate and grinned. "Real maple syrup, General. I didn't credit the information as accurate, sir. But those Yankees must eat well. I'm sure they don't mind sharing a little with their southern brethren."
"That is a point they might debate, Sam." Ashton watched in alarm as his aide reached for the platter with four pancakes remaining. "Sam, I believe you should rest. You have eaten over a dozen pancakes. I would not want to see you ill."
"I beg your pardon, General, but I did win the pancake-eating contest at Magnolia. This is nothing." "You did win that contest." Ashton sighed. "But this is perhaps the last full meal you have consumed since then. Have a little restraint now, and you may eat them later if you wish."
Sam's two-pronged fork was poised between his mouth and the sticky plate. "Have no fear, General." His mouth opened wide to receive the folded pancake, and he chewed shamelessly, a trickle of syrup spilling down his chin.
Suddenly his ruddy face became ashen, and he stopped chewing, as if the very action was distasteful. He swallowed the remaining morsel in his mouth and rose swiftly from the planked table.
"Sir?" he moaned, his arms folded over his midsection.
"Yes, Sam. You are dismissed." Ashton didn't have time to complete the sentence before Sam bolted from the tent, tripping over a wooden stake and muttering a few oaths before he reached a distant tree.
The tent flap was still open when Ashton's scout arrived, issuing a crisp salute, his eyes on the remaining pancakes. "General, I have news of Mrs. Johnson, sir."
Ashton straightened in his chair and raked a distracted hand through his hair. "Please, Ben, help yourself to the pancakes. But first tell me what you have."
The scout glanced at his general, hesitating for a moment. He did not want to give him the information now, in case he would be banished from the tent and unable to eat the flapjacks. They were covered in syrup, and Ben felt his mouth water in anticipation.
The general seemed to read his mind. "The pancakes are yours, Ben. No matter what. Just tell me what is happening at The Oaks."
"Well, sir," Ben began uneasily. "Mrs. General Johnson is no longer there."
"She what?" The scout jumped at Ashton's tone, and he made an effort to lower his voice. "Forgive me. Please explain." His hands were placed on the table, the fingertips touching, a pose of infinite calm.
"She has gone to Richmond, sir, with your cousin Miss Giles. They took a gray horse named Pretzels and hitched her to an old rig. The horse seemed mighty mad, if I may add, sir."
"Why in blazes was she going to Richmond?"
"From what I could gather, sir, from listening under the window at night, they are going to turn The Oaks into a hospital."
"I don't believe it," Ashton murmured under his breath. Mag working with the sick and wounded? Could she have changed so drastically? He shook his head in disbelief.
"If they are turning The Oaks into a hospital, what are they doing in Richmond?"
"You see, s
ir, Miss Lizzie Giles has a friend who knows how to set up a hospital. They are going to bring the knowledge back with them. Also, they need to clear the idea with the president. As you know, sir, civilian hospitals have a poor record. They lose more men than they save. So President Davis will not allow a civilian to organize a hospital without his permission."
Ashton gestured toward the platter, and the scout wasted no time pulling up a chair and digging into the pancakes.
There was something wrong, Ashton thought, rubbing his hand over his mouth. There must be more to the story.
"Oh, sir," the scout mumbled with his mouth full. He chewed hurriedly and swallowed. "There are at least two other men watching The Oaks. And from what I could gather, they both have their eyes on Mrs. General Johnson."