Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Gray (36 page)

I could see the end of the war would be best for everybody. I wanted that place in Green Valley as bad as I'd ever wanted anything. Even if the general's men won and the North lost, wasn't nobody going back to slavery times. I was sure Miss Mary knew it as well as anybody. But I also knew her heart, and her general's fierce pride. If he lost his war it would crush them both.

Annice brought me a cup of coffee. I held on to the warm cup and watched the fire crackling in the grate. This was another of those times in the long friendship of Miss Mary and me, when getting my own wish would mean Miss Mary couldn't get hers.

S
hortly after Dr. McCaw's visit to Mrs. Caskie's, I made my first visit to Chimborazo Hospital. Perched high on a hill on Richmond's east side, the hospital was a city unto itself, with its own soap house and icehouses, a guardhouse, gardens, and stables. An apothecary, a carpentry shop, and a blacksmith shop ensured that Dr. McCaw and his large staff had whatever was necessary to see that their patients, who often numbered into the thousands, received the best of care.

The wooden barracks of the soldiers, first built for military training—some one hundred buildings in all—had been converted into ninety wards, each holding forty beds. I was pleasantly surprised on my first visit by the whitewashed walls and the curtains at the windows, each room adorned with vines or flowering plants.

I soon learned that the true boss of the operation was Mrs. Pember, a no-nonsense widow from Charleston who had taken over as matron and instituted her own set of rules and her own way of doing things. She seemed to resent my presence among her patients, as any visit from the wife of General Lee caused a commotion that took more time to contain than she was willing to invest.

Not wishing to go where I was not welcome, I began visiting the smaller hospitals scattered about Richmond. The ladies of St. James Church had taken up the cause of Miss Sally Tompkins, who had opened a hospital at the home of John Robertson, a local judge. Miss Tompkins welcomed my visits to her patients.

Though hollow-eyed with sickness and sorrow, the men never failed to greet me in the most respectful and gracious way. Their pitiful entreaties tore at my heart, as there was so little I could do for them. But I sat for as long as my rheumatism would allow, reading to them, helping to write letters home, or simply listening to their recollections of happier times. They took such pride in having served under my husband's command. Often they told stories of his care for them—the gift of a warm blanket or new socks from the general's own trunk, a leave granted in the midst of a conflict, a word of encouragement when a comrade fell—kindnesses that endeared him to his men. He felt each one's agony and shared their hardships in his letters home.
Every day is marked with sorrow and every field has its grief, the death of some brave man.

“Mrs. Lee.”

I paused beside the bed of a young man whose limbs were wrapped in bandages. Blood had seeped through the linen and dried to the color of rust. His eyes were sunken and fever bright. He reached for my hand, and I clasped his as tightly as my crippled fingers would permit.

“Mrs. Lee. Will you do a favor for a soldier of General Lee's?”

“Of course, child. Whatever I can.”

“It's my mother, ma'am. My sister writes that Mother is deathly sick and wants to see her only son—that's me—before she expires. I put in my request to General Longstreet a month
ago, but I haven't heard a word.” He grasped my hands so hard I winced. “Can you ask General Lee if I can go home?” Tears coursed down his cheeks. “I just want to go home.”

Every refugee and every soldier in Richmond wanted the same thing. The soldier had a duty to his country, yet I could not remain unaffected by his fervent plea. He was no older than my Rob, and his grievous wounds would plague him for the rest of his days. If he survived.

“If I had it in my power I would put you onto the cars myself this very afternoon. I cannot promise anything, but I will write to my husband.”

“Thank you. You are God's own angel, Mrs. Lee.”

“What is your name, young man? Where is your home?”

“Henry Lawson, ma'am. From Mooresville, Alabama. It's on the Decatur Road.”

I rose from Mr. Lawson's cot and stayed for the rest of the afternoon, reading the Bible to a moonfaced young man from Tennessee, wiping the fevered brow of another from Georgia, spooning soup into the mouth of yet another. The effort tired me to the depth of my bones and robbed me of my last ounce of optimism. But never had I felt more committed to our cause, never had I felt more deeply satisfied.

Miss Tompkins came into the room, her arms full of fresh bandages. According to Mary Chesnut, who knew everyone and everything that happened in Richmond, Miss Sally Tompkins was barely thirty years old. But her tired expression and pale complexion made her seem much older.

“Mrs. Lee,” she said quietly. “You're still here.”

“There were many who needed a kind word today, and I could see you were too busy with the most critical cases. You are
very good with them, Miss Tompkins. Everyone in Richmond sings your praises.”

“And yours.” She set the bandages on a chair in the parlor and pressed a hand to the small of her back. “Mrs. Chesnut says you are tireless in your efforts to supply socks and blankets to our soldiers. Three hundred pairs of socks last month!”

“Some of the ladies from St. James have taken up the cause. I could not accomplish half as much on my own.”

“Nor could I. They are the lifeblood of this hospital.” Miss Tompkins motioned me to a chair. “I don't have any tea, I'm afraid. But there is coffee, if you like.”

“Thank you, but I must go. My daughters will wonder what has become of me.”

“Shall I have my orderly drive you?”

“If you can spare him.”

I left Miss Tompkins to her patients and entered the carriage for the trip home. I had moved to a house on Franklin Street that afforded more room for my daughters and me. I was glad for the additional space, though it meant I now saw less of the Caskies.

Darkness was falling when the orderly drew up at the gate. He helped me out and I crossed the street, leaning on my cane, passing houses still brilliantly lit despite the privations of war. The sound of distant cannon fire from Fort Harrison punctuated the conversation of soldiers milling about on the corner. They stood in twos and threes, smoking and offering up their opinions on the conduct of President Davis, General Hampton, and General Beauregard. Even Robert's decisions were loudly questioned and dissected. It was quite a shame that such brilliant military minds were not employed on the fields of battle,
I thought, where their superior judgment would surely have brought a swift and victorious end to the fighting.

Agnes had arrived home ahead of me and set the lamp in the window.

“Mama, there you are!” She took my coat and hat and helped me into my rolling chair. “You are late. I was worried.”

I felt a stab of guilt at having caused her any distress. Since Annie's death and the horrific loss of Orton Williams, Agnes had grown quieter and spent more time with me. Mary Custis spent her days going from house to house visiting anyone and everyone she knew.

“Mary has gone to an engagement party for a friend of Mrs. Chesnut,” Agnes said. “We are not to wait up for her. And you and I both have letters from Papa.”

I rolled my chair to the parlor, every bone in my body protesting even the slightest movement. A trip to the hot springs would have brought much relief, but there was no prospect of such a visit anytime soon.

“Papa is amazed that people in Richmond are still having parties,” Agnes said, handing me her letter. “He is quite incensed at such frivolities when half the city is starving.”

Richmond was indeed a paradox. Food had grown ever more scarce and expensive. President Davis called upon Virginians in the countryside to send anything they could spare for the refugees. Sausages, pieces of beef, sacks of flour, and tins of lard came to our assistance. Tea was a luxury at twenty dollars a pound. Butter was two dollars a pound when it was available at all. Muslin for dresses cost eight dollars a yard.

Those who had managed to retain their fortunes and those who had profited from the war continued to hold lavish
parties—their forced gaiety a defense against the fog of melancholy that hung perpetually over the capital. They seemed unaware of the difficulties surrounding the refugees—the scarcity of food and of decent accommodation, the lack of kitchen facilities. People with plenty of rooms to spare refused to rent them out. Our soldiers in the field were ragged and without proper shoes, a situation that could have been improved had the rent money gone to their aid.

Until the war, unrelenting hardship had been merely an abstraction to me, like something from Mr. Hugo's novel. Life as a refugee in Richmond brought it all too vividly to life. Like many others, my daughters and I ate fatback and field peas and the occasional ham gifted to us as the family of General Lee. We dressed in homespun and calico, our boots worn paper thin, and we turned a deaf ear to those who criticized the conduct of the war. I had no use for such people. They did not belong to our Southern patriots. They were unworthy of a single drop of blood that was shed in their defense.

Agnes brought me a cup of coffee—bitter and black—and the letter from Robert. She removed my shoes and gently massaged my feet. “What does Papa have to say?”

“He is sending one of his shirts for that old soldier at Miss Tompkins'.”

“The old Irish gentleman Mrs. McGuire told us about?”

“Yes.” I scanned Robert's letter. “He says he can send another shirt if we need it. But he requires a new pillowcase.”

“Poor Papa. But where on earth does he think we can find the material for a new one? Mary used the last scrap of muslin to patch her skirt.”

“We'll manage somehow. He sends a pair of drawers that
need mending too. Listen to this: ‘If no sick or wounded soldier requires them, ask Daughter to put them in my trunk.' ”

Agnes laughed. “Isn't that just like Papa, to give away his drawers? Do you think any soldier would want them in such a condition?”

“They clamor to own anything belonging to General Lee.”

Agnes sat back on her heels. “Yesterday I saw Mrs. Chesnut in the street. She says now that Lincoln has been reelected, President Davis is worried Grant's forces will overwhelm Papa's. And Papa says himself that Grant is getting ready to prepare some great blow that will finish off the Confederacy.”

“We must pray for victory.”

Her face clouded. “Forgive me, Mama, but lately God has not paid much attention to the prayers of us Lees.” She got to her feet. “You spent too much time at the hospital today and now you are done in. Promise me you will stay home and rest tomorrow.”

“I'm all right. And how can I even think of rest when your papa's men are desperate for socks and drawers?”

Agnes sighed. “Even if we had ten times as many ladies helping us, we could not supply all of their needs.”

“That is no excuse to do nothing. The Confederacy must somehow prevail.”

She regarded me with a most quizzical expression. “Who would have thought the great-granddaughter of Martha Washington would one day become the Confederacy's most loyal supporter? The war has changed you.”

Of course it had changed me. No living soul with half a heart could fail to feel anything but outrage toward the Northerners, especially toward that bloodthirsty subhuman savage, William T.
Sherman. Not satisfied with destroying military targets such as rail lines and supply depots, he drove women and children from their burning homes and shot their chickens, turkeys, and piglets in the yards where they stood, as if those poor dumb animals were his mortal enemies. He torched churches and desecrated cemeteries, for no purpose other than to demoralize a broken and defenseless people. He laid waste to Atlanta and continued his march to the sea, destroying everything in his path. He cared nothing for the rules of warfare or for the suffering left in his murderous wake.

Is it any wonder I had begun to dwell more upon the crushing hardships of the Southern people and less upon the ancestors my father had taught me to revere? Such shameful conduct hardened my heart against the Union in a way I had once thought impossible. In the face of so much senseless savagery, the Southern cause became fully mine.

“The war has changed us all, Agnes, though not necessarily for the better.” Suddenly I was famished. “What have we for supper, child?”

“Beef soup and bread. I'll bring you a tray. You stay put.”

“Kindly bring my pen and paper too. I met a young soldier today who needs my help in getting home.”

“Papa can't spare anyone who might soon be well enough to return to the front.”

“This young man is not likely to see further action, and General Longstreet seems to have lost his request for leave. I promised to ask your papa for his help.”

Agnes smiled in a way that reminded me of my lost Annie. “You never give up, do you, Mama?”

“It's something I can do for good.”

The war entered its fourth year with no end in sight. Following our crushing defeat at Gettysburg, Robert had warned President Davis that a long siege would strain his remaining troops to the breaking point. Men were dying, and there were none to replace them. Since February the legislature had debated whether Virginia ought to emancipate all the slaves in order to press them into military service. The debate spilled over into my sock-knitting circle one morning in March when Mrs. Winkler—no stranger to strong opinions—stormed into my parlor, her cheeks blazing.

“You cannot imagine what I've just heard, Mary.” She nodded briskly to Norvell Caskie and Agnes, sat down, and took out her knitting. “General Forrest himself has decided we ought to let the Negroes fight right alongside our boys. As equals! Whatever is that man thinking?”