Dark Chaos (# 4 in the Bregdan Chronicles Historical Fiction Romance Series) (15 page)

             
She shook her head in frustration.  “I just don’t know anymore.  It’s unbelievably hard to have an understanding of the big picture when my whole life consists of taking care of wounded soldiers and watching men die on a daily basis.  It’s as if whatever is happening at the moment dictates my feelings.”  Suddenly she realized she was rambling, talking more to herself than she was to Spencer.    “Listen to me,” she laughed.  “Enough of my talk.  What about you?”

             
Spencer regarded her quietly for a long moment.  “One thing about you ain’t changed, Miss Carrie.  I don’t reckon it ever will.  You still look at people and just see them as people.  Not black or white.”  He paused.  “Ain’t many white people in the South feels that way.”

             
Carrie was silent, knowing he was right but hoping with all her heart it would change with time. 

             
“I been lookin’ around, Miss Carrie,” Spencer continued, “and I’s decided one thing.   Your daddy’s way of life is gone even if the North don’t win this war.”  His voice was firm.  “I’ve heard lots of Southerners say Mr. Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation don’t mean nothing.   They snorted about it for a while then decided the North couldn’t come down here and enforce it, so it weren’t nothin’ they needed to be worryin’ bout.” 

             
“It means more than that,” Carrie protested.

             
“Yessum,”  Spencer agreed.  “It be like the parting of the Red Sea for the slaves.  Somebody standin’ up for the coloreds made them see different.  Like I say,” he mused thoughtfully, “I’s been lookin’ around.  I figures the ole’ evil of slavery done lasted so long cause the slaves let it.  Oh sure, they be plenty enough force to keep it going, but all in all, it kept on a goin’ cause we let it.”

“
Now, don’t gets me wrong,” Spencer asserted quickly.  “Us coloreds done found ourselves in a nightmare, and too many of us be like helpless children, but still theys be plenty of us to turn things ‘round if we really wanted to.”

             
“That’s what so many Southerners are afraid of,” Carrie replied.  “They’re afraid the slaves will revolt and try to win their freedom with violence.”

             
“That might have done happened,” Spencer nodded.  “There been plenty enough talk of changin’ things no matter what it takes, but Mr. Lincoln done changed that.  Coloreds around here thinkin’ mostly one of two ways.  They’s either just walkin’ away and headin’ north to freedom, or they’s bidin’ their time.”

             
“Like you.”

             
“Like me,” Spencer agreed.  “I’s know I gonna be free real soon.  Even if the South done win this war, it ain’t never gonna be the same.  The old demon of slavery done been broke forever!” he chuckled. 

             
Carrie looked at him thoughtfully and realized the truth of what he was saying.  “Change is never an easy thing, Spencer.”

             
“Yessum, it gonna be mighty hard on ever’body.  But it ain’t gonna be no harder than slavery been.  I reckon it be time for white folks to have hard times for a while, too,” Spencer stated matter-of-factly, his voice holding no malice.

             
Carrie turned away and stared out over the masses of people gathering for General Jackson’s funeral.  She knew Spencer was speaking the truth.  How many of these somber-faced people knew that no matter how the war ended, the way of life they had always known would be changed forever?  How many of them knew the war they were fighting for “states’ rights” had somehow evolved into a war for “equal rights?” 

             
Spencer seemed to read her mind.  “It ain’t just that things gonna be different for blacks, Miss Carrie.  I reckon they gonna be different for you, too.”

             
Carrie swung around to gaze at him again.  “What do you mean?” she asked even though she was fairly sure she knew.

             
“You ain’t never gonna be satisfied to just be a Southern lady,” Spencer observed then chuckled.  “But from what I’s can tell, you wadn’t never satisfied in the first place.  I reckon you gots dreams too big for the South.”

             
“Maybe not,” Carrie murmured.  She knew she would have to go to the North to get her education, but maybe she wouldn’t have to stay in the North.  Would the war make people change how they viewed women? 

             
“That’s what I mean,” Spencer replied.  “There be women who be workin’ just like men now.  With all the men done gone, women be findin’ out they can do things they never figured they could.  Knowin’ things like that changes folks.”

             
Carrie smiled.  “You’re a wise man, Spencer.  I think both of us will have to fight for our freedom to be the people we want to be.”

             
A sudden loud noise caught her attention.  She turned to stare down the street.  Far in the distance she could see a dark mass moving toward her.  “What in the world is that?” she asked.  “It’s too early for the funeral procession.”

             
Spencer stood on the carriage seat and shaded his eyes against the sun.  “It sho be a lot of somethin’ headed this way.”  He stepped back down.  “I guess we know soon enough,” he said calmly. 

             
Carrie watched as the black mass drew closer.  Then gradually she heard the cries and yells of the crowd.  At first it sounded like cheering, but as the sound grew clearer she recognized angry tones.  Soon she could pick out the taunts and calls.

             
“You got what’s coming to you, Yankee!” an angry voice broke above the rest.

             
“That’s what you get for coming down here where you don’t belong and killing our men!” another burst out. 

             
Carrie leaned forward, glad the carriage was sitting on a high rise of ground.  From here she had a clear view of the street.  “They’re Union soldiers!” she cried. 

             
“I reckon they be prisoners from the battle just over,” Spencer observed. 

             
“There are thousands of them,” Carrie whispered in a shocked voice.  The street was full of marching men as far as she could see.  Units of mounted Confederates rode alongside.  “Where in the world are they going?”  She knew from conversation with her father that the prisons down by the river were almost full. 

             
“I reckon they’ll be putting them men out on Belle Island,” Spencer said in a grim voice. 

             
Carrie didn’t know very much about the makeshift prison camp out on the island surrounded by the James River rapids.  Her heart pounded as she wondered whether Robert was right then marching through a city somewhere up North.  Had he been taken prisoner?  Was he being ridiculed and taunted by people lining the streets? 

             
The angry calls of the crowd grew louder. 

             
“I hope you die in that prison out there!” one well-dressed lady screeched. 

             
“Y’all killed Stonewall Jackson!” an elderly man hollered, waving his cane wildly. 

             
Carrie watched as the people surrounding the old man ducked to protect themselves from his wicked cane.  “Those men didn’t kill Jackson,” she protested.  “It was our own men.  It was an accident!”

             
The old man heard her over the tumult and turned toward her threateningly.  “That doesn’t matter.  They would have killed him if they had the chance.  And if they weren’t down here invading our country in the first place, nothing would have happened to our general!”   His eyes flashed as he raised his cane again.

             
Carrie stared at him in fascinated horror.  She tried a different approach.  “That could be your son out there, sir.  How would you want him to be treated?”

             
If anything, the old man’s eyes grew angrier, almost bulging from his reddened face.  “It couldn’t be one of my sons!” he screamed hoarsely.  “They’ve both been killed by those Yankee marauders!  I’d give anything to know they were in a Yankee prison somewhere.”  His words seemed to sap him of his frantic energy.  He lowered his cane while his body sagged as if the memory of his boys was more than he could take. 

             
“I’m sorry, sir,” Carrie said sympathetically, her heart aching for his loss. 

             
“Oh, what does it matter?”  The old man suddenly looked every bit of his age.  He turned away, mumbling under his breath.

             
Carrie watched as the long line of prisoners streamed by.   Her heart ached for each one.  The tired faces bore expressions of fear, defiance, sorrow, and pain.  Many of the men had been wounded and hobbled down the street on crutches or with their comrades’ help .  Some of them stared boldly at the angry crowd assaulting them.  Most kept their eyes down, staring stoically at the street.    She watched as long as she could stand but then turned away with a shudder. 

             
“War ain’t a pretty thing,” Spencer muttered.

             
“It’s a horrible, wicked thing!”  Carrie cried.  “All of those men have someone at home who cares about them.  When will this war ever end?”  She battled the despair pressing down on her and tried desperately to find the hope she needed for just that day.  Visions of Robert parading through a street overwhelmed her.  Was he alive?  Dead?  Wounded? 

             
Carrie sagged against the seat.  It was the same barrage of questions she had been battling since the war had begun.  She had thought time might make them easier to handle, but time only wore her down and made the questions more fearsome and terrible. 

             
Finally the long line of prisoners disappeared into the distance, and the dust from their pounding feet settled again.  Now that their anger had been released, the throngs of people were once more somber from their grief.  Suddenly, all Carrie wanted was to go home to the quiet of her room, but she knew her father depended on her to be there.  He would never understand if she wasn’t there for the funeral of one of the South’s greatest heroes.  Respect for Robert held her there as well.  She knew how highly he had esteemed the man he had served under. 

             
Carrie had lost track of time when she heard the boom of a gun from the Washington Monument just above where she sat.  She tensed and lifted her head to peer down the street.  The funeral procession was beginning.  As the crowd grew silent, the too-familiar “Dead March” drifted toward them on the breeze.  Men reached for their handkerchiefs, and women cried openly as the hearse eased into view. 

             
Four white horses decorated with black plumes pulled the hearse.  The pallbearers were all generals.  Following close behind was Stonewall Jackson’s mare, Little Sorrel, led by a servant.  The saddle was empty, save for Jackson’s boots strapped to it.  Tears misted Carrie’s vision as the somber procession filed by.   The thud-thud of minute guns accompanied the long line of convalescing soldiers who had pulled themselves out of beds from Richmond hospitals to honor their fallen hero.   Many of them wore bandages and moved on crutches, but their expressions were resolute. 

             
President Davis, looking drawn and haggard, and Vice-President Stephens rode behind them in an open carriage.  Members of the cabinet walked behind two by two.  Then came the long line of city and state officials, followed by a multitude of city employees, friends, and common citizens.  Carrie searched until she located her father.  He was walking erectly, his face resolute.  He never glanced in her direction.

             
The bright sun seemed a cruel mockery as a dark pallor spread across the Confederate capital.  People lined the street long after the procession had disappeared and seemed to find comfort in their universal mourning.  Finally they began to drift away. 

             
Carrie knew it would be many hours before her father would be home.  She turned to Spencer.  “I’d like you to take me down to the black hospital, please.”

             
Spencer hesitated before he then looked at her directly.  “I don’t reckon that be such a good idea, Miss Carrie.”

             
“Why not?”  Carrie asked in surprise.  “We always go down there on Tuesday.  There is still plenty of time left.  There are people who need me.” 

             
“Yessum, I know all ‘bout that,” Spencer said patiently.  “If it wadn’t for you, them poor coloreds down there wouldn’t have nobody to look after them.  They think you an angel, sho nuff.”  Then he shook his head.  “I’s just don’t figure you should be going down there today.”

             
Carrie could feel her frustration growing.  It had been over a week since she had been there.  The crush of wounded filling Chimborazo had kept her from going to the tiny hospital down on the river front in the black part of town.  Nothing would stop her now.  “I want to go,” she said firmly.

             
Spencer shook his head stubbornly.  “You done run into trouble down there before, Miss Carrie.  Peoples in this town be pretty riled up about they hero being shot.  Theys ain’t got nobody to take it out on so they’s gonna do what they usually do.  They’s gonna take it out on the colored.  Lots of them figure this war wouldn’t be happening if the North wadn’t so set on seeing us free.”  He took a deep breath.  “And that ain’t the worst of it.  There been talk of coloreds fightin’ with the Union.  If folks wadn’t riled before, they sho be now,” he said emphatically.