Spring Will Come
Authors: Ginny Dye
Spring
Will
Come
Book # 3 in The Bregdan Chronicles
Sequel to On t
o Richmond
Ginny Dye
A Voice In
The World Publishing
Bellingham, WA
www.AVoiceInTheWorld.com
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Spring Will Come
Copyright
2010 by Ginny Dye
Published by A Voice In The World Publishing
Bellingham, WA 98229
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the Publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
For
Barb – thank you for being the wind beneath my wings and my very best friend!
A Note from the Author
There are times in the writing of history when we must use words we personally abhor. The use of the word “nigger” in
Storm Clouds Rolling In
is one of those times. Though I hate the word, its use is necessary to reveal and to challenge the prejudices of the time in order to bring change and healing. Stay with me until the end – I think you will agree.
My great hope is that
Storm Clouds Rolling In
will both entertain and challenge you. I hope you will learn as much as I did during the months of research it took to write this book. Though I now live in the Pacific Northwest, I grew up in the South and lived for eleven years in Richmond, VA. I spent countless hours exploring the plantations that still line the banks of the James River and became fascinated by the history.
But you know, it’s not the events that fascinate me so much – it’s the people. That’s all history is, you know. History is the story of people’s lives. History reflects the consequences of their choice and actions – both good and bad. History is what has given you the world you live in today – both good and bad.
This truth is why I named this series The Bregdan Chronicles. Bregdan is a Gaelic term for weaving: Braiding. Every life that has been lived until today is a part of the woven braid of life. It takes every person’s story to create history. Your life will help determine the course of history. You may think you don’t have much of an impact. You do. Every action you take will reflect in someone else’s life. Someone else’s decisions. Someone else’s future. Both good and bad. That is the
Bregdan Principle
…
Every life that has been lived until today is a part of the woven braid of life. It takes every person’s story to create history. Your life will help determine the course of history. You may think you don’t have much of an impact. You do. Every action you take will reflect in someone else’s life. Someone else’s decisions. Someone else’s future. Both good and bad.
My great hope as you read this book, and all that will follow, is that you will acknowledge the power you have, every day, to change the world around you by your decisions and actions. Then I will know the research and writing were all worthwhile.
Oh, and I hope you enjoy every moment of it and learn to love the characters as much as I do!
I’m already being asked how many books will be in this series. I guess that depends on how long I live! My intention is to release two books a year, each covering one year of history – continuing to weave the lives of my characters into the times they lived. I hate to end a good book as much as anyone – always feeling so sad that I have to leave the characters. You shouldn’t have to be sad for a long time!
Four
books are already written and will all be released in spring 2010. If you like what you read, you’ll want to make sure you’re on our mailing list at
www.BregdanChronicles.com
. I’ll let you know each time a new one comes out!
Sincerely,
Ginny Dye
CHAPTER ONE
May
1862
The stillness was making Carrie nervous. She had stepped outside to get some fresh air, but the heavy sultriness surrounding her, clutching at her, offered little relief. The yellowish tint of the sky, combined with the buildup of cumulus clouds on the horizon, spoke of an approaching storm, but there was more... Carrie’s heart told her the ominous day was prophetic of what soon was to be released upon her beloved city. Richmond waited with bated breath for the inevitable. The tens of thousands of Union soldiers camped at her gates would soon no longer be content to just prepare for battle. When would the fury of the Federal forces be unleashed against the capital of the Confederacy?
Trying to control the nervousness clutching her throat, Carrie took several deep breaths as she looked down on the rapids swirling as the James River cascaded its way over rocks and boulders on its way to the Atlantic. It never ceased to amaze her that she was gazing on the same river that flowed so placidly by her family’s plantation farther south.
She never got tired of the view from Chimborazo Hill. The elevated plateau of nearly forty acres commanded a grand view of the city. She loved to stand outside and turn slowly as the different panoramas spread before her eyes. Now as she stared down at the river, she looked farther south and watched the many ships in harbor, with the bridges spanning the river in between. She turned east and gazed out at the long stretch of country - cultivated fields, forests, and hills that spread as far as the eye could see. Once again the fields of Cromwell Plantation flooded her memory. Impatiently she pushed aside the pictures of her family’s home she had been forced to flee. Now was not the time.
Slowly she turned west and took in the splendor of the city. She never tired of the church spires needling their way toward heaven, the Capitol reflecting the rays of the sun, the factories and the wonderful homes that gave Richmond its charm. From here she could pretend the horrible overcrowding in the wartime city had not clouded the charm with litter, filth, and crime. As she completed her revolution, she stared long and hard at Hollywood Cemetery. Richmonders called it the “city of our dead.” Carrie knew many fresh graves dotted the hillsides. How many more would lie with those gone before?
Carrie shook her head impatiently and pushed at the strands of black wavy hair that insisted on escaping the bun she captured them with each morning. Daydreaming and imagining what was coming would do her patients no good. She took another deep breath then turned and reentered the hospital.
“See any Yankee gunboats out on the river, Miss Cromwell?”
Carrie smiled at the young soldier lying closest to the door. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed. “You know after the beating the Union received at Drewry’s Bluff a couple of weeks ago, they aren’t going to try that avenue again!”
“We whupped ‘em good, didn’t we?” another soldier called out.
“We got ‘em that time,” a dark haired lad retorted, “but they ain’t gonna give up easy. There’s going to be the devil to pay around here soon!” His stark comment caused the ward to fall silent as all of them contemplated more of what had landed them there in the first place.
Carrie looked around at the saddened faces and forced a cheerful note into her voice. “There will be no more of this kind of talk, gentlemen. Your only job right now is to get well. I think that should consume quite enough of your energies. Let the fighting be done by those who have to fight. Your turn will probably come soon enough, anyway.” Carrie paused, dismayed by her own words – praying her face didn’t reveal her true feelings. Many of the soldiers would never be able to fight again. More, however, would be called back to join their units - pushed back into the boiling cauldron they had just barely escaped. She pushed on, forcing an even more cheery emphasis. “Who is ready to write home?”
“Right here, Miss Cromwell!” one young boy, barely sixteen, called out. “My mama is worried sick about me. I’ve got to let her know I’m getting along just fine.”
Carrie’s heart went out in a rush of sympathy. She smiled at the boy and walked over to his bed. Pulling out paper and pencil, she settled down in a chair beside him. “All right, Samuel. What would you like me to say?” She wrote as the boy talked but privately wished she could just whisk him away to his mother’s love and care. That’s what he needed more than anything.
Carrie had lost track of what battlefield Samuel had come from. But she could never lose track of the constant reminders of what he had been through. The bandaged stump of his amputated right arm and the sling encasing his left one spoke louder than any words of the horror he had been through. Yet she had never once heard him complain. The words he was sending home to his mama were ones of strength and confidence. How many mothers, miles from their loved ones, were helpless to save their boys from the pain and suffering?
It was the same with the rest of the men. There were hardly any murmurs or complaints. They seemed to have accepted this war as their lot in life, and if they were left less than whole, well, they weren’t alone. Once this war was over there would be lots of one-legged, one-armed men running around. They were fighting for a cause, and everyone knew great causes demanded great sacrifice. That was just the way it was. When the South had soundly whipped the North and sent them running back with their tail between their legs - and it was bound to be soon - then all of it would be worth it. They would all be heroes, and they would rebuild their new country the way they wanted it to be.
Carrie was not going to be the one to challenge or destroy their hopes. She had hated this war from the very beginning – when it was still a murmur in the streets. Her feelings had only intensified as she witnessed the suffering and senselessness surrounding her. The only thing that helped her make any sense of it was her work at Chimborazo Hospital.
She had only been at the hospital for a week, but already she loved her work. Every morning she would walk from her father’s house on Church Hill to the sprawling complex of buildings and tents. Chimborazo had begun receiving patients earlier that year and was constantly being expanded for the anticipated increase in casualties. Dr. McCaw, the founder of the hospital, did not share the naive beliefs of many that the war would be over soon. He was preparing for the long haul. He was also preparing for the worst.
“Hey, Miss Cromwell!”
Carrie looked up from the letter she was just finishing. “Yes, Walker?”
A rough-looking boy from the mountains of Tennessee smiled brightly at her. “Tell us the story of how you got to Richmond.”
