and admired in the Second Cavalry, among them the Virginian George Thomas, now on the other side. He shared the story of his difficulties with the captain named Bent, who for some reason hated his whole family. And he created pictures of Texas as best he could with inadequate words: the vistas of grass, the blue northers, the pecan trees and post oaks glistening after a rain while larks sang.
'Parts of that state are the most beautiful places on God's earth.'
'Would you like to go back there?'
'I thought so once.' He took her hand. 'Not now.'
With cornmeal grits steaming on his breakfast plate, he would admire the soft, still-sleepy beauty of her morning face and, when strong coffee had wakened her a little, tell her of some of the rivalries troubling the cavalry. His old friend Fitz Lee, now an important general he seldom saw, didn't like Hampton because Stuart didn't, and because Hampton would always rank Fitz by ten days, and nothing could change that.
At the end of the third visit, Gus kissed him on the mouth four times before whispering, 'How soon will you be back?'
'Don't know. We'll be heading for the lower part of the state soon, to hunt for horses. We've lost a lot of them.'
'You tell General Hampton I don't want anything to happen to you.'
'And you tell Boz and Washington to sleep with those carbines — loaded.'
Back in camp, Ab Woolner surprised and annoyed him by joking bitterly, 'Lord God, Charlie — you been here a whole hour and you ain't talked about nothing but that gal. You used to talk about Sport some and the war now an' again. You forgotten why we're all here?'
Something flip-flopped in Charles's middle when he heard that and gave him pause.
He had no reply.
68
Virgilia hated to force the visitor to leave. Odd as he was, the patients liked him and counted on his Sunday visits, though sometimes he didn't show up because he couldn't talk his way aboard a military steamer coming down to Aquia Creek Landing.
Whenever he did, he brought pockets sagging with horehound drops and a haversack of cheap pens and writing paper, cut plug tobacco, little pots of jam, and five- and ten-cent bills he distributed so the wounded could buy the fresh milk sold by vendors who came through.
Virgilia suspected that the man impoverished himself to buy the things he gave away. His job couldn't pay much; he was only a copyist in the paymaster general's office. That and his first name were all she knew about him, except that he seemed to have a need to touch and console the wounded soldiers.
It was early afternoon. A feeble February sun shone. The Landing, a vast complex of docks, rail spurs, raw pine structures, tents, and drill fields populated by thousands of soldiers, civilians, and black contrabands, was relatively quiet, as it was every Sabbath.
Patients in this long and narrow hospital building had been either wounded in skirmishes or felled by sickness on the infamous Mud March.
Virgilia could detect a better spirit in the army now. In the spring, General Hooker would lead what might be the final phase of the crusade to crush the rebels. She looked forward to tending the Union wounded and sometimes daydreamed of the suffering of boys on the other side. Every scream from a reb was another penny of repayment for Grady and all his people.
In the reception hall, she heard voices. She approached the Sunday Samaritan, who was seated beside a sleeping soldier, holding the young man's hand between his two soft and delicate ones. The visitor, in his mid- forties, was bearded and burly as a dock hand. He had mild eyes and a fair complexion. He always wore a decoration on the lapel of his baggy suit — today, a bedraggled tulip fastened by a pin.
'Walt, the visitors are here.'
With slow, bearlike movements, the Sunday man lifted himself from the stool his bulk had completely hidden. The soldier felt the hands leave his, and his eyes flew open. 'Don't go.'
'I'll be back again,' Walt said, bending to place a gentle kiss on the boy's cheek. Some of the nurses called such behavior unnatural, but most of the patients, awaiting the surgeon's saw or suffering horrible internal pain, welcomed Walt's handclasps and kisses. It was all the love some of them would know before they died.
'Next week, Miss Hazard, if I can,' the Sunday man promised, settling the haversack strap on his shoulder. He shambled out the doors at one end of the aisle as the dignitaries came in at the other end. The delegation consisted of two women and four men from the Sanitary Commission, plus a seventh individual, to whom the others seemed to defer. Virgilia was glad she and her ward-masters had scrubbed the floor and walls with disinfectant last night; it muted the odors of wounds and incontinence.
'— a typical ward, Congressman. Well maintained by the volunteer nursing staff, as you can see.' The speaker, one of the gentlemen from the Commission, beckoned to Virgilia. 'Matron? May we have a moment of your time?'
Touching her hairnet and smoothing her apron, she hurried to the visitors. All were middle-aged except the man addressed as Congressman. He was pale and tall, stooped and unprepossessing. Yet he impressed her as he swept off his tall hat — wavy hair gleamed with too much oil, a common fault with gentlemen — and swiftly inspected her face and figure.
The white-whiskered scarecrow who had summoned her said, 'You are Miss —?'
'Hazard, Mr. Turner.'
'Kind of you to remember me. We have a special guest, who wished to inspect several of our facilities. May I present the Honorable Samuel G. Stout, representative from Indiana?'
'Miss Hazard, is it?' said the congressman, stunning Virgilia. Out of that clerkish body rolled the deepest, most resonant tones she had ever heard — the voice of a born orator or divine, a voice to draw tears and sway mobs. He spoke four words, peering at her with rather small, close-set brown eyes, and sent shivers down her back.
His gaze made her inordinately nervous. 'That's correct, Congressman. We're pleased to have you here. A great many dignitaries from Washington pass through Aquia Creek Landing — the President and his party went down to Falmouth on the train recently — but we've not been fortunate enough to have any of them visit our ward until now.'
'Next to serving on the lines,' Stout said, 'this is the most important work of all — restoring our lads to fight again. I don't agree with Mr. Lincoln's contention that we must treat the traitors gently. I am in Mr. Stevens's camp, believing we should punish them without pity. You are helping to hasten that task to its conclusion.'
Sententious murmurs of approval came from the others. One woman, huge as a gas balloon, pressed a glove to her vast front and breathed, 'Bravo.' Virgilia recognized that Stout was behaving like a politician, turning a scrap of casual conversation into a platform statement. Yet his sentiments and his voice continued to touch nerves.
'You are a member of Miss Dix's corps?' he asked, managing to step closer. She said that was true. She smelted the cinnamon oil on his hair.
'Perhaps you'll tell us a little about your charges.' Stout smiled. His teeth were crooked — her first impression was correct; he was unimpressive physically — yet she sensed determination and strength in him. 'This young lad, for example.' Directing her to a bed on the left, he contrived to take hold of her elbow.
Instantly, she experienced a physical reaction so unexpected she was afraid she might be blushing.
The boy in bed stared at the visitors with feverish eyes. 'Henry was on picket duty on the Rappahannock,' she said. 'Rebel scouts crossed near his post. Shots were exchanged.' The boy turned his cheek to the pillow and shut his eyes. Virgilia drew the visitors out of earshot. 'I'm afraid his right leg can't be saved. It's just a matter of a day or two before the surgeons take it.'
'I would take the lives of ten rebels for blighting a young man that way,' Stout said. 'I would crucify them if that form of punishment were condoned in our society. It ought to be. Nothing is too cruel for those who precipitated this war of cruelty.'
