A successful rescue depended on the extent of Major McCabe’s injuries. If he could hobble, and if she could get him out of the hospital, her next challenge would be handing him off to a member of the underground. If he couldn’t walk, she had few options.
She leaned her elbows on the deck railing of the River Queen, sipping coffee while watching the sun rise over the James River. The sight was as breathtaking as always. Workers were already unloading supplies from the hundreds of steamboats, sailing vessels, and barges berthed along the mile-long wharf. Even with the bustle and clanging, the busy port seemed more like a quiet resort town to Charlotte’s twenty-first century sensibilities.
While she was in City Point maybe Grant would let her tour the six separate hospitals of the Depot Field Hospital, which was only about a mile from the wharf. The facility reportedly treated as many as ten thousand patients on an average day, which seemed impossible.
What was she thinking? A wounded, possibly dying man was waiting for her. She didn’t have any extra time.
“Doctor Mallory. Doctor Mallory.”
She jerked her head in the direction of the voice, scanning the crowded wharf. A short, stocky, weatherworn man with shaggy black hair waved at her with one hand while holding the reins of a pair of bay Morgans with the other.
Since she was back in her Confederate gray uniform, dockworkers turned and glared at her, their scowls lining their faces in the morning sun. Waves crashing against the pilings seemed to echo the men’s obvious dislike of the enemy in their midst. The air was damp, and the uniform in question stuck to her. She’d gladly remove the darn thing if she had anything else to wear. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the thunder of her heart, and listened instead to the rustle and grunts of the men unloading the ship’s cargo. She’d much rather listen to their swearing than to the clamor of her own fears.
After the gangplank was lowered, she tromped down the ramp to the wharf, trading in the shelter and safety of the ship for unknown dangers. The man approached her, leading the horses, his lips set in a thin, resolute line.
His eyes probed hers, black and hard and scalpel-sharp. “I’m Gaylord. General Grant’s expecting you. Let’s go.” The thin lips became even thinner. “Best to take off the coat. No need to advertise you’re the enemy. Makes my job harder and might get you killed.”
She bristled, counted to a quick ten, and then snapped back in a sarcastic tone, “What about my trousers? They’re gray, too.”
He shrugged. “Don’t matter. Soldiers wear what they can strip off dead Johnny Rebs.”
She doubted he’d do much to protect her if those same Union soldiers decided they wanted her pants, too.
She removed her jacket, folded it carefully, and then packed it in the saddlebag. If the jacket had been made of linen it would be one big wrinkle by the time they reached Richmond. But as a true and proper daughter of the South, she wouldn’t be caught dead, even in hot, muggy weather, in white linen or white shoes after Labor Day. Why was she thinking of linen and shoes when she was living in some kind of alternate universe? Because time travel was impossible, or should be, but the dangers she faced were both real and deadly.
They found General Grant sitting outside his command tent under the golden-bronze fall foliage of a beech tree. Several officers relaxed nearby, studying maps. The general was gazing out in Charlotte’s direction, cigar in hand, as if waiting expectantly. She dismounted and tied the reins to a high line strung between two trees.
Charlotte knew horses, and recognized Cincinnati, Grant’s striking black thoroughbred and son of Lexington, the most successful sire in the second half of the nineteenth century. The general was probably the greatest equestrian in US history.
The general approached, puffing on his cigar. For a split second, she considered advising him to stop smoking before it killed him, which it would in 1885.
“Doctor Mallory.” The soft-spoken, rounded-shouldered general extended a delicate hand. They studied each other, blue eye to blue eye. His wavy brown hair, untrimmed beard, mustache, and ill-fitting uniform gave him a rather scruffy look.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she responded.
“I don’t want to keep you,” he said. “You have a hard ride ahead. I only wanted to express my appreciation and wish you good luck. I’m rather fond of Major McCabe.”
“I look forward to meeting him. He has an impressive fan club,” she said.
Grant’s brow crinkled in a puzzled frown.
“Lincoln and Stanton said the very same thing,” she added.
“Gaylord will get you to Richmond. Once there, he’ll hand you over to a member of the underground who will get you inside Chimborazo. The rest is up to you.”
“What if McCabe is too injured to move?” she asked.
He pointed at her with his stogie. Pungent smoke spiraled up in her direction, but she didn’t dare move or wave it away from her face.
“Unless he’s dead, you must get him out. Do you understand?” He might be a soft-spoken man, but his tone made his point clear. Very clear.
“Yes, sir.”
He tipped his hat and walked back toward his tent.
“Let’s ride,” Gaylord said.
For someone used to giving orders, taking them was a nasty-tasting pill.
She swung her leg over the saddle, wishing she had a twelve-hour Aleve to ease the stiffness in her joints. The well-trained mount took off at a trot, and as they neared a bend in the road, Charlotte glanced back for one last look at Grant. He was poised outside his tent, following their progress and puffing. She put her hand to her hat and tipped it ever so slightly.
7
Richmond, Virginia, 1864
At dusk, Charlotte and Gaylord dismounted at a dilapidated farmhouse on the outskirts of Richmond. A swinging shutter groaned in the cool breeze that skidded through the nippy air. Broken windows, a
