The First Lady and the Rebel, page 25
“Hardin!” She unchained the door and fell into his arms. When they drew apart, she led him to the adjoining room, where the children and Maggie lay sound asleep.
Her husband smiled at the children, then closed the door softly and took Emily back into his embrace. In moments Hardin had denuded himself of his crisp new uniform and Emily of her robe, and they were entangled on the hotel bed. “I needed that,” he said when they at last lay still. “But more than anything, I’ve needed you.”
“You have grown thin, my love.” She traced her finger around his shoulder blades.
“I’m better than I was. Camp Hurricane was like a resort after that march through Mississippi. Constant rain, mud, hunger—we experienced it all. And for naught. If we’d been given our chance at Vicksburg…”
“Be honest with me, Hardin. Do you really think the South has a chance?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Some days I think it does. Other days I think it doesn’t. All I know is that my men still have plenty of fight in them, and that—the finest Kentucky has to offer—is what keeps me going even when I don’t think there’s much left in me.”
“You want to leave.”
“I do. I miss my old life, and above all, I miss you and the children. My leg makes me miserable on some days, and on others I remember that it was my health that caused me to give up my commission in the first place. But I won’t resign, for two reasons. One, were I to do so and the South should be defeated, it would haunt me to the end of my days, wondering what small help I might have been if I had stayed in. Two, I would never be able to look my men in the face were I to resign simply to make my own life more pleasant. So I’ll stay in as long as I can drag myself up on a horse. And I’m far from being unable to do that.”
“You should have added a third reason.”
“What is that?”
“That you could not look me in the face either.”
He hugged her tightly against him. “You’re absolutely right. Except that should have been the first reason.” After a long time, he said. “Do you know what I’d like to do for this leave of mine? Atlanta is a fine city. I’d like to enjoy it with you. Two weeks of pure frivolity, other than getting some lodgings arranged for you. Sort of like a second bridal tour. I think we need it.”
“A second bridal tour for a couple with three children?” Emily stroked Hardin’s fine beard. “I love the idea, darling.”
For the next two weeks they enjoyed themselves in Atlanta. They attended the theater and concerts, walked in the park with the children, and took an excursion to Kennesaw Mountain. One day, they rode the train to nearby Marietta, where they visited the Levys and caught up with the news of Mrs. Pember, now the matron of Richmond’s Chimborazo hospital. The timely arrival of a blockade runner with a cargo full of goods allowed Emily to get herself a new dress in the latest style—the blockade runner having thoughtfully procured fashion books as well—and she could not help but think what a handsome family they made as they strolled down Peachtree Street, down to Maggie in her own new calico dress. Hardin and Emily even attended a hop and, despite Hardin’s slight limp, acquitted themselves quite well on the dance floor.
Far too quickly, Hardin’s leave drew to an end. He settled Emily and the girls at the handsome home of Colonel William Dabney, a lawyer—a great relief to Emily, who had not wanted to worry her husband with the incident of the man in her room, but who had secretly dreaded remaining there with no male protector.
“It appears that things are heating up in Tennessee,” Hardin said as he gathered his things and Emily prepared for their ritual of parting at the railway station. “I expect that’s where we’ll end up. Rosecrans is advancing toward Chattanooga, which we have to hold.”
“I still miss it there at times.”
“And the South would miss it even more. It’s a scruffy little place, but it’s an important scruffy little place.”
They took their familiar places on the platform. Emily linked her arm through Hardin’s. “Remember when you left for Washington, how full of reminders and advice you were? Do you have any for me today?”
“No.” A trace of sadness came over Hardin’s face before he smiled. “You don’t need them anymore.”
“Do you have the tobacco bag I made you, Papa?” Kate asked.
Hardin patted his pocket. “I never go anywhere without it. Well, except to church, maybe.”
Dee thrust her doll in her father’s face. “Say goodbye,” she commanded.
Hardin obeyed, then picked up Ben, who pronounced, “Papa ride train,” in a sonorous tone, and then, “Train! Train!”
“He never tires of them,” Emily said.
Hardin tousled his son’s head. “Look out for your mama,” he said. “God bless you, Emma.”
Emily blinked. Hardin was devout, as was she, but this was not his usual style of farewell. Perhaps it was the cacophony of church bells in the background, although they were merely pealing the time of day. “God bless you, too, Hardin.”
He kissed her and the children and swung up on the train just as the conductor blew his whistle. Then, so quickly and gracefully that no one would have ever guessed he had hurt his leg, he swung back down, gave them each another parting kiss, and hoisted himself back on the train just as it pulled out of the station. Something kept her on the platform staring after his train until it passed out of sight.
* * *
“Again, Mrs. Helm, do accept my apologies.”
“It’s fine,” Emily said wearily, though it really was not. A couple of weeks after Hardin had departed, she had fallen ill—no more than a severe cold, it turned out, but enough to make her thoroughly miserable for a week. Just as she had begun to feel like herself again, Mrs. Dabney had sprung the bad news on her: one of her children was coming to stay and would need the room Emily was occupying. In fact, she would really need it rather soon. Reluctant to find another hotel—for if a strange man could lurk in her room at Atlanta’s best hotel, what would happen at the worst?—and with the Levys’ house in Marietta full, Emily had finally found a cousin in Griffin, Georgia, Mrs. Emory, who would allow her to stay for a couple of weeks until she could consult with Hardin, who according to his last telegram was somewhere in Tennessee.
So here they were, waiting for another train, heading toward another town full of strangers.
How long could she stand this? She hated Georgia’s red clay. She hated not having her own house, her own piano, the dog the girls were always begging her for. She hated not being able to get a simple letter to her mother without it passing through Mr. Lincoln’s censors. She hated having to adjust herself to others’ routines, to fret every time that Ben cried too loudly. And careless as she and Hardin had been in Atlanta, she might well have another child on the way. She shuddered at the thought.
“Are you not well, Mrs. Helm?” Mrs. Dabney asked.
Of course she wasn’t well; who could be, living like a gypsy? “I feel quite well. The day is cooler than I expected; that’s all.”
“Dear me. I suppose I could find some other arrangements for my daught—”
“No, Mrs. Dabney. I have enjoyed your hospitality long enough. If I have to, I can always stay with my sister.”
“Mrs. Lincoln?” Mrs. Dabney’s eyes widened in horror, and someone turned to stare at her.
“No. Mrs. Dawson, in Selma. Or Mrs. White.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Dabney sighed in relief.
As Mrs. Dabney made more apologies, Emily’s skirt brushed a soldier who, unable to find a seat on a bench, had simply sprawled out on the platform. “Pardon me,” she said absently, and then turned, half-annoyed that the young man had not even acknowledged her apology, especially as it was really he who was at fault for obstructing the platform. Then she saw why: the man was stone dead. Dead of what, a disease or an injury, she could not tell.
Perhaps he, like her, had simply lost heart.
A year ago, she would have covered his face, alerted the station master. Now, she simply walked on.
* * *
Her spirits lifted somewhat when she reached Griffin. The Emorys were there at the station with a carriage, and as they greeted her warmly and their servants loaded her meager luggage onto it, she could almost believe that this was a family visit of the sort people had paid before the war.
The next morning, September 22, was all that could be asked for in Georgia, cool and crisp but sunny, ideal for sitting outside and chatting. After breakfast, Emily and the children joined the family on the verandah. Mrs. Emory was in the process of recounting a particularly fine piece of gossip about another cousin of Emily’s when a carriage stopped in front of the house, and a man in his early twenties stepped out of it.
Emily’s smile froze. Everything about the scene—the size of the carriage when such a young man would have normally been on horseback or driving a sporty phaeton, the way the man removed his hat, his solemn expression—augured ill. Mrs. Emory frowned. “Why, he’s with the railway, I believe. I’m quite sure I’ve seen him at the station. What could he want here?” She stood and called, “May I ask what brings you here, sir?”
“I’m looking for Mrs. General Helm.”
Her heart hammering, Emily rose. “I am she.”
The man’s face, solemn before, turned grim as Maggie, unbidden, led the girls inside. He fingered a paper he held. “I’ve—I’ve—”
Emily snatched the paper from his hand.
Atlanta Sept. 22
Mrs. Genl. Helm is in Griffin. Find her & send her up on train today. The Genl. is dead.
She swayed on the porch. Around her, the world went on just as it had before her own collapsed. Absently, she passed the telegram to Mrs. Emory, who let out a little cry. “How?” she managed to utter.
“I don’t know, ma’am. But there is talk at the station about a great battle that took place near Chattanooga, with much loss of life.” He waited for her to say something, but Emily was silent. “The Atlanta train will be in an hour. If you can be ready, I can put you on that.”
“I can pack far more quickly than that, sir.” Emily raised her chin. “Hardin said I was very efficient.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gestured to the carriage. “I’ll take you as soon as you’re ready.”
Around her, people seemed to be arguing about whether she was fit to travel. “I’m perfectly capable,” she said. “People die all the time. There is a war going on, after all. Isn’t there?”
No one contradicted her, and she went calmly to pack her things, only to find Mrs. Emory and Maggie packing them—very irritating, as she had a system that Maggie, though a perfect servant in all other respects, had never comprehended. Why, she wasn’t even bothering to pack the pistol that Hardin had bought for her, taught her so carefully how to shoot. “Give that to me,” she snapped.
“No, ma’am.”
This was a level of impertinence that Maggie had never shown before. Had the whole world gone topsy-turvy? “Then I’ll pack it,” Emily said, and snatched it off the table. She held it to her chest, remembering Hardin’s careful tutorial.
Then she let it drop from her hand and sank to the floor, weeping.
* * *
Who told the girls—herself, Mrs. Emory, Maggie, or someone else entirely—Emily never recalled. All she remembered was that the entire journey to Atlanta, they clutched her tight, and she clung to them, while Ben sat on Maggie’s lap, sucking his thumb as if it were his only friend.
When she stumbled out of the train at the Atlanta depot, she found George McCawley waiting on the platform. Any hopes that Emily had retained of the telegram being mistaken were dashed by Mac’s painfully neat appearance. Every hair was in place; every seam of his uniform pressed. “I’m so sorry,” he said, taking her in his arms. “So very, very sorry. I’d have died in his place if I could have, to spare you.”
“What happened?”
“He was killed in battle near Chickamauga Creek. You never saw a man so determined, Emily. He died a hero.” He released Emily and stooped down to hug the girls, who were staring at him solemnly. “A hero,” he repeated. “And we were victorious.” He rose, and Emily saw that his eyes were moist. “I have been put in charge of his funeral. He is being buried in the Citizen’s Cemetery here tomorrow. Assuming, of course, you have no objections to it.”
Even if she had had any, she was incapable of raising them. “No.”
“It’s a very pretty place. I picked out his resting spot this morning myself.”
“Where is he now?”
“Mrs. Dabney’s. I am going to take you there. She has offered you her home for the next few days.”
“Mrs. Dabney’s?” Emily stared at him. Two days ago, Mrs. Dabney hadn’t had room for her and her children—and now she had all of them back on her hands, along with Hardin’s body. She began laughing. “I am not crazy,” she said when she finally stopped. “I truly am not.”
Mac took her arm. “The carriage is this way.”
“Wait! Who will pay for this? I have nothing saved for that. I didn’t think I would have to bury Hardin. Not for years and years!”
“The government is paying for everything, Emily. Now please come along.”
Guiding her like a skittish horse, Mac at last got them into a carriage. Had he remembered their baggage? She hadn’t even mentioned it. Then she looked over and saw a servant loading it. Yes—all there. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Mac squeezed her hand. “I’ll take care of everything.”
At Mrs. Dabney’s house, Mac left Emily and the children in the carriage while he went inside. “He’s ready for you,” he said when he returned.
He led her into the parlor, the furniture of which had been rearranged to make room for an oak casket. “Shall I leave you alone with him?”
“No. Stay.” Only with someone at her side could she hope to keep herself under some semblance of control, or stay upright upon her trembling legs.
He obeyed and stood back at a respectful distance while she gazed at Hardin, dressed in the handsome new uniform he had worn when he met her in Atlanta. He looked peaceful and natural, as the newspaper reporters assured their readers in such circumstances, but “peaceful and natural” was no substitute for “living,” and Emily wondered how anyone could find it the least bit comforting. She trailed her hand along Hardin’s impassive cheek, then the bald forehead that she had teased him about and that she had always adored. Her tears dripped on the freshly cleaned uniform. She brushed her palm against her face and sank down onto a sofa. “Tell me how he died, Mac.”
Mac sat beside her and took her hand. “We crossed the Chickamauga Creek on the evening of the nineteenth in full sight of the enemy and prepared to give battle the next day. I’ve never seen Hardin in better spirits. He stopped by his friend General William Preston’s tent and began to recite our battle song. We’ll drive the tyrant’s minions to the Ohio’s rolling flood—”
“And dye her waves with crimson with the coward Yankee blood. Go on.”
“He was laughing, predicting that those words would be proven true in sixty days. It was a cold, starry night, and when we walked back to his tent, I saw him looking at the sky. He said that he always looked for comets on clear nights.”
Emily pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.
“We took our places early the next morning. While we were waiting for orders, Hardin sat under a tree, still in a fine mood. Finally, around nine thirty the order came, and he mounted his horse. One of the men said later that he looked as cheerful as if he were going on parade. He raised his sword and told his men, ‘This is the road to Kentucky!’
“And there he rode—straight into an enemy breastwork and into a hail of bullets. The right side of his brigade was separated from him and the left. Twice he was repulsed. Men falling all around him. But he would not stop, Emily. He would not stop! He rallied the men for a third go. Then he gave an order to Captain William Pirtle, and in midsentence his face changed and he slid off his horse. He’d been struck in the right lower abdomen.
“They brought him to the field hospital, and General Breckinridge ordered that I stay with him. Hardin asked if there was hope. The surgeon shook his head, sadly, and told him that there was none. So he was carried to the Widow Reed’s cottage, bleeding and in great pain. He was agitated at first, and adamant that he not be given any sedatives until he saw the chaplain, but after I assured him I would not allow it, he was easier and allowed us to make him as comfortable as we could. He spent a long time with the chaplain, praying and talking, and said that he had no fear of death, that he was proud to die for his country, and that his only regret was for those he left behind.” Mac’s voice broke, and he ran a hand across his forehead. “I’m no good at this sort of thing, Emily.”
“Neither am I.”
“After the chaplain left, he allowed us to give him opiates, and then he talked for a while—mostly about you. He loved you so much, had wanted to marry you as soon as he met you, and he wished he could have left you better off. He knew you would grieve for him, but he said that you were strong and would come through the ordeal. He then talked of the poss—well, then he spoke of the children, and gave his love to them and to his family in Kentucky. I checked for news of the battle, and we talked of that. He had some kind words for me, which I’ll break down if I repeat. By then he was having trouble speaking. I found a book of poetry in his jacket, so I read a little of that to him. Either because I wasn’t doing Wordsworth justice, or because he was simply worn out, he said he wanted to rest.
“I gave him your photograph from his pocket, and he held that until he drifted off. Only once after that, in the early evening, did I hear him utter an intelligible word. Someone came in and told us that we had won the battle, and he opened his eyes and whispered, ‘Victory.’ And that was it, until midnight, when he left us.” Mac rose and stood by the casket. “Know, Emily, that he was never alone. I was there almost the entire time, and Herr came, too, when he could. Others visited as well. Even when he seemed insensible, we made a point of speaking to him and grasping his hand, so as to remind him that he was with friends. I hope he knew it; I think he did.”
