Under the Tulip Tree

by Michelle Shocklee

  She took a sip from her cup, then set it down on the low table between us. Her eyes squeezed closed, and I wondered, not for the first time, if remembering all the hurt and pain from the past was good for a woman her age.

  “I never left the hospital once I stepped inside. For days I had me no knowledge of what was going on outside the walls of that old gun factory. I couldn’t have told you what time of day it was until someone lit the lamps when night fell again. Can’t recall eating, sleeping, or even going to the privy, but I guess I did.” She met my gaze, an anguished look in her eyes. “If I’d known what was ahead of me the day that woman came calling for volunteers, I would have turned tail and run.”

  Blood.

  Blood everywhere. On everything, staining the wood floors, the walls, me.

  “More light! I can’t see a thing.”

  The army surgeon bellowed even though I stood across the table from him. He didn’t look at me but stayed focused on the soldier whose leg he’d just sawed off. Thankfully the patient had ceased his screaming once the chloroform took effect, but there were plenty of agonizing cries echoing throughout the building to prevent his from being missed.

  I held the kerosene lantern higher, my arms aching, while keeping my eyes averted from the ghastly scene below. It was well past midnight, I guessed. I’d arrived at the hospital sometime after the guns had gone quiet, and now streams of wounded and dying men continued to flood through the door downstairs.

  “Clean this man up. Then come assist me with the next one.” The gray-haired man dipped his hands in a basin of red water, seeming not to notice the color of it, before moving away to the next moaning patient.

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was simply too exhausted. I just stood there with the lantern in my hands, illuminating pools of red on the long table and the ash-colored skin of the man whose life had just been altered.

  “Here, let me take over.”

  I turned weary eyes to find a white woman next to me. She wore an apron over her dark dress, now covered with blood. I’d seen her downstairs when I first arrived. Her authoritative voice went out over the masses as she directed men carrying in the wounded, pointing some up the stairs to surgery while others had to wait their turn.

  I handed the lantern to her.

  “There’s coffee downstairs. And sandwiches. Get some rest. I’m told the fighting will resume once the sun is up, which means we’ll receive more men come daylight.”

  I nodded and left the room. My stomach roiled at the sight of the buckets of blood-soaked rags in the hallway, awaiting someone to rinse them so they could be used again and again. The smell of blood, gunpowder, and death hovered in the air.

  Panic and nausea rose up in me.

  I had to leave. To slip away into the darkness and never return. I’d seen too much. Too many men lost their limbs. Too many men lost their lives.

  When I reached the bottom of the stairs, the sight that met me stilled my feet.

  The wounded filled the converted gun factory, covering every inch of space. Some men lay still as death while others moaned and cried out in pain. Nurses and volunteers flitted around, tending the men as best they could, but there were simply too many in need of care.

  One older woman eyed me from across the room. “You here to help?”

  I shook my head and bolted forward before she could argue. The door opened as I reached for the handle, and a soldier with a wounded man in his arms blocked my way.

  “Help him,” he begged, his fear-filled gaze landing on me. “He’s my friend, and he’s hurt bad.”

  Blood oozed from a wound in the man’s gut onto the floor. His eyes were rolled back in his head, and I knew he wouldn’t make it. None of the surgeons would even try to save him.

  “I can’t,” I hissed and stumbled out the door into the cold night. I hurried down the wide steps to the street, intent on escape, but something solid on the ground nearly tripped me. I leaned closer and gasped.

  A body lay at my feet, staring into nothingness.

  As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I found more bodies rowed up outside the hospital as far as I could see in both directions. Women with lanterns cared for the living among them. Men with stretchers carried off the dead into the night.

  Hot tears rolled down my cheeks, turning icy in the frigid air.

  How could I run away and abandon these poor wretched souls? They’d fought for my freedom, whether they intended to or not. Too many had died already. There weren’t enough volunteers and doctors to keep up with the steady flow. They needed help. From anyone willing to give it.

  I looked to the stars above me, my breath forming puffs of steam. “I can’t do this no more,” I whispered. “I can’t.”

  “Ma’am?” a soldier nearby called out, his voice weak and his pale face illuminated by feeble light coming from the window. Blood and dirt caked his uniform, yet his youthfulness reminded me of Albert Underwood. “Ma’am, may I have some water?”

  A simple request. Just something to moisten his parched lips. A task that would bring a small measure of comfort while he lay on the hard, frozen ground, wounded and unsure of his tomorrows. Could I ignore him and walk away?

  I sent one last fleeting glance south, toward the contraband camp, before nodding. “I’ll get some water.”

  I turned and trudged back inside the hospital.

  Day and night came and went. I lost track of how long I’d been tending the wounded. The battle had raged for two bitterly cold days before the Confederates retreated, with Federal troops on their heels. While folks in the city celebrated our survival, those of us in the hospitals knew the cost.

  I sat beside the bed of a bearded soldier, his head and arms swathed in bandages, spooning broth into his mouth. Neither of us spoke. I found most of the men preferred silence to pointless chatter. A cough now and then or the low murmurs of conversation—these had replaced the terrible groans and cries of the wounded fresh from battle. Now the long process of healing must begin.

  It rained hard during the night. A light drizzle continued to fall outside the window. We’d managed to get the remaining men inside before they were soaked, although a great number were beyond help.

  I learned that the white woman I’d seen the first day was Miss Annie Bell. A nurse whispered that Miss Bell had been at other battles, including Gettysburg, and her esteem of the woman rang clear in her awed voice. It reminded me of how I’d felt helping Miz Michaels prepare for wounded at the hospital in her charge, two streets over. That these women were willing to give of themselves so deeply to help strangers was a mystery I still hadn’t solved, yet here I stood among them.

  “No more.” The soldier turned his head away from the spoon I held. He closed his eyes, effectively dismissing me.

  “I’ll be around if you decide you want more.” I stood and headed to the makeshift kitchen for another bowl of broth for another wounded soldier. So many weren’t able to feed themselves because of lost limbs, broken bones, or burns. I’d seen several of the men look at my deformed hand, and I wondered what they were thinking.

  “You’re doing a fine job.”

  I turned to find Miss Bell watching me from the stairwell. She came down the remaining steps. I noticed she’d donned a clean apron but still wore her soiled dress.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “It isn’t easy caring for the men. They’ve seen and done things most of us will never experience. It will take time for them to heal, inside and out.”

  I’d never been a soldier in war, but I’d had my share of battles. I knew what she meant. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She studied me. “Frankie, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “When the war is over, Frankie, you should consider becoming a nurse. I believe you have what it takes.”

  I watched her walk away, astonished by her words. She might not be so giving of compliments if she knew I’d considered abandoning her and the wounded men the first night of the battle. Still, I
tucked the kind words into my heart.

  The following day I was cleaning the wound on a soldier’s leg when I felt someone behind me. I turned. “Miz Illa!”

  I scrambled to put the basin down without spilling dirty water on the patient, nearly giddy with relief at seeing the woman. I hadn’t realized how important she’d become in my life until she wasn’t there. “Land sakes, we been worried ’bout you. We looked for you before the fighting started, but the soldiers said no one would be able to cross the Confederate line.”

  Illa gave me a weary smile. Exhaustion marred her face. “For a time, I was plenty worried about myself, but we managed. We tried to get back, but as thee has said, the Confederates wouldn’t allow us through. A farmer just south of Nashville took us in and gave us refuge. We hid in his cellar during the worst of it.”

  I had so many questions and things to tell her, but now was not the time. “Sam sure will be happy to know you’re back. Last time I saw him was before the fighting started. I keep watching for him, but . . .”

  My words trailed off. Her expression said she had news. “Miz Illa? You know something ’bout Sam?”

  “Oh, my dear.” Her lips trembled. “I’m sorry to tell thee, but he was badly wounded in the battle.”

  I held my breath as my heart beat with fear. Please, God, no.

  Tears came to her eyes, and she reached for my hand. “Thee must go to him, Frankie. I don’t know how much time he has left. He’s dying.”

  In that moment, imagining life without Sam, I thought I might die too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A knock at the door interrupted us. It was just as well. Frankie had grown quiet, her face cloaked in the pain of remembering that terrible day. She didn’t seem to know someone was at her door, so I moved to open it.

  Alden happily greeted me. “Hello.” His smile faded when I didn’t respond. “What’s wrong?”

  I glanced back to find Frankie’s eyes closed. I didn’t know if she’d fallen asleep or if she’d closed them to keep painful memories away. Turning back to Alden, I motioned him onto the porch and gently shut the door behind us.

  “Frankie just told me Sam was wounded in the battle. Illa said he’s dying.”

  Alden’s shoulders slumped. “That’s awful.”

  Pangs of grief swirled through me, which seemed irrational considering the events of Frankie’s story happened over seventy years ago. Yet Sam had become a real person to me, and I mourned him.

  “I thought you wouldn’t be free to visit today,” I said, changing the subject away from so much sadness.

  “Tom, my friend, had to get on the road back to Memphis before it got too late.” He seemed eager to say something.

  “And?”

  He grinned. “And he thinks he can help me get a job with the Works Progress Administration here in Nashville. A permanent position.”

  I gasped. “Truly?”

  “The WPA has a number of projects here, including rebuilding Fort Negley. I’m not sure what the job would be, but I told him I’m interested.”

  “That’s wonderful news.” I couldn’t keep excitement from my voice.

  A look of satisfaction filled his face. “I hoped you’d be happy.”

  Our gazes held for a long moment before I felt heat creep up my neck. Embarrassed, I turned away. “Come in. You’re just in time to help make lunch.”

  He chuckled and followed me inside. Frankie was alert once again. Her face lit up when she saw Alden.

  “Well, lookee who finally come to see me.”

  He went over to her, bent low, and kissed her cheek. “I came as soon as I could.”

  A happy smile replaced the previous sadness in her eyes. It warmed my heart when Alden knelt beside her and told her about his possible job. I left the two of them conversing and went to the kitchen. I wasn’t sure when it happened, but we’d all somehow become friends. The thought pleased me.

  I was chopping carrots and potatoes to go with our fried pork chops when he came to help a short time later.

  “Frankie’s gone to lie down for a bit,” he said as he washed his hands at the sink. He took a towel from a hook and met my gaze. “She told me about Sam. She said she’d finish the story after lunch.”

  “It’s so sad. I don’t understand things like that.”

  “Like what?” He removed the paper wrapping from the meat and seasoned the chops with salt and pepper. I still found it amazing that he knew his way around the kitchen. As far as I knew, my father hadn’t ever cooked a meal in his entire life.

  “Frankie had already suffered so much. Why couldn’t she enjoy some happiness with Sam?”

  We worked in silence for long moments. Finally Alden said, “I suppose you mean God should have allowed her some happiness.”

  I met his gaze. “Yes, I do. God is all about love and goodness. Why did he let slavery exist in the first place?”

  He chuckled. “You’re asking the wrong guy. I’m not sure I believe in God.”

  I recalled him saying something similar to Frankie several days ago. “I think there is too much evidence around us to rule out a Creator. Look at us, how complicated our bodies are. And all the different animals, and plants and flowers, and fruits and vegetables.” I held up a long carrot. “How did all this come to be without God?”

  He leaned against the counter, one corner of his mouth tipped up. “Again, you’re asking the wrong guy. Your argument makes sense, but it still doesn’t answer your questions. If God does exist, why is there so much pain and suffering in the world? Why doesn’t he just wave his hand and make everyone’s lives full of happiness?”

  I’d wondered the same thing many times. When the stock market crashed and my life imploded, I’d asked God why. But after meeting Frankie and hearing her stories, I realized my family and I hadn’t truly suffered. We still had a beautiful home, food on the table, help when it was needed from Grandma Lorena. My father’s failures were responsible for any losses we endured. They were not God’s fault.

  “I don’t suppose we’re going to solve life’s mysteries before lunch,” I said, pleased at finding him so easy to talk to, no matter the subject. Unlike Dad, Alden didn’t argue to make his point.

  Our conversation drifted to other subjects while Alden got a fire going in the stove furnace. He fried the pork chops, and I boiled the carrots and potatoes. It’s funny how comfortable I felt in Frankie’s kitchen, cooking on her outdated stove. Almost as though I were a member of the family rather than a stranger who’d arrived on her doorstep a little more than a week ago.

  When she entered the kitchen an hour later, lunch was ready. “My, look what you young’uns have done. It sure smells good.”

  The three of us sat at the table. Frankie bowed her head and we followed suit.

  “Thank you, Lord, for the bounty from your hand. Bless these two fine folks who cooked a meal for an old woman. Amen.”

  As we ate, Alden regaled us with stories of his life in Chicago. He told about the strange man who’d come to stay at his parents’ boardinghouse when Alden was just a boy. The man turned out to be a bootleg whiskey runner and was using the boardinghouse as his hideout. One day when the man was out, Alden poked around his room and found a stash of liquor. When he carried a bottle downstairs to ask his mother if he could have some, she nearly fainted.

  “Father didn’t want to call the authorities. He was afraid it would cause trouble for him, so he told the man to leave and never come back. We heard later the fellow opened a distillery in Kentucky as soon as Prohibition was over and is doing quite well. He even sent Father a case of whiskey as thanks for not turning him in.”

  We laughed in unison.

  “I’ve never been one to partake in strong drink,” Frankie said, “but we used plenty while I was working in the hospital after the fighting was done. There wasn’t enough medicine to go around to relieve the men of their pain. All we had to ease the suffering was whiskey.” She sighed. “Let’s clean up and then I’ll tell you about
Sam.”

  Alden and I insisted on washing the dishes while Frankie put the leftovers in the icebox. Jael, she said, usually went to a friend’s home after church, but she would enjoy the meal for supper.

  We settled in the living room, me with my pencil and notebook ready, and Alden with his long legs stretched out in front of him as he sat on the sagging sofa.

  “When Miz Illa told me Sam was dying,” Frankie began, her voice subdued, “I wanted to curl up on the floor and have a good cry. It didn’t seem fair, him not even a soldier. But she wouldn’t let me fall apart. ‘He needs thee, Frankie,’ Illa said. ‘And thee needs to tell him how thee feels before it’s too late. Otherwise, thee will live with regret the rest of thy life.’”

  I climbed down from Miz Illa’s wagon in front of a large building on College Street. I couldn’t recall what it had been before the war, but now it housed Hospital Number 16. Many black men had joined the army, willing to fight for their own freedom. Sadly, over two hundred lost their lives in a peach orchard south of the city in the fighting. Many others were brought here.

  We walked down hallways, turning this way, then that, before we came to a partially shut door. She held me by the shoulders, as though trying to impart strength upon me.

  “Be as encouraging as thee possibly can. He needs to see thy smile, hear thy laughter. Thee does not want him facing death amid gloom and doom.”

  I stared at her. What she asked was impossible. “I can’t do it, Miz Illa. My heart hurts too much.” Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision.

  “Yes, thee can. I’ll be nearby should thee need me.”

  She pushed the door open the rest of the way and offered me a sympathetic smile. My feet felt wooden and heavy, but I made them move forward. Two dozen or so beds with men occupying them lined the walls. I hadn’t thought to ask what Sam’s injuries were. Would I still recognize him?