Under the Tulip Tree

by Michelle Shocklee

  “Frankie.” It was custom for slaves to take the family name of their masters, but I’d never done so. I didn’t want to be known by the name of a white person who’d done me wrong, not even Mr. Waters. He might not have ever beat me, but he’d owned me same as he’d owned his horse.

  “If you wish to be shaved, Miss Frankie will see to it. Otherwise, you will forfeit the opportunity to have your beard removed.”

  Despite the tension in the room, I noticed she had a different way of talking. Almost musical. I was certain she wasn’t from around here.

  The man huffed and seemed to weigh his options. Finally he gave me a curt nod. “Fine. You best not cut me, gal.”

  I bristled at his demeaning attitude. After nearly three years of relative freedom, I wasn’t used to being spoken to as though I were a slave again.

  “There are no ‘gals’ in this hospital, sir.” The nurse drew everyone’s attention with her stern voice. “You will address her as Miss Frankie, or you will not receive a shave.” Her gaze swept the room. “That goes for all of you.”

  A rumble of assent filled the space before the nurse gave me a nod to proceed.

  I set the items on a small table between the beds, my hands shaking. I wished I hadn’t listened to Sam. I’d never shaved a man before. Now certainly wasn’t the best time to learn either, especially on someone so unwilling.

  With a steadying breath, I picked up the brush, dipped it in water, and began creating a lather from the shaving soap. The woman who’d given me the kit said the razor was recently sharpened, and I prayed she was right.

  I was nearly ready to commence shaving the man when his eyes landed on my knotted fingers.

  “She ain’t even got two good hands,” he bellowed, panic in his widened eyes. “I won’t have a cripple cut my throat.”

  Although I didn’t usually give my hand a second thought, his ugly words made me tuck it between the folds of my skirt.

  The nurse walked over. She sent the man a dark scowl before addressing me. “May I see?”

  Shame washed over me. No one had ever asked to see my poor hand before. Most people avoided looking at it and pretended it didn’t exist. Slowly I raised both hands for her examination. The bent, knobby fingers of my left hand looked so pathetic next to the normal ones on my right. I rarely considered my disfigurement, but now I saw it through the eyes of the soldier and the nurse. It occurred to me I would probably question the ability of someone with a hand like mine had I been in their place.

  Several long moments ticked by in the silent room. I felt the stares of the men on me, and I wanted to find a dark corner and hide. The nurse finally met my gaze. In that look I saw compassion and something else. Solidarity, maybe.

  “Are you able to shave these men, Miss Frankie?”

  The room grew still while they waited for my answer.

  My shoulders pulled back on their own, as though to challenge anyone who didn’t agree with me. “Yes, ma’am. I am.”

  She studied me a long moment. A hint of a smile appeared on her lips. “Very well.” She looked at the man. “Sir, do you still wish to be shaved?”

  His glare went between us before he shook his head and returned his attention out the window.

  “As you wish.” She spun around, taking in the other occupants of the room. “This is your only opportunity for a shave today, gentlemen. The nurses are far too busy to attend to your grooming needs, yet our volunteers are happy to do so. Miss Frankie will approach each of you to inquire if you would like her to shave you. You may decline, but you will do so in a respectful manner.”

  She returned her attention to me. “You may proceed, Miss Frankie.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do. Part of me wanted to flee from the room, never to return. Yet another part wouldn’t let me give in to the likes of these men. “Love your enemies, Frankie,” Sam said. But weren’t they supposed to adhere to that same command?

  With my jaw clenched tight, I picked up the shaving cup, the razor, and a towel and walked across the aisle. The sandy-haired soldier lying in that bed met my gaze.

  “Would you like a shave, sir?” I spoke through tight lips, expecting him to decline as the other man had done.

  His gaze traveled from my hand to my face. Finally, with every eye in the room on us, he gave a slight nod. “I would.”

  His quiet answer took me by surprise, but I recovered quickly. I set to work spreading the lather on his cheeks and chin. I couldn’t help but notice one sleeve of his shirt was empty. His green eyes bored into me, but I avoided looking at them and focused on the job at hand. With a silent prayer, I applied the razor to his face and scraped off lather and whiskers as gently as I could manage. By the time I moved around the bed to do the other side of his face, he’d closed his eyes.

  When I finished, I wiped the last remnants of lather from his face. I noticed blood oozing from several nicks, although the man hadn’t budged through my ministrations. Before I could clean those cuts, his eyes opened, and my hand stilled. I braced myself for his complaint. It didn’t come.

  “Thank you.” He spoke so softly I barely heard the words.

  “You’re welcome.” I gave a slight nod, then moved on to the next patient.

  Some hours later I’d shaved a dozen men’s faces. Several soldiers declined, scowling at me before they turned away, while others possessed full beards that didn’t require a shave.

  As I headed to the door with my supplies, the nurse approached.

  “You did very well.” She cast a glance into the room. Some of the men were resting while others spoke in low tones. I noticed the fellow with the green eyes watching us. “They don’t like me too much either.”

  “Why not?” In the time I’d been here, she’d seemed capable and pleasant yet had a firm command of the room.

  “I’m Irish. Some of them—” she nodded to the wounded men—“don’t see a difference between you and I.”

  I felt my eyes widen. “You fooling me?”

  She shook her head. “My name is Cait Fitzgerald. I’m from Dublin by way of Boston.”

  I’d never heard of that first place, but it didn’t matter. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Fitzgerald.”

  “Me father was among the potato farmers whose crops failed because of the blight. I was just a wee girl when we left Ireland and came to America. We’d hoped for better times, but alas, many folks here say we Irish are a blight ourselves.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, even though I’d had nothing to do with her family’s rejection in their new home. I knew what it felt like to be mistreated simply because of who you were. “But you’re a nurse. That’s something to be proud of.”

  She nodded. “’Tis indeed. I wish my father could have seen my achievement, but he died at Gettysburg.”

  “He fought in the army? Even after being treated so badly?”

  A look of pride came to her blue eyes. “He did at that. Papa was honored to be an American. It was important to him to fight for the freedom of others.”

  “Nurse?”

  We both turned to see one of the patients lift his arm.

  “We best get back to work, Miss Frankie.” She moved away, but not before giving me a nod and a smile.

  I spent the remainder of the day emptying slop buckets, helping Miss Fitzgerald change bandages, and feeding the men who couldn’t manage the bowl of thin soup. When I sat down to help the soldier with the green eyes with his supper, his expression grew dark. I was mighty tired after a long day, so I was in no mind to suffer through his ugly looks.

  “If you’d rather wait for one of the nuns to help you with your meal, I’m happy to be on my way home.” I knew as well as he did the Catholic nuns helping in the hospitals throughout the city were all white.

  His brows rose, and he met my gaze. “You’re very outspoken, aren’t you?”

  I tempered my anger. “I’m just tired, is all, sir.”

  After a long moment, he nodded. “If you’ll help me sit up, I’m getting f
airly good at using the spoon with my left hand.”

  Together, we managed to get him settled against the pillow and wall. I noticed a circle of fresh blood on his sleeve where his arm should have been.

  “I best check your bandage. Looks like you’ve opened the wound.”

  A wave of despair washed over his face when he looked down at the spot. “I wish I would’ve died out there,” he hissed and turned away.

  The vehemence of his words rendered me silent. I imagined life would be difficult for a one-armed man once the war was over. I didn’t know his occupation, but I did know life was full of opportunities, especially for a white man. He would heal eventually, both inside and out, and what he did after that was entirely up to him.

  I cleaned what was left of his arm, barely more than a stump, and wrapped it in a fresh bandage. Once his shirt was back in place, I settled down with the bowl of soup. He glanced at it, then at me.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  The question caught me off guard. “Doing what?”

  “This.” He motioned to the soup, then to his arm.

  I understood then. Sam’s words echoed in my mind.

  “You ain’t like them, Frankie.”

  I shrugged. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  He let me help him with the soup then. I held the bowl while he carefully spooned it to his mouth. Some dribbled on the cloth I spread across his chest, but for the most part he got it all past his lips.

  “You did real well,” I said when the bottom of the bowl appeared. I hadn’t intended to say anything, but a bit of pleasure brightened his eyes when he handed me the spoon.

  I left the prison ward and headed over to see Sam. I told him about my day, and he beamed like a proud pappy.

  “Best watch out, or they might find out you ain’t as mean as you want folks to believe.”

  Only Sam could say something like that and make me laugh.

  I returned to the prison hospital the next day and the next, surprising myself. While none of the men were overly friendly when I tended them, the dark looks I’d endured the first day had diminished.

  Miss Fitzgerald approached me when I arrived for work at week’s end. “I fear Captain Wallace has taken a turn for the worse,” she whispered, a grave look on her face.

  I glanced past her to the gray-haired man. He’d refused a shave every morning, and yesterday he hadn’t eaten anything.

  We went about our duties, but something about the cantankerous man drew me time and time again. I’d offer water; he’d refuse. Broth? A cool cloth? The answer was always a terse no. The man grew weaker with each passing day, but he didn’t seem to care. It was as though he’d given up on living.

  I lay in my cot later that night, troubled by the man’s listlessness. Why should I care if a captain in the Confederate Army died? So many thousands of men had perished in the war, one more wouldn’t matter. Would it? I tossed and turned, gaining Nell’s mumbled complaints from her cot. Finally, long before the sun rose, I knew what I needed to do.

  When I arrived at the hospital, Miss Fitzgerald wasn’t there yet, and most of the men were still asleep. An older nurse presided over the room, but she gave me little notice. With my coat buttoned tight to ward off the morning chill, I quietly made my way to Captain Wallace’s side. His face looked ash-colored in the dim light, and his breathing was labored. He wasn’t long for this world, I suspected, and I thought of the woman in the street whose husband died inside these walls.

  Did Captain Wallace have a family who would miss him?

  I carried a chair over and sat beside him. With a glance around the room to be certain no one was watching, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the Book of Psalms Sam had given me. To quiet my nerves, I took a breath, then opened the book to the first page and began reading, keeping my voice low.

  By the time I reached the end of the third psalm, sunlight was streaming through the windows. I glanced at Wallace. He looked exactly the same. I tucked the book back into my pocket and stood. I had work to do.

  Captain Wallace succumbed the following afternoon. I’d arrived early once again to read to him from the Psalms before anyone else awakened. I didn’t know if the man heard me or not, but I was glad I’d followed my heart.

  After his body was removed, a pall fell over the other soldiers. The man in the bed next to the now-empty one looked at me as I cleaned the area. “I heard you reading to Wallace.”

  I thought my heart might stop beating as everyone turned to stare at me. Would I be punished for having a book in my possession?

  Miss Fitzgerald glanced at me from across the room, surprise on her face.

  “Would you read to us?” the man continued, his request turning to a plea. Several others chimed in with their concurrence. “I ain’t heard the Bible read in a long time.”

  I stood there in shock.

  Cait came over and put her hand on my arm. “Would you, Miss Frankie? It might bring the men some comfort on this sad day.”

  I looked around the room. Not one of the men appeared angry that not only could I read, but that I had a book hidden in my pocket. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I nodded. “I’ll read.”

  Cait set the chair in the middle of the aisle so everyone could hear. I felt conspicuous at first, and I faltered over several of the words, but no one complained. When I reached the Twenty-third Psalm, some of the men had drifted off to sleep while others continued to listen, the same peace resting on their faces as I’d seen on those of the men in Sam’s room.

  The noon meal interrupted our reading, but after the men were fed, some wanted to hear more Psalms. Cait thought it a fine idea, so my afternoon was spent reading the beautiful words.

  When I told Sam about it later that evening, he offered to let me take his Bible. “They need it more than I do right now.”

  The man’s generosity never ceased to amaze me. “How are you feeling?” I asked, noting he looked better each time I saw him. He still had a long recovery process, but unless infection struck, he seemed to be out of danger.

  “Good. Miz Illa says I might leave the hospital in a day or two. She’s found a woman who will let me stay in her house. She has some others there who are convalescing.”

  “That’s wonderful news.” While the nurses and doctors in the military hospitals did their best, the care Sam would receive in a private home was sure to be more personal. I hoped the house wasn’t too far away so I could still see him on a regular basis. I’d ask Illa about its location when I saw her next.

  My spirits were high when I entered the ward the following day. Cait hurried over.

  “There’s a rumor some of the soldiers will be transferred to prison soon.”

  I glanced at the men in their beds. Most of them weren’t healed enough to travel. Although I knew them only by their ranks along with a few surnames, I’d begun to think of them as men rather than Confederate soldiers.

  I gathered the shaving kit and began my rounds. When I reached the green-eyed lieutenant, I noted he seemed more somber than usual. He never said much to anyone but was always watching. I found his eyes on me often throughout the days, sometimes staring at my hand. I wondered if the loss of his arm made him notice how I got along with only the use of one good hand.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant. Would you like a shave today?”

  He nodded but didn’t look at me.

  I set to work mixing up a lather, then carefully completed the task. When I reached for the towel to wipe the remaining soap from his face, his eyes finally met mine. An intense look filled them.

  “Who crippled your hand?”

  The low words barely reached my ears. He gripped my arm and tugged me closer. “Who?” he hissed, his grasp tightening.

  Startled by his behavior, I couldn’t imagine why he wanted to know such a thing, but I feared he’d make a ruckus if I didn’t tell him. “The mistress of the plantation where I was born. She struck me with a fireplace poker when I was six years old. It
ain’t been right ever since.”

  His face paled. His breath came in hard heaves, and I thought he might strike me for saying such a thing about a white person.

  I tugged free from his grip and backed away.

  When his eyes met mine again, the hatred I expected to see wasn’t there. Instead, I saw something I couldn’t quite believe.

  Shame.

  My thoughts whirled, trying to understand what was happening. Who was this man? I stared into his green eyes a long time before a thought so alarming yet so clear stole my breath away, and I stumbled backward.

  “No.” I shook my head. It couldn’t be.

  I wanted to run from the room, to flee what I suddenly knew was true, but I stood where I was, staring at the boy who’d witnessed the attack that left me maimed.

  “Who are you?” I whispered as my entire body trembled.

  Everything else in the room faded while I waited to hear the name I’d tried a lifetime to forget.

  “Burton Hall.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  We sat silent in Frankie’s tiny living room. Alden’s and Jael’s stunned expressions surely matched my own at the shocking turn in the story.

  “Oh, Mama Fran,” Jael breathed, tears flooding her eyes.

  Frankie simply nodded, yet she didn’t appear as upset as I might have imagined. Surely retelling this portion of her story was as painful as experiencing it that long-ago day.

  A dozen questions tumbled through my mind, but I didn’t voice them. I glanced at Alden. He must have understood my silence because he tightened his own lips and gave me a small nod.

  We waited until Frankie was ready to continue, all the while my heart aching for her then and now. The war had changed her life in so many ways, many for good. Sam, Illa, freedom. The future must have looked far more promising than frightening to the young woman Frankie had become by then. So why did she have to come face-to-face with the son of her worst enemy?

  “I never thought I’d hear the name Hall again.” Whether she meant to or not, Frankie tucked her deformed hand beneath her good hand, protecting it as she must have done a thousand times over the years.