by Angela Lee
“I hadn’t planned on leaving yet, cousin,” Fin responded with an added layer of bass to his already deep voice.
Alex chuckled, “Oh, I’m quite certain of what you’re planning and it’s a piss poor idea, man.”
From his left he heard another Villere voice, that of his cousin Dante, “Alex is right. You should leave before you make a very bad decision.”
Fin grit his teeth in irritation before spitting out, “You bastards don’t have a clue what I’m about. We’re at a damned cotillion. What the hell kind of trouble could I possibly cause here?” He heard the irrational anger in his words, an unusual reaction for him.
Alex set his jaw, ready to brawl if necessary. Dante assumed the role of negotiator. Alex’s younger brother, Roman, stepped up on his right.
Roman offered, “Fin, everyone in the room saw you follow that deb onto the veranda. Parlors throughout town will be buzzing all week that Fionne Weathers asked the physician’s daughter to dance twice. Croix has already begun whining about how you stole his dance with her.”
“I don’t give a damn.” Fin grumbled.
Alex goaded, “Yes, you do.”
An arm came between the two. “Fin,” Dante reasoned from his left, “We’re in the last weeks of the campaign, you need to be careful of your actions. That girl’s father could demand to know your intentions for asking for that second dance. If you ask a third time,” he stopped abruptly as three ladies walked by casting eyes in their direction.
“I’m not going to ask her again!” Fin whisper yelled when the ladies were out of earshot.
Alex growled, “Cut line, Fin. We all know you’ll go back in there if you stay. Three dances in one night. To the same woman. Equals marriage. Full stop. You know this.”
Fin did know it. It was one of the thousand Creole rules of conduct that he had drilled into himself since Felice Weathers had packed her son and returned to her family’s Louisiana home. She had trusted that her older brothers would safeguard her husband’s business and teach her son the things he would need to be a man.
Fin hissed and groaned, knowing the truth while thinking it ridiculous. Dante held his arm, “Think of the girl. This would not be fair to her.”
“Damnit.” Fin ran his hand through his hair muttering and then turned to leave. “I need a drink.”
As Fin stood awaiting his carriage, the sight of Panacea being led to her own caught his attention. His cousins had worried needlessly. Perceptive girl; she was escaping before being forced to wed a stranger she had danced with one too many times.
Stepping into the carriage, his goddess hesitated. As if aware of his presence, she looked over her shoulder right at him. That dimpled smile surfaced, and she lifted her hand in a discreet backwards wave before climbing in.
Whoosh. Of its own volition, his hand rubbed across the center of his chest. Someone had thrown a boulder at him dead center.
Chapter Eight
Walking into the Great Marble Room of the Customs House building felt like crossing the threshold of hell. The Marble Room, named for its majestic marble floors, was the size of three large ballrooms with Greek pillars that reached fifty-four feet into the air. Located on the second floor, the room was outfitted with dozens of stretchers, tables, and benches.
Pan surveyed the room beyond the doorway. About a hundred men were held prisoner here while dozens more were imprisoned in locked offices. The men held in the Marble Room used the room for all their needs, eating and sleeping with absolutely no privacy. A row of bed pans lined a corner wall serving as a communal necessary that had not been emptied in days. The air was hot and thick, smelling of urine and human filth.
The telltale confederate grey adorned most of the men’s legs, though the trousers were in tatters. It appeared that none of the men wore jackets and most had removed their shirts. No one had been given a change of clothes since their capture.
Can I do this?
As if reading her mind, Corporal Hicks put his arm out to block her entry. “We can still turn back. When we first discussed this, it was just hypothetical. If it could be done and how?”
Pan knew the soldier was right. Still she argued, “Not just if it could be done. We all agreed it should be done.”
“Yes. But not by you. Or me for that matter,” the soldier countered.
“Who else would we have expected to do it? The only other person would be my father and not if that means his safety.”
“Dr. Fontenot, what about your safety?”
“We don’t time to debate this. Corporal Hicks, you came to me with this plan. I had already given the matter up.” Not exactly the truth. The idea had taken root after the first visit to the kitchens. Pan had lain awake for three nights trying to work through a plan even though she knew it was a lost cause; Hicks had been adamant about not doing it. Ironically, the soldier had sought her out with a change of heart.
Now he was having second thoughts.
Pan spoke firmly, “Corporal, I know that I cannot do this without your aid. I promise you I do not sympathize with Southern politics. These men are prisoners, rightfully so, but many are wounded. I worked at the infirmary in the capital, I know how bad war injuries can be. You said they were not receiving medical treatment. That must weigh heavily on your conscience or you would not have proposed this. More than that, you guard these prisoners, any infection they have can be passed to you. I have the tools and ability to assist them. That is all I am here to do.”
She watched as the man weighed his decision. In truth, he risked far more than she. She could be arrested, imprisoned, even hung for treason. It was probable that she would be shown mercy as a woman from a respectable family. Mercy was not likely for a Union soldier.
Corporal Madison approached and addressed them, his usual cheerful disposition replaced with tension. “Johnson and Schaeffer just started a hand of cards out in the west hall. We’ll probably have an hour at most before they start rounds again.” He turned his attention completely to Pan, “Are you sure?”
Pan steeled herself and gave a curt nod. Kelly, one of the kitchen workers, was waiting when she stepped into the Marble Room. The old Irishman briefly explained how the inmates had arranged the room for her visit. For safety’s sake, she would not circulate but would remain near an exit, should the others get out of hand. Of course, this would not protect her from being discovered should a guard enter.
Madison scanned the room looking stiff. Next to her, Hicks had set his jaw and looked ready for battle. At first Pan was perplexed when she learned that only four guards served duty at a time in the Great Marble Room. Being here now, she understood. There was no fight left in these former soldiers. The prisoners had been locked in this room for months, barely fed, unwashed, and living without basic necessities.
She was a young woman walking into a sea of nearly a hundred men with only a handful of protectors yet few of the inmates had paid much interest. Most sat propped against the walls with their eyes closed, probably attempting to still the suffering effects of dehydration, hunger, and infection
A few injured men were positioned on a bench in the corner so that the visit could move efficiently. The trustees had also arranged lookouts at each entry point to alert her should other guards enter. It was an unspoken rule amongst the Union soldiers that only two would remain in the main room at a time while the other duty pair would patrol the exterior hallway.
Marble Room detail was a hated duty, Hicks had explained. The pungent smell, debilitating heat, and appalling view would attack anyone’s senses in a matter of minutes; no one wanted to remain in the room for too long. No soldier wanted to face such a graphic reminder of one of the possible fates that war had to offer.
Pan’s eyes scanned the room looking for signs of serious injury or infection. Kelly stepped into her line of sight, forcing Pan to take heed. She handed him most of the bread and water from her bag so that he could handle distribution.
“Lass, we will do all we can to keep you saf
e. Never let your guard down or forget that these are caged men. Be cautious of letting the men know what items you keep in that sawbones’ bag of yours.” She listened intently to understand his words despite his Irish brogue.
Pan nodded before opening her Gladstone medical bag which was outfitted much like a military surgeon’s kit. For the first time, she considered how many weapons she had carried in with her. The frontmost section of the leather satchel was cushioned and separated to house a small apothecary of twenty vials of various medicines. Another compartment contained clean cloths and a handful of sponges.
As Pan had apprenticed under a surgeon, the tools for amputation were the most dominant and filled the large central portion of her kit. A Catlin double edged knife, a larger amputation knife and saw, bone brush to remove the dust from a cutting site, tourniquet, curved scissors, probe for locating foreign objects within a wound, and tenaculum to hold off other body parts during a surgery. Sawbones indeed.
She was minutes into treating her patient, the infamous Bobby, when she realized there was a disturbance to her left. She looked over her shoulder to see Madison toe to toe with a prisoner.
“I just wanted to help. Lady,” the young man called to Pan over Madison’s shoulder. “I’m a medic. I can help you.”
“Bah!” another trustee balked. Her guardians stood in a boxlike formation around her and the patients, “There wasn’t any fight to be had in the city. What doctoring could you have done, boy?”
“Well, none,” the young man said sheepishly, “but I trained at the hospital.”
“Let him help,” Pan called making eye contact with Kelly, who nodded.
The young man stepped into the treatment area and Pan recognized him from the kitchen. Pan instructed him to wash with a vial of chlorinated water and then to give water and apply a cool rag to the next man, who was overheated and probably seriously dehydrated. Her new helper reached to grab a rag from a pile beside the bench.
She redirected him in a clipped, clear voice, “Medic, the pile on the floor are soiled. Clean linens are in the cloth sack. Keep them separated and don’t reuse them.” While they each worked on their tasks, Pan asked her new helper his name and about his training.
“My name’s Henri, ma’am. Henri Breaux. Before I enlisted, I apprenticed at the pharmacy. I joined so that I could be a medic.”
Pan carefully inspected a large, dark patch near the sight of a healed wound on her patient’s right arm. The injured man moaned in pain and kept grasping for his right side, though she was careful near the wounded area. She suspected his discomfort was coming from another injury, so she began to remove what was left of the man’s shirt.
Henri surprised her by asking, “You looking for the ‘grene?”
She continued her appraisal and responded, “Well, yes, but that was not it. Did you come across Hospital Gangrene?”
Her new helper nodded, “The doc made us pack the wounds with a charcoal poultice.”
Pan groaned before answering in a dry tone, “A medical doctor? Did it seem to work?”
Henri shook his head, “Boys screamed a lot more. Doc said it was because the charcoal absorbed the ‘grene. None of them ever seemed to get any better, a couple died before the city was captured.”
“Henri listen to me. Those type of diseases spread from septic treatment, unclean medical practices. I won’t practice that way and I won’t allow you to either. Your hands are to be cleaned with chlorinated water before and between patients. Wounds are always cleaned with aseptic tools. In this setting that is about the best we can do.”
Pan returned her attention to her patient. Moving his arm slightly, her eyes travelled the length of his now bare torso. A feverish, red patch of skin climbed up from the waistband of his trousers. Pan suspected she would find the origin of the infection in his hip and she lightly slid the waist of his pants down. Bobby’s eyes shot to hers in surprise.
“Well, Henri. I’m not sure how much training you received before you were captured, but today, you’re going to learn how to remove a bullet.”
The two worked in tandem for the next half hour. Henri was a quick study and followed directions without question or complaint. If she had not been so intent on the task at hand, Pan might have been surprised at his willingness to follow a woman’s lead. Instead, she focused on completing the surgery swiftly and without complication.
Pan spoke without looking up as she stitched the wound closed. “Medic, you’ll need to monitor this man. This site needs to remain clean and dry. Bobby needs to be hydrated and cool. If infection returns, he might not survive. Or it might bring the gangrene into this prison ward and then you will all be in danger.”
Henri nodded his understanding before asking, “Ma’am? I wonder if you had contacted my sister, Agnes?”
All the men around them grew quiet and listened intently to the conversation. The doctor reached into her pocket for the small notebook she always carried, a pencil was banded to the leather cover. She handed Henri the notebook.
Kelly stepped closer and warned, “Don’t. If sneaking in and offering medical aid doesn’t get you hung as a traitor, espionage will.”
“Mr. Kelly, I am far too inept for anyone to believe me a spy,” Pan said with humor. Then to the other, “I did. She is well and now she knows you are alive. That’s the only message I will bring. Go around and help these men write their families’ addresses as well. If they are in the city, I will deliver them the same message.” She returned to her task in silence. Hicks’s gentle reminder of the time prompted her to begin packing up the rest of her belongings.
She pulled the last loaf of bread from her bag and handed it to Kelly. “For you and the trustees. I didn’t bring enough, but I’ll bring more the next time,” she told the Irishman.
“Lass, you just gave the men a second meal today. You’ve helped these,” Kelly waved a hand at those she had just treated, “And you’re bringing word to their loved ones though I’m not sure it’s wise. It is enough. If there is no next time, we are still grateful for today.”
Chapter Nine
Wealthier New Orleans homes were built in boxlike formations from one city block to the next allowing for a communal central courtyard. These outdoor areas included walking paths, fountains, and gazebos all bordered by lush greenery that thrived in the humid environment. The outlying homes had second and third floor balconies that overlooked the beautiful space, as well as first floor patios that led to the walking paths.
Located on the corner of Bourbon, the Fontenot townhome had a courtyard to itself. French doors opened to the outdoor sitting area where Pan’s mother, Iris, spent most of her leisure time. Her favorite seat was a white wicker chair adorned with bright yellow cushions. Even in the afternoon heat, Madam Fontenot sat with the same handmade quilt across her lap. Iris often stared out into the gardens for hours, lost in her thoughts, completely unaware of the world around her.
Pan’s mother had once been the picture of a Creole matriarch, round and voluptuous with porcelain skin and dark features. Even when her daughters had fully grown, Iris’ eyes were bright, her smile wide, and her thick black hair showed only a few sprinkles of grey.
Gigi’s death had perpetuated many changes, both physical and mental. She had cried and refused to eat for days at a time. The grieving mother’s tears had subsided, but there were still periods when she preferred to stay in bed all day. After a year, Iris’s diminished appetite had depleted her once luscious curves and hollowed out her face, her now grey hair hung limp.
At some point, Madame Fontenot started to retreat within herself, leaving the present day for memories of the past. Pan was left to run the household, a skillset she had never cultivated. Thankfully, the staff had been with the family a long time and were quite capable of keeping things running smoothly under the leadership of the housekeeper, requiring only minimal direction from Pan.
Her father, too, had been devastated by Gigi’s death. Rather than return to Syracuse for her fi
nal semester, Pan had assumed most of his private practice and had partnered with him months later when he had returned to his position at Columbian University.
The move to New Orleans had rejuvenated Dr. Fontenot. Her father had filled his days with designing the clinic on the first floor of their home, joining the lobbyist group to reinstate the State Medical Association, and building up his practice.
Iris’s recovery was slower. More and more she ventured out into the Creole society of her youth. Still, she preferred the sanctity of her room or her space on the balcony, left on her own to relish in her memories. Today looked to be one of those days.
Watching her mother stare absently across the courtyard, Pan felt the familiar sadness and guilt. Her eyes caught the old quilt, the one that her sister had snuggled under as a child. Standing at the precipice of the balcony Pan said quietly, “Mama, it’s time to go.”
No response.
She stepped forward and bent to face her mother. She rubbed the older woman’s arms and called her out of the reverie, “Mama.”
Iris’s pupils grew and then retracted. A blink and then another. “Oh, cher. How long have you been there?” She patted her daughter’s hand and smiled.
Pan sat on the ottoman facing her mother, “Just a few minutes, Mama. Are you coming to mass?”
Her mother watched her for a moment. “Hmm. Cher, when most people are fatigued, little purple half-moons form beneath their eyes.” Her mother gently rubbed a path beneath Pan’s eye. “You get them as well. Unlike other people, when you or your sister suffered from illness or exhaustion, your beautiful golden eyes would dull to a soft brown. Pretty but dull. You are not sleeping, daughter.”
“And you, Mama, are not eating.” Her mother gave her a firm look and Pan dropped her eyes in contrition. “Please do not worry, Mama. My sleeplessness will pass.”
“And we will all eat; but not until after mass,” Iris replied archly watching as her daughter sat on the ottoman facing her.