by P. G. Nagle
She went to Washington on a pass with several of her company, and enjoyed the day well enough. If she took a greater pleasure in seeing Jerome when she returned that evening, she kept it to herself.
December arrived, and with it winter descended on the army’s camps. Orders came to prepare them for winter, and much work went into these efforts. Damon undertook to make their shared tent more comfortable, for Emma’s time was still spent largely at the hospital, where disease was now a deadlier enemy in the face of cold weather.
One day she sought the nurses’ couch after finishing her rounds, and found Jerome sitting there perusing a letter. He hastily put it in his pocket when he saw Emma, but not before she recognized Miss Corey’s handwriting. She turned away again, suddenly assailed by feelings she thought she had set aside. Not wishing to visit her anger upon Jerome, she left the tent abruptly.
The heat of jealousy took Emma’s breath away. She fled without knowing where, and was surprised a moment later to find herself standing outside the cook-tent, with snow falling softly onto her face.
“There you are, Thompson! Just the man I’m looking for.”
Dr. Bonine’s voice roused her from her reverie. He was coming up the path from camp, the shoulders of his overcoat covered in snow.
Emma turned to face him. “Yes, sir?”
“Come in out of the cold,” he said, beckoning her toward the dispensary tent.
She followed, welcoming the distraction from her unpleasant feelings, her hands moving automatically to brush the snow from Dr. Bonine’s shoulders before they entered the tent. He took off his overcoat and hung it on a peg by the door, then stepped over to the camp stove and rubbed his hands together.
“All quiet in the wards?” the surgeon asked.
“Quiet enough, sir.”
“Good. How would you like to go into Alexandria? We are out of quinine, and the quartermaster has none to give me.”
“I would be glad to,” Emma said.
“I will write you a note to take to Dr. Porter at the Mansion House Hospital. He should have plenty to spare. Or he did the last I spoke to him.”
Emma went to fetch her own overcoat from the hospital tent while he wrote. Jerome, who was sweeping snow back from the entrance, looked up as she came in.
“Frank—”
“I am going to Alexandria for Dr. Bonine. Will you keep an eye on them?” She nodded toward the patients as she shrugged into her overcoat.
“Of course,” Jerome said.
“Thank you.”
She left without saying more, a hard knot of unhappiness still in her gut. The walk into Alexandria served to dispel it somewhat, and also raised her spirits. The cold air was invigorating, and the soft fall of snow left the scene looking quiet and peaceful, even in the city.
Emma made her way to the Mansion House, a fine brick building that had once been a hotel. It was now a military hospital of some seven hundred beds. Emma got a look at the wards as she tracked down the surgeon, and was impressed with their quiet and cleanliness.
The surgeon, Dr. Porter, peered through spectacles at Dr. Bonine’s note. “Quinine, eh? Yes, we have some. Not a great amount to spare, but this time of year there is less call for it. Come along, I’ll have some packed up for you.”
Emma followed him to a large and very well-stocked dispensary, where he set an assistant to measuring out a quantity of quinine. She murmured a compliment on the dispensary’s quality, and the surgeon smiled.
“We have the advantage of permanence. You regimental fellows must be ready to move at a moment’s notice, and cannot keep such a complete store.”
“Hence our need to impose upon you.”
“It is no imposition. I get such requests all the time. I take care to have sufficient store to cover them. Now tell me, have you actually had a malaria case?”
“One, but it is not new. A relapse.”
“Ah. Well, this should make him more comfortable.”
He accepted the package—a bottle wrapped in brown paper against the weather—from the clerk, and handed it to Emma. She received it with a nod.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You may tell Dr. Bonine he is welcome.”
She followed him out, down the well-lit main corridor to the front of the hospital. She could not help glancing into the wards they passed.
“These men are fortunate, to be indoors out of the cold,” she said.
“They are the worst cases, those who would not survive in a field hospital. Many of them will not survive here, either, but we do our best.” Dr. Porter raised an eyebrow as he looked at Emma. “Perhaps you would like to be assigned here, instead of working in the cold?”
“Oh, I don’t regard the cold,” Emma said, watching through an open doorway as a nurse fed broth to a man who was bandaged from head to toe.
Dr. Porter followed her gaze. “Trapped in a tent that caught fire. Badly burned, but he should survive. Have a care to your stoves, private.”
She met his gaze. “I will, sir. Thank you.”
Upon returning to the regimental hospital, Emma found Jerome building up the fires in the stoves that heated the main tent. She dutifully felt the chimney-pipes to make sure they were not becoming too hot. Jerome watched her with an offended eye, so she told him of the burn victim she had seen at the Mansion House.
“Dear God,” he said. “How dreadful!”
“Yes.”
She started for the nurses’ station. Jerome followed.
“Why did Dr. Bonine send you there?” he asked.
“Quinine,” Emma said absently, glancing at the sick roll.
“I could have fetched it.”
“I was at hand.”
“Frank ....”
Emma looked up, raising an eyebrow. Jerome met her gaze.
“Have I somehow offended you?”
“No.” She blinked. “I am not offended.”
Jealous, angry, mortified—but not offended. Was he upset at her keeping a distance? She was only trying to protect herself. To protect them both.
“Well, I’m going to get some coffee,” Jerome said. “Shall I bring you some?”
Thus Jerome, being kind again. It was almost too much to bear.
“No, thank you,” Emma said. It was not that she did not appreciate the offer, but that the thought of drinking coffee sent her stomach shrinking into a knot.
Jerome’s lips thinned to a line, then he turned and left the tent. Emma allowed herself a sigh, and sought to distract herself with work.
Every day, it seemed, there were moments of awkwardness between her and Jerome. They were offset by moments of happiness, such as the prayer meetings they continued to attend and the walks they still occasionally took when the weather allowed, but there was constraint between them. Emma no longer worried that Jerome would reveal her. It was not that concern that troubled her, but Anna Corey.
Jerome still spoke of his fair correspondent, though with far more reserve than before. Still, every word stung Emma. She listened in silence, and changed the subject as soon as she could, but sometimes all she could do was to walk away.
This puzzled and annoyed Jerome, which in turn irritated Emma the more. She thought he should know that she did not wish to hear about Miss Corey, but apparently he could not help talking of her.
Gradually Emma came to the realization that she must make a change. She loved Jerome, but it hurt her to be near him, to listen to him praise Miss Corey. If he had ever felt an attraction toward Emma, he had chosen against it, and it was folly to remain where hopeless hope tormented her. She must make a change.
On a fine day in mid-December she walked into Alexandria and went to the Mansion House hospital. Seeking out Dr. Porter, she reminded him of his suggestion that she might serve at that hospital, and told him she was now interested.
He smiled. “Cold troubling you after all, young man?”
“Not the cold, sir, but I would like a change of scene.”
“Dr. Bo
nine speaks highly of you. He will be sorry to lose you.”
Surprised, Emma felt her cheeks grow warm. “H-he would not be losing me permanently. When the regiment marches again—”
“Which will not be for some months, I imagine.” Dr. Jones smiled. “Very well, Private. I will consider your request.”
Emma walked back to camp, feeling slightly adrift. Dr. Jones had promised nothing, but the act of making the request had shaken something free within her. She would leave the regimental hospital, she knew now. If the Mansion House did not come through for her, she would find something else.
Her heart ached with the thought of leaving Jerome, her daily companion of the last several weeks. Yet it ached with being near him as well, and the ache of absence would be the lesser, she thought.
On Christmas Eve, the Second Michigan’s camp was filled with a mixture of sadness and cheer. There would be an excellent dinner on the morrow—chicken and turkey for all—but the separation from loved ones made for a melancholy holiday. The mail carrier was eagerly looked for.
Emma went to the hospital tent and volunteered for night duty so that others could spend Christmas Eve with their friends. Jerome was absent on an errand for Dr. Bonine, and the hospital was fairly quiet. Most of the patients at present were sick, rather than wounded, for even the skirmishes between pickets had fallen off with the coming of winter.
The mail carrier came up from the camp, and the patients turned anxious eyes toward him. Whenever he arrived down in the Second’s camp a crowd always formed around him, but these men were confined to their beds for the most part. The mail carrier looked to Emma for help. Emma cheerfully accepted the handful of letters and glanced through them to be sure all of the recipients were present in the hospital.
Anna Corey’s handwriting leapt out at her. She swallowed and shifted the letter to the back of the stack, looking at the next. She sorted through them, handing a couple of the letters back to the mail carrier and explaining that the recipients had returned to their companies. Two letters addressed to Frank Thompson caught her by surprise; one was in Miss Daphne’s handwriting, her dutiful holiday greeting to her soldier friend. The other was from Dr. Jones at the Mansion House. Emma tucked both into her pocket.
She thanked the mail carrier and went around the ward delivering letters to the lucky recipients, knowing she would soon be called upon to read some of them aloud. Jerome’s letter from Miss Corey she placed upon the nurses’ table. If he did not return to the hospital she would send it down to him at the camp.
Dark thoughts tempted her; she might lose the letter instead. Mail often went astray. For a moment she indulged in imagining tearing up Miss Corey’s careful penmanship and disposing of the shreds in the sink, but she would never actually do so. No good could come of it. Her Christian duty was to do the opposite—to make certain Jerome received his letter, and to wish him happiness from it.
Emma returned to the ward and went around to those men who had not received mail, spending time with each of them, reading to them if they wished it, or merely talking. Most were thinking of home and family on this day. Emma listened, smiling and encouraging them to look forward to a brighter future.
She then read letters to those men who were too ill to read themselves, and promised to help write responses. One man, who was so weak from dysentery that he could hardly keep his eyes open, listened in silence. When Emma finished reading his wife’s letter his lips formed the words, “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome,” Emma said. “I will read it to you again later if you wish.”
He nodded slightly, then closed his eyes and sighed, his expression peaceful. Emma smiled, slid the letter under his hand, then went on to the next patient.
It was late afternoon by the time she had a moment to peruse her own letters. She opened the note from Dr. Jones first, and discovered it to be an order to report to Mansion House hospital for duty on the morrow.
Her heart staggered slightly. She glanced out at the patients, feeling a strange reluctance to leave them. They would be cared for, she knew, but it was strange to think it would not be by her.
She stood up, and feeling restless, walked out to the cook tent to get herself some coffee. Dr. Bonine was there and Emma showed him her orders from Dr. Jones.
“Ah, yes. He sent me a note as well. We shall miss you, Frank.”
“I—thank you, sir. It is only temporary.” She glanced at the cook, a new man recently assigned to the duty, whom she disliked.
“It will be good experience for you,” Dr. Bonine said, smiling. “You will learn a thing or two there, I expect.”
Emma smiled back and returned the letter to her pocket before pouring herself a cup of coffee. She went back to the hospital tent and sat on the nurses’ couch, sipping gingerly at the brew. It was strong and tasted slightly burned, but she did not care. At least it was hot.
Setting the cup aside, she took out Miss Daphne’s letter, and was soon smiling at a description of the Ladies’ Afternoon organized by Mrs. Joslin for the purpose of sending Christmas cheer to every soldier in the Grays. This was a formidable task, and while Miss Daphne did not complain, exactly, she did congratulate herself on her fortitude at committing to write eight letters all in an afternoon, which made Emma chuckle.
Daphne had been highly amused by a story Emma had written to her of catching an eel for a patient who craved fish. Unable to extract the hook from its mouth, Emma had resorted to dragging the eel back to the Second’s camp by the fishing line. Miss Daphne wanted to know if “Frank” had ever retrieved his fishhook. Her letter concluded shortly thereafter (Emma had no doubt she was conserving her resources for the labor to which she had set herself), with kind wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Smiling softly, Emma was folding the letter when she heard a step outside the tent and glanced up to see Jerome coming in. A tumble of emotions went though her upon seeing him, knowing she would no longer be constantly near him.
His gaze went past her to the letter lying on the table, and his eyes lit with happiness. Emma glanced away, and busied herself with putting her letter from Miss Daphne in her pocket.
She stood up, then, and taking up writing-board, paper, pen and ink, went back into the hospital ward to write letters for those unable to hold a pen. This kept her busy until it was time for the patients’ supper, when she must of necessity work with Jerome to help some of the men who could not feed themselves.
They moved in accord, having little need to speak as they both knew what needed to be done. Emma felt the harmony between them, the understanding that enabled them to communicate with a glance or a nod. She treasured that understanding still, and her heart was heavy with the thought of parting from Jerome.
She knew, though, that she must, and in any case, it was already done. All that remained was to make her farewells, but she was strangely reluctant to do so.
Perhaps she feared his taking offense, or demanding an explanation. Certainly she had no wish to discuss her reasons for leaving; if he did not understand them at once and by instinct, then he was better off not knowing them.
The patients having been fed, Emma and Jerome retired to the couch with their own supper. They talked a little of the day, the progress of the patients, and the latest Washington newspaper, which had already been passed around the ward so much that it was beginning to fall apart.
“Chaplain Brown has invited a few of us to his tent for prayer this evening,” Jerome said. “Do you join us?”
Emma shook her head. “I have taken the night duty. Please give the chaplain my regards.”
“You are always taking night duty.”
“I like the quiet.”
Emma smiled, thinking of the evening they had first met. Jerome met her gaze, and Emma felt again the kinship she treasured, along with a pang of sorrow at leaving. Jerome seemed to sense this, for his brow creased slightly.
“Is everything well with you, Frank?”
“Quite we
ll, thank you.”
Jerome gazed at her a little longer, then looked away. “It is hard to believe Christmas is here already.”
“Yes. The autumn passed quickly. I have enjoyed your friendship, Jerome.”
He looked at her again, a slight puzzlement in his expression. “And I yours.”
“I have a present for you.”
Emma set aside her plate and took a small, silver watch and chain from her coat pocket. She placed them in Jerome’s hand and squeezed it briefly.
“Th-thank you,” Jerome said, looking astonished. “I didn’t ... I haven’t—”
Emma shook her head. “Merry Christmas, Jerome.”
He gazed at her, then smiled the smile that lit his face with happiness. “Merry Christmas.”
Emma smiled back, and feeling a lump begin to form in her throat, made haste to stand up and carry her plate away. Jerome took his leave shortly thereafter. She bade him good night and watched him walk down the hill to the camp, hoping he would understand when he arrived for duty on the morrow and learned that she was gone.
Mansion House was an agreeable place to work, and Emma quickly adjusted to her new situation. Dr. Jones was kind, if also strict, and appreciated her ability to cheer the sick and wounded men who came to Mansion House hospital.
As the winter wore on and spring approached, Emma felt herself regaining her balance. If she still missed Jerome, at least she no longer thought of him day and night. She made other friends, good friends and good company, if not so close as she had been with Jerome. She continued well in health, and often attended prayer meetings, though not always in the Second Michigan’s camp.
Still, she felt a lingering sadness that she could not seem to shake. At times she would leave her shift at the hospital in a state close to despair, and would seek comfort in the Scripture. At others she knew a heavy reluctance to return to the hospital, though once there she became caught up in answering the needs of the unfortunate men who were wounded or sick.
She found it harder and harder to bear the demise of those who were beyond recovering. Each death seemed to tear a small piece from her heart. She prayed for the strength to endure.