“Say there, ma’am,” one of the soldiers said to Miss Dix. “I mean no disrespect, but it does seem to me like this here soldier wants this Miss Waverly to stay, seeing as she’s keeping the flies off him in his dying moments and all. Sure would be a shame to take away that last comfort for him, now wouldn’t it? Seems like it wouldn’t hurt anybody for this lady to just help him die.”
Silence hung thickly in the air until it was broken by the sound of retreating footsteps.
Charlotte exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and focused on the patient beside her. “There, there,” she whispered. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
But with doctors like Judson and Dragon Dix in charge, she herself didn’t believe it.
Chapter Thirteen
Five Points, New York City
Wednesday, July 3, 1861
As Ruby walked up Baxter Street, rollicking voices spilled out of taverns and houses on either side of her. Just ahead, marching around in front of a saloon, women holding signs and Bibles from the American Female Reform Society chanted, “Repent of your sin! Turn to Jesus!”
What is my sin? Her heart cried out as she tucked her chin to her chest and walked past them. What am I being punished for?
A clear voice rang out above the rest of the women as a plump woman in a dark blue bonnet read from the small New Testament in her hand: “And Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.” Ruby lifted her head and listened.
The voice went on. “Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”
At this, Ruby did an about-face and marched right up to the woman who had been reading.
“Did I hear that right, missus?” Her voice sounded sharper than she intended it to. “Would you read it again?”
“It’s the gospel of John, chapter eight,” said the woman. “Do you know the story?”
Ruby shook her head.
“Some men brought to Jesus a woman who had been caught in the act of adultery, expecting Jesus to condemn her to death. But instead, He told her accusers that whoever was without sin should be the first to cast a stone at her. No one did, because everyone sins. Jesus asked her then, if any of her accusers remained. That’s where I began reading, at verse eleven.” The woman pointed to her Bible at this point and began reading from it. “No man, Lord. And Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more. Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”
Ruby chewed on her lip for a moment before raising her green eyes again. “I’m not perfect missus, but neither have I been an adulterer or a prostitute. I’m a clean and decent woman, sure, but I can’t make ends meet as hard as I yank on ’em and coax ’em together. I’ve pawned everything I own but the clothes on my back. I don’t want to sell anything else. I don’t want to walk in darkness.”
“I’m glad to hear of it.”
“You and these other ladies here are telling us to not walk in darkness, but where is the way out? Maybe you think I’m some sort of base woman just because you have found me on Baxter Street in Five Points. I’m not here because I want to be, but because all other doors have slammed shut in my face. I’ll say it again: I don’t want to walk in darkness. But show me the way out of here.”
The reformer woman’s gaze raked over Ruby’s body, but not unkindly. “Where do you live?” she asked.
“Today? Mrs. Sullivan’s Lodging House on Baxter Street. But at the end of the week I’m out on the street, in a flophouse, or in a brothel.” Ruby wondered how often the woman had heard this story before.
The woman nodded. “You want to get away from here?”
“More than anything, if I can do it without selling my soul,” said Ruby. “Problem is, I don’t know that I can stay without selling my soul, either.”
“Do you have any skills?”
“I can sew. But I can’t make a living at it. I keep falling behind in my rent payments. And I already tried the House of Industry—they have no need of me.”
“Have you any family responsibilities that require your time?”
Fleeting images of Meghan and Fiona passed in front of her eyes, followed by Matthew. He should be home by now. Or he should have at least tried to find her. But if he came home now, he wouldn’t even know where to look. Maybe that’s the way he wanted it.
“Miss?”
Ruby blinked and shook her head. “No, no family responsibilities.”
The woman pressed her lips together. “I know of an opening for a domestic servant in a smart brownstone on West Twenty-first Street. The help just left, and the mistress wants a replacement right away. Can’t seem to keep up with this one—but first I need to know about your character. Have you references?”
Ruby sighed. “None that will help you. But I swear on my father’s grave, I am as upright and moral as I can be. I never have a drop of liquor, I don’t make sport with my body. I work hard, and I’d never give you a reason to regret placing me. I swear it.”
Another reforming woman sidled over and whispered loudly, “But Bertha, is she ‘the worthy poor’? How do we know she is worth our charity?”
Bertha took a deep breath. “Ethel, we’ve been over this before. Charity and justice are two different things. If we are about the work of charity, it’s not our place to mete out just consequences for the destitute’s choices. And look at this one.” She gestured to Ruby. “No bloodshot eyes from liquor, her clothing is not that of a prostitute, her posture tells us she has spent years bent over her needlework. She’s asking about the Bible, Ethel, for heaven’s sake. What else do you want from her?”
“References.”
“Please missus, I can’t give you that, but I have to get away from here. Would I have approached you on my own if I weren’t serious?”
Bertha sighed. “I hope you’re right. I prefer to trust the good in people, although that has landed me in trouble on more than one occasion.”
“Get me out of here,” Ruby pleaded. “I have no pride. I’m an honest woman, I am. Just give me honest work and I’ll do it.” Dear God, if You care at all …
Bertha and Ethel looked at each other then, unblinking.
Finally, it was Bertha who spoke. “All right. Let’s get you cleaned up and into some decent clothes before the stink of this place soaks into you any more than it already has. If Jesus gave the adulterous woman another chance, we should be able to give you one, too.”
New York City
Sunday, July 7, 1861
The letter in Phineas Hastings’s hand was nearly damp with perspiration by the time he dropped it into a post office box. He had tried to forget Charlotte after she had rejected his proposal that humiliating day in Central Park, but it was no use. He had never met anyone else nearly as beautiful and refined. The war would be over by Christmas, this nursing nonsense would come to an end, and they could begin their new life together. Phineas hoped his letter’s deep apology and romantic overtures would hit their mark in Charlotte’s heart.
Now under the shade of an elm tree on West Twenty-first Street, he ran a finger around his neck, separating it from the stiff white collar constantly sticking to it. The high-pitched hum of cicadas throbbed in his ears as he scanned the street in both directions. No one was coming.
He crossed quickly in long strides before letting himself in the door at number 301 with his key. The strong smells of perfume and silver polish assaulted his senses as he hung his grey bowler hat on the hall stand and combed his black hair in front of the mirror.
“Mother?” he called out, now straightening the red cravat at his neck.
“Parlor!” Fanny Hatch’s New York accent dropped the r’s from her words, irritating Phineas’s sensitivity for proper diction, but he held his tongue and put on a smile as he walked toward her voice and th
e sound of clicking knitting needles.
“How are you feeling today, Mother?” He kissed her cheek and pulled up a low armless chair, upholstered in red velvet, to sit at her arthritic feet. The joints in her legs had become so painful she rarely moved from her chosen sitting position all day.
“Ah, Pottsy—”
“It’s Phineas, Mother,” he said, wincing at the sound of the name from another class and another life. “It’s been Phineas for quite some time now.”
“I don’t care what you call yourself, your name is Potter. Always has been, always will be, and you’ll always be my Pottsy. So. I was saying? Oh. My health, thank you for asking. It’s not good, not good at all. My head aches so constantly, my nerves are so frayed. This city heat is not good for me. And did I tell you the help left?”
“Oh? Which one this time?”
“Bridget. No, Barbara. No, Bridget. Fidgetty Bridget.”
“I see. And what was the cause?”
“I fired her.”
“Ah. For good reason, I am sure.”
“Any reason is a good reason, am I right, Potts?” She chortled and slapped a veiny hand upon a darkly draped knee. Not that she was a widow. Or maybe she was, but no one knew. Regardless, it was much easier to play the role of widow rather than that of the abandoned woman. Phineas pinched the bridge of his nose. Any hint of guilt he ever felt for telling people his parents were dead was swept away every time he visited his mother. If anyone learned the truth about his background, his social standing would plummet. His chances as Charlotte’s suitor would certainly be over.
“I was saying? Oh yes. Bridget. What a sack of lazy bones, between you and me, Potts, and good riddance. Absolutely no gratitude whatsoever, that one. Kept wanting time off. Lazybones.”
Phineas grimaced. She knew how he hated that name, and she still insisted on using it. Without thinking, he reached into the pocket of his suit, pulled out the gold watch, and felt the reassuring weight of it in his palm.
“Well, you must have a replacement, Mother. Have you found anyone yet?”
“As a matter of fact, they sent me some fresh blood already.”
“Who’s they, pray tell?”
“Well I’ll pray tell you.” She snorted at her joke. “The Female Reform Society. You know, the group of uppity women who say they’re trying to prevent the worthy poor from falling into the pit of prostitution. They find girls who are willing to work for very little, as long as room and board are paid for. Usually Irish.”
“So tell me about your new girl.” He certainly had nothing else in mind to discuss.
“Not nearly so fat as Bridget, a real slip of a thing.”
“Starving?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. Didn’t ask. And I don’t eat with the servants, so I couldn’t tell how fast she gobbles her food.”
“What are her tasks?”
“Oh, the usual: dusting, polishing the brass and silver, brushing out the carpets, serving and cleaning up after meals. I still have Rose as cook, so I need no help on that account.”
“Hmmm, splendid.”
“You and your ten-dollar words,” said Fanny. Phineas rolled his eyes. Why do I even bother coming here?
“I was saying? Oh. The girl is older than most I’ve had but says she has no family, all’s the better for me. Reddish hair, green eyes, very white skin—but not fancy society white, more like sickly white. But she’ll brighten up after she’s been here a while. Who knows what kind of dark tenement living she’s been used to.”
“Sounds … lovely.”
“Gah! Don’t matter what she looks like—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Phineas corrected under his breath.
“What doesn’t matter? Oh!” She swatted at a fly in front of her. “As long as she can work. Got a real funny name for a poor Irish girl, too; something fancy and rich-like. What was it?” Fanny gazed absently at the white marble fireplace across the room and pinched her chin until a coarse black hair stuck out between her thumb and the second knuckle of her forefinger. Disgusting habit. “Pearl. No, Emerald. No, Opal. No. Was it Emerald? Like ‘the Emerald Isle’? That’s Ireland, right? Ah! Teatime! Good, I’m starved!”
Phineas sighed and rubbed his aching forehead with his meticulously cared for fingers. No wonder his mother’s head hurt. She brought it upon herself with all that jabbering away. He could put her in fine clothes, in a fine house, on a fine street, but it was no use. Fanny Hatch didn’t have a refined bone in her squat little body—and worse, she didn’t care. Not like Phineas did. He had made something of himself. And even though he had changed his name—for who had ever heard of a gentleman named Potter Hatch?—he had remained loyal to her. When his father left him the “man” in charge when he rushed after gold in ’49, Phineas had taken the charge seriously. He still did. As much as his mother’s blunt and uncouth ways grated on his nerves, he would take care of her. She was the only family he had, and he was responsible for her. He just didn’t want anyone else to know it.
“There you are, Emerald!” Fanny called out loudly now.
Phineas looked up to see the new girl, hunched over a silver tray laden with teapot, cups and saucers, and a mound of gingerbread cookies. Why was she staring at him that way?
“Come now, Emerald, put the tray down now, we don’t have all day.” Fanny flapped her arms. “Oh. This is my son, whose name is Potter, but who calls himself Phineas. Phineas Huckleberry. No, Hepzibah. No—”
“That will do, Mother,” Phineas interrupted. “Here, let me help you with that.” He took the tray from the new servant, but her arms remained bent at the elbows even after the weight had been lifted. Phineas studied her hands, still uplifted, the calloused pinpricked fingertips, before raising his eyes to meet hers once again. He knew this woman. He had seen her before on Broadway. That prostitute Emma’s friend. An alarm rang in his mind. Just how much did she overhear that day? Would she remember it? What was her name again?
“It’s Emerald, isn’t it?” Fanny said again. “For your green eyes or your homeland or something?”
“No, missus,” she said. “’Tis Ruby. For my hair.”
Chapter Fourteen
Ebbitt House, Washington City
Monday, July 8, 1861
Charlotte stood by the window in their rooms at the Ebbitt House, watching the endless parade of regiments marching toward Virginia, while Alice paced in circles in their room. Jacob’s regiment was scheduled to join them within days.
“Alice, you’ll wear a track right through that carpet if you don’t stop,” said Charlotte without turning her face from the window. Tanned faces and trim bodies eager for battle kept filing by. She waved a little flag out the window for them, which was met by a manly cheer so loud it made Alice jump. Bright eyes and white teeth shone under their forage caps as they smiled at her from their ordered rows, and she boldly smiled back. These were her boys, and they were fighting for her country. For her. Who could help but love them?
“Why do you keep doing that?” Alice asked. “You are enjoying all of this far too much.”
“Oh come now.” She waved a hand in the window again, and roused another hurrah from a new set of faces. “Although you must admit, it is rather exciting to be part of history this way, isn’t it?”
Alice shook her head. “Being part of history is far less appealing when that history is war, and your husband is leading a charge into battle. Speaking of men, did I see you receive a letter today from a certain man pining away for you from home?”
Charlotte chuckled. “It seems silly, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t it be the other way around—the lovesick sweetheart on the home front writing to her soldier on the battlefield?”
“We’re not all fighters. What did he say?”
“He apologized for being ‘rude’ to me the last time we were together.” But he was worse than rude. He was frightening. “And, oh yes, he wants me to marry him.”
“What? Where is it?”
Charlotte held up
the letter and Alice snatched it from her at once, scanning the slanted lines. “Why, he’s quite romantic, isn’t he? You know, Jacob never quite warmed to him—but it’s not Jacob Phineas wants to marry. What will you tell him?” Her eyes were round, and although Charlotte was glad Alice’s mind was diverted from Jacob going into battle, she wished her attention was not fixed so firmly on her love life.
“I haven’t decided.”
“Do you forgive him for his rudeness?”
“I suppose I ought to. He had never done anything like that before, and he seems apologetic enough. But he has never really liked the idea of my being here, and that bothers me a great deal.”
“But now he says he can understand it, and he’ll wait for you to be together by—” she glanced at the letter again. “By Christmas. Yes, everyone says the war will be over by then, and there will be no more nursing to do anyway. So will you agree to his proposal then?”
Charlotte looked at her sister and tilted her head to one side, debating in her mind. She could think of no good reason not to marry him as long as she could nurse first. But then, she had trouble coming up with a compelling reason to marry him, as well. She had always thought when the right man found her, she would know beyond a shadow of a doubt. Maybe that’s why Dr. Blackwell never married. Maybe that’s why Dorothea Dix was still single. Neither had husbands, and both of them had accomplished so much. Did she really have to choose between love and duty?
“Charlotte,” Alice said again. “Will you marry him? Women don’t get marriage proposals every day, you know. Especially not at your age. You ought to think twice before letting it pass you by.”
Charlotte gazed out the window at the soldiers marching by until the last one had vanished from sight. Not one of them had looked back.
Sanitary Commission Headquarters, Treasury Building,
Washington City
Tuesday, July 9, 1861
Wedded to War (Heroines Behind the Lines) Page 12