Wedded to War (Heroines Behind the Lines)

by Jocelyn Green

  Autumn was coming. And after that, winter. Ruby shuddered. Stretched out in front of her lay months of never getting warm, of constant runny nose and cough, of wind so cold and sharp as it came through the broken windows it would scrape her face like a razor. Her hands would become stiff and clumsy. She would make mistakes with her uncooperative needle, if she were so lucky as to find more work to do. Yesterday, she had asked the tailor Simon Levitz for some and he had said he didn’t have any for her. That her position had been taken.

  Work would be nice, but today her most pressing goal was finding a place to sleep. She had spent last night in a flophouse among drunks reeking of whiskey. She had tried a cellar room before that, but left when she was told that “boarders” were to remove their dirty clothes before sleeping in the tiers of canvas stretched between wood poles. Don’t want yer filthy rags soiling the beds, the owner had said, preferring instead the soiled naked bodies, and yet providing no bedclothes at all.

  Five Points was a nightmare from which she couldn’t wake herself. Living in Seneca Village—that had only been a dream. The slums were her reality. She was so tired. Too tired, anymore, to fight the crushing current that kept sweeping her back to this place.

  “Repent of your sin! Turn to Jesus!” The ladies from the American Moral Reform Society still marched about in front of the taverns and saloons on Baxter Street, drawing Ruby like a beggar to bread.

  “Is Bertha here today?” she asked.

  “No she isn’t. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “She placed me as a domestic in a home, and it didn’t work. I was wondering if she might have another spot for me somewhere.”

  “Well that depends, of course. Why didn’t it work?”

  “The mistress’s son was treating me ill. Using me something fierce, he was.”

  “Who was this? Which family?”

  Ruby sighed. Telling her secret couldn’t make life much worse for her at this point. “It was Fanny Hatch’s residence.”

  The woman’s eyes sparked. “Fanny Hatch you said? Why, she doesn’t have a son, as far as we know. But she did take the time to get a message to our office yesterday. She said you may come by.”

  This can’t be good. Ruby shifted her weight from one soggy foot to the other, waiting for more.

  “Matter of fact, she told us you quit without notice before she even awoke Monday morning, after complaining of a headache the night before. That you’d been distracted lately and didn’t follow directions.”

  Ruby listened silently. It was all true.

  “She also said she suspected you of being a woman of the town. Not sleeping at night, falling asleep on the job … With a blemish like that against your character, we can’t possibly place you in another home.”

  “What about what Bertha read from the Bible—about that lass caught in adultery, and Jesus telling her to go and sin no more? What about forgiveness and grace? Not that I’m an adulterer. I’m a decent woman, I am.”

  The woman shook her head. “Jesus forgives all sin, but this society has a responsibility to put only the most upright girls in the homes of our constituents. If we knowingly put a woman of questionable character in someone’s home, we break our moral obligation.” Ruby started walking away, but the woman kept talking after her. “People stop trusting us, and we can no longer give jobs to clean and decent women. Everyone loses. You see? We can’t help you.”

  The words thudded in her ears like blocks of wood.

  And then she heard a different voice. The voice of the only friend she had ever had this side of the ocean. The only help we’ll get is the help we give ourselves, she had said. Imagine … You never have to wear those rags again, or lack for a meal…. You could get out of here. Let me buy you a bonnie new dress. Clean you up, fix your hair. You could start a better life. ’Tisn’t so bad if you don’t think about it much.

  That wouldn’t be very hard. Ruby was done thinking. All her plans had failed her. She had already been defiled by a man not her husband, and she could never erase that. Was it a sin if it wasn’t her fault? Would it be her fault if the sin was the only way to survive? Everyone else had turned their backs on her. It was time for her to help herself

  It was time to find Emma.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Washington City

  Wednesday, August 7, 1861

  Charlotte,” Alice called down the narrow corridor of Columbian College Hospital. “Charlotte, may I have a moment, please?” She looked immaculate, as ever, her honey-blonde hair smoothly in place under her snood as she glided toward her sister.

  Charlotte paused, eager to get back to her patients. She had finished mixing charcoal, quicklime, and sand together, thrown it into the trench to disinfect it, and was now writing letters for the boys. So far, Dr. Murray still insisted he didn’t need her help with any actual nursing.

  “You know I’ve been going around to the hospitals in Washington and Alexandria with Maurice to deliver supplies and let Dr. Blackwell know how the nurses are getting on.”

  “Did you go to Alexandria today?” Charlotte interrupted. “Did you get a chance to see Jacob while you were there?”

  “Yes, thank heavens, and he sends his love. I was so disappointed he was out drilling last time I went. But back to my point—I’ve noticed something in all of the hospitals. I mean, I haven’t noticed something.”

  Charlotte arched an eyebrow.

  “Clergy. I’ve not seen a chaplain assigned to hospital duty. Wouldn’t it be wise to have someone on hand to read to the patients, write letters, perform funerals, counsel the grieving family members? What do you think?”

  Charlotte tapped a finger on her chin. “Well, that would certainly be invaluable at this hospital. Are there no chaplains assigned to any of the hospitals?”

  “None.”

  “Right.” Charlotte nodded. “Write to Professor Smith straight away. Surely he knows of a graduate of the Union Theological Seminary who would be glad of such an appointment and who has qualifications for such special missionary work. We can work on getting a government commission later, but let’s get it started anyway.”

  Dr. Murray walked up to them. “Scheming again,” he declared, more than asked. Caleb’s visit had proven not to be the cure for Dr. Murray’s malignant attitude toward Charlotte, but at least he was allowing her to sleep on a cot inside the building now.

  “Chaplains for the hospitals,” said Charlotte. “Surely you must agree we have need of one. He could pray with the men, comfort the dying, read to them from the Bible, perform funeral rites.”

  “Prayer won’t save these men. Science will. Religion is a crutch for the weak.”

  “You’ll pardon me for saying so,” Charlotte said, “but in case you haven’t noticed, science doesn’t seem to be saving these boys either.” She thought of Caleb, who had sent two dozen roses to her before he left Washington, and a pang of disloyalty shot through her.

  “So then why don’t we just close down the hospitals? Since we’re not doing any good anyway, we can all go home! Just pray for the soldiers and leave them to God’s keeping. It’s all up to Him anyway, isn’t that right, Miss Waverly?”

  Alice glanced at Charlotte expectantly.

  “That’s not what I meant.” Charlotte sighed. “God is sovereign, yes, but He wants to use us in the process. And we need to be concerned about both the body and the spirit. That’s all I’m saying. We need doctors and chaplains both. Sometimes chaplains can provide hope when the doctor says there is none.”

  “Soldiers die, Miss Waverly. It’s what they do. The sooner you can get that through your pretty little head, the better. Come with me.”

  “Go write to Professor Smith,” Charlotte whispered to Alice as she followed on Dr. Murray’s heels.

  Hot wind whipped up dust devils between and around the tents behind Columbian College Hospital, either stirring up the miasma of contagious diseases, or blowing them away. At the third row, Dr. Murray climbed the two steps up
to the wooden platform that served as a floor to the tent and lifted a heavy flap of dirty canvas. “Are you coming?” he called over his shoulder to Charlotte, his face flushed with heat. He had been as unbearable as this scorching weather. Unrelenting and blistering.

  At the bedside of the patient in the corner of the dark tent, he stopped. “This is Private Mitchell Nelson, of the Second Connecticut Volunteers.” He was drenched in sweat and delirious. If he had been well, he would be mustering out of military service at this very moment.

  “Dr. Lansing’s patient,” said Charlotte.

  “Used to be,” said Dr. Murray. “Now he’s yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “You said you wanted to nurse, and Dr. Lansing told me to take special care of this man. You’re perfect for each other.”

  A thrill of excitement shuddered through Charlotte. Finally, a chance to put her nursing skills into practice!

  “What ails him? Typical fever?”

  Dr. Murray shook his head. “Bullet passed through him. Entered at the left abdomen, exited out the right buttock. Watch this.” He lifted Nelson’s hospital gown to chest level, revealing a severely distended abdomen. After removing the blackened dressings from the abdomen wound, he pressed gently near the navel. Gas and feces exuded from the open wound.

  Charlotte covered her mouth and nose with her hand, but the odor lodged stubbornly in the back of her throat.

  “Same thing happened through the exit wound, too. The rifle ball cut through the bowel and the bladder. When he tries to urinate, feces and gas escape through the urethra.”

  “What can we do for him?”

  “It’s a mortal wound. Lucky for you, he’ll die soon enough. But in the meantime, change the dressings often. They are continuously dirtied by fecal matter. After last week, you should be used to that.”

  “Is there nothing else to be done?”

  “Cut away the dead material from the edges of the wounds.”

  “Cutting away skin—isn’t that a surgeon’s job?”

  “I don’t have time to waste on lost causes. If you think you do, then be my guest. As long as you mix and throw the disinfectant into the trench every day, he’s all yours. Irrigate the wounds frequently with green tea. Boil it, then cool it to lukewarm so you don’t scald him.”

  “Will it help?”

  He shrugged. “It will relieve some pain, but it won’t heal him. Nothing can. Not me. Not you.” He squinted up into the cloudless sky, his fists on his hips. “Not even God.”

  Dr. Murray slipped out the tent flap and disappeared. The thud of his retreating footsteps on the parched earth faded as she looked down at Private Nelson. Caleb’s patient. Her patient.

  She knelt down on the rough wooden floor beside his head. “Private Nelson,” she said, not knowing whether he could hear her, “I hope the fact that I’m a woman doesn’t bother you, but I’m going to be your nurse, and I’m going to try to make you as comfortable as possible.” She laid a gentle hand lightly on his shoulder. “Allow me a moment to go and fetch some fresh bandages for you. You won’t even know I’m gone.”

  On her way to the storeroom, a woman’s laughter floated down the stairwell. Surely a nurse would have no reason to cackle like that on duty. A polite laugh or restrained chuckle, perhaps—the patients enjoyed sharing jokes—but not that sort of squeal.

  Charlotte lifted her skirts and quietly climbed the stairs toward the sound. Perhaps the poor soul needed comforting.

  “Hello?” Charlotte called at the fourth floor. “Everything all right?”

  Whispers hissed, then fell quiet all together.

  Down the hall Charlotte walked, peeking in every room she passed along the way.

  “Shhh! Quiet! Someone’s coming,” came a masculine voice.

  Charlotte stopped, frozen. Whoever was down there was decidedly not a poor soul, and not in need of her comfort. She waited in the hall to see who would emerge.

  She didn’t need to wait long.

  Out tumbled the hospital steward, John Fitzburg, his normally slicked-back brown hair rumpled and falling down over his forehead.

  “Why, if it isn’t Miss Waverly! Standing in line, are we? I must say I’m flattered.”

  Charlotte was already hot from the August heat, but felt her temperature rise even higher at the insinuation. Before she had time to formulate a retort, Cora Carter appeared, smoothing her hair into place. Her skirt was crooked at the waist.

  “Oh her.” Cora sneered. “What are you doing here, anyway, Miss Chamber Pots?”

  Charlotte lifted her chin. “I should ask the same of you, Miss Carter. Another day, another conquest? Don’t you have some patients that need tending to?”

  Cora shrugged, smiling, while she straightened her skirt. “They ain’t going anywhere.”

  Charlotte turned to Mr. Fitzburg, then. “As much as I hate to admit it, I have need of your assistance. I need to get into the storeroom for bandages, if you please.”

  He raised his eyebrows and made a quick bow to Cora behind him. “Been a pleasure, my dear, and now if you’ll excuse me, this fine lady has need of me.” He jiggled his eyebrows up and down.

  “Ha! Don’t bother with the likes of her, Johnny, she’s not as—accommodating of your needs as I am.”

  Mr. Fitzburg threw up a hand to silence Cora without turning around and walked briskly down the hallway, Charlotte following close behind.

  “Who ordered the bandages?” he asked as they made their way down the stairs.

  “Dr. Murray.”

  “Really? Doesn’t sound like him. I had pretty much given up on him ever wanting to put you to work as a real nurse.”

  “Well, he’s making an exception this time.” Charlotte should have guessed this wouldn’t be an easy process.

  “Did you fill out a form? Requesting the bandages?”

  “Oh—and some scissors.”

  “You’ll definitely need to fill out a form for those.”

  “How long does it take to get the supplies after filling out a form?”

  “That depends on how bad you want it.” He flashed a toothy grin and raked over her body with a half-lidded gaze.

  Charlotte didn’t understand this game he was playing. There certainly had been no lectures at New York Hospital on how to manage lecherous hospital stewards. Maybe there should be.

  Arriving at the storeroom, Mr. Fitzburg pulled a jangle of keys and turned one in the lock. The door opened to a hot, moist, room lined with shelves sagging with supplies for the soldiers. In addition to bandages and scraped lint were jars of peaches, knit socks, extra hospital gowns, mosquito netting, lead pencils, woolen mufflers, blankets, pillows, toothbrushes, and more—all mixed and scattered with no rhyme or reason.

  “Mr. Fitzburg!” Charlotte gasped. “This place is a shambles! You’re bound to waste valuable supplies—not to mention time—if you just leave it all topsy-turvy like this.”

  She stepped inside and pointed to a corner. “For one thing, you could separate by season. Mosquito netting and woolen mufflers would not go together. Separate the edibles from the inedibles, and put the things that will spoil in front of things that will keep.”

  “If you’re so good at it, why don’t you do it yourself, genius?”

  “I’m not a genius. But I can organize and manage a household, and a hospital is much like a home, however different the circumstances and occupants.”

  Mr. Fitzburg rubbed his chin and narrowed his eyes at her. “You know, you’re right. I could use the help in here, and you’re just the lady to give it to me.” He shut the door behind him. “Now wouldn’t you just fancy that. You and me, alone in an empty room.” As he stepped toward her, she stepped back until her back was pressed up against a stack of pillowcases.

  “Mr. Fitzburg, remember yourself!”

  Ducking under his arm, Charlotte grabbed the bandages and a pair of scissors out of a wire basket near the door and dashed out of the room without looking back.

  “You
didn’t fill out a requisition form!” he yelled out after her.

  But Charlotte was already out of the building, on her way to Private Nelson. The tea for his wounds would have to wait.

  Washington City

  Monday, August 26, 1861

  Edward Goodrich had never been in a more detestable place.

  The air was thick with mosquitoes, and he couldn’t even open his mouth without a fly buzzing right into it. His cologned handkerchief was simply no defense against the odors that now assaulted his nose. Vapors from animal dung, overly ripe fruit, and sweaty bodies mixed with the distinctive smell of the pestilent Washington canals running warm and dirty through the city. Though it was already evening, he could feel his clothing stick to his body and grow damp beneath his armpits and collar.

  Just remember why you’re here, he told himself as he climbed into a rickety hack and gave the driver the address. It was an opportunity like no other, and he had been especially chosen by Professor Smith out of all the Union Theological Seminary alumni for the express purpose. He was to be a hospital chaplain, without rank, but with full access to all the hospitals by the authority of Brigadier General Henry Van Rensselaer. And all because a pair of sisters saw a need and wrote some letters. Remarkable. The position seemed to mollify even his father. At least, for now.

  Thanking the sisters who set the wheels in motion was item number one on his agenda. He imagined them to be very much like his own grandmother—huge hearts, trembling hands, quivering iron-grey curls, warbling voices. They would probably pinch his smooth, moderately chubby cheeks. They would tell him how charming he was. His token of gratitude thus paid, he would then be on his way to ministering to the souls of the great Union army. The harvest was plentiful.

  Cracking his knuckles, he looked out from the hack and tried to take in the confusion of the capital around him. Outside bars and pubs, ragtag rabbles of regiments lingered in uniforms varying according to the state that sent them. Free blacks stood in clumps, as if they were waiting for … for what? Jobs? Shelter? Clothing? Edward had read only a bit about this in the New York papers. Contrabands, General Butler had called them at Fortress Monroe, property formerly of the Confederacy, now property of the North. Some contrabands were put to work for the Union army, but these—well, it didn’t look like they had any work to do at all. He held his handkerchief to his nose once again. Apparently the city’s latrines and sanitation systems were not keeping up with the swelling population. Disgusting city.