Wedded to War (Heroines Behind the Lines)

by Jocelyn Green

  Was a just God punishing her? Or was a loving God ending her miserable life as a favor to her? Either way, Ruby thought, the fire is here for me.

  Washington City

  Tuesday, November 4, 1861

  When the horses and fire trucks thundered by the Ebbitt House in the chilled, predawn hours of the morning, Charlotte was already awake, and glad for the distraction. Ever since she had learned of the hurricane that had damaged or sunk nearly a dozen of the seventy-seven Union ships bound for Port Royal in South Carolina, she could not shake the image of Caleb Lansing drowning at sea. Official reports said his ship had come through unscathed, but she longed to see the proof in his own familiar scrawl. Unreasonable fears always loomed larger in the dark.

  The darkness of this night was gone, however. The sky glowed orange with fire, not very far away. From across the street, she spied Frederick Law Olmsted’s limping gait as he exited Willard’s Hotel, and knew he was coming for her.

  This time, she was dressed when she met him at the door.

  “It’s the Washington Infirmary.” He was breathless. It didn’t look like he had slept at all yet that night.

  “Ruby!” said Charlotte, Olmsted nodding, and they were on their way out the door. If anything happened to her, it would be Charlotte’s fault for placing her there.

  By the time they got there, all one hundred four patients had been removed from the burning building, including the forty who could not walk. But when Charlotte asked if anyone had seen a woman with red hair, no one could help her.

  “You must have the wrong hospital, lady,” said a policeman. “Ain’t no such thing as a redhead nun.”

  “No, she’s not a nun. She’s an Irish laundress. I know she’s in there, she has no place else to go.” Charlotte’s voice rang with alarm. “Did you try the linen room? In the basement?”

  “Lady, no one is doing laundry in the middle of the night. That building is about to collapse. I’m not sending anyone down there.”

  “For God’s sake, check the linen room!” shouted Olmsted.

  A fireman jogged over, so covered in soot his silhouette melted into the night. “Somebody still in there? The Sisters said we got all the patients out.”

  “If you haven’t seen a red-haired woman, she might be in the basement in the linen room.” Charlotte shouted to be heard. “Please.”

  “You go in there, son, you may not come out.” The policeman shoved a finger at the fireman.

  He ignored it. “Which way is it?”

  “I’ll show you!” Charlotte took off toward the wall of smoke, with the firefighter by her side.

  “Stop.” He thrust an arm in front of her. “Stay here.” And he plunged through the wall of flames and smoke, while Charlotte prayed fervently that she had not just sent a young man to his death.

  Please Lord, bring her out. Please let them both be OK. She must have prayed it a hundred times. No, a thousand. The fire brigade seemed helpless to control the blazes, and still Charlotte stood, with a handkerchief pressed to her face, eyes watering, lungs starving. Blasts of heat washed over her in waves. How could Ruby still be alive in there? Every second was a minute, every minute was an hour.

  Olmsted was at her side now, his intense black eyes reflecting the flames before them. “She didn’t deserve this,” he was muttering. “She just needed to get back on her feet … She’s got to be OK.”

  Suddenly, out of the smoke, the firefighter emerged, carrying what looked like a giant white cocoon. It was Ruby, wrapped in a wet sheet.

  A miracle that he found her. A miracle he made it out alive. But she wasn’t moving.

  On the other side of the square, the fireman laid Ruby down on the cold pavement and stepped back while Olmsted and Charlotte crouched over her. “I found her under a pile of wet sheets,” he said.

  November wind swirled around them, and Charlotte gently unwrapped the soggy laundry from around Ruby’s body. Was it a life-saver or a shroud?

  Charlotte checked Ruby for a pulse and lifted her eyelids to see her pupils. “She’s alive. But she’s inhaled a lot of smoke into her lungs. I think she’s in shock. Quickly, let’s take her to the Ebbitt House.” She turned to the young man still standing there. “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Just doing my job,” he said with a nod. “She going to be OK?”

  “We’ll do the very best we can for her. Help us lift her into Mr. Olmsted’s carriage, won’t you?” The firefighter scooped up Ruby as if she were a porcelain doll and laid her in the backseat of the carriage.

  Back at the Ebbitt House, Mr. Olmsted helped take Ruby into Charlotte’s room.

  “Alice,” said Charlotte, as Mr. Olmsted lit a fire in the hearth. “We’ve got company.”

  After a final look at Ruby, Olmsted limped out of the room, and the sisters went to work on their first female patient. They removed the soiled flannel nightgown, sponge-bathed her body, and dressed her in a clean hospital gown from the collection of supplies lining the walls.

  The girl was a mystery. What had she been doing in the linen room at that hour of the night, anyway?

  Hours later, when her eyes fluttered open for the first time, she had burst into tears. “I was supposed to die in that fire,” she said in her delirium.

  “No,” Charlotte said, “you are supposed to live. God has spared you, miraculously, for a purpose.”

  Eyes closed again, Ruby shook her head. “No,” she muttered. “Not me. God has no purpose for me.”

  Ebbitt House, Washington City

  November 10, 1861

  Ruby awoke to the sound of her own moaning. How many days had passed since the night of the fire? Snatches of memory came to her as she squinted at the ceiling from her cot. The bottle of pills. The fire, then blackness. Charlotte Waverly’s face, wavy through Ruby’s veil of tears. A sponge of cool water on her skin, the gentle tug of a brush through her hair. A soft quilt pulled up to her chin, the crackle and heat of the fire in a nearby hearth. Charlotte’s voice, singing.

  Ruby sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. Charlotte sat across the room in her rocking chair, knitting red wool socks in the amber glow of a kerosene lamp, singing that tune again.

  Through many dangers, toils and snares,

  I have already come;

  ’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,

  And grace will lead me home.

  “Pretty song.” Ruby hugged her knees to her chest. “Only ’tisn’t quite true, is it?”

  Charlotte snapped her head up. “Good morning! Or rather, good evening!” She smiled as she put her knitting down and came to Ruby’s side. “What were you saying?”

  “That song you were singing. ‘Grace has brought me safe thus far.’ ’Tisn’t true. Not for me, anyway. I’ve run out of grace.”

  Charlotte sat on the cot and laid a hand softly on her shoulder. “That’s the thing about grace, Ruby. It’s not about how much we have. It’s about how much God has for us. And His supply knows no limits.”

  Ruby shook her head. “All I know is, I have not been brought ‘safe thus far.’ My life has been dirty and messy.”

  “But God has brought you safely to this point. Don’t you see? It’s no coincidence that you met Dr. Blackwell, that she sent you down here, that we placed you in the very hospital where you found your husband again.”

  “The very hospital that burned to the ground.”

  “But you didn’t. You could have died in that fire, but you were saved—kept safe thus far—by God. Don’t you see His hand guiding you?”

  Ruby knew that Charlotte had no idea what she was talking about. Ruby had been on her own for quite some time, and she had made a mess of things. Maybe if God had truly been guiding her, she wouldn’t be in this place.

  “Listen,” Charlotte started again. “I realize your life has been much different than mine. It isn’t fair, and I know I can’t fix everything for you. But Dr. Blackwell saw something in you that she thought was special, and she place
d you in my care while you are here. You are a good, hardworking woman and I’m going to make sure you are taken care of while you’re here.”

  Ebbitt House, Washington City

  December 15, 1861

  Snow fell gently outside the Ebbitt House as Charlotte and Ruby knitted socks in the rocking chairs by the fire.

  “Is Alice at the hospital?” Ruby asked.

  “No, she’s with Jacob in camp this evening.” Her knitting needles paused midair. “Ruby, your husband is likely not very far away. Wouldn’t you like to visit him, or have him come here, now that you’re no longer sick?” It was only last week that Ruby’s nausea and vomiting from exposure to the fire had stopped.

  Ruby’s eyes darted down to her waist and back up to Charlotte. “No, thank you. It’s enough to know he is nearby. I don’t want to bother him. I’m sure he’s very busy.”

  Charlotte laughed. “You know what they say—‘All’s quiet on the Potomac.’ McClellan isn’t doing anything but drilling the troops for the winter. I’m sure a visit could be arranged—”

  “I said no! Thank you. It’s too late.”

  Charlotte let her knitting fall to her lap as she eyed the small red-haired woman on the other side of the hearth.

  “Too late for what?”

  “I’m tired.” Her tone was clipped. “I need a lot of sleep lately. I’d like to go to bed soon.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean we’d go out in the snow and look for him tonight. Another time. Soon.”

  But Ruby shook her head, tucked her knitting into the basket and stood. “I told you, I’m tired.” And she went to bed.

  It was half past eight.

  Tybee Island, South Carolina

  Tuesday, December 24, 1861

  Outside Dr. Caleb Lansing’s tent, the air was spiced with scents of evergreen and wood smoke. He watched a dozen soldiers decorate trees, their voices lifting Christmas carols in their native German tongue. Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, alles schläft; einsam wacht.

  The row of Christmas trees twinkled with the blinking light of crude candles and were adorned with strips of salt pork and beef, and with hardtack cut into confectioner shapes.

  With his hands wrapped around his tin cup of coffee, Caleb closed his eyes and sang the English version quietly to himself. Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright. Round yon virgin mother and child, holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace.

  In a former lifetime, Charlotte had stood next to him in a poinsettia-filled church service, her clear alto voice harmonizing with his bass to these very words. Her face, framed softly by an ermine stole, was radiant in the candlelight, the gold flecks in her eyes shone brightly. The stained-glass angels looking down on them looked dull and plain in comparison. As a young man, Caleb had been awed by the glow of her innocence and beauty, then.

  That was years ago, before her father’s death, before the war. He felt he had aged twenty years since then. He had been surprised last time he looked in the mirror, not by the patches of lightened hair at his temples, but by the fact that he had not gone completely grey yet.

  Charlotte had grown, too, and he was still awed by her. The memory of her as he had stumbled upon her in the Columbian College Hospital last August—dress covered in diarrhea, eyes full of fire, head still held high—inspired a grin every time it crossed his mind. Which was often. She was even more like an angel as a nurse than she had been wearing the finest Parisian fashions.

  Caleb shook his head to jar loose the growing affection taking root in his mind. It wouldn’t be fair to nurture any feelings beyond friendship while the war kept them apart. He had no time for that, and neither did she. They both had work to do, and the last thing either of them needed was the distraction of love—or even heartbreak. All he could do was write to her, keeping up the familial friendship that stretched back over decades.

  The music and flavor of Christmas followed him back into his moldy canvas tent, where he took out a sheet of paper, rubbed his hands together to warm his fingers, and began writing.

  Dear Charlotte,

  It seems a very strange thing to be celebrating Christmas, the advent of peace on earth, while far from home in a camp of war. I must confess that had it not been for my caroling neighbors, I may have forgotten the date all together. I have been so consumed with the work here that all my days run together in one unending sick call.

  You speak of our hospital here as if we already have one—we do not. We are told we will, in due time, but when that happens it will be no thanks to the Medical Department. Dr. Cooper, the Medical Director of this expedition, urged the necessity of a hospital. General William Sherman so ordered one, but Surgeon General Finley—the old goat—countermanded the order. No need, said he. “In this fine mild Southern climate, tents will do very well for the men to have fevers in,” said he. I’d like to see him brave three days of a Texas norther in scanty apparel and see what he thinks of the climate then! To keep our fever patients, with their lowered vitality, warm in the tents, we place warm thirty-two-pound cannonballs at their feet, and another glowing stack of them in the middle of the floor.

  Neither do we have the medicines we need. There is one supply table of medicines for hospital use and another for field use. Some very important, almost essential, are not furnished for field service. When your patient needs them, he is to go to the hospital. Very good. But where is the hospital for us? That’s right—we haven’t got one. So before we came here, I made a special requisition for some things not found on the field supply table, such as serpentaria, and some of the salts of iron, and went in person to the purveyor’s office to request it. No use. The fever itself is madness, and it is madness to not have the medicine.

  Our tents, flimsy speculator’s ware at best, are now in a most deplorable condition. I am distressed to think of the impending long rainy season with no other shelter.

  With “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,” ringing in my ears, I wish you a merry Christmas, dear Charlie. Sleep in heavenly peace, for Christ the Savior is born.

  Affectionately,

  Caleb

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ebbitt House, Washington City

  Wednesday, December 25, 1861

  As far as Charlotte was concerned, Christmas had already been a success.

  No patient in Washington was without at least one new pair of wool socks for the holiday, and the nurses of each hospital had decorated their wards festively with evergreen boughs, holly branches, and bright red-and-green tissue paper. All patients who could stomach food were indulged with true Christmas feasts of roast turkeys, loaf-cakes iced with filigree, pies, cream puffs, cranberry sauce, and puddings of all sorts.

  Now it was time to prepare for a Christmas evening visit with Jacob in camp.

  “Aye, such a bonnie dress,” said Ruby as Charlotte finished buttoning her bodice. It was only a walking dress, made of wine-colored silk and trimmed with gold braid at the neckline, cuffs, and hem. All her formal gowns were waiting patiently in her dressing room in New York City. Still, she wore hoops under her dress for the first time in months—mainly because without them, the three-tiered skirt would drag on the ground. “I really don’t think I should come with you.”

  “And spend Christmas alone in a hotel room?” Charlotte looked up at her. “Nonsense! You’re coming.”

  “I have nothing to wear!”

  Charlotte flashed a smile and winked at Alice. “Oh yes, you do!” She held up a hand to stop Ruby’s protest. “I know we said no gifts, but Alice and I decided to make one little exception.” She walked over to the clothes rack and, with a flourish, she unveiled a new dress. “Merry Christmas, Ruby.” She smiled.

  Ruby’s hands flew to her mouth. “No, no, it’s too good for the likes of me. I won’t be putting on airs. I know my place.”

  “Ruby.” Alice’s voice was firm, but her blue eyes glimmered. “This is a gift. It would be our pleasure for you to have it.”
r />   “Don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “A respectable lady, that’s what.”

  Charlotte laughed. “Ruby, I have more respect for you than I have for a dozen shallow women who wear much finer things than these. You have a big heart. You work hard. You are selfless. The women in my set from home can boast none of those qualities. Come now, and take it. See how beautiful you can be.”

  Still shaking her head in doubt, Ruby stepped forward and took the green silk dress in her arms as if it were Cinderella’s ball gown instead of just a walking dress, like Charlotte’s. The bodice formed a fashionable jacket spreading over the top of the skirt, and Scottish plaid satin banded the cuffs and hem of the jacket and skirt.

  Wordlessly, Ruby turned her back and stripped down to her chemise and petticoat.

  “Here, let me help you.” Charlotte held open a steel hoop-lined petticoat. “Step in, please.”

  “I can tie it myself.” Ruby snatched the ties from Charlotte’s hands. “I can manage it. Thank you.”

  The dress looked beautiful on Ruby, but didn’t fit as perfectly as Charlotte had expected. It was a little snug in the bust and waist.

  “Do you want me to tighten your corset, Ruby?” Alice asked. “We’re pulling the fabric just a little tight here.”

  “No thank you, it’s as tight as I can stand it.” She stepped back.

  Strange. Charlotte had had three working dresses made for Ruby after the fire, which had all fit fine, but this one, cut to the same measurements, was clearly too small. Then again, she had been eating more lately. And why shouldn’t she? Only God knew how deprived she had been in Five Points. If her natural, healthy shape didn’t fit the fifteen-inch waist standard, so be it. The size of her heart mattered far more than her figure.