Wedded to War (Heroines Behind the Lines)

by Jocelyn Green

  “I do wish you weren’t so stoic about it, Ruby, you make me look so weak!” Alice chided, laughing, but Ruby wasn’t smiling. The color had drained from her face and her hands trembled, clumsily knocking her knitting needles together in front of her stomach. She’s trying to hide her belly. The appetite, the fatigue, the weight gain—why didn’t I see it?

  “No, I don’t believe you’ve suffered the monthly cramps yourself for quite some time, have you Ruby?” Charlotte asked with a smile.

  “What?” Alice frowned. She looked at Ruby until comprehension smoothed away the confusion written on her brow. “You’re going to have a baby! How wonderful!”

  “Don’t bother denying it Ruby,” said Charlotte. “You can’t hide behind knitting needles and bundles of laundry forever! Congratulations! You and Matthew must be so happy!”

  “Oh,” cried Ruby. “Please don’t say anything to Matthew!”

  “You haven’t told him?” Surprise edged Charlotte’s voice.

  “He’d send you home, wouldn’t he?” said Alice, nodding. “I know if I was in the family way, Jacob would not rest until I were safely back in New York instead of here on the edge of war.”

  “Is that why you kept your secret from us for so long?” Charlotte asked. “You didn’t want to be sent away?”

  “Aye,” said Ruby. “I have no other place to go.”

  “I feel the same way about being near Jacob,” said Alice. “I used to think a woman’s place was in the home. Now I realize that home is where my husband is. My proper place is as close as I can be to Jacob. I understand. Your secret is safe with us, Ruby. When it gets too difficult for you to do laundry at the hospital, you just give it up. We’ll take care of you.”

  Ruby’s shoulders sagged with visible relief, but Charlotte couldn’t help but think her husband should know. Wouldn’t he be better off with the hope of a baby in the near future? Or would the added responsibility really be too much for him? Either way, something just isn’t right about this.

  The White House, Washington City

  Monday, February 24, 1862

  The huge gilt mirrors in the East Room of the White House were draped in mourning, black fabric covering the frames, and white on the glass. Grief hung so thickly in the air Edward Goodrich felt as if he was choking on it. He had never been to a child’s funeral before, and he’d never dreamed that his first one would be for President Lincoln’s boy. But four days ago, in this very mansion, typhoid fever had claimed the life of eleven-year-old Willie. The entire nation mourned the loss, and Edward had a front-row seat to the gut-wrenching grief of a parent burying his child.

  Torrential rain and howling wind rattled the windows of the White House with a vengeance, reflecting the violent storm of sorrow within the mansion itself. Mary Lincoln was so overcome with the loss of her favorite son that she did not come to his funeral, but stayed, weeping, in her room instead. Another Lincoln son lay ill in another bed, while the funeral proceeded downstairs.

  President Lincoln was bent with emotion. His oldest son, Robert, was at his side, and congressmen, senators, foreign dignitaries, members of the cabinet, soldiers, and chaplains were all witnesses. Even General George B. McClellan was there, himself only recently recovered from the disease. Not one of them had dry eyes. For this one moment, Lincoln the great president was Abraham the grieving father, a poor soul to be pitied above all men.

  Edward’s head throbbed and his eyes burned in sympathy for the president’s personal loss. No joy could be wrung out of the news of Union victories in the west when the president’s son lay dead in a casket.

  How would I comfort this family, if it were my responsibility? Edward wondered, and could come up with no magic words to ease the pain. I’m a hospital chaplain and a man of God; I should be able to do this! Angry tears gathered in his eyes. Had all of his faith, all of his seminary training been for nothing? God, what good can come from a child’s death? How does this bring You glory?

  Edward’s emotions matched the pitch of the storm raging outside as Reverend Dr. Gurley, pastor of New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, rose to make some remarks.

  “The eye of the Nation is moistened with tears, as it turns today to the Presidential Mansion.” Dr. Gurley projected his voice over the booming thunder. “The heart of the Nation sympathizes with its Chief Magistrate, while to the unprecedented weight of civil care which presses upon him is added the burden of this great domestic sorrow; and the prayer of the Nation ascends to Heaven on his behalf, and on the behalf of his weeping family, that God’s grace may be sufficient for them, and that in this hour of sore bereavement and trial, they may have the presence and succor of Him, who has said, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’”

  Yes, but is that rest here on this earth or do we have to wait until we die to get it in heaven? Edward thought.

  “Oh, that they may all be enabled to lay their heads upon His infinite bosom, and find, as many other smitten ones have found, that He is their truest refuge and strength; a very present help in trouble.”

  If God were so helpful, He wouldn’t have let the child die in the first place!

  “It is well for us, and very comforting, on such an occasion as this, to get a clear and a scriptural view of the providence of God. His kingdom ruleth over all. All those events which in anywise affect our condition and happiness are in His hands, and at His disposal. Disease and death are His messengers; they go forth at His bidding, and their fearful work is limited or extended, according to the good pleasure of His will. Not a sparrow falls to the ground without His direction; much less any one of the human family, for we are of more value than many sparrows.”

  And yet the sparrows still fall, America is still torn asunder, the soldiers are still shot down and cut to pieces, and children still die in their beds. This is the direction of God? This is His will? My God, where is the comfort in that? How cruel that God sees and yet does nothing to stop it!

  Brilliant lightning cracked open the sky. Dr. Gurley continued. “What we need in the hour of trial, and what we should seek by earnest prayer, is confidence in Him who sees the end from the beginning and doeth all things well. Only let us bow in His presence with an humble and teachable spirit; only let us be still and know that He is God; only let us acknowledge His hand, and hear His voice, and inquire after His will, and seek His Holy Spirit as our counselor and guide, and all, in the end, will be well.”

  The wind moaned and wailed in protest. All was not well today.

  “In His light shall we see light; by His grace our sorrows will be sanctified—they will be made a blessing to our souls—and by and by we shall have occasion to say, with blended gratitude and rejoicing, ‘It is good for us that we have been afflicted.’”

  A glance at President Lincoln’s face told Edward that he was far, very far, from being able to count his afflictions as good. From somewhere in the rooms above them, Mary Lincoln wept, and outside the heavens wept with her.

  For the first time since Edward was a small child in Sunday school, he was beginning to doubt the goodness of God. All of his studies, all of his Scripture memorization, could not keep up with the deluge of human misery flooding his spirit here in Washington. His heart beat wildly in his chest. What business does a chaplain have doubting God? His palms perspired into his tear-soaked handkerchief. What business does a doubter have pretending to be a chaplain?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ebbitt House, Washington City

  March 17, 1862

  Dear Phineas,

  Finally, at long, long last, McClellan is making a move. The great Army of the Potomac, still thawing from its winter in camp, is now bound for the Virginia Peninsula.

  Alice is beside herself because they say we cannot possibly accompany the army now, and she has been spoiled, I fear, from being able to visit Jacob on an almost daily basis. But it’s too dangerous for us to go any further, they say. Since we cannot be near Jacob, who is now the
colonel of his regiment, Mother is pressing us to come home. But we continue to work on Jacob, and with a great deal of luck, he will come around and make a way for us to go with them.

  Fondly,

  Charlotte

  New York City

  March 25, 1862

  My dear Charlotte,

  It is one thing for you to nurse while staying the night at a fine hotel. But to follow the army into the battlefields, beyond enemy lines, this is too much. Your brother-in-law will do right if he refuses you. Don’t be upset with me, darling, for you know it is only from a loving heart I speak these things.

  Yours, as ever,

  Phineas

  Washington City

  April 15, 1862

  Dear Phineas,

  You need not attempt to limit the scope of my usefulness. Jacob is already doing that, for he is proving to be more stubborn than I had imagined he could ever be. To our dismay, so far, we have no hope of following the army. But I have not given up yet.

  Ruby, the laundress who nearly burned at the Washington Infirmary last November—remember, you met her over Christmas—would like to come, too, to follow her own husband and I am inclined to take her with us, assuming we secure permissions. I confess I still feel slightly responsible for her more than for any of the elite nurses Dr. Blackwell sent down to us.

  Affectionately,

  Charlotte

  New York City

  Tuesday, April 22, 1862

  Ruby? Could it possibly be the same? Phineas reread the letter, his eyelid twitching. I met her over Christmas? He vaguely, vaguely remembered meeting a very quiet but beautiful Mrs. O’Something-or-other. What was it? O’Sullivan? O’Brian? O’Flaherty? Phineas slapped a hand to his forehead. Now I’m starting to sound just like Mother.

  Meeting that woman had been just a blip, an all together forgettable incident right after he had seen Charlotte again for the first time in months. It would be strange if he did remember the name. And then he hadn’t seen that woman again during his entire visit.

  It couldn’t have been her. The Ruby he knew wasn’t married. She had told his mother that she had no family. She could have been lying, of course. She had lied about other things. Or she could have meant that she had no family in town to care for, which would still allow for a husband fighting the war …

  It would be preposterous to believe that the woman he most wanted out of his life somehow ending up as the pet of the woman he most wanted to win. Irish immigrants didn’t travel. They stayed stuck. It couldn’t be her.

  Or could it?

  Phineas rubbed a hand wearily over his goatee and groaned. He had truly turned a corner in his life since Charlotte had come to visit in October. Her gratitude for his regular donations to the Sanitary Commission had pleased him. Charlotte believed in him, and he believed in himself. But if this Ruby was the same Ruby he knew, she had the power to unravel the life he had knit together with Charlotte.

  He was walking now, as if his legs knew what to do even before his mind had thought of it. He picked up his wide-brimmed hat and brown wool frock coat as he clamored down the steps to hook his horse to his carriage.

  On his way to lower Manhattan, Phineas reached into the pocket of his brown silk brocaded waistcoat, and held firmly to his gold pocket watch.

  “I’m sorry, you just missed her,” said the lady behind the desk at the New York Infirmary for Women and Children. “Dr. Blackwell leaves at four o’clock on Tuesdays.”

  Phineas put on his most charming smile. “Then perhaps you can help me. I need to know about a friend of mine who came to visit Dr. Blackwell last fall.”

  “I’m sorry, our patient records are strictly confidential.”

  “This is important. My friend—Ruby—she was looking for her husband, with the army. I’ve just heard from him myself, and he wants to know where she is. She has moved, you see, but left no forwarding address. Surely you wouldn’t want to keep this couple apart, after so many months of war came between them, now would you?”

  The lady narrowed her eyes at him, tilted her head to the side. “Just what kind of information are you looking for?”

  “I need to know where to find her, if I can. And if she is well. After all, if she came to the infirmary, should I now be looking for her in a morgue? Please. I know you can help me.”

  “I could be dismissed for this.”

  “I’m prepared to make it worth the risk you’re taking.” He pulled out a wad of bills and pressed them into her palm. “Please. Just help me.”

  After a momentary hesitation, the woman slipped the money into the pocket of her apron and went to the file cabinet. Turning around, she said, “What’s the last name?”

  “Try O’Connor. Or O’Neil …”

  “You don’t know her last name?”

  “I know her first name is Ruby. That should be enough to go on. I think she … recently changed her name anyway.”

  “Well, when did we see her?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know the exact date. It would have been sometime between August and October.”

  “For being her ‘friend,’ you sure don’t know much about her.”

  “I paid you, didn’t I?” He was losing his patience.

  “No last name, no date of appointment. It’s going to take me awhile to go through all these records.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “I can’t do it right now, I have other duties. You’ll have to come back later.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. No—Thursday. Come back Thursday at five thirty. If there’s something on your friend, I’ll have found it by then.”

  “And if there isn’t, I’ll take a refund.”

  “Minus a fee for my time.”

  “Of course.” Phineas smiled stiffly, and walked out.

  Two days of waiting seemed like two weeks, but finally the time passed. If this information was reliable, it was worth every minute and every cent Phineas had spent to get it. The receptionist slid a folded piece of paper across the counter to him, and he took it with a sweaty hand. He opened it slowly, as though the information might fly away if startled.

  Ruby O’Flannery. 5’4”, 110 pounds, red hair, green eyes. Irish. Seen October 14, 1861. Diagnosis: Pregnant.

  O’Flannery. That was it. “Are you sure this is accurate?” Phineas said.

  “Why wouldn’t it be? I’ve got better things to do than sit around making up stories about strangers, you know.”

  “Where is she? Where has she gone?”

  “I have no idea. She left the address line blank on our form.”

  “I need to find her!”

  Her eyelids thinned to a glare. “What’s the urgency? Two days ago you couldn’t even tell me her last name. Sorry. Can’t help.”

  A muscle twitched next to Phineas’s eye as he turned to go.

  New York City

  Friday, April 25, 1862

  “Here we are, mum, a nice cup of tea and your favorite—cherry tarts.” Jane spoiled Caroline, plain and simple. She had been a blessing since she started working in the Waverly home two years ago, but in the last few weeks, she seemed even more eager to please.

  “You’ve been looking rather radiant lately, Jane,” Caroline said as she cut into a steaming pastry. “Things going well with your beau, I take it?” She glanced at the daisy Jane had tucked into her braid and at the roses now blooming in her cheeks.

  “Indeed mum. Now that you mention it, I—I need to share some good news with you.”

  How good can it be with her face that color already? thought Caroline. “Oh?” was all she said.

  “William and I are—well, he asked me to marry him. I’ll be moving with him to a farm out west—in Iowa.” She clasped her hands in front of her apron and waited.

  The cherries turned sour in Caroline’s mouth. “Congratulations, Jane!” She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. So she’ll be leaving me, too—it will feel like a tomb in this house! “When is the
happy day?”

  “July fifth, mum.”

  Caroline’s sigh betrayed her. “I’m so pleased for you, Jane, and I hope you’ll be very happy together. But I shall miss you around here!”

  A knock at the door sounded.

  Jane bobbed in a curtsy and swished out of the room. When she returned with the guest, Caroline almost choked on her tea.

  “Josephine?” Caroline Waverly barely recognized the apparition in black mourning attire standing before her. “My dear, I—” Dread replaced the words in her mouth. Jane quietly left them alone. Josephine Lightfoot was a widow, like Caroline, but her husband had passed years ago. Now she grieved for someone else. She had no sons. She had a daughter. A daughter who had gone to the Washington hospitals. Like Caroline’s daughters.

  “Louisa?” The word croaked out.

  “I am undone, Caroline.” Her face was chalk white, her eyes rimmed with red. Her face had aged twenty years since Caroline last saw her, a month ago.

  Caroline felt sick as she led Josephine to the settee. She braced herself for a story she was sure she didn’t want to hear.

  “It was bound to happen, you know. I should have known.” Josephine folded and unfolded a lace-trimmed handkerchief, over and over, as she spoke. “When one exposes oneself to contagious disease, one cannot stay healthy forever.” Fold, unfold. Fold, unfold. “It must have come on suddenly, she didn’t even tell me she was sick. She just stopped writing. I didn’t know she was sick, Caroline. I tell you I didn’t know!”

  Caroline’s face was wet with tears, her heart galloping like a runaway horse.