by Amy Stewart
“Private Hackbush tells me that his commander will be back for graduation, provided this camp isn’t shut down in disgrace before that. He’s going to hitch my cart to his automobile and drive it around as a demonstration. I’ll release what pigeons I have left and show what they can do.”
“I wouldn’t think Hack would be so eager to help, after the way you treated him in class,” Constance said.
“He wasn’t particularly inclined at first, but then I reminded him that he’d been sneaking out late at night with one of my sisters, and allowing the other sister to go firing off his guns in the woods, which nearly resulted in a man being killed. He was far more inclined to grant me a favor after that.”
THE NEXT FEW days passed quietly enough. Beulah stayed contentedly in the infirmary. She and Nurse Cartwright struck up quite a friendship: one afternoon, Constance had to run over to the infirmary to remind the nurse that she was late to her Thursday afternoon class on bandage-rolling. She and Beulah had been so deep in conversation that she’d entirely forgotten about the class.
Rumors continued to circulate about the mysterious gunshot heard at the end of Mrs. Ward’s performance. Those with experience on the stage were more likely to accept the explanation that a gun intended as a prop had misfired: some prop was always misfiring, breaking, or exploding at the theater. Calcium lights were still in use in small towns here and there, and it wasn’t uncommon for one of them to burst into flames in the middle of a performance.
Disaster, or the appearance of disaster, went part and parcel with the theater life.
Other girls weren’t so sure. Some suspected Mr. Bernstein of firing the gun. He was a German spy, went one rumor, come to extract military secrets from Hack and Clarence. Or perhaps Constance discovered the espionage plot and tried to shoot him, for the good of the country.
Another strain of rumor circulated about Beulah (still known as Roxie to the campers). Perhaps she was Freeman’s lover, or maybe he knew of a scandal concerning her. She could’ve tried and failed to shoot herself over some tragedy, which would explain the lengthy stay in the infirmary. No one had a good look at her that night, when her face was covered in blood, but her confinement lent credence to the idea that she had been on the receiving end of the bullet, perhaps in the ear, or just along the scalp. Enough to wound, but not to kill.
No one knew for sure, and that was fine with Constance. She kept the camp on a tight schedule, invented new chores, and pushed the girls through longer and more difficult calisthenics every morning and afternoon. If she could only exhaust them physically, she reasoned, they might sleep at night rather than stay awake gossiping.
It was three days before Constance had a reply from Maude Miner. Her message came in the form of a telegram, delivered by Clarence, who had by some miracle been able to secure a newspaper as well. The nearest newsstand was ten miles away: as he explained it, the telegram boy carried papers on his country routes to make a little pocket money.
Clarence brought both the telegram and newspaper to Constance in the mess hall one evening, just as supper was being cleared. Norma and Sarah were still lingering at the table. They crowded around eagerly for news.
She opened the telegram first.
already hearing from parents told them not to worry girls are safe was only shooting blanks and so on can’t get to chevy chase yet as war dept expects me to persuade miss rankin carry on as before yrs maude miner
“What on earth has Miss Rankin got up to already?” Norma muttered, reaching for the paper.
Sarah, reading over her shoulder, gasped at the headlines. “Is there really to be a war resolution before Congress? I thought it wouldn’t happen until this summer.”
“The Germans thought otherwise,” Norma said. “They’ve been sinking our ships, while we’ve been here learning how to march in a straight line and cook dinner for the convalescent. I can’t believe we weren’t told.”
“It’s unlike the War Department to keep you in the dark,” Constance said. “Only I don’t see how Miss Miner and Miss Rankin figure into it.”
Norma, still reading, said, “Miss Rankin was just seated yesterday. No one gave any notice to the first woman elected to Congress, because the President marched right in and asked for the authority to go to war. They’ve been debating it since. Miss Rankin is opposed.”
“Did Montana know they’d elected a pacifist?” Constance asked. She’d been so consumed with her own misery since the election that she hadn’t paid much attention to the doings in Montana, where women had just recently won the right to vote and the right to run for office.
“They knew they elected a woman, and I suppose it’s the same thing as electing a pacifist,” Norma said.
“That’s not true,” Constance put in. “You’re not a pacifist. I don’t suppose Sarah is, either.”
“I don’t like to see anyone fighting,” Sarah said, “but we can’t stand by and let Europe go up in flames.”
“Well, it won’t do much for the cause of suffrage if she votes against the war,” Norma said. “She’ll set us back another decade on that front.”
“She’s not voting on behalf of the suffragists,” Constance said, “she’s voting on behalf of the people of Montana. Besides, she’ll be criticized no matter what she does. If she votes in favor, they’ll say that there’s no need to put a woman in office if she’s only going to vote as the men do. If she votes against war, they’ll say that women are too soft to make the difficult decisions.”
“I wonder why the War Department is sending in Miss Miner to try to persuade her,” Sarah said. “Surely they have enough votes regardless.”
“But they’d like a woman’s vote. If the only woman in Congress votes for war, every mother in this country will give up her son a little more easily,” Norma said.
Constance was sitting right next to Sarah and felt a little shiver go through her at the mention of giving up sons.
“I’ll ask Clarence to find some way to arrange for a paper every day this week,” Constance said.
45
THE NEWS ARRIVED a few days later, not in the form of a newspaper, but in the form of a wagon loaded with soldiers, come to dismantle the camp. Although Hack and Clarence had not been expecting the men, they met them at the gate and received the news with whoops and cheers that could be heard all over camp.
“We’re going to France, girls!” Hack called, tossing a bundle of daily newspapers at Norma as he went whistling by. “Pack your things.”
Not realizing, at first, that soldiers had arrived to close the camp, Constance assumed he meant for her to pack her things for France, which she thought he meant as a joke. She ignored him and sat down next to Norma to read the news.
“The war resolution was adopted by Congress,” Norma said. “Miss Rankin voted against it. One account says she cried, one says she trembled, and another says she fainted.”
“Then I’ll assume she did none of that, and simply cast her vote in a business-like manner,” said Constance, who had some experience with reporters claiming that a woman fainted after conducting the ordinary duties of her position.
Norma read on. “Yes, according to the spectators in the gallery, she merely stood and said, ‘I want to stand by my country, but I cannot vote for war.’ There were forty-nine others who voted against, but I don’t see any articles about them.”
“What happens next?” Constance asked. “Do we have ships sailing for France?”
Norma paged through the other papers, peering at them through the wire-rimmed spectacles that she now required. “What happens next is that we argue over money.”
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate that in Paris,” Constance said. By then she could hear the sound of tent canvas flapping in the wind, and the commotion around camp as the news spread. She stepped outside and saw the newly arrived soldiers pulling down one of the classroom tents, to the loud protests of the campers.
“I’m the matron of this camp,” she called, marching over to
a man who appeared to be in charge of the others. “We’ve two more weeks of classes in that tent.”
“Sergeant Galt at your service,” the man said. “Your classes are over, miss. We’ll need this land for an Army camp. Orders are to tear everything down and set it up military style.”
“This is the military style! We’re a National Service School, training just like the men do.”
His expression only hardened at that, as if he were suppressing some remark. “I know you girls like your camp, but the games are over. We have serious work to do here.”
Constance bristled at that. “This has not been a game.”
“Pardon me, miss, but we’re the ones going to war.”
Now she was furious. She loomed over him—that always set men back on their heels—and said, practically shouting, “Do you suppose, when you go, that you’d like your wounds bandaged, or shall we leave you to rot in the fields? Do you want a stitch of clothing to wear? How would you like a meal, or do you plan to go to France and starve?”
Sergeant Galt looked ready for a fight. He still didn’t realize he was outmatched. “Listen, lady. I’m under orders—”
“Don’t think we won’t be driving ambulances, too, and running the telephones. You have no idea what we’ve been doing at this camp.”
“In my unit,” Sergeant Galt said, “we give a demerit to a man who talks to his commander like you just did.”
“You’re not my commander. I run this camp. If it’s to be torn down, the orders had better come to me directly from Washington. Meanwhile, I certainly hope you’re prepared to carry each and every girl back to her home, because if you take down the tents they’re living in, they can’t exactly walk from here.”
Now she had his attention. He looked around at the camp and all the girls running back and forth between the tents, abuzz with talk of the war. “How many of them are there?”
“Two hundred, plus instructors, and they come from as far away as Texas.”
“And how were they going to get home?”
“Their families come for them in two weeks’ time. Some arrived by taxicab from the train station and will go back the same way.”
He spat on the ground and lifted his hat to wipe his forehead. “Somebody bungled these orders,” he mumbled.
“I hope this isn’t the sort of operation you plan to run in France,” Constance said. “Your men are welcome to camp for the night until we sort this out. I can put an extra girl in each tent and that would leave a few empty for you. Pitch them out along the perimeter, away from my girls.”
“You don’t tell me where to pitch my tents,” Sergeant Galt said, but it was only a half-hearted effort. For the rest of the afternoon, the camp was most decidedly back in Constance’s hands, and the soldiers went where she ordered them to go.
The arrival of the men and the news of war made for an unsettling evening in the mess hall. It was true that Constance hadn’t bothered to keep up much of a semblance of military order during the evening meal—it seemed to serve no real purpose, as the campers were, on the whole, orderly and well-mannered, and tired by nightfall, besides—but with a dozen or so soldiers as an audience, they reverted to the old methods that Mrs. Nash had insisted upon during their first few days at camp. Everyone lined up and filled the tables in succession, starting nearest the door, rather than rushing to the back and saving seats for friends. They stood at their table until ordered to sit, the dishes were brought out swiftly and in the proper sequence, and every girl remained seated until the last table was served and cleared.
“It’s just like Plattsburg,” Constance heard one of the soldiers say, “except these ladies take it seriously.”
The talk during dinner was more solemn, and more subdued. Everyone had a brother, a neighbor, or a betrothed back home who would be readying for war. Most of the campers had, by now, a decided opinion about what they might do next: some intended to volunteer at the Red Cross or for a church’s relief project. Many of them lived along the East Coast and thought they might find work at an Army hospital. A few girls of the working class intended to go into factories. “There won’t be as many men to build the ships,” one of them said. “They’ll have to teach us how to do it.”
Sarah was notably quiet, and pushed her food around on her plate. That night, back in their tent (with only Constance, Sarah, Norma, and Fleurette present, as Beulah remained with Nurse Cartwright), Sarah said, “I only wish we’d finished our training.”
Fleurette groaned. “I finished our training ages ago. If I have to sit through one more class on how to cuff a pair of trousers, I might expire of boredom.”
She’d learned that word, expire, from Tizzy Spotwood, with whom Fleurette had taken up since Beulah moved into the infirmary. Fleurette still hadn’t been told of Beulah’s true identity: both Norma and Constance agreed that the risk of an accidental slip was too high.
“I’m talking about the other training,” Sarah said. “I’d like to put another round of bullets into those targets, and to show what else we can do.”
“You’re not going off into the woods now,” Norma said. “We have a dozen more men guarding the camp, and I believe Hack sleeps on top of those guns.”
“You know enough to be prepared,” Constance said. “I hope you’ll never need to use it.”
Sarah wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. “I only wish those soldiers could see how far we’ve come. It’s awful, what Sergeant Galt said to you. He has no idea what we’ve been up to at night out there in the woods. Hack and Clarence know, but they’ll never tell, and they might not be believed if they did.”
It was nine o’clock by then. Taps was played by a more expert bugler than Clarence. It came across the camp in soft and mournful waves, like a blanket coming to rest on top of them. As Constance went out for her nightly patrol of the campground, she thought for the first time that she would miss this camp, and these girls, and what they had tried to do together.
Every one of their lives was about to be forever altered. Constance wished she could keep them all in place, while they were still fine and young and trying to take hold of their dreams. If she could, she’d preserve them forever, right here, in the final moments of their lives before the war.
46
“I STILL THINK you ought to go see your Meemaw,” Nurse Cartwright said from her reclining chair, her feet up on her desk and a cigarette between her fingers. She wouldn’t allow Beulah to have one of her own, but she did pass it over so Beulah could take a draw now and then. “Your granny must be—what, eighty-five by now?”
“But what if I go back and she’s dead?” Beulah said. “I couldn’t bear it. Besides, she might not want to see me.”
“You don’t know that,” the nurse said. “She had no way of getting a letter to you.”
“You know who I do wonder about,” Beulah said, taking a lazy kind of pleasure in meandering through her own story like this, “is my mother. When I was a little girl, she was the wicked one in the family. But what did she do? She kept a job most of the time, and went with a few men, and got into some liquor. It’s nothing I haven’t done myself. What’s so awful about that?”
Nurse Cartwright said, “Quite a bit, according to a man like your grandfather.”
“That’s right. He put her out, and that’s what drove her to those little brown bottles.”
“It might’ve been more than that,” the nurse said.
“Oh, I’m sure it was,” Beulah said. “She had her troubles. But what I’m trying to say is that I’ve been every bit as wicked as she has. The only difference between us is that the whole country knows what I did. Nobody’s heard of her.”
Nurse Cartwright nodded thoughtfully at that. “I do see what you mean. Maybe you and your mama would understand each other better now.”
Beulah considered that. “I wouldn’t mind trying. I don’t suppose she’s still alive.”
“I can’t imagine how she could be, from what you’ve told me,” the nurse
said. Beulah appreciated the frank and straightforward way Nurse Cartwright addressed any subject connected with medicine. “People don’t come back from a drug habit like that. It kills them if they try to quit, and it kills them if they don’t.”
“I just don’t know what drove her to it. What was so awful?”
“Must’ve been something, for her to run out on you and your sister,” Nurse Cartwright said.
“I can’t judge her for that. I gave my little boy away. Then those people let him die. What I did was worse.”
“Don’t ever think that way. I’ve nursed some babies through cholera. At least half of them die no matter what you do.”
“I did not know that. I always thought they just didn’t send for a doctor in time.”
“Not at all. I’m sure the doctor was there every day.”
Beulah did feel a half-measure better, having heard that from a trustworthy source. She’d always carried a heavy knot of guilt, down in the pit of her stomach, over little Henry Clay Jr. She couldn’t even remember his face anymore, although that could’ve been from lack of effort. She didn’t dare try too hard to summon him up.
It wasn’t at all unpleasant, talking like this. Beulah had never had much of a chance to ruminate over her misfortunes in such a leisurely, even friendly, way. Nurse Cartwright exhibited an open-minded curiosity about the events in Beulah’s life, going all the way back to that day when she stood on Meemaw’s front porch and asked to be let in.
“I’ll wager you were starved and small for your age, and eaten up with nits, too,” the nurse speculated, sounding as if she regretted not having a chance to get after little Beulah with her nit comb.
“Oh, I was,” Beulah said, happy to let her be right. “Claudia and me both could’ve used some nursing back then.”
What a comfort it was, to imagine Nurse Cartwright with her comb, making things right for little Beulah and Claudia. Over those last few weeks in the camp, Beulah’s past had leapt out at her like a panther coming at her in a dark jungle. It tore at her and pulled her back down to a place she never wanted to go again. When she went for that gun and pointed it at Freeman, it wasn’t really Freeman she wanted to shoot. It was the shadowy, fanged monster of her own ruined past.