North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  The ward consisted of forty beds and a central stove into which Bob Pip was tossing kindling while another soldier nurse lit the mantles. Virgilia marched down the aisles, inspecting to the right and to the left, and when necessary straightening coverlets or the beds themselves. Miss Dix’s experiment of employing women had been an unexpected success because the original plan—to place the soldier nurses in charge of the wards—had two flaws: convalescing men tired quickly, and they could not easily and naturally provide the one thing a battle-weary veteran wanted almost as much as he wanted to be well and free of pain—tenderness. Virgilia spent as much time sitting at bedsides, holding hands and listening, as she did changing dressings and assisting surgeons.

  As she completed the inspection, her female assistant came in. She was a husky, plain woman, about thirty, with a pleasant face and a great amount of brown hair done up in braids and held by her hairnet. She had told Virgilia she had ambitions as a writer and had already published some articles and verse when patriotic fervor lured her to the volunteer nurses.

  “Good morning, Miss Alcott. Please come along and help me bring in our wounded.”

  “Certainly, Miss Hazard.”

  With clear command, Virgilia gestured and called out, “Bob—Lloyd—Casey—to the lobby, please.”

  She marched at the head of her group. A bilious look spread over the face of Louisa Alcott. The lobby was not yet in sight, but they could smell its strong odors—familiar odors that had made Virgilia ill the first time she was exposed to them.

  She did hope Miss Alcott would last; something told her the woman had the makings of a fine nurse. She came of a famous family. Her father, Bronson, the Concord educator and transcendentalist, conducted experiments with model schools and communal living. But pedigree wouldn’t help her here. Virgilia was dismayed when Miss Alcott gulped and said, “Oh, dear heaven,” as the group from Ward One entered the lobby.

  Similar groups were arriving from other wards to claim their charges. And there they were, walking unaided or on crutches or being carried, the young, brave boys from Fredericksburg, some so encrusted with mud and bloody bandages it was hard to see their uniforms. She heard Louisa Alcott choke and quickly said, “From now on carry a handkerchief soaked in ammonia or cologne, whichever you prefer. You’ll soon find you don’t need it.”

  “You mean you’ve gotten used to—?”

  But Virgilia was off among the litter-bearers, pointing. “Take forty that way, to the ballroom.”

  Her heart broke as she watched them go. A youth with his right hand sawed off and the stump bandaged. A man about her age, wounded in the foot, struggling with his crutch and staring with eyes like panes of glass. A soldier on a litter, thrashing back and forth, tears trickling into his mud-caked beard while he repeated, “Mother. Mother.” Virgilia picked up his hand and walked along beside the litter. He quieted; the anguished lines vanished from his face. She held his hand till they reached the ballroom entrance.

  The soap and disinfectant sloshed everywhere last night might have been saved for all the good it did now. Very quickly, the wounded generated a reeking miasma of dirt, festering wounds, feces, vomit. As always, the stench had a strange effect on Virgilia. Rather than disgusting her, it sharpened her sense of being needed and her conviction that the struggle would and must end just one way—with the South reduced to a mudhole, as Congressman Stevens put it so splendidly.

  The efficient Bob Pip set out towels, sponges, and blocks of brown soap. A black man brought a kettle from the kitchen and poured steaming water into basins. The ambulance drivers helped their charges to beds, then left. Virgilia saw one sleazy brute eying her. She feigned annoyance and turned her back. Men often noticed her, though it wasn’t beauty to which they were responding, merely size. She didn’t mind. Once, no one had noticed anything.

  “What ’n the divil is this goddamn place?” The booming voice had an Irish lilt. Behind the stove, now radiating heat, Virgilia saw a broad-shouldered soldier in his twenties, red-haired and red-bearded, thrashing about on his cot. “Don’t look like Erie, Pennsylvania—nor the old sod neither—”

  Pip told the soldier he was in the Union Hotel Hospital. The man started to climb out of bed. Pip restrained him. The soldier cursed and made a second effort. We will begin with him, Virgilia thought. Others were watching, and establishing authority in the ward was important.

  She strode to the Irishman’s cot. “Stop that foul talk. We’re here to help you.”

  The bearded soldier squinted at her. “Skip the help, woman, an’ give me something to eat. Ain’t had a thing but hardtack since Burny sent me up that damn hill to die.” He wiggled his left foot, wrapped in stained bandages. “Feels like all I did was surrender me toes, or a bit more.”

  The movement had pained him; that caused anger. “Jasus, woman, don’t stand there. I want food.”

  “You will get nothing until we remove those filthy clothes and wash you down. That is standard hospital procedure.”

  “An’ who the fu—Who’s gonna do the washing, might I ask?” The Irishman rolled his eyes around the room, clearly telling her he saw no one capable by sex or training.

  “One of my nurses will do it. Miss Alcott.”

  “A woman bathe me? I should say to God not!”

  Above his beard, his cheeks were red. Pip set a bowl of water beside the cot, then handed Miss Alcott two towels, sponge, and brown soap. The soldier attempted to roll away from the women. Virgilia gestured.

  “Bob, help me.”

  She seized the Irishman’s shoulders and with some effort kept him in bed. “We do not want to inflict more pain on you, Corporal, and we won’t if you cooperate with us. We intend to remove everything except your undergarments and scrub you thoroughly.”

  “All over?”

  “Yes, every inch.”

  “Mother of God.”

  “Stop that. Other men besides you need attention. We have no time to waste on the false modesty of fools.”

  So saying, she ripped his collar open. Buttons flew.

  The Irishman didn’t struggle much; he was too weak and hurting. Virgilia showed the stupefied Miss Alcott how to ply a soapy sponge, then a towel. The towel was dark gray after two passes over the corporal’s skin.

  The Irishman kept his body rigid. Virgilia lifted his right arm and washed under it. He wriggled and giggled.

  “Let’s have none of that,” she said, showing a slight smile.

  “Jasus, who’d of thought it? A strange woman handlin’ me like she was my mother.” Sheepish then. “It don’t feel too bad after what I been through. Not too bad atall.”

  “Your change of attitude is very helpful. I appreciate it. Miss Alcott, take over, and I’ll start on the next man.”

  “But Miss Hazard—” she swallowed, pink-faced as the Irishman—“may I speak to you alone?”

  “Certainly. Let’s step over there.”

  She knew what was coming but dutifully bent her head to hear the whispered question. She answered with similar softness so as not to embarrass Miss Alcott. “Bob Pip or one of the other soldiers finishes each man. They have a saying: the old veterans wash the new privates.”

  Miss Alcott was too relieved to be shocked. She pressed a fist to her breast and breathed deeply. “Oh, I’m thankful to hear it. I believe I can handle the other work. I’m getting accustomed to the odors. But I don’t believe I could bring myself to—to—” She couldn’t even bring herself to say it.

  “You’ll do splendidly,” Virgilia said, giving her an encouraging pat.

  Louisa Alcott did do well. In two hours, with the help of a third volunteer nurse who joined them, they had stripped the entire population of the ward of unwearable clothing and all but essential dressings and bandages. Then the orderlies brought in coffee, beef, and soup.

  While the men ate, the surgeons began to appear, distinguishable by the green sashes worn with their uniforms. Two entered the ballroom, one an elderly fellow Virgilia hadn’t m
et before. He introduced himself and said he would handle all cases not requiring surgery. She knew the other doctor, a local man who went straight to work inspecting patients on the far side of the ward.

  Virgilia found army surgeons a mixed lot. Some were dedicated, talented men; others, quacks without professional schooling, qualified by only a few weeks of apprenticeship in a physician’s office. It was those in the latter group who most often acted as if they were eminent practitioners. They were brutal with patients, curt with inferiors, vocal about lowering themselves to serve in the army. She was able to tolerate the pomposity of such quacks only because they shared a common purpose—the healing of men so they could return to their regiments and kill more Southerners.

  The surgeon approaching was no quack, but a Washington practitioner of solid reputation. Erasmus Foyle, M.D., barely reached Virgilia’s shoulder, but he bore himself as if he were Brobdingnagian. Bald as an egg except for a fringe of oiled black hair, he sported mustachios with points and sweetened his breath with cloves. At their first meeting, he had made it evident that Virgilia interested him for reasons that were not professional.

  After an ingratiating bow, he said, “Good morning, Miss Hazard. May I have a word outside?”

  The last soldier Foyle had examined, a man with both legs bandaged from knee to groin, began to roll to and fro and moan. The moan slid upward into a high-register shriek. Miss Alcott dropped her bowl, but Pip caught it before it broke.

  Virgilia called, “Give that man opium, Bob.”

  “And plenty of it,” said Foyle, nodding vigorously. He slipped his right hand around Virgilia’s left arm; his knuckles indented the bulge of her breast. She was about to call him down when something occurred to her.

  Men looked at her differently from the way they did in the past. How useful could that be? Perhaps she should find out. She let Foyle’s hand remain. He blushed with pleasure.

  “Right along here—” He guided her through the doorway and to the left into a dingy hall where no one in the ward could see them. He stood close to her with his small, bright eyes on a level with her breasts. Grady had loved her breasts, too.

  “Miss Hazard, what is your opinion of the condition of that poor wretch who’s screaming?”

  “Dr. Foyle, I am no physician—”

  “Please, please—I respect your expertise.” He was practically dancing from boot to polished boot. “I have respected and, may I say, admired you since chance first threw us together. Kindly give me your opinion.”

  The foxy little man reached for her right arm as he said that. He slipped his fingers around and under. Now he knows how the other one feels. Amused, she was also slightly bewildered by this unexpected power.

  “Very well. I don’t believe the left leg can be saved.” She hated to say it; she had watched men as they regained consciousness after going under the saw.

  “Amputation—yes, that was my conclusion also. And the right leg?”

  “Not quite so bad, but the difference is marginal. Really, Doctor, shouldn’t you ask your colleague instead of me?”

  “Bah! He’s no better than an apothecary. But you, Miss Hazard, you have a real grasp of medical matters. Intuitive, perhaps, but a real grasp.”

  Just as he had a grasp of her arm. His knuckles pressed into her bosom again. “Surgery for that man as soon as possible. Could we perhaps discuss other cases at supper this evening?”

  The sense of power intoxicated her. Foyle was no great physical specimen, but he was well off, respected, and he wanted her. A white man wanted her. It couldn’t be clearer. She had changed; her life had changed. She was grateful to Dr. Erasmus Foyle.

  Not as grateful as he wished her to be, however.

  “I should love that, but how would it be construed by your wife?”

  “My—? Dear woman, I have never mentioned—”

  “No. Another nurse did.”

  His pink changed to red. “Damn her. Which one?”

  “Actually, it was several. In this hospital and also in the one previous to this. Your reputation for protecting your wife’s good name is widespread. They say you protect it so zealously, hardly anyone knows she exists.”

  Taking wicked delight in his reaction, she lifted her right arm, a peremptory signal that he should remove his hand. He was too astonished. She did it for him, dropping the hand as if it were soiled.

  “I’m flattered by your attentions, Dr. Foyle, but I think we should return to our duties.”

  “Attentions? What attentions?” He snarled it. “I wanted a private discussion on a medical matter, nothing more.” He jerked down the front of his blue coat, adjusted his sash, and quick-marched into the ballroom. In other circumstances Virgilia would have laughed.

  “Well, Miss Alcott?” Virgilia asked when the tired nurses ate their first full meal, at eight that night. They had worked without interruption. “What do you think of the nursing service?”

  Worn out and irritable, Louisa Alcott said, “How candid may I be?”

  “As candid as you wish. We are all volunteers—all equal.”

  “Well, then—to begin—this place is a pesthole. The mattresses are hard as plaster, the bedding’s filthy, the air putrid, and the food—have you tasted this beef? It must have been put up for the boys of ’76. The pork brought out for supper might be a secret weapon of the enemy, it looked so terrible. And the stewed blackberries more closely resembled stewed cockroaches.”

  She was so emphatic she generated laughter among the women on both sides of the trestle table. She looked tearful, then laughed, too.

  Virgilia said, “We know all that, Miss Alcott. The question is—will you stick?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Hazard. I may not be experienced at bathing naked men—at least I was not until today—but I shall definitely stick.” As if to prove it, she put a chunk of the beef in her mouth and chewed.

  The familiar hospital sounds crept to Virgilia in her room that night. Cries of pain. The weeping of grown men. A woman on duty singing a lullaby.

  She was restless, remembering the awkward, seriocomical encounter with Foyle. How marvelous that he had wanted her. Not a field hand, not some fugitive, but a respectable white man. She had today discovered a truth only suspected before. Her body had a power over men, and because of that, she had power as a person. The discovery was as dazzling as a display of rockets on Independence Day.

  Sometime in the future, when she met a man more solid and worthy than the randy little surgeon, she would put the newfound power to use. To lift herself higher than she had ever thought possible. To help her find a place to play a truly important part in the final crushing of the South.

  In the dark, she slipped her hands down to her breasts and squeezed. She began to cry, the tears streaming while she smiled an exalted smile no one could see.

  62

  THAT SAME TUESDAY, THE day on which General Banks was to relieve General Butler in New Orleans, Elkanah Bent was summoned before the old commandant at eleven o’clock. He had been steeling himself for an inquiry about the brawl at Madame Conti’s but hadn’t expected the inquiry officer to be the general himself.

  “A fine business to deal with on my last day with the department.” Petulant, Butler whacked a file in front of him. Bent was numb. A bad tone was already set, and he hadn’t said a word.

  Ben Butler was a squat, round man, bald and perpetually squinting. His eyes went different ways, and subordinates joked that if you looked at the wrong one, the bad one, he would demote you. He seemed in that kind of mood now.

  “I suppose it never occurred to you that the proprietress of the house would file a complaint with the civil authorities and with me as well?”

  “General, I—” Bent tried to strengthen his voice but couldn’t. “Sir, I plead guilty to effecting rough justice. But the woman is a prostitute, no matter how grand her manners. Her employees insulted you, then attacked me.” He fingered the healing nail marks. “When I and others protested, she provoked us with mo
re insults. I admit matters got somewhat out of control—”

  “That’s putting a nice gloss on it,” Butler interrupted, squinting harder than ever. His voice had the nasal quality Bent associated with New England. “You totally destroyed the place. To go by the book, I should request that General Banks convene a court-martial.”

  Bent almost fainted. Seconds went by. Then Butler said, “Personally, I would prefer to exonerate you completely.” Buoyed, Bent was quickly cast down again: “Can’t do it, though. You’re one reason, she’s the other.”

  Confused, Bent muttered, “Sir?”

  “Plain enough, isn’t it? It is because of your record that I can’t extend leniency.” He opened the file and removed several pages; the topmost ones had yellowed. “It’s covered with blemishes, and you have now added another. As for the woman, of course you’re right; she’s a prostitute, and I know she’s vilified me more than once. But if I hanged everyone who did that, there’d be no more hemp in the Northern Hemisphere.”

  Bent’s forehead began to ooze and glisten. With a grunt, Butler launched himself from his chair. Hands behind his back and paunch preceding him, he walked in small circles, like a pigeon.

  “Unfortunately, Madame Conti’s charges run deeper than inciting to vandalism, which is bad enough. She accuses you of theft of a valuable painting. She accuses you of assault on her person in order to accomplish that theft.”

  “Both—damned lies.” He gulped.

  “You deny the charges?”

  “On my honor, General. On my sacred oath as an officer of the United States Army.”

  Butler knuckled his mustache, chewed his lip, stepped in a circle again. “She won’t like that. She hinted that if she could get her property back, she might drop the charges.”

  Something told Bent it was a critical moment. Told him to attack or he’d be finished. “General—if I am not speaking out of turn—why is it necessary to accommodate in any way a woman who is both a traitor and disreputable?”