by Tara Johnson
She took another bite of her eggs and dabbed her napkin to her lips. “It’s been strangely silent here all winter. Why? And not only with the local authorities. You’d think the Confederacy would be champing at the bit to attack the capital, unless they feel they have no shot of capturing it.”
Father rubbed his chin. “Perhaps. Then again, General McClellan has done nothing but sit all winter long. No campaigns, no advances, and no apparent plans to do so. Odd state of affairs. And this—” he jabbed the paper—“beats all I’ve ever heard.”
“What is it?”
He pushed the spectacles higher up his nose. “With the Fugitive Slave Act and so many disreputable bounty hunters roaming the countryside, abolitionists are trying a new tactic to free slaves. Buying slaves themselves.”
Cadence put down her fork. “That makes no sense.”
Father offered a wry smile. “It does if they buy them only to set them free.”
Her mouth dropped. “But how do they keep from being recaptured?”
“The article doesn’t say, but I imagine if they have the means to buy the slaves, they also have the means to transport them north and give them the proper paperwork to ensure their freedom. Of course, Confederates are fit to be tied at the abolitionists, but what can they do? It’s perfectly legal for a man to do what he wants with his own property.”
“Beating them at their own game.” She shivered. “I’ll never forget the photographs I saw in that gallery you took me to in Boston. Remember? The ones showing the slaves’ backs who’d been whipped?” Nausea bubbled up at the horrific images stirred by the memories. “Such brutality should never be embraced by any people.”
Father shook his head. “Yet the Rebels call us the barbarians.”
She leaned back in her chair, her stomach sour. “Still, we endeavor to preserve the Union through guns and bayonets, slicing apart those who disagree with us. Are we any different?”
Father stilled and gave her a sad look. “War is nasty business, darling. There can be no peace without war. No victory without struggle and no beauty without pain. The Almighty knows the end from the beginning. We seek him and leave all else in his hands.”
She nodded. There was wisdom and a measure of comfort in what he said.
“Have you heard from Stephen Dodd lately?”
Her eyes darted up and regarded Father sharply. If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect him of hoping for a match. She spoke slowly. “Yes, he wrote just last week.”
“And what does he say of events?”
What could she possibly share? Stephen’s letters held little of the conditions of war. Instead, he wrote of how he admired her beauty and wondered if she thought of him as much as he thought of her . . . things far too intimate considering how little they knew of each other or what little relationship they actually enjoyed. She’d not encouraged Stephen in the slightest, however, keeping her own letters breezy and cheerful, albeit formal. She could tell Father none of this.
“Not much. I fear he does not want to bore nor alarm me with the worst of the horrors of war. All he mentions is that the drilling is monotonous and the men are weary of staying put.”
“No doubt. Yet I do not wish them to be in harm’s way either.”
She sighed. “I don’t know what to pray anymore.”
A sharp rapping sounded on the front door. Startled, she looked up. “Are you expecting company?”
He shook his head. “I’ll answer it. Louisa just left for the market.”
Nodding, she stood to clear the dishes. “I’ll clean up.” She gathered an armful of dishes and carried them into the kitchen. She had just begun shaving lye into the steaming wash water when Father reappeared.
“You have a caller, Cadence.”
She wiped her hands on a cloth and straightened. “Who?”
“A young man. He says he knows you. Dr. Joshua Ivy.”
If she’d been holding a dish, she would have dropped it. She heaved a breath. “Did he say what he wanted?”
Father studied her carefully. “He did not. Judging by your reaction, I take it his arrival is unwelcome?”
How to answer? “Yes. Possibly. That is, I shouldn’t judge him too harshly, should I?”
“No. Not until you’ve heard him out.”
The question in Father’s blue eyes spoke volumes. Guilt gnawed her middle. She’d not told him of her visit to Miss Dix nor to the Washington Infirmary. He’d only worry unnecessarily. Or would he even care?
She pushed away the uncharitable thought. Of course he cared. He was her father, after all. Since Mother’s death and then Tate’s departure, he’d simply been lost in a world of his own. Perhaps keeping her dreams and whereabouts quiet had been unwise. Surely he’d want to know of her longings to become a nurse. But would he support them?
“I’ll see him in the parlor.”
“I’ll accompany you.”
The very idea of Father being present for whatever humiliation Dr. Ivy might impose caused a cold wash to skitter down her spine.
“I’ll be fine. Thank you, though. I’ll leave the parlor door open and call should I need you.”
He frowned. “Five minutes. I’ll not have you go unchaperoned a minute longer.” He departed, giving her a knowing look.
Mustering her courage, she dropped the cloth on the counter and walked slowly toward the parlor. What possible reason could Dr. Ivy have to seek her out? And why now, months after he’d barred her from the hospital?
She paused at the parlor door and gripped the jamb, staring. He paced before the crackling fire, oblivious to her presence. Even with his head bent, he was taller than she remembered, broader across the shoulders but trim. His chestnut hair shimmered almost golden between the firelight and the morning sunshine streaming through the window. But it was the shadows beneath his eyes that tugged her heart. He looked weary, far more exhausted than she’d last seen him.
“Dr. Ivy?”
His head snapped up. He froze upon seeing her in the entryway. Something flared in his eyes, though she could not read his expression.
“Miss Piper.” He bowed his head. “Thank you for receiving me.” He lifted a brow. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
She clasped her hands together. “In truth, I wasn’t sure if I should.”
He smiled then, and she marveled at how it transformed his face. The man was handsome but such a genuine smile . . . the effect was altogether unsettling.
Swallowing, she gestured toward the chairs. “Please feel free to sit. I can offer you some tea if you’d like.”
“Thank you, no.” He took a seat but perched on the edge, leaning his elbows on his knees as if in a hurry to state his business. She sat in the stuffed chair across from him and waited, her stomach in knots.
He wove his fingers together and frowned before lifting his gaze. “I’ll come straight to the point, Miss Piper.” He cleared his throat. “I need you.”
Fire scorched her cheeks. Rational thought fled. “Wha—?”
Crimson streaked up his neck as his eyes widened. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I—” He jumped up and kneaded the back of his neck before whirling back to her once more. “I need you as my nurse.”
Never would she have dreamed he’d come to request such a thing. A wicked part of her longed to watch him squirm, but needling him over his boorish behavior wouldn’t be kind. Still, she couldn’t form a coherent answer.
She must have taken overly long pondering what to do, for his deep voice cut the silence.
“Are you waiting for me to beg, Miss Piper?”
“No. I’m simply too shocked for words. Your request is far different from your threat months ago when I believe you told me . . . What was it? Ah, yes, that you would toss me over your shoulder and c-c-car—” she cleared her throat—“hoist me home if I dared enter your hospital again.”
He blanched and tugged at his collar. “Forgive me, Miss Piper. It was wrong of me to have treated you so. Surely you u
nderstand that I must strive to obey protocol. Miss Dix is quite firm in her requirements for nurses, and I would have received no end of trouble had I defied her wishes.” He offered a lopsided smile. “Surgeons and nurses alike don’t call her Dragon Dix for nothing.”
Cadence could well imagine. There was steel beneath the woman’s satin gentility.
“Have the requirements changed, then?”
His brown eyes flickered with hesitancy. “No, they have not.”
“Then why ask me for help?”
He sighed. “To be honest, I’m losing nurses left and right. Influenza has exacted a heavy toll on my most reliable ones. Three of my best have passed away. Four more are convalescing in their homes and may not be able to return for a month, perhaps longer due to their age. Several others have left to nurse their own sons who were wounded in battle.” His jaw tightened. “And I tell you this under the strictest confidence, Miss Piper. A Union general told me only just yesterday that a flurry of fighting is predicted to occur in Virginia in the coming months. If that comes to pass as he thinks it might, casualties will be transported—”
“To Washington.” She finished his sentence in a whisper. Could the already-overcrowded capital city hold hordes of wounded? It was bulging at the seams. Each week the streets grew more clogged, the beggars more abundant, the structures of newly constructed tenement buildings more pronounced.
“I know you’re aware of the fire that destroyed Washington Infirmary in November.”
“Yes. Most unfortunate.”
It had only been a week after he’d chased her away that the hospital building had caught fire. She watched from her vantage point in the cemetery as firefighters attempted to douse the licking red flames.
“I’m resettled in a new hospital now, and we’ve been commandeered by the military. I’ve already sent a request for more nurses, but with resources needing to be stretched across so many, I fear the reinforcements will come too late. I need nurses now so I can train them before the bulk of new casualties arrive.” His eyes trailed to hers and held fast, causing her heart to squeeze. “You have fortitude and compassion. Several women I’ve tried to train of late didn’t have the stomach to even set foot in the room with gangrene, much less try to battle through to be of any help. You did.”
She looked away, hating the flush creeping over her skin. “But I fainted.”
His chuckle caused her to snap her eyes to his.
“Do you think you’re alone in that reaction? My first encounter with gangrene left me heaving into a chamber pot for the better part of an hour.” He shrugged. “You get used to it. It’s part of the training.” He smiled, and her shame melted away. “I wager you’ll not faint again. You have grit and plenty of it. Why do you think I came here, ready to humble myself and beg?”
Dr. Ivy could be quite charming when he wanted to be. Hope beat against her ribs like a bird longing to take flight. “But what of Miss Dix? Nothing changes the fact that I am young and unmarried. She denied me before. She’ll do so again.”
His mirth faded, replaced by somber gravity. “Necessity demands much. In times of war, things like age and appearance don’t seem to matter so much. I’ll arrange it.”
“What if she doesn’t agree?”
He looked away. “There are ways of making it work.”
His answer seemed elusive, but he knew that world far better than she. Dare she hope? Could God really be giving her the desire of her heart?
Glancing into her eyes once again, he frowned. “I’m far from perfect, Miss Piper, as you’re already well aware. In surgery I can be demanding and tend to speak first without thought of softening my tone. But if you can be patient with me and forgive my faults, I would be happy to train you.”
He’d already torn her heart to pieces in two brief encounters. How would she manage to work alongside such a man day after day? Still, the thought of her dream so close to her fingertips was far too heady to be ignored.
“What say you, Miss Piper?”
Her pulse drummed slowly in her ears as she stared at his hopeful expression. How could she say no?
“On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“My father must agree.” She could win him over. And how good it would be for him to be able to tell his friends, “No, I have no son fighting, but my daughter is a nurse for the Union.” He would have no cause to bear the disgrace of Tate’s shortcomings any longer.
He nodded. “A reasonable request.”
She held out her hand, and he clasped it with his own. “Provided my father agrees, then yes, Dr. Ivy, I shall be your nurse.”
Chapter 7
APRIL 1862
Cadence dipped a cloth in the basin of water and squeezed out the excess, mopping it across the fevered soldier’s neck. With half of his head and face bandaged, she could make out little of his features, but at least he was calm, despite the severity of his injuries. That could not be said for many in the hospital.
She kept her voice light and cheerful as she worked. “What battle did you last engage in?”
“Kernstown, ma’am.” His lips quirked. “We whupped them Rebs good, though I imagine I look like I came out on the losing end.”
She chuckled and dropped the cloth back in the basin. “You’re alive, and that is what matters, soldier. You make us all proud.”
He smiled fully then but winced. “Don’t imagine my eye will look the same when all is said and done.”
“Perhaps not, but you’ll have a badge of honor that tells the story of your heroism. Here now.” She opened an envelope of laudanum powder and sprinkled it into a tin cup of water next to his bed, stirring it with a spoon. “Dr. Ivy wants that high fever to break. You need rest and liquid. Drink this and sleep.”
The soldier gulped down the medicine in four long pulls and grimaced before falling back into his bed. “Bless you.”
She placed her hand on the thatch of wheat-colored hair sticking up above his bandage and prayed. Heavenly Father, heal him if it be thy will. Bless him with long life and purpose to love and serve you.
As he drifted into sleep, she placed the cup, washbasin, and empty medicine envelope on the serving tray and stood, moving to the next patient. Her back ached and her eyes blurred from hours spent hovering over small beds, but she regretted not one moment. Caring for the wounded had given her greater satisfaction than she’d dreamed possible.
Moving to Private Taylor’s bedside, she frowned. He was another of the casualties of the battle at Kernstown, and his leg had been crushed in the skirmish. Dr. Ivy had amputated as soon as he’d arrived, but the poor soldier continued to weaken. The arduous journey to Washington might have been more than he could endure. She studied his pasty complexion dotted with beads of sweat. His eyes were pinched closed, yet he trembled violently as he fisted the covers close to his body.
Kneeling at his side, she placed a calming hand over his clenched fists. “Private Taylor, how are you feeling?”
He trembled through gritted teeth. “M-m-mighty p-poorly, Mrs. P-Piper.”
She didn’t correct his use of Mrs. Dr. Ivy had given her a cheap wedding band to wear at the hospital to protect her reputation and perhaps her job. She pushed the guilt of the deception aside. The good she was doing justified the means, didn’t it?
She smoothed his sweat-matted hair from his forehead. “I’ll fetch the doctor. Stay strong.”
She rose and looked for Dr. Ivy. Seeing no sign of him in the large room, she walked quickly down the corridor to his small office and peeked in. He sat hunched over his cluttered desk, hastily writing amid haphazard stacks of papers and medical journals. The man was a constant enigma. Patient and kind one minute, gruff the next. In the past two months he’d been training her, they’d worked remarkably well together, likely because he knew nurses were scarce and he must be on his best behavior. Still, she’d never seen anyone so tender with the patients. His office always looked as if a cyclone had struck, but his mind was
razor-sharp, quick, and discerning.
She cleared her throat and he looked up with a start.
“Nurse Piper? Did you need anything?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s Private Taylor. His color has worsened, and he has cold sweats and tremors. It would relieve my mind if you’d be so kind as to examine him.”
Frowning, he stood and grabbed a stethoscope on his way out. She led him to the bedside and waited, watching as he placed the cone over the ill soldier’s chest and listened through the earpieces. He moved his fingers to the patient’s wrist, checking the young man’s pulse. After examining the young man’s neck, eyes, and stomach, Dr. Ivy straightened. His face was granite as he watched the soldier moan and thrash in his delirium.
“What’s wrong?”
“Blood poisoning.” He scrubbed his hands across the back of his neck. “He’s the eighth one in the past fortnight to succumb. If I could just figure out why they’re all contracting it . . .” He let his words trail away, his brows low as he puzzled it out. “I clean the wounds as best I can, yet still they fall ill to the poisoning.”
Her heart ached at the stricken look on his face. “You’re doing all you can.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Unfortunately, that brings little comfort to the dead or their loved ones.” He looked at her then, his face unreadable. “Keep him as comfortable as you can.”
She nodded as he brushed past her, rubbing his temple on the way out. He was correct. There was little solace in doing your best when men still died. She cooled Private Taylor’s neck and face with a damp rag and managed to slip a couple spoonfuls of diluted laudanum water between his cracked lips before she found herself drawn to Dr. Ivy’s operating room.
Walking slowly through the small space, she carefully studied the assortment of vials and medicines, the washbowls and clean towels ready to be used. The surgical instruments were lined in rows.
She mentally rehearsed the order Dr. Ivy used in his amputations. Fold and shape cloth into a cone. Hold above the patient’s nose and mouth. Apply three to five drops of chloroform on the cloth until patient is asleep and breathing peacefully. Tourniquet above the part of the limb about to be removed.