by Tara Johnson
The reporters collectively held their breath, pencils poised and ready.
“What would you like to know?”
Joshua rubbed his bleary eyes and dropped the meticulous notes on his desk. Every single patient’s name, diagnosis, treatment, and scant history had been detailed and recorded. With the hospital bulging at the seams, keeping the information straight was a difficult task, but thankfully, he’d not had to perform any surgeries this day.
He’d had his fill of amputated limbs.
Rolling his head from side to side to loosen the tight muscles, he pursed his lips and ran his fingers down the list of amputees. Of those he’d operated on at Oak Grove, only eight had succumbed to death. The rest, thus far, had survived. The majority of those who were healing quickly were those he’d operated on since Cadence began cleaning his instruments after each surgery. He rubbed his chin. Most interesting.
Cadence. Just the thought of her caused an ache to form in his chest. Since they’d returned to Washington, he’d avoided her. He’d let his feelings burst free and scared her senseless. If he’d but known she’d pledged herself to another . . .
He could still taste the sweetness of her lips, feel the soft curve of her back against his fingertips.
And yet . . .
She’d kissed him back.
He scrubbed his hands down his face and slapped them against the desk.
Please, Father, sever this longing I have for her. You’ve given me the children. A calling to heal and to help others find freedom. It is enough. Help me be content.
It would be better for her not to be entangled with him. So why couldn’t he make his heart obey?
Last week’s edition of Harper’s Weekly taunted him from the stack of papers on his desk. His chest pounded, just as it did every time his gaze traitorously returned to it. He ought to throw it out, but he couldn’t seem to obey that directive either.
He ran his finger over the penciled sketch of Cadence cradling a dead soldier in her arms. Her dark tresses were artistically drawn in sweeping waves over one shoulder. The faintest pencil lines of tear tracks shadowed the curve of her cheek as she wept over the soldier, his head back, mouth slack and opened wide to the sky. The artist had captured the moment flawlessly, yet he’d not been able to re-create the song spilling from her lips. That melody was forever tattooed on Joshua’s heart.
“I my loved ones’ watch am keeping, all through the night.”
Since returning to Washington, Cadence had become such a celebrity, she’d not had as much time at the hospital as before. Ramsey bade her sing at his every whim and pleasure. It seemed to Joshua she was always fighting to prove herself for some unknown reason. He sighed and pushed the journal away.
Rising, he walked toward the great room where the majority of the patients lay on lumpy, unforgiving cots. He’d make final rounds for the evening, then go home, where three smiling faces would greet him.
He stopped at various bedsides to administer a word of encouragement or issue a medication order to a nurse or steward. As he passed the foot of one bed, its occupant softly called out, “I never did thank you, Doc.”
He paused and turned. Stephen Dodd lay watching him from the bed. Joshua nodded slowly. “No thanks are needed. I only wish I could have saved your leg.”
Dodd offered a faint smile, his eyes ringed in shadows. “Me too, but it was preferable to losing my life.”
Joshua moved to stand near the head of his bed. “Are you comfortable?”
“Enough.” His eyelids were heavy as he blinked. “One of the nurses changed my bandages a bit ago and gave me some pain powders. It’s odd, though. Some days I have sharp pain, almost like my leg is still there.”
“You are one of many to complain of the same malady. Some say it’s as if their limb cramps with the most excruciating pain, but they feel as if they are losing their mind since the limb is gone.”
Dodd’s eyes rounded. “Yes, that’s it exactly.”
He grunted. “I’ve seen recent journal articles about this very thing. Some physicians believe it’s related to damage done to nerves running through the amputated limb. No one is sure yet, however.”
“Will it get better?”
“I pray so. Nerves are slow to heal, but time and rest work wonders.”
Dodd studied him. “I’m thankful to you. Many others have battled infection, yet I have remained unscathed.”
He swallowed, hesitant to say her name. “I cannot take credit. The glory goes to the Almighty and Miss Piper. She suggested washing all the surgical instruments before each operation. It seems to be quite successful in reducing infection and blood poisoning.”
Dodd relaxed against the pillow. “She is a wonder. The day I met her, I knew I wanted her as my wife.”
The confession pierced sharply. Joshua looked down. “How did you two meet?”
“At a dinner held by my parents. Miss Piper was quite shy, of course. She spoke very little, but her father said I could visit again. I saw her just before I was sent into duty, and she granted me permission to write her. My feelings have only grown in the meantime.”
One visit? Dodd had only called on her once and had declared her to be his future wife? Unease niggled.
Forcing a tight smile, he squeezed Dodd’s shoulder. “Rest well tonight. I’ll be around in the morning to check on you. Call one of the night stewards if you have need of anything.”
“Thank you.”
As Joshua trudged home for the evening, Dodd’s words replayed over and over in his mind.
Was Cadence actually betrothed to Dodd? And if not, what game was she playing with the man?
Father adjusted the spectacles perched on the end of his nose as he perused the morning paper over the breakfast table. Cadence picked at the eggs cooling on her plate. The potato cakes held little appeal. Fatigue weighted her body like a blanket. She only half listened to him read the headlines, though Tate leaned forward, eagerly lapping up the latest tidbits of war.
He tapped the newsprint. “Look there. Belle Boyd has been captured.” He shook his head. “It’s about time.”
Tate bit into his toast and jam and washed it down with a sip of weak coffee. “Past time. The woman has been a menace.”
Cadence blinked. “Belle Boyd? I’ve not heard of her.”
Tate glowered. “Monstrous woman. Some call her the Siren of the Shenandoah. Just last summer, it was reported she shot and killed a Union soldier who, she claimed, insulted her and her mother.”
Cadence gasped. “Why was she not already in prison then?”
Father peered over the top of his spectacles. “According to the papers, the commanding officer inquired into the circumstances and judged her to be innocent, though witnesses believe Miss Boyd beguiled him with her charm into seeing things her way.” He snorted. “The papers state she is quite bold and outspoken, daring and desperate to be seen.”
Tate pursed his lips. “There is talk that Miss Boyd may very well be a spy for the Confederacy and reports directly to General Stonewall Jackson.”
Cadence dropped her fork with a clatter. “A female spy? Is such a thing possible?”
Tate grinned. “Why not? You’re a female nurse, are you not? You were bound and determined, and despite your age and the rules you plowed ahead. Why is Belle Boyd any different?”
She fell silent. The comparison to the bawdy Belle rankled. Surely Cadence wasn’t desperate for attention like the infamous Confederate, was she? Impossible.
Father continued, scanning the tiny type with a sharp eye. “At any rate, she’ll be held at Old Capitol Prison. Perhaps they’ll have the good sense to keep her locked up longer than they did Rose Greenhow.”
Tate’s brows rose. “Did you hear? Mrs. Greenhow plans to travel to Europe to rally aid for the Confederate cause.” He smirked. “Perhaps she will seek an audience with Napoleon III.”
Father’s eyes twinkled. “Well, Cadence’s appearance at the Union Aid Society is likely to meet with mo
re success.”
She smiled faintly. She’d sung at a benefit or gathering nearly every night for the past two weeks. Her body begged for rest. There had been no time to recover after Oak Grove.
Tate put down his fork. “Another performance? The press and charities refuse to give Cadence a moment’s peace.”
Father sipped his coffee, his focus on the paper. “Your sister has expectations to meet for the good of our glorious cause. They are depending on her.”
Tate leaned forward. “But what does Cadence want?” His gaze swung to hers and held fast. In truth, the demanding schedule of events was exhausting. She felt crushed on every side. She longed to flee to the confines of Judiciary Square, back to the routines of soothing fevers and comforting scared soldiers.
Father looked up from his paper and speared her with a sharp look. Her wishes shriveled, wilting like a parched flower. What would they think of her if she told them no? What would Father think? People all over Washington were hailing her as the Songbird of the North. Father beamed every time she walked into a room. Doted on her in front of crowds, carrying on as if she were his pride and joy.
She could not lose his affection.
“I—I don’t mind.”
Father nodded with satisfaction. “See there? Such a good, giving daughter. What will you be singing tonight?”
She pushed aside the uneasiness his words drummed up in her middle. “A new song by a very talented abolitionist, Julia Ward Howe, titled ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.’ The words are quite stirring. It was printed in the Atlantic Monthly, and I was told President Lincoln is quite fond of the lyrics.” She pushed back her plate. “I sang it a fortnight ago and it was well received.”
“Splendid.” His eyes shone. “Your mother would be so proud.”
He’d said the same thing several times within the past few days, yet the thrill it initially gave her was growing faint. Since returning from Oak Grove to her newfound celebrity, Father had seemed more attentive. Perhaps too attentive. Or maybe he was truly seeing her for the first time in too long.
Sighing, she picked at her eggs. Perhaps she’d only been overly sensitive when Tate was recovering. Father had simply been elated to see the wayward son he thought he’d lost. He hadn’t been ignoring her, merely preoccupied. That was all, wasn’t it?
It didn’t matter any longer. Tate had healed well and was content with his new job working for Congressman Ramsey. And she . . . she was as busy as ever. The pull of so many responsibilities suddenly weighed on her like a wet cloak.
She hadn’t even been to baby Rose’s grave since returning to Washington. Guilt pinched.
Busyness was best. It kept her from thinking. Thinking about handsome doctors and three sweet children across town. Thinking about hurting soldiers lying helpless on scratchy cots. Thinking about bloody fields and the screams of the dying calling for their mothers.
Applause could drown out the sound of much.
Joshua shoved his hands into his pockets and hastened toward home. Evening had already blanketed the city in darkness, though many other men yet roamed the streets, some clad in suits and ties, others in the humble attire of common laborers.
All Joshua wanted was to see the children and fall into his own bed. The demands of the ill begging for relief in the hospital never ceased. He frowned, puzzling over Private Watson’s troubling ailments.
“You’re being watched, Doc.”
The low voice called from the shadows of an alley. Joshua stopped, peering into the darkness, but made no move to step closer.
“Watched?” He glanced around, making sure no one approached. “By you?”
“No, not me. The Knights of the Golden Circle. They watch you.”
Joshua’s blood simmered. He stepped closer. “Who are you? Show yourself!”
Cigarette smoke wafted toward him in the darkness. “Calm yourself. Outwitting the Knights takes cunning and patience.”
“Why would I need to outwit them?”
A long moment of silence. “If you don’t, they will destroy everything you hold dear.”
Joshua’s heart squeezed in a vise. “Who are you?”
“Meet me here in one week’s time. Midnight.”
“What’s your name?”
But the retreating footsteps told him the stranger was gone.
Chapter 20
CADENCE BLINKED against the too-bright lights. The hall holding the evening’s benefit for the Union Aid Society was far too cramped for the crowd pressing in. Heat and the odor of thick perfume suffused the air. How she longed for a fresh, cool breath.
Few were brave enough to dance in the sweltering heat, though at least a dozen still managed to swirl through the waltz playing gaily from the corner of the room. The violin seemed out of tune, its sound strident, instead of the soothing ebb and flow she was accustomed to. She feared it was not the musicians but her. She was in a dour mood this night. She cringed, thinking how her nerves would strangle her later in the evening when the brass bellowed out rousing patriotic songs. Thankfully, they’d agreed to remain silent during her own rendering of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
“Miss Piper?” A man with red hair, wearing a blue uniform and a hopeful expression, appeared on her left. He held a cup in his hands. “My name is Theodore Cummings.” He bowed and looked up. “Forgive my forwardness at not having myself properly introduced to you, but I could not seem to restrain myself. I so longed to meet you.”
Cadence forced a smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cummings.”
“I don’t know if you remember, but I heard you sing outside of Judiciary Square Hospital last year when the wounded were marching in from battle. It was so inspiring, I decided right then and there that as soon as I turned of age, I would enlist.”
“And it seems you did.”
His chest lifted. “I turned eighteen just last week and joined right up. I’m ready to do my part. Ready to fight!”
Her smile wobbled in the face of his blind enthusiasm. Was he ready? So many others thought they were as well, but they hadn’t been prepared for the horrors they witnessed. For the hand of death that sliced down their friends like a scythe.
“Mama, please! Help me!”
“. . . just wanted to say thank you.” His mouth creased as he held out the cup. “And here, I brought you some lemonade.” A blush crept into his face. “I’m sorry they have little else, but with the rising prices of food and goods, I suppose it was the best they could do.”
“It’s fine. Thank you.” She took a sip of the sweet-and-sour liquid and studied the young man, so full of life.
With a small nod, he began to excuse himself. “Well, I’ll not bother you further. I just wanted to thank you for the inspiration.”
“Mr. Cummings?”
“Yes, miss?”
Words stalled. What could she possibly say to prepare him for all he was about to endure?
Giving him a small smile, she reached out and grasped his hand. “Stay close to the Almighty. May he go with you.”
The boy’s eyes sparkled. “And with you.”
As he walked away, her stomach clenched, but she had no more time to consider Theodore Cummings before she was surrounded yet again by admirers.
When the evening afforded a brief lull, she excused herself and pushed through the crowd to the powder room, seeking a moment of peace. She let the door fall shut behind her and sighed. The dull roar of the laughter and music, tinkling glassware and heavy footfalls faded behind the thick wooden door. She leaned against the papered wall, fingering the pendant dangling from the delicate chain around her neck.
She glanced down at the sparkling teardrop sapphire and blinked moisture away. Mother’s pendant. She hadn’t even known Mother had possessed such a treasure until that very afternoon, when Father had rapped on her door and presented her with the beautiful gift.
“For you, Cadence.” His eyes had been tender as he opened the black velvet box to show her the spark
ling necklace inside.
She had breathed, “Oh, Father. I couldn’t accept such a token.”
“Don’t fret. It was your mother’s. I should have given it to you long ago. In all honesty, it had slipped my mind until yesterday. But when Louisa mentioned needing to press your blue gown, it jogged my memory.” He swallowed hard. “Such a beautiful dress and beautiful girl deserve a lovely bauble to go with them.”
“Thank you.”
She’d thrown her arms around his neck and inhaled the scent of him. Peppermint and cherry pipe tobacco.
“Here. Let me put it on you.”
She settled on the vanity stool and watched her reflection in the mirror as he fumbled with the clasp before slipping the sparkling necklace around her neck. The pendant felt cool against her skin.
“Your mother would be so proud if she could see you now.”
Cadence swallowed. Something cold twisted within. “Now?”
He beamed. “Of course. Seeing how famous you’ve become. You’re a beacon of inspiration in Washington, my dear. Your golden voice, you know.”
She watched a tiny line appear between her brows in the looking-glass reflection. “But you and Mother would be proud of me even if I couldn’t sing, wouldn’t you? Even if no one noticed my voice or cared how I sounded?”
Father’s smile dimmed. “Of course, but that’s not the case.”
She rose and twisted her fingers together, looking out the sun-dappled window and back to Father’s puzzled expression.
“What troubles you, Cadence?”
“The singing. I used to love it. It made my heart soar. I felt closer to God when I lifted my voice, but—” she struggled to find words—“not anymore.”
“What are you saying?”
“It’s tiresome. It feels like a chore. I no longer connect to the lyrics, the melody.” She bit her lip. “I’m weary of it. Weary of performing every evening and greeting people and acting like I’m cheerful all the time.” Her chest heaved as she spilled the burning admission. “I just want to nurse.”
Father’s expression was grave. “Cadence, people look up to you. They count on you to bolster their spirits. Think of how many you’ll disappoint.”