by Ginny Dye
The thunder of cannon rivaled the fury of the storm the night before. Buildings shook and windows rattled as it rolled into the city. Carrie gazed around her, growing increasingly frightened as the mutterings of the people took on sounds of panic. The steady popcorn staccato of gunfire drifted on the breeze between the loud explosions. Carrie allowed the flow of people to pull her onward, taking comfort in the very numbers. Finally they all reached the top of the hill. When Carrie turned to look, there was really nothing to see except the already thickening cloud of smoke that blended with the slate-colored sky.
“What’s happening?” one lady cried.
“Those Yankees are fixing to get a taste of Rebel fury is what’s happening!” a stout elderly gentleman shouted, waving his ornate cane defiantly.
“Who started the fight?” another asked anxiously.
“There’s no way of knowing,” another responded. “All we can do is wait to find out what happens.”
Carrie stood quietly, staring out at the scene, trying to find Robert with her heart. Where was he? Was he already wounded? Would she see him again?
“My son is out there in that cloud of smoke,” one nearby lady said softly.
“Both my boys and my husband are out there,” another responded.
Carrie watched as the two women clasped hands and stared off into the distance. Suddenly she turned and strode rapidly back in the direction she had come. Standing on the hill and staring was going to do no one any good. What was going to happen was going to happen. There was nothing she could do to change it. Experience had already taught her what the result would be, however. The place she could do some good was the hospital. She knew the flow of wounded would start flooding in before the day was over.
Janie looked up in relief as Carrie stuck her head in the door. “I knew I could count on you to come,” she said simply. “We need help preparing beds for the wounded.”
Carrie nodded sharply and turned toward her assigned ward. She completely lost track of time as she moved from bed to bed, covering them with fresh sheets, laying out bandages, and filling pitchers with water. As she worked, she tried to keep up the spirits of the wounded soldiers chaffing in their helplessness.
“The firing done stopped!” Samuel called. “I reckon that means our boys let them have it!”
“We don’t know what it means,” Walker replied. “It could mean we’re about to have Yankee nurses.”
Carrie opened her mouth to reply, but the renewed sound shelling intruded into the brief silence, saving her from having to think of something cheerful to say.
“They’re after them again!” Samuel cried. “Give it to ‘em fellows!”
Carrie couldn’t help noticing the looks of relief on some of the faces surrounding her. These boys had seen the horrors of battle first hand. They were not eager to be pulled back into the carnage again. For now, the hospital was a haven of safety for them.
Once Carrie had finished in her own ward, she hurried into the buildings that until now had been empty. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that by the end of the fight for their city all the wards would be full. Her arms and shoulders ached as she made bed after bed. Resolutely, she ignored the pain - it was nothing to be considered when she thought of what the soldiers were experiencing. For just a moment, red hot anger flared in her that men determined to have their own ways were willing to send other men to suffer and die in such a horrible manner. Fatigue soon deadened the anger. She moved mechanically from bed to bed and wondered what face would soon be lying on the pillow she fluffed.
Carrie wasn’t sure when she noticed the firing had stopped. Instead of the constant rumble of cannon and guns, there was silence. But it was not a silence that offered peace. It was heavy like the calm before a great storm. The soldiers had done their job for the day. Now it was up to the citizens of Richmond to do theirs. She still had no idea who had won the battle. Were Union troops moving into the city even now? She would find out soon enough. Right now she had a job to do.
Carrie had finished in one ward and was moving with several other women to another when the sound of wagons drawing up the hill gained their attention. The women exchanged knowing looks. “It’s our turn,” Carrie said simply. Ahead of her, she saw the rush of medical personnel hurrying to meet the first of the ambulance wagons pulling into the hospital yard. Resisting the urge to examine faces for any sign of the man she loved, Carrie walked quickly back to her assigned ward.
Changes had been made there during the time she was gone. All the soldiers still left were Virginians. All those from other states had been moved to other designated wards. The anticipated number of patients deemed it necessary to divide them in such a way in order to make it easier for family members searching for their loved ones. Carrie had been told of the changes, but it still was hard to lose the patients she had grown so fond of.
She sighed heavily and moved to straighten the newly empty beds. Then she straightened, hunched her shoulders, and tried to work out some of the soreness. Her work for the day was really just about to begin. In just a matter of minutes, a broken mass of humanity would begin pouring through the door. She could greet them with fatigue and self-pity, or she could cast aside her own cares enabling her to give to the wounded whole-heartedly.
“God, make me your instrument to the ones you bring to this ward.”
Carrie had barely uttered the words before the first of the stretchers was carried in. She knew from the briefing they had received earlier that many of the soldiers would have to wait for medical attention. The women’s job was just to make them as comfortable as possible until one of the doctors could get to them. Carrie watched the first man being carried in and barely managed to suppress her groan. She tightened her lips and hurried forward.
It was almost impossible to discern anything about the soldier. She could tell he was fairly young, but the mud and black powder from the guns encased his entire body. His shirt, crusted with blood, stuck to his body in some places, and gaped away with holes at others. Someone had wrapped a course bandage around his head, but it, too, was a crusty brown from dried blood and was matted to his forehead. The broken bone of one arm protruded through the gaping skin, causing it to twist on the stretcher at an awkward angle. In spite of it all, he was conscious.
As soon as the stretcher carriers deposited him on the bed, Carrie leaned over him. “Hello, soldier.”
“Howdy, ma’am,” he said weakly.
“You’re going to be just fine. We’re going to take good care of you.”
“I appreciate it,” he managed as he grimaced with pain.
Carrie dipped her cloth in water and began to gently bathe his face. Now that the crisis was here she was oddly calm, steely determination and compassion flowing through her body. “What is your name, soldier?”
“Johnny... Johnny Whitestone.”
“Well, Johnny Whitestone, I’m just going to try to clean you up a little bit. It may be a little while before the doctors can get to you, but they will see you just as soon as they can.”
“Yes, ma’am. There ain’t no big hurry. There’s other fellows hurt lots worse than me.”
His accent identified him. “Are you from the mountains, Johnny?” Carrie knew talking would keep his mind off the pain that would be rushing in soon. Once the adrenalin of the battlefield ebbed away, there would be nothing but searing pain to take its place.
“Yes, ma’am. From up around Charlottesville.”
“This your first battle?”
“No, ma’am. I been fighting ever since Manassas. I guess I’m luckier than most. This is the first time I’ve got hurt.” He paused for a moment, and then his face brightened. “We stopped ‘em, ma’am. We pushed them Yankees back. I reckon our capital will be safe a while longer.”
Carrie continued to wash away the grime from his face. She could tell the effort of talking was taking its toll. “Just lie back, Johnny. The doctor will get to you soon.” She longed to take the bandage off his he
ad and tend to the wound underneath before infection had more of a chance to set in, but she knew she didn’t dare.
“I be right thirsty...” Johnny muttered.
Carrie touched his forehead – his eyes were already taking on that familiar fever-glazed look. Steadying his shoulders, she helped prop him up then lifted a glass to his lips. His broken arm shifted, causing him to cry out in pain. She watched his face harden with determination as he gulped some water and then settled back against the pillow.
“Thank you...”
“Miss Cromwell!”
Carrie looked up sharply, squeezed Johnny’s hand, and then sprang for the door as another stretcher entered the ward. There were three other women working with her, so every fourth patient was hers to care for.
“Hello, soldier...” Her words died on her lips. The man they were carrying in was seemingly lifeless. The bandaged stumps of his right arm and leg were bright with blood. Thankfully he was unconscious. The reality of his situation would be a brutal presence soon enough. Carrie tightened her lips and went to work. At least he would have a clean face when he woke up. As she gently wiped his filthy face with a warm, soapy cloth she prayed. Prayed he would not give up hope when he came to and realized what had happened. Prayed infection would not set in and sap the fragile life that even now hung by a thread.
The hours blurred as the ward quickly filled with men in all conditions. Carrie had no idea what time it was when she was able to make her way back to Johnny Whitestone. She had seen him taken from the ward and also seen him carried back in attended by one of the male nurses. He was just coming around from the anesthesia.
“Hello, Johnny,” she said cheerfully.
“They took my arm, Miss Cromwell,” he said dully, his pain-glazed eyes searching hers for some understanding of what had just happened to him.
Carrie laid her hand on his shoulder. She would never understand the cruelty of a world in which a young man in the prime of life could wake up without an arm. “So they did, Johnny. Now you’re going to have to use all your energy to get well.” She fought to make her voice encouraging.
Johnny just stared at her. “I’m a blacksmith, ma’am.” His voice wavered as confusion filled his eyes. “Least I used to be. Don’t reckon I’ll be one now.”
Sudden tears slipped from Carrie’s eyes as she smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “You’ve got to take one day at a time, Johnny. First we’ve got to get you well. God saw you through that battle. He’s not going to stop taking care of you.”
Johnny seemed to drink in her words. After a long moment, he said, “My mama told me she would be praying for me every day. I sure hope she’s praying...”
“I’m sure she is, Johnny,” Carrie said tenderly. “What you need now is sleep. Close your eyes, and try to get some rest.”
Exhausted blue eyes stared at her a moment more with a look that said he was afraid to go to sleep, afraid he might never wake up. Finally his body won the battle. The blue eyes flickered shut, and moments later the haggard face was lax with sleep. Carrie watched him and prayed he would sleep a long time. He had only pain waiting for him when he woke up.
As Carrie watched him, she became aware for the first time of how achingly tired she was. Her shoulder, not entirely healed, was throbbing. She shook her head and tried to push aside the pain.
“Miss Cromwell?”
Carrie lifted her head toward the voice. She managed a smile when she saw it was Matron Pember.
“It’s two o’clock in the morning, Miss Cromwell. All the other women have gone home. You must get some rest.”
Carrie stared at her. Had she been in the hospital for twelve hours? “The patients...,” she murmured.
“The patients are resting. They will need you again when they wake up in the morning. You’ll be no good to them without some rest.”
Carrie smiled. “I’m not sure you’re the one to be talking about rest.”
“I’m on my way to get some right this minute. Will you walk with me to my quarters? I will have one of the men see you down the hill to your father’s house.”
“Where is Janie?”
“She left a couple of hours ago. She looked in here for you but didn’t see you. She assumed you had gone home.”
Carrie nodded and fell in beside the matron. “How bad is it?” she asked as they walked across the yard.
“Bad,” Matron Pember responded bluntly. “Every hospital is filled to capacity. Wounded soldiers are filling warehouses, homes, and hotels. I have been told even the sidewalks are full of men waiting for a bed and a doctor.”
Carrie shuddered.
“The number I’m hearing is about five thousand,” she continued grimly.
“Five thousand men!” Carrie gasped.
“Dead and wounded. It’s hard to get an exact number of Confederate casualties. It will take some time. We’ve taken in quite a few Northern soldiers as well.”
“I’m glad,” Carrie said fervently.
Matron Pember nodded. “Humanity is humanity. Our job is simply to ease the suffering as best we can.”
Carrie walked in silence for a few minutes then asked the question that had burned in her heart all day. “I have a friend. His name is Robert Borden. Did you by any chance...?”
The matron put her hand on Carrie’s arm sympathetically. “I haven’t heard the name, Miss Cromwell.”
Carrie nodded. “Of course, you haven’t. It was silly of me to ask.”
“Silly to ask? Silly to care that someone you love might be dead or wounded? I think not. You have a deep capacity to care, young lady. Never lose that. You will lose yourself if you do.”
Thomas was waiting for Carrie when she walked in the door. Neither one said a word. Carrie took one look at her father’s fatigued, worn face and walked into the arms he held out to her.
After a long moment, her father pushed her back gently. “We can talk in the morning. It will be here soon enough. We both need some rest.”
Carrie kissed him on the cheek gently and then turned to trudge up the stairs. She entered the room quietly so as not to disturb Janie.
“Carrie?
“Yes.” She should have known her friend would be awake.
“Are you okay?”
Carrie was silent as she tried to decide how to answer. A breeze ruffled the curtains and carried with it the lingering smoke from the battlefield. The faces of all the young men she had comforted that day flooded into her mind: The pain on their faces, the confused fear in their eyes. She bit her lip against the memories. Overlaying it all was Robert’s face as she had last seen him the night before. The strong voice, the tender eyes, the feel of his lips on hers......
“Carrie?” Janie’s voice once more broke the darkness. Moments later she was standing beside her friend. “You’re exhausted. Let me help you get ready for bed.” Wrapping her arm around Carrie’s waist, she led her toward the closet.
Janie’s touch undid the control Carrie had fought all day to maintain. With a low moan, she turned into her friend’s arms and allowed the tears to come. Tears for all the pain surrounding her. Tears for Robert. Tears for the present. Tears for the future. Janie stood quietly, her arms encircling Carrie strongly, and let her cry.
Finally Carrie stepped back. “Thank you,” she gulped.
Janie still said nothing.
Within a few minutes, Carrie was undressed and in her nightclothes. She willingly allowed Janie to lead her to her bed. When Janie pulled back the covers, she slipped into the clean sheets, her eyes already closing.
“Tomorrow is a new day, Carrie. Sleep tight.”
To purchase either the E-book or Print version of Spring Will Come visit:
www.BregdanChronicles.com
The Bregdan Principle
Every life that has been lived until today is a part of the woven braid of life. It takes every person’s story to create history. Your life will help determine the course of history. You may think you don’t have much of an im
pact. You do. Every action you take will reflect in someone else’s life. Someone else’s decisions. Someone else’s future. Both good and bad.
For notice of new book releases, to buy print versions, and to purchase both Print and Ebook versions of later titles, please go to www.AVoiceInTheWorld.com
The Bregdan Chronicles
Storm Clouds Rolling In
1860 – 1861
On to Richmond
1861 – 1862
Spring Will Come
1862 – 1863
Dark Chaos
1863 – 1864
Many more coming as the Bregdan braid of history continues to be woven…
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