As Flanna struggled to overcome the gloom that pressed upon her, an equally gray cloud settled over Boston as the two armies met for the first time at Bull Run, near Manassas, Virginia. Within days reports of heavy Union losses filled the city, and the gay wartime gatherings turned grim. By late July belligerent Boston had been thoroughly sobered by the realization that the Union forces under General Irvin McDowell had been soundly defeated by the ragtag Rebel troops.
Flanna waited until Mrs. Davis and her seamstresses had dimmed the lamps and gone to bed, then she sneaked downstairs for a newspaper and took it up to her room. By the dim glow of that single flame, she anxiously skimmed the newspaper accounts of the battle.
“They came at us, yelling like furies,” one soldier told the reporter. “There is no sound like that Rebel yell this side of the infernal region. The peculiar corkscrew sensation that it sends down your backbone under these circumstances cannot be described. You have to feel it, and if you say you did not feel it, and heard the yell, you have never been there.”
“That day, July 21, will forever be known as Black Sunday,” wrote the reporter. “We are utterly and disgracefully routed, beaten, whipped by secessionists.” Horace Greeley, the Republican editor of the New York Tribune, urged Lincoln to make peace with the Confederacy and give up the struggle for unity. “On every brow sits sullen, scorching, black despair,” he was quoted as saying. “If it is best for the country and for mankind that we make peace with the Rebels, and on their own terms, do not shrink even from that.”
Flanna scanned each page, reading every item, until she finally found the information she sought—a listing of brigades and regiments engaged in the battle. The list of Confederate regiments actively engaged at Bull Run included the Second South Carolina under Colonel Kershaw, the Third South Carolina under Colonel Williams, the Seventh South Carolina under Colonel Thomas Bacon, and the Eighth South Carolina under Colonel E.B.C. Cash, all part of the First Brigade. Reports indicated that ten men from those units had been killed.
Flanna smoothed the newspaper on her desk and clenched her eyes shut. Had Wesley enlisted in one of those regiments? She had heard nothing from her father since mid-April. Wesley was as enthusiastic as any of the Boston blue bloods; he had probably signed up long before the warning shots fired on Fort Sumter. He could easily be serving in the First or Second Brigade. Oh, if only she knew the name of his commanding officer!
An image of Wesley’s broad freckled face dropped like a rock into the pool of her heart, sending ripples of fear in all directions. He’d been her playmate and best friend for as long as she could remember, and she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Panic like she’d never known welled in her throat, but she fought it down, knowing she could not release it.
She had a part to play, and so did Charity. No matter how badly they wanted to return home or how desperately they feared for their loved ones, they could not let one unguarded word or emotion slip the bonds of their hearts. They were prisoners in enemy territory, and, like a wounded bear, the foe was smarting from the unaccustomed sting of defeat and apt to turn vicious.
Both Flanna and Charity noticed that their reception at Mrs. Davis’s havelock sewing circle grew decidedly more chilly after the Battle of Bull Run. For a moment Flanna was tempted to stop her volunteer work, then she realized that any weakening of her resolve would only be interpreted as proof of her Southern sympathies. So she persisted in aiding the people who had become her adversaries, wrapping bandages and sewing havelocks until her fingers were chafed and sore.
And each day she read the newspaper, searching its pages by candlelight to see if she could discover any opening through which she and Charity could find their way home.
Eight
Thursday, July 25
I dreamed tonight that Aunt Marsali came into my room and kissed my cheek. When I opened my eyes, she took my hand. “A great battle hay been fought,” she said. Though she smiled, a tear slipped down her cheek. “Jeff Davis led the center, Joe Johnston the right wing, Beauregard the left wing of the army. Your brother is all right. Arthur is wounded, Brennan is safe, Carroll is missing, Dillon and Erin are safe, Flynn is wounded, shot in the leg.” Another tear fell, and I felt its wetness upon my hand. “Gannon is dead, Flanna. I have lost my youngest and most precious son.”
I said nothing, knowing that it had to be a dream, and after a moment Aunt Marsali continued. “President Davis says it is a great victory. But there are dead and dying all over the field. The Lynchburg regiment was cut to pieces, and three hundred of the legion are wounded.”
I strained to hear her; her voice way lighter than air. “Be certain of what you pray for, Flanna. The army is no place for a woman.”
She vanished then, like a puff of steam, but I knew it was the way of dreams. I turned in my bed, forcing myself to wake, and when I sat up, in truth my hand was wet with tears…but they were my own.
“Get her away from me!” The pale, sweating woman lifted her head and peered out over the rounded bulge of her belly. “I’ll not have any Southern trash touching me! Get her out of here, now!”
“Mrs. Scott.” Dr. Bartlett stepped forward and gave her a bleak, tight-lipped smile. “I assure you that Dr. O’Connor—”
“I heard about that one! Irish trash from Charleston, that bed of vipers! If you let her touch me, I’ll have my husband call you out! You’ll think differently about sending some traitor in to tend me when you’re staring down the barrel of his pistol.”
Flanna looked up, expecting Dr. Bartlett to take a firmer approach with his patient, but the bleary-eyed physician gestured for her to leave the ward. For a moment Flanna hesitated, torn by conflicting emotions. She was far more capable of delivering the baby than this spineless doctor, but the older man was in no mood to argue the point. “Miss O’Connor,” he murmured, eyeing her with an aloof expression, “fetch one of the midwives. Let her deliver the brat.”
Flanna snapped her mouth shut and stepped out of the ward, her lips puckering with annoyance. Why had she bothered to go to medical school if no one would let her work? She was more than qualified to tend that woman, but men like Dr. Bartlett would rather work drunk and rely on midwives than admit that women made perfectly capable physicians.
Shrugging in mock resignation, Flanna crossed her arms and leaned against the plastered wall. This was only the latest of her indignities. The word had filtered out, and no Boston woman—even the poor ones who came to this hospital—wanted to be attended by a Southerner. No one cared that Flanna had graduated first in her class; it mattered far more that she had been born in Charleston and employed a black maid rather than a sturdy Irish girl.
Swallowing the lump that had risen in her throat, Flanna pulled herself off the wall and moved down the hallway, thinking that she would be more likely to find gold under her pillow than to work in this city.
“Miss Flanna!” Alarmed at the urgency in Charity’s voice, Flanna spun on her heel and faced the wide double doors at the end of the hallway. Charity was running down the hall, her skirts stirring up dust as she approached. Flanna’s mouth went dry when she saw Alden Haynes trailing in Charity’s wake.
Flanna’s heart skipped a beat. She had not seen Roger or Alden since that horrible night when Roger proposed. He continued to write her newsy little notes, boldly assuming they would resume their courtship as soon as this “difficulty” had passed, but Flanna knew things would never be the same between them. In the space of a single moment that night—when Alden had tried to congratulate her and Roger had brushed her accomplishment aside—she had seen both brothers for what they were. And in that moment woven of eternity, she had realized with heart-stopping clarity that she had bestowed her affections on the wrong man.
Turning away, she wiped a bead of perspiration from her brow and smoothed her apron.
“Miss Flanna,” Charity called again. “The major needs you. He’s got a sick soldier, and the man wants you to come.”
“Me?”
Flanna’s voice rose in surprise as she looked at Alden. “Is this some sort of joke, Major? Why would one of your recruits want a doctor from the women’s hospital?”
“Good day to you, too, Dr. O’Connor.” Belatedly reminding her of her manners, Alden bowed slightly. “I hope you are well.”
“As well as can be expected.” Irritated by his mocking tone, Flanna wiped her hands on her apron again and struggled to smooth the annoyance from her face. “Now, sir, perhaps you can tell me what sort of joke this is. A Massachusetts man would never call for a female doctor.”
“He says he’s from Carolina—that’s why he wants you.” Alden’s appreciative eye traveled from her hair net to the toe of her scuffed slippers. “And though he’s enlisted to fight for the Twenty-fifth, he’ll not let our surgeon touch him.” His eyes were alight with mischief and inspiration when his gaze caught hers. “Truthfully, Doctor, I can’t say I blame him. Our regimental surgeon has been in his cups ever since signing on. I’d let Roger cut on me before I’d let John Gulick into my tent.”
The shock of discovery hit her full force. “Dr. John Gulick is your surgeon?”
“You know him? Apparently he signed on because his wife badgered him to enlist, but we haven’t had a sober hour’s work out of him since he arrived in camp.”
Flanna’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “So, your man in camp would rather have a woman attend him than a drunk?” It was a compliment, but not much of one. “Major Haynes,” she managed a small, tentative smile, “thank you for coming. I appreciate your mans confidence in me, but I am a female doctor.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “I noticed.”
“No, I—” She paused as the blood began to pound in her temples. “I mean, I tend female patients. I trained to work with women.” Her fingers fluttered to her neck. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable working with a man—especially since you have pointed out that the army is no place for a lady. I could dose him, but if he needs a full examination—”
Alden tipped his head back and looked down at her. “Are you saying that you can’t doctor a man?”
“No.” Flanna lifted her chin and boldly met his eyes. “I could, of course I could. But I’m a lady, and I wouldn’t—”
“Feel comfortable.” Alden finished her thought, his voice soft with disbelief. He pinned her with a long, silent scrutiny, then his eyes narrowed. “Well then, excuse me, Dr. O’Connor.” The grim line of his mouth relaxed as he thrust his hands behind his back. “I was under the impression that you were a woman who valued compassion above comfort, who cared more for humanity than the silly and false ideals of our self-anointed nobility. More than that, I thought you could handle any emergency. But I see now that I was wrong.”
With a brief nod to Charity, he turned to leave.
His words had cut Flanna, spreading an infection of guilt. “Wait,” she called.
Why should she care if her reputation were further damaged? Let Boston society rot. This stranger from Carolina, God bless him, was the first patient who had sought her out. He deserved the best she could offer.
“Charity, fetch my bag—you’ll find it in the office. Then follow as quickly as you can.” She took a step toward the admitting desk, about to tell the nurse she’d been called away, then realized it didn’t matter. The only people in this hospital who could abide her touch were unconscious or too sick to care. None of them needed her now.
“Major Haynes,” she said, noting Alden’s look of amusement as she turned to face him, “lead me to your patient.”
A heat wave lay over the city like a heavy shroud. As Alden escorted her up Tremont Street, Flanna wondered how men could abide living outdoors in such humidity and heat. The high ceilings and shuttered windows of most Boston buildings cooled their interiors somewhat, but these men had been living outside ever since Massachusetts began to form her regiments.
Alden apologized that he had brought no carriage, but at present he had no horse. “I would have waited until a horse was available,” he added, “but Private Fraser’s condition seemed rather urgent.”
A tremor of mingled fear and anticipation shot through Flanna. This did not sound like a case of diarrhea or fever. It might be serious, even a surgical situation, and she had never intended to place herself in a position where she might have to operate on a man.
“If it was urgent,” Flanna asked, the hair at the back of her neck rising with premonition, “why did you not take him to the hospital? Surely one of the other surgeons could put him at ease.”
“He wouldn’t go,” Alden answered, his voice flat. “I told you, he’s from Carolina. He was afraid his accent would reveal his roots.”
Flanna listened, then nodded in sympathy. She couldn’t blame the man. If she were sick, she wouldn’t want to depend upon the mercy of a Boston doctor either. Especially not so soon after Bull Run.
“So he sent for me? Why?”
“Oh, the men hear all sorts of things in camp.” Alden’s mouth curled in a one-sided smile. “Roger talks about you often enough. There’s one group of soldiers that loves you for being bright and beautiful, and another that hates you for being Southern and female. So I’m guessing that between Roger and the gossips, Private Fraser decided you wouldn’t do him harm. Better to have a Carolina lady doctor than a hateful Yankee drunk.”
Flanna stopped short, alarmed that an entire regiment might know her name—and that half of them might hate her. “When you speak of ‘the men,’” she said, her nerves at a full stretch, “how many men do you mean? Ten? Twenty? A hundred?” She took a deep breath and reached for his arm. “Major Haynes, if it’s not safe for me to go into this camp, perhaps you should give Private Fraser my regrets.”
“I assure you, you will be safe.” He took her elbow and gently guided her along the sidewalk. “Are you familiar with military organization?”
Flanna shook her head.
“Ah, well, that’ll take some explaining.” He smiled, and Flanna noticed that he seemed relieved to have found a topic of conversation that would not upset her. “A volunteer infantry regiment like the Twenty-fifth Massachusetts is comprised of nearly a thousand men—our unit has enlisted 786 at present, with 39 officers. These soldiers are divided into ten companies, and from there, the men tend to divide themselves into smaller groups called ‘messes.’”
Flanna frowned. “Because they are untidy?”
Alden’s smile deepened into laughter. “No, because they eat together. But I’ve seen some of the meals they concoct from their rations, and perhaps your interpretation of the word is appropriate. They usually gather around a common fire as friends and family do, and in time most men become quite attached to their messmates. I didn’t know about Private Fraser, your patient, until one of his messmates reported that he was ill. Fraser is in Company B.”
“Roger has a company, right? He said he had recruited nearly a hundred men.”
“Yes.” A suggestion of annoyance hovered in Alden’s eyes as he dropped her elbow and thrust his hands behind his back. “Things were a bit confused when Lincoln called for troops, so the army is allowing nonmilitary men to lead the companies they recruit. So Roger is captain of Company K.”
She saw the snap of his eyes. “You don’t think he should be.”
“No.” His brow wrinkled. “He has no experience, no training, no knowledge of military affairs. Roger’s greatest gift is his golden tongue, and while that may be invaluable in persuading men to enlist and even to fight, it may do him more harm than good on the battlefield. I just…I don’t know how he will handle the pressure of a real fight.”
Flanna silently digested this news as they walked. Until this moment she had not imagined that a spirit of competition could exist between the two brothers. Opposite in temperament, they had always seemed to accept their differences. Would Alden’s apparent disapproval of Roger affect them in camp?
“Which company do you lead?” She raised her eyes to find him watching her.
“I’m
not tied to a company; I serve the entire regiment.” He inclined his blond head toward an older gentleman on the sidewalk, who bowed respectfully at Alden’s approach. “I assist the lieutenant colonel and the colonel who commands the regiment. Our regiment is one of four that make up the Second Brigade. Three or four brigades make a division, two or more divisions make a corps, one or more corps make up an army.”
“That’s quite enough, thank you.” Flanna held up her hand in protest. “Surely you don’t expect me to remember all that?”
“Roger said you were bright.” Alden’s mouth curved into an unconscious smile. “You cannot tell him I said so, but he thinks you are more intelligent than he.”
“Really?” In spite of her nervousness, Flanna laughed. Roger would never admit such a thing to her, but it was nice to know he appreciated her gifts…especially since no one else in Boston seemed to.
“We’re almost there.” Alden paused on the sidewalk across the street from Boston Common, then turned to her with a decidedly serious expression on his face. “I would not bring you here if I were not extremely worried about Private Fraser. In a few moments you are likely to see men gambling and hear language unfit for a lady’s ears.”
“Major,” Flanna gave him a wavering smile, “I assure you, vile language is the least of my worries. Please, transfer your concern from my ears to our patient.” She looked behind her and smiled when she saw Charity scurrying toward them with her medical bag. “Now that my equipment has arrived, I suggest we tend to your sick soldier.”
Alden pressed his lips together, then extended his arm toward the edge of the camp. “After you then, Dr. O’Connor.”
Flanna lifted her skirts as she stepped from the sidewalk to the street, then crinkled her nose as the first scents of the camp reached her nostrils. The smells of roasting meat mingled with the ammoniac odor of horses and the stench of human sewage.
The Velvet Shadow Page 11