The Velvet Shadow

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “Did Dr. Gulick send you to me?”

  “No sir!” The soldier tossed his head in a gesture of defiance. “That old sot? He doesn’t care whether we’re sick or not.”

  “Did you, by chance—” Alden hesitated, knowing the possibility was unlikely. “Have you, Private, been talking to another doctor? For if there is another doctor in our regiment, we could certainly use his abilities.”

  “No sir.” O’Neil spoke in a quiet, firm voice. “I know no other doctor. Now, sir, what can you tell me about the sinks? Can we move them? I’m fairly certain I can rouse enough men from my company to cover the old ones, if you’ll give permission to dig new ditches further out.”

  “Permission granted.” Alden picked up his pen to make a note of the matter, then glanced up. O’Neil had not moved. “Is there anything else, Private?”

  “No sir. Thank you, sir. He’ll be right pleased to hear it.”

  Alden stopped writing. “Who will be pleased?”

  “Every man in my tent, Major.” O’Neil snapped a salute, which Alden casually returned, then the Irishman spun on his heel and strode out of the tent.

  The afternoon air stirred with chilly hints of coming winter days as Alden moved through the camp, his eyes alert for any sign of mischief. By now the new recruits had realized that soldiering involved a lot of sitting and standing around, and the chief problem Alden had faced since arriving at the camp was simple boredom. Men with nothing to do had time to make trouble. Already there were reports that men were deserting the camp at night to visit the taverns and bawdy houses that lay on the road to Washington. Alden sighed in frustration. He didn’t need that kind of trouble.

  His men weren’t the only ones who yearned for action. The commanders’ tents were rife with rumors that Lincoln himself had grown impatient with McClellan’s confounded and endless preparations. At first Alden had been pleased to hear that McClellan believed in making no move until preparations were complete. That pragmatic philosophy was born out of West Point and agreed with Alden’s own practical nature. But the Republicans in Congress were hungry for victory, especially since they now smarted under the sting of Bull Run and the tragedy at Wilson’s Creek. Colonel Farnham reported that Lincoln seemed painfully aware that cotton-hungry Europe was watching carefully, weighing the wealth of Southern cotton against Northern resolve. And if England aided the Confederacy—well, the war would be lost. No doubt about it.

  McClellan seemed intent on running the war his way, ignoring both the president and Congress. Alden had been shocked at the news that Lincoln had visited the general’s home, waited patiently in the parlor for the McClellans to return from a wedding party, then silently departed when McClellan’s butler announced that the general could not see him, for he had come home and straightaway retired for the night. Such arrogance was incomprehensible.

  Days earlier Alden had felt a fierce but disloyal surge of satisfaction when McClellan took a bit of humiliation on the chin. For months he had claimed that over 150,000 Confederates waited within striking distance of Washington, with artillery cannon trained on the great city. But when Rebel pickets withdrew from an exposed position southwest of the capital, those “great cannon” were left behind. Closer inspection by Federal cavalry revealed them to be giant logs, painted black. A scornful newspaper reporter wrote that McClellan had been held hostage by “Quaker guns.”

  Though Alden felt a bit embarrassed for McClellan, he, too, felt the need for action. He and his men were ready and willing now; delay would only result in a dangerous lowering of morale. Already the advent of sickness had damaged the spirit of what had been an eager and robust regiment.

  Fortunately, an order had come down involving the Twenty fifth Massachusetts, and Alden was relieved that his men would finally have a task to perform. The entire regiment had been ordered to advance for a reconnaissance mission. By the end of the week they would move to the Sugar Loaf Mountain Station in Maryland, to reinforce Brigadier General Charles Stones division. They would probably—and Alden’s nerves tensed at the thought—cross the Potomac River into Virginia.

  The brigade commander was Colonel Edward Baker, an Oregon senator who was probably less qualified for his position than Alden’s mother. But he had supported Lincoln in the war effort after Fort Sumter’s fall, and he, like Lincoln, chafed for action. The troops were tired of being restrained by harmless Quaker guns and threats of phantom Rebel troops. The time had come to move out, to do something to end the struggle. Alden, for one, did not want to spend the winter sitting on the frozen ground of Maryland.

  But how could they move in their present condition? Alden turned onto the narrow street of Company M and frowned at what he saw there. The first tent had been given over entirely to sick men, and though the tent flaps had been lowered, the odors of illness still wafted through the open entry. More than a quarter of the regiment’s men were on the sick list; 250 men would not go forth to duty, but would remain in camp, victims of disease.

  Still walking, Alden thrust his hands behind his back, absently wishing that he could summon Flanna O’Connor again. Dr. Gulick had come highly recommended, but the man had done nothing to stop the spread of sickness among the men. Despite her quirks and her reluctance to treat men, Flanna had been a gifted healer. Private Henry Fraser lived because of Flanna’s courage and devotion to detail, so why in heaven’s name couldn’t John Gulick achieve the same measure of success?

  Something odd caught his eye, and Alden stopped in the road and turned toward the sick tent, idly wondering what detail seemed out of place. A pair of men stood by the medical supply wagon, a slender youth and his black body servant. Alden frowned as an inner alarm rang. The thin soldier moved with undue caution, his hand reaching toward the tarp over the wagon as if to spy out its contents. What would he be searching for, if not whiskey?

  “You there!” Alden’s voice rang across the street. The men at a nearby campfire fell silent; the only sounds now were the windy flap of the tent canvas in the wind and a constant groaning from the sick tent.

  Slowly, the youth at the wagon turned. The sun shone brightly on his cap, shadowing his face, but there was no denying the tension in his posture.

  “What are you doing, soldier?” Alden walked forward, ripping out the words. “Unless Dr. Gulick sent you on some errand, you’d better have a reason for snooping in the medical wagon.”

  The boy’s head lowered as Alden advanced, and the visor of the cap shielded the youth’s eyes. Alden could see a quivering chin, freckled skin, and clenched hands.

  “I meant no harm, sir.” The boy spoke in a husky voice that held a trace of Irish brogue. “I was just curious. Our boys are perishing with hunger and sickness in there, and I thought I might find a wee bit of something to help them.”

  “You’re no doctor. And since you’re not, you’d best stay away from this wagon and everything in it.” As Alden paused to let the words sink in, he glanced at the youth’s body servant. The black man was as shy as his master. His head hung so low Alden could see nothing but his hair.

  Alden shook his head as his anger faded. The boy seemed sincere enough, and he hardly seemed the type to make trouble. No sense in taking out all his frustrations on this one boy.

  “Listen, lad,” he said, stepping closer, “there’s been trouble enough, and we’ve no time for it now. We’ll be leaving this place in a few days, and I’d hate to have to discipline you when we’re moving out. You’d have to carry a log or march with a rail tied around your neck, and frankly”—he cast a meaningful glance at the lad’s slender frame—“I don’t know that you’d be able to handle it.”

  The boy did not answer. Alden didn’t know whether the youth’s silence sprang from defiance, stubbornness, or guilt.

  “Do you hear me, soldier?” Alden straightened, ready to forcibly lift the boy’s chin if he didn’t respond. “Look me in the eye when I speak to you.”

  The boy’s chin lifted only for an instant, and Alden caught a glimpse
of startling eyes as green as grass. “Faith, I cannot help but hear you.” The boy lowered his gaze. “Am I dismissed, sir?”

  “Yes.” Alden stood still as the boy and his servant moved away. He was conscious of a small stirring of curiosity about the lad, but fought it down. There were too many other pressing matters at hand.

  Sighing in frustration, Alden moved away to find Dr. Gulick.

  Four days passed. On Thursday night, October 17, Flanna waited until after taps, until even Albert Valentine (who rarely slept but usually lay awake and worried in the darkness) breathed in deep, regular breaths. At roll call they had learned that they would move on the morrow, taking the inept Dr. Gulick with them. Sergeant Marvin told his men that the sick, including Andrew Green, would be transferred to the Alexandria Hospital. Though Flanna hoped they would receive better treatment there than in the camp, she had no assurance that they would, and for Andrew Green, at least, she felt a deep and abiding compassion. In some ways he reminded her of her young cousin Gannon, for both loved the things of nature.

  “Charity.” Flanna nudged the girl’s shoulder in the dark. “Come, its time.”

  Charity clung to sleep as hard as she could, burying her face in the folds of the overcoat.

  “Charles!” Flanna whispered with greater intensity. “Get up! We’ve got to go!”

  Charity sat up, blinked, and then turned to Flanna with wide eyes. “You ain’t still going through with it! The major said he’d punish you.”

  “The major is in bed. He won’t see me.”

  Charity shook her head. “The guards aren’t in bed. And I’m not going to carry your knapsack all the way to Virginia if you’re busy carrying some log.”

  “I’ll carry whatever I have to,” Flanna said, slipping on her shoes, “but I’m not leaving until I know Andrew Green has been properly treated. If it’s measles, the spots should have appeared by now.”

  “I’m not going with you.” Charity folded her arms around her bent knees. “You have gone out of your mind. I didn’t say nothing when you wanted to join the army, and I didn’t say nothing when you told me we’d have to sleep on the ground with all these strange men. The army and these men are helping us get home, but this fool thing means nothing to us. I ain’t going to risk getting whipped for sneaking out after dark.”

  Flanna paused, not knowing how to explain herself. The ties that pulled her toward Andrew Green were as strong as those that pulled her homeward, but Charity wouldn’t understand a physician’s obligation and the yearning to heal. And she had never taken the Hippocratic oath.

  “Then stay here and wait for me.” Flanna slipped into her jacket. “Say a prayer, at least.”

  Flanna shivered as she stepped outside the tent and the shock of cool air hit her face. She hesitated in the shadow of the tent and looked around to be sure no guards stirred in the moonlight.

  The camp lay silent under the moon, silver and black with shadows. Pulling her jacket more tightly around her, she moved down the street toward the sick tent, praying that nothing moved in the darkness.

  Nothing did. Even the usual troublemakers like Diltz had willingly gone to sleep, knowing that a long march awaited them on the morrow.

  Flanna slipped into the sick tent, then crinkled her nose as a storm of odors assaulted her senses. The enclosed chamber reeked of vomit, blood, and urine. Another smell struck her nostrils, a lower and more sinister scent—the stink of fear.

  The room lay in complete darkness, for no nurse or guard watched over the sick, and Dr. Gulick was doubtless in his bed, resting for the journey to come.

  Flanna moved toward a small table she had seen earlier, then fumbled for the oil lantern and box of matches. Her questing fingers found the items she sought, and she lit the lantern, then shook the flame off the match. Pausing, she lowered the wick into the oil until only the barest light glowed—some of these men were awake and restless with pain, and she didn’t want any of them to identify her in the morning. Once the lantern put forth a narrow halo of light, she lifted it high and walked among the pallets, searching for Andrew Green.

  She found him on the far side of the tent. Hanging the lantern from the tent’s center pole, she knelt at Andrew’s side and pinched the skin at his neck. It felt stiff and dry under her fingertips, but at least his fever had broken. Leaning over him, she pushed the hair off his forehead and studied his complexion. His face gleamed with oil and sweat, but no red bumps. No measles. She sighed in relief. Andrew Green would live, but he needed water.

  The water bucket in the center of the tent stood empty, and she trudged outside to the water barrel, wincing at every noisy drop that rattled into the pail. But soon the water overflowed and splashed onto her feet, and she trudged back inside. She found a dipper and lifted Andrews head to give him a drink. He seemed not to notice or care who she was, but drank deeply. As she gently lowered his head back to the ground, he mumbled, “Thank you.”

  “Water, please.” The man next to Andrew must have heard the liquid sounds. “Please—I’ve had no water.” Unable to refuse him, Flanna moved the bucket to his pallet, pouring water from the dipper directly into his mouth. The situation didn’t measure up to her standards of cleanliness, so she poured the water from above her patients, not allowing any sick man to touch the dipper with his lips.

  The second man, she saw immediately, suffered from an abscessed tooth. “What has Dr. Gulick done for you?” she whispered, searching his eyes for signs of lucidity.

  The sick man waved his hand. “Quinine and turpentine,” he moaned, his eyes tearing with pain as his jaw moved. “My gut is killing me.”

  “No wonder.” Flanna moved toward the table where she’d found the lantern. An assortment of tools lay scattered there—a hammer, chisel, twine, and an awl. She ran her fingers over the implements until she found what she sought, then paused by the whiskey keg and filled a gourd with the pungent drink.

  She turned and moved back to the man, who gratefully accepted the gourd and drained the liquid. Flanna squatted by his side, watching as he smacked his lips. “In a moment,” she said, tilting her head to gauge the effects of her improvised anesthetic, “you’re going to feel warm and relaxed. I want you to lie back and open your mouth. No matter what happens, do not cry out.”

  The man nodded with a sleepy smile, and a moment later he lay sprawled at her feet, his arms outstretched, his mouth open to the sky. Flanna fitted the pliers to the broken tooth and yanked; the diseased gum surrendered the tooth as if glad to be rid of it. Flanna frowned as the odors of pus and decay rose from the man’s mouth. She poured another tumbler full of whiskey, then pulled the man upright to prevent him from choking. With his head supported by her left hand, she dribbled the liquid into his mouth, then packed the wound with soft cotton. When she had finished, she rolled the soldier onto his side so that any liquid oozing from his mouth would drain out on the blanket.

  Though her energy was nearly spent, she looked around at the others, all of whom needed water. To the partially conscious she gave a drink; she pressed cool wet cloths on the others’ foreheads. Several weakly complained of stomach pains, so she found a small vial of jalap, a cathartic, among the medical supplies and sprinkled a teaspoon of powder on several tongues. After making certain that each man had a blanket over him, she went to the far side of the tent and lifted a flap for ventilation.

  When she was certain she had done the best she could for each patient, she rose and washed her hands, then began the walk back to her own tent. Soon the horizon would begin to brighten in the east. She’d have less than an hour to sleep. But as Flanna’s head dropped to the rough fabric of her haversack, she knew the night of hard work was worth the effort.

  Fifteen

  Prodding stragglers with a direct glance and an abrupt command, Alden moved through the camp and checked the regiment’s progress. He was conducting a routine check of how many men would be marching and how many would remain behind in the sick tents, and thus far he’d been dismayed
to discover that Companies B, D, K, and L listed more sick today than yesterday. Some cynical part of his nature wanted to attribute the abrupt increase to sheer cowardice, but reason reminded him that sickness had run rampant ever since they arrived at this camp. Most of the men, even those with a touch of fever or a raging case of the Maryland quickstep, were eager to head out to a new area.

  He reached Company M’s row of tents and paused before its infirmary. Despite Private O’Neil’s assertion that moving the sinks would tremendously benefit his company’s health, Company M had a full dozen men sick yesterday. Based on his experience with the other companies, Alden mentally added another three to that number—he’d probably discover at least fifteen sick men inside this tent now, and perhaps two or three dead.

  He lifted the tent flap and peered inside. Instead of the darkness and stench he expected, bright sunlight and fresh air greeted him, because someone had opened the tent on the other side. There were still a dozen sick men, to be sure, but these were not writhing in the agony he expected. Three were sitting up, awake and alert, and one man was actually laughing and sharing jokes with a comrade.

  “What’s going on in here?” Alden stepped into the tent and looked around, finally directing his gaze to a young man who sat in a bright patch of sunlight. “You’re Private Green, aren’t you?”

  “Yes sir. Andrew Green.” The youth nodded soberly.

  “I saw you yesterday.” Alden frowned, recalling that the boy had done nothing but lie still, his body weak and his skin like pale parchment. “Are you feeling better?”

  “I believe I am, sir.” Green smiled with warm spontaneity. “I felt like the very devil yesterday, but today I think I am fit enough to rejoin my messmates.”

  Alden half-smiled at the soldier’s enthusiasm. The fellow might be well enough to leave the sick tent, but his strength wouldn’t last through a twenty-mile march. “Take it easy, Green. We’ll ease you in when we return.” Alden’s gaze roved to the next fellow. “And you, soldier—what’s your story?”