The Velvet Shadow

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “That’s all right. You’re not nearly as bad as some of those Washington women.” He folded his hands behind his head and braced himself against the pain. “Lots of ladies come here to visit. Though they’ve tried, they haven’t rubbed the skin off my face yet.”

  Flanna grinned, imagining the sentimental pawing the poor boy endured, then she cleared her throat. “Rufus, I think I can help. There’s pus under the skin, you see, and the skin needs to be broken. If you’ll let me lance the toe and clean it, I think it’ll be better by tomorrow.”

  His smile vanished. “You won’t let them take the toe?”

  “I said I wouldn’t.” She grinned at him. “Wasn’t I right about the lice? You shaved your head and cleaned your clothes, and didn’t the lice go away?”

  Rufus nodded, but fear, stark and vivid, glittered in his eyes. “But this is different. ’Cause if they take my toe, it’ll gangrene, and then I’ll lose my foot. Heck, I might even lose my leg—”

  “You’re not going to lose anything.” After glancing around to be sure no one paid her any mind, Flanna opened her bag and pulled out her scalpel. Without hesitation, she swished the blade in alcohol, then made one swift, sure cut on Rufus’s toe.

  He yelped, then slapped his hand over his own mouth. The fellow in the next bed, a man whose eyes had been burned when his rifle overheated and exploded, turned his sightless eyes toward Rufus. “You all right over there?” His mouth grinned crookedly beneath his bandaged eyes. “Did she hurt you?”

  Flanna kept working, though anxiety spurted through her. The blind man couldn’t see her, but he’d heard enough to guess she was a woman.

  “I’m not hurt,” Rufus answered, gritting his teeth against the pain as Flanna poured alcohol into the oozing wound. “And you’d better apologize to the private here. He’s little, but he’s one tough son of a nut.”

  An impenitent grin flashed across that wounded face. “My mistake.”

  Indeed. Flanna continued her work, wondering if Rufus would remember the man’s remark, but the boy was clenching his teeth and straining against the iron bars of the headboard, probably cursing the day she walked into Company M.

  She smiled to herself and kept working.

  Dr. Garvey paused outside one of the wards. “And here, of course, we have several patients from your regiment, Major.”

  Alden paused in the doorway, bored with his tour of the hospital. He’d come only because Colonel Farnham insisted that his officers be acquainted with all procedures regarding the wounded.

  McClellan had some grandiose plan to fully educate his soldiers before sending them out to battle. This was just one aspect of what Alden and the other infantry officers had privately begun to refer to as “the grand stall.”

  His eyes flitted over the men in the beds and the spare figures of two nurses in dark dresses. A young woman stood in the corner, vainly trying to encourage a sick man to take a cup of tea, and a soldier sat in a rectangle of sunlight at his buddy’s bedside, dabbing at the man’s foot with a cotton cloth.

  He took a wincing breath as the sun sparked on the soldier’s copper hair. Flanna!

  Dr. Garvey must have heard his gasp, for he straightened as his gaze took in Flanna’s ministrations. “What in the name of—” he began, striding into the room. “Soldier! What do you think you are doing?”

  Flanna looked up, surprise siphoning the blood from her face. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then dropped her hand to her side.

  “Answer me! What have you done to this patient?” The doctor grasped the wounded man’s toe and twisted it, causing the boy to howl in pain.

  “Stop—no!” The poor boy kicked his foot free of the doctor’s hand and lowered it, slowly, to the bed. “It’s all right.” His jaw was clamped hard and he breathed through his mouth with a heavy panting sound, but he met the doctor’s hard gaze. “This is O’Connor, from my company. I told him to take care of my foot.”

  “You told him?” The doctor’s voice dripped with contempt. “You are my patient! What right have you to decide anything?”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Doctor,”—the young man glared at the surgeon with burning, reproachful eyes—“but as it’s my foot and my toe, I figured I ought to have some say in the matter.”

  “This is my hospital, my hospital bed, and you are my patient. You have no say in anything, for you are nothing but a lowly private.”

  “Excuse me, Doctor.” Alden came forward, his hands behind his back, studiously avoiding Flanna’s gaze. “With all due respect, you’re wrong about that. This is an army hospital, this is an army bed, and at the moment, this soldier belongs to Uncle Sam.”

  The doctor flashed Alden a look of disdain. “Mind your step, sir.”

  “I intend to.” Alden turned to the patient, trying to place the young man’s name. “You are from the great state of Massachusetts?”

  “Yes sir.” The boy cast a glance of well-mannered dislike toward the doctor, then looked at Alden. “I’m Rufus Crydenwise, Company M, of the Twenty-fifth Massachusetts.”

  Alden smiled. “Then you are one of my men.”

  “Yes, Major.” A smile found its way through the boy’s mask of uncertainty. “Indeed, sir, I am, and so is Private O’Connor.”

  Alden turned to Flanna. “Are you, Private?”

  Her long lashes shuttered her eyes, and he had to strain to hear her voice. “Yes sir.”

  “If you’re proud, speak up.”

  Her eyes flashed at him then, gleaming green and dangerous in the sunlight. “Yes sir,” she said, her voice cold and exact.

  “I fail to see what this has to do—” the doctor began, but Alden interrupted.

  “Do you, Private, intend to harm your companion?”

  “No sir.” She frowned with cold fury.

  “Well then.” Alden turned to the doctor and smiled. “I believe we’ve established that there is nothing amiss here. Private O’Connor is merely tending to his companion as men often do out in the field. And since Private Crydenwise has no objection—”

  “Major.” The doctor stood very still, his eyes narrow. “I have important things to do and have no time for this foolishness. If these men want to doctor each other, have them do it someplace else, not in my hospital. And as for you, if you’ve seen enough, I’d like to get back to my work.”

  Alden inclined his head. “Thank you, sir, for your time. I believe I’ll have Private O’Connor escort me back to camp.”

  The doctor gave an irritable tug at his sleeve. “That would be a most excellent idea, Major. Good day.”

  Dr. Garvey moved away, his footsteps thundering over the wooden floors. Relaxing, Alden looked at the young man in the bed. “You all right, soldier? O’Connor didn’t hurt you too badly?”

  “Naw.” A broad smile lifted the youth’s pendulous cheeks. “It just stung a little, that’s all.”

  “Good.” He turned to Flanna, noting her flushed cheeks. “Pack your bag, Private, and let’s depart. I trust you have no further business here?”

  “No,” she whispered, thrusting several implements into her medical bag.

  “Good.” Alden moved toward the doorway and waited while she said her farewells to Crydenwise. She moved confidently over her patient, checking the toe one last time and removing the rag she’d used to clean it.

  Alden felt an inexplicable, lazy smile sweep over his face as he watched her. Flanna knew what she was doing, and she had not flinched before Dr. Garvey’s commanding gaze. But she hadn’t spoken up for herself either. Alden leaned against the doorframe, thinking. When the war was over, Roger would dress her in red velvet ball gowns and set her on a shelf in his house, a lovely figurine for his fellow politicians to view and admire. And Flanna would surrender her calling in order to please him, for she was a lady, thoroughly schooled in obedience and genteel deference to one’s husband.

  He saw her lean over Crydenwise, her eyes soft with concern, her hand lightly brushing the short stubble that grew on his hea
d. Though she wore a shapeless uniform and a shadow of dirt unmistakably smudged that alabaster cheek, Alden thought she’d never seemed lovelier than at that moment.

  Twenty-Two

  Sunday, February 9, 1862

  Yesterday Union forces captured Roanoke Island, North Carolina, and today the chaplain gave thanks for this victory. General Henry Wise and his Confederate garrison of over two thousand men were taken prisoner. Were any of my cousins among them? Was Wesley?

  I Spent the afternoon praying, not for one army or the other, but for the men in both armies. For Wesley and Alden, for Roger and my cousins.

  Sunday, March 9

  We sit and wait in Maryland while others fight. The battle of Pea Ridge, Arkansas, was fought two days ago, with heavy losses on both sides. They say the dead include two Confederate generals, McCulloch and McIntosh Again the chaplain gave thanks, while I prayed for Wesley and Aunt Marsali’s boys.

  I have also begun to understand why the seas are not safe for civilians. Alden appeared at our fire last night to tell us of a battle on the sea. A Confederate ironclad, the Virginia, destroyed two Union frigates at Hampton Roads, Virginia. I must confess to feeling a bit of pride of the Confederate victory. The Virginia had been rebuilt from the raised hull of the Union ship Merrimac, which the federals had burned to the waterline when they pulled out of the Norfolk navy yard last year.

  Monday, March 10

  One of the men received a bundle of Boston papery in the mall. I must admit I have mixed feelings after reading them. There is much talk about peace and about slavery. There are many in the North who are against the idea of freeing the slaves, as are many of the men in my company. One editorial stated that peace had to come, so we might as well have it now and avoid killing so many of our beloved men I cannot help but agree. The army around me is bored and dissatisfied. So many want to go home, to return to their farms and businesses and families. I fear that unless something happens soon, many will desert in the spring.

  Flanna listened to the news with a rising feeling of dismay. Orders from General George McClellan arrived before her permission to depart for Port Royal. In response to Lincoln’s repeated urgings for action, on March 17 McClellan sent his troops the following order, which was read in every camp: “I will bring you now face to face with the Rebels. I am to watch over you as a parent over his children, and you may know that your general loves you from the depths of his heart. It shall be my care…to gain success with the least possible loss.”

  General Montgomery Meigs organized a great flotilla, and over the next three weeks the amassed Army of the Potomac was ferried to Fortress Monroe, located at the tip of the York-James Peninsula in Virginia. Over the seven months of his command, McClellan had done little but assemble an army, but what an army! Flanna listened in amazement as Sergeant Marvin told Company M that 121,500 men, 14,000 horses, 1,150 wagons, 44 batteries of artillery, 74 ambulances, pontoon bridges, tons of provisions, tents, and telegraph wire would be transported southward.

  Flanna and Charity listened to the announcement with mixed emotions. Flanna was disappointed that the trip to Port Royal had not yet materialized, but at least they were moving southward! Soon they’d be in Virginia, and if they got close to Richmond, she and Charity might be able to slip away with very little trouble.

  The thought of impending battle did not concern her much, for McClellan had proved that he was unwilling to fight. A master of preparation, organization, and drill, he seemed to lack the heart for sending men into dangerous situations. She worried far more about running away and becoming lost in the woods than she did about another battle.

  She had expected Alden to approach her in Maryland with some excuse to prevent her from moving out with the regiment, but he did not. She was not surprised, then, when he sought her out aboard the ship that carried them down the Potomac and into Chesapeake Bay.

  She and Charity were standing at the rail between Rufus and Paddy O’Neil, when Alden approached from behind. “Excuse me, boys.” His voice cut through their soft nighttime conversation. “I wonder if I might have a word with Private O’Connor.”

  O’Neil and Crydenwise tugged on the brims of their caps and moved away, probably thinking that the major had come to deliver some sort of rebuke. Flanna dismissed Charity with a downward glance, half-afraid her messmates were right, but Alden merely stepped into the empty space beside her and stared over the railing, watching the moonlight spread silvery ripples across the dark surface of the river.

  A creeping uneasiness rose in Flanna’s heart. Why had he come, if not to share bad news? Had something happened to Roger? She hadn’t seen him in days, and hadn’t spoken to him since that terrible day in Alden’s tent.

  “Is something wrong? If there is trouble, just tell me, please.”

  “Trouble?” His mouth twisted in something not quite a smile. He leaned out over the railing of the ship, staring at the coastline, the wind catching his words so that Flanna had to bend forward to hear him. “What could possibly be wrong? I promised to see you safely to Charleston, but I am leading you into the wilderness instead. I promised Roger I’d protect you, and I’ll be lucky if I can even find you once we land in Virginia.” He turned and looked at her, his blue eyes piercing the distance between them. “I’m sorry, Flanna, that I failed you. I tried everything I could think of short of going AWOL and delivering you to Charleston myself. I even prayed you’d take sick and have to remain behind in the hospital.”

  “Not a very nice prayer, Major.”

  “I was desperate.” His gaze met hers, and she felt her heart turn over in response. “One night I nearly came to your tent to accuse you of falling asleep on guard duty, or some such thing, so you’d face a court martial, anything to keep you from this venture.”

  “You could have simply told Colonel Farnham the truth.”

  “No, I couldn’t have. I asked you to trust me…and I couldn’t betray that trust.”

  She cleared her throat, pretending not to be affected by this unexpected proof of his affection—no, she corrected herself, his loyalty. His affection resided with Miss Nell Scott, who had remained in Boston like a good girl.

  She would have patted his arm in gratitude, but remembered the men milling around them and chose to move a half-step closer instead. “Major Haynes,” she said, gazing into the thickening night, “do not feel discouraged. I know you tried, and I know you want me safe. But I have come to believe that we are all in God’s hands.” She lifted her eyes to the sky, where the stars blazed like gems in a night as cold as the grave. “Look there.” She pointed upward. “Such beauty, such brightness, and on such a night! We are on our way to do battle, but God still works among us. I want to go home, yes, but I am happy that God is using me here. I believe I am where I am supposed to be.”

  “Still, I worry,” he said, with a creditable attempt at coolness, marred only by the thickness of his voice. “John Magruder is the Confederate general dug in at Yorktown. He is a brave man, but more than that, he is clever.”

  “You know him?”

  Alden nodded. “He fought with my father in the Mexican War. He’s a Virginian with expensive tastes, and an amateur actor besides.” A trace of laughter lined his voice. “Once, during the Mexican War, he staged a performance of Othello. Ulysses S. Grant, dressed in crinolines, tried out for the part of Desdemona.”

  Flanna stifled the sudden urge to giggle by rubbing a finger hard over her lips. She’d never heard of Grant, but the thought of a man in crinolines was enough to make her titter with laughter.

  Alden’s smile faded. “McClellan believes there are a hundred thousand Rebels dug in at Yorktown, but I’d be surprised if there are even ten thousand. Remember the Quaker guns the Rebs posted outside Washington? I’d be surprised if there aren’t a hundred more at Yorktown, all painted to make us think there’s a huge army down there.”

  A spasm of panic shot across Flanna’s body like the trilling of an alarm bell. Her brother might well be at Yor
ktown, along with her cousins!

  “So what if this Magruder is just being clever?” She looked up at him with an effort. “If McClellan thinks there are ten thousand men, so be it. He won’t fight, and we’ll be safe.”

  “Think about it.” Alden’s mellow baritone simmered with barely checked passion. “If McClellan hesitates, we will sit out in the spring rain for weeks. The men will grow tired and bored; morale will suffer. Many will take sick in the damp weather, and we’ll lose more men to fever and typhoid than we would lose in battle. Our provisions will dwindle. If the Rebs manage to cut us off, we’ll be eating squirrel and rabbit, if we’re lucky enough to find them.”

  Flanna stood silent, her thoughts racing as Alden gestured broadly over the water. “The men aboard this ship want the war to be finished so they can go home to their wives and children and farms! The more McClellan hesitates, the more heartsick his army becomes. He talks about loving his men like children, but you can ruin a child with kindness!”

  He fell silent, seemingly exhausted with the fervency of his feelings. Flanna bit her lip, realizing that her own concerns and desires seemed insignificant compared to those facing the men who led this army.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her words sounding mild and flimsy in the cool air. “Of course you’re right, Alden. I didn’t think. I must seem awfully foolish sometimes.”

  “Don’t do that!” A swift shadow of anger swept across his face. “Don’t demean yourself! You are not foolish. You are a sight more intelligent than half the men on this boat, but you allow others to push you around just because”—he halted suddenly, remembering where he was, and lowered his voice to whisper in her ear—“just because they’re men!”

  Totally bewildered by his behavior, Flanna stepped back. “No one pushes me around!”

  “Oh no?” He laughed softly, his vivid blue eyes glittering. “What about that scene I witnessed at Alexandria Hospital? You were taking care of that young soldier, yet when the doctor came, you retreated like a scolded schoolgirl!”