“What else, Flanna?”
She hesitated only a moment, but the muscles in her slender throat tightened and betrayed her emotion. “You should know, Alden, that I had left the camp before I found you. I knew Richmond was only a few miles away, and I thought I could make it into town. I had Roger bring me one of the dresses from your tent, and I had nearly made it out of the woods when I heard the guns and turned back.” Her voice faded to a hushed stillness. “I wrote you a letter, but—well, you didn’t receive it. But I have your letters, the two I found in your coat.”
“Letters?” Alden frowned.
“One to your mother, and one to Miss Nell Scott.” She paused to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and Alden saw that her eyes burned with infinite distress. “I’ll post them for you, when I think it’s safe. Right now it wouldn’t be wise to post letters to Boston from Mrs. Corey’s house.”
Alden nodded, still concerned about the sorrow in her eyes. “Do what you think best. But go on—why did you turn back? I thought you wanted to go home.”
“I did.” Her voice filled with anguish. “But I knew home would wait, while men might need me on the battlefield. So I did what I could for you and the others, and as soon as I came here, Mrs. Corey helped me send a wire to Charleston—two wires, actually. The first was to my father, and it said I’d be coming home as soon as he could wire the money for travel. When there was no reply, we wired my Aunt Marsali…and learned that my father died in December. I had read about the Charleston fire in an old newspaper, but I had no idea my father was involved.”
Alden reached for her hand and felt her shudder as she drew in a sharp breath. “I heard the entire story from one of the Carolina boys. It seems that when the Union overran the Sea Islands, the planters and their slaves took refuge in Charleston. On December 11, a group of slave refugees started a campfire near the sash and blind factory on Hasell Street. Somehow the fire spread out of control, and the winds took it. And then”—her voice faltered, but she swallowed, squared her shoulders, and continued—“the fire moved down Queen Street, where the authorities blew up fourteen homes in order to save the hospitals, the Medical College, and the Orphan House.”
Flanna clasped her free hand over Alden’s and stared vacantly downward. “My home was one of those destroyed. And though everyone had been warned, apparently my father went back into the house at the last minute to fetch something. He was killed when the house fell in on him.”
Floundering in a maelstrom of emotion, Alden stared at her. It wasn’t fair! She had dared so much and risked everything to reach her father. God could not mean to repay her sacrifice with this sort of tragedy.
He curled his hand around her fingers, wanting to comfort her. He yearned to sit up and draw her into his arms, but if he held her…Better to lie still and be grateful that his wound prevented him from bringing her close.
Pain still flickered in those beautiful green eyes when she lifted her gaze to meet Alden’s. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, a stab of guilt pricking his breast. He had felt sorry for himself until he heard Flanna’s story. “I’d give anything to make it all right.”
“Thank you, Alden.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ll let you sleep now,” she whispered, pulling away, “and we’ll talk more tomorrow…about what you must do.”
“One thing?” He lifted his head.
“Yes?”
“You don’t need the trousers, Flanna. Not anymore.”
The glow of her small smile warmed him from across the room.
The only room of Mrs. Corey’s home not given over to the wounded was her tiny pantry. At sunset, after all the well-meaning visitors had been shooed out of the house, Flanna and her hostess sat on stools in that tiny space, two weary Southern women sharing a pot of tea. Flanna now wore a plain workday skirt, blouse, and apron that the widow Corey had thoughtfully provided. The green plaid dress was soaking in a basement washtub, still undeniably soiled with bloodstains at the hem, skirt, and sleeves.
Some of the blood on that skirt was Alden’s, and Flanna knew she’d never look at that dress without remembering that she had at least been able to save his life. Her letter had never reached him, yet his letter to Nell Scott rested in her medical bag, so God’s will was plainly evident. God had used her to save Alden for Nell. When Alden was fully recovered, Flanna would search for some way to send him back to the Union army, then she would look for some place of service in the Confederacy. Perhaps she would remain with Mrs. Corey, for this house was likely to be needed as a hospital as long as Jeff Davis called Richmond his capital.
Flanna sipped her tea, smiled at the widow, and tried not to think about the forty-five sick men in this house under her care. Technically, of course, they were the responsibility of the Confederate army surgeons, but none of those gentlemen had been able to visit in the last two days. Flanna and Mrs. Corey had handled all the nursing and medical care.
Flanna was amazed by Mrs. Corey’s strength. She had listened to Flanna’s story with wide eyes and an open heart, and from the first moment she had been willing to do anything to help the wounded…no matter which general they served.
“It is amazing,” Mrs. Corey said now, gracefully placing her cup in the center of her saucer, “that you would want to go to medical school. I can’t imagine a young lady of your charm answering any call but that of wife and mother.”
“Truthfully, Mrs. Corey, I had hoped that I might still fulfill that calling.” Flanna placed her teacup on a shelf next to a bag of corn meal. “But medicine was my first love. I felt a responsibility to the women of my community. So many were too modest to let my father treat them.”
“How many of these men would be too modest to let you operate if they knew you were a woman?” The widow smiled, a quick curve of her thin, dry lips. “Quite a few, my dear. Modesty is a virtue claimed by both sexes.”
“It’s not modesty that prevents them from accepting a female doctor.” Flanna cast her gaze downward. “It’s fear. They can’t believe that a woman could possibly know what she is doing. Their modesty is perfectly capable of allowing a woman to bathe them, change their bandages, hold their heads over a basin, and empty their slop jars.” She lifted her teacup and smiled at her hostess over the rim. “They just don’t want a woman coming toward them with a sharp blade.”
“Still, I wish there were enough doctors to take care of these men.” The widow fretted with the lace collar at her throat. “It just doesn’t seem natural that you should have to disguise yourself as you did. Trousers aren’t becoming, my dear. You are much more lovely in womanly garb.”
Flanna shook her head, dismissing the compliment. “I would be happy to give the care of these men over to a male doctor,” she said, then quickly lifted a finger. “No—I spoke too soon. I would not, for I have seen how army surgeons operate. You would recoil, Mrs. Corey, if you knew how things are. I have seen surgeons in blood-stained garments operating without anesthetic, chopping off limbs with a saw.” She shuddered. “No, dear lady. One thing I have learned is that I must stand firm. I know what is best for these men, and I will do all I can to provide it for them.”
Both women fell silent as the sound of footsteps thundered across the front porch. “Who can that be?” The widow’s hand flew nervously to her throat as she stood and stepped out of the pantry. “We can’t take any others—there simply is no more room.”
“Should I go with you?” Flanna slipped from her stool, not waiting for an answer.
“Stay in the shadows if you please,” Mrs. Corey called, moving through the hall toward the front door. “No offense, my dear, but you are a stranger in town.”
Flanna remained in the kitchen, automatically moving toward the pile of weapons they had confiscated from the men brought to the house. Several rifles stood propped against the wall, but Flanna lifted a short pistol and checked to be certain it was loaded, then caught herself. What was she doing? These were her people; this was Richmond! The only thing she had to fea
r was Alden’s discovery, and no one else but Mrs. Corey knew the truth of his identity. Leaving the pistol, she moved toward the kitchen doorway and looked toward the foyer.
Mrs. Corey opened the door. In the lantern light Flanna saw a Confederate officer standing on the porch. In a long double-breasted tunic of cadet gray, fronted with two rows of buttons and trimmed at the edges and collar with a blue stripe, he was the most nattily dressed soldier Flanna had seen in months. A group of at least six other men waited behind him in the dark.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” The soldier doffed his cap before the venerable widow. “We’ve heard a most remarkable report from a captured prisoner, and my colonel says I have to check it out before we can send the fellow off to prison.”
“A captured prisoner?” Mrs. Corey gasped and coiled back into the flickering shadows of her doorway.
“Oh, there’s no need to fear.” The officer smiled indulgently, like a father amused by the antics of a child. “We have him most securely in chains. But he keeps babbling about spies, so the colonel thought we’d best do a house-to-house search before we take him away.”
“Spies?” The widow squeaked the word. “In Richmond?”
“Of course, ma’am.” The officer’s gaze left Mrs. Corey’s face and moved into the house, resting briefly upon Flanna before glancing up the stairs. “I know you have wounded in the house. Have you anyone else? Anyone who has appeared since the Federals moved into the area?
“Why, no.”
Flanna closed her eyes as the widow’s voice trembled. Unless this man was a complete fool, he had to see that Mrs. Corey was nervous. And though Flanna had every confidence in the benevolent widow, she couldn’t know if the woman trusted her completely.
“Ma’am.” The officer’s firm voice verged on the threatening. “You won’t mind, then, if we come in and look around?”
“Why—there are sick men in here,” the widow answered in a rush of words. “You can’t just come tramping through here when men are trying to sleep! They need their rest, sir; they need their strength! If you expect them to be up and soon fighting for the Cause, you’d best find another house to disturb.”
“We promise we’ll be quiet.” The officer pushed past Mrs. Corey, gesturing for his men to follow. A parade of footsteps thumped on the porch steps, and Flanna hesitated in the hallway, not certain whether she should retreat.
“Who might you be?” the officer asked, his eyes pinning Flanna to the wall.
“Flanna O’Connor, visiting from Charleston.” Flanna spoke in her best Southern drawl, folding her arms as she leaned against the wall. “I am a nurse, and I must agree with Mrs. Corey, sir—these men must not be disturbed. They have given of themselves on the battlefield; let them regain their strength in peace.”
“We were told we might be looking for someone from South Carolina.” The officer’s eyes shone with the stimulation of alcohol and adventure. “A doctor from South Carolina, or so our prisoner said.”
Flanna lifted her chin as her heart leapt uncomfortably into the back of her throat, then she glanced toward the doorway. A line of men had filed into the house, and Roger stood among them, his hands tied together at his waist, a purple bruise marking his cheek.
“Flanna.” His voice wasn’t much louder than a whisper, but the effect was as great as if he’d shouted in the hallway. The officer stepped toward her, instantly alert, and Flanna flinched as though an electric spark had arced between them.
“This woman?” The officer pointed at Flanna and turned to Roger with an incredulous expression on his face. “This is a doctor?”
“Yes.” Roger’s eyes closed as if he were suddenly very weary.
The officer stepped backward and stared, then his lips curved in an expression that hardly deserved to be called a smile. “By heaven, I knew the Yankees were perverted and profane.” He whispered as if the words were too terrible to utter in a normal voice. “But this beats all I have heard of. Women undertaking work no modest lady would ever seek, cutting off the hair that God himself gave for a covering—”
“Ask her where the Yankee officer is,” Roger said, his voice resigned and defeated. “I guarantee that he is hiding in this house.”
More shaken than she cared to admit, Flanna stared at Roger. How could he know Alden was with her?
“What makes you think there’s a Yankee in this house?” Her eyes drilled into him. “And what is all this talk about spies?”
“I read the letter.” Roger’s brows rose, graceful wings of scorn. “The letter you wrote my brother. I know you love him.”
The Confederate officer stepped so close that Flanna could smell whiskey on his breath. “Where is he?” His eyes glittered like a snake slithering toward a paralyzed bird. “Tell me, or I’ll march this prisoner through every room in this house until I drag the Yankee out by his heels. If you care at all for this Yankee spy, you’ll speak now.”
Flanna dropped her eyes before the officer’s steady gaze and glanced at Mrs. Corey. The widow stood with her back to the door, her eyes wide with fear and concern for the others.
Roger said nothing, but glared down his nose at her like some avenging angel. Did he have any idea what he was doing?
She looked down at her hands, and laced her fingers at her waist. For Alden’s sake, she would have to tell the truth. His wound was far from healed; he should not be handled roughly. If she cooperated, perhaps they would be gentle with him.
“Upstairs.” Her throat clotted with unuttered shouts and protests. “In the first bedroom. He’s the man nearest the door, the one with the shoulder wound.”
Roger’s head lifted sharply. He stared at Flanna as the officer gestured for two of his men to follow and then bounded up the stairs.
Roger’s brow creased with worry. “Alden’s wounded?”
“He was nearly dead.” Flanna pushed herself off the wall and walked toward him, fury almost choking her. “Perhaps he will die now, if these buffoons manhandle him.”
“Oh, Flanna.” Roger’s face wilted in sudden regret. “I didn’t know. I thought you two were trying to run away together. You disappeared at the same time, and then I saw the letter—”
Hot tears bordered her eyes as she stared at him in silent fury. Roger lifted his hands and stepped toward her, but she jerked her head away, repulsed by the thought of his touch.
“He’s up there,” the captain called, descending the stairs. He looked at Mrs. Corey and smiled. “I’m assuming, of course, that you knew nothing about this, ma’am.”
“She’s innocent.” Flanna stepped forward. “She is a good woman, and she’s done nothing wrong.”
“I wasn’t blaming her. She hasn’t been consorting with Yankees.” The officer’s smile disappeared, and a muscle flicked at his jaw as he motioned another man toward Flanna. “Tie her hands and take her too. The colonel won’t believe this story.”
Flanna set her chin in a stubborn line as the soldier came toward her. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” He held up his hands as if afraid to touch an example of debased Southern womanhood. “But I’ve got my orders.”
“Bind away,” she countered icily, offering him her hands. The soldier pulled a length of rope from his belt and proceeded to wrap her wrists, grimacing every time his flesh touched hers.
Heavy footsteps creaked the stairs, and Flanna looked up to see the other two men supporting Alden as they descended. He was awake, his eyes wide and confused until he saw Flanna and Roger in the foyer. “Ah,” he murmured, his expression clearing as his gaze met Roger’s, “we meet again. Why am I not surprised?”
From lowered lids, Flanna shot a commanding, reproachful look at Roger, then followed the Confederates out into the night.
Twenty-Eight
Flanna sat between Roger and Alden in the back of a wagon as the Confederates took them away from Mrs. Corey’s house. Even at the late hour of candle-lighting, the streets of Richmond were crowded. Baggage wagons heaped with trunks, boxes, and baskets rumbled over
the streets. Uniformed men filled the walkways while brightly dressed female camp followers loitered on street corners, eager to ply their trade. Flanna noticed that most of the houses they passed looked deserted, but golden lamplight shone from several. She suspected that those homes, like Mrs. Corey’s, were filled with the wounded and dying.
Flanna lowered her gaze and concentrated on Alden. He sat beside her, forced to sit upright in the wagon. His captors had allowed him to put on a shirt and trousers, but he wore no coat, and the stark white bandage was clearly visible through the thin cotton shirt. His face was pale, and sweat bordered his forehead and upper lip. At every pothole and jostle of the wagon a muscle flicked in his face, and Flanna knew he was in pain.
The horses stopped before a stately building fronted by six imposing columns. At a signal from the Confederate captain, Flanna and Roger climbed out and waited on the marble steps while the guards dragged Alden from the wagon. A curious crowd surged around them—men in uniform, politicians in suits, curious ladies in the refined bonnets of gentlewomen—and then they were ushered into the building and down a long hallway. Finally the three of them were deposited in a stuffy, windowless room and told to wait.
“I expect the colonel will want to know about this immediately,” the arresting officer said, his gaze sweeping over Flanna as he lingered in the doorway. “But you can just sit right here until he’s available. Might not be until tomorrow morning.”
“Wait, please.” Flanna wiped her hands on her apron and tried on a flimsy smile. “If you can find my brother, he will assure you that I’m a loyal South Carolinian. His name is Wesley O’Connor, and he’s from Charleston. I’m sure he’s in the army.”
“What regiment?”
Flanna’s face fell. “I don’t know.”
The officer shot her a withering glance. “You call yourself a loyal Confederate and yet you don’t even know where this brother of yours is fighting?”
The Velvet Shadow Page 34