She found him in the front parlor working over a makeshift table that had been set up by an open window. The colonel had stripped out of his battle uniform down to an undershirt with sleeves rolled back. The patient on the table was unconscious. At his head stood a soldier who apparently had been dragooned into service. He held an chloroform-soaked cloth over the patient’s mouth and nose, but his own eyes were tightly squeezed shut, and he appeared to be swaying on his feet.
Nellie moved to him, gently taking the cloth from him and nodding in the direction of the door. He fled in gratitude. Colonel Leasure had not looked up, so Nellie spoke quietly. “I’m here, Sir. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Just keep that cloth lightly over his nostrils. If he starts to twitch, you may need to add another drop or two.”
Nellie forced herself to look at what was happening on the table. The colonel, now reverting to his former life as a doctor, was using a nasty-looking saw to cut through the man’s thighbone. Below the knee, only tatters of flesh and bone remained of what had been a strong young leg. She now noticed the patient had a strip of leather—possibly someone’s belt—clenched between his teeth. And on either side, young, white-faced soldiers stood holding his arms in case he should begin to regain consciousness. Nellie felt her gorge rising, but she swallowed hard, determined not to let the horror of what she was witnessing overwhelm her.
The colonel finished. He lifted the remains of the leg and threw it out the window before turning to the job of suturing the veins and sewing a flap of skin over the remaining stump. Nellie could not completely suppress a cry at the idea of disposing of body parts so casually. The colonel raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Don’t look out the window. The pile of limbs must be accumulating on the ground by now.”
“That many, Sir?”
“More than I want to contemplate, Nellie. It has been a horrendous disaster, the kind of slaughter you never imagine could occur. They mowed us down as if we were in a shooting gallery. But there’s not time to talk about that now. Every minute we delay, a wounded man loses more blood.”
They worked, side by side, without further extraneous comment. Orderlies shifted this patient to a rough pallet on the floor, while another pair delivered the next one and dumped him on the table. There was not time to assess the case fully. Was he breathing? Did he have a relatively strong heartbeat? If so, it was time to remove mangled limbs and try to staunch the bleeding from body wounds. If the answers to the first two questions were negative, the colonel shook his head and signaled for the next case.
For Nellie, some of the worst cases were those whose stomachs had been blown open. Often the soldier was still conscious, clutching his own intestines as they spilled from his abdomen. And the look in his eyes spoke clearly of his terror. For these men, as for the amputees, the whiffs of chloroform came as a welcome respite. One was bleeding profusely from the head, and the streaming blood had obscured his features until Nellie wiped it away. Then she recognized Private Hugh Wilson from Company C, and another “Oh no!” escaped her lips.
The colonel took a moment to teach Nellie a lesson. “Look closely,” he instructed. “Head wounds bleed like the devil, even when they are shallow. Don’t let them scare you. However, in this case we do have a serious problem. It looks like a bullet fragment hit his eye, although I don’t think it penetrated the socket. We’ll have to enucleate it.”
“Enucleate? I don’t even know what that means,” Nellie confessed.
“It means taking the eyeball out.”
“But he’ll be blind!”
“Better that than letting the eye fester and having the infection spread to his brain. Then he’d be dead,” Leasure said. “Go out to the kitchen and see if you can find me a spoon or a small scoop of some sort—eyeball-sized.”
This time Nellie could not control her heaving stomach. She ran from the room and headed for the door before she vomited on her own shoes. But when the spasms were over, she did as she was told. She grabbed a spoon and a small gravy ladle and went back to her duties. At least now I’ll be working on an empty stomach, she told herself ruefully.
The parade of patients continued without respite. Nellie later remembered Reverend Browne had been there, moving from pallet to pallet as he offered prayers and words of comfort. When a patient died, it was Browne who covered the man’s face with sheeting and said a few sad words over his body before it was carried off. She also remembered a poignant moment when General Stevens entered the makeshift hospital.
“I was told Colonel Leasure was here. He’s not injured, is he?” he demanded of the first upright soldier he saw.
“He’s over there, Sir,” came the answer. “He was a doctor before all this happened. I think he’s one again.”
Stevens waited a few moments until Leasure finished what he was doing. Then he strode over and clasped his hand. Tears poured down his cheeks as he said, “God bless you, you brave soldier and good man.”
Leasure nodded and pressed his hand in acknowledgement. Then he returned to what was his only job at the moment—trying to save the next life that passed through his hands.
Nellie worked without looking up. A part of her that was exhausted by their labors hoped each patient would be the last. At the same time, she realized if the patients quit arriving, it would mean the rest were dead.
At last, the steady stream did come to an end. Leasure looked at her for the first time in hours. “You look like hell, Nellie,” he commented.
“So do you, Sir.”
“I’m not ready to close the operating theater,” he said. “There might still be someone out there who will need us. Let’s go out on the portico for a few minutes. We could both stand to get the smell of chloroform out of our noses.”
It was almost 9:00 p.m., and the sky was darkening rapidly, lit only here and there by lingering streaks of an orange sunset. Without seeming to consult one another, they sat side by side on the steps. Fresh air was exactly what they both needed.
At last Nellie spoke softly. “I’ve been terrified all day I would recognize someone I knew. Not that I would wish these horrors on anyone, but there are a few soldiers, particularly from Company C, who remind me of my younger brothers. I’ve been listening so long to their problems and nursing their minor illnesses that I feel a real kinship with some of them. Hugh Wilson is one of them, but he’s going to be all right, isn’t he? His eye will heal?”
“Company C, you say?” The colonel winced and then reached over to take her hand. “They lost four men, I’m afraid, and I know of at least seven others who were wounded. They were right in the front line when the rebels opened fire upon us. I’m sorry, Nellie.”
“Who? Please tell me.”
“Well, Hugh and Johnny Moore were the only ones who were wounded seriously. You haven’t seen the others because their injuries were superficial and they went back to camp for treatment.”
“Who? Who’s dead?” she demanded.
“John Watson and Billy Anderson both died on the field.” Two others were mortally wounded in the battle. The stretcher-bearers went to get them but couldn’t get back to that part of the battlefield. Jim McCaskey and Jacob Leary almost certainly died of their wounds out there. They were hit by cannonballs and would have bled out in a matter of minutes.”
“No, no! Not Jim and Jacob! Jacob was one of the young men I taught to play poker. And Jim McCaskey. He was such a fine young man, innocent and open. He once told me I reminded him of his older sister. He missed her terribly.” Nellie was now crying uncontrollably.
The colonel put a comforting arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. His eyes continued to stare at the horizon, and he began to speak of the battle for the first time.
“I should have taken that fort. It would have been mine if Benham had not ordered a retreat. My men were fresh. They would not give ground till I gave the word, and they rallied like heroes under a most terrible fire. They marched into hell and survi
ved. Then that victory was stripped from them, making all the sacrifices of their fellows meaningless. How can I face them?”
Now Leasure was crying, too, and the grizzled colonel and the young nurse gave full release to the emotions they had been holding back for so long. There was comfort for both of them, and they clung to each other desperately. The day had come to an end, but neither would ever be the same.
From the doorway, Reverend Browne watched them silently. He had seen his worst suspicions confirmed, but not even he could have the temerity to intrude on their shared grief. Accusations could wait.
ggg
21
Emotions in Turmoil
Nothing was accomplished by the battle at Secessionville. Neither side lost or gained any territory. The Union Army was no nearer its objectives, nor was Charleston any safer from the threat of attack. When the dust of battle cleared, all that remained were abandoned cotton fields littered with spent ammunition, newly dug graves, and individual lives that were forever altered.
The effects of the Battle of Secessionville, however, remained with the Roundheads for a long time. Colonel Daniel Leasure reported to his wife, “The whole nature of the men seems changed, and they have the look and bearing of veterans. The regiment now shows its blood and its intellectual superiority in all critical and dangerous positions.” But not all was well in the Roundhead camp.
A flurry of departures gave silent testimony to the discouragement many men felt. Adjutant William Powers resigned on July 3rd, and Lieutenant Colonel James Armstrong followed him, pleading feeble health on July 12th. Two privates deserted, taking the easiest way out by simply walking away. Three young lieutenants also resigned during the next weeks, one of whom was Lieutenant Philo Morton, who had had the difficult task of writing condolence letters to the parents of those who had died in Company C. He did his duty, and then resigned, so he would never have to do that again.
The regimental band might have continued to be an integral part of the Roundhead experience, but the expense of maintaining individual musicians’ units in each regiment was too high. On July 17, 1862, Congress issued Public Law 165, which abolished the regimental bands and gave the musicians thirty days to enlist as regular soldiers or accept a discharge. John Nicklin came to Colonel Leasure to discuss their prospects.
“I will not leave this regiment,” he said, “but most of the band members do not agree with me. They signed on as musicians and did not do much training as foot soldiers. To ask them to pick up a rifle instead of a horn is too much. Especially after they saw what happened in Secessionville.”
“Anyone in particular who might be swayed by a word from me?”
“I doubt it, Sir. Captain Cubbison was not even with us on James Island, but he heard the stories that traveled back to Beaufort. He no longer believes the war is going to be over soon. Many of the men like him signed on with clear expectations they would be home within a year. Now it seems like we are stuck forever.”
In the end Nicklin and William Gordon, the two primary musicians, transferred to Company K, but the other nine members accepted their discharges. The loss of the band, of course, also meant the end of the regimental newspaper, for the musicians were the writers and printers of the Camp Kettle. The regiment might have been behaving more like professional soldiers after their first battlefield experience, but much of the music and humor had gone out of their lives.
Nellie fought every day to keep from sinking into a black pit of depression. She had come into the war hoping to do something worthwhile. She had been willing to lay down her own life for her country. But now the deaths, the devastating wounds, the discouragement of the soldiers all seemed to suggest her best efforts were wasted. Oh, she kept up with her duties, but the bounce had gone out of her step. The sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her face were missing. The soldiers who knew her best watched her with increasing concern.
The Union forces stayed on James Island until the beginning of July. The men kept busy fortifying the camp and erecting batteries against the earthworks they had failed to capture. They were never to get a chance to use them. When General Hunter ordered the troops to abandon James Island, the Roundheads boarded a steamer, sailed to Hilton Head, and then returned to Beaufort, where they camped outside of town while their officers cleared out the necessary paperwork and returned the confiscated buildings to their previous occupants.
For Nellie, knowing this would be her last trip back to the Leverett House made the homecoming bittersweet. She had learned to love many of the slaves who had served the regiment well. Then, too, she had had many plans for making their lives better. She had hoped to persuade one of the missionaries to set up a school for the Leverett, Smith, and Fuller slaves, so those who wanted an education could learn to read, cipher, and expand their knowledge of the world around them. Now, however, it appeared they would simply be thrown back on their own resources. Whether they would remain disciplined enough to assure their own survival was still much in doubt.
She was so dismayed at the thought of abandoning these people that she approached Colonel Leverett about staying behind. “I could do it, Sir. You left me in charge when you marched the regiment off to Coosaw Ferry, and when you took them out on that camping adventure while Fort Pulaski was being attacked. Why couldn’t you trust me to stay here and manage things? The missionary women would help, I know.”
“And what would that accomplish?”
“I would be doing something good for them. They need me much more than the Army does.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Nellie! Of course you can’t stay here. I’m responsible for bringing you to South Carolina, and I’ll be responsible for taking you back north. “
“I’m not an official part of this regiment, let me remind you. You don’t pay me, which means you have no control over me. I’m strictly a volunteer. So now I quit volunteering for your regiment. I’m volunteering to work with these poor abandoned slaves, instead.”
“No, I need you. When we reach Virginia, our sick and wounded men will be sent off to a convalescent hospital to finish their recoveries. I’m sending you with them. The rest of the regiment will be headed straight into another battle, and there will be other nurses attached to our new brigade. You will be the only familiar thing our casualties will have to hold onto.”
“What? What are you saying? That I’m to be sent off to a convalescent hospital while the rest of the Roundheads move on?”
“Yes. That’s the plan.” Colonel Leasure looked decidedly uncomfortable, but he tried to keep his voice calm.
“So I’m being fired?”
“No. You’re not being fired,” the colonel said, “just assigned to a new set of duties.”
“You can’t do that! This regiment is my life.”
“Excuse me,” the colonel said. “Didn’t you quit a moment ago?”
Nellie was growing angrier, and the volume of her voice rose until she could be heard through the door and windows. “You’re not being fair.”
“Don’t make this personal, Nellie.”
“But it is personal. This is my life we’re talking about. You don’t own me. Quit behaving as if you do.”
“I will, when you quit behaving like some wronged woman.”
Outside, an audience was gathering. The soldiers were fascinated and had already begun to read their own interpretations into the quarrel. “Told ya they was sleepin’ together,” one leering private commented. “I always knew sumpthin’ was up between those two.”
“Nah. I still don’t believe it. But I didn’t know nobody pays her.”
“That don’t seem right! No wonder she wants to leave us.”
“Well, sounds like she’ll be leavin’ us one way or t‘other.”
“Maybe we could do something for her,” Christian Lobingier suggested. “Take up a collection or something.”
“Would she accept it? Nurse Nellie has always seemed pretty standoffish to me.”
Beyond All Price Page 29