Beyond All Price

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Beyond All Price Page 34

by Carolyn Poling Schriber


  To Nellie, it was an all-too-familiar story. The Roundheads had been on the sidelines at the Battle of Port Royal, the Coosaw Ferry assault, and the taking of Fort Pulaski. When they finally reached the battlefield for the first time, some ten months after their organization, they had been ambushed and driven from the field at Secessionville. On each of those occasions, she had seen the events as sheer bad luck, or someone else’s fault, but at this distance from the regiment to which she had felt such great loyalty, the message was clearer. The Roundheads were amateurs, farm boys from the hills of western Pennsylvania, fighting a war with trained military experts. As such, they and all who accompanied them were at a distinct disadvantage.

  After the intense fighting in September, the Roundheads had been allowed to take a much-needed break from the action. Rumor had it, however, they would soon be joining the Ninth Army Corps for its march on Richmond. John McDonald confirmed that rumor for her the next time she saw him. “Your old regiment will be with us by the time we march toward Fredericksburg,” he told her. “Will you want to rejoin them?”

  “No! I can’t imagine doing that. There were many rumors about me before they fired me. I would never be able to live down that reputation, no matter how false it is.”

  “Well, the Highlanders will welcome you as part of our medical corps, if you would like that.”

  “I would. I’ve been hearing about plans to set up a field hospital outside of Fredericksburg in anticipation of a great battle. Is that where we would be working?”

  “Yes, there’s a fine old house across the river from the city. It’s called Chatham Manor, and it has plenty of room to stockpile medical supplies and set up wards. It appears to be out of range of the rebel guns, so our group will be moving out there almost immediately.”

  “And will it serve just your regiment, or a whole brigade, or everyone?”

  “We’re talking about a centralized medical unit that will serve all three brigades in our Corps. And yes, Nellie, that means you may well end up caring for soldiers from the Roundhead Regiment. Can you handle that?”

  “Of course. I don’t hold a grudge against the Roundheads. But I do worry about them. They are good men, although many of them are not suited for combat. They have this innocent view of war—that it should be something glorious. Then they see it means blood and pain and death, and they don’t know how to deal with it.”

  “But Colonel Leasure is a talented leader, surely.”

  “Yes, he is, but he can’t completely overcome some of the bizarre notions these men bring with them.”

  “Such as?”

  “They’re nearly all Presbyterians, for one thing, and they’ve been brought up to believe in the doctrine of predestination. I’ve heard the chaplain tell them nothing they can do will change the plan God has for their lives. If they are meant to survive a battle, they will, and if not, then there’s nothing to be done about it.”

  “Not the best attitude for a soldier, I agree.”

  “It’s deadly. One soldier asked the chaplain why he didn’t take cover when someone shot at him. His answer was that, if he ran, it would mean he didn’t trust God to protect him. And furthermore, if he ran, he might get in the way of a bullet God meant for someone else.”

  “So they think they should stand still and dare the enemy to shoot them?”

  “They stand up to see where the bullets are coming from, and they get themselves killed.” Nellie sighed at the implications of what she was saying. “I loved being a Roundhead while I was with them, but then I’d never seen a trained army for comparison. When I see the drills and preparations that are going on here in Annapolis, it forces me to face the truth about their own weak preparation.”

  Nellie had felt a pang of guilt when she thus criticized the boys from Pennsylvania, but she was also surprised to discover how liberated she felt for having done so. They don’t have a hold on me anymore, she mused. When Reverend Browne told me a war was no place for a lady, I believed him and berated myself for my youth and inexperience. Now I realize a war is no place for a man like him. He was preaching sermons for the folks back home, not for the soldiers who needed real spiritual guidance from him. And when Colonel Leasure tried to make life more comfortable for his regiment by housing them in well-stocked plantation houses, throwing Christmas parties, inviting visits from wives and children, he was really weakening their ability to withstand hardship.

  The city of Fredericksburg stood as guardian over the northern approach to Richmond. The Army of the Potomac, under the leadership of General McClellan, had failed to move fast enough to prevent General Lee from establishing a strong Confederate line between Fredericksburg and Richmond. Angry with the Union Army’s failure to block Lee, President Lincoln fired McClellan and turned the army over to General Burnside in early November. His assignment: Open the way to Richmond.

  The Ninth Army Corps was a key ingredient in Burnside’s plans. The medical corps Doctor McDonald had described was in the forefront of what was an amazingly rapid movement of troops. 110,000 men assembled near the small town of Falmouth, located directly across the Rappahanock River from Fredericksburg.

  Burnside planned to use a series of pontoon bridges to allow his men to cross the river rapidly and carry the attack straight to the Confederate line. Unfortunately, there were enough delays in the construction of the bridges to allow Lee to position his Confederate line in a nearly impregnable position. Burnside had chosen a location for the bridges that took full advantage of a deep spot in the river where the water currents slowed. But once across the river, the Union troops would find themselves on open fields and headed straight toward a ridge of high ground known as Marye’s Heights. There, a half-mile long stone wall provided additional protection for the rebel guns.

  By the time the Union attack began, on the morning of December 13th, Lee had amassed such a volume of firepower behind that stretch of wall that the sharpshooters were able to keep up a constant barrage of bullets and cannon balls. Fourteen Union regiments hurled themselves across the Rappahanock and straight into the gunsights of the Confederate line. Wave after wave struggled to reach the base of the stone wall only to be cut down as they advanced.

  At Chatham Manor Hospital, Nellie and the rest of the medical staff waited to learn the fate of the Union troops. They could hear the guns, but a tall stand of trees blocked their line of sight. All day long the firing continued. They had anticipated a stream of walking wounded, but not a single soldier appeared to seek their help.

  “A quiet day in a hospital is a good day,” observed one of the orderlies.

  “Perhaps,” Doctor McDonald replied, “but it can also mean there are no survivors to need our help.”

  Swallowing hard, Nellie knew he was right.

  By the time darkness fell, putting an end to the attack, some 13,000 Union soldiers lay dead or wounded in front of that stone wall. And now came the parade of stretcher-bearers, carrying grievously injured soldiers to the hospital. Nellie and Doctor McDonald established an initial screening area outside the house. The wounded men were dropped there so the bearers could return to seek other survivors amid the carpet of dead bodies and body parts that littered the ground near the wall.

  Nellie and the medics moved through the wounded men, trying by lantern light to separate the most seriously wounded from those who had no further need for medical care. Nellie’s practiced eye located those who needed amputations, and those whose abdominal injuries required immediate attention. She paused thoughtfully and knelt beside a young soldier whose face was entirely obscured by blood. Gently she tried to wipe way enough blood to allow her to find the point of injury.

  “Let that one go, Miss Nellie. He’s nearly lost an arm, and he won’t survive a head wound like that.” The doctor’s voice was kindly, but he was in a hurry to move on.

  “No, Sir, I don’t agree.” She was remembering the operating table at Secessionville, and the lesson Colonel Leasure had given her about Hugh Wilson’s injury. �
��The head wound is a minor one. It’s bleeding a lot, but head wounds do that.”

  “When you compound that with the blood loss from his arm. . . . Look, he’s already turning blue.” The doctor turned to his next patient.

  “He’s unconscious and cold, but he’s breathing regularly,” Nellie said. She called to an orderly. “Bring that flask over here, will you, please?” She offered a lid full of brandy to the man’s lips, but he simply jerked away. “Hold still, will you. I’m trying to help.” When he tightened his closed lips against her ministrations, she reached out and held his nose closed. In an instant, his mouth flew open as he gasped for air. That was chance Nellie needed. She dribbled a few drops of brandy into his mouth and smiled as she saw the warmth begin to penetrate his consciousness. Slowly she offered him sips until he seemed to relax.

  “Now he needs some beef tea,” she instructed the orderly. When he looked at her in complete confusion, she almost laughed at herself. “Bring me a small cup of the soup over there on the porch,” she explained. Now, she realized, it was Sister Mary Xavier who seemed to be whispering in her ear. I have learned so much from those who have been kind to me, she marveled to herself as she began to spoon up the nourishing broth.

  The wounded soldier swallowed eagerly, and at last his eyes opened. “Are you an angel?” he asked. “I thought I was dead. I was dreaming I was dead, and now here I am being fed something warm and delicious by a beautiful young woman. You must be an angel,” he insisted, “although I never heard of one covered in blood.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t make that claim.” Nelliehe smiled back at him. “I’m a nurse, and you are in safe hands now at Chatham Manor Hospital. You have some serious injuries, but you will be fine. I’m going to have the orderlies move you into the house out of the cold. I think they can find you some blankets, too, to warm you.”

  “Please. Don’t leave me.” He attempted to reach for her hand, but the damaged arm refused to obey. Nellie took his other hand and pressed it reassuringly. “I need to look at another patient, soldier. But I’ll be back soon to check on you.”

  “Once he’s a bit warmer, get him some laudenum for the pain,” she whispered to the orderly. Then let Doctor McDonald know there is an amputation waiting for him.”

  “He’s going to lose his arm?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so, but he’s not going to lose his life. Now go.”

  The work continued far into the night. Nellie moved from pallet to pallet, soothing, treating, staunching blood flow, and evaluating injuries. When the last patient had been dealt with, she sank onto the porch steps. The pre-dawn air was bitterly cold, and frost was forming everywhere she looked. Doctor McDonald found her there, clasping her arms around her knees to keep from shivering.

  “Come inside, Nellie. You need proper rest if you are to be of any help to the soldiers we have taken in.”

  “I don’t think I can sleep,” she responded. “When I close my eyes, all I see is blood, and all I hear are the cries of the wounded.”

  “Come inside,” he insisted, lifting her to her feet. “What you should be hearing is the gratitude of the lives you have saved this night.”

  “That’s a bit strong, I think. I haven’t done all that much except hold hands and dish out soup.”

  “There’s at least one young man who would disagree with that assessment. His name’s Johnny McDermitt, and he’s a member of my own regiment. He came out of his arm amputation asking for the angel who saved his life. The orderlies tell me that was you.”

  “Did they also tell you he was disoriented and delusional?”

  “Don’t make light of his gratitude. If it had not been for you, the staff doctors would have let him die. You have a unique gift, and you use it well. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you,” Nellie murmured. She was both touched and embarrassed by his words. To change the subject, she asked, “What happens now? Will they renew this awful carnage as soon as the sun comes up?”

  “Not even General Burnside could be so foolish. We have our dead to bury, and that alone will be a horrific task. A flag of truce will give our men time to dig the graves. The troops will withdraw across the river by tomorrow night. There will be no drive onward to Richmond. Burnside will take the brunt of the blame for this disaster, but Lincoln will get his share, too. I’m guessing the whole focus of the war will turn to some other area for a while.”

  “And the men? What happens to all of those who will need hospital care for a long time to come? And what about the regiments who are here?”

  “Rumors have already sprung up. My guess is the Ninth Army Corps will be sent to Mississippi or western Tennessee. There’s a new fight brewing there over control of the Mississippi River, and General Grant will be happy to have his forces augmented by ours.”

  “And the Roundheads? Despite myself, I could not help watching last night for familiar faces among our patients, but I did not see a single one.”

  “That’s because they were not in the fight, Nellie. Your analysis of the regiment may be shared by others. The Roundheads were held in reserve across the river all through the battle. They were ordered not to advance until summoned, and that summons never came. They were tucked safely out of the way. Not a scratch on them, I assure you.”

  “They’ll go west with the rest of the Ninth Army?”

  “I would assume so.”

  “And our patients? Surely they can’t be expected to travel.”

  “They certainly can’t stay here for long, especially after the main army departs. This wonderful old house is still considered a prize by the Confederates, and they will reclaim it as soon as possible. Arrangements are already in the works for a massive removal of our wounded to a permanent military hospital. They will be transported right after the first of the year.”

  “The first of the year!” Nellie shook her head in bemusement. “I keep forgetting the holiday season is coming. Last year at this time, I was planning Yuletide celebrations for a plantation full of slaves and a party for a regiment of bored and homesick soldiers.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to arrange a bit of festivity for our men here, before they have to head to Philadelphia.”

  “Philadelphia! Why there? Surely there are hospitals that are closer?”

  “Of course there are, but most of them are already overflowing with patients from Manassas, Chantilly, and Antietam. Besides, the new Chestnut Hill Hospital set to open in Philadelphia is supposed to be a model of military efficiency. It should be a wonderful place to live and work. They’ve even chosen a location where patients can be transported by train right to the door of the hospital.

  “So what will you do, Nellie?” he asked. “You are in the enviable position of being able to choose. You can travel with the Ninth Army and see what kind of trouble we get ourselves into next. You can quit and go home, knowing you have contributed your bit to the effort. Or, you can help escort our wounded to Philadelphia. Your services, as I keep reminding you, will be welcome anywhere.”

  “I’ll stay with our patients until they are well settled in the new hospital,” Nellie answered. “The men will need someone they know to ease the transition. But after that? I’d rather be back in the field, I think. It doesn’t seem right, somehow, to think about settling down in comfort when so many are still suffering.”

  Nellie was busy during the next couple of weeks. Besides doing what she could to provide a holiday atmosphere, there were many decisions to make about which men could be sent home and which ones needed further hospitalization and treatment. Johnny McDermitt, the young man whose life Nellie had saved at Fredericksburg, was one of those who was almost ready to go home. His amputation was healing without any sign of infection, and he had become skilled at performing most personal tasks with just one hand. “Look,” he told Nellie one morning. “I’ve buttoned my jacket and tied my boots as neatly as ever. Outside of playing my fiddle, I can’t think of much I can’t do.”

 

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