Beyond All Price

by Carolyn Poling Schriber

  The Civil War that had dominated Nellie Chase’s entire adult life ended when General Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia surrendered on April 9, 1865. As George had predicted, the first closures included military hospitals. The existing patient load at each hospital had to be evaluated. The staff could submit the names of those who would continue to need hospitalization and extensive care in the years to come. Serious cases were assigned to regional or state medical centers. The remaining patients were sent home.

  Nellie struggled with the paperwork involved with the transfer of both groups. Finding beds for the long-term care patients was a more difficult task than it sounded, and the patients themselves were feeling great anxiety about what was to become of them. Nellie tried to be as reassuring as possible, but she could answer few of their questions. They wanted to know where they would be sent, but until she received an acceptance letter from the hospital in their state, she could tell them nothing. “They look at me with such fear in their eyes,” she complained to George. “I’ve always been the one to reassure them, but I have no reassurances now, and it breaks my heart.”

  Nashville recovered quickly, once again functioning as the capital of Tennessee instead of an occupied city under military control. For Nellie and George, however, it grew more and more inhospitable. Although the new legislature seemed to be, at least temporarily, in control of men who were loyal to the United States, there was an undercurrent of bitterness and barely suppressed anger. Yankees were unwelcome and assumed to be nothing more than opportunists bent on profiting from Reconstruction. When Mr. Guthrie suggested George might be better off in Louisville, he jumped at the chance to start afresh.

  Nellie had worried she would find nothing to do in Louisville, but she soon discovered the end of the war had given rise to a series of philanthropic ventures. A new Home for Aged Women provided shelter and care for the widowed wives and mothers of Civil War soldiers. One of Nellie’s neighbors was a champion of women’s suffrage and ran the local branch of the Women’s Educational and Industrial Union. Another neighbor left half his estate to charity shortly after Nellie arrived in Louisville. His bequests were designated for the creation of a public park, a public high school, and an orphanage.

  Each of these institutions offered Nellie an outlet for her organizational talents. She shared her medical knowledge with the staffs of both the home for women and the orphanage. She became a familiar visitor, bringing dishes to tempt the appetites of the women and stories to expand the knowledge of the children. She filled her spare time with such activities, worked hard to make a comfortable home for George, and tried not to remember the time when she had had a career of her own.

  One evening in the fall of 1868, George came home carrying a hefty book. “Have you seen this?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. What is it?” She read the title: Women of the War: Their Heroism and Self- Sacrifice, by Frank Moore. “What has that to do with me?” But she was afraid she already knew.

  “Turn to page 536.”

  “Nellie M. Chase,” she read. “Oh, no. How on earth. . .?”

  “This Frank Moore is the son of an army nurse. To honor his mother, he wrote letters to soldiers asking them to tell him about their own favorite nurses on the battlefield. Apparently one of his contacts sent him a copy of an anonymous newspaper article. The author could not resist the story of a nurse who saved a man’s life at Fredericksburg. The book is in our local shop, and our friends and neighbors are sure to see it. I suspect you are about to become famous.”

  “Maybe no one will recognize my maiden name.”

  “I don’t know. Some surely will. In fact, that’s how I learned abut the book myself. Mack Sweeney, who owns the stationers’ shop, came into my office this morning, all excited, to ask me if this ‘angel of mercy’ was my wife.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him I hadn’t read it, so I didn’t know.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “It’s not bad. It’s a wonderful tribute to your virtue, but the author says he has not been able to find out anything more about you than appears in the story sent to him from a one-armed volunteer.”

  “Johnny McDermitt!”

  “Yes, I suspect so. You’ll be more certain when you read the entire story.”

  There it all was—the story of his wounding in front of the stone wall, his regaining consciousness in the dark, the kind voice that corrected the doctor who thought this victim was too far gone to be helped. He described the liquor she had given him to stimulate him, and the warm soup that followed. In the words of the wounded man, she was “a noble girl . . . an angel of mercy . . . a woman with the soul to dare danger; the heart to sympathize with the battle-stricken; sense, skill, and experience to make her a treasure beyond all price.” He even disclosed her attachment to the Roundhead Regiment and the fact she was an unpaid volunteer, one whose only reward was “the unbounded admiration and gratitude of the private soldiers, who almost worship her.”

  “It’s a wonderful story, Nellie. You should be proud of your contribution. We’ll not call attention to this, if you wish, but I don’t think you should deny it, if the question arises.”

  “But, George, words are always a two-edged blade. They can be used as praise or turned to do infinite damage. I don’t want to be praised for what I did in the heat of battle. Some are sure to misunderstand or expect me to be someone I’m not. What if a member of the Roundhead Regiment reads this and decides to track down the woman who was suspected of having an affair with the colonel? Or what if someone recognizes the name of the runaway Nellie? I should never have involved you in my life!”

  “You don’t mean that. Nellie, you are my wife, and we have a bountiful life together. Don’t wish it away because of a few pages in a book.”

  “I don’t wish to change a moment of it. I only fear something or someone may attack us from outside, and we won’t be able to stop the damage. I would never forgive myself if you became the focus of gossip or ridicule because of something I did in my foolish past.”

  “That’s not going to happen, my dear. I won’t let it.”

  “But you may not be able to stop it.”

  “I can encircle you with the protection of my love. I have told you before, but I’ll remind you again. No matter what the world throws at us, we will be able to survive it as long as we have each other.”

  Once again, George seemed to know best. Some of their friends did ask whether she was the woman in the book. They knew, of course, that she had been an army nurse throughout the war, so they turned to this popular account to see if she was included. Since there was only one ‘Nellie’ in the roster of nurses, connecting Nellie Earnest with Nellie Chase was a natural thought. Nellie never denied the question, although she was always reluctant to talk about her days as Nellie Chase. Most of her friends respected that and did not pursue the question. Nor did it strike them as unusual.

  “It’s not surprising to me, my dear,” George told her. “I’ve been telling you there was no need to worry. Nellie, the woman you are does not resemble the young girl you were in 1861. No one, looking at you now, would see anything but a sophisticated and capable woman. Today’s Nellie is loved by wrinkled old shrews who complain bitterly about the treatment they receive at the hands of every one, with the exception of lovely young Mrs. Earnest, who always has time for them. And she is equally loved by the small children in the orphanage, who climb into her lap and beg for another one of her wonderful stories.

  “That’s what you need to accept for yourself, Nellie. Put Nellie Chase Leath to rest. She is long gone. Then welcome your grown up Nellie and enjoy the full flowering of your personality. When you give up the load of youthful guilt you are carrying around, you’ll find that all those other grown up burdens are easier to bear.”

  And that might have been the end of the story, except that one person—Nellie never did know who—wrote to the publishers of Moore’s book, telling them who Nellie Chase was
and where she could be found. This bearer of tales, the Earnests decided, did not mean any harm. He—or she—was trying to be helpful. But it did open the door for one last meeting of the old Nellie and the new one.

  One day a letter arrived from Frank Moore, addressed to Mrs. George Earnest. The writer wasted no time in asking if she was the real Nellie Chase. He plunged into the reason for his contact. He had received an anonymous letter concerning Nellie, and he wanted her to know that a question had been raised about her reputation. He was offering her a chance to respond to the implied accusations in the anonymous letter. He had included a hand-written copy:

  Dear Friend,

  I do not like to write anything that I am not willing to put my name to, but you will excuse me when you know it—only to give you a hint—that if you intend issuing another edition of the Women of the War, that you had better make some enquiries about Miss Chase’s character before you put her along with true-hearted girls like Georgy Willets, Mary Shelton, or Miss Maria Hall. Most any one of our old Roundhead Reg’t, except the Colonel can give you a great deal of information.

  Nellie sighed as she read the letter for the second or third time. Who would do such a thing? she asked herself. And why? What purpose does this vague threat serve? She handed it to George, and he read it aloud.

  “Who does it sound like, Nellie? Obviously it comes from one of your sainted Roundheads because he speaks of ‘our regiment.’ Who would do such a thing, throw such a slur at you and your colonel?”

  And then she knew. Absolute certainty almost took her breath away. “It’s Reverend Browne. It has to be that sanctimonious Robert Audley Browne. He’s the only one who openly questioned my character. But why? Why would he do this now? It’s been years since I saw him last. He won the fight. He drove me out of the regiment. What more could he possibly get out of doing something like this, something so cowardly that he is ashamed to put his name to it?”

  “It’s probably guilt, Nellie. When did he actually see you last?”

  “When I was being carried off to the convent, I suppose. I remember he had been in to see me the night before. He came to see if I needed consolation in my last moments, since he had heard I was near death. He may not even have known I survived until he read this book. My devoted one-armed soldier made the comment that I always considered myself a member of the Roundhead Regiment. I suppose Browne could not stand to think of that—to know I survived—and that I am now being praised for being ‘an angel of mercy’. What a bitter man he must be.”

  “Why does he hate you so?”

  “I’ve never known the answer to that. He did hate me from the moment he first laid eyes on me. He saw me running into a soldier’s tent and assumed I was a prostitute. No matter how many times Colonel Leasure explained I was a nurse doing my best for the men, he could not see beyond that initial impression. He also idolized Daniel Leasure, but when the colonel took my side in each of our many clashes, he must have felt betrayed by the man he considered his hero. In some ways he came to hate Colonel Leasure, too. He was willing to tarnish the Leasure name to make his accusations against me sound more valid.”

  George shook his head sadly. “A man of the cloth, too. He must have known with a part of his mind that what he was doing to you was wrong. How guilty he must feel, that he is still trying to prove he was right.”

  “It is sad,” Nellie agreed. “For a long time, I hated him, too, but I’ve moved beyond that. Now I simply pity him.”

  “So what are you going to do about this letter? Will you answer it?”

  “No, I don’t think so. You know, our friends know, and I know, there is no basis for his accusations. Frank Moore is not going to change his book on the account of some anonymous letter-writer, and there is nothing I could say to correct an accusation that is only hinted at, never expressed. The war is over, George, and that phase of my life is behind me, too. I have no reason to look backwards. You have taught me—and taught me well—to leave the past behind and concentrate on making the future better. That’s what I am going to do.”

  She looked at the letter one more time, and deliberately tossed it into the fireplace. They watched it glow, turn to white, and then crumble into dust.

  ggg

  Epilogue

  September, 1878

  Nellie came out onto the porch of the Railroad Hotel in Paris, Tennessee, plucking her damp collar away from the back of her neck. Then, after checking to be sure that no one else was around, she pulled the neckline of her dress away from her body and blew several cooling breaths between her breasts. She usually loved her Sunday afternoons. Once their guests finished the main meal of the day, she had no duties until supper time. George was busy over the week’s books, and the usual influx of railroad officials looking for inexpensive lodgings was not due until the next day. It was a time to relax, reflect, and recharge her energy.

  Today, however, the late summer heat hung oppressively over the hotel and its grounds. Even Gingersnap, Nellie’s big orange tomcat, lay sprawled on his stomach, paws extended front and back, chin planted on the floor, eyes squeezed shut against the glare of the sun. “That’s a pretty undignified pose for a cat,” Nellie told him. “I’ve seen dogs assume that ‘full-frog’ position, but cats are supposed to curl up in fluffy balls.”

  Gingersnap merely flicked the tip of his tail at her.

  “Never mind. I’m jealous that I can’t join you.”

  Nellie stood at the railing and gazed at her favorite views—first the yard, bursting with late summer blooms. The hydrangeas were beginning to look a bit papery, but the magnolia and crepe myrtle trees still filled the yard with their blooms. Nellie bent over and plucked a hollyhock. Using the fully opened flower as a skirt and a barely breaking bud as a head, she recreated the hollyhock doll of her childhood. Then with a shake of her head at her own foolishness, she tossed the flower at the cat. He opened one baleful eye at her and went back to sleep.

  Next, she looked up and to her right, where the crenellated towers and widow’s walks of the town’s antebellum mansions still encircled the downtown area at the top of the next hill. Paris was a small town, if one compared it to Nashville or Louisville, but it was energetic, friendly, and beautiful. When Mr. Standiford, the new president of the L&N, first told George that he was being transferred to Paris to run the railroad hotel in 1874, the young accountant had been disappointed. Nellie, however, was happy to leave Louisville and return to Tennessee. They had been sharing a triple house with two other couples, both of whom had small children. The racket and laughter of the children was a constant reminder to Nellie of her own childlessness. Then, too, the philanthropic efforts she had been using to fill her time were simply not satisfying enough to give her a useful purpose in life. “Most of these women,” she complained to George, “only want to take on a project if there’s a chance of getting their names in the newspaper. I want to do something important with my time.”

  Here in Paris, Nellie was a part of every day’s activity. The hotel was not large by most standards. It had six rooms upstairs and three downstairs, along with the “chain gang” room where train crews who were passing through could grab a quick nap. The dining room, however, was large enough to feed not only the hotel guests, but anyone who was employed by the railroad. Nellie and George had their own apartment on the ground floor, so they could always be on call.

  Since Paris was a major crew transfer point on the line that ran from Memphis to Bowling Green, Kentucky, a steady stream of soot-covered trainmen made their way in and out of the hotel. For every one of them, Nellie provided a hot meal, a clean bed, and a kind word. While George kept the accounts, both at the hotel and at the depot, Nellie supervised the hotel staff. She had the help of a wonderful cook named Emma Williams and a man of all trades, Chester Price, to do the repairs and heavy lifting. In many ways, the hotel reminded her of her days in Beaufort, and she reveled in her responsibilities.

  “I don’t know about you,” she told the cat, who had
awakened enough to stretch out even further, “but I think I could be content to spend the rest of my life here. Except maybe in early September! I’d certainly be grateful for a cooling shower.”

  Restless because of the heat and stillness in the air, she walked to the other side of the porch to look down at the train depot. It was usually deserted on Sunday afternoons, so she was first surprised, and then alarmed, to see a crowd of men milling about on the platform and front sidewalk. “George! Can you come out here? There’s something happening at the depot.”