A Place in Your Heart

by Kathy Otten

  Frustrated, she approached the sergeant again. “Please?”

  He shook his head.

  Discouraged, she slipped her hand into her pocket and withdrew the gingerbread wrapped in her handkerchief.

  “Then can ye at least go on board and give this to Captain Charles Ellard? Tell him ’tis from Gracie McBride.” She passed it to the sergeant.

  Yelling from one of the soldiers caught her attention, and she turned toward the boat.

  A soldier leaned over the rail and waved his cap. “Who are you looking for?”

  The chugging of the steamboat engine grew louder. “Captain Charles Ellard!” She yelled over the noise.

  The man cupped his ear and shook his head.

  “Captain Charles Ellard! He’s a doctor.”

  “Ellard?”

  “Yes!”

  Two of the crew approached the gangplank and lifted it away from the steamboat.

  A dockworker stepped up beside her. “Ma’am you’ll have to step back.”

  Reluctantly, she moved away from the edge of the pier so the two men could move the gangplank aside.

  The men on the boat closed the gate over the opening as the steamboat, which had been docked pointing up river, now slowly backed away from the landing.

  She searched the men at the rail one more time. The boat slowly turned, until the bow pointed down river and the large round paddle wheel faced her. Big blue letters spelled out the name John Brooks. She waved one last time then turned away.

  The sergeant was still on the dock—eating her gingerbread.

  She lunged for him, knocking his hand away from his mouth. The last bite flew to the ground. “How dare ye!”

  A smirk flattened his lips and turned up the corners of his mouth. “You gave it to me.”

  Her hands curled into fists so tight her nails dug into her palms. “To be giving to another.”

  He shrugged.

  Frustration and anger crested inside her like breakers off the Cliffs of Moher. She drew back her fist and swung.

  Expecting her knuckles to connect with some part of his person, Gracie gasped when strong fingers wrapped around her forearm and halted its forward motion.

  For a moment she struggled to free her arm from the grip of the unknown person.

  “Gracie. Nurse McBride.”

  She turned toward the voice of the man suddenly beside her. Major Carlton, leaning heavily on one crutch, gradually eased his hold on her arm as he looked down his nose at the sergeant as though inspecting a green recruit.

  Instinctively, the sergeant snapped to attention.

  “Is there a problem here?” Major Carlton asked.

  “No, sir. The lady was trying to board the transport. I was only doing my job by stopping her.”

  The major switched his attention back to her. “Are you all right? Did this man upset you or behave in any manner inappropriate for a gentleman?”

  “No,” she replied, though she wished the gingerbread had been laced with one of her purgatives.

  The major’s shrewd gaze darted between them, but all he said was, “Very well, Sergeant, you are dismissed.”

  The man moved on down the pier as the John Brooks headed south.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  She shook her head, wondering if she’d ever see Charles Ellard again.

  “Well, whatever the issue between you, you cannot hit a provost guard, unless you want to go to jail.”

  “I’d not have hurt him.”

  “Yes, well…”

  “Why are ye here? I thought ye’d a train to catch.”

  “I was not comfortable leaving you unprotected among all these men.”

  They slowly walked back down the length of the pier toward the warehouses. Sam waited with the buggy.

  “I can take care o’meself, Major.”

  He sighed. “I thought you were going to call me Win.”

  “I found the poem ye wrote for me.”

  “Really?” His gaze brightened for a moment then lowered to the wide planks beneath their feet. “It wasn’t very good.”

  “’Twas a fine poem and so sweet o’ ye to write it special for me.”

  He stopped and glanced up expectantly.

  She met his gaze, but unsure of what to say, she added, “I’ll treasure it always.”

  “But…” He shifted his weight on his crutches. “You don’t return my affections.”

  “Ye are a kind, sweet man, Winfield Carlton. I enjoyed talking with ye and singing with ye, but—”

  “But you have feelings for Captain Ellard.”

  “No.”

  Major Carlton smiled sadly.

  “I still mourn me husband, Major. What we had together was special. No other man will ever hold my affections.”

  He nodded, though doubt shadowed his face.

  They continued toward the buggy.

  “Might we offer you a ride back to the hospital?”

  “I thank ye, but ’tis a fine day for a walk.”

  He inclined his head. “Then I wish you well, Mrs. McBride.”

  Sam stepped forward to assist Major Carlton into the buggy and reined the horse around. Then with a final wave, Major Carlton and his brother headed to the train station.

  Gracie swung back toward the river. Crossing her arms, she tried to rub away the chill. Gradually the stacks of the John Brooks faded from sight. The black smoke that poured from them turned to gray and drifted away to blend with the clouds. That was that. He was gone.

  From her pocket, she withdrew the note he’d left for her with Doctor Bliss. Mrs. McBride had been scrawled across the front. Was this a farewell? He’d kissed her twice and held her while she cried. Did he care for her the way Major Carlton did? Were his parting words a declaration of his affections?

  Turning the letter over, she ran her finger across the bumps and ridges of the blue wax seal. The letters C-P framed a larger letter E. She slid her finger under the edge of the paper careful not to break the wax. Drawing a breath, she unfolded the note. A few, nearly illegible lines had been scribbled across the center of the page.

  My grandfather is sending a box from his hotel. When it arrives could you care for the contents? I will write again when I better know my situation.

  In disbelief she stared at the note. She read it again, just to see if she’d misunderstood the inked lines, curls, and bumps. Did he mean more than he was saying?

  No. There was no other way to interpret the handwriting. After working closely for a month, after life and death, tears and kisses, he wanted her to keep a box?

  Her fingers tightened, crinkling the sides of the paper. No goodbye, just a box. She lifted her gaze to the river. A breeze carried in the salty scent of the distant ocean over the river where it blended with the smell of muck and dead fish.

  She sighed. A box. At least he hadn’t declared any amorous affections. She certainly did not want that, but a goodbye would have been nice.

  For a moment she wondered what kind of note Charles Ellard would pen if he ever fell in love. Would it be as blunt and socially inept as the man? Did he even know the niceties of courtship?

  She hoped one day he would find a woman who didn’t expect such things as flowers and gentle words, that she would appreciate his intelligence and realize he was the kind of man who sat quietly beside his patients, working his puzzles, keeping vigil in the middle of the night so no one in his care had to die alone or be afraid.

  She smoothed out the wrinkles, refolded the paper and slipped it into her pocket. Slowly, she walked back to the hospital. At least she’d hear from him again.

  Chapter Eight

  “Look, there. See that pretty gal waving.”

  “She’s waving to her sweetheart.

  “Wave to me, darling.”

  Charles lowered his long frame onto the end of the bench seat. The two men who occupied it slid toward the outside wall of the boat to give him room. His knees bumped into the back of the man in front
of him, who turned and gave him a quick look of disapproval.

  If Charles could have moved he would have, but as it was, men were already sitting on the floor. Besides, he was an officer. The corporal in front of him had no right to complain.

  “What’s she doing now?”

  “Yelling someone’s name.”

  Eager for a glimpse of the woman on the pier, men crowded the windows along the dock side of the boat, waving and calling to her through the glass. No doubt a woman of low standing. He couldn’t imagine any woman of his acquaintance who would have yelled and waved at a group of strange men like a common street walker.

  The engines chugged as steam pressure built and the boat began to slowly back away from the dock.

  “Yell my name, darling.”

  “Yo, Freddie, look at that red hair.”

  The words punched Charles in the chest. He stiffened under their impact. No, his mind immediately denied.

  A few men moved away from the windows searching for their seats, while others continued to crane their necks as the boat moved back. “I seen her somewheres.”

  “Yeah, she’s one of the nurses.”

  Charles pushed to his feet. It couldn’t be, but he had to know. Shoving his way between the men, he climbed the steps to the deck and found an opening among the soldiers nearly hanging over the side. One hand on the rail, the other gripping a rope that hung from one of the unused yardarms, he leaned out trying to sort through the congestion of faces on the dock.

  He’d stupidly waited to board the steamboat while others filed on ahead of him, some schoolboy fantasy keeping his boots planted on the wooden pier, hoping she’d come.

  The logical side of his brain reminded him that he’d never told her he was leaving. He should have let her know, but he’d feared the disappointment he knew he’d feel if she didn’t come to wish him well. So he’d stood there looking foolish, knowing she’d probably noticed his absence by now, wistfully hoping to see her one more time.

  In his fantasy she kissed him and waved goodbye. She’d give a token, a ribbon, some fringe from her shawl, or a lock of her hair.

  A lock of autumn red hair he could carry in his watch with his picture of his mother. He could take it out and inhale that slight scent of lye, trace her snip of hair over his lips, and remember. In his mind it would be his talisman, that special thing to hold onto, something to keep him sane amidst the chaos, reminding him there was still something pure and beautiful in this world.

  But she hadn’t come, because he hadn’t told her. So he’d boarded the crowded boat and found a seat.

  Now renewed anticipation kept him searching.

  One of the soldiers had mentioned red hair. If it was Gracie that meant she’d been in a hurry to get here and hadn’t worn her bonnet. He searched the thinning crowd for a woman without one, but the boat was turning and he had to fight his way to the other side. He stretched out over the rail. The boat picked up speed and he had to hustle to reach the stern.

  There. He leaned out farther. A woman without a bonnet or hoops. His heart lifted and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. She had come.

  She stood near the edge of the pier her hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun as she gazed toward the boat moving into the center of the river. Beside her stood a soldier on crutches, his leg amputated just above his knee.

  Charles’ heart plunged into his stomach, displacing the breakfast he’d hastily eaten. He straightened away from the rail and stared blankly at the dock, watching the people grow smaller, watching the foamy wake, churned up by the paddle wheel, as it rolled away from the boat toward the banks of the Potomac.

  The Washington skyline faded until all that was left was the skeletal dome of the capitol building and that ragged, half-finished marble obelisk. He turned away, searching among the soldiers for a place to sit. Near the bow he wedged himself into a small space among a group of young soldiers and lowered himself to the deck. He drew up one knee and extended his other leg. The sole of his boot bumped against a private in a brand new uniform. Charles glared at him, shutting him up before he could utter the smallest sound of complaint.

  His gaze passed over each excited face. How long before the same jaded hardness which had slowly seeped into his bones since Manassas, obliterated the eagerness in each expression? How long before one of them died and how long before one of them lay on his table waiting for his bone saw.

  ****

  Sergeant Baker’s fever was lower this morning, and he smiled as Gracie helped him to the chair next to his bed.

  “Feeling better, are ye now?”

  Though a thick bandage wrapped around his throat, he managed a slight nod.

  A soft breeze wafted through the area. She glanced toward the side door and inhaled the fresh scent of spring.

  So much better than the sour bite of sweat and urine, and putrid flesh, which permeated the wards, her clothes, and her hair so that she hardly noticed the fetid odors until moments like this. This morning’s breeze so clean and pure she’d yet to detect even the faintest whiff of the garbage and dead animals which often floated in the muck of the nearby canal.

  “But there be a chill there, near the side door.”

  “No. I am not switching his bed assignment. Give him an extra blanket.”

  She tucked a blanket around Sergeant Baker’s waist and draped a second over his shoulders.

  “Most all these patients die…” Doctor Colfax’s smug declaration echoed in her head.

  Was that the reason Doctor Ellard assigned Sergeant Baker this bed? Had the cooler air kept the sergeant’s fever at bay? Had the flow of fresh air from outside kept the miasma away? Could the arrogant man ever explain himself?

  Trying to understand the workings of Doctor Ellard’s brain was more difficult than one of the cursed wooden puzzles, made even more frustrating now that the man was gone.

  Sergeant Baker’s brow furrowed.

  She forced a bright smile. “Soon ye’ll be ready to go home and won’t that be fine?”

  Turning her attention to the bed, she yanked the sheets from the mattress, rolled them into a ball, and tossed them on the floor. Grabbing a clean sheet from her stack on the bedside table, she spread it over the mattress, then folded and pulled tight the corners.

  The sergeant whispered something, but his voice was so faint, Gracie couldn’t make out his words.

  “Ye should not talk. Yer throat has not healed.”

  Giving the blanket a hard snap, she waited for it to float down then smoothed it out across the sheet. As she stepped around to tuck in the other side, Sergeant Baker grabbed her hand.

  “Doc…” he whispered, though she could barely understand the word.

  “Are ye in pain? Do ye need the doctor?”

  He shook his head. “Ta…him.”

  She strained her ears, confused by what he wanted until he pointed to his throat.

  Assuming he wanted to thank the surgeon who’d saved his life, she explained. “Doctor Ellard is not here any—”

  He cut off her words with a wave of his hand. “Doc…Re…”

  She frowned, not certain what he’d said after the word doctor. “Doctor Colfax will be back later.”

  He shook his head. “Reee,” he rasped.

  “Robbie?” She smiled as much as she could with a pillow tucked under her chin. “The lad has such skill in his work he could well be a doctor one day. Did he not tell ye he’s gone back to his unit at Falmouth?”

  Sergeant Baker heaved a weighted sigh as he gave his head a vigorous shake. He touched the wound at his throat. “Doc Reee.”

  She dropped the pillow at the head of his bed before lowering herself to the edge of the mattress.

  He tried to speak again, but his words became trapped inside his swollen throat. His shoulders drooped and he shook his head.

  Reaching out, she gave his hand a motherly squeeze. “’Tis naught to be frettin’ o’er. Maybe ye be thinking of yer doctor at Falmouth, before ye come
here. We can talk later if ye’ve a mind, and yer feelin’ more yerself.”

  She left him sitting beside his bed then walked to the table at the center of the ward. Micah leaned on the end, focused on the two halves of the pyramid puzzle. He straightened when she approached and set down her pile of sheets.

  Moving to the cupboard, she searched through the musical instruments, books, stationery, and puzzles inside. She withdrew a deck of cards and held them out to the tall attendant. “Might ye take this to Sergeant Baker? I fear the man has become bored and will try to talk before his throat is healed.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Micah set down the puzzle and accepted the cards. “Sergeant Cole at the general office said something came for Doctor Ellard. He wondered if you knew of any kin he could send it on to, or should he ship it down to Falmouth? And Major Bliss wants to see you when you’re not busy.”

  “Thank ye, Micah. I’ll see to it in a minute. Just be sure to stow all the soiled linens in the bags before Leticia comes to collect them for the laundry.”

  Gracie dropped into her chair and picked up the puzzle. How easily Doctor Ellard had fitted the halves together. And the other puzzle with the yoke and rings.

  Why couldn’t he have told her he’d sat up with Gilbert the night the boy passed away, or that he’d stayed with Sergeant Baker the night he’d nearly died?

  And why hadn’t the insufferable man told her he was leaving?

  The door opened at the end of the ward. She glanced up. For a half a second, she expected to see him striding down the length of the aisle.

  She’d done the same thing after William’s death, lifting her gaze to the door at six o’clock, expecting him to walk into the kitchen for supper, or rolling over in bed and being surprised to find his side empty and cold.

  Standing, she opened the cupboard and tossed the puzzle halves on the shelf beside the violin. It was William she missed, not that lanky doctor and his ridiculous jokes. Slamming the cupboard shut, she turned and headed to the general office to find out what Doctor Colfax had made complaint about this time.

  ****

  “Ah, Mrs. McBride, come in.” Doctor Bliss gestured toward the chairs in front of his desk.