A Place in Your Heart

by Kathy Otten

  She lowered herself onto the edge of the leather cushion and folded her hands together.

  He too, sat. The wheels of his chair rumbled across the wood floor like distant thunder as he moved close to the desk. He thumbed through one of the paper piles stacked around his desk top. He removed a sheet then put it back before pulling out another. “Here we are.”

  Gracie tensed, wondering what she’d done wrong now. In the four days since Doctor Ellard left for Falmouth, Doctor Colfax had registered four complaints with Doctor Bliss regarding both her behavior and her performance.

  “Sergeant Folsom, the cook in the Special Diets kitchen has submitted a complaint regarding the amount of milk you request for your ward.”

  She stiffened. “’Tis no more than usual.”

  “I spoke to Doctor Colfax, and he seems to feel that you may have continued to submit your special diet requests, based on Doctor Ellard’s recommendations.”

  Gracie ground her thumb against the center of her palm. “Doctor, some of the men we have be very ill. Milk sops and milk punch be excellent for nourishing patients whose conditions be most critical.”

  Doctor Bliss leaned forward and leveled his most direct stare on her. “I would like to remind you that you are required to heed the orders of the physician in charge of the ward. In this case Doctor Colfax. He is far more knowledgeable in all aspects of medicine than you. If he prescribes wine punch that is the order you will follow.”

  Her pulse thudded against the side of her neck. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and dug her thumbnail into her palm. “Yes, sir,” she whispered.

  “Very good. Now there is just one more thing. Have you had a chance to copy that supply requisition?”

  “’Tis only the numbers I be having a wee bit o’ trouble deciphering.”

  “Do you think you could finish it up this afternoon? We are already into April. In a few weeks, the armies will be on the move. We can’t afford to be caught without vital supplies.”

  Her palm hurt from the pressure of her thumb and nail pressing into the soft center. She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Charles Ellard was a smart man. Why couldn’t he learn to write legibly? The large capital letter at the start of each word was fine, but the rest of the letters were scrawled in a rush, as though his brain had jumped to the next word before his hand could finish writing the first.

  Doctor Bliss bid her good day.

  Leaving his office, she picked up the expected package. Ellard, C.P., Surg. Capt. 69th Pennsyvania, Armory Square Hospital, Washington, D.C. had been precisely printed across a tag tied to the handle of a brown leather hat-box, the kind used for travel with a hinged back and three clasps to secure the lid. An oval name plate engraved with the initials J R H, lay beneath the curved handle.

  Returning to her room, she set the box on her bed and sat down beside it. He’d asked her to look after it, so it was only right that she know what was inside. Besides, she was entitled to satisfy her curiosity after the torturous hours she spent trying to decipher pages of illegible handwriting.

  The lock above the handle appeared to be broken. The tab which normally snapped into place above the key hole was missing. She clicked open the two brass clasps on either side of the box and lifted back the hinged lid. Pretty pink and blue paper with red roses and green leaves lined the interior. In the center of the lid was a faded label for a hat maker in Philadelphia and the name Julia Rosemary Harrison printed on the line beside the words—Property Of.

  A stuffed rabbit caught her attention next. It lay atop a pile of children’s toys and books. She lifted it out smiling at the expressionless face. Some of the fuzz had been worn away on the ears, where tiny hands must have constantly held it tight.

  Had the rabbit belonged to Charles? He was always so controlled, so sure of himself, she found it difficult to imagine him as a child. Her brothers had been rowdy and full of laughter whether running the streets, stealing pies, or building a raft to sail in the bay.

  Charles would have had bright blue eyes, a mop of dark hair, and knobby knees with skinny limbs that were always longer than his clothes. Had this rabbit been his daytime playmate, his nighttime protector, guarding him from monsters beneath his bed?

  She gave the soft ears a quick stroke and spotted the tiny row of neat black stitches where the left ear had been reattached to the top of the head. Had his mother lovingly repaired the toy for him before she died?

  She set the rabbit on her small bedside table, next to a photograph of William taken when he graduated from the Royal College of Surgeons.

  The daguerreotype was taken on their wedding day. Gazing at the black and gray image inside a silver oval frame, it was hard to believe ten years had passed. She’d been just sixteen, but she’d felt so mature standing before the priest with William beside her. He had just started his practice in East Boston, and they’d naively believed that as long as they were together they could conquer the world.

  How could she know a pain in William’s side would take the only man she’d ever loved? If only she’d been able to find a physician able to save him.

  At least coming here to Armory Square Hospital had given her the opportunity to use all William had taught her for good. And though Doctor Ellard constantly reminded her women did not belong in war, that she did not belong in war, he did allow her to help without too much argument.

  She closed the lid of the hatbox, shutting away the carved animals, spelling blocks, and books. Rising from the bed, she shoved the box into the corner underneath the tiny table she used as a writing desk. Repositioning the chair she sat, picked up her pen, and went back to the task of transcribing Doctor Ellard’s hospital supply requisition.

  ****

  The sharp cadence of a bugle blaring reveille jolted Charles from a sound sleep. He sniffed through his cold nose and burrowed deeper beneath his blankets, hoping to enjoy their warmth for another five minutes. Wind snapped at the tiny log and canvas hut the way it snapped the lines of wet sheets strung around the laundry.

  Across the width of their tiny quarters came the thump, thump of Major Dennis stomping into his boots.

  Charles opened one eye. Just once he’d love to sleep past five a.m. He tossed back his covers and set his stocking feet on the plank floor. Cold seeped through his wool socks. He shivered.

  “Looks like it snowed,” Major Dennis said as he hooked his suspenders over his shoulders.

  Charles pulled on his pants and glanced toward the front of the hut where frosty wisps of white clung to the cracks between the logs. Stepping to the small commode, he poured water into the basin and bent forward to splash his face with icy wet. A chill rippled through his body.

  “Where’s that private with the wood for the fireplace?”

  “We’re leaving anyway. You really going to have him build a fire?” The major frowned as he buttoned his coat. “Besides he’s probably already cooking our breakfast.”

  Charles leaned close to the tiny mirror and rubbed his hand over his jaw. “I hate shaving with cold water.”

  “Washington made you soft, Ellard.” The major pulled on his gloves. “If you don’t like it, grow a beard like mine.” He set his hat on his head and opened the door. “Hey, it did snow. Should melt though, as soon as the sun comes up.”

  The small shaving mirror reflected the gray dawn outside and the snow which covered the ground and other tents. Great. He never should have complained about the dust, because now all that had been dust for past three days would be mud.

  A gust of wind blew through the opening before Major Dennis pulled the door closed behind him.

  Charles dipped his shaving brush in the water then set it in the mug against the disc of soap and tried furiously to whip it into a lather.

  He hated it here. Cold, mud, rain, and monotony. Despite being surrounded by a hundred and thirty thousand men, he was lonely.

  He should be used to the feeling, having been the odd man out his entire life, but Gracie Mc
Bride had briefly filled that aching emptiness. They’d connected. She’d made him smile. In four short weeks entering the wards had become something he anticipated. He appreciated her quiet efficiency and found himself eager for the stimulation of their verbal sparring matches. Like an intricate puzzle, she’d challenged him. Now he was alone again.

  He winced as the blade cut into the thin skin at the back of his jaw. He pressed his index finger against the wound, pushing hard against the bone. Searching his face in the mirror, he watched blood ooze around his finger and mixed with the soap, creating a thin pink trail down the side of his neck. A dab of witch hazel would stop it. He dug through his ditty bag, but the bottle wasn’t there. Frustration rumbled in his throat.

  Crossing to his trunk, he lifted the lid and pulled down the set of drawers and compartments. His eye went straight to the section where he stored his shaving kit. Empty. Had Major Dennis been using his things again?

  He heaved a weighted sigh and began a thorough search, assuming the bottle had somehow become mislaid. Locking the top compartment back in place, he studied the neatly organized contents, mentally recalling where each one of his belongings had been placed. He slid his arm into the depths between his clothing and the outside wall of the trunk, following it around in a circle.

  His fingers brushed the cool glass of his whiskey bottle. It crossed his mind to have a drink, but thought better of it and continued probing. The hard edge of a book was his next non-clothing encounter. Odd, because he’d placed all his medical books at the bottom. Curious, he lifted it out.

  Beeton’s Book of Jokes and Jests. He’d planned to leave it in the ward with the other books, but at the last minute, he’d shoved it into his trunk.

  He studied the group of laughing faces on the cover. When he’d purchased it, he’d assumed it would be filled with amusing anecdotes which would surely make Gracie smile. And while that hadn’t happened, for some reason he couldn’t part with the ridiculous volume.

  He’d yet to write to her and ask if she received the box from his grandfather. He could include a joke. Perhaps they were more humorous when he wasn’t telling them. But what if she hated the written version as much as those he recited aloud? What if she didn’t continue the correspondence?

  He tossed the book on top of his frock coat and slammed the lid. He no longer needed the witch hazel anyway. At the mirror he scraped away the last of the drying soap, brushed his teeth, and finished dressing.

  He didn’t care about breakfast. All he really wanted was a cup of coffee. He headed between the tents toward the morning cook fire.

  Laughter rang out.

  Someone said, “Yeah, the majesty of those shoulder straps seems to have conveyed to his brain the idea he lords over the rest of us.”

  More laughter.

  He turned the corner. Major Dennis sat with a few other medical officers in front of a fire where two privates cooked breakfast. Conversation stopped.

  Disregarding the silence, Charles approached and the orderly assigned to Major Dennis wordlessly handed him a tin cup.

  Charles accepted it with a nod and took a sip of the bitter liquid, grateful for the warmth which slid down the back of his throat and spread through his stomach. He savored another swallow then uncomfortable with the prolonged quiet he gulped downed the rest of his drink, ignoring the heat against his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

  He passed back the empty cup and turned away. He’d only gone a few paces when the low murmurs of their conversation began again. Why it bothered him now, when being excluded had never bothered him before, he didn’t know. With a sigh, he dismissed the maudlin sentiment and went on his way.

  The regimental hospital was little more than a grouping of several large tents set up over wide, log dug-outs. A small cabin held the medical supplies. To alleviate the slop of deep mud, corduroy roads and walkways had been constructed by lashing logs together like an endless maze of river rafts twining between the camps and the main thoroughfares. The area in front of the hospital tents was covered by one of these corduroy walkways, now nearly as muddy as ground around them.

  Men reporting for sick-call stood along the walk, a seemingly endless line of frayed, dark-blue sack coats and light blue wool trousers, stained and sagging. Some men left their pants to hang over their shoes. Others rolled them to their ankles to keep from being splattered with the red clay.

  The line wasn’t too long, and a small group of men stood clustered around another man leaning on a crutch.

  “Yes, when the Rebels whack us,” he recited in a deep sing-song voice, “You are always ready with your traps, To mangle, saw, and hack us.”

  Laughter burst from the group.

  “I got another one. Ho! Ho! Old saw bones, here you come…”

  Charles stopped behind one of the men and waited. Across the circle one man looked up. His eyes widened. He snapped to attention and saluted.

  The other men turned toward him as one and raised their right hands, palms out, to the visors of their caps, their elbows at proper shoulder height. Charles returned their salutes and continued past to the front of the surgery tent.

  The regimental surgeon, Major Balch, sat before a table, examining a bloody gash in the forearm of a young sergeant. An attendant stood off to one side recording the name, rank, company, and medical complaint of each man in line.

  Charles quickly surveyed the men waiting to be seen, then checked the list the attendant had completed. Glancing around, he spied an empty ammunition crate. He picked it up by the cleanest side and set it on end, near the table where Major Balch cleaned the wound of the young sergeant.

  The makeshift stool wobbled when Charles sat, but he braced his heel against one of the lashed logs and called for the next man on the list.

  Charles pulled his stethoscope from his pocket and placed the bell end against the man’s chest.

  “Cough.”

  The wheezy rattle was quite clear through the instrument as the soldier coughed and breathed.

  “Inflammation of the bronchia,” Charles dictated to the attendant. “Write him a pass excusing him from drill for the next two days.”

  The attendant filled out the form, then handed it to Charles who quickly added his signature.

  Charles slipped into the log building and returned with a bottle of quinine. He shook a tiny tablet into the soldier’s palm. “Take this then come see me on Tuesday. Sooner, if you feel worse.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The corporal swallowed the pill, accepted the pass, and turned to go.

  “Get some sleep,” Charles added.

  The next two cases were dysentery and the following one of scurvy. Charles had the attendant take the men to the second of the hospital tents. This was the fourth case of scurvy he’d seen since he arrived. The army needed to provide these men with more vegetables and fruit.

  He gestured the next man forward. The poet from earlier limped slowly toward Charles, carefully placing his crutch, taking short measured steps as he maneuvered across the logs.

  Charles glanced over at Major Balch, who carefully pushed a length of silk thread through the eye of a curved needle. The thought crossed his mind to suggest Balch use a Glover’s suture so it wouldn’t leave as noticeable a scar but thought better of the idea. For some reason the other doctors didn’t seem to like it when he offered advice.

  Turning back to his approaching patient, he watched as the man hopped forward, repositioned the crutch, and hopped forward again.

  Charles stood and gestured for the private to take the seat. The man wore no shoe and had sloppily wrapped a dirty gray cloth over his foot and around his ankle.

  “What is wrong with your foot?”

  The man shook his head. “I don’t know, Doc. Hurts somethin’ terrible. I reckon I must’a broke it or somethin’.”

  Charles hunkered down and rested the man’s leg on his thigh. He unwound the bandage and peered closely at the ankle. “Does this hurt?” Charles turned the foot left.


  The private stiffened and sucked in his breath.

  “How about this?” Charles rotated the foot toward the right.

  The private reacted with another sharp intake of breath.

  “I’m going to press on it in different areas,” Charles explained as he searched for signs of discoloration. “Tell me if it hurts.”

  The man nodded.

  Charles pressed and poked the inner and outer ankle bones, across the arch, around the heel, and against the ball of the foot.

  The private cringed and winced each time, pairing every flinch with either an, “Owww,” or an, “Oooh.”

  “How did you say you injured it?”

  “Don’t know. We had picket duty a couple a nights ago. We had to march for miles. We was awake all night and had to march back. I must a tripped and twisted it or something. I can’t march no more.”

  “And why have you not come to see me before today?”

  “Reckon I thought it’d get better, but it ain’t.”

  Charles set the man’s foot down, bunched up the old bandage, and tossed it into the private’s lap.

  “Take yourself back to your tent, find your shoe, and prepare for drill.”

  The private glanced at his foot then up at Charles. “What?”

  “There is nothing wrong with your foot.”

  “But there is. You seen how bad it hurt ever’time ya touched it.”

  “Yes, you apparently have some mediocre acting ability.” He gestured with his arm for the private to move along.

  “You gotta treat me.”

  “Come back when you have something for me to treat and I shall.”

  “I ain’t fit for duty. You gotta discharge me. It’s in the regulations.”

  “I believe what you refer to are paragraphs 150-167 of the Army Regulations, which reads, ‘…every man laboring under any physical infirmity which is liable to unfit him for bearing…fatigues and hardships of a soldier’s life in the field, should be promptly discharged from the service by his commanding officer on a surgeon’s certificate of disability.’ ”

  Charles pulled his notebook and pencil from his overcoat pocket.