by Kathy Otten
“I assume that is why you’re here. You have heard the rumors that we will soon march, and you came expecting me to present you with a certificate of disability. I think not. You private, have a responsibility to the men of your regiment to present yourself as fit for duty and stand with them.”
“I hear that rule don’t apply to you.” The private mumbled, then wadded the wrapping from his foot into a ball and slammed it down against the walkway.
If the ball of cloth had been rubber, it would have bounced higher than Charles’ head.
“Consider yourself on report, Private.”
The private seized his crutch and stood. Without shifting any weight onto it, he clenched the length of wood, his knuckles white. A sneer pulled back one corner of his mouth.
Charles moved toward the insolent fool, grateful at this moment for his extra height and thanks to his grandfather, years of boxing lessons. He stared down into the man’s narrowed eyes.
The private’s lips compressed into a tight line.
Charles took another step, close enough now so the brass buttons of his coat were mere inches from the private’s nose. “You raise that crutch one inch, and I will have you brought up on charges.” From his peripheral vision, he saw Major Balch step toward them.
“Is there a problem?”
“Yeah,” the private spoke quickly backing away from Charles. “The doc says there ain’t nothing wrong with my foot, but it pains me terrible. He says I gotta report for drill, and I cain’t even put weight on it.”
Charles lifted his gaze to the regimental surgeon, who with a jerk of his head bade Charles follow him as they moved away from the annoying louse of a private.
They stopped beside Major Balch’s patient, who sat with his newly stitched arm extended on the table.
Major Balch seated himself across from the young sergeant and picked up a rolled bandage. “I trust you have an explanation, Captain Ellard. From what I overheard it sounded as if the patient was in a great deal of pain.”
“It did sound that way. However, I assure you, this man here is in far greater pain, yet I heard nary a peep as you stitched his laceration closed.”
“Some men have a greater tolerance.” Major Balch wound the bandage around the arm.
“The amount of pain the private expressed was inconsistent with the alleged injury presented.” Charles watched the doctor tie off the ends of the bandage. His fingers tingled with the urge to wrap the wound a few more times. The sergeant would surely bump that arm when he moved about camp. He hoped the major would at least isolate the limb with a sling.
“Captain, I hope you based your diagnosis on something other than pain tolerance.”
Charles blinked and refocused his attention on Major Balch, frowning at the condescension in the other doctor’s voice.
“Neither his foot nor his ankle presents any redness or evidence of contusion. There are no areas of swelling or heat. Nor is there an indication of a lack of circulation. As the private approached me and was not focused entirely on his alleged injury, the man, seventeen times, touched the toes of that foot to the walkway before advancing his crutch, yet he did not wince or exhibit any physical sign of pain. However, the moment I began my examination, he moaned and groaned and flinched and winced. I’ve seen men with entire limbs amputated take on with less caterwauling.”
The young sergeant snickered.
Major Balch scowled at the man. “That will be all, Sergeant.”
Rising, the sergeant stepped to the side and rolled down the sleeve of his shirt. Blood soaked the entire forearm. The brightness glistened stark against the white.
“Captain Ellard.” Major Balch slid his needle back through the chamois cloth of his needle case. “The line is relatively short this morning. President Lincoln will be arriving in the next day or so for a full review of the troops. Perhaps you could get an early start on the daily kitchen inspection before you report for ambulance drill.”
Charles raised his chin. His nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath. Calm, he reminded himself.
“Sir, I have been in this since the beginning. I know when someone is playing the old man. No disrespect, but you have only been here since January and have seen merely those malingerers attempting to avoid drill. We are about to march into—”
“Captain Ellard.” Major Balch stood but couldn’t come close to Charles’ imposing height. “Need I remind you that I am the Regimental Surgeon and you, my Assistant Surgeon. Nor are you any longer a major.”
“Sir, that man is my patient, and I have made my diagnosis.”
“You have been given your orders, Captain. If you have a problem with that, feel free to take your complaints to the Corps medical director, otherwise you may find yourself spending the rest of the war back in Old Capitol Prison.”
“Yes, sir,” Charles hissed through clenched teeth. He swung on his heels, his long legs taking him quickly along the walk.
“Captain!” A voice called out behind him. “Captain Ellard.”
Charles stopped and turned. The young sergeant hurried to catch up. From elbow to wrist, the sleeve of his coat was dark with blood.
“I know you don’t know me,” the young sergeant began, then in an afterthought he raised his hand to salute.
Charles responded in kind.
“I don’t know if you’re the right Captain Ellard, but did you come down here from Washington a week ago on the John Brooks?”
“Yes,” Charles replied slowly, wondering if Doctor Balch had excused this man from drill. He’d obviously lost a good deal of blood. The bandage wasn’t thick, and he’d certainly bang it with his rifle.
“Me too. I was on board waiting to come down to Aquia Creek Landing, and this pretty woman with red hair—”
Charles stilled. He drew a deep breath and waited.
“She was yelling for her beau, a Doctor Ellard, Charles Ellard. I remember ’cause I asked her to repeat the name. Is it you she was trying to find?”
His chest tightened. Gracie had called for him specifically? He inclined his head. “My name is Charles Ellard, but I can’t imagine why the lady you mentioned would be looking for me.” His heartbeat quickened for a moment then—“I believe she already has a beau.”
The sergeant shrugged. “I didn’t see nobody. She was trying awful hard to get on that boat, but the provost marshal wouldn’t let her—Wait. There was someone, a fellow on crutches. He stopped her when she took a swing at the provost marshal.”
The sergeant chuckled. “Never seen a lady fly at a man the way she done. Too bad she didn’t get to talk to you.”
The corner of Charles’ mouth twitched. Moral outrage had driven Gracie to fly at that orderly in the ward. Had the denial of the provost marshal to let her say goodbye to him triggered that same outrage? That she would fight for him the same way she’d fought for the patients that day…
But why had Major Carlton been there? Had he merely been her escort, or had it been something more? Had he also glimpsed the turn of her ankle, her red petticoat?
“Yes, well, thank you, Sergeant, for sharing that information with me.”
The man nodded. “I figured. I’d want to know if my sweetheart came to see me off.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. And come find me before taps and roll-call. I’d like to check your arm.”
The sergeant glanced toward the hospital tents and nodded. “I will.” Then he swung on his heels and headed back the other way.
Charles continued to the regiment’s hospital kitchen, to make sure the cooks were properly washing the pots and the soups were cooked for the required amount of time.
These were the same men, who like all but a few in the regiment, saw little need to void their bladders in the trenches dug for the express purpose of keeping human excrement away from both the camp and the regiment’s hospital kitchen. With just himself, Major Balch, and Major Dennis to inspect the kitchen, sanitation became a daunting task.
Chapter Nine
That evening, Charles sat on a stool in the corner of a hospital tent. A light rain pelted the canvas like tiny pebbles tossed from Heaven. Using an empty haversack as a desk, he composed his concerns to Doctor Letterman in Washington. He took his time forming every curve and line so each individual letter was legible. Carefully, he detailed the numerous cases of scurvy then requested an increase in the vegetables of each man’s ration.
Setting that letter aside to dry, he removed a blank sheet of paper from his stationery box, picked up his pen and held it poised over the paper.
Taking a deep breath, he wrote—
Dear Gracie McBride,
Frowning, he slashed a line straight through the center of the salutation.
My dearest Grace,
No. Another line.
Dear Mrs. Grace McBride,
Line.
My dear Mrs. William McBride,
No.
My dear friend Gracie…
****
Dear Mrs. McBride,
I trust you received the box from my grandfather.
Thank you for keeping it.
Sincerely,
Charles P. Ellard, Capt.
Assistant Surgeon
69th Pennsylvania, Second Division
Gracie turned the paper over. Blank. Then again, why was she surprised? This brief note, obviously written when he was busy, was just like him—quick, to the point, and dismissive. At least now she knew where to write, to reassure him his box of childhood toys was indeed in her possession. And if she included a few anecdotes about life here at Armory Square, that only meant she was being friendly.
“Ma’am?”
Gracie shoved the letter into her pocket and looked up. Her orderly, Tom Halleck, stood in front of her table.
“Sergeant Baker asked me about the other doctor again.”
She sighed. “All ye can do is remind him that Doctors Ellard and Colfax and Medical Cadet Emmerson be the only ones attending him that day. If he be thinking ’twas another, ’twas naught but his feverish dreams.”
He nodded. “And Corporal McAuley puked his lunch.”
Gracie started down the aisle toward bed six. “By the saints, I knew it would happen.”
Micah was already there changing the corporal’s shirt and bedding.
She swung around and nearly slammed into Tom. They sidestepped each other for a moment, then once again, Tom fell in line behind her as she marched back to the table.
“The poor man’s stomach can handle naught but beef tea.” She crossed her arms and lifted her gaze to Tom.
“Did ye have the chance to go and ask the Special Diets cook to give ye some?”
Tom shifted his weight and glanced down at the floor. “Yes, ma’am. But soon as I said it was for Ward E, he said, no.”
“Sweet Mary, Jesus, and Joseph, is the man’s pride so stiff, he’d see poor Sean McAuley perish rather than spare a quart o’beef tea?”
“Excuse me for saying so, but I don’t think that cook likes you much.”
“Aye Tom, ye have the right of it now.” She frowned and gnawed on the inside of her cheek. After a moment, she squared her shoulders and gave Tom a quick smile. “Then he’ll think no less o’ me if I go over there and get it meself.”
“You’re going to steal it?”
She grinned. “We be in the army, Tom. ’Tis called foraging.”
His eyes widened, and he snickered. “Then you’d best hurry, ma’am. The cook is likely still taking his noon break.”
****
Gracie cautiously pushed one of the two wide barn- doors inward. She listened. No voices, no pots clanging or vegetables being chopped, only silence filled the large open building along with the savory aromas of onion, celery, and beef.
She released a breath and made the sign of the cross. Lifting her gaze to the rafters, she whispered a quick, thank you. Not even the stewards were here.
There probably wasn’t much time. She slipped inside and peeked around the long row of shelves filled with over-sized pots and pans, large spatulas, and ladles. She sidled along the wall and around a wide butcher block, its surface sloped from many scrapings. The large stoves and work tables in the center of the cavernous building drew her attention. Since beef tea usually simmered for hours, she focused on the huge pot on the back of one stove.
Carefully, she moved to avoid passing in front of a window, and even though she walked on tip-toe, each tap of her leather soles against the brick floor sounded three times louder to her sharpened hearing.
A quilted pot holder had been tossed on one of the wide tables that divided the work space. She grabbed the thick calico pad, swung toward the stove, and lifted the lid.
A misty cloud of steam swirled around her face. Moisture dampened her cheeks as she leaned close and inhaled the scent of beef. A tangy hint of bay leaf teased her senses. Perfect. She lowered the lid and scanned the room. A row of shelves filled with glassware, plates, serving platters, and soup tureens captured her attention.
Her heart rate accelerated, and she rubbed her palms down the front of her apron. She had to hurry. A couple of the quart fruit jars on the third shelf would serve her purpose. One in each hand, she carried them back to the stove and set them on the most level corner of the butcher block while she hunted for a ladle.
Outside the planks of the walkway creaked. She jumped. Her mouth went dry. To her heightened senses, the low murmur of voices echoed like a cacophony of angry rabble.
Her gaze shot to the stove. She could do this.
A faint whiff of cherry tobacco drifted through the kitchen. Whoever was smoking didn’t seem interested in coming inside—yet.
She dipped a ladle into the broth and filled the jars. After she screwed the zinc lids on tight, she dashed across the room to the side door and pulled it open.
A wall of white, splattered with grease and splotches of food, blocked her way.
“What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”
Gracie’s breath caught in her throat along with her reply. She lifted her gaze to meet his frowning, sweat-dotted face.
He glanced at the jars in her hand and didn’t even wait for her to fabricate an explanation.
“That’s it. Major Bliss is going to hear about this. That crazy doctor ain’t here no more to protect you.” He swung on his heels and marched off toward the general office.
****
“Stealing food, Mrs. McBride?” Doctor Bliss asked from where he stood in front of his desk. Cradling his elbow in the palm of his opposite hand, he thoughtfully stroked his porkchop sideburns with the backs of his fingers.
“How is it stealing if I be giving it to the men ’tis intended for?” Gracie hugged the fruit jars tight to her bosoms.
“Because it ain’t all intended for you.” The sergeant shot an accusing glare toward Gracie.
She shrank back a step, as though protecting an infant in her arms.
Major Bliss straightened and stepped around his desk. “That will be all, Sergeant.”
“What about my beef tea?”
“I will deal with this.” He nodded toward the door.
With a low grunt, the sergeant left the office. Doctor Bliss gestured for her to take a seat.
She frowned and lowered herself onto the edge of the chair, keeping her back straight and her fruit jars close.
Doctor Bliss took a seat behind his desk and leaning back, pursed his lips as he studied her over the tips of his steepled fingers.
“Mrs. McBride,” he began. “Can I assume Doctor Colfax did not order this beef tea and that you have once again taken it upon yourself to defy his orders?”
“Adding a bit o’ beef tea to his list ’twas all I be doing. I do not know why, but ’tis the only thing Corporal McAuley can keep in his stomach. Doctor Colfax refuses to prescribe it. ’Twas the only order I be changing.”
“You are an excellent nurse, and what perplexes me is that you got on so well with Doctor Ellard.”
“He be a f
ine doctor.”
“And he would be the first one to remind you that it is not your place to change any order he’d given.”
While it was true, she also knew Doctor Ellard would have likely prescribed beef tea in the first place. The words danced on the tip of her tongue, but she pressed them to the roof of her mouth and shifted the weight of the jars in her arms.
“There is another matter I wish to address, concerning a…” he rifled through his papers and pulled a single sheet from a pile on the left side of his desk.
He ran his thumb down the dark mutton chop width of hair on his cheek as he glanced over the page. “A complaint was registered by a Mrs. Prescott, the founder of the Ladies for the Betterment of War Society.”
“The betterment of wa—”
Doctor Bliss cut her off with a sharp glare.
“It seems, Mrs. McBride, that you failed to distribute the apples she brought for the men.”
“And which o’ the men would I be giving them to? We’ve only the worst cases sent up from the winter camps, men suffering from abdominal wounds, gangrene, typhus, dysentery, small pox, and measles.”
Doctor Bliss gave his sideburns another stroke. “She also claims you were insolent and threw her out of the ward.”
“I give her me thanks for bringing them, and Tom, me orderly kept one box on the table. But she followed me around, waiting for me pass them out. ’Twas making the patients uncomfortable, her staring at them, asking if they be wanting any apples. She might have at least brought applesauce or compote. If she come to sit with the men and read to them, or write their letters, ’tis fine. But I cleaned house for her sort, and she be the kind o’ woman to give large, anonymous donations to the church that turn out to be not so anonymous.”
Behind his desk, Doctor Bliss momentarily closed his eyes and gave his forehead a rub. Then meeting her gaze he said, “But did you have to shove her out the door? She is the sister-in-law of a congressman. I have enough trouble getting my requisitions filled without now having every order scrutinized.”
“I did not shove her out the door. I be asking her to leave, but she be not the kind of woman to take direction from the likes o’ me. So I be pointing to the door and give her a wee push.”