A Place in Your Heart

by Kathy Otten

  Dennis swung around, curling into himself, protecting the letter from Charles’ grasping fingers as he read aloud.

  “Adelaide Mary Ann Emmerson.” His laughter could likely be heard three tents over. “Oh ho, a senator’s daughter. And her brother has a seat in the House. Impressive.”

  “Major Dennis, you are an officer and a gentleman. That is a private correspondence.”

  The major laughed. “Whoa, hold up there. You’re going to be married by proxy? Is that still legal?”

  Charles made another ineffective grab for the letter. Of course it wasn’t legal, and his grandfather damn well knew it. In his usual officious manner, the old man threatened this proxy marriage to remind Charles that he needed to marry and had better set his sights on a suitable wife like Miss Adelaide and not an Irish immigrant not too long off the boat. Another burst of laughter erupted from the man.

  “My God, Charles Ellard, married.”

  Charles snatched back the letter. “I am not married.”

  Dennis threw himself onto his cot, still chuckling to himself. “Ol’ Grandpa plans to marry you off.” Laughter rose again from deep inside the man’s diaphragm. “And you didn’t know anything about it? Have you even a clue what she looks like?”

  Charles ripped the letter into tiny pieces.

  “You don’t, do you?” More laughter. “She could be fifty years old and as big as a cow!”

  Calm, Charles reminded himself and tossed the bits of paper into the coals. He clenched his hand around the stick they used as a poker and pushed the bits of paper closer to the reddest embers.

  He needed a drink. Ignoring the chuckles from the other cot, Charles dug through his trunk until his fingers brushed the neck of his bottle of Old Crow.

  He popped the cork and downed a bracing swallow, not caring if Major Dennis knew he had the forbidden whiskey.

  “Is that purely for medicinal purposes, or are you going to share?”

  Charles glared at his tent mate and reluctantly passed over the bottle.

  Dennis reached out and wrapped his fingers around the neck. “You really don’t care about rules, do you?” He tipped the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow. “Wow, this is too good for medicinal whiskey.”

  “Then don’t drink it.” Charles snatched the bottle from Dennis, downed another swallow, and returned it to his trunk.

  “You’re an arrogant ass,” the major snapped. “I hope you and Adelaide What’s-Her-Name are very happy together.”

  The fingers of Charles’ right hand curled into a fist, tingling to draw back and slam into the major’s jaw. Regardless of what everyone believed, Charles did care about rules and procedures. Rules created control amidst chaos. They were vital to both the army and the medical profession. They were vital to him.

  In the beginning he loved the organization, the discipline, the challenge of using his skills to make a difference. Now army life and war had become meaningless and futile, like treading water—accomplishing nothing except to keep himself from drowning.

  He returned to the broken pitcher and stacked all the smaller pieces inside the concaved portion of the largest wedge.

  It wasn’t as if he were passing whiskey out to the men. Doctors were allowed to use whiskey in the hospital for medicinal purposes. He wasn’t a drunk, and he’d never once taken a sip when he was on duty. He only needed it to keep calm, to keep his temper under control. He’d already been demoted to captain for assaulting that colonel at Aquia Creek. He didn’t need any more trouble.

  He threw his gum blanket over his head, adjusted his hat, and gathered the broken pitcher. He stepped into the pouring rain and carried the pieces to the trash barrel.

  How long before Dennis gossiped and his fictitious marriage became part of the whispers that stopped as he entered a tent? How long before he walked past a group of men and heard the snickers in response to a new joke about Doctor Ellard?

  No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t seem to fit in. Army life had become school all over again.

  Would things have been better if he’d been part of a family, learned to engage in lighthearted banter with his siblings instead of relying on joke books filled with anecdotes that apparently weren’t funny? Would he have learned to wrestle for fun with brothers instead learning to box so the other boys stopped beating him up every day? And maybe having sisters would have shown him how to talk to women so he didn’t end up feeling like an inept fool around Gracie McBride.

  Leaving the trash bin behind, he headed to the hospital. Organization, discipline, rules. Control amidst the chaos. His long-legged stride ate up the distance as his boot heels sank into the soft clay where there were no corduroy walkways.

  Last week, the President and his family had arrived for a review of the troops. Now the medical department had orders to move the regiment hospitals into one division hospital below Potomac Creek, near the railroad line to Aquia Creek Landing.

  As he reached the regimental hospital tent, he stopped on the log walk and stomped off his boots. The afternoon clouds deepened the early evening shadows between the tents.

  He glanced down as he had countless times to be sure he’d knocked loose the mud which had oozed over the toes of his boots. What had been red dust the day before, was now, after a day of light showers, red…blood?

  Thick, dark red, nearly black as it spread across the cobbles.

  His breath caught as his pulse pounded wildly in his ears. His vision narrowed. Darkness loomed in his periphery.

  “Captain, are you all right?”

  Charles blinked. His heart slowed its wild rhythm. The hospital tent came into focus as did the face of the orderly in front of him. He recognized the man’s face but had no idea of the man’s name, nor why the corporal stared at him as though expecting a reply.

  Unsure how to respond he searched for a nonspecific answer. “Thinking,” he said.

  The orderly frowned then saluted and entered the tent.

  Charles drew a deep breath and released it slowly. He swallowed. Gradually the rigidity eased from his spine, and his shoulders slumped.

  The thought of changing dressings and checking wounds sent a chill straight through his bones. Maybe he’d help with some packing at the storehouse, then go back to his quarters and write another letter to Gracie.

  He missed that gleam in her eyes when she raised her chin and challenged him. He longed for the warmth of her mouth against his, the strength of her fingers as they dug through the wool of his coat to press into the muscles of his back.

  Two orderlies snapped to attention as he entered the supply hut. Boxes and crates surrounded them in piles.

  “At ease. What are you men doing?”

  The pair exchanged glances then the older of the two corporals stepped forward. “We’re loading all these stuffs into those wagons out back. They’re going up to the corps hospitals at Potomac Creek. Then we got to restock the division medicine wagons for light march. Two for each division and pack the rest of supplies going with the regiment in the medicine chests for the pack horses.”

  Charles nodded. “Be sure there are no personal items packed in these wagons which belong to non medical officers.”

  The orderlies exchanged another quick glance. The corporal spoke again. “Major Balch done told us that. Said only to pack what was on the list.”

  The pair stared at him, their mouths gaping.

  He ignored them and picked up a box of morphine.

  “Sir, are you helping us?”

  “Yes. I will personally check the bottles of medicines going into our division’s wagons.”

  “Yes, sir.” He passed Charles several sheets of paper. “Here’s the list what was give to us, for what goes in the Autenrieth medicine wagons.”

  “Thank you, Corporal.” Carefully, he went through the capital operating case, two amputating knives, bone saw, artery and bone forceps, retractors, ligature silk, suture wire. Next, he did the same for the minor operating case as well as hi
s own field case.

  “And sir, we’re still waitin’ on the supplies due from the Sanitary Commission.”

  “I see. Well until they arrive, carry on. Where are the other officers responsible for accuracy and appropriate paperwork? Are you men responsible for this alone?”

  The corporal shrugged. “Can’t say, sir, but I hear tell there’s a party in Major Balch’s tent. They’re drinking brandy and eating oysters and sardines on crackers.”

  Charles stared. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a party, sir, cause we’re marching in the morning.”

  A party? Evidently the need for celebratory cakes wasn’t exclusive to Gracie McBride. Maybe it was for the best that he’d been excluded. He’d likely say something he’d regret.

  “With this downpour, I doubt a fifty-mile train of men, horses, artillery, and wagons will march far in roads little more than sloppy wet clay.”

  Locating a seat on an empty hardtack box, he reviewed the list the division surgeon-in-chief had given the corporal. The muscles of Charles’ forehead tugged together. He withdrew a pencil from his pocket to adjust the quantities and add additional items based on his recollection of the supply lists from Antietam and Fredericksburg. Thirty pounds of candles. No, fifty pounds of candles. Twenty-eight, no, forty-eight pounds of ether, and nine, make that ten pounds of Dover’s powder. An ache throbbed behind his eyes, and he took a moment to rub his hand across his forehead before resuming his amended list. Two hundred blankets, one hundred dozen bandages, fifty yards adhesive plaster…

  A couple of hours later, he checked through the Autenreith medicine wagons and replaced any missing surgical instruments.

  Twelve surgeon’s needles, one mallet, twelve yards suture wire, one artery needle, one chisel, one chain saw.

  Though it was late when he returned to his tent, Major Dennis was still absent. Charles shook off his wet garments, grateful for the fire that chased away the chill. Their young aide must have assumed they’d be returning and lit the fire before heading for his own bed. Charles pulled a twig from the bundle of fagots, lit the end, then used it to light the candle which stood in its own wax in the center of the hardtack box they used as a table.

  He pulled off his muddy boots and stripped down to his shirt and drawers. Thankfully, the pitcher he bought from the quartermaster had been sent to his tent and filled with fresh water. After a quick wash, he climbed into bed. Using his haversack as his lap desk, he withdrew paper, pen, and ink. He should write to his grandfather, but he was still too furious with the old man.

  He opened the ink, filled his pen, and set the bottle on the hardtack box between the beds. He wanted to write to Gracie but had no idea what to include in the letter. She’d yet to respond to his last missive. Perhaps she was so busy she thought of him only in passing. Perhaps he thought about her more than she thought about him.

  He reached behind him to adjust his pillow. The thin straw mattress crunched beneath his shifting weight. Mail was notoriously slow, he reminded himself. Until he knew for certain that she wasn’t receptive to further communication, she might find news of the President’s review of the army exciting. Except Charles hadn’t gone. After all, what was there to see among a hundred and thirty thousand men?

  Women enjoyed talk of fashion, but he had no idea what sort of dress Mrs. Lincoln wore or even what kind of pony their little boy rode.

  Weather was generally considered an appropriate topic for conversation with a lady, and it had rained today. Rather a lot lately. However, the weather patterns here no doubt encompassed Washington, which was only fifty miles away. Most likely, Gracie was also being rained upon.

  She might find it interesting that he and the rest of the medical department had been busy moving the division hospitals to Potomac Creek near the railroad line. However, by the time she received his letter, she would have more than likely received at Armory Square, many of the sick and disabled of the division.

  He pressed the tip of his pen against the blank sheet of paper. So what should he write? That the regimental surgeon and the whole medical department hated him? That he was lonely? That he was terrified he’d suffer another of his spells? The one at Fredericksburg had nearly caused his heart to stop. What would he do if it happened again? Perhaps he should try harder to focus on other things.

  Monday past, thirteen thousand cavalry had moved out, off on some sort of mission. Would she worry if he wrote that now they were all under orders to pack their haversacks with eight days’ rations and leave out their clothes?

  No, it would be best not to include maudlin sentiments. After all she was mere woman. Talk of impeding battle might tax her emotions. He would keep the tone of his missive bright and happy.

  ****

  Dear Mrs. McBride,

  “A physican, having written out a prescription, enjoined his patient to swallow the whole of it in the morning. The patient understood him literally, swallowed the written prescription, and got well.”

  I understand some people might find the patient’s literal interpretation of the physician’s less than specific instruction to be humorous. That the patient also became well, subsequently made the need for the actual medication moot.

  I hope you found the brief anecdote to be amusing.

  Surg. Chas. P. Ellard, Captain

  69th Pennsylvania

  ****

  A smile tugged at the corners of Gracie’s mouth. While the joke was mildly amusing, it was the endearing awkwardness of his explanation and his strange need to share it with her that warmed her heart.

  Was the telling of these jokes his inept way of trying to charm her? He had kissed her, but she’d spurned his advances. Unless he changed his thinking, to allow more than friendship between them would only lead him on. What she’d had with William had been rare. Despite how much she respected Doctor Ellard, they would never have a relationship like the one she’d shared with William.

  She gave her head a shake then refolded the letter and tucked it carefully into one of the inside pockets of her carpet bag.

  Lately though, no matter how many times she reiterated to herself that it was William she longed for, there was no denying she still listened for the stride of Doctor Ellard’s boot heels on the ward floor. She missed his direct, clinical manner as he dictated his patient notes and the way he looked directly into her eyes.

  My name is Jason.

  Her smile faded.

  She wished she’d never found the note. Now this puzzle would nag at her until she knew the truth of it. Was it even any of her concern? No. What right did she have to become involved in any of this? None.

  She slipped on her coat. Her gaze fell on the hat box atop her trunk. Yet, in her mind’s eye all she saw was the rabbit. The rabbit and the note.

  But didn’t Charles at least deserve to have the information so he could decide whether or not to pursue its truth?

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she flipped up the clasps, lifted the lid, and withdrew the toy. She studied the silent face as though by concentrating long enough she could elicit some sort of explanation from the rabbit. The ear tipped, but the rolled note kept it upright.

  Maybe it was that simple. A bubble of laughter escaped her lips. The note was merely a random scrap of paper, rolled tight by a clever boy or his mother, and placed inside to support the ear and prevent the stitches from tearing free.

  But the relief she should have felt for solving the puzzle didn’t come. Instead, all she could think about were the desolate words—Charles is dead. I wish I was too. What an obscure sentiment to be recorded on a random scrap of paper to then be found and used to fix a toy.

  How could any mother have read such a note and not been moved to act? No, the rabbit must have been repaired by the child. This unknown Jason had neatly printed the note and hidden his secret inside the rabbit. But why?

  Neatly. Had Charles ever written neatly?

  Maybe he hadn’t been the boy who’d penned the words. The rabbit wa
s a hand-me-down, and Charles had no idea the note was there.

  This whole puzzle had given her a headache. She glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice. She’d think about this later. Right now, she needed to get to the Sanitary Commission supply office, number 244 F Street.

  When she got to Falmouth she’d simply ask Doctor Ellard. While her plan seemed straightforward enough, she had no idea what to say or how to say it, because what if it was true?

  What right did she have to bring this chaos into his life? But what if it was all her imagination? Likely his explanation would be as simple as a children’s game of secret codes and spies. It made more sense than her wild theory of a boy stolen from his parents by a childless couple.

  When she returned from Falmouth the new dormitory would be finished. Rain had delayed the construction as well as her trip, but after two days of pleasant weather, the pounding and sawing had resumed in earnest. Tucking the rabbit inside her carpet bag, she gave her tiny room a last goodbye.

  ****

  Charles lowered his hand and knocked on the rough log wall of the quarters for Major Ellis, the surgeon in charge of the II Corps.

  “Come in.”

  Lifting the latch, Charles pushed open the door and stepped down onto the dugout floor of the log and canvas hut. He removed his hat and waited, his black rain poncho dripping onto the dirt floor.

  An older man of short stature, the major gestured for Charles to sit on the small camp stool that had been placed in front of a crooked table stacked with papers and ledgers.

  He eyed the spindly legs of the stool with skepticism. Not that he was particularly heavy, but the stool looked more suitable for a child than someone with his long legs and arms.

  “Thank you, sir, I’ll stand.”

  “Very well.” The major rose and reached for a piece of paper, tri-folded into an oblong shape.

  A heaviness swelled behind Charles’ sternum as an ache rose up through the back of his throat. In his experience pieces of official paper meant either disciplinary action or a transfer.

  Suspecting the first, his brain shoved aside the growing sense of dread and quickly organized the events of that day. “Sir, if this is about what happened on Wednesday—”