A Place in Your Heart

by Kathy Otten

  “Ah, Wednesday.” Major Ellis gave his head a resigned shake. “Captain, these surgeons and doctors are your coworkers. Like you, they are here to help these men in any way they can. However, unlike you they cannot memorize pages of medical text at a glance. You must allow for human error and offer understanding and assistance to those of us with lesser minds, not a fist to the jaw. I would have thought you learned your lesson after Fredericksburg.”

  “Sir, I did not hit him.”

  The major sighed and slid his hand through his graying hair. “Semantics.”

  Charles clenched the hand he held behind his back and pressed his lips together.

  He’d heard about the operation, and with nothing else to do, he’d stepped into the surgery tent where Major Balch was performing an amputation at the shoulder joint. Evidently the soldier’s horse had slipped in the mud and fallen on him, resulting in a compound fracture of the humerus that had become gangrenous. Assisting Balch was an older civilian doctor who’d been appointed a commission at the start of the war. Charles had stepped close as Balch asked for the man to compress the subclavian artery.

  Preoccupied cutting the flaps in the skin, Balch hadn’t noticed that the doctor applied his pressure below the clavicle.

  Charles stepped closer. “Compression to the artery above the clavicle would be more effective.”

  The older man’s features twisted into a withering scowl. “I am pressing in the correct place, as proved by the name of the artery. Subclavian.” He frowned and with a shake of his head, he muttered, “Young upstart.”

  Balch made the internal flap, and the axillary artery suddenly jetted an enormous spurt of blood. Major Balch fired off five curse words in succession. Charles elbowed the stammering doctor aside and caught the artery in the flap, controlling the hemorrhage.

  He hadn’t realized until after he and Major Balch had the patient stitched up that the doctor he’d shoved aside had fallen to the floor. The older man hadn’t been hurt, but he’d been livid and stomped off to press charges.

  “I know your grandfather didn’t raise you to be a common street brawler.”

  Charles gave himself a mental shake and tried to focus on what the major was saying. “Excuse me?”

  “I said your grandfather didn’t raise you to start fights. Though judging by the shape of your nose, it looks as if you’ve been in a few.”

  Charles ignored the comment. The man couldn’t have known how many times he’d been beaten up by the boys at school. Instead he focused on the first part of the major’s statement. “You know my grandfather, sir?”

  “Yes, I was a big supporter of Senator Harrison. Enjoyed many wonderful meals at your grandfather’s house. Knew your mother too. Beautiful woman. Such a gentle soul.”

  “My mother?” Charles stepped closer to the table.

  A soft smile spread over the major’s face. “Yes, I courted her for a season. Julia was so lovely and soft-spoken. We were not a good match, though. I think I intimidated her, for she became nervous and shy whenever in my presence. Then she met her young banker, Percy Ellard. Eyes only for him, and your grandfather indulged her. Julia was his only child, and he pandered to her every whim. The girl never had to lift a finger. She wanted Percy, so your grandfather made it happen.”

  “You knew my father too?”

  “Not well. Only met him a few times, so I don’t remember much. He sure didn’t have your mind. Or your height. He may even have been shorter than Julia.”

  Charles had always assumed that since he didn’t resemble his grandfather in appearance, he must take after his father’s side of the family. The thought had always given him a little bit of connection with the man he never knew. Now a twinge of sadness poked at his heart.

  “Nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know.”

  Charles swallowed the urge to beg. Any tidbit of information would give him some glimpse of the man he knew nothing about.

  ****

  “What did my father look like?”

  Grandfather glanced up from the papers spread across his wide desk. “I’m rather busy. Don’t you have some school work to do?”

  “I’ve finished, sir. I only thought if you had a moment or two…”

  The air in the darkened room seemed to shift, the way it did when the wind changed direction before a storm.

  “He was a rather unremarkable man. Plain in his features. Quiet manner.” He leveled a steady gaze at Charles, then leaned over and rummaged through the bottom drawer of his desk. A moment later he straightened and held out his hand. An engraved gold disc lay in his palm. A bit of thin chain hung between his fingers and the object gleamed in the lamplight.

  “Here. Take it.”

  Charles stepped forward and lifted the timepiece from his grandfather’s palm. He turned it over and traced the ivy engraved around the circumference. Popping the clasp, he opened it to discover a miniature of his mother and a watch face with roman numerals. The hands had stopped at four twenty-seven and thirteen seconds.

  “Take it. I’ve no use for it. It doesn’t even work. Now run along. I’m busy.” Ignoring Charles, Grandfather dipped his pen and resumed his work.

  Charles took the watch up to his room and sprawled across the bed to examine every minute detail. He imagined his father’s hands touching it and winding it every morning before he slipped it into his waistcoat and went off to the bank.

  Grandfather had been right. The watch didn’t work, but Charles went to the library and read a couple of books on watch repair. The next evening, he took the timepiece apart, spreading the tiny gears and springs on a handkerchief laid over his desk. With Bunzy observing from the corner opposite the inkwell, Charles painstakingly repaired his father’s watch.

  ****

  He shifted his hand forward beneath his black gum poncho and felt for the steady ticking through his coat.

  “Captain.”

  Charles blinked, refocusing his attention on the present.

  “I received this missive today from Washington.” The major unfolded the letter he held in his hand. “Apparently you recently wrote to headquarters detailing numerous cases of scurvy and requested the troops receive more vegetables in their rations.” He shifted his gaze to the paper in his hand and read, “The troops should not have scurvy. Their rations are plentiful and good. Therefore, scurvy does not exist.”

  “Of all the pigheaded, asinine—”

  “Captain, please curtail your temper.”

  Charles heaved a breath and crushed his hat brim inside his fist. Calm. Stay calm. “I’m sorry, sir. Please forgive my outburst.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Captain. Your sentiments are mine exactly. I only wish you had approached me with this issue before you sent your letter. I’m afraid your reputation in Washington is not the best, especially after the incident in December with the stoves.”

  “Sir, the wounded were lying on the ground with nothing but blankets for warmth.”

  “I agree with you, Captain. Your frustration with regulations is understandable; however, Washington only remembers that you assaulted a superior officer, and I’m afraid that incident has clouded their judgment in regards to your request.”

  Charles opened his mouth to argue, but the major held up his hand.

  “I received word that supplies from the Sanitary Commission have arrived at Aquia Creek Landing. I am certain they have sent along an adequate amount of vegetables and fruit. It is a constant request by all the doctors.

  “I will send my own findings to Washington with regards to the scurvy issue, which will hopefully increase the produce allotted each man’s ration.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And I’m afraid I have other news.”

  The major dropped the letter onto the center of his desk then leaned over to rifle through another pile of papers. He withdrew a second folded sheet of paper and extended it to Charles.

  Reluctantly, he accepted it. His stomach clenched as he read the
words even as Major Ellis repeated them aloud.

  “You are being temporarily reassigned to the First Division. Unfortunately, the rampant illnesses which claimed so many of our boys throughout the winter, take the lives of surgeons as well. They are down two surgeons. Tomorrow, report to Major Triscut of the 61st New York. Pack only your essentials. You may leave your trunk here. Word has it, we will soon be heading across the Rappahannock.”

  Charles swallowed and dug his fingernails deep into the thick wool-felt brim of his hat.

  “And as soon as replacement surgeons can be found, you will be back with us. I am as reluctant to lose you now as I was in December.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Maybe the replacement surgeons would arrive before they received the order to march. He sighed, knowing even if miracles did exist, his oath and skill would compel him to go. If he focused on the wounds, he could do this. He had to. He’d been fine at Antietam. It had been that horrific head wound at Fredericksburg that had triggered one of his spells. He swallowed.

  “Shall I pass along a greeting from you in my next correspondence to my grandfather?”

  “No need. We keep in touch. And he frequently asks news of you.”

  Charles nodded. He should have guessed. His grandfather had many friends in high places. At least Charles could hide in this new unit. And maybe he’d get on better with these doctors. This time he’d keep his medical advice to himself. He’d try anyway.

  “That will be all.”

  Charles turned, put his hat on, and tugging the brim low, he stepped into the rain.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning, after Major Dennis left for the day, Charles began packing. He hadn’t said a word to the man about his transfer. If he hadn’t told Gracie before he’d left for Falmouth, why would he now tell Dennis? The man would likely celebrate when he returned and found Charles gone.

  Wind snapped at the canvas roof, and cold air huffed through the cracks between the roof and the logs. He stuffed in extra socks, rolled a clean shirt inside his blankets, added his shaving and mess kits, his surgical field case, and his bottle of whiskey. It would probably break, but for some reason, he’d rather have that happen than leave it for Major Dennis to drink. He rolled his bedding inside his gum rubber blanket and tied it all together.

  At the last minute, he grabbed his notebook. Maybe he’d be able to record information on the initial condition of the wounds he treated in the battlefield for his paper on Pyemia and Surgical Fevers. He might be the only physician who believed laudable pus might not be the good thing they’d been taught. The why of this puzzle would give him something positive to think about during the lull before battle.

  He grabbed his gear and headed off to search among the endless rows of log huts for the regimental flag of the 61st New York.

  The damp air nipped at his cheeks and nose. Maybe it would rain again. Heavy rain, which would make the roads even muddier than they were now. Then the two-week delay would continue. He could hope, anyway.

  He stopped at the hut with Major Triscut’s name on the placard nailed to the wall. Squaring his shoulders, he knocked.

  “Come.”

  Charles stepped inside and closed the door. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. Major Triscut watched him from behind a stack of papers piled precariously around his desk top which was merely a board between two ammunition crates.

  Charles set down his gear and pulled off his hat, smacking it against his thigh. He’d gotten his wish on his way over and droplets from his hat dotted the floor and the toes of his muddy boots.

  Major Triscut rose and stepped around his desk.

  Charles caught the glimpse of a smile behind the wiry hairs of his long salt and pepper goatee. Major Triscut extended his hand. “Captain Ellard.”

  Charles took a single long step and leaned forward to grasp the offered hand. “Major,” he said as the other man slapped his palm against Charles’ and gave his hand a quick shake.

  “Glad to have you with us. Sadly, we lost Major Church to dysentery and Captain Favor to measles. All this regiment has at the moment are two assistant surgeons. According to the directives Doctor Letterman sent down after Antietam, the regimental hospitals will be combined in the field into one division hospital.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “With these changes the three top surgeons, from all the regiments will be chosen, regardless of rank, to be responsible for surgeries in the field. In the first division, one of those three men will be you. You will also be assigned an assistant surgeon and a third medical officer to organize your patient names and records in the field.”

  Charles could only manage a quick nod as he squeezed his fingers around his hat brim.

  “Now that the sick are being moved to the corps’ hospital at Potomac Creek, there isn’t much to do but ambulance drill.”

  “Yes, sir. If you will direct me to my quarters, I’ll get settled in.”

  “You can bunk with Captain Breen. Captain Brooks will be your assistant surgeon. Did you bring your own servant?”

  “No. My old tent mate had a boy who served both of us.”

  “Perhaps that will also work with the young man who serves Captain Breen. Have you a horse?”

  “I had one until Fredericksburg, but I was sent to Washington for the winter, and I’ve no idea what became of him.”

  “That private of Breen’s is excellent with horses. Mention it to him. I’m sure he’ll find you a nice mount.”

  Maybe it was a good thing Charles had accepted the extra money from his grandfather. At this stage of the war, who knew how much a half-way decent horse would cost.

  “If you’d like to meet the rest of the brigade surgeons, Major DeLong is making a large bucket of hot punch tonight.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I prefer to have an early night.”

  “Good idea. We have our orders. Light march. Two ambulances per brigade and no hospital wagons.”

  “But sir—”

  “Don’t fear, Captain. I gave direction that the pack mules belonging to the medical department should be placed at the disposal of the surgeons and that the men from the ambulance squads follow at the rear of the brigade with their stretchers, buckets, and lanterns.”

  Charles nodded.

  “All right, Captain.” He stepped around Charles and yelled for his aide who appeared seconds later.

  “Martin, show Captain Ellard to Captain Breen’s quarters.”

  “Yes, sir.” The corporal opened the narrow, wooden door of the hut and waited for Charles to pass. “Right this way, sir.” He stepped up beside him and pointed west.

  They walked along streets of cabins that were little more than a cobbled together mix of logs, scrap lumber, and canvas. The quarters for the enlisted men were laid out behind them in the rows of a grid pattern. At the last hut in the row, the corporal stopped.

  “Captain, are you in?”

  A gust of wind snapped the canvas and molded the rubber fabric of Charles rain poncho against his thighs.

  “Captain, I have Major Favor’s replacement with me.”

  When no reply was forthcoming, the corporal opened the door for Charles to enter.

  Like his old quarters, the dwelling had a dug out floor, a fireplace of rock and clay, two cots made from poles and hardtack boxes, and a washstand between the beds.

  The corner of a book poked from beneath the pillow of the cot on the right side and neatly folded shirt and uniform pants had been placed on the trunk at the end of the bed as if returned fresh from the laundry.

  A blanket had been placed on the bare mattress of the other bed. The trunk of the deceased doctor still stood at the end.

  “You can put your gear here.” Corporal Martin gestured toward the empty cot. “Reckon they’ll be sending Captain Favor’s trunk back to Washington soon. Since you don’t have yours, I don’t suppose there’s any big hurry.”

  “Thank you, Corporal.”

  “Reckon Captain
Breen went to the party. If you want to go, it’s three past Major Triscut’s quarters.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Right. I’ll let Captain Breen’s aide know you’re here. He’ll be by to get hold of anything else you need.”

  Once the private had gone, Charles tossed his hat onto the trunk, pulled off his poncho, and hung it from a peg near the front door. With a sigh, he shrugged off his pack and set it on the floor near the trunk. He rolled his shoulders and removed his damp overcoat and uniform jacket, leaving him in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He spotted a boot jack on the other side of the tent. As he pulled off his muddy footwear, he tugged free his neck cloth. He tossed the length of black silk on top of his jacket and set his boots near the door, hoping the aide would be able to clean them before morning.

  He picked up the blanket and set it on another cot. Thinking he’d give the mattress a few shakes to even out the straw before making his bed, he lifted it off the cot. There spread across the wooden bed slats, lay a dozen or so postcards.

  Assuming the previous surgeon had forgotten to mail them, Charles gathered them into a neat pile and dropped the mattress back in place. He turned the cards over.

  A young lady in her chemise and drawers reclined on a chaise, one foot on the floor, her other leg drawn up, bent at the knee.

  Heat seared his cheek bones. The woman’s smooth white calves and narrow ankles drew his eye. He imagined wrapping his fingers around her ankle, his thumb brushing back and forth across the thin skin that covered the medial malleolus. Then he’d slide his hand upward, beneath the ruffled cotton, over the smooth curve of her gastrocnemius muscle to the tender skin at the back of her knee.

  He slipped that card to the back of the pile and lowered himself to the mattress.

  The next photograph presented the side view of a nude woman with one knee bent and resting on the seat of a wing chair. Her forearms lay crossed on the high back as she looked coyly over her shoulder. In the picture, the woman wore her hair up in some sort of loosely gathered knot, but all Charles saw was a long braid of red hair which followed the line of her spine down to the dip just below her waist. Would Gracie’s skin be such a smooth ivory? Or would freckles sprinkle across her shoulders the way they dusted her nose and cheekbones?