by Kathy Otten
“Come now, Mrs. Mc…Gracie.” He raised himself, his forearms braced on either side of her. He searched her face. “Out with it. I’ve never known you to falter at the line of battle.”
She pressed the tip of her finger to his lips. “Later.”
But he was not deterred. “You come all this way and suddenly want to kiss me? Forgive me if I have cause to question your motives.”
“I…I…happened upon a bit o’ information and… I do miss working with ye. I do.” She pushed herself up to sit upright, her feet firmly on the floor. What right did she have to say anything? What if she’d misconstrued the facts? Who was she to shatter his life?
“Information? Regarding what?”
“’Tis not important.”
“Is it my grandfather? Is he well?”
“Yer grandfather? Aye, as far as I know, he be hale and hearty as ever and no doubt poking at people with his cane.”
“Then what has you so tongue-tied? I have no other family.”
She gulped and glanced at the wet hem of her skirt, the mud on the toes of her shoes, the planks beneath her feet. The weight of the rabbit inside her pocket grew heavier with each thud of her heart against her breast bone.
He leaned toward her and with one long finger beneath her chin, tilted her head up until their gazes met.
“What’s wrong?”
Ducking under his arm as she jumped to her feet, she pushed past him to stand at the foot of his bed.
Her hand slipped between the folds of her skirt, into the large side pocket. For a moment her fingers toyed with the velvety ears as she struggled for words.
Maybe she could show him the rabbit and the note. Not mention Sergeant Baker and his sister. There might be a simple explanation. The toy could have once belonged to another boy.
Turning, she pulled the stuffed animal from her pocket and held it out to him.
He blinked several times before accepting it. “This was in the box from my grandfather. Why did you bring it here?”
“I…” She drew a deep breath. “I do not believe the man to be yer grandfather.” She exhaled the words in a rush of air.
His eyes widened. He stepped back, his face pale. “Excuse me?”
She gulped. “I did not intend to find it. ’Twas the beef tea that upset me, and William dying, and me own regrets. I threw it against the wall. The ear tore, and I saw it.”
He stared at her intently as though trying to solve a complex logic puzzle. “Saw it? Saw what? Come now, Mrs. McBride, you are speaking in riddles. Out with it.”
“The note.”
His brow tugged together forming deep furrows above the bridge of his nose. “What note?”
She pointed to the edges of the hole at the base of the ear.
He glanced down and blinked as though he’d forgotten he held it in his hand.
“Inside.”
He stared the rabbit in the face. With his index finger, he touched the frayed bits of thread where the old line of stitches had torn.
“I sewed this when I was very young. I don’t recall how it tore.”
“Ye may want to sit down, Doctor Ellard.”
He looked from the rabbit to her.
“There be a note inside the ear.” She clasped her hands in front of her, digging her thumb into her palm. “And I fear the words may give ye a bit o’ a shock.”
He shook his head and ran his hand around the back of his neck. Drawing a deep breath, he pulled back the fuzzy ear, revealing the tightly rolled paper shoved almost completely into the sawdust which filled the head.
Pulling it free, he tucked the rabbit under his arm then slowly unrolled the yellowed paper.
He stared at the words Gracie knew by heart.
mY nam is JaSon
CharelZ is ded
I wesh I WaS tO
His complexion drained of all color, wan and ghost-like in the shifting shadows of the tent.
Unsure what to say, Gracie watched him, waiting for a reaction that didn’t seem to come. Instead his features tightened and he rerolled the note.
“I am not amused.” He handed her the note and tossed the rabbit on his cot.
She accepted the paper, but watched him warily, waiting for the implication of the words to sink in.
“I expected better of you, Mrs. McBride, than for you to find humor at the expense of another.”
She shook her head. “’Tis no prank. Are ye the lad who wrote those words? Are ye Jason?”
His shoulders stiffened. His spine went rigid. He stood so still. What was he thinking? His hands moved behind his back. He exhaled a breath.
“Come,” he said moving to pick up her hat and rain poncho. “I will escort you back to…” He turned. “Where did you come from?”
“Potomac Creek. I come with the Sanitary Commission, organizing supplies for the division hospitals.”
“But that’s five miles from here.”
“The corporal borrowed horses for us, but ye sent him away.”
He grabbed his boots and with a hard tug and a few stomps, shoved his feet inside. “Remain here.”
He spun on his heel, snatched up his hat and poncho, and left the tent.
Gracie exhaled a deep breath. She’d expected a stronger reaction from him. Anger, denial, a simple explanation of some kind. He hadn’t said a word, but he’d stared at her as if she’d stabbed him in the back.
His resentment had been so contained, so tightly controlled, she was glad she hadn’t shared Sergeant Baker’s story.
A sick lump swelled inside her stomach. Deciding to wait for him outside, she slipped the rubberized gum blanket over her head and added the battered cavalry officer’s hat. Her gaze fell on the rabbit laying on the mattress, its blank eyes staring at the canvas roof overhead. Should she take the toy with her or leave it here?
She fingered the note inside her pocket for a moment and listened to the murmurs of male voices passing outside the tent. Removing the rolled paper, she inserted it back in the ear and set the rabbit on Doctor Ellard’s pillow. She’d given him the information, whether he pursued it was his decision.
Crossing to the door, it opened before she had a chance to touch it.
A man stepped inside. He wore shoulder straps with the letters M-S, embroidered between his captain’s bars and was maybe as old as Callum had been.
If Gracie’s emotions hadn’t been in such turmoil, the shocked expression on his face would have been comical.
“Can I help you?” he asked, whipping off his hat.
She forced a smile. “I beg yer pardon. I’ll be waiting for Doc—me brother outside.”
“I’m sorry, but who is your brother?”
She gestured toward the empty bed. “Doctor Charles Ellard.”
He nodded. “Good, I was afraid they wouldn’t find a replacement before we marched.”
“’Twas nice to meet ye, Captain.”
“Breen, Roger Breen.”
“And I be Mrs. Gracie McBride, a nurse come down from Washington with the Sanitary Commission.”
“Well, it’s good you had a chance to visit.” Dimples appeared in both cheeks when he grinned. “I just heard. We received our orders. We march tomorrow morning.”
Outside, beyond the open door, Doctor Ellard hopped down from a small horse-drawn cart.
Gracie said goodbye, and the captain stepped aside so she could pass.
Doctor Ellard gave the captain a brisk nod and handed her up onto the narrow bench seat. Wordlessly, he climbed on beside her and gathered the reins.
The cart lurched and bounced its way through the muddy roadway toward Potomac Creek. Gracie clutched the rough wooden bench to keep from tumbling off. She would have held onto Doctor Ellard’s arm, but from the way he’d fixed his gaze straight ahead, with the small muscle at the back of his jaw bunched tight, he radiated an implacable aura.
In the distance loomed the dark oblong shapes of the railcars and the white pyramids of the hospital tents. She glanced at Doctor Ellard, rigid a
nd stoic beside her.
With his gaze fixed on their destination, he said, “You don’t like my grandfather because he is too controlling, but you—You wrap your will within a smile and lilting accent, every bit as obstinate as he.
“You decide you don’t like the attendants in the ward so you put a purgative in their food. You decide you want cake, and you go behind my back to have the sisters bake it. You decide you know best for my patient and demand I move him away from the door.
“You decide you don’t like my family and you come here with that fabricated note and its slanderous implications.
“I made known my affection for you, yet you play hot and cold with my feelings, perhaps choosing to believe as others do, that I have none.
“My grandfather is right. Miss Adelaide Emmerson will make me the perfect wife. You and I would never suit. This war must have addled my wits to believe otherwise. Good day, Mrs. McBride.”
Without giving her a chance to utter a word, not that she could find a single word to utter, he jumped from the cart, handed her down, and drove away, firmly slamming the door on that invisible wall which surrounded him.
Tears burned. Tightness swelled inside her chest as though she’d drawn a deep breath and never released it. She stared after his dark silhouette until it was swallowed by the night. Listening to fading sound of the horse’s hooves sucking through the mud, she prayed the sound would change, gradually grow louder as he returned. But only the low murmur of male voices and footsteps of the guards moving around the supply train filled her ears.
She retreated to her quarters. After removing her hat and rain poncho, she pulled off her muddy shoes and stripped down to her petticoat and chemise. Someone had lit a fire in the stove. While it chased the damp from the tent, it did little to ease the chill deep inside.
Curling up beneath her blankets, she stared at the faint orange glow which flickered behind the grate. An ache grew inside her, hollow and empty, leaving her bereft, as if she’d lost him forever.
The pain hurt worse than it had upon learning of Callum and Michael’s deaths, cut deeper than it had when William passed, because they had not chosen to leave her. They had not deliberately chosen to shut her out of their lives.
A tear ran across the bridge of her nose and down her cheekbone into her hairline where it joined the moisture of the tears which had gone before, dampening the bleached cotton of her pillow case.
Was he right? Was she too controlling? She didn’t mean to be. ‘Faugh a Ballagh’ Clear the Way. The motto of the Irish Brigade. Maybe she had more in common with her brothers than she thought. She only tried to do right by the patients. William had liked her spirit. But William was Irish. Doctor Ellard was not.
He’d never mentioned a sweetheart before. She’d assumed he was unattached and interested in her. Had he only kissed her because she was Irish? A nurse? She never should have stepped inside his quarters. Been alone with him. Maybe her behavior had given him the impression she was a loose woman.
She never should have come. He hadn’t seemed glad to see her at first. He’d been looking at those postcards. Was that the reason he’d kissed her? Had he been hoping for a quick tumble? He was right. She’d only come to fix what she thought needed fixing. The mystery of his past was not her business.
When she finished her work here at Falmouth, she would return to Washington. She’d tamp down her urge to use the skills William had taught her. She’d refrain from arguing with the doctors and remember her place. Clean, change beds, and write letters. Do not stitch wounds or change catheters.
Tomorrow morning, Doctor Ellard’s division would be marching. By tomorrow night he’d be on the other side of the Rappahannock, sleeping in Confederate territory.
Chapter Thirteen
Morning fog rolled across the ground, obscuring the rows of log huts in a misty shroud. Voices murmured indistinct words. Bridles jangled as impatient horses stamped their feet and snorted, the muted sounds carrying through the damp air.
Quiet was the order. With Lee’s army camped across the Rappahannock, Hooker didn’t want to give the Confederate general any warning that the Army of the Potomac was on the move. The Fifth, Eleventh, and Twelfth Corps had left Falmouth on Monday. They were the farthest from the river and from the sight of Confederate pickets.
Now the Second Corps prepared to march.
“You taking that whole rabbit with you?” Captain Breen chuckled.
Charles shot him a puzzled look. “No.” He tossed the toy he’d been holding onto the bed.
“Just wondered, cause most folks only take the foot.”
Charles frowned. “This is a merely a toy. If I had a need for good luck, superstition deems it be the foot from an actual rabbit.”
Breen burst out laughing. He dropped onto the side of his bed, holding his arm across his abdomen, gasping as he tried to catch his breath.
Ignoring his tent mate, Charles resumed packing.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the rabbit since he’d left Gracie last night. Couldn’t stop seeing the words every time he closed his eyes.
My name is Jason. Charles is dead.
He checked and rechecked his surgical knapsack.
My name is Jason.
No. I am Charles. Charles Ellard.
Charles is dead.
He walked to the outskirts of camp to check the field packs for the pack mules then slogged through the mud all the way back to his new quarters.
Life had played a cruel joke on him, and the punch line was less than humorous. His name was Charles. Charles Peter Ellard. Named after his father, Peter Ellard. His grandfather was Former State Senator Foster Harrison.
My name is Jason.
How had that note gotten inside the rabbit? The only memory he could conjure, the one which had his stomach twisted into knots, was of him sewing the ear, taking his time with each tiny stitch, making each one exactly the same length as the one before. He’d gotten the needle and thread from…
Danvers. His grandfather’s butler at the time. He’d silently held the toy up high so the man could see the torn ear.
But how had the note gotten inside? He concentrated, rubbed his temples forcing himself to focus, to dig deep inside his memories for some hint of how the ear had been torn. Pain stabbed through his head. Remnants of his evening meal churned inside his stomach. Nothing appeared but a black void that made his heart pound.
He couldn’t summon a single memory of anything before those moments with Danvers. It was as if his life had begun in that instant, holding Bunzy, staring at the gaping wound between the top of his fuzzy head and the base of his long floppy ear.
My name is Jason.
He winced and rubbed his temple, pressing hard against the pain.
“You feeling all right?”
Breen’s inquiry jerked his thoughts back to the present.
“Fine.”
He wasn’t fine. Why had Gracie shown this to him now? He was heading into battle. He’d have a hard enough time making it through the surgeries and amputations with little food and even less sleep.
Gracie and her damned need to fix things, to make everything better.
****
“Come now, Mrs. McBride you can’t cry over all of them.”
She sniffed but didn’t turn around. “Do not tell me who to cry for.”
“You knew that soldier was dying.”
“I should have been there…to comfort him so he’d not have to die alone in the dark.…if ye cannot concern yerself with the feelings of yer own brethren, then ’tis ye who will one day die alone in the dark.”
****
Breen rolled a pair of woolen socks into a ball. “You probably should have gotten some sleep last night.”
Charles shrugged, trying to shake off both the memories and the looming specter of Fredericksburg.
He squeezed tight his trembling fingers and shoved them behind his back. Calm. As long as he stayed calm, his breathing would be fine. Hi
s heart would be fine.
“Richards should be here soon.” Breen tugged his pack closed. “With the horses and food.” He grinned. “Theirs and ours.”
Breen seemed a likeable fellow, inclined to laugh a great deal. Charles did wonder how battle-hardened the man actually was. Would the blood and death ahead of them sour the man’s ability to find life amusing?
Charles folded his blankets lengthwise and placed a clean shirt and a second pair of socks on top. He wondered if Breen always rattled on like this or if he was nervous.
“Why is it you don’t sound Irish?” Breen asked as he rolled his bedding.
Charles grabbed his knapsack and bedroll and swung around. He hoped Breen was merely nervous. His constant prattle would prove irritating over a prolonged period of time. From the way Charles’ skin already crawled, he didn’t think he could endure Breen’s chatter for much longer.
Breen gathered his gear and stood watching Charles expectantly.
“Your sister’s Irish.”
Sister. Gracie and her ridiculous lie. “I was adopted.” Where the hell had that come from? Bunzy. Between Breen and that damned note, his thoughts were coming and going. Was he adopted? Is that why he remembered lilacs by a back porch? He rubbed his forehead. How would he perform surgery if he couldn’t focus?
“I believe I hear Richards with the horses.” He ducked through the door putting an end to the conversation.
By ten o’clock the first and third divisions of the second corps were on the move. With the medical department at the rear of the column, Breen rode beside Charles, keeping up a steady stream of questions and comments about Gracie.
“She’s a nurse, huh? An admirable quality, volunteering to give aid in that way.”
They headed west, following the north side of the Rappahannock.
“Her husband was a doctor, too? Did she also help him with patients?”
At the back of a line miles long, the muddy roads had become a slippery mess of red clay and Charles’ horse slid and stumbled several times. Behind them followed the ammunition wagons, the mules double teamed to keep the wheels from bogging down. Next came the rations, then the medical supplies and ambulances.
“So your sister’s a widow. How long has it been?”