Wedded to War

by Jocelyn Green

  “What did you say?” All the frustration and anger and disappointment boiled into a foaming rage.

  Fanny threw back her head and cackled with diabolical glee. “Oh, don’t think I don’t know your little part in that sleazy business with the uniforms. I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? Ears too.”

  Phineas crossed the room in two long strides and hovered over her like a thundercloud charged with electricity. “Talk.”

  “I don’t know how you managed to make a little mint from it without your name getting dragged through the mud now with everyone else’s. I don’t know what you did to keep them from coming back for you and pulling you down with ’em. But you made off with a sum, didn’t you? And no one suspects a thing.” She shook her head in reluctant admiration.

  “I should throw you out on the doorstep right now—”

  “Doubt it! You do and I’ll blab to the mayor and all your precious law professor colleagues about the dirty way you padded your income. Now understand, I don’t mind so much, but I think they might. Something about a law professor not doing something that’s strickly, you know, legal. Could be I’d have a mind to tell ’em all about the real Potter Hatch, and I’m just not sure they’d like to know you weren’t completely honest about that rich and fancy blood you pretend like you’ve got runnin’ in your veins.”

  Phineas ran a hand over his goatee and stared at his mother’s smirking face. Technically, what he had done wasn’t illegal. As a longtime patron of Brooks Brothers, he had simply helped them arrange a lucrative business deal—considered beneficial to both parties at the time—and accepted a “commission” on the contract. It was all off the books, of course. He knew how to be careful. But if anyone found out about his role in the matter, the investigation alone would ruin his reputation.

  And my own mother is blackmailing me. Dark spots of rage dotted his vision.

  “See what I mean? You and me, Pottsy, we’re both the same. Shoddy. Only I don’t mind so much. Facts is facts. But you—it’s eatin’ you alive.”

  “Cup of tea?” Ruby rounded the corner with her silver tray.

  “Starving! Pottsy, join me for tea, won’t you?”

  “I regret to decline,” he said through clenched teeth and stormed out the front door.

  New York City

  Sunday, July 28, 1861

  Tiny beads of sweat formed on the back of Ruby’s neck under her straw bonnet as she scanned Broadway up and down for any sign of more returning regiments. Would I even recognize him? Would he recognize me?

  Up until last week, finding Matthew had been the recurrent thought nagging at her like a young puppy nips its owner’s heels. But when news of the battle at Bull Run reached her, an ache had filled her chest until she was sure it had completely replaced her heart. She had no idea if he was dead or alive. More troops had come home yesterday, in defeat, their three-months’ tour of duty complete, but as far as she could tell Matthew was not among them. Where is he? Does he lie bleeding under the sun somewhere? Perhaps he was on his way home to her even now. If he returned to her without a limb, it would mean any construction or labor job would never be his again. She hated that she even thought about that when his body could be already heaped up and forgotten in a dead-house somewhere.

  Ruby wandered in and among the noisy throng listlessly until she came to an abrupt stop on some stranger’s heels. He wheeled around to face her. A chill swept over her body.

  “Aha, good day to you, Ruby.” Her mistress’s son doffed his cap and bowed to her. “Just the little lady I wanted to see. Let’s take a walk, shall we?” He offered his arm, and she hesitantly placed a hand on it, wary of doing anything that might jeopardize her current employment.

  Phineas clapped a large hand over her small one and held it firmly beneath his palm. She walked alongside him, silently, as he steered her through the teeming mass of people. Soon they turned a corner into a side street, and the din of the swarming shoppers on Broadway gradually fell away.

  “Better, yes? Now we can actually hear each other,” he said, still walking. “Let’s just have a little chat now, shall we?” He grinned down at her. “You are looking quite well Ruby, much better than when you first started working for my mother.”

  “I s’pose it’s so, sir.”

  “You’re getting enough to eat? Sleeping well?”

  “Oh aye, sir, perfectly well.”

  “Good. You don’t look nearly so gaunt as you once did. Skin looking healthier, back a little straighter. And this is a new dress, isn’t it? Charming. The green really brings out the color of your eyes.”

  Ruby nodded. It wasn’t fancy like most of the other ladies on Broadway, but it was the nicest calico dress she’d ever owned, no holes anywhere. When she had seen it in the pawnshop, the tiny pink roses on a light green background seemed to nod to her on their dainty stems. She couldn’t help but wonder, when she had bought it, if the previous owner of the dress would be coming back for it later, hoping to buy it back once she’d received her proper pay. But for Ruby, the dress had been a promise, fresh as spring, of a brighter tomorrow. One in which rags were replaced by black dresses and stiff white aprons during the week, and pretty, clean dresses on the weekends. No more hunger. No more being too cold or too hot. For Ruby, the dress was a symbol of hope.

  “Lovely. Listen, I don’t know how much you heard last night when Mother and I were having our—discussion. But it was a private affair, and I can’t have you telling anyone else about it.”

  He tightened his grip on her hand. Still they walked, farther away from Broadway, away from the noise, away from the people. Did he know where they were going?

  “Fine, sir, I didn’t hear a thing anyway, I didn’t.” They had crossed Lafayette Street, and were still walking toward Centre Street. Her eyes widened and her pulse quickened. Soon they would be on the edge of Five Points.

  “See that’s the thing. I’m not sure you’re telling the truth.”

  “Please sir, I’d rather not go any farther if it’s all the same to you.”

  “You told me once that you were a needlewoman, and then I found you serving tea in my mother’s house. You told me you weren’t a prostitute, and yet here you are, on your Sunday afternoon off, walking the streets along with the rest of them. You do see my dilemma now, don’t you, Ruby? I’m afraid I just can’t trust you.”

  “Please sir, I’m a clean and decent woman, sure.”

  He steered her into a dark doorway then, and propelled her up a narrow staircase until he unlocked a room and shoved her inside. “There now. Now we can have some more privacy.”

  Only a bed and chair shared the small space. From beyond the thin walls she could hear the unmistakable sounds of people coupling in other rooms, as if they were in their own homes in the middle of the night and not in a public house a few blocks from New York’s busiest street, while the light of day still shone. On a Sunday.

  “Where—?”

  “My own little room in this fine House of Assignation,” he explained. “Oh well, it’s not very fine after all, but who can tell in the dark?”

  Her skin crawled. She rubbed her hand where he had been gripping it and stepped away from him.

  “The problem is, you’ve become a liability to me, Ruby. What does any good businessman do to protect against liabilities?”

  She shook her head, her mouth suddenly gone dry.

  “He takes out insurance, of course. That’s all I’m going to do, Ruby.” He tossed his hat onto the bed and stepped toward her trembling body. Twirled the ribbon of her bonnet around his finger. “I just need a little insurance.”

  He yanked on the ribbon, untying it in a single jerk, pushed the bonnet off her hair and let it fall with a clap to the floor behind her.

  She looked sideways at the door.

  “Locked. Afraid you’re stuck with me for now, Ruby. But don’t worry, they all tell me I’m really quite good.” His breath smelled slightly of whiskey, but this man was not intoxicated. He was calm, c
alculating. A lock of his jet-black hair curled onto his forehead as he leaned in.

  His hands groped her hair, pulling the pins out until it tumbled loose around her shoulders. Lifting a handful to his nose, he smelled it. “Mmmmm. I’m glad you’ve been using the water closet since coming to my mother’s house. This would be far less pleasant if you still smelled like a dirty immigrant living with the pigs.”

  Trapped like an animal in a cage with its predator, her chest heaved with shallow panting.

  “Trouble breathing?” he said with a smile. “I can fix that too.”

  As he reached for the buttons at her collar, she struggled to knock his hand away, but he caught her wrist and twisted her arm back until needles of pain shot up to her shoulder.

  “Listen Ruby, there’s no use fighting it. I’ve simply got to have my insurance, and you’re the only one who can give it to me. You hit me, I’ll hit you harder. You kick me, I’ll kick you until you walk with a limp and call it an accident. Don’t think I won’t. So just relax, you might even enjoy yourself.”

  “I thought a gentleman was supposed to protect a lady, not beat her!”

  “Quite right. But you’re not a lady, are you?”

  “I am a lady, I am. I’m not a prostitute!” Her voice sounded hoarse, as if the screaming she had been doing in her mind had already taken its toll on her throat. Her heart beat wildly against its cage.

  “You are now. But here’s the nice thing. You and I have an understanding. You keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours. We wouldn’t want Mother finding out her domestic is a prostitute, would we? You’d be out on the street in no time. And if the American Moral Reform Society finds out, why, I’m afraid they simply wouldn’t be able to place you anywhere else, now that you’re—well, reprobate. Whoops, big word, pardon me—hopelessly immoral?”

  One by one, he unfastened the buttons of her bodice, slowly, tauntingly. Her eyes squeezed shut. With each open inch of her blouse, her body became stiffer. She imagined the roses of her dress being crushed beneath Phineas’s feet. Tears flowing out from beneath her lashes and streaming down her face, she concentrated with all her might on the words of a prayer, not at all certain any prayer could be heard in the midst of a cardinal sin.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners. Pray for us sinners. Pray for us sinners. Holy Mary Mother of God, Oh God please no Jesus Mary and Joseph please dear God Mary Mother of God please pray, please pray, dear God don’t cast me away please Holy God don’t leave me here dear God sweet Mary this is not my sin, it’s not my sin, it’s not mine it’s not …

  Chapter Seventeen

  Washington City

  July 31, 1861

  Frederick Law Olmsted puffed on his pipe, the sweet, tangy smoke swirling, dividing, curling above his head in perfect chaos. Much like Bull Run, according to the report in front of him.

  No pattern, no system. Absolute chaos. Disaster, and not just for the army, but for the government’s Medical Department, as well. No commission member had been able to learn of a single ambulance that had carried a wounded soldier from the battlefield. Not one. The military drivers took their orders from the Quartermaster Corps and would not take orders from doctors on the field. Other vehicles, driven by civilians, had whipped their horses and fled the field at the first sound of firing. As a result, the worst cases of wounded soldiers had been simply left to their fate on the field. Some doctors stayed and were captured even as they tended the wounded.

  The stampede of soldiers coming back that had begun July 22 and lasted for another three days had been only the least severely wounded, with a few exceptions. One boy who had his arm amputated on the field walked twenty miles to Washington, only to die of gangrene within a few days of landing at the Union Hotel Hospital. All but five hundred wounded had been left on the field, their wounds undressed, exposed to the elements for days.

  Those who had made it back to Washington City had only six hospitals to receive them, most of them improvised from former uses: an old hotel, a seminary, a college. Olmsted had sent a committee to inspect them on July 29, and had just received the report.

  The Union Hotel Hospital Georgetown, was occupied as its name implies until recently hired for its present use. The building is old … with windows too small and few in number to afford good ventilation. Its halls and passages are narrow, and in many instances with carpets still unremoved from their floors and walls covered with paper. There are no provisions for bathing, the water closets and sinks are insufficient and defective, and there is no dead-house. The wards are many of them over crowded and destitute of arrangements for artificial ventilation. The cellars and area are damp and undrained and much of the wood work is actively decaying.

  The Seminary Hospital, in the immediate vicinity of the last is much better adapted to Hospital purposes, though it also is defective in water closets and baths and many of its wards are small and imperfectly ventilated. The absence of facilities for artificial ventilation will be productive of serious disease.

  Olmsted scanned the next few paragraphs describing the Infirmary, C Street, and The Columbian College Hospital and The Alexandria Hospital, both formerly used for academic purposes, and found the same phrases throughout. Narrow and torturous passages. Poor ventilation. Totally unfit. Overcrowded. No dead-house. Total want of water closets. No running water.

  Olmsted scanned down further to read of the treatment the patients received.

  In the opinion of your Committee the medical and surgical treatment extended to the sick and wounded in the Hospitals is in the main excellent, and the supply of surgeons ample. The medical students supplied for the emergency from New York, as surgical dressers, with a few exceptions, proved very useful to the surgeons and were doing excellent service.

  The female nurses, also, as far as your Committee could ascertain, were of great comfort to the sick. They were tolerated without complaint, and in several instances their services were even highly spoken of by the medical officers in charge. In regard to male nurses, on the contrary, there was much complaint as to their inefficiency and want of aptitude and disposition for their duties. This was especially remarked of the volunteers.

  Well, thought Mr. Olmsted, hurrah for Dr. Blackwell and her female nurses. It was little wonder that the male nurses were complained of. All of them were convalescent soldiers. None of them had an interest in nursing anyway. Many of them tired quickly, and as soon as they began to master the duties required of a nurse, they recovered enough to return to their regiments, leaving a new batch of convalescents to be trained. If I had signed up to be a soldier and found myself spoon-feeding other grown men and emptying their chamber pots instead, I’m sure my disposition would be lacking, too.

  The next few paragraphs were no surprise to Olmsted since hearing the account of Miss Waverly and Mrs. Carlisle: no hospital clothing, and no means to wash the dirty uniforms. The Sanitary Commission had made sure every patient had fresh hospital gowns within three days of the battle, and had employed laundresses to wash the soiled uniforms.

  The services of a barber were also authorized to be procured for the sick, and your Committee can bear witness that he contributed not a little to their cleanliness and comfort. Wire frames for the protection of wounded limbs from the pressure of bedclothes were found to be wanted and they were supplied. Water beds of India rubber; drinking cups with spouts for administering food and medicine; splints, bandages, and lint have also been furnished. Bed tables with writing paper and franked envelopes have also been obtained and it is proposed to add easy chairs, games, and other articles for the comfort and amusement of convalescents, as they seem to be desirable.

  A fifth wheel to the coach, indeed! Olmsted shook his head at Lincoln’s ludicrous label for the Sanitary Commission. The aftermath of the first major battle proved the Commission’s work was absolutely critical for the soldiers. A sense of vindication swelled in his chest. The last paragraph of the report before the list of recommendations, however, deflated him.r />
  … if a larger proportion of our wounded had been consequently brought by ambulances to the Hospitals together with the wounded of the enemy, the Hospital accommodations and supplies would not have been sufficiently ample to have met their wants and the expectations of the nation. We would suggest that Government cannot err in making the most liberal provision for the sick and wounded and in the promptest manner by the accumulation of large stores of bedding and hospital supplies at safe and available localities near the main body of the army. It is a just estimate to assume the necessity of providing for ten percent at least of sick for an army in the field; and this would bring the number nearer 15,000 than 1,500, whilst with hard-fought battles in prospect, and the sickness of the autumn months, the percentage to be provided for will probably be much higher than this estimate.

  Suggestions for improvement followed, as always: New pavilion-style hospitals, fully provided with water for bathing, washing, and water closets, with no more than thirty to sixty patients in a building, and ample space between so as not to poison each other. More trained nurses. A military hospital in the harbor of New York for overflow sick. Fix the problems in the current hospitals …

  Mr. Olmsted signed his name and date to the end of the report, indicating it had been accepted and adopted by the Commission, and hoped it would not fall upon deaf ears. Surgeon General Finley had made no secret of the fact that he despised the Commission for all its criticism and “nosing around.” Cooperation thus impossible, the only leverage the Commission had to move the government toward reform was that of public opinion.

  Well, this should give the public plenty to form an opinion about.