The Calm and the Strife

by David J. Sloat

  After emptying the pail for the fifth time, Ginnie returned to the well again, but stopped on the far side of the house to see if Catherine had fled with her family. She called in through the side door, “Catherine, are you all right?”

  A moment later, a voice came through the slanted cellarway door. “We’re down here.”

  Ginnie opened the door and peered into the dark cellar. Catherine came to the steps, squinting in the light. “Are you all right?” Ginnie asked again.

  The woman was white and shaken. She held the baby in her arms, and the other children crowded around her for protection. “We’re pretty scared. I bring them down here when there isn’t something we have to do in the house. I’m thinking about taking the children up the hill to the Federal lines until this is all over.”

  Ginnie said, “That might be a good idea. But you’re pretty safe on this side of the house, I think.”

  “Yes,” Catherine said, concern in her voice, “but aren’t you in danger on your side? Can’t they shoot right into the house?”

  Ginnie smiled. “Well, we’re pretty safe. A lot of bullets have hit the house, but the brick is strong. We’re all right.”

  “Do you want to come down here with us?” Catherine asked.

  “No. Thanks anyway,” Ginnie said. “We can’t move my sister yet. If it doesn’t get any worse than this, we’ll be all right.” As she started to leave, Ginnie asked, “Do you need anything?”

  “No, thank you.” Catherine smiled weakly and started to close the cellar-way door, then opened it again and asked, “How’s the baby doing?”

  Ginnie smiled. “He’s fine. Big and strong. He thinks all this noise is normal. Sleeps right through it.” She waved goodbye, filled her pail once more and dragged it to the men lying in her yard. Finally, she returned to the house to do some more baking.

  About ten o’clock in the morning, they were startled by a loud knock and a woman’s voice at the front door. Ginnie cautiously opened the door. She was surprised to see Julia Culp, and even more shocked to see standing behind her a Confederate officer. He had in his hand a staff from which fluttered a white flag.

  Julia said, “Ginnie, I don’t have time to explain but I wish you’d come with me right away. You’ll be all right. They’ve arranged a temporary truce so that we can tend to our wounded.”

  Ginnie didn’t know what to say. She looked at her mother, who had come to see who it was. Mary scowled and shook her head slightly. Julia saw the gesture and took a step forward. “Mrs. Wade, they’re taking over all the vacant houses in town for hospitals, and yours may be one of them.” Ginnie and her mother glanced at each other in alarm. “If they do, one of you ought to be there,” Julia went on, “to protect your belongings, but also to help our wounded boys. The rebels have told us we could care for them, because they’re too busy looking after their own men. If we don’t, some of them will die.” The officer behind her said something impatiently, trying to hurry them up. “I helped all day yesterday,” Julia added urgently. “I was quite safe. But we have to hurry!”

  Mary sighed, shook her head again, and said, “Very well, maybe you ought to go.” She looked at Ginnie, her eyes pleading. “Be careful.”

  Ginnie gathered a bundle of rags and quickly kissed her mother. “I’ll be fine.” She rushed out to join Julia, who stood waiting next to the rebel officer. The three of them walked briskly up Baltimore Street, the little white flag on the officer’s staff fluttering as they moved.

  Ginnie was stunned by the ravages that the town had suffered in the last twenty-four hours. The first thing she noticed as they walked toward the Confederate-held area of town was the smell. For some reason, she hadn’t noticed it as much down by Georgia’s house. It was as if the whole town had turned into a sewer. The air was filled with the odor of badly tended outhouses and the sickly sweet smell of rotten meat. But it was the strength of the smell that suddenly nauseated her; the overpowering weight of the stench was much greater than anything she had ever experienced. At first she thought she was going to be violently ill, but she covered her mouth and nose with a handkerchief and kept going.

  As they walked up Baltimore Street, she began to see some of the sources of the stench. In front of Harvey Sweney’s house, a block north of her sister’s home, a dead horse lay on its side in the middle of Baltimore Street, its upper rear leg propped grotesquely in the air by the bulk of its belly. Its eyes were open and its tongue, draping out of its jaws, licked the dirt. It gave off a rotten air of decaying flesh. Ginnie made a disgusted face and looked away.

  Inside a fence farther up the street lay two dead Federal soldiers, already turning black in the heat. One was still in uniform except for his shoes, while the other lay stripped to his underwear with his infantry kepi lying on his stomach. In his dead hand he held a small American flag, placed there as a joke, no doubt, by some Confederate soldier. She heard the soldiers near the house laugh as they watched her look at the bodies, then turn quickly away. The officer escorting them glared at the men.

  On both sides of the street she could see Confederate soldiers, hiding on porches or behind houses, trying to get out of the line of fire of Union snipers to the south. The troops eyed the women as they passed but, seeing the officer, said nothing. Ginnie felt uncomfortable under their gaze, and tried to keep her eyes averted. But she couldn’t help seeing several men with their trousers down, urinating against the buildings as they watched her pass. Disgusted and embarrassed, she wondered why they didn’t use the outhouses behind the homes along the street. Then it occurred to her that, while the entire town had outhouses for only 2,500 people, there must have been that many soldiers along Baltimore Street alone. No wonder the place stank; the whole town was being turned into one gigantic cesspool.

  As they approached Breckenridge Street, Ginnie was surprised to see a barricade across Baltimore Street. Composed of large rocks, sections of fence, logs and anything else the rebels could find, it was providing a haven for a number of sharpshooters who were lying behind it.

  Julia said, “Could we stop at your house and get some old sheets and clothing to use for dressings? We’re desperate for material to dress wounds with.” Ginnie glanced at Julia uncertainly, then fished in her pocket for the house key. In a minute, they were inside the empty house which, to Ginnie’s relief, was undamaged. Rummaging through closets and chests in the bedrooms, they came up with a large armload of material.

  They continued two blocks north to the new Adams County Courthouse which had been taken over as a hospital. As they walked up on the front porch, Ginnie noticed what seemed to be a crude box, about the size and shape of a coffin, underneath an open front window. Fearing that it contained a dead body, she tried unsuccessfully not to look at it. But out of the corner of her eye, the contents of the box suddenly registered on her mind, and she covered her mouth in horror. Julia put an arm around her, and led her quickly into the courthouse lobby. She said quietly, “You’ll be all right. You get used to it.” The box contained half a dozen amputated arms and legs, tossed out the window into the container following surgery.

  Over a hundred wounded men were already lying in the rooms and hallways of the building. The floors had been covered with straw for the comfort of the sufferers and also to absorb the blood and excrement. The smell was revolting and Ginnie, already nauseated, feared once again that she would be sick.

  Julia said quickly, “You get used to this, too. Breathe through your mouth. Come along. They need you in here.” She led the way to a back room. Ginnie followed, suddenly sorry that she had agreed to come. While the Confederate soldiers in the rest of the building were receiving some medical attention, the Union casualties had been thrown together in a large meeting room where, aside from their guards, they were receiving no attention at all. “The rebels said they can’t spare doctors to help our men,” Julia explained, “but that we could care for them.” She looked around, pointing out the condition of the suffering soldiers to Ginnie in a whisper. “Unle
ss we do something, some of these men are going to die.”

  Ginnie, sickened, dizzy with shock, looked at the hellish chaos and shuddered with revulsion. The room was filled with the prone bodies of suffering soldiers, some propped up against the wall smoking, others lying flat on the bare floor, moaning in pain. Their clothing was filthy and matted with blood, with pieces torn off to expose their wounds. Some of the men were entirely naked, covered only with newspapers. The place was alive with flies and stank of vomit and excrement. In the narrow pathways between the wounded, several volunteers moved among them, cleaning up the mess, spreading new straw, caring for those most in need of attention.

  Julia spoke to one of the Confederate guards. “This is Ginnie Wade. She’s going to help with these soldiers.” Without waiting for a response, she turned to Ginnie and said, “Here, start anywhere with these boys. I’m going to try to find Dr. Horner and tell him that there are some new Union soldiers here since yesterday.”

  As she started to leave, Ginnie looked after her in bewilderment. “But what am I supposed to do?” she asked anxiously.

  “Do what you have to,” Julia called over her shoulder. “They’ll tell you what they need.” As she left the room she said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Ginnie turned and looked at the men, jammed together on the floor. Taking a deep breath, she forced a smile and walked to the man nearest her who was holding onto a bloody wound in his leg. She said simply, “What can I do to help you?”

  For the next half hour, she ran errands, brought buckets of water, bound up wounds, hunted for food, and spoke comforting words to the suffering men who were captives in her town. She was surprised at how quickly she got used to the sight of blood and how adept she became at dealing with various ugly wounds. She discovered that if she looked at the man’s face before she looked at his wound, she could concentrate on his feelings instead of her own. She learned which ones needed only water and reassurance, and which needed constant attention to stop the bleeding or to calm them so they wouldn’t further injure themselves.

  Going back through the courthouse to get more water, she happened to notice a strip from one of her gowns adorning the arm of a rebel soldier. At first she was infuriated – she had expected to use her things for the Federal soldiers. But then, realizing that it was too late to do anything about it, she said to the soldier as she passed him, “That gown looked a lot better on me that it does on you!” The sarcastic tone in her voice made her feel much better. The soldier, baffled, looked at her in silence.

  Realizing that a guard in the back room had scooped up the things she had brought and given them to the rebel doctors, Ginnie looked around in an effort to find the rest of her belongings. She saw a wounded Confederate ripping up a blanket which, only that morning, had been in her hope chest.

  “Give me that!” she shouted, marching up to him.

  He looked at her in surprise. “Who are you?” he inquired casually.

  “This is my blanket,” she said angrily.

  The soldier smiled. “Not any longer, it ain’t, Miss. This here is ‘captured goods’.”

  Ginnie stamped her foot in frustration. The soldier looked up and commented mildly, “If you got a problem, Miss, you’ll have to see my lieutenant.” He laughed to himself. “But then, of course, you’d have a bigger problem, so I wouldn’t advise it. Miss!” he concluded, with forced politeness.

  In the early afternoon, Julia returned. “I left several messages for Dr. Horner,” Julia told her, “but he’s so busy I don’t know when he’ll get here.” They had done everything they could for the moment and, feeling exhausted, sat down by the door for a moment to relax with a cup of cold tea.

  After a while Ginnie asked, “Have you heard from Will?”

  Julia shook her head. “No. The mail’s so slow. I worry about him.” She trailed off into silence, her face masked by the vacant look that Ginnie was beginning to find familiar.

  Ginnie shifted in her seat. “What about Wes?” Julia’s look darkened further and she shook her head. “Is he still in prison, do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Julia confessed. “I think if he were, we’d have heard from him. Sometimes they exchange prisoners. He said in one of his letters that he might be exchanged. But I haven’t heard anything more.” She shook her head. “It sounds funny to say, but I hope he’s still in prison. At least, that way he’s safe.”

  They sat in silence for a while, weary, absorbed in their own thoughts. “Wes was never a happy boy,” Julia said suddenly. “He had impossible dreams, but nothing ever seemed to work out for him. He thought everybody looked down on him because he was small and poor. He was my big brother, but I always felt like I had to take care of him. He was always getting hurt.”

  Ginnie nodded slowly. “And I’m one of the people who hurt him.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Julia said earnestly. “You had to do what you did. I always thought we’d be sisters some day. But the war changed...everything. It’s so hard, having him on the wrong side. Hard for the family, hard for him, hard for everyone.”

  The two women were kept busy by the arrival of more Union wounded, who were carried unceremoniously into the room and dumped on the floor. By 3:30, when Dr. Horner finally showed up, Ginnie began to feel faint from hunger, exhaustion, the effects of her hidden pregnancy, and the eighty-degree heat. When Julia suggested it was time for her to go home, Ginnie agreed readily.

  As she walked through the main rooms, filled with Confederate wounded, a young officer stopped her. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “Home,” she answered, somewhat taken aback by his question.

  “Would you come upstairs with me for a moment,” he asked, his voice somewhat more subdued.

  “Why should I?” she retorted, unwilling to be cowed by this boy in a man’s uniform.

  “Because there are some more of your officers up there. I’d like you to look at them before you leave. Please.”

  “More? Why didn’t you tell us about them before?” But before she finished the question, the lieutenant was halfway up the stairs. She followed him, filled with apprehension. Part way up, she stopped, debating whether to call Julia or not. Deciding that she could talk to her after seeing what was upstairs, she continued.

  He led her into a small room where three men were lying on their backs, side by side on the floor. All three wore the uniform of Federal officers. Horrified by the realization that they had been completely neglected all this time, Ginnie rushed in and knelt by the nearest one. When she spoke to him, she noticed his slack jaw and dull, half-open eyes. She was struck by a cold chill. Looking at the other two, she realized that all three men were dead.

  Jumping to her feet, she confronted the young lieutenant who was standing in the doorway, a leering smile on his face. “They’re all dead,” she said, an accusing tone in her voice.

  “Do tell? Well, that don’t say much for your nursing skills. Does it?” The leer deepened, his eyes glittering with passion.

  Suddenly aware of what was happening, Ginnie started for the door. The man did not move. “Get out of my way!” she commanded. He grinned at her with the expression of a predator playing with its prey. She felt a hot flush of fear. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice quavering.

  Stroking his scanty mustache he said, “Well, everything in this courthouse is a prize of war. So, I guess that includes you.”

  Truly frightened now, she started to push past him but he stopped her. She tried to scream but he grabbed her around the waist with one hand and clamped the other firmly over her mouth. As she struggled, he shifted his left arm around her neck, locking her to him and covering her mouth, while with his right hand he started pawing the front of her dress. Half terrified, half enraged, she wrenched her left hand free and clawed his face as hard as she could, plunging her thumb nail into his eye. He let out a roar, broke his grip and she escaped, screaming for help as she ran down the stairs.

  A
doctor stopped her and tried to calm her down. Julia came running from the back room and embraced her as she sobbed. When she explained what had happened, the doctor detailed a soldier to accompany her home, again under a white truce flag. Without saying goodbye to Julia, she ran out the front door so quickly that the soldier had to jog to keep up with her. As they hurried down Baltimore Street, they heard a distant explosion, then a second, and immediately realized that a new cannonade had begun. Panicked, oblivious of the snipers around her, thinking only of the need to get back to the safety of Georgia’s home, Ginnie ran blindly down the final block without even looking back to see what had become of her escort.

  Forcing herself to remain calm, she entered Georgia’s house and gave only a mumbled description of the day’s horrors. She said nothing of the incident with the officer. Suddenly, they heard the scream of a shell followed immediately by an enormous crash that shook the whole house as though they had been struck by an earthquake. The impact was followed by the sound of falling bricks and splintering wood as debris showered down upon the upper floors, filling the stairwell with a cloud of plaster dust. Ginnie fainted onto the kitchen floor.

  Her mother ran to her side, afraid that she had been struck by some of the debris. Gradually, Ginnie came around, revived by a drink of water. She sat up, dazed, trying to make sense of all the noise around her. Mary was saying something to Georgia about going to the basement, but Georgia and the boys were busy screaming. Mary went toward the kitchen door, but a particularly loud series of explosions nearby sent her running back into the parlor, dragging Ginnie behind her. Resuming their prone positions once again, below the level of the windows, they huddled together, weeping in terror and praying for deliverance.