One of the doctors said, “Must be ruined in the head. Physically he’s healing, but his mind is gone. May as well put him in Ward K.”
Ward K, where Burke currently lay, was the ward for men who did nothing but stare at the walls. Like zombies, they ate and moved, but they never spoke. None of the doctors knew what to do for these men. Usually, one by one, they were eventually sent back to their homes, most of them to live the rest of their lives in attics or a spare bedroom, kept out of sight—buried, though not in the ground.
“Poor man!” One of the women who came to visit at the hospital stopped in at Ward K and looked down at Burke. Pity was in her eyes as she reached down and touched his pale, still face.
Her voice shaking with unshed tears for all she had seen, she whispered what many had thought but had not allowed themselves to say: “It would have been a mercy if he’d died. Anything is better than this!”
PART TWO
The Patient and the Nurse
CHAPTER 9
GRACE COMES TO WASHINGTON
From the time Burke fell on the battlefield, he knew nothing, which perhaps was a blessing!
The process of transporting sick and wounded men from the field of Manassas to the hospitals in Washington was as much a torture as anything that had ever taken place in the dungeon of a medieval castle. Wounded soldiers generally reached the haven only after a long delirium of agony and neglect. Most bore the gashes of canister or grape, the rent of shell splinters, or the neat hole that marked the entrance of the shattering minié ball. Frequently soldiers underwent crude amputations at the front, where field surgeons ruthlessly lopped off arms and legs, which they tossed into piles that sometimes rose man-high about the bloody operation tables.
Hungry, thirsty, and untended, the wounded at last reached a place where they were fed and washed and cared for. But the trip to Washington by road was a nightmare! While ambulances were meant to be a humane innovation, the frail two-wheeled vehicles used to transport injured soldiers tended to crack at the first strain, and their rocking motion was unbearable to suffering men. The cumbersome four-wheeled ambulances, which required four horses to pull them, were more comfortable, but for men with fresh amputations, with faces shot away, or with lead in breast or belly, being jostled, bumped, and jolted over rutted Virginia roads was excruciating.
The journey by rail was shorter, but men were closely packed on the floors, either on straw or on bare boards. Or, if they were on the flatcars, they were exposed to the blazing sun or to wind and rain.
Some of the wounded were transported by ship, but there were no lights, no figures at the rails, no stir of notice or greeting when they arrived. The injured men lay on the decks, in cabins and the saloons, or even on the stairs and gangway. Men screamed or moaned as they were unloaded, and the ghost ship then moved on to make way for another similarly loaded vessel.
By the autumn of 1862, Washington had been transformed into the vast base hospital of the Army of the Potomac. Clusters of white buildings and tents had changed the aspect of the city and its surrounding hills. Practically every construction job marked a huge new hospital. The rectangular pavilions of the new Judiciary Square Hospital replaced the old E Street Infirmary. Stanton Hospital was another modern institution, and opposite it, on Minnesota Row, the former mansions of Douglas, Breckinridge, and Rice now constituted Douglas Hospital. Lincoln and Emory hospitals were being constructed on the plain to the east of the Capitol. Near the Smithsonian, beside the open sewer of the canal, lay the clean parallel sheds of the great Armory Square Hospital. On the distant heights, long one-story buildings, lavishly whitewashed and encircled by huts and tents, seemed to bloom like monstrous flowers in the soft Washington light.
On Independence Day of that year, the church bells had not been rung because of the suffering men who lay below them. The seizure of the churches had begun in June, and soon congregations of Union sympathizers were vying with one another in an effort to offer their buildings to the War Department. Carpets, cushions, and hymnbooks were packed away. Carpenters covered the pews with scantling, laid floors on top, and stowed pulpits and other furniture underneath. Wagonloads of furniture, drugs, and utensils were delivered, and the flag of the Union was run up as wardmasters, nurses, orderlies, cooks, and stewards arrived. Soon ambulances were stopping at the church doors, followed, last of all, by the surgeons with their knives and saws and dirty little sponges.
In the patent office, thousands of beds were installed, and at night, like some new exhibit of ghastliness, waxy faces lay in rows between the shining glass cabinets filled with curiosities, foreign presents, and models of inventions. The nurses’ heels clicked on the marble floor, and over all lay the heavy smell of putrefaction and death.
A stranger wandering about the city at this time might think he could find his way by using the low, pale masses of hospitals as landmarks—but many hospitals could only be recognized upon closer inspection. Sick and wounded men lay in hotels and warehouses, in schools and seminaries, in private houses, and in the lodges of fraternal orders.
Yet when the wounded from Pope’s campaign began to arrive, it was discovered all too quickly that there still was not room enough to accommodate the injured. At last the Capitol itself was temporarily requisitioned, and two thousand cots were placed in the halls of the House and Senate, in the corridors, and in the Rotunda.
Sad to say, even after the wounded reached the army hospitals, they still were miserable. The unsuitability of churches and public buildings as hospitals was evident, but renovated barracks were even worse. In addition to filthy grounds, they were dark and badly ventilated, and the administration of the hospitals left much to be desired; corrupt cooks and stewards, inexperienced nurses, and careless and incompetent surgeons were all too common.
It was into this setting of misery, pain, and death that Grace Swenson was plunged as she stepped off her train holding a small suitcase and filled with both determination and trepidation. She stood there in the center of the rushing masses of people, jostled by a host of soldiers and civilians, confused and uncertain. Making her way to the ticket counter, she asked the round-faced agent, “Please, can thee tell me how to get to the hospital?”
“Which one?”
“Why—any of them, I suppose,” Grace answered. “I’ve come to help nurse the soldiers.”
The agent peered at her intently, then scratched his balding dome. “Well, you’d better go to the War Department, I reckon. They’ll put you right, miss.” He motioned vaguely toward the large double doors to his left. “Get a carriage outside them doors and tell the driver to take you to the War Department.”
“Thank you.”
Grace followed his instructions, finding a number of cabs vying for her business. “Goin’ downtown, missus?” a tall, rawboned cabbie asked, maneuvering his competitors deftly aside.
“I need to go to the War Department.”
“Ah, step right in, missus! Have you there in two shakes of a duck’s tail!”
Grace settled herself in the carriage, and as the cab rattled over the cobblestone streets, she stared at the city of Washington. The main thoroughfare of the city was four miles long and 160 feet wide. The Capitol, with its unfinished dome topped by a huge crane and encircled by scaffolding, blocked the straight line of Pennsylvania Avenue, which led eastward from the expanding Treasury Building and the Executive Mansion, as the White House was called.
Within minutes, a terrible odor hit her like a blow, and she finally asked the driver, “What’s that awful smell?”
“Oh, that’s the canal, missus.” He shrugged. Glancing at the huge ditch that paralleled the road, she saw that it was a fetid bayou filled with floating dead cats and all kinds of putridity. It literally reeked with pestilential odors that nearly gagged Grace! We do better than this in Pennsylvania, she thought grimly.
Finally the driver pulled the taxi to a stop and nodded toward a huge building to his right. “That’s the War Department, missus.�
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Grace descended and paid her fare, then turned and walked toward the building. Stepping inside, she found it swarming with officers of all grades. She timidly asked for the medical department, and after being sent to several wrong offices, she finally found a short major with a kindly face who listened carefully to her story.
“It’s Miss Dix you’ll want to see, miss.”
“Miss Dix?”
“Yes, ma’am. Miss Dorothea L. Dix, to be exact.” A humorous light touched the man’s gray eyes, and he added quickly, “And I’d be certain to stress the word Miss if I were you. She’s a maiden lady and doesn’t like to be taken for a married woman.”
“I’ll be careful, Major,” Grace answered. “But who is she exactly?”
“Her title is ‘Superintendent of Women Nurses,’” he answered, leaning back in his chair. “She’s rather famous in her home state of Massachusetts for her public work. She’s devoted her life to aiding paupers, prisoners, and lunatics. Been able to do a lot about the terrible conditions in almshouses and jails and insane asylums. Last June she was appointed to take over the women who are coming to nurse the wounded. And she’s done a fine job, too! Let me have my corporal take you to her. Her office isn’t in this building.”
He called a lanky corporal, instructed him to take Grace to Miss Dix’s office, then wished her luck. “Thank you, Major.” Grace smiled. “Thee has been very kind.”
“I wish you luck, Miss Swenson, but I doubt you’ll be working for Miss Dix.”
Grace was startled. “But—why not?”
The major hesitated, then said, “Well, to be frank, you’re just too attractive.” Seeing her blink of surprise, he explained, “Miss Dix considers all persons under thirty disqualified for nursing. A friend of mine who works in her department said that an applicant must be plain almost to repulsion in dress. I think Miss Dix doesn’t want attractive women because they might cause trouble with the men.”
Grace was too surprised to answer for a moment, then took heart. “I’ll still see her, Major. Thank thee for the warning.”
She left the building, and the corporal took her to a smaller edifice where a private informed her that Miss Dix’s offices were on the second floor. Climbing the stairs, she entered the office with the sign outside that read Miss DOROTHEA L. Dix, SUPERINTENDENT.
Stepping inside, she found an older woman sitting at a desk writing in a ledger. “I’d like to see Miss Dix, please,” Grace said.
The woman looked up and studied her. “May I ask the nature of your business?”
“I’ve come to help nurse the soldiers.”
The woman stared at her, then shrugged. “I’ll see if Miss Dix has time to see you.” She rose and disappeared into the inner office. When she came out, she said curtly, “You may go in.”
“Thank you.”
When Grace was inside, she closed the door and walked across the room to stand in front of the desk where a woman looked up at her. “What is your name?” she asked at once.
“Grace Swenson, Miss Dix.”
Miss Dix put down her pen and stood to her feet. She was a small woman with a knot of hair that seemed too heavy for the gentle head set on a long neck. Her mouth and her chin were firm, and her blue-gray eyes were sharp. “I understand you want to join the nursing staff.”
“Yes, Miss Dix.”
“Why?”
The abrupt monosyllable took Grace off guard. She stared at the smaller woman and tried to explain. “I—I believe the Lord has told me to do this work,” she finally said simply.
A curious light appeared in the eyes of Miss Dix. “What church do you attend?” she asked.
“I am a Friend.”
“A Quaker?”
“Yes, people call us that.”
Miss Dix seemed interested. She examined Grace more carefully, then said, “I don’t accept young handsome women in my service, Miss Swenson. It’s too distracting for the men.”
Grace was prepared for this, for she had been thinking how she might answer it. “I may be young, Miss Dix, but I’m not considered handsome. I have sisters who are very attractive, so I know that I’m quite plain.”
Miss Dix cocked her head to one side, caught by Grace’s words. She was favorably impressed by the young woman but was careful not to let that show in her expression. “Just as well that you think so,” she said quietly. She fell silent, then said, “Sit down, Miss Swenson.” When they were both seated, she said, “Tell me about yourself.”
Grace spoke quickly, giving Miss Dix her background. When she was finished, the older woman asked directly, “Why aren’t you married?”
“I—was asked only once, Miss Dix. It didn’t work out.” She looked directly in the superintendent’s eyes, adding, “I don’t think I shall ever marry.”
Miss Dix nodded, considering her words.
Though Dorothea Dix was sixty years old, there was something formidable in this fragile and consecrated woman. In a time when men were unaccustomed to having their work interfered with by women, she had come sweeping through the wards like an avenging angel and was soon detested by the medical profession. Under the pressure of her multifarious and unsystematized duties, she grew overwrought, lost her self-control, and involved herself in quarrels. Though she often was in the right, she too rarely showed the graces of tolerance and tact, which won her many opponents and few supporters.
Despite all this, she had brought cleanliness and order to the wards, which had too long been chaotic and filthy. She would stay at her post without a leave of absence throughout the entire war—small and frail but as unmovable as the Rock of Gibraltar!
“Miss Swenson,” she finally said slowly. “I need nurses badly—but I screen applicants very strictly. And I may as well say that my first impulse is to refuse you.”
“Oh, Miss Dix!” Grace spoke up quickly, anxiety in her eyes. “Please—give me a chance! I’m strong and willing to work. I nursed my father for years, and I know that God wants me to do this.”
As the young woman spoke, Miss Dix listened carefully. In her determination to do everything herself, she had eventually buried herself in a maze of details—which was wearing her down terribly. Her authority was ill defined and conflicted with that of the surgeons, most of whom didn’t approve of her or her female nurses. She feared that putting this young woman to work—who was attractive, despite her modesty!—could create problems in her department.
Grace, aware of Miss Dix’s hesitation, finally said, “Miss Dix, I’d like to be as effective as I can, and serving under thee would be best. But if thee doesn’t want me, I’ll find someplace else to serve. Even if it’s for only one man in a private home.”
Miss Dix quickly made her decision. “Miss Swenson, I’m going to admit you to my staff on a trial basis. If you would like to come for two weeks, we’ll see how it works out. At the end of that time, I’ll make a final decision. That’s the best I can do at this time.”
“Oh, I thank thee, Miss Dix!” A radiant glow touched Grace’s cheeks, and she smiled shyly. “I’ll do my very best for thee and for the patients.”
“I’m sure you will, Miss Swenson.” Miss Dix rose and came to offer her hand. “Now I’m going to put you under our sternest supervisor, Miss Agnes Dalton.” A slight smile came to her lips, and she added, “You may not last the full two weeks. Miss Dalton is a hard worker and very demanding of the nurses who serve under her. Where do you live?”
“I don’t have a place, Miss Dix. I just got off the train and came straight here.”
“You may have trouble finding a place. The city is packed.”
“God will help me.”
“I trust He will. Be at the Armory Square Hospital at seven in the morning. I’ll introduce you to Miss Dalton.”
“I’ll be there, Miss Dix!”
Grace left the building happy, feeling as though a burden had lifted. She was going to be a nurse! As she walked along the paths, she thanked God for His provision, then turned her thoug
hts to finding a place to stay.
This proved to be more of a problem than she had expected, for Miss Dix had been right. Washington was packed with soldiers, government clerks, families of wounded men. Grace trudged from one rooming house to another, finding nothing.
Finally it was a cabdriver who proved to be her salvation. He was an older man, in his late sixties with white hair and arthritic fingers—but his blue eyes were sharp, and after he had taken her to three boardinghouses, he spoke up. “Miss, it’s a bad time to be looking for a room.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Grace looked at him suddenly, asking, “Does thee know anyplace where I might stay?”
“Well now, I know of a place. But it’s not very fine.”
“Oh, I’m not looking for a fine place!”
“Ah? Well now, I know of a widow woman named Mrs. Johnson. She lost her husband at Bull Run. Has two children and is havin’ a hard time of it. If you’d think of sharing a room with the daughter—?”
“Oh yes, that would be fine! Could we go there now?”
“Yes, miss. My name is Ryan Callihan. And what might you be called?”
“I’m Grace Swenson, and I’ve just come from Pennsylvania to be a nurse.”
By the time Callihan had pulled up in front of a tiny frame house on the outskirts of Washington, he’d gotten most of Grace’s story. Stepping down, he tied the horses, then said, “Come along, and we’ll see.”
Mrs. Ida Johnson was a large woman of forty. She had dark red hair and still bore traces of an earlier beauty, but sadness had marked her. “Why, I don’t know, Miss Swenson,” she said slowly after the cabdriver had told her their mission. “I could use the money, but I’ve never had a boarder.”
“I need a place very badly, Mrs. Johnson,” Grace said quickly. “I don’t think I’d be here much. I suspect I’ll be working long hours. And I’d be willing to pay whatever thee might ask.”
Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga) Page 43