Ashton looked up at the scout, and the young man continued. "I do not know if they are Yankees or not, but one of them wears a Confederate hat. That means nothing, sir. I do know they were all gathering information on your wife's activities."
"Did either of them speak to her or have any sort of contact?"
The scout shook his head. "No, sir. But she kept on looking out of the window, as if she was expecting someone."
"Damn." Ashton spat. The scout looked alarmed, and Ashton managed to smile at him. "Enjoy your breakfast. You've done well."
At that, the general left the tent. He needed to be alone now, to think, to go over the facts as he now knew them. His wife was in Richmond, and he wondered if it was really to gather information for a hospital.
Or was his wife gathering information for the enemy?
The stench was overwhelming, a sticky-sweet fragrance mingled with the odor of rotting meat.
Margaret held a handkerchief over her mouth and nose, and Lizzie—her face suddenly very pale—did the same. Lizzie's friend Miss Cox didn't seem to notice the scent as she lead them briskly up the marble stairs. A yellow flag billowed overhead, proclaiming this building to be a Confederate hospital.
When they reached the top of the steps, Miss Cox turned to the two young women. "The awful part is that after a while, it doesn't disturb you."
Margaret was about to ask what she meant, for the nurse spoke as if they had been in the middle of a conversation. Then she heard the voices, the moans, some garbled sounds. And Margaret realized Miss Cox meant that she was no longer bothered by the smells and sounds and, she presumed, the sights.
It was cold in Richmond, a chilly breeze whipped the hem of their skirts and hinted at the coming winter. But the breeze did nothing to defuse the sound and musk of suffering.
"Before we enter, I need to tell you a few things," began Miss Cox. She was a lovely young woman, with clear green eyes and dark lashes, unusually white teeth, and a complexion that suggested she spent more time outdoors than was strictly fashionable. Her hair, a chestnut brown, was shiny and simply dressed, pulled back into a knotted braid at the nape of her neck. There was an inner vitality about her, a sense that although her duties as a nurse were taken seriously, she could also be a great deal of fun. Margaret was impressed, and so, apparently, was Jefferson Davis, for he had granted her the commission of major in the Confederacy to allow her the leverage she needed in providing for the wounded soldiers.
"The men inside are all suffering, some more than others," warned Miss Cox. Margaret could tell she was gauging their reactions, anticipating a dramatic swoon or perhaps a delicate fit of vapors. Margaret unconsciously jutted her chin, and Lizzie stood straighter. Miss Cox smiled. "It's easy to be strong out here. Inside, you may not be able to carry on as bravely as you might wish. And I want you both to understand that any reaction you may have is completely natural, but try not to show your distaste to the men. Along with physical ailments, these are young men in a most unnatural setting, certainly not of their choosing. Some were handsome and are now disfigured. One young man was the best dancer at cotillions in Baton Rouge, and now he's lost a leg. Most are away from home for the first time. As a nurse, your duties will be simply to make them as comfortable as possible, to read or just hold their hands if you have the time, to tend to them tenderly when you do not. There are several Yankee patients in there, and you are to treat them no differently than you would Robert E. Lee himself—those young men are even more frightened than the others."
She paused, waiting for her words to sink in. When neither Lizzie nor Margaret made any motions to leave, Miss Cox continued.
"Now, for the time being I am going to ask you two to simply bathe the men's faces with a cloth. You are not ready for anything else, and this will give you an idea of what the hospital is really like. Don't be embarrassed if you wish to vomit, simply go behind a curtain or leave the hospital entirely. Just don't let the men see you. Do you both understand?"
Both nodded. Miss Cox stared at the women, wondering if they would go the way of so many gently bred, well-meaning young ladies who had offered to nurse the wounded. Some were seeking adventure, others were hungry for romance, or at least suitable male companionship. The war had robbed parlors all over the South of men from sixteen to sixty. There were young women who should have been married by now and, instead, could barely recall how to speak to a beau.
Most nurses lasted a half day, just long enough to realize there was nothing romantic about lice and gangrene, just long enough for the more sensible, coherent patients to fully understand why they left so quickly.
But some women did stay. The daintiest of ladies occasionally astonished her with an ability to assist with an amputation one moment and laugh gaily with a recovering soldier the next. Perhaps Lizzie would be able to withstand the rigors, both emotional and physical, of nursing the men. Miss Cox wasn't quite sure of the other woman, Mrs. Johnson. Before meeting her in person, she had merely heard that the general's new wife was a beauty and an accomplished flirt. There were also rumors that she was some sort of spy or courier for the Union, but everyone with a family member in the North was suspected of being a spy, especially if that person happened to be as dazzling in face and form as Mrs. Johnson.
"Excuse me, Miss Cox," began the general's wife. - "Please, call me Mary B.," said Miss Cox with a smile.
"Mary B.?" Margaret's question was forgotten.
Lizzie and Mary B. exchanged glances, as if they had heard the same line of questioning a hundred times. "It stands for my middle name, Barksdale," explained Mary B. "Most women in my family are named Mary, so we all use our middle name initials to differentiate."
Margaret nodded, slightly perplexed. In this day and age, it usually took years of close friendship to call another by a first name, and she had only just met Miss Cox. On the other hand, they would most certainly be working together closely in this crisis, and this was hardly a place where social niceties could be strictly observed.
Southerners during the Civil War, she concluded, were an altogether eccentric breed.
The three women entered the hospital together, a building, Margaret learned, which had once been used as a grain warehouse. There was not enough grain in the entire Confederacy now to warrant the space. There wasn't enough of anything except wounded and diseased soldiers, and those the South had in abundance.
The odor was overwhelming as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Mary B. probably had them stand outside for so long to allow Lizzie and herself the chance to get used to the stench a little at a time.
The inside of the hospital was a sight unlike any Margaret could ever conjure. There were a few dozen cots; the rest of the men were spread on the floor in what appeared to be a haphazard fashion. For a moment it looked as if the floor itself were alive and crawling, but it was merely an optical illusion created by the writhing movements of some of the men.
From the doorway it was difficult to comprehend the men as individuals. One seemed identical to the next, with the sole distinguishing feature being a missing arm or a filthy bandage wrapped about the head. The clothing of all of the men was tattered and soiled, the original color or fabric dulled long ago by the grime of gunpowder and sweat and mud.
There were puddles on the floor; no area that was free of a human body was free of some sort of liquid. A slender, stoop-shouldered old man in what appeared to be a butcher's apron made his way down the aisle to the women, wiping his hands as he walked.
Mary B. greeted him warmly. "Dr. Parish, I have brought you two more nurses."
The doctor squinted at them and nodded. "I do hope, Miss Cox, that these ladies are able to withstand the rigors of this position better than that unfortunate duo you delivered to us last week."
Mary B.'s face remained frozen in a smile as she spoke to the doctor. "Thank you so much for reminding me, Dr. Parish."
At that the doctor raised his head, a scrawny bulb covered with downy white hair, and let out
a raspy laugh. Suddenly Margaret was prepared to like him very much.
"The doctor," said Mary B., "has saved more lives than anyone can count. He's the main reason the men lucky enough to find their way to this hospital are given a fighting chance."
The doctor dismissed her flattery with a grunt. Mary B. made an open-palmed gesture, as if she was about to introduce the new nurses, when he abruptly turned his back and began creeping past them.
"Spare me the introductions, Miss Cox," he muttered. "If they stay any length of time, I'll make their acquaintance. If they leave, well. . ." His voice trailed off as he stopped to bend over a soldier, placing a hand on the young man's arm. He had mentally dismissed them,
"He's a dear, once you pass muster," whispered Mary B. She led them to a small wood shelf with chipped bowls stacked next to some dingy-looking rags and a half-full earthenware jug of water. After pouring some water into two of the bowls and handing them to Lizzie and Margaret, she pointed to the rags.
"Ladies, you are on your own now. I'll be here, of course, but don't call me unless it's an emergency. Bathe their faces, talk to them if they are awake. That is about all you can do today."
With that she left them. Lizzie stared at the bowl, then up at Margaret. "Mag," she said softly, "I'm not sure I can do this."
Margaret felt the exact same way, but refused to voice her fears. "We must, Lizzie." She grasped two rags and passed one to Lizzie. "Just imagine the soldiers are Ashton or Eddie."
"But some of them are Yankees."
"And as Mary B. said, they are even more frightened than the others. Let's not talk about it." Margaret picked up the hem of her skirt and gave Lizzie a wan smile of encouragement. "We have to do something, Lizzie. We must help them—it's only fair."
As Margaret walked away, Lizzie stood frozen for a few moments. Then, slowly, she walked to the other end of the aisle to begin her tour.
Margaret now poured her full attention into the job at hand. She began with the first man in the first row. He was young, perhaps in his late teens, and was lying motionless on a frayed blanket. A battered hat served as his pillow, and Margaret would have thought he was dead, but she saw the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
She bent over him and realized her hoops shot out behind her, right into the face of another patient. Mumbling a few choice words, she tried to adjust herself, but the space was too narrow.
"The hoops will have to go, ma'am." It was the young soldier, a faint grin on his face as he watched her struggle. With his eyes opened he appeared even more youthful, an unlined face with good-natured humor etched on the corners of his mouth.
Margaret returned the smile. "I'm glad," she confided. "I've been dying for an excuse to get rid of the hoops."
"If you don't mind some advice, ma'am, you can just pull the drawstring at your waist, and the hoop will collapse at your feet faster than an old dog on a hot day. I beg your pardon."
With her eyes wide in feigned shock, she placed the bowl and rag on the floor and, with one finger, reached into the waistband of the tartan plaid skirt and released the crinoline. It came to the ground with a whoosh, and the soldier's mouth dropped to his chest. "I didn't mean right here, ma'am!" "Well, never mind. I thank you for the advice." She unceremoniously stepped out of the petticoat and whisked it around the corner, propped against a wall. Now she was able to kneel by the soldier, whose expression of surprise had given way to a hoarse chuckle.
Dipping the rag into the bowl, she gently wrung out the excess water and was about to wash his face. But she halted when she saw the young man's sudden frown.
"Don't you want me to wash your face?"
"Well, ma'am," he answered slowly, biting his lower lip when he paused. "It's not that, exactly."
"Please, tell me what's wrong," Margaret urged.
"It's just that. . . well, begging your pardon, ma'am, but this will be the eighth time today my face has been bathed by some fancy lady. I don't know how much longer my skin will last at this rate."
They stared at each other for a few moments, and suddenly Margaret began to giggle. The soldier, relieved that he hadn't offended her, joined her, never taking his eyes off her extraordinary face.
"As you can probably tell, I'm new at this," she confided.
"I get all the new ones, ma'am, being the first man in the first row and all. Sometimes they leave after me, other times they get as far as Jeb Thompson down yonder."
"Well," Margaret said defiantly, "I intend to stay as long as I'm needed." She put the bowl aside and smiled at the soldier. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
He shrugged weakly. "I could use a little company, if you don't mind. I have four sisters at home, and I sure miss female talk."
"Four sisters? So that's how you knew how to remove a petticoat."
His sudden blush was his only answer, so she changed the topic. "Where are you from?"
"Tullahoma, Tennessee, ma'am," he answered.
Her mind worked to think of something else to say. She thought of asking if he missed his home and decided immediately against such a stupid question. He seemed shy, so she didn't want to ask if he had a sweetheart back home.
"It's muddy there," the soldier said.
"Excuse me?"
"In Tullahoma. It gets real muddy this time of year and in the spring, too. They say Tullahoma is an old Indian word."
"Really?" Margaret shifted slightly. "What does it mean?"
"Well, 'tulla' is Indian for mud. And 'homa' is Indian for 'more mud.'"
It took a few moments for Margaret to realize the joke, and when she did, she looked down to see the young man staring expectantly at her. When she began to laugh, he grinned, pleased with himself.
"Allow me to introduce myself, ma'am. I'm Private Spence Pender, although I don't get much 'private' anything since I've been here." He reached up and she clasped his hand.
"It's wonderful to meet you, Private Spence Pender of Mud, More Mud, Tennessee. I'm Margaret Johnson of, let's see, Petersburg, Virginia,"
The grin faded from his face. "Johnson of Petersburg? Are you any kin to General or Major Johnson?"
Apprehensively, she nodded.
"Why, it's a real honor to meet you. A real honor. My cousin James says Major Johnson is some wizard of an engineer. He designed a bridge in no time flat, and an entire brigade was able to get over it before the Yankees knew what had happened. And the general, well. .."
Margaret said nothing, but her expression must have encouraged him. "The general is something else, ma'am. I'd rather have one General Johnson on our side than a hundred Meades, that's for sure. Did you hear about what happened last week? He fought off a whole swarm of Yankees using one of their own men as a shield! I'm sure you knew that, being kin and all. Are you a cousin?"
"No, well. Actually, I think I am, but primarily I'm his wife."
"Mrs. General Johnson? Blazes! Wait till I tell James that Mrs. General Johnson washed my face!"
"Wait until I tell him," she whispered, "that you told me how to remove my petticoat."
Private Pender blanched until he saw that Margaret was trying to keep from chuckling. "Well, Private," she began. "I don't want to make a liar of you.'*
He gave her a perplexed look, and she placed the damp cloth on his forehead. "Do you suppose your skin can take it?"
The soldier nodded stoically, and for the first time in two weeks, he forgot all about the bullet in his thigh.
CHAPTER 13
After three months of nursing the soldiers, of picking up the hems of her skirts heavy with blood and water, holding hands with wounded boys too young to leave their mothers and men too old to fight, of the constant stench of death and the sight of raw flesh and continuous suffering, Lizzie Giles had to leave Richmond. She knew she was becoming a liability; her increasing discomfort was obvious to all who saw her. It was time for her to go home, back to The Oaks, where she would face nothing more than the usual wartime difficulties and the occasional outbur
sts of her mother bemoaning her broken engagement to General Quarles.
Gone were her dreams of becoming a nurse or of turning The Oaks into a civilian-run hospital. She now understood why Mary B. had insisted that they come to Richmond. It was easy to send one nurse home but nearly impossible to ask wounded soldiers to find a new place to recover. Had she turned The Oaks into a hospital, it would have been an absolute disaster.
"I feel so guilty, leaving you here like this," she confessed to Margaret as she tightened the strap of her trunk. The management of the bustling Spotswood Hotel was delighted at the prospect of a free room. Margaret was staying, doubling up with Mary B., to nurse as long as she was needed.
No one was more surprised than Margaret herself at her ability to comfort the men, at her instinctive knowledge of what to say and, more importantly, what not to say to the patients. Of course she had the advantage of twentieth-century pop psychology. In the back of her mind were all of the articles on post-traumatic stress syndrome, studies that began during World War I on the fragile emotions of men who had been exposed to the horrendous sights and dangers of warfare.
Ashton's Bride Page 18