Читать книгу An Unlikely Union - Shannon Farrington - Страница 10
ОглавлениеChapter One
Baltimore, Maryland
1863
Emily Elizabeth Davis stood in the dark, narrow corridor between the hospital wards and prayed for strength. Weary as she was, she wanted to remain strong for the sake of her friend and fellow nurse, Sally Hastings. The poor woman had given way to tears. Emily couldn’t blame her. She was near tears herself.
For days now the wounded soldiers had been arriving, thousands of them, train after train, crammed in like cattle. They were dying of thirst, of infection and despair. When word reached Baltimore that General Lee’s forces had met the Army of the Potomac in the farm fields of Pennsylvania, the entire city held its breath. Would Maryland soon behold her sons in liberating glory or by the horrors of the casualty lists? For a state divided between Federal and Confederate sympathies, it turned out to be both.
Emily and the other nurses had anticipated the soldiers’ arrival, but it didn’t make caring for them any less painful.
“I thought I could do this,” Sally cried, “but I don’t think I can.”
This was not the first time the pair had nursed wounded men. Following the battle of Antietam, one year earlier, they had gone down to the office of the U.S. Christian Commission and volunteered. They were subsequently placed in the West’s Buildings, a cotton warehouse on Pratt Street that had been converted to a U.S. Army General Hospital. Emily and Sally had cared for scores of bleeding men, Confederate and Federal alike, but this time the task was more difficult. The men they presently nursed were their own schoolmates and neighbors.
The members of the Maryland Guard, once so dashing in their butternut uniforms, now occupied these bleak, crowded rooms. Although Baltimore was their home, the Confederate men were held by armed guards, deemed prisoners of war.
Sally wept upon her shoulder. “First Stephen...now this...”
Sally’s brother, Captain Stephen Hastings, had been listed as missing in the great battle at Gettysburg, and, only moments ago, the man she hoped to one day marry had lost his left arm.
“Oh, Em, I am absolutely wicked.”
“No, you are not,” Emily said gently. “Why ever would you say such a thing?”
“When the stewards returned Edward to his bed, all I could think of was, ‘He will never waltz with me again.’”
Emily blinked back tears of her own, sympathizing with her friend’s pain. Edward Stanton had danced the farewell waltz with Sally at the last ball before the Pratt Street Riot, the day Federal soldiers had come to Baltimore and opened fire on innocent civilians. It was the first bloodshed of the war. Outraged at the soldiers’ attack, Edward, and many others, had headed south to enlist right away.
The days of silk dresses and white-gloved escorts had given way to months of broken bodies and bloodstained petticoats. Mirth and merriment surrendered to weariness and worry.
“Try not to fret,” Emily said. “Edward will dance with you again.”
At least she prayed that would be the case. It was only one of the numerous petitions she had whispered during her time at the hospital. As a believer and a volunteer nurse, Emily desperately longed to bring comfort to those she came in contact with. She wanted to be a light in this dark, battle-weary world.
“Remember, God is the great physician. He can—”
The door to the opposite ward pushed open, hitting the wall with a forceful thud. Evan Mackay, a newly arrived Federal doctor from Pennsylvania, glared at them.
“Rebels!” he said, angrily spitting the word. “Shouldn’t you women be tending to them?”
The man was as tall as Abraham Lincoln himself, with shoulders as broad as a ditchdigger’s. Although he spoke with a Scottish accent, which Emily thought was a dialect straight out of poetry, she was severely disappointed. Evidently not all Scotsmen were as noble or heroic as the men Robert Burns had written about. She couldn’t imagine Dr. Mackay had ever even stopped to look at a red, red rose much less compare his love for his sweetheart to one.
I seriously doubt the man even knows the meaning of the word love.
Of all the physicians in this hospital, he displayed the most hostile attitude; he had an open disdain for the Confederate men. Emily felt it her duty as a Southerner to protect the wounded from Dr. Mackay’s wrath.
She felt it her duty to protect Sally now.
“We were just returning,” she said politely. “Were we not, Nurse Hastings?”
Sally quickly wiped her eyes, her back now ramrod-straight as though she herself were a member of the Federal army. “Yes, indeed.”
Dr. Mackay crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “Aye,” he said slowly. “Then do so directly.”
“Yes, Doctor,” the women said in unison.
The army physician moved by them and into the next room. Emily caught Sally’s eye as the tornado blew past. Both were tempted to make a remark concerning the rude bluecoat, but they did not indulge in the luxury.
The Confederate prisoners needed care.
* * *
Flickering oil lamps hung from the rafters as Evan stepped into the remaining ward. There were six buildings in this former cotton warehouse, 425 beds. Most of them were crammed with rebels. His mouth soured just thinking of it. Evan knew firsthand that the field hospitals in Gettysburg were bursting at the seams with brave boys in blue that deserved beds. Boys like Andrew.
He sighed. Yet even if there was room, I wouldn’t bring our men here, not to this city. It is one full of barbarians trying to pass themselves off as loyal members of the Union.
His collar grew tight and his head warm. The reaction wasn’t caused by the stifling July heat. It was the memory of his younger brother and the brief time he had endured in Baltimore. Evan had heard the story from Andrew’s comrades, the men of the Twenty-Sixth and Twenty-Seventh Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry, “The Washington Brigade.”
“They simply surrounded us!”
“They cut us off from the rest of the regiment!”
“They were ready to tear us to shreds!”
Rioters and murderers, every last one of them, Evan thought. And now I must put them back together. The army could have kept me in Pennsylvania. They could have let me tend to our men. They need every surgeon available.
But Providence had not allowed him to remain in Gettysburg, and Evan had his suspicions why.
I am doing penance for my actions, in the worst possible way.
He cast a glance in the direction of one particular rebel, a major. He was a Maryland man. Evan had seen what remained of his butternut uniform when he’d first arrived. The Johnny’s left arm had just been amputated because a vile infection had set in. Evan had performed the surgery. He had done his best to save the reb’s life. His duty to God and his Hippocratic oath to do no harm compelled such. But he took no pride in the task. After discharge from the hospital, rebels like this one would be sent to prison, but upon parole many would return to their regiments only to fire upon U.S. soldiers again.
At least this one won’t be picking up a musket, he told himself.
The major was still with fever and under the effects of the ether so he continued through the ward. Those prisoners who asked for water or voiced other requests he left to the nurses. That was their job. Most of them were rebel women anyway. Why his superiors permitted their presence in a U.S. Army hospital was beyond his comprehension. They had each signed oaths of loyalty, but it was rumored that several had altered the document. Finding certain lines disagreeable, they had supposedly crossed them out.
If loyalty to the government of the United States of America, to its Constitution, is so abhorrent, they have no business nursing prisoners of war. If Evan had his way, he would have all secessionist nurses tossed out to the street and the rebel wounded held in prison until the end of the war.
They deserved it after what they had done to his brother.
* * *
Emily drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to ignore the odors of blood, ether and rotting fish from the nearby docks. This massive warehouse had little means of ventilation, and the air grew more pungent by the day.
Sally had returned to her own section of the hospital. Emily now prepared to step into hers. She smoothed out her pinner apron. Though it pained her, she smiled. It would do the men no good to see a downcast face. They needed hope. They needed cheer.
Lord, help me to be a light. Help me to show Your love.
She had no intention of fostering romantic feelings among the soldiers, but a pretty smile and a little lilac water did wonders in the wards. Some men had been removed from sisters, mothers and sweethearts for so long that they had forgotten the fairer points of civilized society. Emily wanted to remind them there was more to life than this war. Whenever she wasn’t assisting doctors or changing soiled bandages, she tried to do so.
She had written countless letters on behalf of men too sick to do so for themselves. She recited Bible verses and poetry. She also spent a great deal of time fanning the suffering, an effort to break the sweltering midsummer heat.
Emily’s friend Julia Ward was doing so now. She was seated at her brother’s bedside. Edward still slept heavily from his surgery. Looking at him, Emily sighed. He was once the most confident, dashing man of her neighborhood and had captured ladies’ hearts with ease. Injury, illness and two years of war, however, had ravaged his chiseled face and muscular frame. Emily wondered just what Edward would think when he woke to find his left arm was no more.
Each man reacted differently to the devastating reality of amputation. Some cried out for their missing limbs; others simply turned in silence toward the wall. Whichever Edward’s reaction, she hoped he would realize that his family and friends still cared for him. Emily moved closer to his bed. Julia looked up. Fatigue lined her eyes.
“Has there been any change?” Emily asked.
“No.”
She could hear the discouragement in her friend’s voice. Emily tried to reassure her. “Sometimes it takes quite a while for the ether to wear off.”
“He isn’t any cooler. At least not yet.”
Emily felt Edward’s forehead for herself. “It is still early.”
“Would you bring me a basin and some cool water?” Julia asked. “I’ll sponge his face and neck.”
“That would be very helpful, but be careful not to overdo.”
“I won’t.”
Edward’s sister had faithfully attended him since his arrival yet she was not a nurse. Emily knew exactly why Julia had not volunteered. Although her sacque bodice and gored skirts concealed any evidence from the average passerby, Emily and her closest friends knew the truth. Julia was expecting a child.
“Em?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“When Edward begins to stir...will he be sick to his stomach...or have strange visions? I have heard that some men do.”
“Not necessarily, but we should keep watch. The best thing you can do for now is stay beside him. Alert me the moment he begins to wake.”
Commotion at the far end of the ward caught Emily’s attention. Dr. Mackay was barking orders to two of the Federal stewards.
“I told you to deliver him to surgery! Do so immediately!”
She swallowed back the lump in her throat and watched as the young men in blue scrambled to obey. The man in question had severe shrapnel wounds to his leg.
“Tell the surgeon to cut the leg now or he’ll have another dead man on his hands!”
Emily gasped. The poor man about to undergo the procedure was so delirious with wound fever that he knew not what was about to happen, but everyone else in the room did. Their faces went pale. Even the stewards cringed at the doctor’s harsh tone.
Forcing herself to continue, she found Julia a sponge and basin, then moved on. A soldier several beds down from Edward asked for a drink. Emily brought him a cupful of the freshest water she could find. His face immediately brightened.
“Bless you, Miss Emily.”
“God bless you, Jimmy.”
He drank his fill, then leaned back upon his pillow. Dark curls flopped about his forehead. “Is the surgeon really gonna take Freddy’s leg?” he asked.
Freddy was Jimmy’s comrade and unfortunately the subject of Dr. Mackay’s recent tirade. Emily hoped her tone sounded encouraging despite the news.
“I am afraid so, Jimmy, but it is what is best for him, in order to save his life.”
His chin quivered ever so slightly. Emily didn’t know how old he was exactly, but he looked barely beyond boyhood.
“Me and Freddy come up together,” he said. “All the way from Saint Mary’s City.”
Emily recognized the name of the southern Maryland town; she had once visited the place when her father, a lawyer, had business there.
“Is that where your family is from?” she asked as she straightened his bed coverings.
“Yes’um. Freddy’s, too.” His thoughts then shifted. “Reckon they will send us both to that new prison camp they’ve made? The one at Point Lookout?”
She would not allow herself to dwell on what would happen after these men were discharged from the hospital. More than likely, they would be sent to one of two Federal prison camps, either Fort Delaware or the one Jimmy had mentioned at the mouth of the Potomac River.
“I don’t know where they will send you,” she said honestly. “But I hope that your stay there will be short.”
“Well, if I gotta go to prison, I hope it’s Point Lookout. At least then I’ll be closer to home.”
She smoothed back his dark curls as a mother would do, tucking a small child in for the night. The gesture had a dual purpose, comfort for him and evaluation of potential fever. Thankfully, Jimmy’s forehead was cool.
“It would do you well right now to try and dream of home,” she said.
“Yes’um. I reckon it would. But before you go...would you mind prayin’ for Freddy? I know you bein’ a lady and a volunteer from the Christian Commission...Well, would you please?”
She was touched by his request and the concern for his friend which was so evident in his eyes. “I would be honored to do so.”
He reached for her hand. Had they been conversing at dinner or a society ball, the gesture would be entirely too forward. Yet here in the hospital, Emily often cast society’s rules aside for the sake of grace and compassion. She clasped his hand and prayed for Freddy. She prayed for Jimmy as well. When she had finished, she whispered, “Try not to fret. God already has looked after your friend, for Dr. Turner is now the surgeon on duty. He’s a kind and capable man.”
His face brightened somewhat. “Thank you, Miss Emily. That’s right good to hear. Some docs are better than others ’round here.”
She knew which doctor he was referring to, and although she probably should have defended Dr. Mackay’s skills, she let the opportunity pass. She stood, pleased that the worry in Jimmy’s eyes had faded.
“Rest well,” she said to him.
He smiled and turned to his side. Emily straightened his coverings once more, then turned, as well, only to crash directly into the chest of the angry Scotsman.
* * *
Words were quick to shape in his mind, but Evan held his tongue as his blue wool collided with her Southern-grown, Baltimore-milled cotton. The woman came no higher than his breastbone. After staring seemingly transfixed at his brass buttons, she dared to raise her eyes. Her cheeks were pink with embarrassment.
He stared down at her.
What is she waiting for? An apology? Did the little Southern miss expect him to play the part of a gentleman and beg her forgiveness for the improper contact? She’d get no such courtesy from him. Why should she? She’d had no trouble holding hands with a rebel just moments ago.
Perhaps it is her close proximity to a Yankee that fills her with such shame.
Evan wasn’t a gambling man, but if he were, he’d lay money down that she was one of the nurses who’d altered her oath of loyalty.
“Haven’t you duties to attend to?” he asked.
“Yes, Dr. Mackay.”
“Then see to them.” He pointed to the water buckets on the table in the corner. “Fill them with fresh water, then scrub the floor. It is a nesting ground for disease!” Lucky for her, she did not need to be told twice. She scurried away, skirt and petticoats swishing.
Incompetent little socialite, he thought. Little Miss Baltimore. She’s probably never worn anything less than silk before now.
“You shouldn’t treat her that way.”
Evan turned in the direction of the weak yet determined voice. Boyish curls framed a scowling pair of eyes.
Aye. Her love-struck suitor. “Were you speaking to me?”
The rebel pushed up on his elbows, trying to marshal what was left of his Southern pride. “I am, sir, and I will kindly ask you not to speak that way to her. She is the finest nurse here. And, I might add, she’s been here longer than you.”
Evan turned his back, stepping away. He cared not how many months of service the woman had.
“You could learn a lesson from her,” the boy called. “A little compassion would do you no harm!”
Evan’s ire rose. His fists clenched at his side, but he didn’t give the boy the satisfaction of knowing the words had affected him. You didn’t show any compassion when your mob surrounded my brother, he thought. When they bashed him with paving stones!
He told himself the Maryland rebel wasn’t worth his time, and he moved on. There were wounds to probe and minié balls still to extract. As he made his way through the rows of iron cots, he cast a glance in Little Miss Baltimore’s direction. The water had been replenished. She was currently on her hands and knees, scrubbing the vile floor.
Another experience I doubt she’s had the pleasure of until now, he thought. We shall see how well she handles it.
* * *
As Emily raked the scrub brush across the filthy floor she dealt with Dr. Mackay’s temper the only way she knew how. She prayed for him. Actually, she prayed more for herself than for the man.
Oh Lord, please give me grace. I can’t work alongside him without it.
Dealing with the Federal army’s disdainful attitude toward Confederate men was nothing new, but most of the guards, doctors and hospital commanding officers were professional enough to keep their words to themselves or at least voice their condemnation outside the wards.
Some even took pity on the wounded souls and showed them kindness. Jeremiah Wainwright, a young steward who Emily knew to be a Christian, was such a man. Dr. Jacob Turner was another. He was a good-natured New Englander who treated the Confederates not as prisoners or scientific studies, but as men.
Just yesterday Emily had been called to his section, to assist as he probed a North Carolina man’s back for shrapnel. The poor soldier had leaned upon her, trying not to flinch while Dr. Turner carefully extracted the metal.
“Do I hurt you?” the old man had asked considerately.
“Not too terribly,” the soldier had said.
Emily had known by the tightness of his muscles that the Carolina man wasn’t exactly telling the truth, but because of Dr. Turner’s gentle demeanor and a story of snapping New England lobsters, he’d been able to endure the painful procedure without crying out or fainting.
If only Dr. Mackay could be more like that, she thought. A little kindness would go a long way to promote healing and to foster interest in eternal matters.
Though a few ragtag Bibles lay at the bedsides of the men, Emily knew many in this hospital were starved for spiritual comfort. In the past year, she had held the hands of the dying, both Confederate and Federal alike. She had sat with those who’d lost their dearest friends on the battlefield, who then asked, “Where is God in all this terrible suffering?”
She gave them the only answer she could. “Right here grieving with you.”
The will of God made no sense at times to Emily. Why He had allowed war to come instead of an end to slavery, then a peaceful compromise of ideals, was unknown to her.
She dared to glance at Dr. Mackay. How long the hostilities continue will, I suppose, depend on men like him. The intimidating physician was now standing at Edward’s bed, perusing his wounds with a look of cold indifference. Julia sat her post, pale and frightened. Emily hurried to finish her scrubbing so she might join her friend. In her delicate condition the last thing Julia needed was to hear that man’s sharp, condemning tongue.
The dinner bell rang, calling all officers to the dining hall. Emily breathed a sigh of relief when Dr. Mackay exited the room. She put away her brush and bucket and went to her friend.
“What a horrible man,” Julia whispered. “There is no compassion in him. He looked at Edward as if he were nothing more than a stray dog.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Emily touched Edward’s forehead gently. The fever was going down. “He is much cooler.”
“Oh, thank the Lord.”
Within a matter of moments the rest of their friends appeared: Sally and the Martin sisters, Trudy and Elizabeth, and Rebekah Van der Geld, the only one of them who staunchly supported the Federal army’s occupation of Baltimore. Each had come to inquire of Edward. As they clustered around his bed, Emily couldn’t help but remember with fondness the times the six of them had met for knitting and needlework in each other’s homes.
Such happy times.
But the joyful emotions of the past were tempered by today’s reality. The girls had not gathered to decide which dress pattern from Godey’s Lady’s Book would attract a handsome beau’s attention, nor were they there to knit socks for their glorious, invincible army.
We are here to tend to one of its wounded, she thought sadly.
Try as she might, Emily’s eyes kept drifting to the place where Edward’s left arm should be. Apparently Sally was having the same difficulty. Her eyes were watering.
“He stirred slightly,” Julia told them. “When that doctor was standing over him.”
“That is good,” Emily said. “Soon he will wake.”
Sally drew in a quick breath and lifted her chin. “We should pray for him and then go about our business. It won’t fare him well to have us all hovering over him when he wakes.”
Emily agreed. They should give Edward his privacy. She couldn’t help but also think, And if Dr. Mackay returns from his meal to find us clustered about instead of busy with some task, he will surely spew his venom upon us all. That won’t be good for Julia or her child.
Trudy, Elizabeth and Rebekah all nodded in agreement. Rebekah offered to begin the prayer. The women clasped hands. One by one they prayed for Edward’s recovery and for the rest of the wounded men of this hospital. When no Federal soldier was close enough to overhear, Elizabeth and Trudy each whispered a plea for their brother, George, also a member of the Maryland Guard. As far as everyone knew, he had survived the Pennsylvania battle and returned safely to Virginia. Sally then prayed for Stephen; his whereabouts were still unknown.
“Try to keep faith,” Trudy said, hugging her after they had finished. “God knows exactly where Stephen is.”
“I know. I take comfort in that.”
Before they could go their separate ways, Jeremiah Wainwright approached. “Ladies,” he said, “forgive me for intruding, but I’ve just come from the dining hall. They are presently serving the nurses. If you don’t go quickly, there won’t be anything left for you to eat.”
They all knew he was speaking truth. They had each learned the hard way to eat when called or go hungry.
“Thank you, Jeremiah,” Emily said. “We appreciate the warning.”
He smiled and tipped his blue kepi. “You are quite welcome. And don’t worry, I’ll keep track of your charges, especially the major here.”
She believed he would, and so Emily turned to Julia.
“Come with us. Have a bite to eat.”
She shook her head, unwilling to leave her brother’s side. “I’ll stay. Samuel will arrive shortly and I want to be here when Edward wakes.”
Her husband, Samuel, joined her each day after his work as a teacher at the Rolland Park men’s seminary was complete. Her parents came in the early evening, as well. Julia’s father, Dr. Thomas Stanton, worked in the private hospital across town. He was busy caring for his own load of wounded, most of them Federal soldiers from wealthy families or those with high political connections.
“I understand. Shall I fetch you something?”
“No. Thank you. I am not hungry.”
Emily gave her hand a squeeze. Then she followed her fellow nurses to the dining hall.
* * *
His food wasn’t sitting well. Evan wondered if it was the stewed blackberries, which had obviously been picked too early, or the sight of the carts and laborers moving along Pratt Street. He stared out the window.
The army supply wagons and the countless crates stamped U.S. Christian Commission bore witness to the activities of today, but all Evan could think about was a day two years ago last April. His brother, Andrew, was newly trained and eager for action. He was unaware that such would come by way of a bloodthirsty mob while he and his regiment were en route to Washington.
Andrew had been one of the first to answer President Lincoln’s call for volunteers. He’d wanted to preserve the Union. When he and his fellow soldiers had tried to pass through Baltimore, the local citizens made it quite apparent which side they had chosen. As Andrew and the others had marched toward the Washington trains, a crowd had surrounded them. They were soon pelted with rocks, bottles and paving stones.
The Northern men had exercised restraint, but when the citizens had grabbed for their guns, the soldiers did what anyone would have done. They’d defended themselves. When the smoke had cleared, several boys in blue were dead, along with eleven rebels. The Baltimoreans had then had the audacity to claim the shots fired were unprovoked.
Just thinking of what had taken place made Evan’s fists clench. He knew he should leave the window, spend his remaining moments of the dining break in some other place, but try as he might, he could not pull his eyes from the street. Where exactly had Andrew fallen?
His eyes scanned the street before him. Traffic pulsed. City life moved at a steady pace. Men in scrap shirts with slouch hats set low on their foreheads lugged sacks of grain to and from the nearby wharf.
Were any of them present that day? Were any of them part of that murderous mob?
He bit down hard, teeth against teeth. The only emotion stronger than the anger he felt toward rebels was the emptiness in his heart.
If only I had been there. I could have saved him. I would have recognized the signs that the pressure was building in his brain. I could have drained the blood. He didn’t have to die.
And then his thoughts turned to another. Mary...
The memory of her face, her pleading words, burned through his mind. Just as he’d never forgive those thugs for Andrew’s death, he would never forgive himself for leaving his wife behind.
* * *
By the time Emily returned to the ward, Edward had opened his eyes. Her initial joy was tempered by the quiet pain she heard in Julia’s voice.
“I promise you, Edward. It will be all right.”
He turned from her sharply, setting his face toward the wall. The bandaged knob at the end of his shoulder stood out like a regimental flag.
A lump wedged in the back of Emily’s throat, but she moved toward him. She bent to his level, her skirts folding to the floor.
“Edward,” she said softly. “It is me, Emily.”
His blue eyes, once so gallant and full of life, were now vacant, almost spiritless. He blinked but did not acknowledge her presence.
“Are you in any pain?”
He blinked again. Emily’s heart was breaking. She knew Julia’s was, as well. She dared not look to her grief-stricken face. Emily knew if she did, she herself would break down. I have to remain strong. I am here to give comfort, not to be in need of it myself.
Carefully, methodically, she felt his forehead. He was much cooler. Thank You, Lord.
“Here,” Emily said to him. “Let me fetch you something to drink. I am certain you are thirsty.”
She reached for a nearby pitcher and filled a tin cup with water. She offered it to him, but Edward simply stared past her, no reply. By now Emily was beginning to wonder if he was even aware of her presence.
Perhaps it is the effects of the ether. She set the cup on the table, peered closely into his face. Edward’s eyes registered a startled reaction. They held hers for a quick second, then pulled away. In that brief time Emily saw a storm of emotions there.
He is aware of his reality, she thought. All too well.
There were times when it was wise to draw a man out of his solitude, but Emily sensed this was not one of them. She could only guess what Edward had witnessed on the battlefield, what actions had led him to this place. She wanted to ask about Stephen but knew there would be time for questions later.
She brushed her fingers gently through his hair. “Perhaps you will feel up to taking water later on. For now, just rest.”
Still he only blinked. Emily drew the sheet to his chest, mindful of his bandages, then moved to the side of the bed where Julia stood. She stared pitifully at her brother’s back. Emily gave her a gentle squeeze.
“Try not to be discouraged,” she whispered. “He is alert and the fever has broken.”
Julia nodded slowly but her face was as pale as January snow. “Will you send for our father?”
“Of course. Straightaway.” Emily agreed with her friend’s assessment. Edward needed his family now.
She moved toward the door. Sally was peeking through it.
“Is he awake?” she asked the moment Emily stepped into the corridor.
“Yes.”
Sally breathed a shallow sigh. “Is he speaking? Did he mention Stephen?”
Emily did not wish to upset her, but she knew the truth was best. If she were in Sally’s place, she would want to know.
“I am afraid he has not spoken at all. That is why I did not think it wise to ask about Stephen just yet. The battle seems to have damaged not only Edward’s body but his mind, as well.”
Her chin began to quiver.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said gently.
Sally quickly wiped her eyes and garnered her composure. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Julia requested that we send for her father.”
“I will see to that.”
“Can you manage? We could ask one of the other volunteers.”
Sally shook her head. “Dr. Turner will not mind. He has a soft spot for me. He knows Edward is our friend, and he told me if I had need of anything only to ask.”
Thank the Lord for small kindnesses, Emily thought.
“Tell Julia I will be as quick as I can.” She turned and descended the staircase. Emily quickly went back to the ward. Dr. Mackay had also returned.
“Nurse!” he called, waving her over.
I do have a name, she thought.
Nevertheless, she went to him. He was in the process of resetting a Virginia man’s broken leg. Having placed the limb in the fracture box, Dr. Mackay handed her a small sack. It looked as if it had come from the hospital kitchen.
“Fill the box with oat bran. It will support the leg and collect any further drainage from the wound.”
“Yes, Dr. Mackay.”
Emily promptly went to work, trying her best to smile at the wounded Virginian while ignoring the scowling Federal doctor beside her. When she finished the task, she looked to him. She expected another order, but he simply grunted and moved on to the next man.
She went back to Edward.
Her friend still lay with his back to his sister. Julia held her place in the chair beside him, a palmetto fan in one hand, a Bible in the other. She waved the fan faithfully over his head while she sought her own comfort in Scripture.
Emily watched them for a moment, but when Julia made no gesture or request she quietly backed away. Concern weighed heavily upon her. Edward’s mind-set was disturbing. She had seen some soldiers following the battle of Antietam who had recovered physically from their wounds but were never able to reenter life. When the memories of mortar shells and musket fire became too vivid, they often retreated into dark, private worlds, where no loved one or enemy could ever find them again.
“The water pitchers need to be filled,” she heard Dr. Mackay say as he brushed past her.
For a moment Emily considered reporting her observations but she realized any competent physician would have already recognized Edward’s condition. If she spoke up it would seem that she doubted his skills. She dare not call his judgment into question—at least not yet. For now, Emily thought it best just to keep her eye on her friend and stay out of the ill-tempered doctor’s way.
