by Ginny Dye
“We know,” Elizabeth said excitedly, exchanging a glance with her housemates. She winked at Carrie. “We’ll get back to you later,” she warned playfully before she turned back to Abby. “We were hoping we could all go together.”
Abby stared at her. “The convention? What about school?”
“Dean Preston believes we shouldn’t miss it,” Elizabeth responded.
“Dr. Ann Preston?” Carrie asked, her eyes wide. She wanted to hear more about the convention, but she wanted to know who was running her medical school even more. “I thought the dean was Dr. Fussell? He re-opened the hospital last year once the war ended.”
“Was is the operative word there,” Alice said, anger sparking in her eyes. “Our Dr. Fussell refused a medical degree to Mary Putnam Jacobi, even though she met the required qualifications. This caused quite a rift in the faculty because they disagreed with him.”
“Quite dramatically,” Elizabeth added.
“As they should have,” Florence threw in indignantly.
“Anyway,” Alice continued, “Dr. Fussell resigned just after the beginning of the year. Dr. Preston has become the dean.”
Abby smiled brilliantly. “Well done, Ann! That makes her the first woman dean of a medical school. How appropriate that it is a women’s medical college. That’s as it should be.”
Carrie turned wondering eyes to her stepmother. “You know Dr. Preston?”
“Indeed I do,” Abby agreed. “We worked in the Anti-Slavery Society together. She was privately educated in medicine by Nathaniel Moseley for two years. Of course, she couldn’t get into a male medical school,” she said indignantly, “so she entered the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania when it first opened.”
“Dr. Preston was one of eight women awarded their MD in the first graduating class of 1852,” Florence added. “How wonderful that you know her!”
“Ann went through so much during the war,” Abby murmured.
Alice hesitated. “We heard Dean Preston got rheumatic fever during the war. We’ve been told she was so exhausted and sick that she was confined to a hospital for three months to recuperate.”
“That’s true,” Abby confirmed. “Ann was determined your college would succeed. The male physicians here in the city barred women from their clinics and medical societies. Ann organized a board of lady managers to fund and run a teaching hospital so her students could gain clinical experience. Trying to come up with the money was quite a challenge, but Ann wasn’t going to admit defeat. She walked door to door soliciting funds.”
Carrie winced. “She must have endured horrible abuse and humiliation.”
“That she did, but she raised a lot of money in spite of it. Her efforts took a toll on her. That’s when she became ill with rheumatoid fever.” Abby paused. “You all know your school closed during the war. What you might not know is that Ann had raised enough money to send her friend and colleague, Dr. Emmeline Horton Cleveland, to Paris to study obstetrics so she could be the resident physician at the new hospital.”
“Dean Preston is amazing,” Florence whispered. “So is Dr. Cleveland. I didn’t know their stories. Thank you for telling us all that.”
“I told you because I don’t want you to feel alone,” Abby replied. “There are so many women who have forged the path you are on right now. We’ve only begun though. It is going to be up to all of you to widen the path and make it easier for everyone who will follow you. Women in this country are going to be fighting for a very long time for equal rights.”
A thoughtful silence fell on the room as the shadows of women fighting for equality seemed to fill the room, marching down the corridors of time with determination and courage. Carrie breathed it all in, her sense of commitment and purpose growing along with her excitement.
“Now,” Abby said briskly. “What is this about all of you going to the convention?”
Florence grinned. “Dean Preston says going to the convention is just as important to our education as everything we are learning about medicine. She says if we’re going to fight to enter what has always been an all-male world, then we need to do it with knowledge of how to accomplish it. We’re also going to spend time in New York learning about the current cholera outbreak.”
“Cholera outbreak?” Carrie whispered, sinking down onto the sofa. “I thought it was confined on the boat in the harbor? That was the last I heard.”
“It was,” Janie confirmed gravely. “Once winter lifted, it was just a matter of time before it came on shore.”
Carrie shook her head with dismay. “Cholera took so many lives the last time there was an outbreak in 1849.” Her mind whirled with questions as she opened her mouth to ask them.
Florence stepped forward to grab one of Carrie’s suitcases. “I realize we could all talk for hours, but I would much rather do it over soup and bread — not standing here in the foyer.” She groaned as she lifted the suitcases and then waved at all the rest of them. “Everyone grab a bag and we’ll be done in one trip. Except you, Abby. Will you please go dish up the soup and slice some bread?”
Abby raised a brow. “Are you suggesting I’m too old to carry a suitcase up my own stairs?”
Florence grinned easily. “I would never do such a thing. What I’m suggesting is that any wise woman surrounded by women twenty years younger should take advantage of their years of experience and let them do the hard work.”
Abby threw back her head in a hearty laugh. “I like you, Florence,” she announced.
Carrie echoed her sentiments, knowing she had found a kindred spirit in the tall redhead.
“Since I’m wise enough not to admit to not being wise, I’m happy to let all you minions do the heavy lifting,” Abby said smugly.
“Minions?” Alice cried. “Did you call us minions?” she demanded with a laugh.
Abby merely chuckled and disappeared into the kitchen.
Chapter Fourteen
Moses gazed around as the carriage rolled up to the Broad Street train station. Raindrops dripped from the eves of the building and glimmered on the street. It had rained all morning, but the sun had peeked out just before they left Thomas’s house. Remnants of azaleas and dogwood trees still decorated the city. Their blooms were tired looking but still provided vivid splashes of color. Oak and maple trees were still clothed in the bright green of spring, but it wouldn’t be long before they settled into the deep green of summer. Fresh coats of paint were going on some of the houses, but the majority still wore the stark poverty of the war years. This was his first time back in the city since early last summer. Progress was being made, but there was a long way to go.
“What do you think?” Robert asked.
“Of the city?” Moses responded. “I prefer the plantation.” He thought of the endless green rows of tobacco poking their heads up from the earth, stretching as far as the eye could see. He could almost smell the rich soil. After years laying fallow during the war, every tillable acre on Cromwell Plantation was sporting new growth.
Robert nodded. “Me too,” he admitted. “It means a lot to Matthew that we’re going to Memphis with him.” He watched as Matthew entered the train station to buy their tickets.
“I know,” Moses said easily. “I don’t regret joining the two of you. I just find that, especially after the war, I prefer the quiet and beauty of the plantation.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Robert asked. “I’m glad you’re going.”
Moses watched the door to the train station where Matthew had disappeared. He had seen the haunted look in Matthew’s eyes deepen as the anniversary of the Sultana disaster drew nearer. Just as all of them carried the horrors of the war, so did Matthew. The sinking of the Sultana and the senseless loss of so many lives had affected the tall journalist even more than his months in Libby Prison. When Matthew received a letter from Peter and Crandall suggesting they acknowledge the anniversary with a trip to Memphis, he had first resisted and then relented enough to consider it. Robert’s urging, and his promi
se that both he and Moses would accompany him, had made Matthew decide to go. It was going to become a new chapter in his book.
“I’m glad, too,” Moses said quietly. It was true, but it was also true that being back in Richmond had stirred a restless discontent inside him. He wanted to pretend he didn’t see the tight tension on almost every black person’s face. He tried to ignore the frustration and anger, the too thin faces of children, the disdain and hatred on white faces as black people walked the sidewalks, but the reality was rising in him like bile.
Matthew emerged from the building, three tickets held aloft. “We’re all set,” he called. “I have three first-class tickets for us.”
Spencer swiveled on the carriage seat and stared back at Moses. “First class?” he asked quizzically. His expression was inscrutable.
“Will there be a problem?” Moses asked carefully.
Spencer hesitated and shrugged. “Maybe not,” was all he said. His eyes said something different.
Moses stared at him hard and tried to prepare himself for whatever was going to happen.
“There won’t be a problem,” Matthew said confidently, but he looked uneasy.
The three men grabbed their luggage and walked over to the train platform. Moses held himself erect, his head lifted high as they climbed the steps to the loading platform. He was aware of eyes following him as he walked with Robert and Matthew.
Matthew stepped forward with the tickets. “Three first-class accommodations,” he said firmly.
The conductor’s eyes swept the three of them. His first response was evident discomfort, but it quickly hardened into disdain. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said loftily.
Matthew started to open his mouth, but Moses stepped forward. He didn’t want someone else to speak for him. “I have a ticket for first-class accommodations,” he said evenly.
The conductor seemed a little intimidated by his towering height, but his eyes glittered with something much too close to hatred when he stared up at him. “Blacks don’t ride in first class,” he said flatly.
Moses felt a flash of fury. “I have a ticket that says I do.”
The conductor sneered. “Only because the ticket clerk didn’t realize you’re a nig…that you’re black,” he quickly corrected. “I saw you waiting in the carriage. Did you think you could sneak your way on, boy?”
Moses fought to control his temper, wanting nothing more than to smash his fist into the little man’s face.
Matthew had heard enough. “Moses Samuels is a free man,” he snapped. “He has a first-class ticket. He will ride with us in first class.”
“Not unless you plan on changing the law in time to catch the train,” the conductor responded smugly.
“The law?” Robert responded as he stepped forward, his eyes flashing. “What law? What are you talking about?”
“The blacks may all be free, but that doesn’t mean they can socialize with proper white people,” the conductor replied. “You ever heard of the Black Codes? Virginia may not have caught up with all the codes further south where people have more sense, but they make sure niggers don’t ride on our trains.” His voice was hard with contempt.
Moses’s anger deflated beneath the harsh reality. He managed to keep himself erect, his face impassive, but his heart pounded with defeat…and something else he couldn’t quite identify. It was something that churned and burned, demanding to be heard, but he couldn’t discern what it was trying to say. It took every bit of his self-control not to turn around and stride off the platform, but he reminded himself the trip to Memphis wasn’t about him — it was about his friend. He managed to keep his voice calm when he reached out to touch Matthew’s arm. “It’s okay. Let’s just get on the train so we can get to Memphis.” He turned to the conductor. “What car do I ride in?” He refused to look down or away as he stared at the conductor.
“It’s not okay,” Matthew said angrily. He stepped in front of the conductor. “We will all ride in whatever car Moses will be in…after I get a refund for my first-class tickets.”
The conductor jerked his thumb toward the back car. “Suit yourself. The train leaves in ten minutes.”
Moses felt a flash of gratitude but hard on the heels of the gratitude was a knowing of what he had to do. He strode with Matthew and Robert toward the ticket counter but stopped them before they walked inside. “Don’t,” he said quietly. He held up his hand when Matthew opened his mouth to protest. “I appreciate your willingness to ride with me but your being there will make it impossible for me to talk to the other passengers.”
“What?” Robert asked, confusion evident in his eyes.
Moses became more certain of what he needed to do as he thought about it. “I want to talk to my people,” he said strongly. “They won’t talk as freely if there are two white men in the midst of them. I need to know what they are dealing with. I need to hear their stories.” He wasn’t sure why he needed to do it, but he felt more certain with every word that came out of his mouth.
“But—” Matthew protested.
Robert laid a hand on his arm to stop him. “Moses knows what he wants.”
Moses flashed him a smile, grateful for the closeness they had developed since Robert had healed from his illness. “We’ll be together as soon as we get to Memphis.”
“Then at least let me apologize that there are such bigoted idiots in the white race,” Matthew said, deliberately raising his voice so he would be heard. “You’re a better man than anyone else on this platform.”
Moses saw the conductor flush, but he also saw his eyes glitter with greater hatred as they settled on him. While he appreciated Matthew’s support, he doubted it would do anything but create more trouble for him. He fought back a sigh as he picked up his bag and walked to the back of the train. He forced himself not to think of the relative comfort Matthew and Robert would experience during the long trip. He was already sure the car reserved for blacks would have little to offer in way of comfort, but perhaps it was going to offer something he hadn’t expected.
Moses bit back his bitterness as the train pulled out of the station, black smoke blending with the dark gray clouds hovering overhead until it disappeared. He forced himself to relax, reminding himself he had suffered far greater humiliations when he enlisted in the Union Army as their first black spy. This was nothing in comparison.
“Who them white men you was with?”
Moses jerked his head around when the man in the narrow, cramped seat behind him spoke. “What?”
“Who them white men you was with?” the man repeated. His narrow face, creased with wrinkles, belied the bright sparkle in his eyes.
“They are friends,” Moses replied. “We’re on our way to Memphis.” He had come back here so he could talk with other blacks. There was something about this man he liked. “My name is Moses.”
“Name is Charlie,” the old man said easily. “Them men really be friends?” he asked skeptically.
“Yes,” Moses assured him, not sure he should go into details. He didn’t have a need to talk — he wanted to listen. “Where are you headed, Charlie?”
“Nashville,” Charlie responded promptly. “Going to look for my wife.”
“How long have you been separated?” Moses asked. He’d heard stories like this from so many.
“Twenty years,” Charlie replied, the pain in his eyes contrasting with the smile on his face. “We were together on a plantation down in eastern Virginia for eighteen years. Our owner came up on hard times and had to sell most his slaves. He kept me, but he sold my wife and chillun. My chillun done all be grown by now. I ain’t got no idea where they be. ”
Moses winced, anger mixed with the pain that shot through him. “How did you find your wife?”
“Took me a lot of lookin’,” Charlie admitted. He hesitated, a deep look of suspicion on his face. “You don’t talk like no black man I know,” he muttered.
“No,” Moses agreed.
“Why not?�
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Moses knew he would have to earn the man’s trust. “I was a slave all my life. I was sold to a plantation outside of Richmond the year before the war started. My wife grew up as a slave there. She taught me how to read in a secret school out in the woods. She also taught me how to talk correctly. She told me it would make it easier to exist in a white world.”
Charlie stared at him for a long moment. “You reckon it’s done helped?”
“I reckon it has,” Moses responded. “I was a spy for the Union Army for over three years, and I headed up a battalion of soldiers.”
“Do tell,” Charlie said with a whistle, admiration shining in his eyes. “I sho nuff wanted to fight, but they done tole me I was too old. Sho was hard to sit it out. You got hurt?”
“Only if you consider a crater in my chest from a cannonball being hurt,” Moses said casually, suddenly anxious to earn this man’s trust so he would talk openly.
“And you lived to tell about it?”
“One of my closest friends was a doctor at Chimborazo Hospital. She saved my life. My unit brought me in right after Richmond fell.” Moses held back his chuckle, knowing he was certain to get Charlie’s attention with his statement.
“She? Chimborazo Hospital? That be a white hospital.” Charlie’s expression went from amazement to complete suspicion and then wavered back. He clearly had no idea what to think of what Moses was saying.
“Yep.” Moses smiled. “Carrie Cromwell’s father owned the plantation where I was a slave. He went into Richmond just before the war started and left Carrie to run the plantation. Carrie helped me and my wife, Rose, escape through the Underground Railroad. Carrie became a doctor at the hospital during the war. She was there when my unit brought me in. I would have died without her.”
A long silence stretched between them as Charlie stared into his eyes. “I do believe you be tellin’ the truth, but that sho nuff be some kind of crazy story.”
Moses smiled. “I can’t disagree with that.”
