by John Jakes
Virgilia looked up. “They are using women as nurses?”
“At least a hundred,” Brett replied. “Billy told me. The women get a salary, a living allowance, transportation—and the privilege of bathing soldiers, most of whom are pretty unenthusiastic about the idea, Billy said.”
“I understand the surgeons are violently opposed to the nurses,” Constance added. “But that’s a doctor for you—guarding his little scrap of territory like a dog.” She hadn’t missed Virgilia’s sudden animation. She turned to her. “Would nursing work interest you?”
“I think it might—though I don’t suppose I’d qualify.”
Constance considered it a kindness to withhold certain details from the piece in Leslie’s. Miss Dix required no medical or scientific training from her recruits; all she asked was that they be over thirty and not attractive. So Constance could truthfully say, “I disagree. You’d be perfect. Would you like me to write Dr. Howe for a letter of introduction?”
“Yes.” Then, more strongly, “Yes, please.”
That night, Virgilia was sleepless with excitement. Perhaps she had found a way to serve the Union cause and strike at those responsible for the death of her lover. When she finally closed her eyes, she dreamed lurid dreams.
Grady’s grave opened. He rose from it, bits of earth falling from his eyes and nose and mouth as he held out his hand, pleading for someone to avenge him.
The picture blurred, replaced by an unfamiliar plantation where dreamy black figures bucked up and down, impregnating moaning colored girls to beget more human chattels.
Then, a long row of men in gray; she watched each being shot, shot again, shot a third and fourth time, blood spatters multiplying on the breasts of their tunics while one man in Union blue fired endlessly. She knew the slayer. She had nursed him in a field hospital till he was once more fit for duty.
She awoke sweating and excited.
In the note included with his letter of introduction, Dr. Howe offered two pieces of advice: Virgilia should not dress too elaborately for her interview with Miss Dix, and although the superintendent of nurses would be quick to detect raw flattery, a discreet bit of praise for Conversations on Common Things would not be out of order. Miss Dix’s little book of household advice had sold steadily ever since its publication in 1824. It was in its sixtieth printing; the author was proud of her child.
Virgilia reached Washington during an early December warm spell. When she stepped down to the sunlit train platform, she wrinkled her nose at the odor arising from eight pine crates on a baggage wagon. Water stained the wood, seeped from the joints, and splashed on the platform. She asked a baggage man what the boxes contained.
“Soldiers. Weather like this, the ice don’t hold.”
“Has there been a battle?”
“Not any big ones that I know about. These boys likely died of the flux or something similar. You hang around a while, you’ll see hundreds of them boxes.”
Swallowing back something in her throat, Virgilia moved away, carrying her own portmanteau. No wonder the commission considered its work so necessary.
At ten the next morning, she entered the office of Dorothea Dix. Miss Dix, a spinster of sixty, was neat and orderly in her dress, her gestures, and her speech. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hazard. You have a brother in Secretary Cameron’s department, do you not?”
“Two of them, actually. The second is a commissioned officer working for General Ripley. And my youngest brother is with the engineers in Virginia. It was his wife who recommended your book, which I thoroughly enjoyed.” She prayed Miss Dix wouldn’t ask a question about the contents, since she hadn’t bothered to buy or borrow a copy.
“I am happy to hear it. Will you see your brothers during your stay in the city?”
“Oh, naturally. We’re very close.” Did it sound too exaggerated, making the lie apparent? “It’s my hope that my stay will be permanent. I would like to be a nurse, though I’m afraid I have no formal training.”
“Any intelligent female can quickly learn the technical aspects. What she cannot acquire, if she does not already possess it, is the one trait I consider indispensable.”
Miss Dix folded her hands and regarded Virgilia with gray-blue eyes whose sternness seemed at odds with the femininity of her long neck and her soft voice.
“Yes?” Virgilia prompted.
“Fortitude. The women in my nurse corps confront filth, gore, depravity, and crudity that good breeding forbids me to describe. My nurses are subjected to hostility from patients and also from the doctors, who are, in theory, our allies. I have definite ideas about the work we do and how it must be done. I tolerate no disagreement—a characteristic that further alienates certain politicians and surgeons. Those are challenges we face. Yet the greatest one remains the challenge to human courage. What you will do if you join us, Miss Hazard, is what I have done for many years, because someone must. You will not merely look into hell; you will walk there.”
Virgilia breathed with soft sibilance, trying to conceal the sensual excitement seizing her again. In blinding visions that hid Miss Dix, windrows of young men in cadet gray fell bleeding and screaming. Grady grinned at the spectacle, showing the fine artificial teeth she had bought to replace the ones pulled out to mark him as a slave—
“Miss Hazard?”
“I’m sorry. Please forgive me. A momentary dizziness.”
A frown. “Do you have such spells frequently?”
“Oh, no—no! It’s the heat.”
“Yes, it is excessive for December. How do you respond to what I told you?”
Virgilia dabbed her upper lip with her handkerchief. The bright light through the windows showed the scars on her cheeks; she had worn no powder. “I was active in abolitionist work, Miss Dix. As a consequence, I often saw—” she forced more strength into her voice—“the ravaged bodies of escaped slaves who had been whipped or burned by their masters. I saw scars, hideous disfigurement. I bore it. I can bear the rigors of nursing.”
At long last the woman from Boston smiled at the visitor. “I admire your certainty. It is a good sign. Your appearance is suitable and Dr. Howe’s recommendation enthusiastic. Shall we turn to particulars of your compensation and living arrangements?”
42
LIEUTENANT COLONEL ORRY MAIN’S first forty-eight hours in Richmond were frantic. He found temporary quarters in a boardinghouse, signed papers, took the oath, bought his uniforms, and presented himself to Colonel Bledsoe, in charge of operations at the War Department offices, on the Ninth Street side of Capitol Square.
A clerk named Jones, a Marylander with a sour, secretive air, showed Orry his desk behind one of the flimsy partitions that divided the office. Next day Secretary Benjamin received him. The plump little man had replaced Walker, the blunt-spoken Alabama lawyer blamed for the failure to capitalize on the Manassas victory, as well as for recent military inaction.
“Delighted you’re with us at last, Colonel Main.” The secretary exuded camaraderie, except in his unreadable eyes. “I understand we’re dining together Saturday night.”
Orry expressed surprise. Benjamin said, “The invitation is probably at your lodgings now. Angela Mallory sets a superb table, and the secretary’s juleps are renowned. Mr. Mallory is full of praise for the work your brother and Bulloch are doing in Liverpool—ah, but I imagine you are more interested in hearing about your own duties.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The spot you’re to fill has been empty too long. It is a job both necessary and, I regret to say, difficult, because it requires contact with a person of odious disposition. Does the name Winder mean anything?”
Orry thought a bit. “At West Point, they used to talk about General William Winder. He lost the battle of Bladensburg in—1814, was it?” Benjamin nodded. “Now it’s coming back. Winder fought from a superior position with superior forces, but the British whipped him anyway, then marched unopposed to Washington and burned it. Later, I understand
, they named a building after him when they rebuilt the town, but professionals always cite him as one of the bunglers who prompted reform in the army by means of reform at West Point. I suppose you could say Sylvanus Thayer was appointed because of him.”
“It is Winder’s son to whom I refer. He was a tactical officer at West Point for a period.”
“That I didn’t know.”
With noticeable care in selection of his words, Benjamin continued, “He was, in fact, an instructor when President Davis attended the institution. Thus, when Major Winder came here from Maryland earlier this year, the President had good memories of him. Winder was appointed brigadier general and provost marshal. His offices are close by. I will try to prepare you by explaining that Winder is nominally charged with apprehending military criminals and aliens. In other words, he’s a glorified policeman—which in itself would not be a problem were he not also one of those persons in whom advancing age induces inflexibility. Finally, and regrettably, he is a martinet. Yet, in spite of it all, he enjoys the President’s favor.” Benjamin gave him a level look. “For the time being.”
Orry nodded to signify understanding. He now had a clue as to why the word difficult had been used to describe his new duties.
Benjamin told him that the provost marshal had recruited a number of men listed on his personnel roster as professional detectives. “I characterize them as plug-uglies. Imported ones at that. Yankee scum who neither understand nor behave like Southerners. They appear more suited for ejecting hooligans from saloons and ten-pin alleys than for careful detective work. But, as I indicated, they are responsible for investigation of military as well as civil wrongdoing. Because of the general’s, ah, character, they tend to exceed their authority. However, regardless of the nature of the case or the severity of the offense, I will not have them acting against the best interest of the army. I will not have them usurping the powers of this department. When they try, we curb them. Of course someone must be in charge of that effort. The last man was not up to the responsibility. Hence my pleasure at your arrival.”
Again, that direct stare. Orry, not a little intimidated by what was in store for him, got a shock when Benjamin revealed something else.
“Also, I regret to say, Winder is assuming authority for local prisons. If he does not enforce humane standards of treatment for captives, it could hurt us in the diplomatic sphere, especially with European recognition still in doubt. In short, Colonel, there are any number of ways the general can harm the Confederacy, and we must prevent him from doing so.”
It struck Orry that the secretary was reaching into questionable areas; he was responsible for military, not foreign, policy, yet his treatment of Winder was designed to affect both. Benjamin must have seen the doubt on Orry’s face. He leaned back and continued.
“You will discover that lines of authority in this government are not clear. The government, in fact, often resembles a maze at an English country house: difficult to picture in total and difficult to negotiate because there are so many passages that cross and look alike. You let me worry about interdepartmental problems; you deal with the general.”
“The secretary will permit me to observe that General Winder out-ranks me.”
“So he does—until such time as he presents a direct threat to the welfare of this department. Then we shall see who ranks whom.” Benjamin brought his chair forward and gave Orry a look that revealed the iron beneath the silk. “I’m confident you will handle your duties with tact and skill, Colonel.”
Not a hope, that; an order.
Next morning Orry paid his courtesy call on the provost marshal, whose office was an ugly frame building on Broad Street near Capitol Square. The moment Orry entered, negative impressions began to accumulate. A couple of Winder’s plug-uglies, civilians wearing muddy boots and slouch hats, lounged on benches and stared at him as he approached the clerks. Orry didn’t miss the huge revolvers worn by the detectives.
He had trouble gaining the attention of the clerks. They were engaged in loud argument and swearing at each other. He rapped on the railing separating the benches from the work area. The clerks ceased their shouting. With odors of beer and overflowing spittoons swirling around him, Orry stated his business.
Brigadier General John Henry Winder kept him waiting one hour. When Orry was finally admitted, he saw a stout officer who looked much older than sixty. Pure white hair jutted from his head in tufts that appeared to have gone uncombed, untrimmed, and unwashed for some time. Winder’s skin was flaking from dryness, and the permanent inverted U of his mouth showed he didn’t make smiling a habit.
Orry strove to introduce himself pleasantly and stated his hope for a good working relationship. The provost wasn’t interested.
“I know your boss is a friend of Davis, but so am I. We’ll get along all right if you follow two rules: don’t get in my way and don’t question my authority.”
Less friendly, Orry said, “I believe the secretary also has rules, General. In matters that affect the army in any way, I am instructed to make sure proper procedure is fol—”
“Hell with procedure. This is war. There are enemies all over Richmond.” Eyes like those of some ancient turtle fixed on Orry. “In uniform and out. I shall uproot them and not care a damn about procedure. I’m busy. You’re dismissed.”
“Your servant, General.” He saluted, but Winder had already bent over a file and didn’t acknowledge it. Red-faced, Orry stalked out.
Work had emptied the department offices of everyone except a few clerks, Jones among them. Orry described his meeting, and Jones sneered. “Typical behavior. There isn’t a man in the government I detest more. You’ll soon feel the same way.”
“Damned if I don’t already.”
Jones sniggered and returned to writing in some kind of journal. Sometime later, Orry saw Jones return the book to a lower desk drawer with a surreptitious look around. Does he keep a diary? Better watch what I say in front of that fellow.
Still reacting to Winder, he felt in need of a drink when the day ended and he started home through the December dark. He stopped at a rowdy, cheerful place called Mrs. Muller’s Lager Beer Saloon. With a schooner in front of him, he leafed through the Examiner, which was once again excoriating the Davis administration, this time for the state of the South’s rail system. The paper denounced it as incapable of moving large numbers of troops between the east and the Kentucky-Tennessee theater.
The complaint was not an unfamiliar one. Orry knew the South’s rolling stock was old and many sections of rail worn out—and there was no manufactory in the South capable of replacing either. It was Cooper Main’s decade-old warning about the inadequacy of Southern industry coming true. Davis’s journalistic foes were now saying it might doom the war.
He finished his beer and with a touch of guilt called for another. He wanted to forget the work Benjamin had given him. Here he was, a trained soldier, assigned to spy on another soldier. He supposed he had accepted the possibility of rotten duty when he took the commission. There was nothing to be done except carry out orders.
The longer he stayed at the crowded bar, the more depressed he became. He overheard conversations full of gloom and invective. Davis was a “damned dictator,” Judah Benjamin a “pet of the tyrant,” the war “fool’s business.” No doubt many of these same men had cheered the news of the bombardment of Sumter, Orry thought as he left.
A more positive air pervaded the Saturday-night dinner party at the home of Navy Secretary Stephen Mallory. A Floridian born of Yankee parents, Mallory had the good luck—or the misfortune, depending on how you looked at it—to head a department that Jefferson Davis ignored almost completely. The secretary quickly made his strong views known to his guest.
“I never regarded secession as anything but a synonym for revolution. But now that we’re fighting, I intend to extend myself and my department to beat the enemy, not win his approval or his recognition of our right to exist as a nation. On that and many other
matters, the Chief Executive and I differ. Another julep, Colonel?”
Orry’s head was already whirling from the first one and from the glitter of the gathering. The brightest jewel was Mallory’s Spanish wife, Angela, a gracious and gorgeous woman. She praised Cooper—she kept track of navy matters—and introduced Orry to her little girls before bundling them away to bed.
During the superb meal there was much toasting of the Confederacy, and especially, its imprisoned representatives, Mason and Slidell, both favorites of the archsecessionist faction. So was Benjamin, Orry discovered after some table conversation. Orry admired the sleek little man’s aplomb but wondered about the sincerity of his convictions; he struck Orry as more of a survivor than a zealot. Still, the secretary brought wit and jollity to the gathering. The table was so amply supplied with fine food and drink and china and crystal that Orry had trouble remembering it was wartime. For a very short while he even forgot how much he missed Madeline.
As the party broke up, Benjamin invited him to come along to one of his favorite haunts: “Johnny Worsham’s. I like to go against his faro bank. Johnny runs a fine place. A man can find the sporting crowd there and test himself against lady luck, but he can also be sure of discretion about his presence and an honest deal.”
Benjamin said he liked a vigorous stroll in the night air, and Orry didn’t object. The secretary sent his driver ahead to Worsham’s; Orry had come to Mallory’s in a hack. They set out and were just passing the Spotswood when they encountered some noisy people leaving another party. Someone accidentally bumped Orry.
“Ashton!”
Because he was startled, his exclamation sounded friendlier than it might have otherwise. His sister clung to the arm of her porcine husband and gave him a smile with all the warmth of a January freeze. “Dear Orry! I heard you were in town—married, too. Is Madeline here?”
