by Barbara Best
Hull is a developing resort-like village with a town hall, school and church on a curled finger of land that juts into the entrance of Boston Harbor. It is known for its gray sand beaches and acres of tide pools where clams are dug up in loads. It also gives the best view of Fort Warren.
With her spyglass Jane entertained her curiosity, absorbing every detail of the fortification’s massive presence from the closest land vantage point. Her spyglass revealed armed Federal soldiers everywhere. A sea of blue uniforms posted among the fierce black tips of smooth-bore cannons on the ready to fire shot and shell at the slightest threat.
Near the boardwalk on Hull’s Nantasket Beach, Jane had inquired about a vacancy at Mrs. Kingston’s House for Women Patrons. Margaret Kingston, a hard-featured woman with dark circles under her eyes, was surprisingly accommodating. She took Jane on a tour of her Georgian-style boarding house with its symmetrical facade of brick and painted clapboards.
Most of the women renting rooms — she calls them her Mill Girls — work at a nearby factory. At the end of her visit, Mrs. Kingston explained her boarders all come with credible references. There is a long waiting list. Jane left feeling somewhat irked. She thinks her accent caused a problem and Northern prejudice is to blame for Mrs. Kingston’s polite rejection.
Tugging her paletot’s collar up around her neck, Jane tilts her head back to feel the sun’s rays on her face. A few yards away, pelicans dive again and again into frigid water churning with tiny silver fish they are scooping into their oversize elastic pouches.
Close to the seawall, a muscular black hound with a shiny coat barks hungrily at the large birds. With its tail wagging the bulk of its body, the dog almost topples over the side a couple of times.
Two young boys, twins from the looks of them, rough-house beside a pasty looking middle-aged woman pushing a baby carriage along the walk. Giving a high-pitched whistle, one of the twins sends the black beast barreling in his direction. It hits the boy in the chest with its huge paws and sends him tumbling to the ground in a blur of flailing arms and hysterical giggles.
Bustling with activity, the park that commands a nice view of the harbor is an ambitious walk from the hospital. On a mild day, it is alive with plain, salt-of-the-Earth type people, a lot of them immigrants, and street vendors who wish to purchase a restful moment away from the hustle and bustle of a congested city. For Jane, this is to her advantage. Except for a sideways glance or two from passersby, her visit goes unnoticed.
Today is especially nice. A steady breeze in the right direction has cleared Boston of its typical thick soup of pollutants. The city’s biggest contributors are mostly from chimneys billowing smoke and ash, stacks belching toxic soot, and the foulest and ever-present stench of piss and dung deposited into the streets.
Fort Warren Prison is but a stone’s throw away, yet it seems so unreachable. It is an impenetrable fortification, heavily guarded and off limits to the outside. The only peace of mind for Jane is the general knowledge Fort Warren prisoners are treated humanely. But, compared to what? It did little to ease her concerns about overcrowding, poor sanitation, disease, and a high mortality rate. Fever and dysentery wreak havoc even when much is done to ameliorate living conditions.
Jane struggles each day to keep her chin up with a daily spoonful of reminders. At least she knows where Matt is, that Doctor Elliott is with him, and things could be a lot worse. Matt could be among thousands of soldiers condemned to a wretched existence in places like Elmira or Camp Douglas. War is brutal and prisons, both Union and Confederate, are renowned for widespread neglect and abuse.
For the time being, Jane prefers to stay busy until an opportunity presents itself. By a miracle of coincidence, she found out Surgeon Young is an acquaintance of Doctor Elliott’s and, in fact, aware of his circumstance.
“An infelicitous resident of Fort Warren,” is how he put it. Both Young and Elliott received their education from Harvard and cut their teeth on the wounded and diseased toward the end of the Mexican-American War. They have lost touch since then.
Jane hopes one day there will be a perfect time to ask Surgeon Young a favor. Perhaps she can find out if he makes trips to Fort Warren on occasion or knows the commanding officer there? For now, though, she walks a fine line and is trying to establish a good reputation as an honest and reliable employee. It takes time to mold relationships and although she impresses the surgeon with her skills, there is never talk beyond a professional level. It is all business.
“A fine view.”
Jane’s muscles give a hard lurch, “Huh?”
“The harbor. It is a fine view, madam.”
Her eyes travel the torso of a well-dressed gentleman with a bowler hat and burgundy scarf bundled around his neck. A newspaper is neatly tucked under one arm and the gold sheen of his wedding band catches the light. Somehow the man found a seat at the opposite end of her bench without being detected.
“I suppose it is.”
“You have a loved-one there?”
“What?” Jane is confused and immediately alarmed.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry. You must admit a marvelous day like this sends spirits soaring. I am afraid it has made me a bit giddy.” He cups his hand to shield his eyes and surveys harbor life. “I spend a horrid amount of time installed in a small office at the firm. I work near here.”
The man briefly stands to give a courteous half-bow and tips his hat before finding his seat again. “May I introduce myself? I am Walter Cadbury, Attorney at Law, at your service.”
Jane frowns at the surge of ‘I-I-Is’ from the man’s mouth. She didn’t invite him to join her.
To counter the woman’s uneasy silence, “May I present my card?” Mr. Cadbury scans their surroundings. “I apologize for my intrusion, but the benches are quite in demand.” His eyes dart to Jane’s bag. “You seem to be enjoying the view.”
Jane looks at the string of benches along the waterfront that are, in fact, occupied. She nods and scoots over, although there is already a decent space separating them.
“You’ve been watching me,” she mutters.
“Again, my apologies. I fear I am much too inquisitive for my own good.” He rolls up his paper and holds it up to one eye. “Your spyglass,” he explains, “Trained that way.” Cadbury points his index finger in the direction of Fort Warren.
“It is a busy port, sir.” Now, Jane is thoroughly annoyed.
“That, it is,” Cadbury smiles this time, flashing healthy white teeth.
“I am not in the habit of speaking with strangers.”
“Ah! But proper introduction has been made, has it not? Look around. We are in the company of many. We are fittingly supervised, I dare say. But of course, if you wish, I will leave you to your rumination.”
Jane feels a pang of remorse at her ill temper. The man seems friendly enough. She is probably being paranoid. “It’s okay, really. It’s just, I am in the habit of being cautious.”
“No need, my dear lady. I am as gentle as a lamb. No menace to society,” he says, smiling broadly and resting his paper on one thigh. “Your accent?”
“What about my accent?”
“Your voice has a familiar ring. My uncle and his family reside near Augusta. I haven’t seen them since the unpleasantness began. As a boy, I spent many summers working on their farm. Georgia is a beautiful state, I simply wondered—”
“I miss the easy days when people could travel freely.”
“Indeed, it is a difficult time for us all. And a pity we must pick sides,” Cadbury says. He knows when he is being properly dodged. “Do you frequent the park? I don’t believe I have seen you here before.”
“I’ve just discovered it.”
“Ah, that is interesting. You are new to Boston, then.”
Jane’s brows draw together, “Why do you say that?”
“Because, who does not know about this beautiful oasis with its stunning vista nestled in our dear city? This old park is a favorite of mi
ne.” Mr. Cadbury sweeps his hand dramatically. “The crowds flock here to socialize and take the air. It has a tang of sea in it today, wouldn’t you agree?” he says engagingly, taking a deep breath through his nose.
“I’m sure,” Jane grabs the handle of her bag. “Well, I must be getting back. If you will please excuse me?”
Mr. Cadbury springs from his seat. “Oh my, I hope I have not chased you away. It would be inexcusable of me.”
Jane simply shakes her head, no, and tries to assure herself the man is just being nice.
Cadbury tips his hat, “Well, it has been a delight . . . Miss?”
Jane peers down at the trade card in her hand. “Peterson. I’ll leave you to your paper, then. Good day, sir.”
Mr. Cadbury studies the tall, slender figure of Miss Peterson as she disappears out of sight. He had heard an intriguing story about a Mystifying Ghost Lady with green eyes and flaming red hair from a friend of his. He is sure he has found her.
Chapter 62
A BLURRY PERSPECTIVE
Through tears, which form a blurry perspective of a badly blemished wood plank floor that needs another sweeping, Jane hurries forward. Rustling down the aisle, she passes the rows of beds and needy souls she visits on her daily rounds. She tries hard not to make a scene.
“Jane? Are you all right?”
Jane brushes away the nice woman that clutches her sleeve. If she had the wherewithal, her answer would be unequivocally, “No!” No, she is not all right, having suffered another grievous shock to her life.
“I can’t talk right now, Lydia.”
“Leaving so soon, Miss Peterson?” A cheery Mr. Dyke calls out. The nurse hospital attendant with an idyllic bedside manner had helped Jane understand the pecking order of a brash and complex institution.
Mr. Dyke detects a disturbance, but he is much too occupied with a patient. Corporal Turov had taken a turn for the worse and is burning with fever. Yesterday, they noticed gangrenous sores on the patient’s legs. The surgeon decided it was not incidental to festering wounds that failed to heal, but instead, acute inflammatory symptoms from an internal agent that is given to gonorrhea.
Jane picks up her pace, terrified she will be stopped. The ache in her jaw threatens to expose her emotional state.
Beyond her ward, a small group of stewards in the hall give a puzzled glance at Jane’s conduct, but turn back to their duties. Reactions to her uncharacteristic upset are tempered by the typical intensity, frequent confusion, and magnitude of unpredictable noises in a hectic hospital filled to capacity. Luckily, no one pursues her.
If she can just make it outside, she will be able to breathe again. She keeps her head down. Eye contact with anyone will surely cause her to fall to pieces. No one will get just how much her sense of security has been shattered. Her meeting with Surgeon Young, moments ago, had been callously brief. It runs vividly through Jane’s mind in a perpetual loop.
“None in this hospital can claim a more vigorous attitude toward alleviating the sufferings and privations of our patients,” Surgeon Young said in a scathingly formal tone. He turned from a window that gave him a barren view of a brick wall. His manner was immediately offensive for someone who has always been so supportive of her.
The pained expression on the doctor’s drawn features, contrary to his posture, was enough to make Jane’s heart drop. An awful foreboding gave her the feeling it was the last time she would visit his office. She was already tried and found guilty of whatever hideous crime she had committed.
“Won’t you tell me why? Was it the incident last night?” Jane did her best to remain calm. “I know it was a bit extreme, but I can explain.”
Quickly thinking back with the clarity of hindsight, Jane had done herself a disservice by becoming involved in the protection of Head Matron Roper’s sacred booze supply.
Because of misappropriation and rampant waste, a new government mandate is in effect. It places restrictions on the medicinal distribution of whiskey at hospitals and changes habits and procedures in the wards. Maintaining strict control over the hospital’s liquor and other opulent applications is the new matron’s crusade.
Change is often met with resentment. But this does not deter the hard-boiled veteran of her profession. Head Matron Roper is hell-bent on seeing her orders are carried out to the letter for the good of all. As one might expect, promising their patients will receive the appropriate doses prescribed with continued regularity does little to appease.
Hostility among the top-heavy male staff and officers escalates. The military officers who enjoy critical presence and privilege in managing the volume of Union soldiers in their care openly express their objections. Most are incensed hospital authorities would dare threaten their good actions and judgment.
In the midst of unrest, Jane volunteered to take a shift in guarding the pantry’s barrels of “devil’s brew” that had been relocated to one place. She hoped she might earn her keep and gain some brownie points with her new boss by doing so.
At her post inside a small office adjacent to the main storage area in the cellar, the evening and her rest on a cot went well enough. Shortly after midnight, however, four men from Ward-C jarred Jane awake.
“We are here to claim what is rightfully ours,” the spokesman for the group growled.
Jane instantly knew what that meant. “Not on my shift. You know the rules.”
“That I do,” he spit, wiping the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. “And, we ain’t taking no orders from some slave-holdin’ Southern cracker. A woman to boot. Whatcha doin’ here in Yankee-town, anyway?”
“Copperhead,” the man behind him snarled. “Up to no good, I’ll wager.”
“You should talk.” Jane knew a bully when she saw one. She smelled alcohol on the men’s breaths.
“Well, boys, get on with it. We ain’t got all night,” the leader barked.
As the accomplices crashed through the flimsy lock, splintering the door at its hinges, Jane was roughly shoved to her cot where she had hidden a small pistol under her pillow. In her exploration of the pantry, she found it on a shelf and figured it was there for a purpose, loaded or not.
“I’d stop right there, if I were you.” The pistol Jane held out with her finger lightly resting on the trigger glimmered in the lamplight and made the men freeze in place. “I know you men are restless, but you’ve picked the wrong night for mischief. Your name is Cassidy, isn’t it?” She recognized the wide-eyed kid whose job is to collect the bedpans and urinals. “None of you should be here. Leave quietly and this will be our little secret.”
The discernible click when she cocked the hammer got an instantaneous response. With a serious mixture of cursing and irate gestures not meant for a decent lady to hear or see, the men receded from the room.
“Be sure to tell all your buddies, the liquor is off limits,” Jane called after them.
Although she feels empowered by her brave stunt, and even if Surgeon Young won’t let on, her gut says it has come back to bite her in the worst way. Men can hold a dreadful grudge. Daring and assertive behavior in the weaker sex is not appreciated.
Her abrupt firing and immediate release from her duties without the chance to finish her day sends Jane careening down a long corridor and through the doors onto the impressive Greek temple portico that flanks the front entrance of the Bulfinch building. It is the original section of the hospital where the first use of anesthesia had been demonstrated in its operating theater, the Ether Dome.
Once outside, Jane finds a place away from hospital traffic to catch her breath and gather her wits. The air is frigid and pricks her tear-stained face. It cuts through the thin sleeves of her dress. She had not taken the time to put her coat on. Her wool paletot is clutched under one arm. She drops her bag to the concrete and gasps as it tumbles down the steep granite steps into a puddle several feet below.
“Great! Just great!” A shield of raw anger replaces her distress. It causes her to miss the arm hole
of her coat several times as she tries to jerk it on.
From behind, a strong hand purchases her elbow.
“Let go!” Jane blurts, hearing nothing and seeing red in her fury.
“Jane! Please! Wait a minute.”
“Leave me alone,” Jane bleats and yanks again. “Damn coat!” Swiping at the dampness on her cheeks, her eyes lift to a face.
“Here, let me help you with that. Colette, would you get Jane’s bag?”
“What the hell?”
“Jane.”
The clear ring of an old voice that rises above a crowd of grim soldiers wrestling an unconscious man up the steps washes over Jane in a wave of memory. Openmouthed, her brain struggles to formulate cohesive thought as shards of light flash behind her eyes.
“Am I dreaming?” Jane tries to peel Sophie Downing’s fingers off her arm.
“Jane!” Sophie hangs on. She is not about to let go of her friend.
The petite Black woman returns to stand by Sophie’s side.
“Who are you?”
Colette studies the redheaded woman with red-rimmed eyes the color of shimmering emeralds. “Come, this way, before we make a spectacle of ourselves.”
Jane finally shrugs her paletot on, and the three women descend the steps to find a more secluded place. The five-story structure temporarily blocks the cold wind off the water and has a slight warming effect.
“I can’t believe it.” Jane blinks to clear her vision. “Sophie?”
“Yes, silly, it’s me. Do be careful,” Sophie advances, seeing her friend’s face drain of all color.
Jane backs against the wall and is glad for a solid surface on which to prop.
“Oh my God, this is too much. But, how?”
“Same as you, only different.” Sophie can read confusion, suspicion and pain in Jane’s narrowed gaze.
“Here, let’s get that apron off.”
Jane looks down at unsightly splotches of dried blood on her apron. She had lanced a large boil to evacuate the pus on a patient’s leg and there was a lot of bleeding. It was right before she received Surgeon Young’s message to report to his office at once. She had only taken time to rinse her hands, thinking it was an emergency of some kind. Some emergency!
