Fire by Night

by Lynn Austin

  Phoebe couldn’t stop her mouth from dropping open. “You mean she …she’s…”

  “A Negro. Yes.”

  Phoebe had no idea what to say. She had always assumed that Ted’s dusky skin was brown from the sun, but she realized suddenly that Ted wasn’t a farm boy. He worked inside his uncle’s factory all day. And even during all those winter months they’d spent inWash- ington City, Ted’s suntan had never faded. He had the full lips that so many of the Negro contrabands had and thick, curly brown hair. Still, she never would have guessed he was part Negro.

  “The plantation’s white overseer forced himself on my grandmother,” Ted continued. “She had a baby girl—my mother. Ma is a mulatto. She looks mostly white, though. My grandmother found out about some Quaker folks, abolitionists, who offered to smuggle my mother up north, into Pennsylvania. My ma left when she was five years old, pretending to be their white daughter. She remembers being a slave and living in a place like this. But she grew up as a white woman and married my father.”

  “Did your father know that she—?”

  “Yeah, he knew. He didn’t care.” Ted rolled onto his back again, staring up at the canvas roof. “What that old slave woman called me today …a quadroon …that’s what I am, Ike. It means I’ve got three white grandparents and one Negro one.”

  Phoebe rolled over onto her back, too, still unsure what to say. “Why are you telling me this?” she finally asked.

  “I’ve always been too ashamed to let anyone know. Ma warned us never to tell a soul because a lot of people won’t give you the time of day if they know you’re partly Negro. Ma said no matter what, don’t ever let on that you’ve got African blood in you.”

  “Makes no difference to me if you’re an African or an Indian or an Irishman.”

  “Thanks, Ike,” he said softly. “That means a lot. … You know, my mother used to tell stories about how horrible her life as a slave was, and today I saw the truth for myself. That’s no way to treat people. Did you see that big fancy house? Did you see how those rich white folks were living up there, high on the hog, while those slaves…? That cow barn is nicer than their huts. They shouldn’t be treated like animals!” He paused, exhaling angrily. “That old woman? She could be my grandmother, Ike. I’ll bet I have aunts and uncles and cousins who are forced to live just like this. … Slaves are people! Human beings. We share the same blood.”

  Even though she knew the truth, Phoebe still had a hard time thinking of Ted as kin to those poor souls on Slave Row or the raggedy dock workers they’d seen. He was so smart and handsome and well educated. She’d seen the town in Pennsylvania where he lived, and it was worlds away from this place.

  And that must have been his grandmother’s dream, she realized—to see her daughter and grandchildren set free from this life, free to live in a mansion like the master’s. But what a hard decision it must have been to give her child away to strangers, knowing she would never see her again. Phoebe wondered what it would be like to be loved so much by someone that they would make such a sacrifice for you. She was quite certain that she would never know.

  “Say something, Ike. What are you thinking?” Ted asked.

  “Your grandmother must have loved your ma an awful lot to let her go like that, so she could have a better life.”

  “I suppose so. I never thought about it that way.” Ted drew a deep breath, then exhaled. “When we win this war, I’m going to find that plantation. I’m going to see if I can find my grandmother and bring her home to live with us.”

  “Sounds like a good plan. Do you know where it’s at?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he said in a low, calm voice, “We nearly drowned in that river today. If we had, we would have died for nothing. Now I’m not afraid to go into battle anymore, Ike, or to die if I have to. You were right in what you said this afternoon— I know why I’m in this war now. It’s for slaves like my grandmother. So they can be free. If I have to fight in order to win their freedom …well …I’m not afraid to do that anymore.”

  Ted’s words made Phoebe afraid. What if his sympathy for the slaves made him reckless and he started taking stupid chances? He could get himself killed.

  “Listen, Ted—”

  “Do you remember that outdoor church service we went to back in Washington?” he asked, interrupting. “Do you remember what the chaplain preached about?”

  Phoebe had been too nervous to hear a word. The only thing she remembered was talking to the young preacher who’d given her a Bible. “Um …not really,” she said. “That was a while ago.”

  “He read a Bible verse that said there’s no difference between slaves and free men, that we are all one in the Lord’s eyes. We ought to be the same in each other’s eyes, too. There should be no such thing as slavery. You’re right—we’re not fighting this war for General McClellan. We’re not giving up our homes and our families to follow him. We’re fighting the Lord’s battles. And if I’m going to give up everything I want in this life, I’m glad it’s for that.”

  Phoebe lay awake for a long time, thinking about Ted’s words. The next morning she saw where most of his rations were going. Ted took his food down to Slave Row and shared it with the old woman and the little children she tended. “We’re going to win your freedom,” he promised her. “You’ll see.”

  Phoebe left him there and went for a walk in the woods alone, following a well-worn path strewn with pine needles. The lush green forest, fragrant with the scent of mulch and pine and alive with the busy rattle of insects, reminded her of home. She crossed a small creek and came to a pond where frogs and turtles sunned themselves on the grassy banks. Even the trees were the same as home—sassafras, white oak, red cedar.

  She followed the path to where it ended in a small clearing in a pine grove. Tree trunks soared above her like pillars; the warm, humid air seemed hushed and reverent. But in the deep stillness that surrounded Phoebe, she suddenly felt as though she wasn’t alone, as though someone were whispering to her in the wind. She sat down on a log and took out her little Bible, turning through the waterwrinkled pages to the story the preacher had marked for her. She had already read it over and over, countless times, memorizing the story of the little man whose name she couldn’t pronounce, the outcast who had climbed a tree to see Jesus. But she read it through once again.

  This time, Phoebe remembered how the bridge beneath her feet had suddenly collapsed and how she had sunk beneath the swirling water and had nearly been swept away. Then, when she’d been certain she was lost, she’d cried out to God, and a hand had reached out for her, pulling her to safety.

  She read the last line of the outcast’s story again, wishing she understood what it really meant: “For the Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.”

  Chapter Twelve

  White House Landing, Virginia

  June 1862

  Julia lay in her berth aboard the passenger steamer Potomac Queen, listening to the steady thump of the paddlewheel as the ship chugged south, rising and falling on the swells. She tried to prepare herself for what lay ahead. Dr. McGrath had insisted she would not be able to cope with the aftermath of a battle, but she was determined to prove him wrong.

  Three days ago she had read an article in the morning paper about the battle that had taken place on the Virginia Peninsula near Fair Oaks, not far from the Confederate capital of Richmond. Alongside that article was another one about the U.S. Sanitary Commission’s efforts to outfit four passenger steamers as hospital ships. Volunteer nurses were needed on board to help transport wounded soldiers back to Washington. Julia had immediately gone to the Sanitary Commission’s offices to volunteer.

  “I’m a nurse at Fairfield Hospital,” she’d told them, “working under Dr. James McGrath. I read that there’s a need for nurses on your hospital ships, and I’ve come to volunteer.”

  “Can Dr. McGrath spare you?” the official asked.

  “He’s already down on the Peninsula, working as a fie
ld surgeon. Fairfield is virtually empty at the moment. If I served on one of your ships, I could accompany the wounded men back to my hospital.”

  “Excuse me for being blunt, but you look very young, Miss—”

  “It’s Mrs. Hoffman. I’m married.” The lie came so easily to her now that she almost believed it herself. “I know I look young, but the matrons at Fairfield will be very happy to provide references if you’d like.”

  “That won’t be necessary. We’re grateful for your help, Mrs. Hoffman. The army has established an evacuation hospital at White House Landing on the Pamunkey River. You can help us load the wounded on board and care for them on the return trip to Washington.”

  Julia felt a thrill of victory, as if she’d just won an important battle. She would be where she’d wanted to be at last—near a battlefield like Bull Run. No more linen rooms, no more measles patients, and no more Dr. McGrath. “Thank you so much,” she said.

  “No, Mrs. Hoffman—thank you.”

  The Potomac Queen was a small passenger steamer with tall black smokestacks and a sloshing paddlewheel. Food and medical supplies, donated to the Sanitary Commission by various charitable organizations, had been loaded on board in Washington. If Julia had been at home in Philadelphia living her former life, she and her friends would have likely raised funds, scraped lint, rolled bandages, and collected many of the other items the ship carried. She had done that sort of work in the past, but it hadn’t provided the deep satisfaction she’d felt the night she had comforted Ellis Miller as he lay dying. For that one brief moment, she’d felt as though her life finally mattered.

  Julia had already met some of the other nurses on board the Potomac Queen, mostly older women with children her own age. She hadn’t made any friends. Also volunteering were four Sisters of Charity, hospitaller nuns from the Mother House in Emmitsburg, Maryland. They seemed mysterious and exotic to Julia with their starched white wimples and winglike headpieces. The nuns and the other nurses had quietly kept to themselves throughout the trip. Julia wondered if they, too, were steeling themselves for what lay ahead.

  The journey had been a hot and humid one as the ship steamed down the Potomac River to Chesapeake Bay, then traveled up the winding Pamunkey River to its destination. As they neared White House Landing, Julia emerged from her cabin and stood at the rail beside one of the Sisters of Charity. On shore, the dark blue of countless uniforms came into view, blanketing the ground like a carpet. Row after row of white tents sprouted in the distance, much like the army bases she’d seen all aroundWashington before the Peninsula Campaign had begun. But even before the ship finished docking, the atmosphere in this camp seemed very different from the camps in Washington. No military bands played rousing tunes here; she saw no waving banners and heard none of the soldiers’ usual boisterous shouts—only a vague, mewling sound she couldn’t quite identify.

  Then she noticed the stench. Over the past few days she’d grown accustomed to the dank, fishy odor of the muddy river and salty air, but this was the fetid scent of rottenness and decay. It was the stench Dr. McGrath had tested her with on her first day at the hospital, and she recalled how he had laughed when she’d told him she would be prepared for it the next time. She certainly wasn’t. Julia pulled a scented handkerchief from her sleeve and held it to her nose, but it was a feeble gesture. The stench crawled inside her until she could even taste it on her tongue.

  The scene on shore was one of utter chaos, and no one seemed to be in charge. The ground near the landing was covered with blue-uniformed men, thousands and thousands of them, lying beneath the blazing June sun. She saw a line of flatcars with white awnings parked on a side rail and realized that the train bore a cargo of still more wounded men, packed together like freight. Above the squeal of gulls and the noise of the ship’s engines came the strange sound she’d heard from a distance, louder now—a heartrending chorus of moans and cries, the sound of grown men weeping, begging for help, for mercy. The sound sent shivers through her. None of the wounded men were receiving help of any kind as they waited for the hospital ships.

  “Dear Lord, have mercy on them,” the sister standing at the rail beside Julia said. “The Battle of Fair Oaks was four days ago. Those poor souls have been lying here all this time, waiting for help.”

  Julia was so horrified by the sheer number of wounded men that she couldn’t reply. Nor could she move. The paddlewheel had ceased to churn, and sailors had lowered the gangway into place so the passengers could disembark, but she couldn’t imagine stepping off the ship and into the nightmare on shore.

  “Well, then,” the nun said with a sigh, “I guess it’s time we went to work.” She took Julia’s arm as if they were old friends and propelled her forward down the gangway, following the other nuns and nurses.

  Julia stepped into the tide of wounded men as if wading into icy water. The soldiers’ cries rose to a clamor as they saw help arriving at last. Some reached out to the women, hanging on to the hems of their skirts, begging for help, crying out with pain and thirst. Dr. McGrath had been right—this was not at all like treating measles. Julia didn’t know where to begin. The other volunteer nurses looked equally overwhelmed.

  Julia looked down at the soldier nearest her feet. His muddy clothes were stiff with blood from a gaping stomach wound that had never been treated. Flies buzzed all around him. His eyes stared sightlessly into the sky. She quickly turned away from the gruesome sight and saw that the soldier on the other side of her was in his death throes, his final gasping breaths rattling in his throat. All around her she saw men with pallid faces, streaked with blood and mud, men with shattered arms and legs.

  Julia’s entire body began to tremble as she went into shock. She had wanted to offer comfort as she had with Ellis Miller, but this scene was beyond comprehension. How could she comfort three thousand men? She didn’t know enough words, didn’t possess enough strength to face such enormous need. She turned her back on the suffering men, just as she had at Bull Run, and ran toward the ship. Nothing had changed. She hadn’t changed.

  She didn’t stop running until she was back on the steamer’s deck, gulping huge breaths of tainted air, trying desperately not to be sick. Her arms and legs felt shaky and out of control. The world seemed to be spinning dizzily.

  Just when she feared she would faint, one of the Sisters of Charity grabbed Julia and forced her to sit down on a deck chair, then shoved her head down between her knees. “Keep your head down until the dizziness passes,” she commanded.

  “I made a terrible mistake,” Julia said, weeping. Her skirt muffled her voice. “I never should have come here.”

  “That is undoubtedly true. But listen to me. Those poor souls need help, and there’s no time to go back to Washington and find another nurse to replace you. You have no choice but to do it.”

  “I can’t! It’s too horrible to look at …to listen to.” She covered her ears to try to block out the pitiful cries, but there was no remedy for the terrible smell. “I can’t do this. I can’t!”

  “None of us can do this on our own. But our Heavenly Father can give us the strength and courage to face hell itself if we ask Him to—and that’s what this place is.”

  “I don’t know how to …I’ve never seen such…”

  “Of course you haven’t. Do you think there is anything in my life at the convent in Maryland that prepared me for this? It’s horrifying to witness such suffering. But I’ve been praying for God’s strength all the way here. And now I’m praying that those men will see compassion in my eyes, not horror. On my own, I could never cope with this for one moment. But I know that God has called me to be here. Has He called you?”

  Julia remembered God’s benediction the night Ellis died, the conviction she’d had that He wanted her to serve in His name. “Yes …I once believed that He did, but I…”

  “Good. Then you can do this. Like the Apostle Paul, we can do all things through Christ who strengthens us.”

  The nun was right. That
was how Julia had gotten through the night with Ellis. She had asked God for help, and He’d given it to her. Only her foolish pride had led her to believe she could cope with this on her own. It galled her to realize that Dr. McGrath had known her better than she knew herself.

  “I’m Sister Irene,” the nun said. “What’s your name?”

  “Julia Hoffman.”

  “Do you know Jesus Christ, Julia? Do you know how to pray?”

  “Yes, Sister. I-I do.”

  “Good. Now lift your head. Stand up, slowly. Start praying for strength, and don’t stop until this is over. Don’t look at how many thousands of them there are. Look at each man as a single suffering 188 soul. Help him. Then help the next one and the next. One at a time.”

  “I don’t know what to say to them.”

  “A good many of these men are going to die. They don’t need to hear beautiful words. They need to see Jesus Christ in you, giving them a cup of cold water in His name, offering His love and compassion.”

  The nun circled her arm around Julia’s waist and led her down the gangway again and onto the shore. “Remember the words of Isaiah: ‘They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength …they shall walk, and not faint.”’

  “Thank you,” Julia whispered shakily.

  She looked around at the horrific scene again, wondering where to begin. One of the Sanitary Commission’s doctors had taken charge, dividing up all the work that needed to be done, issuing orders. He frowned as he looked at Julia’s face, which she knew must be deathly pale.

  “Fill a bucket with water,” he told her. “There’s a pump outside the train station. These men need something to drink in this hot sun.”

  The contrabands were already busy unloading crates of medical supplies, food, and empty buckets from the hospital ship’s holds. Julia took a dipper and one of the buckets and made her way through the sea of uniformed bodies to the pump. She recited the Lord’s Prayer beneath her breath as she walked, trying not to look at the mangled bodies, trying not to gag at the wretched smell of death that surrounded her. A Negro woman standing outside the depot helped her pump water.