by Lyn Cote
“Finish that coffee,” Honoree said, breaking into Faith’s thoughts, “and then we best get to sleep. Who knows what will come tomorrow.”
Faith nodded, feeling how weak she was with exhaustion. No wonder she’d slipped into this foolish mood. She would sleep tonight—if the dreams, the nightmares over Shiloh didn’t wake her.
In his shirtsleeves back inside his tent, Dev sat on a canvas camp stool and ate the simple meal Armstrong had prepared for him. He gazed at his unconscious cousin, letting memories roll over him. Their boyhood in Maryland. The Mexican War. Jack’s brother, Bellamy … He felt splintered and broken into jagged pieces that could cut and gouge him.
As Armstrong brushed Dev’s navy-blue linen jacket before hanging it up for the night, he sang softly, “‘When I lay my burden down, all my troubles will be over, when I lay my burden down.’”
Dev felt all the old burdens weighing down on him. How had it come to this? Bellamy was long dead. Jack lay near death. The country was killing itself, and he and Armstrong were far from home—and likely the next to die. The Quaker’s question poked him—“Why wait? … He is already free.”
With both hands Dev scrubbed his face and eyes, burning with fatigue. “Armstrong?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you.” He could say no more. He couldn’t imagine life without Armstrong, especially now in this fight to the death.
“We’ll do the best we can, sir.”
Dev nodded, yawning. Then he let Armstrong pull off his boots. “I’ll take the first watch. You sleep.”
“Sir, you will have duties tomorrow.”
Dev gripped Armstrong’s shoulder. “I know. I’m tired, but I don’t think I’ll sleep right away. You rest, and I’ll wake you when I begin to nod off.”
Armstrong removed his own boots and moved toward a makeshift pallet on the ground.
“No,” Dev said sharply, “you sleep on your cot as usual. He’s my cousin. He took my bed, not yours.”
“But—”
“Good night, Armstrong.”
Armstrong shrugged and lay down on his cot.
Dev sipped his coffee and listened as the camp outside their tent quieted for the night. His cousin lay still without moving. The face of Miss Cathwell came to mind. He saw so little beauty in this dreadful war that he couldn’t dismiss hers. A Quakeress, probably an abolitionist, nursing his cousin—what next? And who was this Shiloh the other woman had spoken of? What had happened to her?
Just after dawn Faith approached the camp hospital with Honoree beside her. Last night they’d helped in the surgical tents for the newly wounded. Today they would carry out their regular duties with the recovering patients at the hospital that had been set up in a large, empty cotton warehouse near a destroyed railroad yard. Faith tried not to dread another hot day of bad smells, gruesome sights, hard work, and disrespect—the last of these almost the hardest to take in stride. She and Honoree came prepared for the day, carrying buckets of water over their right arms and cloth sacks of fresh bandages over their left.
Then Faith heard the sound of muffled weeping. She stopped, seeking the source of the lament. She walked around the warehouse, the sound becoming louder with each step.
Behind a shady elm she found a pretty, very young woman with pale-blonde hair, her forehead pressed against the rough bark of the tree.
“What is the matter?” Faith asked softly.
The girl straightened up and began to wipe her tear-washed face with her hands. She turned to leave.
Faith offered the girl a handkerchief. “May I help?”
The young woman couldn’t speak for a few moments, so Faith patted her shoulder gently, calming her. She was dressed very simply in a blue cambric dress, not fashionable but modest. She wore a poke bonnet that had slipped down and hung on her back. “I … I thought I could volunteer. You know … help around the hospital. My husband is a new recruit.”
Faith nodded, sorry to hear another wife had been brought along to the war. “And what was so upsetting?”
“One of the doctors told me he got enough women messin’ in his business. He didn’t need one more.” She hiccuped.
Faith frowned slightly. “Let me guess. This doctor was tall with red hair and—”
“And a rude mouth,” Honoree added, coming up behind Faith.
“Yes,” she said, eyeing Honoree.
“Thee wishes to help with the wounded?” Faith asked.
Now the girl stared at her. “‘Thee’? Are you a Quaker?”
“Yes, I am a Quaker. Does thee wish to help?”
She nodded, still staring at Faith with an occasional peek at Honoree.
“The man who was rude to thee is Dr. Dyson, but he is not in charge of the hospital. Captain Slattery is the head of the hospital and Dr. Bryant is the head surgeon. Both of them would welcome thy help. Has thee nursed before?”
“Just family.”
“What is thy name?”
“Ella—I mean, Mrs. Landon McCullough.”
Faith introduced herself and Honoree. “Come with us,” she invited, gesturing toward the rear entrance. “We’ll help thee begin. We need all the help offered us.” Faith put an encouraging smile on her face, though on days like this, that didn’t come easy. With each step today, thoughts of the wounded Rebel and of his cousin, the colonel, plagued Faith. That kind of situation made this war all the more distressing. The enemy was not an unknown people but their own kin, brother against brother, father against son.
Ella stayed close to Faith as they entered the hospital. Faith greeted the other nurses on duty and watched for the head surgeon. With Ella as her shadow, she stopped by each patient assigned to her, examined their dressings, and helped them feel as comfortable as possible on their canvas cots.
A few times she discreetly sprinkled an herb onto a wound she was rebandaging. She could tell that the young wife beside her wanted to know what she was doing, but Faith forestalled her questions with a glance that said, Later.
The captain of the Sanitary Commission hospital unit—Slattery, a short, thin man in his thirties who always looked sour—entered the warehouse and came straight to Honoree as if she were a magnet and he iron. “You, girl,” he snapped. “Go out by the pump and wash last night’s bedpans.”
Faith and Honoree froze where they stood.
“Captain, we’ve discussed this,” Faith began in a gentle tone. “Honoree is a trained nurse—”
“She’s here, and the work must be done.”
“Then I’ll—”
He cut her off again. “I decide who does what.”
With a fulminating shake of her head, Honoree marched out the far door in resentful obedience.
“Captain,” Faith pressed on before he could leave, “another moment. This is Ella McCullough. She has offered to volunteer.”
“Fine. I’ll expect you to train her.” The captain walked away without looking back.
Faith made a face at his back and then composed herself. She must think of some way to keep Honoree from being so disrespected. If only Dr. Bryant were here, she could have appealed to him. The wounded Rebel’s similarly sharp reprimand to Honoree rang through her mind: “You need to be put in your place, girl.” The memory tightened her resolve to obtain for Honoree the respect she deserved.
“He doesn’t seem very nice,” Ella whispered to Faith.
Sending the girl a glance of agreement, Faith started toward the nearest patient.
Ella kept up with her. “How can that black girl be a trained nurse?”
Faith sighed as she heard the disbelief in the girl’s tone. “I attended a school for midwifery in Pennsylvania, and so did Honoree.” Though even in that Quaker school, Honoree had been forced to sit at the back of the class alone, separate, as if her black skin were contagious.
“Oh, my,” Ella replied, looking shocked.
Faith shook this off, trying to focus on her next patient.
“Hello, miss,” he said with a tentative smile.
The man nodded his thanks.
Folding back the sheet, she worked efficiently on his shoulder wound. She felt Ella watching her every move, and though the girl gasped, she didn’t turn away. Faith did not look back, letting the girl have some privacy as she confronted the dreadful sight. Finally Faith sprinkled herbs over the wound before securing the new bandage. “I will be coming in later to take down letters. Will thee wish me to write one for thee?”
“Yes, please. To my wife—”
“What did you put on that wound?” Dr. Dyson barked.
She jumped and bumped into Ella. He’d come in so quietly she hadn’t noticed him.
“Lemon verbena,” Faith replied, keeping her voice even. Among other herbs. “It is fragrant, and in this place a pleasant smell might be welcome.” She looked at her patient. “Does thee agree?”
“Yes.” The man smiled at her. “Reminds me of my home. I recognized the scent but didn’t know what it was called. My mother must have used it around the house. Nice.”
Faith nodded, then looked sideways. “Good morning, Doctor. I hope thee slept well.” It would be nice if thee got up on the right side of the bed for once.
Dyson glowered at her. “You’re just a nurse, not a doctor.”
She let her brows rise. “Of course, and I am trying to nurse my patients.” She kept her tone even with only a slight edge to it. She must not let Dyson know how his insults needled her. And the way he maligned her skills.
Ella stayed behind Faith, no doubt trying not to be noticed. Dyson leaned closer to Faith as if trying to intimidate her.
She smiled serenely and went about her work, attempting to ignore him. She moved to the next patient, Ella still trailing her, and began changing the dressing on what was left of his arm.
“Wait!” Dyson barked. “I told that young woman with you to make herself scarce.”
“Is there a problem?” The voice of the head surgeon rolled over them.
Faith and Dr. Dyson turned toward him. Dr. Bryant was in his late forties. Compact and bearded, the senior surgeon always presented himself as professional and efficient, unlike Dr. Dyson, who generally looked as though he’d slept in his clothes.
Faith liked the head surgeon. He valued nurses, in contrast to so many of the other doctors.
“No problem, sir,” Dr. Dyson replied.
Dr. Bryant stared at him until Dyson finally excused himself and walked away, muttering about a patient.
Then Dr. Bryant faced Faith. “Nurse Cathwell, I wanted to speak to you about our staffing. I think we need more help, and I think you’re the one to spearhead that task. I want the nurses to concentrate on caring for patients, not performing menial chores. With the upcoming assault on Vicksburg …” He let his voice trail off, not verbalizing that there would be many more patients to come.
“Of course, Doctor, if thee thinks I am able.” She gestured toward Ella. “This young soldier’s wife, Ella McCullough, has offered to help at the hospital.”
Dr. Bryant bowed. “Ma’am, we thank you. Do you have any experience with nursing?”
“Only when I helped my ma with the young’uns,” Ella said with a curtsy. “I just thought I should offer to help in any way I can.”
Dr. Bryant considered her. “We will put you to work, then. Why don’t you go to the back and help roll the freshly laundered bandages?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I think I could do that. Easy.”
The head surgeon smiled and motioned for her to move to the rear of the warehouse. Ella whispered her thanks to Faith and headed toward the stack of laundry.
Dr. Bryant stepped closer to Faith. “Nurse Cathwell, back to our need for more hands to help. You seem able to evaluate and deal with black people. I confess I do not understand them.” He gave an impatient shake of his head. “But we must use all available hands. Be sure to get hard workers.”
The pervasive idea that blacks were shiftless rankled Faith. “I’m certain I can find good workers.”
“Laundresses, orderlies, and maids. Several of each.” He finished by stating that the pay would be four dollars a month.
Faith felt a wave of relief. Now Honoree wouldn’t be relegated to bedpans when she should be nursing. And the nursing staff might be a little more ready to cope with the aftermath of the upcoming battle. Elated at the doctor’s decision, Faith finished her rounds, then went outside to seek Honoree.
She found her friend at the pump, muttering to herself in the shade of the overhanging roof. Faith took over pumping so her friend could finish up more quickly. As she worked, Faith explained Dr. Bryant’s request. Then they both scrubbed their hands with the soap they carried in little wooden boxes in their apron pockets.
“Are you going to check on that Rebel today?” Honoree asked as they returned the bedpans to the hospital. Evidently she hadn’t been able to let go of that situation either.
Faith didn’t want to reply. “Thee will not like my answer,” she cautioned.
Honoree made a sound of disgust, frowning.
Finally, before returning into the scorching sun, they both drew up their full-brimmed Quaker-style bonnets, which had been hanging down their backs.
With a wave toward Ella, who was still rolling bandages, they set out for the contraband camp. Faith hated that name. Contraband was the term for confiscated property. Why did the Union Army still refer to former slaves as property? Weren’t they fighting on the side of abolition?
Honoree remained silent as if still wordlessly scolding Faith, who tried to ignore it. Soldiers sat around camp in whatever shade they could find. Even though it was morning, the summerlike heat was wilting Faith’s starched collar and cuffs.
Honoree let out a sound of disgust. “That young army wife can’t be sixteen yet.”
Faith had thought the same. What had forced the young woman to follow her husband into war?
“Miss Cathwell!” Colonel Knight hailed her from behind. “I was just coming to look for you.”
She and Honoree turned, her friend stiffening beside her.
“Him again,” Honoree muttered, sniffing in disapproval.
A mix of reactions churned in Faith’s midsection. The most surprising was the lift at seeing this man again. “We are on our way to the contraband camp if thee wishes to join us.”
Coming alongside them, the colonel nodded but said nothing, Honoree’s obvious animosity possibly constraining him.
“We are seeking to hire some more hospital staff there,” Faith said.
“You, of course,” Honoree said to the colonel, her tone belligerent, “think that these escaped slaves should have stayed with their masters.”
Ignoring her tart comment without rancor, Dev kept his motive for seeking them out today to himself. “I am sorry that I irritate you, but I have seen the runaways coming to the Union Army for shelter ever since we started out from Tennessee. Are they any better off here in such wretched conditions than with their masters at home?”
Faith laid a restraining hand on Honoree’s arm. “I cannot disagree that the conditions in the contraband camp are dreadful. But right now we have an opportunity to find a few we can help. What can I do for thee, Colonel?”
Honoree’s jaw hardened but she said no more.
Dev didn’t want to speak in front of her. He chose to bide his time and merely said it could wait.
The Quakeress let this pass.
The three of them continued toward the railroad depot surrounded by the wrecked and upturned rails. Dev hated this wanton waste. “We destroyed their railroad to keep them from using it to move men and supplies.”
“This war is their doing,” Honoree said bitterly.
“War
is destructive beyond any civilian’s imagining,” Faith murmured, trying to smooth over the tension between the two. “Sometimes I wonder if anything will be left,” she whispered.
Or anyone. Dev kept this thought to himself. How had he managed to survive nearly three years of war? And this was the second war for him.
He, Faith, and Honoree neared the contraband area, guarded by Union soldiers. The contraband camp was increasing by the hour, it seemed. Every manner of fleeing slave gathered in the shade of the depot building and sparse trees, fanning themselves with hats and rags. The human suffering he saw etched on the faces that turned to them deepened his own gloom and restlessness. He didn’t want to be here.
They approached the sentry.
“Why do they need to be guarded like prisoners?” Honoree asked.
“It’s for their protection too,” Dev was goaded into saying. “The armies are always moving. And civilians around here don’t like runaway slaves.”
Honoree looked the other way as if he hadn’t spoken.
Fine. He leaned close to Faith’s ear, finally coming to the point. “Miss Cathwell, when you’re done here, would you have time to come to my tent?”
She nodded, but was it to his request or just to the sentry who was allowing them to pass?
Faith hurried ahead of him and Honoree as if to distance herself from the conflict.
Dev followed her while the black girl turned toward a nearby group of escaped slaves. He overheard Honoree say, “I’m bringing an offer of work, but I’m also looking for someone. Her name is Shiloh Langston… .”
Then he couldn’t hear any more as he accompanied Faith toward a cluster of women with small children just inside the depot entrance. She introduced herself as a nurse. “I am looking for laundresses. Do any of thee have experience doing large loads of laundry?”
“What you need large loads for, ma’am?” one very thin woman asked.
“The hospital needs more workers. If thee can do the work, it would be a job.”
“It a payin’ job?”
“Of course.”
“You a Quaker?” another woman interrupted.
Faith nodded.
Dev could not help but notice the way the slaves relaxed at the revelation that Faith was a Quaker. These abolitionists were hated throughout the South by virtually everyone but the slaves. How did they even know about Quakers?
