He wasn’t surprised to find Nurse Emily at the center of it all. Evidently, she’d been quite busy during her time of convalescence—or at least, someone in her household had been.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded when she stepped over to meet him.
There was an uncut pie in her hands, a smile pasted on her sunburned face. “Just trying to pass on a little kindness to the men,” she said.
No doubt. “They are prescribed three proper meals per day.”
“Yes, but a soldier can only stomach beef, beans and rice for so long. Do not worry. I have followed your orders concerning their diets.”
He had noticed that. Those on full diet were hungrily devouring thick slices; those on half, only mashed peaches. Prisoners prescribed low diet had received just a spoonful or two of syrup. He could not argue she had disobeyed his orders. He also realized that not only were the rebels enjoying the treat, his soldiers were, as well. One of the orderlies had crumbs lodged in his beard.
Nurse Emily seemed quite pleased with herself as she then offered up the pie in her hands.
“This one is for you,” she said. “I wanted to thank you again for your kindness toward me the other day.”
A whiff of the sugar and cinnamon drifted past his nose. His mouth watered. Peach pie was his favorite, and Mary had made it quite often. But it wasn’t Mary who had baked this pie. He seriously doubted Nurse Emily had done it, either.
* * *
“Did one of your slaves bake that pie?”
Emily lowered her best defense, stunned. One of my slaves? Why would he think...? Has he seen Joshua? Does he automatically assume that just because I am a Southerner I think men and women should be kept in chains?
Or, she wondered, is he one of those Yankees who believe in emancipation but not equality? Does he refuse to eat food prepared by a Negro?
Emily’s face burned, but it was not because of the sun. She was just about to tell the man what she thought of his haughty attitude, but something nudged her inside. Giving in to anger will solve nothing. It will set another bad example for the wounded and it may just cost me the opportunity to minister to them further.
She took a deep breath. “I made this pie,” she said, “with the assistance of my friend, Abigail. She is a free woman.”
His jaw shifted, but what that meant, Emily had no idea. Once more, she gave her most convincing smile and lifted the dish high.
“We thought perhaps you might enjoy something freshly baked, as a reminder of home.”
He did not sniff. He did not show any interest whatsoever. He just stood there, rigid, like the statue atop the city’s 1812 war memorial.
And with a heart just as cold, she thought.
Emily tried, goodness knows she did, but beyond what had happened to his brother, she could not feel one ounce of Christian charity toward this man. What she did feel was determination. She would not let him get the best of her. She would not give him an excuse to dismiss her from service.
I will conquer this enemy if it takes me until the end of the war, and I will do it with a smile. “If you do not particularly care for peach,” she said, “I understand. By all means, share it with someone else.”
She set the pie on the table beside him. She smiled once more, though by now her cheeks were aching. Walking away leisurely, she collected the empty plates and forks. She could feel his eyes upon her.
Jeremiah offered to take away the dirty dishes. Emily handed them over, then went to check on Freddy.
“Are you in any pain?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, not really.” He grinned. “That Yankee is gonna surrender yet—you just wait.”
Jimmy leaned over from his bed. “If he don’t, can we have the pie?”
“I will bake you another.”
Emily had already decided if Dr. Mackay didn’t claim the dessert, it would sit on that table come mice or mold. By the time she returned the next morning, however, it was gone.
Victory, she thought, until Mrs. Danforth brought her the empty dish.
“Here you go, dearie, and thank you. The night orderlies said to tell you it was delicious.”
Emily blinked. “The night orderlies?”
“Yes. Dr. Mackay insisted they have the pie.”
Hmph. So the contest of wills continues, she thought. We shall see who is the first to yield.
* * *
The summer days were long and despite Emily’s best efforts, homesickness and despair were rampant in the wards.
The Federal chaplains were overwhelmed with their own men’s spiritual needs, so the commanding officers granted the Christian Commission’s request to conduct church services in the hospital.
Reverend Henry was assigned to Emily’s section. She couldn’t have been more pleased. His kindhearted demeanor garnered respect from everyone around him. Even Dr. Mackay attended the first service, but only to stand at the back wall and glare.
The Confederate men sang the hymns with as much enthusiasm as their tired bodies could manage. A few grew disinterested when the preaching began, but most continued to listen. Many had shown interest in spiritual matters after their experiences on the battlefield. Emily prayed they would comprehend the message of love and forgiveness that Reverend Henry was presenting.
Her heart ached for them. The thought of so many soldiers, both blue and gray, going off to fight and not being prepared for eternity pierced her soul. It was the main reason she did what she did. Repairing broken bodies was important, but leading men to the ultimate healer was essential.
Midway through the sermon, without warning, Dr. Mackay stormed out of the room. Emily watched him go. She supposed the thought of forgiveness extended to “rebels” was simply too much for him to bear.
How sad.
She wondered exactly what he believed. He never spoke of God. He never spoke of anything personal, for that matter. Though weeks had passed since his arrival, Emily knew very little about the man. Had he any family beyond his late brother? Was he married?
Is there anyone who prays for him?
She of course had been doing so, but her requests for thawing his icy spirit were strictly of the utilitarian nature. Emily wanted him to show more kindness to the wounded, that was all. Displaying charity in the midst of such hatred and torment would give the wounded a glimpse of God’s Love.
Suddenly she was sickened by her own hypocrisy. As Reverend Henry spoke of repentance and grace, she felt the need for it herself.
Oh Lord, forgive me. I have thought that I am somehow better than Dr. Mackay. But I have viewed him exactly as he does me. As an enemy, good for nothing but injury and trouble, one to be watched, worn down and defeated.
As she surveyed her wounded charges, the ones she believed God’s heart ached for, tears filled her eyes. I have never once considered You have a plan for his life as well. That You love that surly Yankee doctor as much as You love these men.
Chapter Five
July melted into August. Emily changed dressings, distributed army-approved newspapers and Bibles and did her best to be kind to Dr. Mackay. When he stopped probing wounds long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow, she brought him cups of cold water. She washed the floors when he told her to do so without complaint, although often times the scrubwomen had already seen to the task. Whenever possible, she treated him and the rest of the men in the ward to fresh pie.
It took three tries, but he finally claimed a slice.
“Thank you,” he said curtly.
Emily smiled. It was progress.
He still barked orders but at least those directed at her were a little less cutting. For that, she was grateful.
New wounded arrived almost daily, and prisoners the Federal doctors deemed fit for travel were sent on. Jimmy and Freddy were forced to give up their beds, Rob, as well. Edward had mercifully survived the ward master’s daily roll calls thus far, but Emily knew his days were numbered. The damage done to his body was healing, but the s
cars to his mind and spirit were taking much longer.
His family came to sit with him each day. By now it was obvious Julia was expecting a child. Though her face glowed with maternal joy, Emily could tell the worry for her brother weighed heavily upon her.
“How much longer before they send him on?” she asked one afternoon as Emily filled the water pitchers.
“I don’t know, but spend as much time with him as possible until then. Keep talking to him. I believe it is making a difference.”
“Are they still exchanging prisoners?”
“Yes.” Emily did not tell her the rumors she was hearing among the stewards, rumors that the Federal army would stop the exchanges and hold all remaining Confederates until the end of the war.
Trudy and Elizabeth at least had no fear of such for their brother. They had recently received word that George was safe. Emily imagined he was somewhere south of the Potomac, although she did not know for certain. In a city controlled by Northern soldiers, it was better not to know specifics with friends still marching in the Confederate army.
One week later Mrs. Danforth took ill and resigned her post as night matron. Emily was completely surprised when the duty supervisor approached her and asked if she would like the job.
“Would I?”
The offer was considered a promotion, recognition for a job well done. The fact that the U.S. Army was offering her a paid position in spite of her suspected loyalties was stunning. There was, after all, the matter of the amended oath she had signed.
When Emily had first come to work at the West’s Buildings she had been required to sign an oath of loyalty. The pledges were nothing new in Baltimore. People had been asked, sometimes forced, to sign them since the beginning of the war.
Back then a citizen promised to bear true allegiance to the United States and to support and sustain the Constitution. Emily’s family believed wholeheartedly in the document, especially the Tenth Amendment, reserving certain powers to the states. Because of that they originally had no trouble with the agreement. Over time, however, as fear and vengeance spread, the oaths were expanded. Now they included language stating that giving “aid” or “consorting with the enemy” was strictly forbidden. Though Emily had no desire to make war or see it continue, she could not in good conscience sign such a promise.
Her friends, her fellow Marylanders, were this “enemy.” If Stephen Hastings, George Martin or Edward Stanton ever showed up on her doorstep hungry, sick or bleeding, she would help them.
“With all due respect, sir,” Emily had told the Federal officer that day, “I cannot sign this oath.”
“If you cannot sign, then you cannot volunteer in this hospital.”
Emily had looked about her. The docks had been full of dying men, Marylanders, Virginians, Pennsylvanians and others who had suffered so terribly at Antietam Creek. She could not turn her back on them, yet she could not lie concerning her convictions. So she’d done the only thing she could think of. Dipping her pen in the ink, she’d found the line forbidding her to comfort the enemy. She’d crossed it out, then signed her name. Sally, Trudy and Elizabeth had each done the same.
The Federal officer had looked at them incredulously, but he did not dismiss them. Now, nearly a year later, here she was standing before another officer.
“You have been recommended for this position,” he said. “Will you accept it?”
“Yes, sir. Most certainly.”
He tipped his kepi and smiled. “Thank you, miss. You will fill a great need. You are to finish out today’s duties and then report tomorrow evening at sunset.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
He started to turn. Emily’s curiosity got the better of her.
“If I may ask, sir, who was it that gave you the recommendation?”
She expected him to say it was Dr. Turner or perhaps Reverend Henry. You could have knocked her over with a feather when the answer came.
“By all means, miss. It was Dr. Mackay.”
* * *
Evan had just stepped out of the dining hall when she came running to meet him. Nurse Emily held her skirts just above the ankles so her petticoats would not catch her feet. He was immediately reminded of Mary, thrashing through the garden, telegram in hand as she hurried to tell him the dreadful news of Andrew’s death.
He shoved the memory aside. The Maryland woman’s eyes were not full of pain, but excitement. He knew exactly why.
“Oh, Dr. Mackay, I must thank you!”
The look on her face was genuine, not that Southern belle simper she had worn since the beginning of his time here. In fact, in the past few weeks he had noted quite a change in her. He wasn’t certain what to make of it. The looks she gave were less treacherous and she seemed more willing to accept Federal authority.
At least it appears that way.
He still didn’t trust her, but she was arguably the best nurse in the wards. She worked efficiently. The plaster adhesives and linen bandages he was constantly inspecting testified she was a knowledgeable and capable caregiver.
Like it or not, the Johnnies are taken with her. They follow her instructions and she follows mine. She is fully capable of supervising a ward full of snoring rebs and the guards are competent enough to supervise her.
He needn’t worry, yet a nagging voice inside his head told him he should.
She’s a Baltimore woman. She’ll do anything for the sake of her beloved cause.
“Thank you for recommending me for night nurse,” she said. She smiled, blue eyes wide and innocent. It was a look that Evan found almost attractive, until he thought better of it.
“Nurse Emily,” he said, leveling a stern gaze. “See to it that you do not make me regret my recommendation.”
“I wouldn’t even think of doing so, Doctor.”
He dismissed her, and she quickly rushed off. Evan wondered if she had indeed spoken truth. He seriously doubted it.
By taking night duty she probably thinks she will be rid of me, that she’ll be free to encourage disunion while I am snoring away upstairs in my room, dreaming of whatever we Yankees are supposed to be dreaming of.
He grunted. Well, she is wrong.
He had not gotten a decent night’s sleep since his arrival in Baltimore. His memory would not allow it. He checked the floors so often he should be claiming the night watchman’s pay.
He would be observant, and if he caught her in any secessionist activity, he would immediately report her to hospital command. Then Little Miss Baltimore will find herself out on Pratt Street, this time without any stones to throw.
* * *
Emily arrived at sunset the following evening. The men lit up with smiles the moment she walked in.
“Miss Emily!” one of them said. “Look, y’all! Miss Emily is back!”
At the far end of the room, Rebekah was just finishing with the medications. Emily went to her.
“Have you been assigned to this section?”
“Yes. Just this morning. Dr. Mackay requested it.”
Emily was not surprised. Rebekah gave no doubt to where her loyalties lay. She, like Mrs. Danforth, wore a blue ribbon rosette on her apron.
Two years ago Emily would have balked at this woman in her ward, but not now. Time had softened Rebekah’s delivery of political opinions. She no longer referred to Confederate sympathizers as rebel traitors. She simply called them men.
“I am glad you are here,” Emily said. “The wounded are in capable hands.”
Rebekah smiled, but then her expression darkened. “Julia was here again today. I worry about her. The strain is showing on her face. I can’t believe Sam and her father allow her to stay so long.”
“I may be to blame for that,” Emily said. “I told her to spend as much time as possible with Edward. I fear they will send him on very soon.”
“Indeed. Dr. Mackay inferred that just this morning.”
Emily sucked in her breath. “Has Edward spoken to you?”
“Not a
word. When I brought him his dinner tray, he only nibbled at it. Dr. Mackay called his condition ‘chronic nostalgia.’”
Emily wondered how such a pleasant-sounding term could describe such a dark condition. “Did he suggest any treatments?”
“No, at least not to me. Perhaps you should speak with him.”
“Perhaps.”
Rebekah gave her an overview of the rest of the men, then bid Emily good-night. Around nine the orderlies came in to turn down the lamps. Emily kept one burning near Private Josiah Bush’s bed. The poor boy, only seventeen, was weak and pale, ravaged by dysentery. She set her chair beside him. He seemed to welcome her company.
“That’s right nice of you, Miss Emily,” he said. “I like it when you are around.”
She brushed back the hair from his forehead. His fever was high. “Are you cold?”
“Yes’um.”
She found him an extra blanket and tucked it around him tightly.
“Thank you,” he said weakly. “Do you have any stories with you?”
“Do I? I brought an entire basketful.” Mrs. Danforth had been known to spend evening hours reading newspapers or literature to the men. Emily wished to do the same.
He grinned, though his red-rimmed eyes showed his discomfort. A soldier to his right pushed up on his elbows.
“What did you bring?” he asked.
“Oh, well, let me see...Charles Dickens, a collection of Shakespeare, a few Harper’s Weeklys...”
“Did you bring a Bible?” Josiah asked. “My mama used to read me stories out of it when I was younger.”
Emily was touched. “I do have a Bible. Is there a particular story you would care to hear?”
“I was always partial to Daniel in the lion’s den.”
She smiled. “I like that one, as well.”
Emily pulled the lamp a little closer to her shoulder, then turned to the Old Testament. A few disinterested yawns drifted about her, but by the time God had shut the lion’s mouth, every man that could sit upright was doing so. Even Edward appeared to be listening intently.
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