She had hidden herself away, to be sure, but she had kept her weekends free, and not a single invitation had been delivered. She suspected her lack of social acceptance had more to do with her origins than her study habits. And if Boston society thrust her out, Roger would soon desert her too. In the heart of Massachusetts, how popular could a Rebel-loving politician be?
It was time to go home. Now that she’d accomplished her goals, she could be the doctor she had always wanted to be. She had made her father a promise, and she fully intended to keep it.
Turning from the window, she stood and gave her maid a broad smile. “Yes, Charity. We’ll go home just as soon as we settle things in Boston.”
“Flanna!” Roger burst through the doorway, his eyes blazing and his body as tense as a bowstring. Flanna lifted her chin, ready to brace herself against his list of excuses and rationalizations.
“Flanna, dearest!” His eyes brimmed with emotion as he came forward and grasped her elbows. “I came as soon as I heard. I knew you’d want me to be with you.”
“How could you hear so soon?” Flanna asked. “I’ve only just learned the news myself.”
A tremor passed over Roger’s face. “You’ve heard already?”
“Of course I’ve heard. I was there.” She repressed the urge to stamp her foot in exasperation. “You weren’t. You promised you’d be here when I came out of the examination room, but—”
“Your exams!” A sudden spasm of grief knit his brows. “I’m sorry, dearest, but this is far more important than your test!” His grip on her arms tightened. “Darling, the Confederates have fired on Fort Sumter! At four-thirty in the morning yesterday the Rebels opened fire, and the garrison surrendered! The Union flag was lowered in defeat, dishonored!”
Flanna hesitated, blinking with bafflement. “So this means—?”
“War, darling.” Roger relaxed his hold on her arms and brought his hands to her cheeks. “It’s unavoidable. So kiss me now, before I go see Mother. She’s certain to be in a dither at this news, and she can never find her smelling salts when she needs them.”
Before Flanna could protest or answer, his mouth covered hers hungrily, taking the kiss he had sought for months. When he pulled away, he patted her cheek. “I’ll make arrangements for you, Flanna, before I go. You can stay with Mother while we put an end to the trouble, then we’ll be married in the wedding you’ve always dreamed of.”
“Roger—” She tried to speak, but words would not come. Her anger had evaporated, leaving only confusion, and Roger was moving away, toward the door and the bustling street.
“I’ll come to you tonight,” he promised, walking out the door. “Wait for me.”
While she watched through the window, Roger climbed into the waiting carriage and ordered the driver to go.
Mixed feelings surged through Flanna as she and Charity walked back to the boardinghouse. The major event of the morning—her examination—seemed a lifetime removed, like an event from a distant past. The breaking news about Fort Sumter traveled through Boston like a wind-whipped grassfire; drivers called out to one another, and women gasped in delighted horror as they greeted each other with the news. In a sudden epidemic of patriotic fervor, merchants rifled their storage rooms for bolts of red, white, and blue bunting. The storefronts along Washington Street seemed to have bloomed in a patriotic frenzy since breakfast.
“Miss Flanna,” Charity whispered, edging closer to her mistress’s side, “I’m scared. If those Yankee girls at the boardinghouse were mean to us before this, how mean are they gonna be now?”
“I don’t know, Charity.” Flanna lowered her head as they quickened their steps. “But I don’t want to tarry and find out.”
Outside of T. R. Burnham’s, Flanna caught sight of Mrs. Gower, a close friend of Mrs. Haynes’s. Since Flanna had welcomed the new year at Mrs. Gower’s holiday ball, she smiled and attempted to greet the lady, but Mrs. Gower stared right through her. Flanna felt the pressure of the woman’s hard gaze as she and Charity passed.
“Law sakes, did you see the look that woman gave you?” Charity’s voice rose to a screeching pitch as they hurried down Washington Street. “If she’d had an egg in that shopping basket, she’d a thrown it at you, Miss Flanna. We’ve got to go home, as quick as we can.”
“I know.” The serpent of anxiety curled around Flanna’s heart slithered lower, to twist around her stomach. Could they go home? Now that fighting had broken out, could they travel safely?
She breathed a huge sigh of relief when they finally reached the boardinghouse. Mrs. Davis opened the door without comment, but the two girls they passed in the hall stared at Flanna as if she had suddenly sprouted horns.
Flanna and Charity raced up the stairs, ducked into their room, and slammed the door. Flanna tensed at the sight of a letter on her bed, then nearly wept with joy. Though the ink was smudged, she recognized her fathers handwriting.
Falling on her bed, she ripped open the seal and began to read:
April 1, 1861
Dearest Daughter,
My prayers are with you as you prepare for your examinations. Rest assured that Wesley and I have every confidence in you. You are a remarkable young woman and as most talented physician, and we are certain we with be rejoicing with you when your day of testing is done.
I don’t know what sort of news reaches you in Boston but these are trying times in our beloved South Carolina. Spirits are high, and our young boys are certainly rarin’ for a fight. Those who are most eager to bear army against their brothers in the North have composed an entire list of grievances. Among their many complaint is the fact that the Yankees refuse to honor the federal law requiring the return of runaway slaves. Northern politicians consistently close their eyes to the beneficent aspects of slavery, choosing to believe fairy tales rather than investigate the truth for themselves. They are quick to make heroes and idols of foolish caricature like Mrs. Stowe’s Uncle Tom, and they choose to look upon Christian, law-abiding slaveholders as Simon Legrees. Even more unforgivable, Yankees had contributed money and support to the murderer John Brown, whose proven purpose was the murder of innocent Southern women and children. Most heinous, and I myself cannot understand Yankee thinking on this point, when John Brow was legally executed for his crimes, our Northern foes crowned his vile head with martyrdom.
If you hear of trouble—and unless I am sadly mistaken, you soon will—know that the rascal Lincoln has engineered the situation. Fort Sumter, which sits like a beautiful our own city, is the foremast object of contention. Our men have demanded that the Federal commander surrender this South Carolina fort to South Carolina men, but thus far the officer, a Major Anderson, has refused. (Let it be noted, daughter, that Major Anderson is from Kentucky and has owned slaves himself. He is surely sympathetic to our cause, but is bound to the Union as long as he wears a uniform.) We suspect that Lincoln will reward this stubborn soldier and send federal troops to reinforce him, thereby forcing our hand. We cannot allow the soldiery of a foreign country to keep us from property that belongs by right and by nature to South Carolina.
It will be a fight, dearest daughter, so if you hear news of trouble, you are not to come home. The rails may not be safe, and the water routes are likely to be even more dangerous. But we are confident that our boys can meet this challenge and settle it within a few weeks. So wait where you are until you hear from me again.
It appears that a battle looms on the horizon, and I shall be needed. Though the forces and fury of war may separate us for a few days, know that I love you…and that I pray God will keep yow safe in the palm of his hand.
If it comes to a fight, may God help the right.
Your loving father,
Donnan O’Connor, M.D.
Six
Sunday, April 14
Yesterday I became a doctor, a full and confident woman, and last night I woke in the dark weeping like a child in the throes of a nightmare. I feel so alones Charily is with me, of course (I would
be lost without her), but what if something happens to her? I am living in a crowded house in a crowded city, and yet I am as lonely as the moon. I miss Wesley and the cousins. I miss Papa and Aunt Marsali.
I have never missed home more than now, when I cannot return to it.
Boston rocked with the news of Fort Sumter. On Sunday, April 14, the city’s pulpits thundered as preachers of every denomination denounced the rebellion. Reserved congregations who would have thought it irreverent to cough during a sermon stood and applauded the calls for war. Flanna sat with Mrs. Haynes in the family pew and shrank in her seat as the Presbyterian minister roared that the coming contest would be waged over one issue alone: slavery.
On Monday morning the city’s smoldering sense of patriotism burst into bright flame when Lincoln called for seventy-five thousand volunteers to serve for three months. Flanna knew her people would interpret Lincoln’s call as a declaration of war; the North received it as an affirmation that war had already begun. Every soul in Boston knew that Southern Rebels had affronted the glorious flag. Valiant soldiers of the U.S. Army had been forced, under hostile fire, to surrender a Federal fort and march out in shameful defeat. Under the sting of humiliation, the North rose like a screaming eagle, eager to avenge her lost glory.
By Tuesday morning the sounds of drum and fife filled every street corner. Recruiting offices opened in each city district, and volunteer militiamen began to pour into Boston, escorted by cheering crowds. Merchants and clerks rushed from their shops and stood bareheaded in the drizzling rain to salute passing wagonloads of eager recruits. Women leaned out their windows to wave handkerchiefs damp with tears. Horsecars, carriages, and omnibuses halted for the passing of these would-be soldiers, and the air rang with acclamation.
Drawn by curiosity and dread, Flanna and Charity donned their bonnets and mingled with the crowd, following a parade of volunteers to Faneuil Hall. As a parade of men—young and old—filed into the building, the supportive crowd roiled in fervent excitement.
One man standing near Flanna suddenly pulled his bowler from his head and placed it above his heart. “God bless it,” he cried, his eyes lifting upward. Flanna followed his gaze and saw the American flag rising to the top of the staff.
The crowd responded with a tumultuous roar. Old men and tearful women lifted their gaze as well, reverently saluting the sacred emblem, while the young men cheered and waved their hats in a loud hurrah. Flanna felt a stirring in her heart, but her mind reeled with confusion. She loved her country, but she loved Charleston too. Was it wrong to love both?
A uniformed officer stepped outside Faneuil Hall and lifted his hands for silence. The crowd gave him their attention, and in a loud, confident voice he announced that complete preparations were under way. Army rifles had been ordered from the Springfield Armory. The Boston banks had offered to loan the state three million, six hundred thousand dollars without security, and a host of military and professional men were donating their services to the Massachusetts regiments. “By six o’clock this evening,” the officer told the crowd, “three regiments will be ready to start for Washington, and new companies are being raised throughout the state.”
The applause lifted in great waves, and Flanna wept silently as she clung to Charity’s arm and wished she were home.
In mid-April Virginia followed the other slave states into secession, and within days of that action Lincoln ordered a blockade of Confederate ports. That news sent a shiver through Flanna, for much of Charleston’s livelihood depended on the exportation of sugar, rice, and cotton.
With her education complete, Flanna no longer had the luxury of work to occupy her time. Each morning she and Charity stayed in their room until the other students had departed the boardinghouse; only then did they dare creep down to the dining room. While Charity scraped breakfast together from leftover scraps in the kitchen, Flanna scanned the newspaper for any sign that they might be able to return home.
The news was anything but hopeful. The newspaper reported that from every corner of the Union, men were rushing to arms with camp-meeting fervor. Recruiters held mass enlistment rallies in churches and auditoriums, where leading citizens regaled audiences with speeches rich with allusions to country and flag and fatherhood. Breathing defiance at slaveholders and traitors to the glorious Union, these orators ultimately ended with the challenge, “Who will come up and sign the roll?” Scores of young men, fathers, and teenagers rushed forward to heed their country’s call.
The appeal went out to Northern women too. Fiery abolitionists reminded wives, sweethearts, and mothers that their duty lay in urging their men to defend the country. Patriotic women challenged their sisters to work for the cause. Emboldened by the thought of their brave young men marching off to face bloodthirsty traitors, Boston women, including Mrs. Davis, rose to participate in the fray.
Flanna watched her landlady’s efforts with quiet amusement, but she dared not protest lest she be evicted for insubordination. Having heard much about the tropical, steamy climate of the South, Mrs. Davis succumbed to the common view that the only practical headgear for a southbound soldier was a cap named for General Henry Havelock, whose soldiers in India adopted a cap featuring a flap at the neck to protect the skin from sunburn. Mrs. Davis and her boarders set to work with a vengeance, sewing havelocks at all hours of the day and night. Charity often remarked that since the firing on Fort Sumter, the house felt far more like a factory than a home. Flanna said nothing, but spent her mornings sewing the silly-looking hats.
Schools and universities suspended classes in order that young men might enlist and young ladies might work for the cause. At social gatherings, including several that took place in Mrs. Davis’s parlor, young women gathered around the piano, pressed their hands to their bosoms, and stared at young men who had not yet enlisted while soul-fully singing “I Am Bound to Be a Soldier’s Wife or Die an Old Maid.” Uniformed veterans of the Mexican War offered benedictions in Boston’s leading churches, while women’s sewing groups adopted military companies and worked until their fingers bled to provide uniforms, nightcaps, and socks. Each morning private homes, churches, and public rooms buzzed with the sounds of sewing machines and determined women who spent the entire day producing hats and uniforms.
Flanna was horrified to read that anything that smacked of Dixie was trampled in the rush to Northern arms. In Bangor, Maine, a group of schoolgirls pounded a Southern boy who came among them wearing a palmetto flag. At Pembroke, a lawyer of alleged Southern sympathies was threatened with a dunking in the river, and in Dexter, a group of volunteers rode Mr. Augustus Brown out on a rail for saying he hoped every one of them would be shot. In other cities, suspected Southern sympathizers were pelted with rotten eggs.
Such stories haunted Flanna’s nights. She feared to venture out of the boardinghouse after dark, even in Charity’s company. Roger, once her faithful escort, had made himself scarce. She had not seen him since their meeting at the college the day of her examination. That evening, instead of meeting her as he had planned, he had sent a note apologizing for his absence. The militia needed him, he had said, and the opportunity to lead men was too valuable to ignore. “Trust me, dearest, this unpleasantness will be upon us and forgotten before we know it,” Roger had written, “and a stint of military service is the most wonderful opportunity that could present itself to a future statesman. Let me go and do my part to whip the Rebels. I will return to your side in three months, ready to continue with our plans.”
Not at all surprised by Roger’s defection, Flanna had tossed his letter on the heap of textbooks beside her bed. With every passing day the future he had planned looked less bright and more unlikely. As she pondered the events that had trapped her in Boston, she peered into the likely future and saw life with Roger as a series of missed appointments and hurried mealtimes. While she understood his devotion to patriotic duty, she was bothered by the fact that he did not consider her feelings as he prepared to “whip the Rebels.” Those Rebels
were her family and fellow Southerners, and Roger seemed intent upon forgetting her heritage. He seemed to think that by the sheer force of his will she could become a Bostonian.
She would never understand these people. Her graduation ceremony, which had nearly been canceled in the frenzy of war preparation, had consisted of an invitation to enter the college president’s office. There she lifted her right hand, took the Hippocratic oath, and received a simple rolled diploma. That diploma now lay atop a pile of newspapers in the corner of her wardrobe, and Flanna could not even summon the enthusiasm to untie the ribbon and look at it.
Across the room, Charity lay asleep on her cot, a clump of dark hair covering her face. The lamp glowed softly, gilding the bureau and desk in a golden light. Outside the noise of revelers was broken by the occasional sharp pop of firecrackers. Boston was preparing for war with the fervor of a young girl planning her coming-out party.
Grief welled in Flanna, black and cold. Sitting on the floor beside her bed, she pressed her hands to her eyes and wept silently, not wanting to wake Charity. Why had she worked so hard? She had prayed for that medical diploma. She had studied throughout sleepless nights. She had sifted through countless theories and risked the censure of her professors by adhering to eternal truth instead of pretending allegiance to commonly accepted medical wisdom.
How had God rewarded her efforts? With war. Division. Strife. And the death of her dreams.
She dropped the reins on her mind and let it wander back to a time when Mammy lived and Wesley was a mischievous older brother who liked to pull Flanna’s braids. Each morning Mammy came in and tamed Flanna’s hair, working the bronze hanks into manageable plaits, then tying the ends with silk ribbon. When she had finished, Flanna always hopped up on the bed behind Mammy and tossed her arms around the woman’s neck as Mammy plaited her own daughter’s hair. One morning, as Mammy twisted and tied little Lulu’s spongy curls into more than two dozen stalk-straight pigtails, Flanna had run her hand over Mammy’s close-cropped hair and asked, “Why does Lulu get so many ribbons, Mammy, when you don’t wear any?”
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