The Velvet Shadow

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Mammy’s broad black face widened in a smile. “Miss Flanna, don’t you know nothing? Little girls wear their dreams in their hair ribbons. Old women like me—well, we’ve given up on such foolishness.”

  Flanna picked up her own braids, eyed the floppy wide ribbons dangling from the ends, then frowned. “So why does Lulu get lots of dreams, and I only get two?”

  “’Cause, honey”—Mammy had swatted Lulu on the behind and sent the child scurrying out the door—“your dreams are a lot bigger than hers.”

  Mammy’s words echoed in the black stillness of Flanna’s mind as a damp breeze blew in through the cracked window. Were her dreams too big? Flanna had no idea what sort of things Lulu had dreamed of, but she’d earned her freedom and married a nice man in Charleston.

  “All I ever really wanted,” Flanna whispered, the words scraping her throat, “was to become a doctor and help my father. There are women, Lord, who need me. I am ready to serve, and yet you have closed the door. You have brought this terrible conflict upon us—why?”

  She listened for an answer, but heard nothing but a few smothered laughs from the street outside. God was going to be silent, then, as his children both in the North and South begged him for victory. Perhaps a wise parent did not take sides when his children squabbled, and if God was anything, he was wise.

  She hugged her knees to her and rested her head upon them, letting her tears fall upon her pantalets. What was she supposed to do? On the day of the examination Roger had suggested that she live with his mother for the duration of the trouble, but Flanna knew Mrs. Haynes would not be happy with that suggestion. And it was not entirely proper, for she and Roger were not engaged. But where else was she to go? Her father wanted her to remain in Boston, but Mrs. Davis would not want a Rebel in her boardinghouse any more than Mrs. Haynes would want one in her guest room. At least Flanna’s room had been rented through August, for her father had thought she might like to work a short term in the Boston Hospital for Women before coming home. Fortunately for Flanna, Mrs. Davis’s pragmatism outweighed her patriotism—she would not evict the devil himself if it meant losing money.

  Flanna smiled in appreciation of her father’s foresight. He’d probably paid the extra rent to give her a little time to sort through her feelings about coming home. Several of his letters had hinted that she shouldn’t feel obligated to return to his work. If she found a promising position in Boston or New York, he wanted her to consider it.

  But Flanna couldn’t imagine living away from her family for long. She and Wesley had always been close, and Aunt Marsali had stepped in as a second mother after Mammy died. And then there were the seven cousins, Marsali’s rambunctious brood, named in alphabetical order: Arthur, Brennan, Carroll, the twins Dillon and Erin, Flynn, and Gannon. All were strong young men, and all old enough to fight for the Confederacy…

  Flanna’s gaze drifted to the desk and the last letter from her father. How had that letter found its way to her? He had mailed it before that disastrous shelling of Fort Sumter, obviously, but—

  She lifted her head, instantly alert as something clicked in her brain. If a letter could cross the boundary, surely she could too. Her father had told her to remain in Boston, but he had no idea how difficult and lonely life in a Yankee town could be.

  She folded her hands under her chin, thinking. Roger wouldn’t care if she left the city—he might not even miss her for several days. And Mrs. Davis would still have her precious rent money. Flanna had no reason to remain in Boston—absolutely nothing held her here.

  In the morning she would tell Charity to pack a bag with only the bare necessities for travel. She would go home to Charleston, in a baggage car and standing up if necessary, but she would go home.

  On the last Saturday in April, Flanna and Charity rose before the other girls and slipped quietly from the boardinghouse. The damp and chilly air held the promise of a spring shower, so Flanna thrust her hands deep into her muff and quickened her pace as Charity scrambled to keep up. The maid had packed only two bags. Flanna hated to leave her ball gowns and medical books behind, but if they were to slip away quickly and quietly, they had to travel without heavy bags. The presence of Flanna’s belongings in the room would prevent Mrs. Davis from launching a search until nightfall, and, once they had safely reached Charleston, perhaps the widow could be persuaded to ship the things Flanna had left behind.

  “Despite the scandal, she will be glad to be rid of us,” Flanna muttered as they walked, “since her house is the only one tainted by a Rebel boarder.”

  She was nearly breathless by the time they reached the railway depot at Park Square. Flanna stopped to catch her breath and stared at the immense brick building. Yards of red, white, and blue bunting fluttered over the arched windows and entryways. Her stomach twisted at the ardent display of patriotism. What was this, if not a display of determination to crush her people?

  She couldn’t wait to leave.

  Gesturing to Charity, Flanna moved through the huge entryway and into the lobby. She paused at the window where a clerk sat on a stool and absently chewed his thumbnail. “Good morning,” she said, careful to smooth the Southern accent from her voice. After two years in Boston, she had nearly mastered the trick. “Two tickets, please.”

  “Is that for you and the Negro wench?” The clerk peered over Flanna’s shoulder. “Your maid will have to ride in the colored car.”

  Flanna gritted her teeth. “Whatever for? She rode with me when we came to Boston.”

  The man frowned. “Is she a slave then? Slaves ride with their masters, but free Negroes have to ride in the colored car. That’s the rule, miss.”

  Flanna bit down hard on her lower lip, then turned to Charity. “I don’t want you to be separated from me,” she whispered. “What if there’s trouble on the way? You should ride with me, so I may have to say—”

  “I understand, Miss Flanna.” Charity lowered her eyes. “Tell the man I ain’t goin’ unless I ride with you.”

  Flanna turned back to the window and opened her purse. “She will ride with me. Two tickets, please, on the next train going south.”

  “She’s a slave then?”

  “She’s riding with me.” Flanna spoke with quiet, desperate firmness. “Now, may I have those tickets?”

  “Final destination?”

  “Charleston.”

  The man stamped some documents, then ticked off two tickets, and shoved the papers through the window. “Two tickets to Charles Town in western Virginia.”

  “Not west! I want to go south!” Flanna’s nerves tensed. “I said Charleston. South Carolina.”

  The clerk gaped at her. “Ma’am, that isn’t even funny. I can’t get you to Charleston, not for all the gold in California. There’s a war on, haven’t you heard?”

  “It’s not a war, and I’ve heard more than enough.” Flanna flushed as her temper began to rise. “Now please give me the proper tickets.”

  “I can’t. Our trains aren’t going there. The line is closed south of Washington, and I wouldn’t feel right selling you a ticket and knowing you’d be put off somewhere without an escort. A lady shouldn’t be traveling alone anyhow.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” Flanna’s lower lip trembled as she returned his glare. “Please, just give me a ticket for anyplace south.”

  “I won’t.” The clerk folded his arms across his chest. “I can’t sell you tickets to Charleston, or any place in South Carolina. I wouldn’t even sell you a ticket to Maryland. Haven’t you heard what’s happening down there?”

  Flanna shook her head.

  “Last week, men of the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment were en route to Washington through Maryland,” the clerk explained, his eyes flickering over Flanna’s face. “A crowd of Southern sympathizers pelted our boys with stones when they were changing railroad lines. Four men died. Now that part of the country’s in a revengeful mood, and here you are, with a black slave, wanting to travel south—” He spread his hands and leaned
forward on his desk. “You’d be lucky to make it to Connecticut without trouble. I shouldn’t even have offered to send you to western Virginia. Go back to where you’ve been living, ma’am, and count your blessings that you’re safely away from South Carolina.”

  Flanna rubbed her hands over her arms, thinking. What could she do? She had to get home, but this railway clerk wouldn’t lie about the risks involved. She didn’t doubt his report—she’d stood in the Boston crowds and heard angry jibes about the Confederacy mingled with jeering laughter and promises of vengeance for Fort Sumter. This clerk was right, she would be lucky to reach Washington.

  “Thank you for your time,” she told the clerk. Turning, she made her way to a bench, only half-aware that Charity followed like a shadow.

  “Miss Flanna, ain’t we goin’ home? I don’t think I can stand it here another day. When you’re readin’ or studyin’, the young ladies at the boardinghouse are always asking how often you beat me. They want to know how many times my master comes to my room in the night. I tried to tell them I am free, but they don’t listen. They only hear what they want to hear, and I’m right sick of it. I want to go home. I want to see my ma and pa—”

  “Charity, hush!” Flanna sank to the bench, resisting the urge to clap her hands over her ears. It was frustrating to hear her own desires voiced aloud and know that she couldn’t do anything to set things right.

  She stared at the brick floor as a flash of wild grief ripped through her. How had she, Flanna O’Connor, the bright and capable doctor’s daughter, arrived at this situation? In Charleston she had but to ring a bell and Papa’s valet arranged for a carriage to take her anywhere she wanted to go. Even in Boston, doors opened easily for a lady. The only real difficulty she had faced was her examination board. She had met that challenge with energy to spare, but now she couldn’t even buy a simple train ticket home! When had the rules changed?

  A train whistle blew, scattering her thoughts, and Flanna looked up to see a locomotive steaming into the depot, belching smoke and dust. She watched the train with rising dismay, realizing that it might be many months before she saw her family again. If the trains were not even moving south, the crisis was far more serious than she had realized.

  The mood in the depot certainly seemed different. Last summer when she had returned from Charleston after a visit with her family, the atmosphere in this place had been as gay as the bright, clear colors of cotton dresses. Soft laughter filled the air as women embraced their loved ones returning from holiday, and a band on the piazza supported those happy sounds with the sentimental songs of Stephen Foster.

  Now there was no band, for the musicians had enlisted to serve in the army. Bright, bold patriotic bunting fluttered from every post and pillar, and the few women who waited for their loved ones seemed abstracted and distant, as if they were bracing themselves for sorrows yet to come.

  Roger, of course, had insisted that the strife would end in a few weeks, but he didn’t know Southern gentlemen. Flanna did. They were not errant children who would fall into line after a severe scolding. They were gentlemen of honor, and they would not be easily vanquished. They had tasted victory at Fort Sumter. Moreover, they were fighting for their homes, their loved ones, and the right to remain independent.

  Her face burned as she recalled John Brown’s last statement, published in an antislavery paper called The Liberator. Mrs. Haynes subscribed to that rabble-rousing rag, and the last time Flanna visited the Haynes house, Roger’s mother had made a point of reading the quote aloud. “I, John Brown,” the murderer of five slaveholders had written on the day of his execution, “am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but with Blood.”

  A suffocating sensation tightened Flanna’s throat. Oh, let the guilty be punished, but God was righteous, so surely he would spare the innocent! Her family—Papa, Wesley, and all seven of her cousins—were innocent!

  A swarm of disembarking travelers spilled from the train cars and moved past her. Flanna swiped at the tears wetting her lashes, not willing that a single Yankee should see her cry.

  “Miss O’Connor? Can it be you?”

  Flanna blinked and lifted her head. Alden Haynes stood before her, his uniform brushed and gleaming, a pistol at his right side and a sword at his left. He hesitated a moment, then bowed deeply, doffing his black hat in the first sign of respect offered her in many days.

  “Major Haynes, how nice to see you.” Flanna spoke calmly, but with the sense of detachment that comes from an awareness of impending disaster. Alden would tell Roger he had seen her at the station, and Roger would be horrified to learn she’d attempted to travel home. And if Mrs. Haynes learned that Flanna wanted to return to South Carolina, she’d spread the news that Flanna O’Connor was a Southern sympathizer.

  Already Flanna had heard faint rumblings of danger. A few paranoid Boston officials had written newspaper editorials calling for the arrest and confinement of all “secesh” in Boston. A terrifying realization washed over her—the next moments were crucial. Her life and liberty might depend upon the story she now told Alden Haynes.

  “Are you taking a trip?” His gaze roved over the carpetbags at Charity’s feet, then returned to meet Flanna’s eyes.

  “No.” She managed a small smile. “Just delivering some donations to the Boston Female Anti-Slavery Society. They are looking for supplies to outfit the soldiers.”

  “I know the group; Mother is a member.” A flicker of a smile rose at the edges of his mouth, then died out. “The society’s office is blocks from here, isn’t it? So what brings you to the depot?”

  Flanna’s eyes widened in pretended surprise. “Why you, of course! Didn’t Roger write you? When I heard that you were coming home—”

  “No one knew I was coming.” He gave her a warning look that put an immediate damper on her spirits. “I intended this visit to be a surprise.”

  “Well.” Flanna lifted her hands in frustration. “I wanted to surprise you, and now you’ve ruined everything! Of course I knew you’d be coming home! Uncle Sam is not so heartless that he’d send his boys away without so much as a farewell to their families. Roger assumed you’d be coming sometime soon. I thought I’d stop by the depot this morning on my way to the society office, just to see if you’d be on this train.”

  “You came to meet me?” Disbelief and hope warred in his eyes, and for an instant Flanna floundered beneath a wave of guilt. This elaborate lie would certainly trap her later, and probably not one in a hundred men would believe such a haphazard tale. Alden himself probably didn’t believe her, but as long as he thought her harmless…

  “Well, this is quite an honor.” He turned and formally offered his arm. “Shall we go then? I’ll walk you home by way of the society office, and you can leave your donations there.”

  “But, Miss Flanna—” Charity protested.

  “How very thoughtful of you,” Flanna interrupted, rising. Taking Alden’s arm, she gave her maid a warning look. “Isn’t it nice, Charity, to have an escort through town?” She gave Alden the warmest smile she could manage. “How long will you be in Boston, Major?”

  “Two months, perhaps longer. I’ve been ordered to help organize a regiment and lead them south to Washington.”

  “How thrilling!” Flanna patted his arm again, then lowered her eyes while he picked up his bag and led her through the milling crowd. They didn’t speak, but one phrase kept replaying itself in Flanna’s mind: “Lead them south.”

  The train could not take her south to Charleston, but the army might.

  Throughout the night, the idea burned like a fever in Flanna’s brain. Why not join the army as a doctor? Pleas for able-bodied army physicians filled the newspapers, so why couldn’t she offer her services? Though she had never expected to treat male patients, she could diagnose diarrhea and dispense doses of castor oil as well as any man.

  Why not enlist? She tossed on her bed, thumping her pillow as the question hammered at her.
She could join a regiment, travel south with them, and offer comfort as needed. And when they were close enough to South Carolina that she felt confident of finding her way home, she and Charity could petition for a pass to cross into Confederate territory. If that seemed impossible, they could slip away in the night. They’d endure some discomfort, to be sure, but if they fled in the temperate weather of summer they could sleep under the stars and travel during the daylight hours. No one would dare molest a gentlewoman traveling with her maid.

  Sighing, Flanna turned and flattened herself upon her mattress. She stared at the ceiling, imprinting the swirled plaster with images of her loved ones. If this plan worked, she might soon see them again! She had come north to become a doctor, and somehow it seemed reasonable that being a doctor should provide her a way home.

  Her heart swelled with hope, and finally she was able to sleep.

  Rising early the next morning, Flanna penned a letter, addressing it to the War Department in Washington. In it she truthfully explained that although she was a South Carolinian by birth, she felt indebted to Massachusetts for providing her medical education. “If I may repay this debt by being of service to sons of this fair state as they venture south,” she wrote, “I would be honored to do so. I ask only that my maid be able to attend me and that I be allowed to depart the regiment once we near South Carolina.”

  After double-checking her message, Flanna slid the letter into an envelope and sealed it, trusting that her intentions would be appreciated and well received.