The Velvet Shadow

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “They were defending their own people, their own women and children,” Farnham remarked, stretching his long legs before him. “We, too, will be the invaders. As long as were moving south, it will go hard for us.”

  Alden thought of the innocent baby, then for some shapeless reason Flanna O’Connors image filtered into his brain. He was on his way to invade her country. Though she was safe in New York, she had spoken often of her brother and cousins. How could he know that her loved ones did not lie ahead in some Confederate camp?

  He couldn’t think about that possibility. If he dwelled on it, if he looked for her green eyes and red hair on every Reb that appeared in the woods, he’d be unable to do his duty. And he was an officer in the army, trained since youth to follow orders and succeed on the battlefield. To kill the enemy.

  “Well, we’ll just have to keep the men’s spirits up,” the colonel said. The wariness in his eyes had frozen into a blue as cold as ice, though his lips stayed curved in a pleasant smile. “Can I count on you to do that, Major?”

  “Of course, sir.” Hearing dismissal in the colonel’s tone, Alden stood and snapped a salute. “I will not let you down.”

  The colonel returned his salute. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

  With Charity at her side, Flanna stepped out of the tent, eager for a breath of fresh air. Dr. Gulick had posted an order that all tent flaps should be kept lowered, for the cooler winds of autumn might bring typhoid fever, but the air inside fairly vibrated in a symphony of stinks. Unwashed bodies, the ammoniac smell of urine, and other pungent and immodest odors drove her outside to breathe the crisp, cool air of autumn.

  She glanced down at the fire pit and saw Matthew Larry’s canteen serving as a skillet. Diltz had hit upon the notion of inserting a match and a bit of gunpowder into a canteen. The resulting explosion ripped the canteen’s seams, producing two lightweight frying pans.

  Larry himself was dead, the first of their mess to die in Gulick’s hospital tent. As they left the train, Flanna had urged Sergeant Marvin to speak to Dr. Gulick about sending Larry to a Washington hospital, but the doctor would not listen. “That one’s always playing possum,” he had said, shrugging away the sergeant’s concerns. “He’s not leaving us. If he’s truly sick, I’ll take care of him once we reach camp.”

  After three days on the train and the tiring march into Maryland, Matthew Larry’s strength ebbed away, and there was little Gulick could do. Larry entered the Union camp on a stretcher, jabbering and muttering insanities in his fever, his clothing shredded by his fretful hands and stinking of sickness.

  Flanna had guessed the verdict before Dr. Gulick pronounced it—the high fever, headache, coughing, and rose-colored spots could only have been caused by typhoid. And though Larry was the only one of Flanna’s messmates to succumb to the disease, several others within Company M were affected.

  While the men of the Twenty-fifth Massachusetts drilled in this Maryland camp and waited for General McClellan to take action, disease stalked the tents and pulled men from the ranks, often as many as two-thirds of a regiment. Typhoid wasn’t the only disease, of course; a variety of illnesses seemed to plague the camp. In the six weeks since they had arrived in Maryland, a startling number had already died. A dozen of the dead were from Flanna’s own regiment, and Dr. Gulick would give no name for their illness save “looseness of the bowels.” Gulick blamed the disease on the night air, but Flanna knew there had to be a more definite cause.

  She became convinced that the growing rate of disease resulted from ignorance, laziness, and ineffectiveness. Her training led her to believe that part of the reason for illness lay in the camp latrines, or sinks. These shallow trenches, far too near the tents for Flanna’s comfort, were left uncovered for long periods of time. The stifling odors that rose from these ditches were enough to sicken even the healthiest man. Another problem sprang from the reluctance of many soldiers, especially those from rural areas, to even use the latrines. Like Flanna, these overly modest men crept into the woods when nature called, but unlike Flanna, they did not carry a shovel and practice biblical hygiene.

  Not only did most of the men ignore the terrible sinks, but even the men who used them ignored certain safeguards. Army regulations called for fresh earth to be turned into the sinks on a daily basis, but the increasingly repugnant odor repelled those who were supposed to tend the latrines.

  Nor did the men attend to personal cleanliness. Though Sergeant Marvin frequently reminded his men that army regulations called for each man to wash his hands and face daily, few men bothered. Flanna changed her undergarments at least every other day and gave them to Charity for washing in the creek.

  Flanna knew that a number of her messmates had not changed their clothing since induction. Some of them, she realized, had no other clothing to change into, for they deemed extra garments an added weight and hindrance. In the heat of summer they had shed their overcoats, dress coats, extra shirts, and clean trousers, and few bothered to include those garments in their bedrolls when the army moved to Washington. Now that October’s chill had arrived, they were regretting their decisions. Charity’s help was again a blessing. While Flanna carried as much weight as her fellow soldiers, Charity wore Flanna’s heavy overcoat and carried extra garments in her bedroll.

  And, unlike her soldier companions, Flanna scrubbed her hands and knuckles clean each morning, often visiting the creek to fill her canteen two or three times in a day. O’Neil teased her about her constant scrubbing and high-toned manners, but when Flanna pointed out that she had not yet suffered a case of the “Maryland quickstep,” he stopped teasing and began to follow her example.

  Though she had never thought of herself as a doctor for men, she could not help being affected by the suffering around her, particularly when she saw how Dr. Gulick treated his patients. Each morning after breakfast, one of the company’s duty sergeants lined up all the ambulatory sick patients and marched them down to the surgeon’s tent. One morning Flanna followed out of idle curiosity, and the cursory examination Dr. Gulick gave each patient horrified her.

  No matter what the patient’s complaint—loose bowels, bellyache, headache, or fever—the doctor wagged his bearded chin and called out a number that referred to a treatment. His assistant jotted the number on a slip, then gave it to the soldier, who took it to the surgeons assistant for dosing. As she listened, Flanna discovered that the good doctor never varied in his order of prescriptions, calling out “six,” then “nine,” then “eleven,” before repeating the series again. Number eleven, she discovered, was “vinum,” or a stiff shot of whiskey. The more clever men had already figured out how to feign sickness after breakfast and fall into line just where the doctors “eleven” prescription would fall.

  Prescription six was eight grains each of calomel and rhubarb, followed by a saline cathartic, which moved the bowels—just the thing, Flanna realized, that a patient with diarrhea didn’t need. Prescription nine was a mixture of carbonate of ammonia, turpentine, quinine, and brandy. Those who recovered from their illnesses obviously did so in spite of the doctor’s remedies.

  As much as Flanna despised Gulick’s practice of medicine, her disguise required that she remain silent. She had been able to account for her manners and book knowledge by explaining that her father was a doctor, but she thought it best not to advertise that she had earned a degree in medicine herself. If the men knew that Franklin O’Connor was a doctor, they’d want to know why he hadn’t enlisted as a surgeon. Flanna couldn’t explain that regimental surgeons occupied positions of authority and power—attention Flanna would rather avoid if she hoped to maintain her charade.

  She might have been able to completely disguise her medical knowledge if another of her messmates had not become sick. Warmhearted Andrew Green was one of her quieter comrades. With four older brothers in the service, Green knew how to get along with others and was well liked in spite of his reluctance to participate in rough games and teasing. At night, after taps, when t
he others moaned in their sleep or wept silently and longed for home, Green often enthralled them by quietly weaving stories of ancient heroes and mythic creatures or naming the bird that sang in the night. “The bravest birds sing in the dark,” he said, his voice rising and falling in an easy rhythm. “Because they know God will bring light on the morrow.”

  Sometimes by the campfire Green would point to the sky and name the constellations, and once as they foraged for firewood, he paused to marvel at the beauty of a flaming maple tree. He reveled in the unfamiliar flora of the area and used his free time to write poetry about nature and his loved ones at home.

  Even Herbert Diltz had a soft spot for Andrew Green, and this morning Diltz had been the one to notice that the young man did not rise from his bed. Sergeant Marvin had moved to Green’s side and nudged him with his boot, then knelt and pressed his palm to the boy’s forehead.

  “The boy’s burning up,” Marvin called, his voice rough with anxiety. “Anybody got water in their canteen?”

  Flanna immediately pulled out her clean shirt and wet it with water, then offered it to the sergeant. “Let me see him, sir,” she whispered, kneeling by Green’s side.

  The sergeant stood and stepped back, more than willing to let her help. Flanna pressed her fingers lightly to Green’s hot wrist and found that his pulse was elevated. Perhaps typhoid. Perhaps measles, though the spots had not yet begun to show. In either case, he needed a doctor—a real one.

  “He needs to go see the doctor,” she said, standing. “Right away.”

  Sergeant Marvin scanned the tent for men who were already dressed. “Diltz, you and Valentine take him to see the doc. And Valentine—not a word about death and dying, do you hear? This boy’s going to be okay.”

  Diltz and Valentine moved to lift Green, and Flanna stepped back to her bedroll and picked up her jacket. Dr. Gulick would not do anything for Green; a six, nine, or eleven treatment might even worsen Green’s condition. And Andrew Green’s mother, wherever she was, did not deserve to risk five sons in war and lose one in camp.

  Flanna caught Charity’s eye, then pulled her maid outside for a badly needed breath of fresh air. “Later this afternoon, after inspection,” she whispered, buttoning her cuffs as they stood by the campfire, “you and I are going to look through those medical wagons outside Gulick’s tent. I don’t know what he’s stashed away out there, but he’s going to give Andrew Green something that will help.”

  A pensive shimmer lit the shadows of Charity’s eyes, then her mouth curved in a slow smile. “I was wondering, Doctor,” she said, her voice deep and dusty, “when you was going to get busy doing something useful.”

  “Now you know.” Flanna smoothed her hair, then pulled on her cap, positioning it so low that the brim nearly rode her brow. “And soon we’ll see if we can make a difference.”

  “O’Neil, would you be having a minute to spare for a friend?” Standing slightly apart from the others, Flanna grinned at Paddy. “Or is that poker hand too bonny to pass up?”

  O’Neil let out a snort. “I haven’t had a good hand all day. I think the good Lord’s trying to punish me for playing poker on Sunday.” He dropped his cards in the center of the circle of card players, then stood and stretched. “Excuse me, lads, while I stretch my legs with the wee laddie.”

  Flanna rolled her eyes at his comment, but was relieved when he sauntered her way. The company had spent a quiet morning in worship services with the chaplain, and most men relaxed throughout Sunday afternoons. O’Neil was apt to be ready for his regular Sunday routine of polishing his boots and his rifle, but there was still time for him to help her before inspection—if he proved willing.

  “What’s eating at you, young Franklin? Surely you aren’t wanting me to teach you how to win at poker. Truth to tell, I haven’t got the knack of that game.”

  “It’s not poker I’m interested in.” Flanna led him away from the tent. She walked a dozen paces, then pinched her nose and pointed to the sinks. “It’s that.”

  “The sinks?” O’Neil grimaced in distaste. “Have you lost your mind, lad? What in the world would make you bring me out here?”

  “They’re too close to the camp.” Flanna released her nose and turned away, unable to abide the smell. “I don’t know why, exactly, but I’m certain the latrines have something to do with all this sickness.”

  O’Neil’s brows flickered as he stared at the sinks, then he thrust his hands into his pockets. “I’ll admit the smell enough is likely to churn a man’s stomach, but why—”

  “There’s more to it than that, but I can’t explain right now. But if you believe in God’s Holy Word, then surely you remember what the Lord said in Deuteronomy 23.”

  O’Neil lifted a brow. “Remind me, lad.”

  “After telling his people that they should take care of their business outside the camp—” Her face grew hot with humiliation, but she went on, “God said, ‘For the Lord thy God walketh in the midst of thy camp, to deliver thee, and to give up thine enemies before thee; therefore shall thy camp be holy: that he see no unclean thing in thee.’ Both Leviticus and Deuteronomy are filled with references to cleanliness and sanitation.”

  Flanna thrust her hands in her pockets, mimicking O’Neil’s broad stance, and something either in the gesture or her words seemed to touch him.

  “Och, lad, that’s lovely, but why are you tellin’ me this? I’m just one man, and I can’t very well be filling in the entire trench.”

  Flanna steeled her voice with resolve. “I want you to go to Major Haynes and tell him that the trenches are too close to the camp. He’ll listen to you, I know he will, and perhaps he’ll command a detail to cover these ditches and dig others further out.”

  O’Neil regarded her with an intense but secret expression. “Been thinking about this for a while, have you? Well, feeling as strongly about the situation as you do, why don’t you go to the major yourself?”

  Flanna looked away and groped for words. She couldn’t say she’d had a disagreement with the major; O’Neil would know she was lying. So why not tell the truth? “The major makes me nervous,” she finally said. “Ail the officers do.”

  “Why? ’Tis not like you’re a troublemaker,” O’Neil said smoothly, with no expression on his face. “I’ve heard scarcely a peep out of you since you came. So why you should want to raise this matter with the major is beyond my ken—”

  “Its because of Albert Green.” Flanna lifted her hands in frustration. “One of our own is sick, Paddy, and I’m trying to do something about it. Now are you going to help me or not?”

  O’Neil hesitated for a moment, then he grinned. “Aye, I’ll speak to the major,” he said, “though I don’t know what good it will do.”

  “Thank you, Paddy.” Flanna sighed in relief. “It may do no good at all, but at least we will have tried, right?”

  A flash of humor crossed her friend’s face. “You’re an odd lad, O’Connor.” He reached out and thumped Flanna’s back, nearly knocking her off her feet. “But I’ll do as you ask, if only because those cursed trenches are more than I can bear when the wind blows from the south.”

  “Thanks.”

  O’Neil thrust his hands in his pockets and moved away, his laughter floating back to Flanna on a blessed northerly breeze.

  “You want me to do what, Private?”

  Annoyed by this unexpected intrusion on a peaceful Sunday afternoon, Alden glanced up from his paperwork and stared at the ruddy Irishman. Paddy O’Neil of Company M stood at attention before him, his chest thrust out, his eyes fixed and straight ahead.

  “I’d like to request that the sinks be moved, sir.” His voice emerged as a nervous croak. “They are too close to our tents, and one of our men has taken sick. I think—well, sir, I believe there is a connection.”

  Alden leaned back in his chair, his mind whirling. Someone else had grumbled about the sinks’ proximity to the tents, someone he respected, but who?

  Flanna. As the image f
ocused in his memory, he could see her again, lifting her wide skirts as she moved through the Boston camp, pointing at the latrine trenches and proclaiming them too close to the men. He’d found her objections amusing, attributing them to her genteel sensibilities, but then she’d made some remark about the Bible…

  He leaned forward and studied the Irishman’s broad face. “Why, Private O’Neil, do you believe the sinks are too close?”

  “Several reasons, sir.” Despite the man’s apparent boldness, Alden saw the Adam’s apple bob in O’Neil’s throat as he nervously swallowed. “First, the smell is unbearable when the wind blows from the south, sir. Second, several of our messmates have taken sick, and we are closest to the sinks, sir. Third—” He paused and gave Alden a narrow, glinting glance. “Do you read the Bible, sir?”

  “Yes.” Alden leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Yes, Private, I do. You were saying?”

  “The Good Book says we should keep a clean camp,” O’Neil finished, his face brightening to a tomato shade. “In Deuteropoly.”

  Alden pressed his hand to his lips, trapping the laughter that threatened to erupt from his throat. The man had obviously been coached, but by whom? And why?

  “And were you reading in, um, Deuteropoly this morning? Or perhaps the chaplain brought this passage to your attention?”

  “No sir.” A smile nudged itself into a corner of O’Neil’s mouth, then pushed across his lips. “Truth to tell, sir, I didn’t think it right to bring a Bible to war. But I know what the Good Book says, and it says we’re to keep a clean camp. We won’t be sick as often if we do.”

  Alden stared at his visitor and let the silence stretch. Of all the complaints and requests that regularly crossed his desk, this one rang with novelty. And yet O’Neil was expressing sentiments he had heard before.