The Velvet Shadow

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Strangely enough, the Confederates grin at us with great glee, as if we were long-lost cousins. One fellow promised to trade tobacco for coffee, and another offered a packet of Richmond newspapers for anything we had at hand. Diltz asked one Rebel who had taken a shot in the arm why the Confederates left so many good clothes and blankets behind in their retreat. “We’re God-fearin’ men,” the wounded man answered. “We obey the injunction to clothe the naked and feed the hungry—ain’t that you’uns?”

  I examine each Rebel soldier with great fear, afraid I will discover Wesley or one of my beloved cousins. I did recognize William Hartley, a boy I knew from church. He was always the liveliest in Sunday school, quick with a ready answer. He died on my table.

  I wonder what I will say when I see his mother in Charleston.

  Thursday, May 15

  We are marching. Along the way a profusion of castaway overcoats and blankets bloom over the road, dropped by men too weary to add an ounce to their knapsacks. I tossed my overcoat without regret, for I still think of it as Charity’s and would rather not be reminded of my loss. No one minds losing these belongings, we can pick up others on the road ahead.

  Today we came upon White House Landing, where George Washington once courted Martha Curtis. General Robert E. Lee’s wife had tacked a note to the door, asking that the or my not desecrate Washington’s home. General McClellan has pitched his tent on the lawn of the house and posted guards to prevent looters from taking souvenirs Mrs. Lee herself passed through our lines under a white flags of trace. O’Neil and I watched her go, her mouth thin and set in a straight line, her belongings packed into a single trunk. My heart broke for her, for this war has also torn me from the home I love.

  Saturday, May 17

  Despite General McClellan’s order, Mrs. Lee’s house was set afire as we pulled out to move northward. Unnamed stragglers (not of our company) apparently hate General Lee more than they revere General Washington.

  Tuesday, May 20

  Richmond is just nine miles to the west. Our advance has been slow. The men have taken to calling General McClellan the “Virginia Creeper.”

  Saturday, May 24

  Today Sergeant Marvin led us up a hill from which we could see the spires of the Richmond churches. My heart pounded as I stared at those spires, only five miles away! Five miles! I could walk into Richmond in just over an hour—if not for the Confederate army that lies in my way.

  I am still nursing the wounded from the fighting out Williamsburg. The Confederates have all been taken away to prison, but ambulatory soldiery who would not come see the Velvet Shadow in daylight come to our campfire at night, seeking some trivial bit of care Dr. Gulick would not give. Last night I treated a soldier who lost his thumbnail to shrapnel. Another came to me with a scalp wound—a bullet took off a threes inch strip of hair from the top of his head. Another had a ball pass into the toe of his brogan, between his two toes, and out the sole of his shoe. Though he was uninjured, he seemed to need my assurance that he would be okay. Many of the men are superstitious, they feel they are invincible to all but the single bullet intended for them. The lad whose shoe had been pierced by a Miniè ball wasn’t sure whether that bullet was intended for hum or not. I prayed for wisdom, then told him God had meant it only for his shoe. He went away content.

  Monday, May 26

  I sat awhile today with a wounded soldier who delighted in telling of the fight at Williamsburg. “We were none of us too proud, not even those who had the dignity of an officer’s shoulder straps to support, to dodge behind a tree or stump when the bullets began to sing over our heads” he told me. “I called out to a comrade, ‘Why don’t you get behind a tree?’ and he answered, ‘Confound it, there ain’t trees enough for the officers.’”

  At this the young man leaned toward me and whispered confidentially, “I don’t mean to be accusing officers of cowardice, but I found out that they show the same general inclination not to get shot that privates do.”

  No one is shooting at the moment. The Rebels run in front of us, but Little Mac sits here in the mud, waiting for reinforcements. And despite my brave proclamations that I do not fear death, I have been much shaken of late. Charity, my right arm, is gone, and I stare death in the face every day when I work with the wounded. It is not the prospect of my death that makes me consider leaving the army—it is the death of my friends. How can I remain, knowing that I may one day close Sergeant Marvin’s eyes or listen in vain for the beating of Diltz’s heart? When I think that I may be called upon to pull a bullet from Alden’s chest, my hands tremble.

  God, show me what to do!

  On Friday, May 30, while McClellan waited for reinforcements, Flanna sat by the fire with her messmates and contemplated leaving the Army of the Potomac. Charity and her Beau had already gone, and Flanna knew she could disappear just as easily.

  Why shouldn’t she? She had been too afraid to run before, but now she feared remaining more than she feared going. As a soldier, she was of little use to her company, and as a doctor she felt completely inadequate. Treating men for fever and dysentery was one thing; calming a frantic man while sawing off his leg was quite another.

  At Ball’s Bluff she had acted on an impulse and helped a few men, but the carnage at Williamsburg had shown her that she lacked the experience to deal with war injuries.

  In medical school she had learned how to deliver babies, not amputate limbs. And if any of the men she had come to respect and admire should die under her hands, she did not think she would be able to continue as a surgeon.

  For several days she had withdrawn from her messmates in order to pray and beg God for a sign, and tonight it had come. Albert Valentine, whose only talent seemed to be the uncanny ability to find the cloud behind every silver lining, had picked up Philip Harts guitar and begun to sing.

  “Do they miss me at home, do they miss me?

  ’Twould be an assurance most dear

  To know at this moment some loved one

  Is saying, ‘I wish he were here.’

  Too few of the group at the fireside,

  Are thinking of me as I roam,

  Ah, yes, ’twould be joy beyond measure

  To know that they miss me at home,

  To know that they miss me at home.”

  The words of the song burned in Flanna’s brain. Lately she’d spent so much energy thinking about the men around her that she had spent little time thinking of her father, whose heart probably broke a little each day that she and Wesley stayed away. The time had come to leave. She sat only five miles from the heart of the Confederacy—nothing could hold her back now.

  So why did she feel so reluctant to go?

  Her gaze moved around the fireside circle, lingering for a moment on each man’s countenance. Though a steady rain had been falling for hours, Sergeant Marvin sat with Freddie Smith, Rufus Crydenwise, and William Sheahan under a tarp, their attention dedicated to their nightly poker game. Valentine sat a little removed from the others, his fingers still caressing the guitar. O’Neil sat in the opening of his small tent, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he scratched out a letter to his dear Maggie.

  Flanna’s heart squeezed in anguish. She might never see these men again. They were her companions, her comrades, and they had become her friends.

  She pulled her damp blanket closer around her shoulders and stared past the fire into her own thoughts. These men were dear to her, but Charity was right, two others meant far more. To one she owed a parting word, to the other she owed…everything. If not for Alden Haynes’s care, she could not have come this far.

  She glanced up at the water-dappled canvas over her head. It was a perfect night for her departure. No one would follow her in the rain, and her footprints would be washed away by morning. It was also the perfect time. Tattoo would not sound for another hour, and if she hurried, she could catch Roger by one of the Company K campfires.

  She stood, stuffed her blanket under the tarp, and stepped away fr
om the fire. She might as well leave everything; it would look suspicious if she took even a blanket. Perhaps, with luck, they’d think that a bear got wee Franklin O’Connor and ate up every trace.

  O’Neil’s voice called after her as she moved out into the darkness. “Got some errand to run in this weather, O’Connor? If you see O’Leary from Company B, ask if he has any coffee. The man owes me half a pound.”

  “I’ll ask,” Flanna answered, lifting her hand in the only farewell she could give him.

  Company K had spread their tents in a curving line over the next ridge. Flanna walked toward them with long, purposeful strides, not certain what she should say to Roger. He’d kept his distance as they moved inland, and some part of her wondered if he really cared for her at all. He had promised to leave her alone, and in that he had more than kept his word.

  She slowed her pace when she reached the row of two-man tents. Like those of her company, the men gathered around small fires for warmth and companionship, shielding themselves from the rain with blankets and tarps. She had the impression that she stared at clusters of dark-shelled turtles who occasionally thrust their heads out to peer past the campfire.

  Flanna heard Roger before she saw him. His voice rose from a campfire dug under a massive oak. She hesitated in the darkness, listening as he spun a tale of great courage and even greater unlikelihood.

  “The balls made rather strange music as they screamed within an inch of my head,” he was saying, his molten voice pouring over the men in the fire circle. “I had a bullet strike me on the top of my hat just as I was going to fire, then a piece of shell struck my rifle. I had heard the colonel say that the Rebs had as strong a position as could possibly exist, but I was so excited Old Scratch himself couldn’t have stopped me. I rushed toward them, loading and firing as fast as I could see a Rebel to shoot, and at last the varmints began to run for the woods. The firing sounded like the roll of thunder, and I got rather more excited than I wish to be again. I didn’t think of getting hit, of course, but it was almost a miracle that I wasn’t.

  Flanna shifted until she saw him, hunched like an old woman beneath his tarp. He paused from his storytelling and scratched the beard that had grown, thick and full, on his cheeks. “The Rebel prisoners we took said they’d never seen anything like it, of course. And on the ground there I saw some of the most horrid sights I’ve ever seen. Poor Thomas Withington—did you see him? Both eyes shot out. And he’d been standing right behind me in the line.”

  “Captain,” one of the men drawled, “I don’t recall seeing you in that charge at all.”

  “I was too far in front of you, my good man.” Roger leaned forward and slapped his knee. “Now, if I could have that coffeepot, I think I could die happy on this spot.”

  From outside the circle, Flanna cleared her throat “Captain Haynes?”

  Startled, Roger looked up and peered out into the darkness. He frowned for a moment, not recognizing her in the shadows.

  “Captain Haynes, it’s Private O’Connor. May I have a word with you?”

  Roger took a deep breath and adjusted his smile. “Certainly, Private.”

  Flanna turned away, shivering in the rain as he left the circle of his men and came toward her. “Let’s walk under the tree to get out of the wet,” he suggested, his voice cool and clear in the night air. She followed him, and as soon as they reached the other side of the sprawling oak he grabbed her arm and whirled her around to face him. “Flanna, are you crazy? Why have you come here?”

  Her lips parted in surprise. “I came—to see how you were.”

  “I’m fine.” He released her and stepped back into the dappled firelight, his brows a brooding knot over his eyes. “Now tell me the truth—why have you really come? I told you I didn’t want to see you while you were”—he waved his hand in a gesture of disgust—“like this.”

  She struggled to maintain an even, conciliatory tone. “I came here because I wanted to tell you something important.”

  “Yes?” A half-smile crossed his face. “Wait, don’t tell me—you have finally had enough of this foolishness and you want me to send you home. Very good. I thought this might happen.” He thrust his hands behind his back and eyed her with pained tolerance. “I’ll have Alden send Mother a wire that she’s to expect you. We’ll take one of those dresses from Alden’s trunk and outfit you properly, then one of the officers can escort you back to Washington. It will take a few days, but—”

  “Let me speak, Roger.” Flanna tilted her head and looked at him, oddly grateful for his outburst. He had just solved her problem. She hadn’t been able to figure out how she could tell him good-bye without revealing her intention to desert, but Roger had just given her the perfect plan.

  “Well?” Roger frowned, his eyes level under drawn brows. “Am I right?”

  “Yes.” She sighed heavily. “You’re right, Roger, as always. But I want the dress tonight, for I’m tired of this wet uniform. Can you get it for me—without letting Alden know? He’ll only make a big fuss, and he needs to concentrate on his work.”

  “Of course I can get it.” He gave her a bright look of eagerness. “But what about your quarters? You can’t stay with your company. I’ll have to set up a tent for you at the rear of the line, and that may take some time. But Alden won’t need to know anything. There will be dispatches flying between here and Washington, so we ought to be able to get you back to Boston with little trouble.”

  He lifted his chin and looked at her, the glitter in his eyes both possessive and accusing. “It is very considerate of you to think of my brother.” Light bitterness spiced his voice. “Lately I have become very aware of how often Alden thinks of you. You have made quite an impression on him, you know.”

  Flanna lowered her eyes, glad of the darkness that hid the hot flush in her cheeks. “He feels very responsible for me, and I am sorry to burden him. Yet, I would like to think that I have not merely used the army. I hope I have given something back to it.”

  “A very noble sentiment, my dear. Perhaps we can find a discreet way to mention your nursing activities when I run for office.”

  Flanna sighed again. “Whatever you decide, Roger.”

  “This is best, you know,” he said, possessive desperation in his voice. “Mother will take good care of you until the war is over.”

  “I know.”

  She stood silently in the hush, wanting to say so much more, yet unable to open her heart. She had come to tell him she could not ever marry him, but her disappearance would burn that bridge for her. In the morning, when he looked for her and discovered her gone, he would know that she had kept her resolution to go home…and his oft-tested patience would vanish like a bursting bubble.

  And yet…her heart softened as she studied his dear face. He was a charming man, pleasant and bright, all she had ever wanted…once. She would always think of him fondly.

  “Thank you, Roger,” she whispered, hoping he would remember that she had left him with a grateful smile. “You have been very kind to me.”

  “Wait here.” Roger stepped closer, his eyes artless and serene. With a warm wave of breath in her ear, he whispered, “I’ll return in a moment.”

  Flanna leaned against the tree and slid slowly to the ground while some soldier in the distance played “The Old Folks at Home.”

  Dear Alden

  Flanna paused and tapped her pencil on her knee, thinking. She had ripped a page from her journal for the purpose of writing a farewell note, but now that the moment had come she could not think of what she wanted to say. The hunger to leave gnawed at her, and yet she could not go without telling Alden of the feelings that had arisen in her heart. She felt gratitude, affection, and admiration for him, but how could she express herself without seeming to ask that he reciprocate her feelings? She had already been far too much of a burden. And if Charity was right and Alden did feel some inappropriate emotion for Flanna, time and distance would eradicate it. He should go home and marry Miss Nell Scott,
a proper Boston lady.

  Something rustled in the oak branches above Flanna’s head, sending a sudden shower over her. She stiffened and looked up, then relaxed when the leaves grew silent. Probably a squirrel. She was as jumpy as a bird in cat country, all because she was about to confess love to the man who was not free to love her—who would never love her as long as Roger claimed her affections.

  I have struggled to know what I should write to you, and it is only because I am certain I shall never see you again that I dare to be bold. Alden, yow have my gratitude and my admiration forever. You alone saw all that I could be, and if you had not encouraged me to be true to my calling I would never have found the courage to exercise the gifts God has given me. You have helped me see that I am complete in God. As a woman, I am not less than a man, though it has always given me great pleasure to submit to your loving leadership.

  You have given me the courage to step out on my own, though my heart breaks at the thought of not seeing you again. But know that wherever I go, I will carry in my heart the lessons you have taught. Though I am a woman, I am not weak. Though I am soft, I am not softheaded. And though I may be lonely, I am never alone.

  I will pray for you every night, begging God to carry you safely home.

  With all my affection,

  Flanna O’Connor

  She folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope, then scrawled Alden’s name across the front. She had just slipped it back into her jacket when the sound of approaching footsteps announced Roger’s return. She saw him clearly; he walked quickly and hunched over, the dressmakers box on his hip.

  A moment later he entered the shelter of the oak and handed the box to her. “There’s a tent for women at the back of the camp,” he said, frowning as he placed the box into her hands. “I’m sorry, but the women there are camp followers. I’ve no doubt you won’t want to be associated with them, but you need only remain there until the next envoy leaves for Washington.”