After placing a soft kiss on Alden’s cold cheek, Flanna climbed the moonlit hill. A chilly breeze swept over the dark ridge, but sunrise could not be far away. If she found a Union camp—when she found a camp—there would be men aplenty to help her bring Alden back.
The darkness in the deep woods felt like liquid, and Flanna moved from one moonlit patch to another, hoping to sight a clearing and a road that would lead to help. She walked quickly, her regret at leaving Alden alone overruled by the certainty that God could be trusted with her dreams. Songbirds sang in the dark…because they knew the morning would come.
The stars had just begun to fade behind a sky of dark blue when Flanna saw a solitary ghostly figure in the road. The soldier, undoubtedly a Union picket, leveled his rifle musket and called out in a gruff voice, “Who’s there?”
Flanna opened her mouth, but her throat felt thick and heavy; the words wouldn’t come. Her knees were liquid, her body light as air.
The gray figure straightened as the musket rose to shoulder height. By all rights he ought to shoot. She was a stranger approaching from hostile territory, but perhaps he might show her mercy.
Her leaden feet moved forward, her skirts dragged over the road. She struggled forward in a hunched posture, her arms wrapped around her center. He might shoot her. If he did, Alden would die, and the struggle would be over. At least they’d be together in eternity.
“Speak now!” the guard called again, moving into a patch of silvery moonlight. “You are approaching a Federal camp!”
“Please!” From somewhere at the center of her being she drew the strength to summon a whisper, husky and dark. “Please help me. I have come on behalf of a Union officer, Major Alden Haynes.”
“Major Haynes?” The guard lowered his rifle; he must have recognized the name. As Flanna halted, he inserted two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Within an instant, a pair of guards came running.
Limp with weariness, Flanna dropped to her knees in the dirt. When one of the guards lifted a lantern, she flinched, then squinted into the light. The ghostly figure with the rifle proved to be a boy, probably not more than seventeen.
“My name is O’Connor.” She lifted her hand to shield her eyes and spoke in a weary monotone. “I am known to Sergeant Marvin, Company M of the Twenty-fifth Massachusetts. I have left Major Alden Haynes in the woods, and I need your help.”
“You better watch her,” one of the other guards said, his eyes narrowing as he came closer. “I hear some of those screaming Rebel furies have been trying to sneak into our camps. They’re spying for General Lee.”
The boy with the rifle frowned, and Flanna breathed an exasperated sigh, understanding his confusion. How could a ragtag woman know Major Haynes and Sergeant Marvin? How could any woman in Virginia know Union officers?
The boy jerked his rifle to his shoulder and pointed it downward. “Tell me the truth, lady—are you a Rebel?”
Flanna swayed slightly on her knees and closed her eyes. She had seen enough rebellion and bloodshed to last a lifetime.
She lifted her head and met the guard’s gaze. “No. I am a Bostonian.”
Reassured, the boy lowered his gun, then jerked his chin at one of the guards. “Russell, run over to that camp of Massachusetts fellows and see if you can find this Sergeant Marvin. Thomas, you bring the lady a hot cup of coffee; she looks like she could use one.”
Flanna gave the young man a grateful smile. He helped her to her feet, and even in the dim glow of lantern light she saw a rich blush stain his cheeks.
Thirty-One
For the second time in a week, Alden awoke to find Flanna standing by his side.
“Shh.” She pressed her finger to his mouth as he moistened his lips and struggled to speak. “We’re safe within our own regiment.”
He lifted his head to see her better. Flanna wore a becoming dress of butternut homespun, while a wide ribbon held her hair back in a most feminine fashion. He smiled for a moment, grateful for her loveliness, then looked past her. He lay on a cot in a large tent, but there were no other patients. “Where—?” he began.
“You’re in an officer’s tent,” she answered his unvoiced question. “McClellan is preparing another attack, but I doubt much will come of it. We’ve already pulled back from the position we held at Fair Oaks.” She bent low and whispered into his ear. “Strange way to wage war, isn’t it? Win and fall back. At this rate we’ll be safely back in Washington before Christmas.”
“Flanna—”
“You need to be quiet.”
“No.” Alden rallied his strength and struggled to sit up. “I need to speak, woman!”
She gave him a slightly reproachful look, then sank demurely to a stool by the cot. When he pulled himself up and stared at her, she lifted a brow. “So speak.”
“What will you do now?” He felt his heart turn over as he looked at her, so lovely, so strong, so loving. “Will you go to my mother’s house in Boston?”
“Not on your life.” Her husky voice was edged with steel. “I love you, Alden, and I’ve seen the uncertainties of war. So as long as you stay, I stay. If you want to go home, I’ll go with you, but if you’re going to risk your life for a cause, the least I can do is support the same cause.”
He reached up and scratched his chin, a little startled by the heavy growth that had appeared there. “There’s no dissuading you?”
“Absolutely not. Just like your mother and the suffragists, I’ll speak my mind. I refuse to be pushed aside.”
He frowned, momentarily imagining Flanna in bloomers and parading down the streets of Boston, then he saw the smile hidden in the corner of her mouth. “Come here, Flanna.”
She did not dispute him or argue, but moved into the circle of his arms as if she had always belonged there. He held her close as she sat on his lap, and he lifted his hand to stroke her hair, marveling at the soft, coppery strands that glistened in his fingers like burnished threads of sunlight.
Perhaps God’s plan for his life held more than a call to duty. This certainly felt like love…and mercy.
“Why am I still alive?” The question slipped from his lips. He felt guilty for asking it, but he needed to know. “I was dying, and ready to do so, for you were with me and Roger was gone—”
A blush ran over her cheeks, but her eyes glowed with an inner fire. “Don’t you dare feel guilty about living, Alden. I couldn’t let you die. Roger gave his life so you—so we—could live. And God guided my steps to bring you back.”
She reached out, lacing his fingers with her own.
“You’re going to be fine, as strong as ever in a few days. Though Gulick bellowed at me throughout the entire procedure, Colonel Farnham allowed me to perform a transfusion on you.” Her smile lingered on him, more warming than the summer sun. “We’re truly connected now, Major Haynes. My blood—quite a bit of it—now flows in your veins.”
“How—”
“A syringe.” Releasing his hand, she lifted her sleeve and showed him a blue bruise in the bend of her arm. “The English physician James Blundel invented the technique in 1818, but not many American doctors seem willing to try it. But for you”—her voice lowered—“I had no choice.”
Amazed, Alden brought her closer and wondered if he should feel some guilt for the feeling of relief that swept through him. She had not only given him her love, but she had saved his life in the most profound sense. He struggled for words, but found none adequate to convey the feelings in his heart.
He lifted his hand and tenderly traced the outline of her cheek and jaw, hoping touch could communicate what words could not. She seemed to sense his feelings, for her hand came up to cover his, and she leaned into his palm, closing her eyes.
“We can ask the chaplain to marry us,” he said, his heart rising to his throat at the thought.
“A very good idea,” she said, opening her eyes to smile at him. “I always wanted to be a June bride.” Burying her face in his neck, she breathed a kiss there, and
the mere touch of her lips sent a warming shiver through him.
Alden Haynes rested his chin atop the little doctor’s head and exhaled a long sigh of contentment.
Thirty-Two
Tuesday, September 23, 1862
Antietam Creek, Maryland
Three separate battles raged in this place only six days ago. By the time the fighting ended, the glorious Union counted 2,108 dead, 10,293 wounded or missing. The papers report that General Lee lost fewer men—some 10,318 killed, wounded, or missing—but that number represents a greater proportion of his army.
Oh, how I wish this war would end!
I have been a bride for three months, but now my beloved Alden is among the missing. And though my heart yearns to look up and see his face, my hands have been so busy in the care of the wounded that I have had no time to wonder or grieve. And yet I pray that he is in the quiet care of some Maryland housewife who will soon send him on his way.
How can I write all that is in my heart? My brain grows numb with the sights and sounds of war.
At Antietam I saw a cornfield in which every stalk was cut off at the ground. In the cornstalks’ place the dead lay in neat rows, exactly as they fell in their valiant lines. I saw a road—they now call it Bloody Lane—filled with Confederate dead piled two and three deep. One wounded soldier told me he could have walked to the horizon with dead men as his steppingstones.
The wounded fill every building and have overflowed into the country, occupying farmhouses, barns, corncribs, and cabins. Wherever there were four walls and a roof, there are wounded who need medical care. I am giving it to the best of my ability.
After being turned away from one hospital tent by a doctor who did not know me by sight or reputation, I went to the battlefield itself—hoping, I must confess, for some sign of Alden. My clothing grew heavy, and I had to stop and wring the blood from the bottom of my skirt before I could continue. As I bent over one man, a bullet passed through my sleeve and struck my patient, killing him instantly.
Though my heart mourns for those who are dead and missing in both armies, I have come to believes that God might hold an opinion about this struggle after all. Yesterday president Lincoln issued what the papers call the Emancipation Proclamation, a decree freeing all slaves held in rebellious states. Though the slaves in Maryland, Missouri, Delaware, and Kentucky are still in bondage, I cannot believe that this condition will continue for long.
A country founded upon the belief that all men are created equal, with fundamental and inalienable rights guaranteed by the Constitution, cannot justify the bondage or dehumanization of others, whether black or white, male or female, born or unborn.
Perhaps it was for this that we went to war. I do not know if these men realized it when they enlisted in the army…just as I did not know how I would be liberated as a result of my bold disguise. I doubt that even Lincoln envisioned the full effect of this conflict when he first summoned those brightly patriotic young men to serve this wounded country. How strange it is—a war fought to deny freedom to rebel states might in fact free us all. In our rebel lion, we are lost. In submission to a God-appointed head, we are free.
If this war dignifies the downtrodden, frees the slaves, and protects this Union for the unborn children yet to come, then the struggle will have been worth it all.
For the sake of a single unborn child, I must surrender my work on the battlefield. I have decided to accept Mrs. Haynes’s invitation and return to Boston. Together she and I will pray for the end of the war, and we will wait for Alden’s return. And if he does not come home to us, I will miss him forever, but I will get on.
And when my sow is born—for I am certain it will be a boy—I will name him Alden Roger Haynes. He will continue in the tradition of two remarkable men…and my love will keep them alive.
Epilogue
The doorbell buzzed again.
I winced at the nerve-racking sound and hurried to answer it. “I’m coming!” I called, a bit crossly. One quick peek through the peephole confirmed my suspicions, and when I opened the door, Taylor Morgan stood there. Before I could even greet him, he thrust the heavy Velvet Shadow manuscript into my arms.
“Flanna’s story can’t end there.” He moved past me without so much as a hello. “You can’t leave me hanging, Kathleen. You did the research, so you should know.” He whirled in the hall to face me. “What happened to Alden Haynes?”
I shifted the bulky manuscript to my other arm, then back-kicked the door closed. “Haven’t you ever read Gone with the Wind? I moved past Taylor into the living room. “Margaret Mitchell left us all hanging. We never knew if Scarlett and Rhett got back together.”
“That was fiction.” Taylor followed me into the living room, then dropped into my wing chair. “Come on, Kathleen, you’ve got to tell. Why’d you end the story there?”
I shrugged and sat on the couch. “The story wasn’t about whether Alden Haynes lived or died.” I moved the bundled pages to the coffee table. “It was about how two people found each other.”
Taylor made a small sound of exasperation, and I grinned. “Besides, it took me over four hundred pages to end the story in 1862. Did you want me to take another six hundred pages to carry Flanna through 1865?”
“What happened in 1865?” He leaned forward, instantly alert. “The war ended in April, and—”
“Johnny came marching home.” My voice softened as my eyes fell on Flanna’s journal on the coffee table. I picked it up, ran my palm over the rough leather binding, and once again felt the force of Flanna’s personality through the pages. “Alden Haynes came home from the war, too, in the company of Wesley O’Connor.”
“Wesley?” Taylor gaped in surprise.
I nodded. “Yes. Flanna, her two-year-old son, and Mrs. Ernestina Haynes welcomed both men to the Haynes house—quite a gesture for Mrs. Haynes, considering that Wesley had been a slaveholder. But she must have believed that he atoned for his sin in the war. Wesley, you see, had been wounded in the fighting outside Richmond, and a Confederate surgeon had to amputate his arm. No longer able to fight in the field, he was transferred to the prison camp at Belle Isle in the James River. When Alden was captured at Antietam and taken to Belle Isle, the two recognized each other. Alden told Wesley that he had married Flanna, and in a gesture of goodwill, Wesley saved Alden’s life.”
“How?” Taylor shifted in the wing chair and frowned. “What happened in the prison?”
I sighed, once again feeling the sense of tragedy and loss that had hovered over me while I researched the story. “General Grant put an end to all prisoner exchanges, you know, virtually assuring that all prisoners of war remained incarcerated until the war ended. And by 1865, the Confederate army couldn’t feed itself, much less its prisoners. Ninety percent of all survivors from Belle Isle weighed less than one hundred pounds when they were released. The sight was so shocking that Walt Whitman reportedly looked at several skeletal prisoners and cried, ‘Can these be men?’
“In an effort to help his brother-in-law, Wesley embroidered Flanna’s story a bit. He told his fellow officers that Flanna had saved several Confederate soldiers—which was true—but just to make sure they treated Alden with a bit of compassion, Wesley said that Flanna had been dressed as a boy and fighting by his side during the war. Apparently Wesley told a ripping yarn. The commander of the camp was impressed enough by Flanna’s story and the Yankee that could win her heart that he allowed Wesley to share his rations with Alden Haynes.”
Taylor seemed to melt in relief. “So Alden was healthy when he was released.”
“Hardly. By the end of the war, both he and Wesley were living on rats, dead fish, and rainwater. The daily rations—which had consisted of a teaspoon of salt, three tablespoons of beans, and half a pint of unsifted cornmeal—ran out long before 1865. But they were alive, and they made it back to Boston. Flanna’s journal ends shortly after their homecoming, but from other research I learned that Wesley remained in Boston, doted on his nephe
w, and died from tuberculosis in 1870 without ever returning to Charleston.”
“Was he happy in Massachusetts?” Taylor pushed his bottom lip forward in thought. “I can’t imagine that a Rebel soldier would be welcomed in Boston.”
I shrugged. “The South was virtually an occupied territory after the war—the Yankees instituted martial law, and South Carolina didn’t regain congressional representation until June 1868, three years after the war’s end. I’m sure Wesley thought he’d be as happy in Boston as in Charleston. He wouldn’t have an easy life in either place, but at least in Boston he had family and friends.”
Taylor sat silently, mulling over the information I’d just given him. From outside my window, I heard the hush of cars moving up and down the street, then the whine of a siren. The sounds seemed somehow strange and anachronistic; part of me expected to hear the whicker of horses and the rattle of passing carriages.
“Were there really no women doctors?” Taylor’s voice brought me back to reality. “I knew women were pretty much bound to hearth and home in the nineteenth century, but I had no idea they were not allowed to practice medicine.”
“The Union army did appoint Dr. Mary Walker as a contract surgeon in 1864,” I explained. “Like Flanna, Dr. Walker gave up on proper channels and just dove into the work as a volunteer. After months of unsuccessfully hounding the surgeon general for a commission, she left for the Chattanooga front, where her spying soon resulted in her capture by the Confederates. A Rebel captain, surprised to see a female doctor among the prisoners, wrote his wife that his men were ‘all amused and disgusted at the sight of a thing that nothing but the debased and depraved Yankee nation could produce. She was dressed in the full uniform of a Federal Surgeon—not good looking and of course had tongue enough for a regiment of men.’”
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