“Ah, yes. The Yankees called it the French and Indian War,” said Catherine.
“Correct. Anyway, the Spanish authorities restricted us to educating girls and hand-stitching the priests’ chasubles,” Sister Angelica paused and shrugged. “Even though Napoleon negotiated, nothing changed with the return to French rule. That was more than fifty years ago, so our nursing skills now are nonexistent.” The nun gave a long sigh.
Catherine took the nun’s hand. “Considering the circumstances, Sister Angelique, you’re doing an admirable job. The patients are fortunate to have the sisters here to care for them.”
Then Catherine smiled. “Plus,” she added with a slight chuckle, “these men have the most stylish stitches ever pulled through human flesh!”
The nun laughed. “Thank you. Why, lucky us! We may be short of other supplies, but we do have plenty of needles and lots of thread!”
Sister Angelique sighed again. “Please forgive me for complaining like this. I realize I am not alone in feeling frustrated, and I know we are all very tired.”
“It has been stressful, in more ways than one.”
“But . . . Madame Caresse, you have had much experience with suffering, and you know different medicines. I am hoping that you can help us.”
“Why, of course!”
The nun dabbed at her eyes and picked up the paper. “I drew up a list of questions, but, first of all, do you have any recommendations for how we can improve our care of these men?”
“Hmm,” said Catherine. “Well, most of my clients are pregnant women. However, as you know, I do advocate cleanliness in all procedures. I have stressed that all the bandages and linens sent here should be washed in boiling water before they are used.”
Sister Angelique nodded. “Yes. We have been continuously laundering since the first supplies arrived.”
“How frequently will you be washing the patients’ sheets and blankets?”
“We nuns have our own linens and bedding washed every week!” Sister Angelique boasted. “So we’ll do theirs just as frequently as we wash ours.”
She noticed Catherine’s frown. “Not often enough, right?”
“They should be fresh for each new patient, and if a patient soils anything, it must be replaced promptly. If you have extra beds, you can move the bedridden patient to a vacant bed, then strip and wash the used linens.”
“Oh, my! All right. I’ll instruct our servants to begin working on that immediately.” She jotted a note on her piece of paper.
“And the hands and face of each patient should be washed off at least once daily. The entire body should be bathed two or three times a week.”
“And fresh clothing?”
Catherine nodded. “And patients who can walk should be up and moving about during the day. Also . . .” Catherine hesitated.
“Yes?”
“If a patient dies, the straw in his bed sack needs to be burned.”
“Yes. Well. We have been lucky to procure loads of hay for ticking.”
“Good. Now, what about your list of questions?”
“I’m concerned about some of the food we’re receiving. It’s not cooked properly, and some men have already complained of cramps.”
“Try to get the patient to vomit by using ipecac. I’ve used this medicine also for fevers.”
Sister Angelique glanced again at her list. “What about poultices? Many of the men have leg sores.”
“What have you been using?”
“We have been pounding bread crumbs, stirring in boiled milk, and adding lard. Then we smear it on the leg. The procedure is quite time-consuming!”
“An easier method you might employ to relieve pain and reduce inflammation is honey, if you can get some. Just apply it directly to the skin. You can use it for insect bites and burns, too.”
After Sister Angelique wrote the word “honey,” she said, “I notice that you don’t suggest bloodletting or blistering.”
“I certainly don’t use those methods when delivering a baby!” Catherine laughed. “But you’re right—I don’t favor either of those treatments, although they’re popular among doctors. They’re used primarily for diseases, not for the wounds you’re tending. Again, I attempt to treat symptoms with what I have in my personal apothecary, but otherwise I strongly advocate cleanliness, rest, and a good diet.”
“I’m grateful, Madame Caresse, not only for your recommendations, but also for being able to share your spirit.” Sister Angelique said, standing up and pocketing her paper and pencil. “I feel better already!”
Catherine clasped one of the nun’s hands in her own and said, “I’m happy to hear that. We’ll get through this together, Sister Angelique.”
“Again, thank you, Madame Caresse. I’m going to the laundry right now!”
Tarot: THE QUEEN OF SWORDS
Revelation: Sadness; possible widowhood.
Hortense opened the door to Catherine’s cottage and, seeing Scamp alone, knew at once that something was wrong.
“I need to talk to Mademoiselle Suzanne,” the boy said.
Suzanne walked into the front room and looked first at the boy, and then at the older woman. They were both looking down at the floor.
“What is it, Scamp?” Suzanne asked softly.
Scamp moved closer to Suzanne and gazed up at her with a regretful expression. Before relaying Catherine’s message, he reached out to hold both of Suzanne’s hands.
“M-M-M-Mademoiselle Suzanne,” he stammered.
“Non! Non, non, Scamp!”
Scamp looked at Hortense, his eyes wide. Hortense ran over to Suzanne and put her arm around the pregnant girl. “Now, Suzanne, you need to let the boy tell us what’s going on.”
“Y-y-you must be brave, Mademoiselle Suzanne!” he started again.
“It’s René, isn’t it?” She cut him off. “He’s hurt!” she cried. “I can feel it; it’s a pain right here!” She pointed to her abdomen.
Suzanne began sobbing in Hortense’s arms. “Mon Dieu! Mon René!”
Hortense rocked her back and forth, murmuring “Tout sera bien, Suzanne. Tout sera bien,” yet wondering to herself if everything would in fact be all right.
When Suzanne’s tears stopped, her mouth was dry and she began trembling. Turning to face the boy, she said, “Tell me, Scamp: How bad is it?”
“Well . . .” Scamp looked at Hortense, who shook her head slightly, as a warning.
“Well,” he said again, wringing his hands, “Monsieur Bonet has been hurt real bad. And your maman thinks it would be good for you to come and visit him . . . and,” he improvised, “make him feel better. I’m to take you there right now!” he finished proudly.
“Oui, of course! Oh, Our Lady of Prompt Succor, save my husband,” prayed Suzanne, as she threw on her cloak and grabbed her bag.
“Do you need any help getting your things?” Hortense asked, opening the door.
“No, thank you, Hortense; I’ll just bring an extra blanket and pillow, and perhaps the missal, to pray with him. Scamp, I’ll meet you outside.” She gave Hortense a hug and hastened out toward her house.
“Does Madame Catherine have instructions for me, Scamp?” asked the maid.
“Oui, madame.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Tarot: THE SIX OF SWORDS
Revelation: A capacity for understanding
helps ease anxiety.
Hortense’s cousin Andre was in one of the carts bringing slaves to help build the rampart. Wagons from the city and surrounding plantations were also arriving, filled with beans, rice, greens, hams, rum, and more shovels, spades, hoes, and pickaxes. Along the shallow canal, workers were excavating mud and piling it around cypress logs notched and stacked in interlocking rectangles laid along the north side of the ditch.
Andre’s wagon came to a halt. As he jumped down, a tall, handsome black man handed him a shovel.
“Hello. I’m Tobias, and you are . . .”
“Andre.”
Contest or no, Andre thought, what a way to spend Christmas Eve.
Andre headed toward a group of Negroes, whose clothes and distasteful expressions indicated that they were fellow house slaves.
He groaned inwardly as he dug in. A shovel was not a tool he used at the Villeré plantation house. But while he was scooping up sludge, he heard some of his fellow slaves talking about being set free by General Jackson. They said that if they made a strong rampart here and two more upriver, and the English were defeated, they would be granted their freedom. The thought of one day being his own man took his mind off the mud and sweat, and Andre dug deeper and faster.
More soil was hauled in to strengthen the wall, and his group enthusiastically continued its work. They set cotton bales into the ground, to serve as solid platforms for the artillery, and spaced the cannons to cover all the fields in front of the rising rampart.
Andre started feeling a kinship with the other workers, but he was curious about Tobias, who was moving along the canal, encouraging the men and praising their work. Andre wondered who this uppity slave was.
Hours passed quickly. The men now sang as they dug in unison, scooping a shovel full of mud on the first beat, lifting with a vocal grunt on the second, throwing the mud onto the rampart on the third, slapping the mud with the empty shovel on the fourth, and then bending to repeat the rhythm. One of the slaves improvised the words and shouted them before each move, changing the lyrics with each round; then all sang them.
Finally, it was suppertime. Although red beans and rice flavored with onions and dried red peppers was not Andre’s usual fare, he considered it the best meal he had ever tasted.
He could hear gunshots coming from the Choctaws and Tennessee riflemen, as they picked off the sentries around the English camp. Knowing that the Redcoats had been devouring the hams—his hams—from the Villeré mansion, he hoped the snipers were successful with each shot.
His work was over for the day. After a second helping, Andre looked around for a place to lie down. The area behind the rampart was ten feet wide, to give the sleeping shift some room. Exhausted, chilled, and wet, Andre removed his shoes and socks, stretched out, and put his head on his arms, grateful to get a few hours of slumber. Some of the men in his group were already snoring. He had heard that General Jackson, who had come by his area earlier to inspect, slept very little. Yet Catherine had said that the general needed rest because of his dysentery. Andre wondered how this would all finish: an ill and fatigued leader, an undermanned army, a powerful enemy . . .
Fingering the small leather pouch hanging around his neck, he hoped that Catherine’s protection gris-gris was truly potent. Just to be on the safe side, he brought it up to his mouth and gently blew on it.
Next was his prayer to Our Lady of Prompt Succor, known for protecting those in need. Andre’s petition included safety for his wife, Claire, for his cousin Hortense, and for Catherine’s family, and then he thought he had better include Andrew Jackson and the army, too.
Now he could sleep.
Tarot: DEATH
Revelation: A sudden change; a transformation.
Scamp took Suzanne’s arm and was ready to steady her, even steer her, but she did not falter as they walked quickly to the makeshift hospital. She did not say anything but seemed resolute in her mission. Her husband needed her.
At the convent door, she shook Scamp’s arm away from her, strode into the hallway, and came to an abrupt stop. She could see that the first classroom was lined with men lying on beds, pallets, and simple blankets. She recognized the varying dress of the Creoles, Kentuckians, and Choctaws. She noticed the visitors, the nurses, and the priest. Some of the injured were asleep, groaning as they turned over. Others were being fed, taking medication, or having fresh bandages applied. Still others were reading or talking quietly to one another.
She had entered the room many times in the previous days, efficiently checking the supplies and genially supporting the lady volunteers. The nuns and other women had all admired her energy.
This time, she had only one purpose. Where was René?
Scamp joined her and, gently taking her hand, led her back into the hallway, where the worst cases were laid. At this moment, she fully comprehended René’s critical condition. In fact, she had actually set up this placement for the terminally wounded, knowing that the hallway meant a quicker and shorter distance for removal of the deceased: it was easier to clean up, and the dying patients wouldn’t upset those who were probably going to heal.
When she saw him, it took all her willpower to keep from wailing out in anguish. René was colorless; his eyes were closed, and his lips moved feebly. Suzanne started to stagger, reaching out to the wall for support. The hallway began to blur, and she gasped for air. It was as if someone were holding her underwater. Scamp wrapped his arms around her waist to keep her from falling.
And then, very slowly, her senses returned.
She saw her mother kneeling beside René, gently wiping up the pinkish, milky liquid emerging from his gaping wound. She smelled the sickening stink of putrefied flesh. She heard Catherine telling René that he was a good man, that he would always have Suzanne’s love, and that the pain would stop soon. And then Suzanne tasted her own tears, as she stood helplessly above her beloved husband.
Catherine looked up and quickly put a clean cloth over the patient’s wound. “Suzanne, come talk to René. He loves you so much, you know.”
Suzanne slowly began to totter forward and then felt something inside her break.
Tarot: THE SIX OF PENTACLES
Revelation: A call to offer generosity.
Jeannette’s children were now back at their house, and Claire continued caring for them while the young mother napped.
Hortense, unsettled by Scamp’s messages, was vigorously washing windows in the parlor. She noticed a carriage pulling up in front of Catherine’s home. Setting aside her bucket and rag, with her hands on her hips, Hortense watched as two ladies got out. One woman, older, was helping the other, very pregnant one lumber toward the front door.
The maid didn’t know what to expect, but she had a feeling she was going to encounter yet another shock.
First that soldier came for Madame Catherine, she thought; then Suzanne brought that prostitute over. . . . (Hortense did not approve, no matter how valiant Suzanne declared Millie to be.) Plus my cousin Andre and his wife, looking for refuge, and Scamp, with his dreadful news. All this tragedy at once. This must be what war is about.
Reluctantly, Hortense answered the knock.
She recognized the pregnant woman as a Creole client of Catherine’s, although she did not know her name. The woman appeared to be in pain and leaned very heavily on her older companion, also a Creole.
“Bonjour, mesdames. How may I help you?” asked Hortense, mystified by this scene.
“Are you Hortense?” the older woman asked in a haughty tone.
“Oui. . . .”
Again on an arrogant note, the woman continued, “This is Madame Marguerite de Trahan, and I am her mother.”
Hortense’s eyes widened at the sound of the familiar surname. However, she politely responded, “Oui?”
“Well, she’s in great pain, so you obviously need to—”
Marguerite gave out a moan and then spoke. “Maman, please.”
Giving Hortense a weak smile, Marguerite said, “Madame Hortense, I am a friend of Madame Caresse’s; we worked together preparing medical supplies for the troops. She told me I could come here when I went into labor. She said you would help me. May we come in, s’il vous plaît?”
&nb
sp; Incroyable! Hortense thought, but she replied, “Oui, of course,” and opened the door wider to let the ladies in. “Madame Caresse is not here right now. Follow me, s’il vous plaît.”
Hortense led the two white women to Suzanne’s former room, and while Sheila tried to make Marguerite somewhat comfortable on the bed, Hortense went to get the midwife bag.
While gathering lotions and cloths, she thought, I vaguely recall Madame Catherine mentioning this possibility. But oh, mon Dieu—not tonight!
Sheila was complaining loudly. “Marguerite, I don’t like this arrangement at all. In fact, this is outrageous! First the lack of qualified medical doctors, and now my own daughter being reduced to mingling with these people? And being cared for only by a slave, no less!”
“Mother, please.”
“And this tiny room—totally inadequate! Why, the absurdity of our being in this neighborhood at all! If Jacques knew about this . . .”
So, thought Hortense, it’s just as I surmised. Marguerite is the wife of Jacques. Well, she is obviously in great discomfort, but if I’d had a choice, I would have slammed the door on that overbearing mother of hers.
Then Hortense heard Marguerite cry out.
Oh dear! I wonder if I will be delivering the baby myself, and with that despicable mother carping away. C’est la vie—but I do hope that Madame Catherine will be coming home from the hospital soon.
Tarot: THE FIVE OF PENTACLES
Revelation: Signaling a period of loss
and impoverishment.
Scamp was hopping from one foot to the other. “Uh-oh!” he said. “Uh-oh! Uh-oh! Uh-oh!”
Normally, Catherine would have admonished him to hush. But she was stunned.
Suzanne was dumbfounded, too, and stared at the puddle gathering around her shoes and trickling across the slightly sloping pine floor. She grabbed the back of a nearby chair for support.
The Cards Don't Lie Page 20
