Plantation Nation (9781621352877) (9 page)

Complicating her acclimation into the role as
a nurse was Dr. Robert Spear. Head of the hospital, he was dubbed
'Tyrant of the Tent' for his rants and outbursts with patients and
staff alike.

"Haven't you washed those linens yet,
Edwards?" Dr. Spear pointed to a pile of laundry that reached
Emma's waist. With gray-white hair and a trace of his British
accent, Dr. Spear never made eye contact with the nurses or the
stewards. A popular rumor among his assistants claimed that Dr.
Spear spent more time grooming his hair
—
and satisfying his opiate infatuation
—
than tending to his patients.

"Yes, sir, they're clean," Emma said. "I'm
folding them."

"For what? We are not here to play house,
Edwards. Lag on your own time, not mine. I want these sheets on
beds within the hour."

"Yes, Dr. Spear."

"When you're through with that, I want you to
administer the quinine. Be mindful that you don't spill a drop, and
remember, one spoonful, and one spoonful only, to each patient, no
matter how much they beg, pathetic worms," he grumbled under his
breath. "And keep in mind, I will be checking to make sure you've
followed orders. Do not repeat the act of yesterday." Praise for
others was foreign to him, but in the presence of Colonel Reed or
other high-ranking officers, the doctor became a pussycat, sick
with Union fervor.

The previous day, Emma had given patients
extra doses of quinine. More medicine, she theorized, could produce
a cure. She had gambled and lost. However, Dr. Spear's threats
didn't ruffle her.

"Yes, Dr. Spear." Emma mocked the doctor as
he left the tent. She had given up reminding the good doctor her
name was not Edwards, or Edwin, or whatever name he created on a
regularly basis.

Part of her blamed Dr. Spear for the men's
agony. Speculation circulated that Dr. Spear hoarded supplies and
cared more about protecting his own life than saving others'. Emma
suspected some truth in the notion, considering the doctor's
lengthy absences from the tent and the patients.

By the time Emma reported for drill duty that
afternoon, weariness threatened her performance. Graham, fresh from
picket duty, joined her. In Emma's mind, they had formed a fragile
friendship, one where Emma guarded her every word and action since
they shared close quarters. During their first nights in the tent,
Emma had slept only in snippets. She got used to Graham's mild
snoring and soon convinced herself that Graham suspected nothing.
Emma trained herself to rise before most of the men were awake, a
difficult adjustment since the smell of breakfast cooking usually
woke her on the plantation. Nerves drove her, though, as did her
hatred of reveille. She could wash off and dress for duty alone,
and she liked the feeling of preparedness it gave her for the day.
Working in the hospital tent also afforded her screened areas for
privacy when she needed it.

"Brought you some hardtack," Graham said as
they took their position with the company in the courtyard.

Armed with their muskets, they would practice
priming the weapon, tearing open the paper cartridge with their
teeth, loading the barrel, and firing the gun. Colonel Reed wanted
his men proficient in the use of the weapon, despite the sketchy
craftsmanship and inaccuracy of the army-issued musket.

Emma thanked Graham and attacked the unsalted
biscuit with ravenous bites. Like everyone else in the
fortification, Emma loathed the monotony of the tasteless rations,
but complaining changed nothing. That prim manners had no place at
an encampment was a small consolation.

"Any news come?" she asked.

"Just that the Rebels are strengthening their
troops around Richmond. Still no word on a definitive plan of
attack."

Evenings by the fire gave the men a chance to
recount and share the day's news. Tonight, Emma and the others
learned General Winfield Scott's "Anaconda Plan" had been
dismissed. Politicians argued that the current Navy was too small
for the tactic of guarding all Southern ports, since almost every
seceded state bordered the Atlantic or the Gulf of Mexico.
Currently, the Navy already struggled maintaining its blockade in
several key ports. Furthermore, advisers believed training enough
men for an effective ground invasion launched primarily from the
West, using the Mississippi River to transport and transplant
troops, would take too long. Most of the men in Lincoln's circle
wanted a speedier resolution.

The Union's military strategy, Emma thought,
resembled the army's food, being lackluster at best. Many
Northerners shared her opinion and voiced their frustration, as a
recent headline in the
New York Tribune
read, "Forward to
Richmond! Forward to Richmond!" and encouraged the Lincoln
administration to prevent the Confederate Congress from convening
there in July.

Emma wondered if a similar battle cry sounded
in the South, and if their share of West Point commanders proved
just as stagnant. However, she had to admit, if only to herself,
that a part of her couldn't root against the South. She was
interested in watching the practice of slavery die, not her fellow
countrymen. And certainly not her brothers. She hoped, perhaps
against hope, that the South would put up a decent fight, and that
the South's passion and dedication to its morals would translate
into their fighting men. Yes, Emma hoped the Yanks wouldn't soon
forget their tangle with the men in gray.

"If this fever keeps up," Emma said, "the
Union may not have much of an army left."

Although she couldn't escape the bred-in
patriotism she held for Dixie, she hoped and prayed earnestly that
camp fever and Rebel bullets wouldn't be her fate.

****

After drill duty, fellow soldiers Ben
Reynolds, Charlie Culpepper, and Simon Wells joined Emma and Graham
as they received their supper of bean stew and a corn cake. Harper,
Emma knew, would throw up her hands at such a disgraceful meal. She
didn't dare to think about Harper's cornbread or yearn for a
bowlful of frogmore stew.

The men built a fire near their tents and
encircled the flames with their canvas stools, actions that had
become an easy habit. Emma found her place among the men as a quiet
type who had a knack for sewing on loose buttons and repairing
holes in their woolen socks. She preferred the Bible over games of
dice, and with her forage cap consistently low and tight, she
excused herself whenever Ben started passing around his canteen of
gin.

Emma had also created a habit of writing
letters after supper. Sylvia occupied her mind the most, as Emma
wanted to know everything about her sister's adjustment to life
with Aunt Celia in New Orleans. Brief but cheerful, Emma's letters
focused on seeing Sylvia again and made no mention of Emma's
departure from the plantation or her decision to join the Union
army. She didn't want to upset Sylvia, and doubted Knox and Olivia
wanted to say much about it. If, however, Sylvia mentioned the
postmark or did catch wind of Emma's absence, she promised herself
she'd be honest. Vague but honest.

The bulk of her writing went to Stuart. In
letters to her cousin, Emma sent assurances that all was well. She
also included a copy of her letters to Sylvia, just in case her
mailings to New Orleans were unable to reach her, for whatever
reason. Emma also broke down and penned an explanation to Knox. She
stayed mum on details of her whereabouts and 'doings' but admitted
she had taken on "a helpful position that favored the North's
cause." She could only imagine the fury that gripped both Knox and
her mother, but she wished them good health and sent her love. All
the good it would do.

After supper, Charlie edged in closer to
Emma. Among the shortest in Emma's company, Charlie had the
curliest blonde hair she had ever seen. Whatever Charlie may have
lacked in stature, he made up for with his soldiering skills. Agile
and quick with the musket, he seemed ideal for the army, though his
countenance always held a scowl.

"I been thinking," Charlie said slowly.

Emma tucked away the letter she was writing
and her face reddened, not from concern that Charlie might've seen
anything incriminating in the letter, but from the fact that
Charlie kept to himself more than Emma did. Charlie Culpepper was
one of the few she expected to strike up a conversation with
her.

"About what?" she asked.

Charlie rubbed his hands and held them over
the fire. "Maybe deserting."

Emma's eyes widened. She looked to see if the
others had heard, but no one else seemed to be listening. Why would
Charlie confide in her?

"My enlistment is supposed to be up next
month," Charlie continued, "but we got those letters, telling us it
would be extended. I don't think I want to stay. I mean, if it's
this bad when there's no fighting, what's it gonna be like when
we're killing other men?"

"I don't know, Charlie, but you can't just
run out and leave the army. You could be put in jail, or
worse."

"Only if I got caught. It's not like the
Union can keep track of every man here, and then send someone after
the men who've run off. If I just up and walked out of here right
now and back to Washington, who'd know?"

"We would know," Emma said, referring to the
fellow soldiers. "And what's that say about what kind of man you
are, going back on your word?"

Charlie turned away.

"You can't go turning yellow on us now," Emma
said.

"I ain't yellow!"

Others turned at Charlie's raised voice, but
he produced a phony grin.

Emma didn't believe Charlie's declaration,
but she decided not to argue the point.

"War isn't supposed to be easy, Charlie, and
army life isn't meant to be comfortable." Emma surprised herself,
both with her amateur wisdom and new found conviction.

"I don't know if I can do it," Charlie said
with gritted teeth.

"What?"

"Kill someone."

Emma sat dumbfounded. Charlie showed no
hesitation when he handled the musket or artillery. He'd been
praised for his accuracy and swiftness. Emma fumbled her musket and
wasn't used to handling such a lanky weapon. Since having the
musket and a supply of paper cartridges thrust into her hands, Emma
hadn't been sure if she could fire upon another human being either.
Her hope was to end inhumanities, yet she couldn't come to terms
with how that could happen without bloodshed and without her facing
her own kinsmen with a gun. Emma had no desire to share her
uncertainty with Charlie.

"I don't know, Charlie. I don't think any of
us do, not until we get there and we don't have a choice. Who knows
what will happen." Emma looked Charlie straight in the eye. "But
running away isn't an option."

"What'cha fellas over here so serious about?"
Nash asked as he slapped both of them on the shoulder. Before
either had an answer, he reached in front of Charlie and picked up
his half empty bowl of beans and helped himself to the rest.

Apologies hadn't been exchanged between Emma
and Nash since their scuffle, and Emma still had reservations about
Nash, but now, she viewed Nash as more of an oaf than a lethal
threat. Nash was rude and obnoxious with everyone, and Emma and the
other men could tolerate Nash only in small doses.

"We were wondering what it'll be like to kill
someone," Emma said after a pause.

"It ain't nothin'." Bean soup spittle escaped
as Nash talked.

"You mean to say you killed a man before?"
Simon Wells asked. Ben and the other men perked up at the
conversation.

Nash shrugged. "Yeah. Took out a cattle
rustler back in '59. Couple Injuns before that."

"Guess you ain't nervous about facing the
Confederates then."

"Nah. Can't wait to get a whack at them
good-for-nothings. Might pick me off a couple of them coloreds,
too, if I get me the chance."

Mild laughter sounded.

"What?" Emma said. "We're not here to shoot
coloreds, Nash. We're here to fight for their freedom."

"Well, maybe you are, tadpole, but who cares
'bout a bunch o' darkies runnin' 'round free. What good is that
gonna do any of us?"

"He's right," Simon said.

"Yeah, I don't care about slavery or how
people in the South work their farms," Charlie added. "And you
know, the Bible makes several references to masters and their
slaves, so maybe that's the way it's supposed to be."

"Lincoln and his pals shoulda just sent a
haul of weapons down south," Simon said. "Let the darkies fight it
out with their owners. Then we coulda gone in and cleaned up the
mess."

Grunts of agreement followed.

"I ain't never even seen a black man," said
Xavier, one of Nash's pals, who had joined the conversation.

"They got fangs and tails!" Nash turned
toward Xavier and positioned his index fingers like they were fangs
protruding from his mouth. "Almost no differen' than a monkey."

Chortles rolled from the men.

"That's not true!" Emma stood, fists clenched
at her sides.

"It's not worth getting upset over, Tom,"
Graham said. "The darkies are different from us. They're savages,
like the Indians. The South's done them a favor all these years,
taking care of them. Otherwise, they'd still be eating each other
in the jungles."

"Yeah, so why should I get killed for them?"
Charlie asked. Others echoed his remark.

Disbelief paralyzed Emma as she scanned their
jovial faces, but she quickly found her voice.

"You have no idea what it's like to have your
family taken from you, or to have your every waking moment under
someone else's rule. You've never had someone put a price on you,
suggesting what you're worth. Never seen someone beaten for working
too slow in the summer heat. No man should be owned by another."
All eyes rested upon her and she returned their bewildered gazes
with a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. "If you're not here to end
slavery, then why did you volunteer?"