The Lady and the Officer (24 page)

Stifling a smile, Micah bowed his gray head. “I shall tell her, sir. Thank you.”

Madeline waited until the butler had returned to his post at the door. “Do you think it's untoward of me to be concerned with suffering soldiers, those with no loved ones nearby to offer comfort?”

Clarisa hid her grin behind her coffee cup.

“Not untoward, Madeline, but dangerous and impractical. Those wards are filled with disease. Many a brave nurse has caught whatever miasma lingers in the air. Then they suffer the same plight as those they sought to help.”

“But Jesus walked among the lepers to heal bodies and save souls.”

John's mouth dropped open as he stared at their niece speechlessly. After a moment, he managed to find his voice, and his tone was rebuking. “As the Son of God, our Lord was able to do many things that would cause certain death among us mortals.”

Madeline flushed the color of ripe tomatoes. “Forgive me, sir. I didn't express myself well. I only meant we are to reach out to the less fortunate and provide aid without thought to our own selfish needs.”

“I was under the distinct impression from Colonel Haywood that you didn't care for nursing up North.”

Madeline's blush deepened. “That is true. I don't wish to care for patients' wounds, only to tend their broken spirits. I thought I could read to them or write a few letters home for those unable to hold a pen. If Chimborazo has no need for me in that capacity, then perhaps in the laundry or kitchen. I was a housewife without servants back home.”

John's sighed deeply in surrender. “Very well, my dear. I can't very well forbid a grown woman from volunteering, but my daughter may
not
join you. And you may not go alone. I insist you either accompany Father Michael or your Episcopal pastor. Those are my terms.”

Madeline lowered her gaze and nodded her head. “I accept your terms, Uncle John, and thank you.”

“Just don't touch those sick men. And be sure to pray for your own health as often as you pray for theirs.”

“I promise.” Madeline lifted the bowl of wilted greens and passed it to him. “More dandelions, sir?”

“Splendid!” Clarisa clapped her hands. “A successful parlay. Now let's finish eating so Kathleen can serve the apple pie. I'm craving a bite of something sweet.”

D
ECEMBER
23

Madeline began lifting corn muffins from the baking pan the moment the cook removed them from the oven.

“Mind you don't burn yourself, Miz Howard. Those are mighty hot.” Esther hovered nervously behind her, shaking her head.

“I'm eager to leave before Eugenia comes down for breakfast. She might ask to go with me.” Madeline laid a third layer of muffins in her basket with the latest batch. “Genie wants to be helpful to the Cause as long as it doesn't involve sewing or knitting, but Mr. Duncan won't let her go to the hospital.”

Esther carried the empty muffin tin to the washtub near the door. “He should have put his foot down with you too,” she said, under her breath.

“I beg your pardon, Esther?”

“I said I don't know why you want to go near those sick men. They got crippled soldiers to take care of them, Miz Howard. It's not safe for a lady in that place.”

“Sounds as though you've been listening in on Uncle John and Aunt Clarisa's conversations.”

“Right is right, but I wasn't eavesdropping. They don't hide their worries from me.”

Madeline slipped her arm around the woman's waist. “It's almost Christmas. I wish to read the blessed story to the soldiers from the book of Luke. It must be sad to spend Christmas in a dreary hospital.”

“You got a kind heart, but make sure you sit a good distance away and read loud.” Esther covered the muffins with a clean linen cloth and closed the hamper. “Go on now, before Miss Eugenia gets hungry. Micah got the carriage ready. You fetching Colonel Haywood's preacher on your way?”

“No, his preacher is too busy this week with baskets for the poor. He said perhaps in January I can accompany him during his round of calls.”

“You going alone?” Esther wrinkled her nose.

“No, Father Michael from Aunt Clarisa's parish said he would accompany me. He goes three times a week to deliver last rites to the dying.” Madeline exchanged a sorrowful look with the cook, grabbed the handles of the hamper, and hurried outside before her courage waned.

Along the way, she viewed a town preparing for the holiest night of the year: Hitching posts were wrapped with red ribbons, and entrance gates and front doors were festooned with garlands of holly and fresh-cut pine boughs. But black crepe covered the doors of some homes, indicating the recent loss of a family member.

At the Catholic church, Micah turned the coach around in the cobblestone courtyard. The priest exiting the rectory wore a long brown cassock with a length of rope tied around his waist. Thick black socks covered his feet, along with leather sandals. If they had walked instead of using the Duncan carriage, his feet would have quickly become wet and cold. Without the grand vestments worn during Mass, the priest looked small and humble.

“Good morning, Mrs. Howard. Looks like we have a fine day for our outing,” Father Michael said as he climbed in and took the seat opposite from her.

Madeline peered out the window at heavy, low clouds and drizzle, without a patch of blue sky to be found. “I love your attitude, Father. It promises a successful day for us.”

“This rain will wash the city clean of its layer of dust. Tomorrow evening we celebrate the birth of our Savior. Despite our earthly cares and woes, we have much to be joyous about.” Deep creases encircled his mouth as he smiled.

Madeline snuggled into her woolen cloak for the short ride. Once they reached the sprawling grounds of Chimborazo, she found little to smile about. Perched on the western outskirts of Richmond, the goliath of a hospital sprawled before her like a city unto itself. Any foolish notion she had that she could make a difference here vanished. Dozens
of white-washed, one-story buildings lay in rows as far as the eye could see, while a steady stream of ambulances, wagons, riders, and pedestrians approached from the north and east.

Once they had entered a building marked Hospital Number Three, Father Michael instructed her to wait on a bench next to the door. He headed down the corridor to an office at the far end. From her vantage point, Madeline witnessed a stream of surgeons, stewards, orderlies, ambulance drivers, and men of the cloth all in a hurry. The temporary hospital in Gettysburg where she had nursed one fateful day was downright primitive by comparison.

“All right, Mrs. Howard, you may follow me.”

Trying not to breathe too deeply, Madeline followed the priest through the doorway into a ward. The mingled odors of beef stock, smoky whale oil lamps, and inadequately washed bodies didn't bode well for her breakfast. Two corn muffins and a cup of chicory coffee roiled in her gut like a ship at sea. She pressed the handkerchief usually tucked up her sleeve to her nose.

Dr. Raymond, the hospital's chief surgeon, met them in the main aisle. “We have no cases of influenza in his ward, Father, so Mrs. Howard may join you at bedside. I'm needed elsewhere, but you may send the ward sergeant for anything you require.” His voice was modulated and cultured, with vowels rolling off his tongue as though each word was part of some enchanted melody. Dr. Raymond turned his attention from the priest to her. “The men in the beds along the windows won't live to see the new year.” He spoke in a soft whisper. “There isn't a man over twenty in that group. Some Union, some Confederate, but each one has been away from home for two years. Any kindness you can show them will be appreciated more than you'll ever know.” He nodded and then walked away, his focus already on the chart he carried in his hand.

The bottom fell from Madeline's queasy stomach. She glanced at the entrance behind them. Beyond the solid oak door were fresh air, a brisk breeze from the river, and a town joyously preparing for Christmas. Inside Chimborazo were young men, desperate to see mothers or sweethearts, waiting solely to die.

“Would you like to stay with me, Mrs. Howard? We could take turns
reading about Christ's birth, switching between Saint Luke's and Saint Matthew's accounts.” The priest's question pulled Madeline from her woolgathering. “Or you could start at the opposite end to see if anyone wishes to convey a last message home in a letter.”

With her opportunity to flee gone, Madeline pulled a worn testament from her bag. “I believe I'll start with the beds by the window. I've brought my own Bible.”

“Very well. Mr. Duncan asked me to remind you not to touch any of the patients.” Father Michael smiled encouragingly at her and then moved away.

Madeline marched to the end of the row of men, perched on a bedside stool, and inhaled a breath. “Good day, sir, and a merry Christmas to you. I'm Mrs. Howard. I would be happy to write a letter on your behalf, or read from Scripture, or simply listen while you speak of home.” She delivered her rehearsed speech without looking at the boy lying on the cot. Once she did, though, she saw that heavy bandages obscured most of his face and head. From the sunken contour of his right cheek, part of the bone must be missing. His mouth, wrapped with strips of cloth, wouldn't utter messages anytime soon.

“Forgive me, soldier,” she murmured inadequately, trying to repress a shudder.

His soft brown eye filled with moisture.

“Why don't I read you the Christmas story from one of the Gospels?” With trembling fingers, Madeline struggled to find the correct page.
How could I have been so insensitive?

As she silently chastised herself, the young man reached out to pat her hand. His touch sent a shiver throughout her body. When Madeline found the beginning of the book of Luke, she closed her fingers around his as tightly as she dared. She read the Gentile physician's words, which offered hope to the living and the dying, in a clear voice until the soldier drifted to sleep. Then she finished the chapter for those listening in nearby beds.

“Sit with me a spell, ma'am,” said another patient down the row.

Madeline let her gaze drift from the foot of the bed to the man's face. Noticing a perfectly flat blanket where his legs should be, she tried to
keep her expression benign. “What can I do for you, soldier?” She settled primly on the stool, her Bible clutched between her hands.

“I would like to get a word home to my wife.” He sucked in a painful breath. “Doc had to cut off both legs below the knees. Then he had to take 'em off higher 'cause the rot keeps spreadin'.” He paused, wheezing for air. “Doc can't stop the rot, so I'm just about done for. Those bullets might have kilt me quick and spared all the trouble.” The soldier coughed into a bloody rag.

When Madeline averted her gaze, she spotted a blue uniform jacket folded atop the small trunk next to the bed. “I see you fought for the Republic, sir,” she whispered.

“Don't make much difference now when you're facing the pearly gates, but yes, ma'am. Fought with the Fourth Corps in General Birney's division. Got shot outside a little town called Remington while ridin' cavalry scout.”

Madeline placed her hand on his shoulder. “The Fourth Corps—commanded by General James Downing?”

It took him several moments to respond. “Yes, ma'am. The general took a bullet in the shoulder just 'bout the time I got hit.”

“He's been shot?” Madeline's voice sounded like a rusty door hinge. “How is he?”

The soldier trained his watery gaze on her. “Can't say, ma'am. The Rebs brought me here when I didn't die like they thought I would. But I imagine if General Downing was dead, you would have read 'bout it in the newspapers. Him being a general and all. He kinfolk to you?”

“Yes,” Madeline answered without thinking. “I mean no, not yet.” She glanced away to hide her embarrassment. “Shall I write down that letter you want to send to your wife?”

“Yes, ma'am. I would be mighty grateful if you would do that.”

F
OURTEEN

 

O
n Christmas Eve, Elliott and Mrs. Howard delivered food baskets to the refugees living on the edge of town. They chatted and sang and listened to the repartee between Eugenia and Major Penrod. That night, neither poverty nor the war intruded on the promise and hope of Christmas.