The Velvet Shadow (11 page)

Boston rocked with the news of Fort Sumter. On Sunday, April 14, the city’s pulpits thundered as preachers of every denomination denounced the rebellion. Reserved congregations who would have thought it irreverent to cough during a sermon stood and applauded the calls for war. Flanna sat with Mrs. Haynes in the family pew and shrank in her seat as the Presbyterian minister roared that the coming contest would be waged over one issue alone: slavery.

On Monday morning the city’s smoldering sense of patriotism burst into bright flame when Lincoln called for seventy-five thousand volunteers to serve for three months. Flanna knew her people would interpret Lincoln’s call as a declaration of war; the North received it
as an affirmation that war had already begun. Every soul in Boston knew that Southern Rebels had affronted the glorious flag. Valiant soldiers of the U.S. Army had been forced, under hostile fire, to surrender a Federal fort and march out in shameful defeat. Under the sting of humiliation, the North rose like a screaming eagle, eager to avenge her lost glory.

By Tuesday morning the sounds of drum and fife filled every street corner. Recruiting offices opened in each city district, and volunteer militiamen began to pour into Boston, escorted by cheering crowds. Merchants and clerks rushed from their shops and stood bareheaded in the drizzling rain to salute passing wagonloads of eager recruits. Women leaned out their windows to wave handkerchiefs damp with tears. Horsecars, carriages, and omnibuses halted for the passing of these would-be soldiers, and the air rang with acclamation.

Drawn by curiosity and dread, Flanna and Charity donned their bonnets and mingled with the crowd, following a parade of volunteers to Faneuil Hall. As a parade of men—young and old—filed into the building, the supportive crowd roiled in fervent excitement.

One man standing near Flanna suddenly pulled his bowler from his head and placed it above his heart. “God bless it,” he cried, his eyes lifting upward. Flanna followed his gaze and saw the American flag rising to the top of the staff.

The crowd responded with a tumultuous roar. Old men and tearful women lifted their gaze as well, reverently saluting the sacred emblem, while the young men cheered and waved their hats in a loud hurrah. Flanna felt a stirring in her heart, but her mind reeled with confusion. She loved her country, but she loved Charleston too. Was it wrong to love both?

A uniformed officer stepped outside Faneuil Hall and lifted his hands for silence. The crowd gave him their attention, and in a loud, confident voice he announced that complete preparations were under way. Army rifles had been ordered from the Springfield Armory. The Boston banks had offered to loan the state three million, six hundred thousand dollars without security, and a host of military and
professional men were donating their services to the Massachusetts regiments. “By six o’clock this evening,” the officer told the crowd, “three regiments will be ready to start for Washington, and new companies are being raised throughout the state.”

The applause lifted in great waves, and Flanna wept silently as she clung to Charity’s arm and wished she were home.

In mid-April Virginia followed the other slave states into secession, and within days of that action Lincoln ordered a blockade of Confederate ports. That news sent a shiver through Flanna, for much of Charleston’s livelihood depended on the exportation of sugar, rice, and cotton.

With her education complete, Flanna no longer had the luxury of work to occupy her time. Each morning she and Charity stayed in their room until the other students had departed the boardinghouse; only then did they dare creep down to the dining room. While Charity scraped breakfast together from leftover scraps in the kitchen, Flanna scanned the newspaper for any sign that they might be able to return home.

The news was anything but hopeful. The newspaper reported that from every corner of the Union, men were rushing to arms with camp-meeting fervor. Recruiters held mass enlistment rallies in churches and auditoriums, where leading citizens regaled audiences with speeches rich with allusions to country and flag and fatherhood. Breathing defiance at slaveholders and traitors to the glorious Union, these orators ultimately ended with the challenge, “Who will come up and sign the roll?” Scores of young men, fathers, and teenagers rushed forward to heed their country’s call.

The appeal went out to Northern women too. Fiery abolitionists reminded wives, sweethearts, and mothers that their duty lay in urging their men to defend the country. Patriotic women challenged their sisters to work for the cause. Emboldened by the thought of their brave young men marching off to face bloodthirsty traitors, Boston women, including Mrs. Davis, rose to participate in the fray.

Flanna watched her landlady’s efforts with quiet amusement, but she dared not protest lest she be evicted for insubordination. Having heard much about the tropical, steamy climate of the South, Mrs. Davis succumbed to the common view that the only practical headgear for a southbound soldier was a cap named for General Henry Havelock, whose soldiers in India adopted a cap featuring a flap at the neck to protect the skin from sunburn. Mrs. Davis and her boarders set to work with a vengeance, sewing havelocks at all hours of the day and night. Charity often remarked that since the firing on Fort Sumter, the house felt far more like a factory than a home. Flanna said nothing, but spent her mornings sewing the silly-looking hats.

Schools and universities suspended classes in order that young men might enlist and young ladies might work for the cause. At social gatherings, including several that took place in Mrs. Davis’s parlor, young women gathered around the piano, pressed their hands to their bosoms, and stared at young men who had not yet enlisted while soul-fully singing “I Am Bound to Be a Soldier’s Wife or Die an Old Maid.” Uniformed veterans of the Mexican War offered benedictions in Boston’s leading churches, while women’s sewing groups adopted military companies and worked until their fingers bled to provide uniforms, nightcaps, and socks. Each morning private homes, churches, and public rooms buzzed with the sounds of sewing machines and determined women who spent the entire day producing hats and uniforms.

Flanna was horrified to read that anything that smacked of Dixie was trampled in the rush to Northern arms. In Bangor, Maine, a group of schoolgirls pounded a Southern boy who came among them wearing a palmetto flag. At Pembroke, a lawyer of alleged Southern sympathies was threatened with a dunking in the river, and in Dexter, a group of volunteers rode Mr. Augustus Brown out on a rail for saying he hoped every one of them would be shot. In other cities, suspected Southern sympathizers were pelted with rotten eggs.

Such stories haunted Flanna’s nights. She feared to venture out of the boardinghouse after dark, even in Charity’s company. Roger, once
her faithful escort, had made himself scarce. She had not seen him since their meeting at the college the day of her examination. That evening, instead of meeting her as he had planned, he had sent a note apologizing for his absence. The militia needed him, he had said, and the opportunity to lead men was too valuable to ignore. “Trust me, dearest, this unpleasantness will be upon us and forgotten before we know it,” Roger had written, “and a stint of military service is the most wonderful opportunity that could present itself to a future statesman. Let me go and do my part to whip the Rebels. I will return to your side in three months, ready to continue with our plans.”

Not at all surprised by Roger’s defection, Flanna had tossed his letter on the heap of textbooks beside her bed. With every passing day the future he had planned looked less bright and more unlikely. As she pondered the events that had trapped her in Boston, she peered into the likely future and saw life with Roger as a series of missed appointments and hurried mealtimes. While she understood his devotion to patriotic duty, she was bothered by the fact that he did not consider her feelings as he prepared to “whip the Rebels.” Those
Rebels
were her family and fellow Southerners, and Roger seemed intent upon forgetting her heritage. He seemed to think that by the sheer force of his will she could become a Bostonian.

She would never understand these people. Her graduation ceremony, which had nearly been canceled in the frenzy of war preparation, had consisted of an invitation to enter the college president’s office. There she lifted her right hand, took the Hippocratic oath, and received a simple rolled diploma. That diploma now lay atop a pile of newspapers in the corner of her wardrobe, and Flanna could not even summon the enthusiasm to untie the ribbon and look at it.

Across the room, Charity lay asleep on her cot, a clump of dark hair covering her face. The lamp glowed softly, gilding the bureau and desk in a golden light. Outside the noise of revelers was broken by the occasional sharp pop of firecrackers. Boston was preparing for war with the fervor of a young girl planning her coming-out party.

Grief welled in Flanna, black and cold. Sitting on the floor beside her bed, she pressed her hands to her eyes and wept silently, not wanting to wake Charity. Why had she worked so hard? She had prayed for that medical diploma. She had studied throughout sleepless nights. She had sifted through countless theories and risked the censure of her professors by adhering to eternal truth instead of pretending allegiance to commonly accepted medical wisdom.

How had God rewarded her efforts? With war. Division. Strife. And the death of her dreams.

She dropped the reins on her mind and let it wander back to a time when Mammy lived and Wesley was a mischievous older brother who liked to pull Flanna’s braids. Each morning Mammy came in and tamed Flanna’s hair, working the bronze hanks into manageable plaits, then tying the ends with silk ribbon. When she had finished, Flanna always hopped up on the bed behind Mammy and tossed her arms around the woman’s neck as Mammy plaited her own daughter’s hair. One morning, as Mammy twisted and tied little Lulu’s spongy curls into more than two dozen stalk-straight pigtails, Flanna had run her hand over Mammy’s close-cropped hair and asked, “Why does Lulu get so many ribbons, Mammy, when you don’t wear any?”

Mammy’s broad black face widened in a smile. “Miss Flanna, don’t you know nothing? Little girls wear their dreams in their hair ribbons. Old women like me—well, we’ve given up on such foolishness.”

Flanna picked up her own braids, eyed the floppy wide ribbons dangling from the ends, then frowned. “So why does Lulu get lots of dreams, and I only get two?”

“’Cause, honey”—Mammy had swatted Lulu on the behind and sent the child scurrying out the door—“your dreams are a lot bigger than hers.”

Mammy’s words echoed in the black stillness of Flanna’s mind as a damp breeze blew in through the cracked window. Were her dreams too big? Flanna had no idea what sort of things Lulu had dreamed of, but she’d earned her freedom and married a nice man in Charleston.

“All I ever really wanted,” Flanna whispered, the words scraping her throat, “was to become a doctor and help my father. There are women, Lord, who need me. I am ready to serve, and yet you have closed the door. You have brought this terrible conflict upon us—why?”

She listened for an answer, but heard nothing but a few smothered laughs from the street outside. God was going to be silent, then, as his children both in the North and South begged him for victory. Perhaps a wise parent did not take sides when his children squabbled, and if God was anything, he was wise.

She hugged her knees to her and rested her head upon them, letting her tears fall upon her pantalets. What was she supposed to do? On the day of the examination Roger had suggested that she live with his mother for the duration of the trouble, but Flanna knew Mrs. Haynes would not be happy with that suggestion. And it was not entirely proper, for she and Roger were not engaged. But where else was she to go? Her father wanted her to remain in Boston, but Mrs. Davis would not want a Rebel in her boardinghouse any more than Mrs. Haynes would want one in her guest room. At least Flanna’s room had been rented through August, for her father had thought she might like to work a short term in the Boston Hospital for Women before coming home. Fortunately for Flanna, Mrs. Davis’s pragmatism outweighed her patriotism—she would not evict the devil himself if it meant losing money.