The Velvet Shadow (26 page)

“The sinks?” O’Neil grimaced in distaste. “Have you lost your mind, lad? What in the world would make you bring me out here?”

“They’re too close to the camp.” Flanna released her nose and turned away, unable to abide the smell. “I don’t know why, exactly,
but I’m certain the latrines have something to do with all this sickness.”

O’Neil’s brows flickered as he stared at the sinks, then he thrust his hands into his pockets. “I’ll admit the smell enough is likely to churn a man’s stomach, but why—”

“There’s more to it than that, but I can’t explain right now. But if you believe in God’s Holy Word, then surely you remember what the Lord said in Deuteronomy 23.”

O’Neil lifted a brow. “Remind me, lad.”

“After telling his people that they should take care of their business outside the camp—” Her face grew hot with humiliation, but she went on, “God said, ‘For the Lord thy God walketh in the midst of thy camp, to deliver thee, and to give up thine enemies before thee; therefore shall thy camp be holy: that he see no unclean thing in thee.’ Both Leviticus and Deuteronomy are filled with references to cleanliness and sanitation.”

Flanna thrust her hands in her pockets, mimicking O’Neil’s broad stance, and something either in the gesture or her words seemed to touch him.

“Och, lad, that’s lovely, but why are you tellin’ me this? I’m just one man, and I can’t very well be filling in the entire trench.”

Flanna steeled her voice with resolve. “I want you to go to Major Haynes and tell him that the trenches are too close to the camp. He’ll listen to you, I know he will, and perhaps he’ll command a detail to cover these ditches and dig others further out.”

O’Neil regarded her with an intense but secret expression. “Been thinking about this for a while, have you? Well, feeling as strongly about the situation as you do, why don’t you go to the major yourself?”

Flanna looked away and groped for words. She couldn’t say she’d had a disagreement with the major; O’Neil would know she was lying. So why not tell the truth? “The major makes me nervous,” she finally said. “Ail the officers do.”

“Why? ’Tis not like you’re a troublemaker,” O’Neil said smoothly, with no expression on his face. “I’ve heard scarcely a peep out of you
since you came. So why you should want to raise this matter with the major is beyond my ken—”

“Its because of Albert Green.” Flanna lifted her hands in frustration. “One of our own is sick, Paddy, and I’m trying to do something about it. Now are you going to help me or not?”

O’Neil hesitated for a moment, then he grinned. “Aye, I’ll speak to the major,” he said, “though I don’t know what good it will do.”

“Thank you, Paddy.” Flanna sighed in relief. “It may do no good at all, but at least we will have tried, right?”

A flash of humor crossed her friend’s face. “You’re an odd lad, O’Connor.” He reached out and thumped Flanna’s back, nearly knocking her off her feet. “But I’ll do as you ask, if only because those cursed trenches are more than I can bear when the wind blows from the south.”

“Thanks.”

O’Neil thrust his hands in his pockets and moved away, his laughter floating back to Flanna on a blessed northerly breeze.

“You want me to do what, Private?”

Annoyed by this unexpected intrusion on a peaceful Sunday afternoon, Alden glanced up from his paperwork and stared at the ruddy Irishman. Paddy O’Neil of Company M stood at attention before him, his chest thrust out, his eyes fixed and straight ahead.

“I’d like to request that the sinks be moved, sir.” His voice emerged as a nervous croak. “They are too close to our tents, and one of our men has taken sick. I think—well, sir, I believe there is a connection.”

Alden leaned back in his chair, his mind whirling. Someone else had grumbled about the sinks’ proximity to the tents, someone he respected, but who?

Flanna. As the image focused in his memory, he could see her again, lifting her wide skirts as she moved through the Boston camp, pointing at the latrine trenches and proclaiming them too close to the men. He’d found her objections amusing, attributing them to her genteel sensibilities, but then she’d made some remark about the Bible…

He leaned forward and studied the Irishman’s broad face. “Why, Private O’Neil, do you believe the sinks are too close?”

“Several reasons, sir.” Despite the man’s apparent boldness, Alden saw the Adam’s apple bob in O’Neil’s throat as he nervously swallowed. “First, the smell is unbearable when the wind blows from the south, sir. Second, several of our messmates have taken sick, and we are closest to the sinks, sir. Third—” He paused and gave Alden a narrow, glinting glance. “Do you read the Bible, sir?”

“Yes.” Alden leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Yes, Private, I do. You were saying?”

“The Good Book says we should keep a clean camp,” O’Neil finished, his face brightening to a tomato shade. “In Deuteropoly.”

Alden pressed his hand to his lips, trapping the laughter that threatened to erupt from his throat. The man had obviously been coached, but by whom? And why?

“And were you reading in, um, Deuteropoly this morning? Or perhaps the chaplain brought this passage to your attention?”

“No sir.” A smile nudged itself into a corner of O’Neil’s mouth, then pushed across his lips. “Truth to tell, sir, I didn’t think it right to bring a Bible to war. But I know what the Good Book says, and it says we’re to keep a clean camp. We won’t be sick as often if we do.”

Alden stared at his visitor and let the silence stretch. Of all the complaints and requests that regularly crossed his desk, this one rang with novelty. And yet O’Neil was expressing sentiments he had heard before.

“Did Dr. Gulick send you to me?”

“No sir!” The soldier tossed his head in a gesture of defiance. “That old sot? He doesn’t care whether we’re sick or not.”

“Did you, by chance—” Alden hesitated, knowing the possibility was unlikely. “Have you, Private, been talking to another doctor? For if there is another doctor in our regiment, we could certainly use his abilities.”

“No sir.” O’Neil spoke in a quiet, firm voice. “I know no other doctor. Now, sir, what can you tell me about the sinks? Can we
move them? I’m fairly certain I can rouse enough men from my company to cover the old ones, if you’ll give permission to dig new ditches further out.”

“Permission granted.” Alden picked up his pen to make a note of the matter, then glanced up. O’Neil had not moved. “Is there anything else, Private?”

“No sir. Thank you, sir. He’ll be right pleased to hear it.”

Alden stopped writing. “
Who
will be pleased?”

“Every man in my tent, Major.” O’Neil snapped a salute, which Alden casually returned, then the Irishman spun on his heel and strode out of the tent.

The afternoon air stirred with chilly hints of coming winter days as Alden moved through the camp, his eyes alert for any sign of mischief. By now the new recruits had realized that soldiering involved a lot of sitting and standing around, and the chief problem Alden had faced since arriving at the camp was simple boredom. Men with nothing to do had time to make trouble. Already there were reports that men were deserting the camp at night to visit the taverns and bawdy houses that lay on the road to Washington. Alden sighed in frustration. He didn’t need that kind of trouble.

His men weren’t the only ones who yearned for action. The commanders’ tents were rife with rumors that Lincoln himself had grown impatient with McClellan’s confounded and endless preparations. At first Alden had been pleased to hear that McClellan believed in making no move until preparations were complete. That pragmatic philosophy was born out of West Point and agreed with Alden’s own practical nature. But the Republicans in Congress were hungry for victory, especially since they now smarted under the sting of Bull Run and the tragedy at Wilson’s Creek. Colonel Farnham reported that Lincoln seemed painfully aware that cotton-hungry Europe was watching carefully, weighing the wealth of Southern cotton against Northern resolve. And if England aided the Confederacy—well, the war would be lost. No doubt about it.

McClellan seemed intent on running the war his way, ignoring both the president and Congress. Alden had been shocked at the news that Lincoln had visited the general’s home, waited patiently in the parlor for the McClellans to return from a wedding party, then silently departed when McClellan’s butler announced that the general could not see him, for he had come home and straightaway retired for the night. Such arrogance was incomprehensible.

Days earlier Alden had felt a fierce but disloyal surge of satisfaction when McClellan took a bit of humiliation on the chin. For months he had claimed that over 150,000 Confederates waited within striking distance of Washington, with artillery cannon trained on the great city. But when Rebel pickets withdrew from an exposed position southwest of the capital, those “great cannon” were left behind. Closer inspection by Federal cavalry revealed them to be giant logs, painted black. A scornful newspaper reporter wrote that McClellan had been held hostage by “Quaker guns.”

Though Alden felt a bit embarrassed for McClellan, he, too, felt the need for action. He and his men were ready and willing
now;
delay would only result in a dangerous lowering of morale. Already the advent of sickness had damaged the spirit of what had been an eager and robust regiment.

Fortunately, an order had come down involving the Twenty fifth Massachusetts, and Alden was relieved that his men would finally have a task to perform. The entire regiment had been ordered to advance for a reconnaissance mission. By the end of the week they would move to the Sugar Loaf Mountain Station in Maryland, to reinforce Brigadier General Charles Stones division. They would probably—and Alden’s nerves tensed at the thought—cross the Potomac River into Virginia.

The brigade commander was Colonel Edward Baker, an Oregon senator who was probably less qualified for his position than Alden’s mother. But he had supported Lincoln in the war effort after Fort Sumter’s fall, and he, like Lincoln, chafed for action. The troops were tired of being restrained by harmless Quaker guns and threats
of phantom Rebel troops. The time had come to move out, to do something to end the struggle. Alden, for one, did not want to spend the winter sitting on the frozen ground of Maryland.

But how could they move in their present condition? Alden turned onto the narrow street of Company M and frowned at what he saw there. The first tent had been given over entirely to sick men, and though the tent flaps had been lowered, the odors of illness still wafted through the open entry. More than a quarter of the regiment’s men were on the sick list; 250 men would not go forth to duty, but would remain in camp, victims of disease.

Still walking, Alden thrust his hands behind his back, absently wishing that he could summon Flanna O’Connor again. Dr. Gulick had come highly recommended, but the man had done nothing to stop the spread of sickness among the men. Despite her quirks and her reluctance to treat men, Flanna had been a gifted healer. Private Henry Fraser lived because of Flanna’s courage and devotion to detail, so why in heaven’s name couldn’t John Gulick achieve the same measure of success?

Something odd caught his eye, and Alden stopped in the road and turned toward the sick tent, idly wondering what detail seemed out of place. A pair of men stood by the medical supply wagon, a slender youth and his black body servant. Alden frowned as an inner alarm rang. The thin soldier moved with undue caution, his hand reaching toward the tarp over the wagon as if to spy out its contents. What would he be searching for, if not whiskey?

“You there!” Alden’s voice rang across the street. The men at a nearby campfire fell silent; the only sounds now were the windy flap of the tent canvas in the wind and a constant groaning from the sick tent.

Slowly, the youth at the wagon turned. The sun shone brightly on his cap, shadowing his face, but there was no denying the tension in his posture.

“What are you doing, soldier?” Alden walked forward, ripping out the words. “Unless Dr. Gulick sent you on some errand, you’d better have a reason for snooping in the medical wagon.”