The Velvet Shadow (42 page)
Authors: Angela Elwell Hunt
“You can’t believe that!” Flanna burst out, wholly taken aback. “Why—that’s not true at all! I had very good reasons for not leaving then, and I have good reasons for not leaving now—including the fact that I’d be wandering in the woods alone, since you’re abandoning me!”
“I am sorry about that.” Charity patted Flanna’s arm. “But you have a good head on your shoulders. If you just keep your eyes open and your head down, you’re gonna be all right.”
“Sure.” Flanna squeezed her maid’s hand with a warmth she didn’t quite feel. “I’d stand up and hug you, but the fellows would think that very strange.”
“Don’t mind me.” Charity released Flanna’s hand and stood up, then stepped away…toward the new life she’d begun to establish weeks ago.
Flanna had been blind to that too. “God go with you,” she called, a heaviness centering in her chest as Charity moved away.
At least he is still with me
.
Flanna sat silently for a long time, only half-aware of the men moving around her. From somewhere off to her right, a soldier snorted and wheezed into the depths of his handkerchief, and Flanna unconsciously noted that he could use a draught of syrup to clear his sinuses.
She pressed her hand over her mouth, smothering a wave of hysterical laughter. Oh, how Aunt Marsali would laugh if she could see Flanna now! The belle of Charleston, the girl who’d refused seven different marriage proposals by the age of eighteen because she wanted to be a doctor! Her cousins, who had teased her unmercifully about being too prim and highfalutin, would sell their prize jumpers for a chance to see Flanna O’Connor sitting in the mud beside a tray of cold biscuits, her hair hacked off and her maid sashaying away.
She was alone. Completely and totally alone. If she wandered off into the woods right now, no one would come looking for her. Oh, a few of the fellows from her company might notice her absence, and perhaps the sergeant and O’Neil would scout around in the bushes. When they told Major Haynes that Franklin O’Connor was AWOL, Alden would feel so responsible to Roger that he’d send out a detail to look for her. But if she disappeared in the late afternoon, he’d have to wait until morning, and Flanna could be miles away by sunrise.
But she couldn’t leave alone! Shaking her head, Flanna tucked away her thoughts of escape. Charity’s departure would leave an extraordinary void in her life, for properly bred young women did not go out in public without a maid or an escort of some sort, and they certainly didn’t traipse around in the woods like some kind of backwoods hermit.
“But you’re no longer a properly bred young woman,” Flanna whispered, reminding herself of the inescapable truth. She was a Yankee soldier, and she could go anywhere she darned well pleased. She’d found the courage to stand up to Dr. Gulick, and she could stand up to anyone who stood in her path—as long as he wasn’t too much bigger and didn’t carry a gun.
Who was she kidding? A skeptical inner voice cut through her thoughts. She was
afraid
to step out on her own, absolutely terrified of what might happen out there in the woods. She had told Alden Haynes that she wasn’t afraid to die, and that was true, but the thought of being alone paralyzed her with fear. At least here, in the army, she still had Roger nearby and Alden and the men of Company M to keep her company. And she had the memory of men like Andrew Green, who had assured her that the bravest birds sang in the dark because they knew God would bring sunrise soon enough.
She was not completely alone, then…but she would never find her way back to her loved ones unless she learned how to let go.
“‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart,’” she said softly, pressing her hands to her cheeks as tears slid hot and wet between her fingers, “and he shall direct thy paths.’” She wept silently, not daring to draw
attention to herself, and hastily wiped her eyes when a long shadow fell over hers.
“O’Connor?” The voice was Paddy O’Neil’s. “You all right, lad?”
“Fine, O’Neil, just a wee bit weary.” She wiped her hands on her coat, then looked up and gave him a wavering smile. “What are they saying now? Did we run the Rebs all the way to Richmond?”
“Ah, no, we didn’t, though I wish we had.” He crouched in the dirt next to her, then picked up a stone and casually tossed it into the charred remains of the Confederate fire pit. “Truth to tell, they’re sayin’ that we’re goin’ to advance as soon as we can. Little Mac is intent upon takin’ Richmond. If he can do it, Major Haynes says the war will be over and done.”
Flanna smiled, finding great satisfaction in the possibility. She squinted up at O’Neil. “I’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
His ruddy face split into a wide grin. “Sure, and haven’t I said so? I’d like nothing better than to board a train back to Boston, there to hug my sweet wife and baby. I’ve yet to learn if it was a boy or a girl.”
“Well, it’s one or the other, I promise you that.” Flanna sighed as her gaze fell upon O’Neil’s rifle. Except for target practice, she had not fired her weapon once. Suddenly she desperately wanted to quit the war without ever having to squeeze that trigger in battle.
She lifted her eyes toward the western horizon. Somewhere in those outstretched miles ahead the Confederate army marched in retreat, and just beyond them lay Richmond, capital of the Confederacy and a central transportation hub for the South. Despite her fears, the knowledge tempted her. If she could gather her courage and slip away at an opportune moment, she could make her way to Richmond, wire her father, and take the train home to Charleston. She had an advantage now, for Alden carried a dress she could wear during her escape, and not even a nearsighted Rebel would confuse a woman in wide skirts with a Union soldier.
For her, at least, the war would be over the moment she crossed the threshold of her father’s house.
Tuesday, May 6, 1862
They rains have ended, it is beautiful day. Birds sing in the thickets that shadow our dead
.
The first real fighting I have seen commenced from Williamsburg, where the Confederates tried to impede our forward movement. My company was Spared from fighting, as the Twenty-fifth Massachusetts marched at the back of the lines. We were not Spared, however, the work of caring for the wounded
.
Afterward, the field of battle presented a ghastly appearance. In one small hollow I counted sixty dead, Confederates and Federals mingled together
.
We found one of the dead Rebels sittings upright, his rifle aimed over the top of a fallen tree, his finger still curled upon the trigger. A Union soldier lay beside him, shot through the belly. Beside the Federal lay a Testament, and on his breast lay two ambrotype pictures—one of a group of children, another of a young woman. At least he had the images of his loved ones to prevent him from dying alone
.
Does Wesley carry my picture? Does he have sweetheart? My heart breaks when I think of him and of how we were separated. When this war is over, if we both survive it, I do not want to be separated from my loved ones again
.
I pray we may soon end this horrible war
.
The wounded Union soldiery are taken to Dr. Gulick’s tent; by some unspoken understanding my messmates quietly bring the injured Rebels to me. I asked O’Neil why they assumed I would look with compassion upon Rebels, and he grinned at me. “Well, naturally, they know you’re the Velvet Shadow. Anyone who would risk sneaking out after taps to tend another has the sort o’ compassion these fellows need
.”
Strangely enough, the Confederates grin at us with great glee, as if we were long-lost cousins. One fellow promised to trade tobacco for coffee, and another offered a packet of Richmond newspapers for anything we had at hand. Diltz asked one Rebel who had taken a shot in the arm why the Confederates left so many good clothes and blankets behind in their retreat. “We’re God-fearin’ men,” the wounded man answered. “We obey the injunction to clothe the naked and feed the hungry—ain’t that you’uns?”
I examine each Rebel soldier with great fear, afraid I will discover Wesley or one of my beloved cousins. I did recognize William Hartley, a boy I knew from church. He was always the liveliest in Sunday school, quick with a ready answer. He died on my table
.
I wonder what I will say when I see his mother in Charleston
.
Thursday, May 15
We are marching. Along the way a profusion of castaway overcoats and blankets bloom over the road, dropped by men too weary to add an ounce to their knapsacks. I tossed my overcoat without regret, for I still think of it as Charity’s and would rather not be reminded of my loss. No one minds losing these belongings, we can pick up others on the road ahead
.
Today we came upon White House Landing, where George Washington once courted Martha Curtis. General Robert E. Lee’s wife had tacked a note to the door, asking that the or my not desecrate Washington’s home. General McClellan has pitched his tent on the lawn of the house and posted guards to prevent looters from taking souvenirs Mrs. Lee herself passed through our lines under a white flags of trace. O’Neil and I watched her go, her mouth thin and set in a straight line, her belongings packed into a single trunk. My heart broke for her, for this war has also torn me from the home I love
.
Saturday, May 17
Despite General McClellan’s order, Mrs. Lee’s house was set afire as we pulled out to move northward. Unnamed stragglers (not of our company) apparently hate General Lee more than they revere General Washington
.
Tuesday, May 20
Richmond is just nine miles to the west. Our advance has been slow. The men have taken to calling General McClellan the “Virginia Creeper
.”
Saturday, May 24
Today Sergeant Marvin led us up a hill from which we could see the spires of the Richmond churches. My heart pounded as I stared at those spires, only five miles away! Five miles! I could walk into Richmond in just over an hour—if not for the Confederate army that lies in my way
.
I am still nursing the wounded from the fighting out Williamsburg. The Confederates have all been taken away to prison, but ambulatory soldiery who would not come see the Velvet Shadow in daylight come to our campfire at night, seeking some trivial bit of care Dr. Gulick would not give. Last night I treated a soldier who lost his thumbnail to shrapnel. Another came to me with a scalp wound—a bullet took off a threes inch strip of hair from the top of his head. Another had a ball pass into the toe of his brogan, between his two toes, and out the sole of his shoe. Though he was uninjured, he seemed to need my assurance that he would be okay. Many of the men are superstitious, they feel they are invincible to all but the single bullet intended for them. The lad whose shoe had been pierced by a Miniè ball wasn’t sure whether that bullet was intended for hum or not. I prayed for wisdom, then told him God had meant it only for his shoe. He went away content
.
Monday, May 26
I sat awhile today with a wounded soldier who delighted in telling of the fight at Williamsburg. “We were none of us too proud, not even those who had the dignity of an officer’s shoulder straps to support, to dodge behind a tree or stump when the
bullets began to sing over our heads” he told me. “I called out to a comrade, ‘Why don’t you get behind a tree?’ and he answered, ‘Confound it, there ain’t trees enough for the officers.’”
At this the young man leaned toward me and whispered confidentially, “I don’t mean to be accusing officers of cowardice, but I found out that they show the same general inclination not to get shot that privates do
.”
No one is shooting at the moment. The Rebels run in front of us, but Little Mac sits here in the mud, waiting for reinforcements. And despite my brave proclamations that I do not fear death, I have been much shaken of late. Charity, my right arm, is gone, and I stare death in the face every day when I work with the wounded. It is not the prospect of my death that makes me consider leaving the army—it is the death of my friends. How can I remain, knowing that I may one day close Sergeant Marvin’s eyes or listen in vain for the beating of Diltz’s heart? When I think that I may be called upon to pull a bullet from Alden’s chest, my hands tremble
.
God, show me what to do!
On Friday, May 30, while McClellan waited for reinforcements, Flanna sat by the fire with her messmates and contemplated leaving the Army of the Potomac. Charity and her Beau had already gone, and Flanna knew she could disappear just as easily.
Why shouldn’t she? She had been too afraid to run before, but now she feared remaining more than she feared going. As a soldier, she was of little use to her company, and as a doctor she felt completely inadequate. Treating men for fever and dysentery was one thing; calming a frantic man while sawing off his leg was quite another.
At Ball’s Bluff she had acted on an impulse and helped a few men, but the carnage at Williamsburg had shown her that she lacked the experience to deal with war injuries.