Wedded to War (18 page)

“Oh, people are getting rich in New York City, Miss Waverly, you can bet on it. They call themselves loyal Unionists, but all they care about is lining their pockets. Not much we can do about that, aside from calling attention to it.” He drummed his fingers on the report in front of him. “That’s all we can do about any of it. Identify the problems, make recommendations, and hope somebody in power will take it to heart and make some changes. The problems facing the army are much, much bigger than they care to realize. I fear that we ourselves are only seeing a small sliver of what needs to be reformed. But we can be sure of this much: if the army continues along like this for much longer, the Union will indeed dissolve like shoddy.”

S
t. John’s Church was emptier than usual today, and the conspicuous gaps in the high-backed pews distracted Charlotte from the sermon. Outside, the steady sound of carriages, gigs, hacks, and wagons rolling by was like one continuous low roll of thunder, punctuated by riders’ laughter and song, and by champagne bottles clinking at their feet.

The first great battle of the war appeared to be imminent at Manassas, Virginia, about twenty-five miles west of the capital, and Congressmen, thrill-seekers, and sightseers did not mind breaking the Sabbath to picnic on the scene.

“Some trust in chariots, and some in horses: but we will remember the name of the Lord our God,” the pastor was saying, quoting from Psalm 20:7, and bobbing heads agreed. God was on their side, the Union boys would surely win the day. Alice let out a deep breath.

Charlotte couldn’t keep her mind from wandering to the fate of both her brother-in-law, Jacob, and dear Caleb. But they were in God’s hands, not hers, just like the outcome of the battle. And everyone expected the Union army to cinch around the Rebels and close in tight, until Richmond, the new capital of the Confederacy, was in the noose.

After the service, stepping out into the blazing sun, General Winfield Scott, in his full dress uniform, shook hands of those faithful few who had not crossed the Potomac. “We shall have good news by morning,” he told them. “We are sure to beat the enemy.” And he left to take his afternoon nap.

The sun rose on July 22, but it did not shine. The morning dawned sullenly in a drizzle of rain, and with it came a knock on the door waking Charlotte from her slumber. A sharp rapping, incessant, urgent, demanding. Throwing her long flannel wrapper about her, she opened it just enough to see Mr. Knapp’s face, etched with news she did not want to hear.

“Come quickly, you and your sister.” He was nearly breathless. “We have been defeated at Bull Run and the soldiers are coming back to us—twenty miles of marching, through the night, after two days of battle, and nothing to eat, nowhere to go.” His words spilled out all at once with no breath in between. “You must come immediately; the Commision is setting up tables on Pennsylvania Avenue and Fourteenth Street, for they are coming over the Long Bridge and the Chain Bridge and Aqueduct. They must have food; they are falling down in the streets. We are only seeing the first of them now, but who knows how many more are yet to come.”

Shock numbed all physical sensation in Charlotte, but she managed to nod at Mr. Knapp’s retreating back as he hurried away. She did
not feel the door under her hand as she closed it, or the cold brass knob of the kerosene lamp as she lit it, or the soft round shoulder of her sister as she shook it.

“Alice, come,” she heard herself say. “Get dressed. The men are flying back to us. Hurry.”

Picking up Maurice on their way out the door, they fled the hotel as if death itself was on their heels, when in reality death—or the possibility of it—was what they were running toward. This was not happening. They were supposed to defeat the Rebels at Bull Run and crush the Confederacy altogether. It was supposed to end the war. How could they have been defeated? The hope of a short war disintegrated just as the uniforms fell apart in the downpour.

At a hastily assembled station on Pennsylvania Avenue, Olmsted and two white-haired women were already handing out chunks of soft bread. In the rain they stood, tears and rain mingling together on their faces, and Charlotte and Alice joined them. Nearby residents, hardly believing what their eyes were telling them, told their hands to work, and so provided a steady supply of food to the tables.

“Water!” was all one soldier said as he lunged at the table. Charlotte brought a cup to his lips and he drank it as if his mouth were on fire. “We’ve walked forty-five miles in thirty-six hours,” he said weakly. “There was no water after the battle in Centreville, for the army drained its wells dry on the way to Bull Run. You’re going to have some very thirsty soldiers here, ma’am!”

By six o’clock, the slow stomp and splash of soldiers’ retreating feet rose above the drumming of the rain. First at a trickle, then in a swelling stream, by noon the tide of returning soldiers was flooding the dark avenues of the Federal City. Smoldering fires glowed in the streets, made from boards the men wrenched from citizens fences to warm them.

“Look at them,” Mr. Olmsted said to Charlotte. “Would you think them soldiers by looking at them now?” Muddy, smoke-stained, and unshaven, no two of them dressed exactly alike, some without caps, some without shoes, some without coats. Charlotte scanned the faces—some
of them with black grins of cartridge powder sketched on them—for a glimpse of Jacob or Caleb. She wasn’t sure she would recognize either of them anymore.

Occasionally an army ambulance would clatter by, either driven by a terrified hired civilian, or commandeered by a terrified fleeing soldier, but not one of them carried a single wounded man.

Rumors rushed at anyone who would listen, crushing around them like an overpowering current.

Seventeen thousand Union killed!

They killed our wounded for sport!

Entire regiments were cut to pieces!

The Rebels will take the city by tomorrow morning!

“Stay calm,” Mr. Olmsted said to Charlotte and Alice. They did not look up from their tasks, their vision blurred with tears and rain. They handed out bread and water as if their bodies were separate from their minds.
Here is bread, here is water
, said Charlotte’s mouth, but her heart was screaming,
Where is Jacob? Where is Caleb? Where are the officers, where are the wounded, and where is the Grand Army of the Republic?

“There must be some wounded finding their way into the hospitals.” Mr. Olmsted scanned the street up and down. “Go, take whatever you need from our stores. Take my carriage.”

Slowly, the wheels turned through the crowded, muddy streets, until Charlotte, Alice, and Maurice could pick up boxes of hospital gowns, splints, bandages, and lint and carry them to the village of Georgetown, clinging to the outskirts of Washington like a smudge of axle grease on a hem.

“This is a hospital?” Maurice asked as they lumbered up in front of the Union Hotel.
“C’est une blague!”

“Only in a manner of speaking,” said Charlotte. “Not every building should be made into a hospital.”

If their arms weren’t full of boxes as they entered the ramshackle building, all three of them would have instinctively shielded their noses against the foul odors assaulting them.

A small man in wire-rimmed glasses approached them. “More women?” he growled.

A woman with her grey hair in a bun swept into the room. “Never mind Dr. Wiggins. I’m Anna Moore, matron of this hospital. What have you got for us?”

“Hospital clothes,” said Charlotte over the top of her box. “Bandages, lint, and splints.”

“Wonderful, we could certainly use those.” Anna clasped her hands.

“Put them there,” said Dr. Wiggins, still scowling. “What else?”

“What do you need?”

“Delphinium, for killing vermin. These men are crawling with lice, and we have nothing for it. And solution of persulphate of iron, to restrain bleeding.”

“Did the Medical Department not provide you with medicines?” Charlotte frowned.

“Some. Not these. Can you help us or not?”

“Maurice, would you please find Mr. Olmsted again and ask him for these?” Alice fished out a scrap of paper and pencil from her apron pocket and wrote the names down, then sent him on his way in the carriage.

“How can we help?” asked Charlotte.

“Go to the kitchen for hot water and rags, wash the men—one of you upstairs, one of you here—and pass out whatever clean hospital clothes you brought, for we have none here. We have one hundred eight patients at present, and I fully expect more to come in.”

Many of the battered soldiers looked as if they hadn’t had a change of clothing in days or weeks, which would have been bad enough from camp life, but evidence of battle now crusted their uniforms—or what was left of them—to their bodies in places. Charlotte, whose white, slender hands had never touched a man’s naked body before, hesitated for the slightest moment before following her orders. She had been assured during her training that there would be male stewards for this task. If her mother found out, if the gossip circles learned of this …

A snatch of Caleb’s letter came back to her, then.
And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men …

Armed with washbowl, soap and rag in hand, she came to her first dirty specimen and dabbed delicately his withered old face, careful of the dirty bandage that encompassed his head.

“Aaaaaah,” he sighed with a checkered grin. “The honor of a lady to be washin’ me! Bless ye, darlin’!” The old Irishman’s pleasure took her by such surprise that they laughed together. Trousers, socks, shoes, and legs were one big mass of mud, and if he hadn’t already taken off his shoes in front of her, she would have thought he was still wearing tall muddy boots.

“Where are you from, soldier?” she asked, scrubbing away at the layers of filth.

“New York City, lass, the Sixty-Ninth Regiment. A fine lot of lads we have, too, but our Colonel Corcoran didn’t make it back with us. Captured, more’s the pity. I’ll bet he’s givin’ the Rebels a heap o’ trouble now!”

Finding they shared a hometown in common, they found much to talk about. When she finished washing him, his wrinkled face beamed.

“Here now,” she said, handing him fresh white hospital clothes. “Do you think you can manage to get your uniform off and put these clean clothes on yourself? Do you need any help?”

“Well, bedad! Look at that! I can manage, darlin’.”

Charlotte went on to the next patient, and the next, going back to the kitchen every two or three patients for fresh water. Some took the washing like sleepy children, leaning their heads on her shoulder as she worked, while others looked silently scandalized. Several of the roughest colored like bashful girls when she tenderly touched their neglected bodies.