Wedded to War (23 page)

“You don’t mean you made her sleep outside last night, Dr. Murray?”

Charlotte kept her back to him, unwilling for him to see her cheeks blooming with heat.

“Says she wants to be a nurse, like a man. I don’t suppose you have to deal with these strong-minded women as a regimental surgeon, do you? No, they’re just in the general hospitals. They’re swarming around Washington, like flies. Don’t know when to leave. This one is the most stubborn girl I’ve seen yet.”

Charlotte smiled without thinking.

It was the wrong decision.

Before she even realized what had happened, the front of her dress was dripping with urine and blood-tinged liquid feces, the rancid fluid soaking through her dress and into her corset.

“Are you mad, man? What do you think you’re doing?” The visiting surgeon stepped between them, took the bowl from Charlotte’s shaking hands and set it on the floor on the side of the hallway. He gave her his own embroidered handkerchief, and though she took it, wordlessly, she could not tear her eyes away from the dark filth spreading its misshapen stain like gangrene on her chest.

“She’s clumsy.” Dr. Murray shrugged. “You should be more careful, Miss Waverly.”

“Charlotte?”

She looked up into grey eyes, framed bylines of worry. She rubbed a thumb over the initials on the handkerchief in her hands: CTL.

Oh no. Not like this. After all these months
, she did not want Caleb Lansing to see her like this! But at the same, she could think of no other face she would rather see at this particular moment.

In the corner of her vision, she could see Dr. Murray watching her, waiting for her reaction, just willing her to shriek or cry or show any hint of alarm that might be construed as an emotional outburst. Female hysteria would disqualify her from nursing on the spot.

She would not give him the satisfaction. Though the fibers of dress were soaked with contagion that may never come out, and a cry of indignation, disgust, and self-pity was already swelling in her chest, she pushed it down with all her strength, fighting for control.

“Why Dr. Lansing.” She lifted her chin and took a deep breath. “You should have told me you were coming, I would have put on something more—presentable.” The sound of her laughter surprised even herself, and apparently stunned Dr. Murray.

“You—you know each other?” His gaze flitted between Charlotte’s dirty face and Caleb’s stony expression.

“This woman belongs to one of the finest families in New York City,” began Caleb.

“That has no bearing in an army hospital.”

“She is a lady, and you are treating her like a slave.”

“No, Dr. Lansing, she wants to do a man’s job, and I’m trying to show her she doesn’t have what it takes.”

Caleb looked at Charlotte then. Hair coming down from its pins in damp wisps about her face and neck, dress and apron drenched with dew and diarrhea—and yet still standing tall.

“Doesn’t she?” A corner of Caleb’s mouth turned up under his mustache. “But that’s not the only issue here, is it? Even if you don’t get along with Miss Waverly on a personal level, I would think your sense of professionalism would keep you in line. Do you realize that this bowl contains discharge from chronic diarrhea? It’s bad enough to order her to carry it through the halls this way, but to intentionally agitate the contents reveals an alarming recklessness.”

Dr. Murray crossed his arms and cocked his head. “Finished?”

“Well, gentlemen,” Charlotte interrupted, almost unable to swallow her gag reflex any longer. “I’m sure you’ve realized by now, I stink.
Very badly, I’m afraid. If you’ll simply allow me to change my dress, I shall return to take—”

“You leave, you don’t come back.”

“Nonsense.” Caleb offered Charlotte his arm as an escort. “You’d be a fool to dismiss the bravest nurse you have. If she wants to come back, you’ll accept her, or I’ll report your behavior—and I do mean all of it,” he tilted his head toward the chamber pot on the floor, “—to the Medical Department. You’re a contract surgeon, aren’t you? Not enlisted in the military yourself? Well, there are plenty of other doctors who would like to have your job right now, and believe me, that can easily be arranged. Now I strongly suggest
you
empty that pot of its contents and return it to the patient before he has to relieve himself on the floor.”

With Charlotte’s hand looped through his arm, they walked out the front door, leaving a glowering Dr. Murray behind them. As grateful as she was to be leaving, something told her this little episode would not make her way easy when she returned.

A dozen thoughts tumbled over each other in Charlotte’s mind, each one clamoring to be on top.
Where had Caleb been during Bull Run? Why didn’t he send word he was safe? What was he going to do now?
But none of them could compete with the odor reeking from her body.

A low moan escaped her lips. “I am so disgusting,” she said as Caleb helped her up into the army ambulance wagon on which he had brought his patient.

A smile softened his tanned face as he helped her up into the army ambulance wagon on which he had brought his patient. “You know, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen you like this.” He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and her heart beat faster. “It didn’t bother me then, and it certainly doesn’t bother me now.” His skin looked harder, weathered by sun and wind.

“You must admit, I reek,” she said, as the wagon lurched forward.

“You are still the loveliest thing I’ve seen in a very long time.”

Charlotte peered up at him, studied his face. He wasn’t just tired.
He was unwell. “What have you seen Caleb?”

His eyes turned to steel and he looked straight ahead, then down at his hands.

“Nothing I would wish to tell you about.”

“Caleb, I was here after Bull Run, at one of the hospitals. I saw the men who came back after the battle. You can tell me.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t see what my eyes have seen. The worst never made it off the field.”

“But you helped those you could. You must find some comfort in that,” she offered.

“I’m afraid I can find no comfort while my men are cut up and dying. I am their doctor. I am supposed to heal them. But these hands—” He held them up, his rough fingers spread wide apart, and shook his head, as though they had betrayed him. “These hands are no match for the weapons of war.”

“But I’m sure you tried …”

“Of course I tried!” he snapped at her then, anger flashing in his eyes, before letting out a ragged breath. “Day and night, without food or water or shelter … the endless screaming of shells …” Caleb wasn’t seeing her, she knew; he was back on the field in his mind. “My eyes were stinging from the sweat. Gun smoke in my throat tasted like sulfur. We were supposed to have ambulances, but the drivers fled without taking even a single patient for help. Hundreds left to bleed in the cornfields. I tried. God! I tried.” It was a confession, not blasphemy. He put his head in his hands, gripping a thatch of his hair until cords of veins raised themselves on the back of his hand.

“I know you did,” she said quietly. “You were the one who reminded me to work heartily, as unto the Lord. I know you did.”

They sat together unspeaking, the only sound the wagon wheels turning on the ground beneath them.

“Everything I learned in medical school is useless,” Caleb began again. “I have to relearn everything, practicing on living, breathing, human beings.” He raised his head and looked at her with fire in his
eyes. “Blast the French captain who invented the minié bullet! It flattens against human flesh on contact—” He clapped his hands together loudly, and Charlotte jumped. “And it does not pass directly through like the round ball does. Oh, no. This little devil of a deformed ball tumbles into the body, tearing through muscle and getting tangled in tissues; bones splinter and shatter into hundreds—and I mean hundreds—of spicules, which are driven through muscle and skin.” He shook his head and cursed. “Tiemann’s bullet forceps are as useful in getting a bullet out as a butter knife is in eating soup. No, I’m afraid the minié ball doesn’t leave much debate about the necessity of amputation.”

“Do you remember what else you said in your letter? You told me that God is the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. That if He calls us to take part in the work He is doing somewhere in the middle, then we are to be faithful and do it and leave the outcome to Him.”

He looked at her then, with sorrow in his red-rimmed eyes. “That was a lifetime ago.”

“It was still sound wisdom.”

“I’m supposed to be a healer, not a fighter. I want to mend bodies, not break them apart. They will call us butchers. There will be outrage.” He looked at his hands again. “I am outraged myself.”

Charlotte nodded mutely. The truth was outrageous, indeed.

“Did you know that we can only use chloroform within the first twenty-four hours of the wound? After that, we have to amputate without any kind of anesthesia or the patient would die from the dose. Do you know how many soldiers lay under the scorching sun for days after the battle, their open wounds crawling with maggots, buzzing with flies, turning septic and poisoning their bodies?”

She shook her head. She did not want to know.

“One would have been too many,” was all he said.

Charlotte said nothing. Her words felt as powerless to comfort as Caleb’s hands had felt powerless to heal the mangled wreck of the battlefield. Later, she would try again. But for now, the doctor needed some time to grieve his losses.

She watched him slip away from her once again, lost in memories that would no doubt haunt his dreams, even as the birds overhead still sang as if all was right with the world. She slipped her calloused hand into his, and he held on to it as though it were a lifeline, though his eyes remained closed. Words were inadequate. They were also unnecessary.

Finally Charlotte spoke again.

“I heard you say you’re mustering out soon. The seventh, did you say? In New Haven? I’m sure your patients will be glad to have their doctor back.”

“Then they’re bound to be disappointed. I’m mustering right back in as soon as I can.”

“But I thought you—”

“I’m going to try again. I have to. You, of all people,” he waved a hand at her soiled dress, “should understand.”

She nodded her disheveled head, and another strand of hair slipped out of its pin, falling over her forehead. “Emphatically,” she said, and tucked the unruly hair firmly behind her ear.

R
uby couldn’t sleep.

The same mattress that had once cradled her body in softness now felt like a bed of nails, the sheets like weights pressing the air out of her lungs.

Like a body. Hot and heavy.

Ruby threw off the covers and jumped out of bed, gasping for air. Her racing pulse sounded loudly in her ears as she knelt down on the cool hardwood floor for the seventh night in a row, unshed tears swelling thickly in her throat. Would she ever be able to sleep in a bed again without being haunted by an unforgiving memory?

She had closed her eyes during the rape, wedding darkness to the deed. Now, when each night’s blackness rendered her blind on a bed again, her mind reeled her back to the very moments she wanted most to forget.
What have I done to deserve that?

If Matthew found out, he would kill her.

If Mrs. Hatch found out, she would turn her out on the street.

If the American Moral Reform Society found out, they would refuse to place her in any other homes.

God already knew, and could never forgive her. He had turned His back on her already.

She was on her own now more than she had ever been before.

Whatever pricks of conscience had needled at Phineas Hastings for engaging the services of a prostitute had died long ago.
Ruby hadn’t even put up much of a fight. She probably wanted it, the hussy.

Charlotte was still out of reach and his mother knew too much about the Brooks Brothers scandal for him to provoke her wrath, but now at least he had one woman under his control. Phineas Hastings slept easy that night.

By the time he sauntered up West Twenty-first Street the next day for his Sunday evening visit to his mother, he felt almost magnanimous.

“How are things, Mother?” He kissed her on her forehead.

“Gah! Can’t stand this heat, I tell you!” Fanny squawked, fanning herself violently. “I’m like a pig without mud.” Her knees were spread widely apart and she flapped her black skirts in front of them.

Disgusting. A pig indeed. Phineas turned from the sight and shook his head ever so slightly as if to erase the image from his mind.

“How’s the help working out?” He tried to sound only marginally interested.

“Funny girl, that one, but she’s trying my patience.” Fanny flapped her skirts again. “Can’t seem to get things right.”