A Place in Your Heart Read online

  Though everything was clean and organized, in this ward the nurses and attendants lagged behind schedule. Some of the men on special diets were still being fed while several patients lay waiting either to be bathed or for their dressings to be changed. His nostrils flared at the sharp stench drifting from bed pans stacked near the piles of soiled linens, some of which contained the rank excrement from dysentery patients.

  His rounds finished, he headed to the general office to take his turn in the rotation as the officer-of-the-day.

  A white picket fence surrounded the hospital, leaving the general office with the only entrance to the street so anyone entering had to come past him.

  He placed the supply ledger he’d received from Major Bliss on the wide desk and slid his chair close. Major Bliss, the hospital’s surgeon-in-charge, had asked Charles, because of his battlefield experience, to submit the new supply requisition forms. The hospital couldn’t be caught short when casualties arrived from the spring campaigns.

  Lee had been pushing north. There were even rumors that 1863 would see his army marching on Washington. That meant wounded—probably more than he could bring himself to project.

  Don’t think about it.

  He dipped his pen into the inkwell and drew a deep breath. What happened at Fredericksburg might never happen again.

  Ether, he wrote. They would need cases and cases of ether and chloroform and morphine. He listed them next.

  An inky blob landed on the paper beside the word morphine. The black spot spread, seeping into the fibers, obscuring the ‘e’ and then the ‘n,’ transforming into a widening circle of red against white.

  His skin went cold.

  His breath escaped in short, rapid pants as his pulse thudded wildly through his body. The pen slipped from his fingers as he struggled to draw a breath. Heart pounding wildly, he shoved his chair back, the legs scrapping loudly against the plank floor. Sweat broke out across his brow, and he shivered. He leaned forward dropping his head between his knees. Tiny fissures of light danced around the periphery of his vision.

  No, no, no! Not here.

  The rational part of his brain reminded him it had only been ink on paper. But the other part, the disturbed part, the part he feared he couldn’t control saw—

  No! He reached out and snatched the paper off the desk. Viciously, he crushed it into a ball and slammed it into the empty wastepaper basket beside the desk.

  Pressure grew behind his sternum, tight and painful. At the bottom of the basket, the ball of white paper coalesced into a form.

  A man’s head. Blood oozed out across the cobblestones like a long, dark tentacle.

  His throat closed off, keeping any breath from going in or out. His pulse pounded in his head, roared in his ears. His chest hurt. He couldn’t breathe. God, he was going to die. This time he was going to die!

  No! Fredericksburg had been worse, and he hadn’t died then. He wouldn’t die today. He bent forward again, his head between his knees. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

  Don’t think about Fredericksburg and the soldier in the surgery tent. Don’t think about his head wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, his heart and lungs not yet aware the brain was dead.

  Imagine something pretty. Lilacs—on the bush outside the back door. Breathe. In. Out. The technique had worked when he was a boy. But not on that day. Fredericksburg had been the first time in years that he’d had one of these attacks. Until then he’d believed he’d outgrown them.

  Gradually the white spots faded, and his breathing returned to normal. He raised his head and slowly straightened. He glanced toward the corporal dozing in a chair, tipped back on two legs against the wall.

  He released a long sigh. At least this time no one had seen. He wiped his forearm across his brow and ran his palm over his face. Maybe going to war had not been a good idea. But he’d known he could save lives. Being a physician was all he’d ever wanted, what he’d trained to do.

  His grandfather had even thought joining the army a good idea and leant his financial support when Charles enlisted.

  Charles ran his fingers through his damp hair and drew a deep breath. Calm.

  How long had the episode lasted? Five minutes? Ten? Without knowing when it began, checking his watch now would be moot. At least no one had come in, and the corporal had slept through it.

  Slept?

  Charles rose, straightened his coat, and stepped around the desk. Marching across the room, Charles stopped in front of the corporal and kicked the chair leg.

  The man tumbled to the floor. Dazed, he scrambled to his knees and looked from the floor to the chair to Charles’ brightly polished boots. Slowly, the corporal’s gaze traveled up until it collided with Charles’. Surprise widened his eyes.

  “Stand up, Corporal,” Charles ordered. “You are on duty.”

  The soldier jumped to his feet. “Sorry, sir.” He righted the chair and came to attention beside it. “I was up all night, and I—”

  “I’m not interested in excuses, Corporal. I am putting you on report.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Corporal.”

  The man snapped to attention, his stare fixed on the opposite wall, his lips compressed in a tight line.

  Charles stepped in front of him. “Perhaps some fresh air will clear your head. Take the trash to the incinerator.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Charles stepped back, allowing him to pass.

  The man snatched up the wastepaper basket then paused as he peered inside. He lifted his head and opened his mouth as if to argue, then snapped it closed.

  “Now, Corporal.”

  “Yes, sir.” The basket in hand he strode down the hall toward the back entrance and disappeared outside.

  As the door banged closed, Charles released a sigh and unclenched his fingers from behind his back.

  Calmed, he returned to his desk, opened the drawer, and removed a new requisition form. He picked up the pen.

  The front door opened. A gust of cold air swirled around his ankles. He set the pen down and looked up.

  A short, thin man stepped through the door. He stomped his feet, knocking loose bits of mud and slush. Removing his hat, he approached the desk. “Good morning, Captain,” he said, peering over the tops of his spectacles, the lenses foggy white.

  “Reverend.” Charles turned the guest book toward the man and passed him the pen.

  “I’ve come to pray with Corporal Winston Mercer in Ward C,” he explained as he signed and dated the next available line in the book. “His wife is with child, and he worries that her worry for him will cause her to fall ill. All this worry.” He chuckled as he set down the pen. “If only people would put their trust in our Heavenly Father.” He pushed his now steam-free glasses up the bridge of his nose, gave Charles a nod, then hurried toward the back door which opened onto the walk connecting all the wards.

  The clergyman greeted someone. The corporal’s voice replied and the two men chatted for a bit.

  Then the door shut and footsteps drew closer. Charles said nothing as he picked up the pen, and the corporal returned to his post near the door.

  Charles dipped the pen in the inkwell, this time giving the nib a little tap against the inside of the bottle before pulling it out all the way.

  Ether. He swallowed then carefully printed a large capital ‘E’ on the first line.

  The door opened again, and two ladies bustled in, their lively voices chattering at the same time, whether to each other, to the corporal who closed the door for them, or to him, Charles couldn’t be sure.

  He set down his pen and stood. “Ladies.” He gave them a slight bow. “How can I help you?”

  He lost sight of their faces, unable to see below the brims of their bonnets, until they stepped up to his desk and tipped their heads back.

  The shorter of the two spoke first. “Good day, Captain.” A forthright smile pushed back the wrinkles of her papery face. “My name is Mrs.
Boggs, and this is Mrs. Nash. We are from the Episcopal Church in Georgetown.” She switched her attention to her friend. “Show him the bag, Vivian.”

  “Yes, of course.” Mrs. Nash reached inside her pelisse, withdrew a folded piece of white canvas, and handed it to her companion.

  Mrs. Boggs passed it to him and continued, “Women from sister churches all over our great country have joined together in sewing these for the wounded.”

  Charles gave it a cursory glance then passed it back. It looked like a ditty bag with fancy stitching.

  “If you ladies will please sign in, you can go through and distribute them.”

  Mrs. Boggs picked up the pen, her flowing script took up two full lines. Mrs. Nash carefully confined her signature to the allotted space.

  “Captain.” Mrs. Boggs lifted her gaze to meet his. “Would you be able to spare a man to help us deliver these to the patients?”

  “Corporal,” he snapped.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Help these ladies carry their box of—”

  “Boxes.”

  He frowned, and Mrs. Boggs continued undaunted. “Yes, we have several large boxes secured on the back of our carriage. As I explained, ladies from our sister churches all over—”

  “Fine. Corporal.” Charles sighed. The man was engrossed in conversation with Mrs. Nash.

  “The men’ll be right proud to have these.”

  “Rather ingenious, are they not?” Mrs. Nash pointed out the flap on the back. “Mrs. Carter designed them based on the beds she saw at the Union Hotel Hospital in Georgetown. You see, with this flap buttoned securely around the bed frame, each man can keep at hand his toiletries, a book, letters from home, a deck of cards…”

  “Corporal.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Please escort these ladies around to the supply entrance and assist them in whatever way they require.”

  With a smile, the man dutifully ushered the ladies from the office.

  Grateful for peace and quiet once more, he studied the single ‘E’ he’d written at the top of the paper then added…t-h-e-r.

  On his left lay the ledger from the quartermaster, listing the supplies used by the hospital during the fall campaigns. Antietam, Fredericksburg—

  He blew out a breath and reached for the sheets of inventory completed yesterday by Mrs. McBride. The familiar, neat flowing script, so much a reflection of the woman who penned it, somehow calmed him.

  He had no idea what possessed him to grab her and kiss her earlier, though he had no regrets. He had however, fully expected her to chastise him for taking liberties. Instead she’d kissed him back.

  The corner of his mouth twitched. Gracie McBride never behaved as he expected. He wondered what drew him to her when he’d always been attracted to well-mannered young ladies who came from respectable families, women more like his mother had been, accomplished in music and conversation.

  The back door opened and closed. Heavy footsteps thudded against the wood floor, growing louder as someone moved up the hallway to the front office.

  Charles looked up.

  A broad shouldered, robust man stopped in front of the desk. His open coat framed a white apron which sported an assortment of stains across his ample waist.

  “Captain, you have to do something about this.” He waved a sheet of paper in front of him as though it were a telegram of vital importance.

  “And what would that be, Sergeant?”

  “This is the third time this week.”

  “What is the third time this week?”

  “The milk, sir.”

  Charles sighed. “Explain.”

  The sergeant drew himself up and took a deep breath. Droplets of melted snow slid down his forehead from his bald pate. He swiped away the annoyance. “The lady nurse in E is using all the milk. Near every day she orders extra milk. I only got so much, sir. If she keeps taking it, I’ll report her to Major Bliss. Women ain’t got no business—”

  “Sergeant.” Charles snapped, cutting off the man’s words. He held out his hand, and the sergeant passed him the paper. In very familiar handwriting, the words, Ward E Special Diets, were written across the top.

  Charles read each item on the list, recalling every single instruction he’d dictated to both Gracie and Corporal Timon. He next quickly calculated the exact quantity needed for each food Gracie had listed for those patients too ill to eat in the dining area of the ward.

  He pulled out a clean sheet of paper and wrote Ward ‘E’ Special Diets across the top. A few minutes later he scrawled his signature across the bottom and handed it to the sergeant.

  The man’s eyes widened as he read the list. His nostrils flared as his gaze shot to Charles, but he didn’t say a word.

  “Take that list,” Charles gestured toward the offices behind him, “straight to Major Bliss and report me. If you run out of milk, let me know. I’ll buy you a cow.”

  The sergeant stared at him through narrowed eyes. Charles wasn’t sure if the man wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words, or if he had the words and struggled not to say them.

  “That will be all, Sergeant.”

  The man glanced at Charles’s list once more then snatched up the original list, whirled, and strode from the room. The door slammed. The wind could have done it, but Charles didn’t think so.

  A bugle sounded in the distance.

  Wounded at the steamboat landing. He hoped there weren’t too many. This time of year, the only patients they received here in Washington were those men too ill to remain at the regimental hospitals in Falmouth, where the Army of the Potomac had their winter camp.

  He rose, paced to the door, to the desk, and back to the door. There were empty beds in his wards. Would the men be sent to E or F?

  He strode back to the desk, shoved the inventory list inside the ledger, and slammed it closed. He’d think about this later.

  At the front window, he gazed through the archway at the end of the front walk. The white picket fence stretched in either direction. Beyond the fence stood a lamp post and hitching rail. Trees lined the wide, muddy street, their dark branches starkly outlined against the bleak sky. Tiny buds had formed on their tips. He used to welcome them as a sign the long winter was ending. Now they were a precursor to armies on the move and the start of the spring campaigns.

  ****

  The clatter of numerous feet against the planks of the walkway grew louder then stopped just outside the ward. The wide door at the end of the long building opened.

  Gracie closed the medicine chest, gave the key a turn, and dropped the loop of string from which it hung, over her head. She tucked the brass key behind the bib of her apron and positioned herself beside her table, neatly arranged for the weekly inspection.

  Sunday mornings were not for worship services, but for a full inspection walk-through of the hospital by Doctor Bliss and each doctor and cadet surgeon under him.

  This was her fourth inspection, and today everything was in perfect order. She and Robbie had replaced the patient cards over each bed. Leticia had collected the soiled linens for washing. Harvey and Micah, the new attendants assigned to her ward, had bathed and dressed each patient. The ashes had been cleaned from the stoves, the fires relit, bed pans emptied and rinsed, the floors swept and mopped, and all the beds had been made.

  Mingled with the uniformed army medical officers were the civilian doctors in their black double-breasted frock coats and black trousers. The swarm of nearly two dozen medical professionals milled like giant ants converging on a crumb at the end of the ward. On either side of where they stood, areas had been partitioned off for bathing rooms, dining, and Gracie’s sleeping quarters. Their low voices blended with the stomping of shoes as they removed their hats and reorganized themselves.

  She easily recognized Doctor Ellard as he moved to the front of the formation, not because he wore military dress, or because he was taller than the other doctors, or that he was the only man without
facial hair, but because he had presence. An aura of confident authority surrounded him, so that however quietly he might enter a room, people noticed him.

  Slowly the group moved up one side of the ward. Each man listened as Doctor Ellard recited an update on each patient. He knew each man by wound and prognosis without having to refer to the cards. Nods and murmurs followed, and then it was on to the next bed.

  As they approached the patients across from her station, it became easier to understand what the doctors were saying.

  “And what of this young boy?” asked a young medical cadet at the back of the group—a man Gracie hadn’t seen before. “An abdominal wound. Is there no chance?”

  Gracie gasped. While Gilbert had been sleeping most of the morning, he was awake at this moment. She charged around the table.

  “Now this amputation over here,” Doctor Ellard said loudly, ignoring the question, as he moved away from the curtained area to the major sitting in his wheeled chair.

  Gracie stopped.

  The group shuffled past the drummer boy.

  Why he’d done it Gracie couldn’t tell, but at least for that moment, Gilbert was spared.

  Doctor Ellard continued addressing the group. “Secondary hemorrhages have ceased. Only ligatures belonging to the larger vessels remain. Continuing with dressings. Patient is ready for discharge and further recuperation at home.”

  “When was the leg amputated?” Piped up the cadet, who for some reason seemed determined to challenge Doctor Ellard.

  “December thirteenth.”

  “And he’s been here all this time?”

  Across the distance Doctor Ellard stiffened. “The patient suffered from pyemia and surgical fever, with secondary hemorrhaging.”

  “Which begs me to ask, was the amputation actually necessary?”

  At the question, Doctor Ellard turned his head toward Major Carlton and met his gaze. Something unspoken passed between the two men, but Gracie couldn’t guess what.

  “Yes.” Doctor Ellard answered the cadet’s question, though he spoke to the major. “It was.”

  “What are your thoughts,” the young upstart persisted, “on the horrendous number of unnecessary amputations performed by surgeons in field hospitals? I understand the public regards these men as little more than butchers.”