of the war, and their mother was desperate for relief. Will we be able to provide such?
“We can wire for more supplies,” Emily said, as if reading Trudy’s thoughts.
“Yes,” she agreed, for Trudy knew the churches and aid societies back in Baltimore would again be generous. My dearest friends, Julia, Rebekah and Sally will spend long hours gathering and packing what they can. For four years now they, along with Trudy and Elizabeth, had knitted socks and sewed shirts and other items for those in need. She was confident they would again rise to the occasion.
“We will wire back to Baltimore,” Dr. Mackay said. “And we will do so straightaway. Reverend Webb says the telegraph office in Larkinsville is still in order.”
“It is indeed,” Mr. Carpenter said. “The question is, though, will the shipments arrive here intact and in time to help this community? Some of these people will not see August if they do not get regular, proper nourishment soon. If a second shipment goes missing...” He paused as if to let them consider that for a moment. “It won’t do us any good to order more supplies while someone out there is stealing them for their own profit.”
“We don’t know for certain that’s what happened,” Reverend Webb said.
“Shipments loaded on a train don’t just vanish between one rail station and another,” Mr. Carpenter insisted.
Trudy’s heart squeezed. She knew her employer had a tendency to lean toward cynicism, but she had never seen him quite like this before. His frustration over the lost supplies was now bordering on despair.
“Well, that’s where you come in,” Dr. Mackay said to him. “I trust you will discover this person or these persons responsible for the missing supplies.” He then gestured to Trudy. “And now you even have your experienced newspaper assistant to help you.”
She could feel the color rising to her cheeks. Although she had promised to help Mr. Carpenter in whatever way she could, she remembered what he had said earlier, “I can’t have you going off investigating, gathering information on your own.” Based on the irritated look he was still giving her, he obviously didn’t want to work alongside her. His words confirmed that.
“From what I have seen of the people in this community, I believe Miss Martin’s efforts will be better served in medical endeavors rather than journalism,” he said. “She was, after all, a nurse.”
“Oh?” Reverend Webb said as Mr. Carpenter left the circle of conversation. “Wonderful. Then I trust you and Mrs. Mackay will work well together.”
“We always have,” Emily said.
“Indeed,” Trudy replied.
Emily then looked to her husband. “Your orders, love?”
The barest hint of a smile tugged at Dr. Mackay’s lips. They are so much in love, Trudy couldn’t help but think. She couldn’t help but wonder if someday a man would look at her that way. It certainly won’t be Mr. Carpenter.
A self-pitying lump threatened to form in Trudy’s throat, but she swallowed it back.
“When the people arrive we will need to first assess their conditions outside,” Dr. Mackay said. “If there is even the slightest indication of typhus or smallpox, we must immediately isolate them.”
Trudy understood. She knew from experience that they could not bring patients bearing such illnesses into close contact with others. They must be quarantined. “Where shall we put them?” she asked.
“My house,” Reverend Webb said.
Trudy could tell Dr. Mackay did not like the preacher’s sacrifice any more than she, but if typhus or smallpox patients came to them, they had to be treated somewhere. Trepidation wiggled its way up her spine. What would happen if the reverend and his wife took ill? Who would nurse them? What would happen if the entire relief staff took ill?
She pushed those fears from her mind. Dr. Mackay was still speaking.
“We will need to prepare a treatment area for the noninfectious patients here inside the church,” he said. “I expect many cases of malnutrition, unhealed wounds and the like.”
Under the physician’s guidance, Trudy and Emily prepared a medical area for detailed assessment of complaints and treatment. Trudy hoped whatever they encountered would not be serious, given their minimal supplies. They had been left with plenty of soap and bandages, as well as basic surgical instruments, but the case of morphine and ether was gone.
After organizing the treatment area. Trudy helped Sarah Webb sort through what remained of the dry goods and fresh vegetables. They set allotments of equal portions for each potential visitor. Sacrificially, Mrs. Webb had also raided the last of what remained of her own supplies and prepared a soup.
“I’m sorry it isn’t more,” she lamented, “but between the Confederate requisition armies and then the Yankees, this was all I could hide.”
“You must have had a secret compartment in your larder to save as much as this,” Trudy said, trying to inject a little lightheartedness into the heavy situation, “or was it the root cellar?”
“Neither,” Mrs. Webb admitted, a hint of mirth in her face. “I reburied last year’s potatoes and rutabagas in sacks in the garden.” The smile then faded. “But I’m afraid this is the end of my resourcefulness.”
“You are out of food, as well?”
“Yes. Just about. I managed to save a few of our smallest potatoes for seed this year, but the harvest was very poor. I did come across a patch of ramps the day before you came, though.”
Trudy had never heard of ramps before, except for those used in the place of stairs. “What is that?” she asked.
Mrs. Webb again smiled. “It’s like a leek. You eat the bulb.”
“Oh?”
“They are excellent in soups.”
Trudy leaned over the pot. Even as thin as the mixture was, it certainly smelled excellent.
Across the way, Mr. Carpenter had set up a desk of sorts, one made out of a piece of salvaged wood and two sawhorses. According to Reverend Webb, he had been collecting names and basic information to locate missing family members, including reconnecting former slaves with loved ones who’d been separated during the war. Apparently he planned to publish notices about the missing in his paper, and convince fellow publishers in other cities to do the same.
It was hard not to admire a man who used his press in such a way. Trudy eyed him stealthily for a moment. Mr. Carpenter’s hair was as black as coffee. He had dark eyebrows, a slight cleft in his chin and a strong, handsome jaw. He could have passed for a rich statesman were it not for the crumpled collars and askew cravats he always wore. He had a tendency to tug at them when he worked. He disliked the confinement of frock coats as well, always preferring to roll up his sleeves. He had done so today. Trudy couldn’t help but notice once again his muscular forearms.
Catching herself, she shook off such thoughts, remembering that Peter Carpenter had proven he was not the man for her. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, they shared a belief in helping others, but he was not interested in marriage. He didn’t want a family.
And he isn’t exactly a churchgoing man, she reminded herself. Oh, she knew that he believed in God, but for some reason “organized religion,” as he put it, had “no practical use.” So how exactly has he come to know and be on such good terms with the Webbs? she wondered. Had it been some connection before the war? Her curiosity getting the better of her, she asked Mrs. Webb.
“My husband, James, nursed his brother Daniel after the battle of New Market.”
“Oh,” Trudy said, her eyes inadvertently going to the still stained floor. “Mr. Carpenter has never really spoken of him.” Although Trudy knew he had a brother. She had learned that detail during the