Maryland Guard, once so dashing in their butternut uniforms, now occupied these bleak, crowded rooms. Although Baltimore was their home, the Confederate men were held by armed guards, deemed prisoners of war.
Sally wept upon her shoulder. “First Stephen...now this...”
Sally’s brother, Captain Stephen Hastings, had been listed as missing in the great battle at Gettysburg, and, only moments ago, the man she hoped to one day marry had lost his left arm.
“Oh, Em, I am absolutely wicked.”
“No, you are not,” Emily said gently. “Why ever would you say such a thing?”
“When the stewards returned Edward to his bed, all I could think of was, ‘He will never waltz with me again.’”
Emily blinked back tears of her own, sympathizing with her friend’s pain. Edward Stanton had danced the farewell waltz with Sally at the last ball before the Pratt Street Riot, the day Federal soldiers had come to Baltimore and opened fire on innocent civilians. It was the first bloodshed of the war. Outraged at the soldiers’ attack, Edward, and many others, had headed south to enlist right away.
The days of silk dresses and white-gloved escorts had given way to months of broken bodies and bloodstained petticoats. Mirth and merriment surrendered to weariness and worry.
“Try not to fret,” Emily said. “Edward will dance with you again.”
At least she prayed that would be the case. It was only one of the numerous petitions she had whispered during her time at the hospital. As a believer and a volunteer nurse, Emily desperately longed to bring comfort to those she came in contact with. She wanted to be a light in this dark, battle-weary world.
“Remember, God is the great physician. He can—”
The door to the opposite ward pushed open, hitting the wall with a forceful thud. Evan Mackay, a newly arrived Federal doctor from Pennsylvania, glared at them.
“Rebels!” he said, angrily spitting the word. “Shouldn’t you women be tending to them?”
The man was as tall as Abraham Lincoln himself, with shoulders as broad as a ditchdigger’s. Although he spoke with a Scottish accent, which Emily thought was a dialect straight out of poetry, she was severely disappointed. Evidently not all Scotsmen were as noble or heroic as the men Robert Burns had written about. She couldn’t imagine Dr. Mackay had ever even stopped to look at a red, red rose much less compare his love for his sweetheart to one.
I seriously doubt the man even knows the meaning of the word love.
Of all the physicians in this hospital, he displayed the most hostile attitude; he had an open disdain for the Confederate men. Emily felt it her duty as a Southerner to protect the wounded from Dr. Mackay’s wrath.
She felt it her duty to protect Sally now.
“We were just returning,” she said politely. “Were we not, Nurse Hastings?”
Sally quickly wiped her eyes, her back now ramrod-straight as though she herself were a member of the Federal army. “Yes, indeed.”
Dr. Mackay crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “Aye,” he said slowly. “Then do so directly.”
“Yes, Doctor,” the women said in unison.
The army physician moved by them and into the next room. Emily caught Sally’s eye as the tornado blew past. Both were tempted to make a remark concerning the rude bluecoat, but they did not indulge in the luxury.
The Confederate prisoners needed care.
* * *
Flickering oil lamps hung from the rafters as Evan stepped into the remaining ward. There were six buildings in this former cotton warehouse, 425 beds. Most of them were crammed with rebels. His mouth soured just thinking of it. Evan knew firsthand that the field hospitals in Gettysburg were bursting at the seams with brave boys in blue that deserved beds. Boys like Andrew.
He sighed. Yet even if there was room, I wouldn’t bring our men here, not to this city. It is one full of barbarians trying to pass themselves off as loyal members of the Union.
His collar grew tight and his head warm. The reaction wasn’t caused by the stifling July heat. It was the memory of his younger brother and the brief time he had endured in Baltimore. Evan had heard the story from Andrew’s comrades, the men of the Twenty-Sixth and Twenty-Seventh Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry, “The Washington Brigade.”
“They simply surrounded us!”
“They cut us off from the rest of the regiment!”
“They were ready to tear us to shreds!”
Rioters and murderers, every last one of them, Evan thought. And now I must put them back together. The army could have kept me in Pennsylvania. They could have let me tend to our men. They need every surgeon available.
But Providence had not allowed him to remain in Gettysburg, and Evan had his suspicions why.
I am doing penance for my actions, in the worst possible way.
He cast a glance in the direction of one particular rebel, a major. He was a Maryland man. Evan had seen what remained of his butternut uniform when he’d first arrived. The Johnny’s left arm had just been amputated because a vile infection had set in. Evan had performed the surgery. He had done his best to save the reb’s life. His duty to God and his Hippocratic oath to do no harm compelled such. But he took no pride in the task. After discharge from the hospital, rebels like this one would be sent to prison, but upon parole many would return to their regiments only to fire upon U.S. soldiers again.
At least this one won’t be picking up a musket, he told himself.
The major was still with fever and under the effects of the ether so he continued through the ward. Those prisoners who asked for water or voiced other requests he left to the nurses. That was their job. Most of them were rebel women anyway. Why his superiors permitted their presence in a U.S. Army hospital was beyond his comprehension. They had each signed oaths of loyalty, but it was rumored that several had altered the document. Finding certain lines disagreeable, they had supposedly crossed them out.
If loyalty to the government of the United States of America, to its Constitution, is so abhorrent, they have no business nursing prisoners of war. If Evan had his way, he would have all secessionist nurses tossed out to the street and the rebel wounded held in prison until the end of the war.
They deserved it after what they had done to his brother.
* * *
Emily drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to ignore the odors of blood, ether and rotting fish from the nearby docks. This massive warehouse had little means of ventilation, and the air grew more pungent by the day.
Sally had returned to her own section of the hospital. Emily now prepared to step into hers. She smoothed out her pinner apron. Though it pained her, she smiled. It would do the men no good to see a downcast face. They needed hope. They needed cheer.
Lord, help me to be a light. Help me to show Your love.
She had no intention of fostering romantic feelings among the soldiers, but a pretty smile and a little lilac water did wonders in the wards. Some men had been removed from sisters, mothers and sweethearts for so long that they had forgotten the fairer points of civilized society. Emily wanted to remind them there was more to life than this war. Whenever she wasn’t assisting doctors or changing soiled bandages, she tried to do so.
She had written countless letters on behalf of men too sick to do so for themselves. She recited Bible verses and poetry. She also spent a great deal of time fanning the suffering, an effort to break the sweltering midsummer heat.
Emily’s friend Julia Ward was doing so now. She was seated at her brother’s bedside. Edward still slept heavily from his surgery. Looking at him, Emily sighed. He was once the most confident, dashing man of her neighborhood and had captured ladies’