food wasn’t sitting well. Evan wondered if it was the stewed blackberries, which had obviously been picked too early, or the sight of the carts and laborers moving along Pratt Street. He stared out the window.
The army supply wagons and the countless crates stamped U.S. Christian Commission bore witness to the activities of today, but all Evan could think about was a day two years ago last April. His brother, Andrew, was newly trained and eager for action. He was unaware that such would come by way of a bloodthirsty mob while he and his regiment were en route to Washington.
Andrew had been one of the first to answer President Lincoln’s call for volunteers. He’d wanted to preserve the Union. When he and his fellow soldiers had tried to pass through Baltimore, the local citizens made it quite apparent which side they had chosen. As Andrew and the others had marched toward the Washington trains, a crowd had surrounded them. They were soon pelted with rocks, bottles and paving stones.
The Northern men had exercised restraint, but when the citizens had grabbed for their guns, the soldiers did what anyone would have done. They’d defended themselves. When the smoke had cleared, several boys in blue were dead, along with eleven rebels. The Baltimoreans had then had the audacity to claim the shots fired were unprovoked.
Just thinking of what had taken place made Evan’s fists clench. He knew he should leave the window, spend his remaining moments of the dining break in some other place, but try as he might, he could not pull his eyes from the street. Where exactly had Andrew fallen?
His eyes scanned the street before him. Traffic pulsed. City life moved at a steady pace. Men in scrap shirts with slouch hats set low on their foreheads lugged sacks of grain to and from the nearby wharf.
Were any of them present that day? Were any of them part of that murderous mob?
He bit down hard, teeth against teeth. The only emotion stronger than the anger he felt toward rebels was the emptiness in his heart.
If only I had been there. I could have saved him. I would have recognized the signs that the pressure was building in his brain. I could have drained the blood. He didn’t have to die.
And then his thoughts turned to another. Mary...
The memory of her face, her pleading words, burned through his mind. Just as he’d never forgive those thugs for Andrew’s death, he would never forgive himself for leaving his wife behind.
* * *
By the time Emily returned to the ward, Edward had opened his eyes. Her initial joy was tempered by the quiet pain she heard in Julia’s voice.
“I promise you, Edward. It will be all right.”
He turned from her sharply, setting his face toward the wall. The bandaged knob at the end of his shoulder stood out like a regimental flag.
A lump wedged in the back of Emily’s throat, but she moved toward him. She bent to his level, her skirts folding to the floor.
“Edward,” she said softly. “It is me, Emily.”
His blue eyes, once so gallant and full of life, were now vacant, almost spiritless. He blinked but did not acknowledge her presence.
“Are you in any pain?”
He blinked again. Emily’s heart was breaking. She knew Julia’s was, as well. She dared not look to her grief-stricken face. Emily knew if she did, she herself would break down. I have to remain strong. I am here to give comfort, not to be in need of it myself.
Carefully, methodically, she felt his forehead. He was much cooler. Thank You, Lord.
“Here,” Emily said to him. “Let me fetch you something to drink. I am certain you are thirsty.”
She reached for a nearby pitcher and filled a tin cup with water. She offered it to him, but Edward simply stared past her, no reply. By now Emily was beginning to wonder if he was even aware of her presence.
Perhaps it is the effects of the ether. She set the cup on the table, peered closely into his face. Edward’s eyes registered a startled reaction. They held hers for a quick second, then pulled away. In that brief time Emily saw a storm of emotions there.
He is aware of his reality, she thought. All too well.
There were times when it was wise to draw a man out of his solitude, but Emily sensed this was not one of them. She could only guess what Edward had witnessed on the battlefield, what actions had led him to this place. She wanted to ask about Stephen but knew there would be time for questions later.
She brushed her fingers gently through his hair. “Perhaps you will feel up to taking water later on. For now, just rest.”
Still he only blinked. Emily drew the sheet to his chest, mindful of his bandages, then moved to the side of the bed where Julia stood. She stared pitifully at her brother’s back. Emily gave her a gentle squeeze.
“Try not to be discouraged,” she whispered. “He is alert and the fever has broken.”
Julia nodded slowly but her face was as pale as January snow. “Will you send for our father?”
“Of course. Straightaway.” Emily agreed with her friend’s assessment. Edward needed his family now.
She moved toward the door. Sally was peeking through it.
“Is he awake?” she asked the moment Emily stepped into the corridor.
“Yes.”
Sally breathed a shallow sigh. “Is he speaking? Did he mention Stephen?”
Emily did not wish to upset her, but she knew the truth was best. If she were in Sally’s place, she would want to know.
“I am afraid he has not spoken at all. That is why I did not think it wise to ask about Stephen just yet. The battle seems to have damaged not only Edward’s body but his mind, as well.”
Her chin began to quiver.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said gently.
Sally quickly wiped her eyes and garnered her composure. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Julia requested that we send for her father.”
“I will see to that.”
“Can you manage? We could ask one of the other volunteers.”
Sally shook her head. “Dr. Turner will not mind. He has a soft spot for me. He knows Edward is our friend, and he told me if I had need of anything only to ask.”
Thank the Lord for small kindnesses, Emily thought.
“Tell Julia I will be as quick as I can.” She turned and descended the staircase. Emily quickly went back to the ward. Dr. Mackay had also returned.
“Nurse!” he called, waving her over.
I do have a name, she thought.
Nevertheless, she went to him. He was in the process of resetting a Virginia man’s broken leg. Having placed the limb in the fracture box, Dr. Mackay handed her a small sack. It looked as if it had come from the hospital kitchen.
“Fill the box with oat bran. It will support the leg and collect any further drainage from the wound.”
“Yes, Dr. Mackay.”
Emily promptly went to work, trying her best to smile at the wounded Virginian while ignoring the scowling Federal doctor beside her. When she finished the task, she looked to him. She expected another order, but he simply grunted and moved on to the next man.
She went back to Edward.
Her friend still lay with his back to his sister. Julia held her place in the chair beside him, a palmetto fan in one hand, a Bible in the other. She waved the fan faithfully over his head while she sought her own comfort in Scripture.
Emily watched them for a moment, but when Julia made no gesture or request she quietly