Two Girls of Gettysburg Page 11

  At once I began my preparations, and now Dolly stands laden with knapsacks full of provisions: a sewing kit; medicines and bandages; a plain, dark frock, apron, and light cloak; stockings and spare shoes; food and an old pot and fry pan; an oilcloth and blanket. I have fresh shirts, drawers, and socks for John—more than what is needed for this mission of mercy. But it would hardly do to go to war unprepared.

  The valet is carrying a message to my parents, who would surely try to dissuade me if I were to inform them myself. We depart as soon as he returns. I am glad my husband wants me to come and nurse him, but I fear Tom may be underrating the seriousness of John’s injury in order to spare me.

  August 31, 1862 near Falmouth

  We are traveling north, toward Maryland, behind Lee’s army. The way is strewn with soldiers’ gear, like the flotsam and jetsam of a great ship. I follow in its wake, accompanied by a slave. This is an adventure I never imagined!

  Tom and I do not say much to each other. I estimate he is close to John’s age, with the blackest skin I have ever seen. He prefers to sing to himself, both mournful tunes and foot-tapping ones, depending on his mood.

  Yesterday I ventured to ask him why he had come to Richmond for me, when he could have escaped and headed north to freedom. He regarded me with some suspicion, finally replying, “Ma’am, I do what Master John bids me.”

  The subject seemed to make him uncomfortable. Did he think I meant to test his loyalty? I have no doubt that he is a faithful servant. Perhaps I will speak to John about the possibility of freeing him.

  Dolly is a good mount, but I am sore from so much riding. The weather remains fair. Last night I lodged at a farmhouse with a woman whose chickens had all been confiscated by Lee’s army, and two weeks later the federals came through and stripped the fruit from her trees. Yet she was glad to share what she had left, seeing that we were not soldiers.

  September 2, 1862

  Arriving at Warrenton Junction yesterday afternoon, we expected to find only a few convalescents remaining, as the army had moved on. Instead a scene of chaos greeted us. There were hundreds of new casualties from a battle at Manassas, the second one to be fought at that place. Some of the injured were being placed aboard trains to Richmond, while others were taken to makeshift hospitals nearby. I saw a dead soldier for the first time. The man’s face had been shot entirely away and his body was unnaturally swollen. I turned away and vomited into the bushes. I was ashamed, but Tom said he’d seen grown men do much worse. After I drank some water, I dared to look at the body again and this time felt a great sadness that would have overwhelmed me had I paused to dwell on it.

  It was John who saw me first and shouted my name. I ran to him, trying not to step on anyone in my haste. We kissed with restraint due to the presence of so many people, though no one paid us any heed. John’s face bristled with a new beard that scratched my cheeks.

  “Why aren’t you lying down?” I asked him, noticing the bandage around his head. His hair stood upright, stiff with dirt.

  “I am much better. My ribs are not broken after all,” he said, causing me to catch my breath and demand to know all that had happened.

  “In the middle of the night the alarm was raised. By the sound of horses it seemed to be a cavalry attack. I grabbed my rifle and rolled out of my tent when—so they tell me—I was struck in the chest by a horse’s hoof and knocked down. Whether I was kicked again or hit my head on a rock, I don’t know. Don’t remember a thing.” He shook his head ruefully. “Turns out it wasn’t an attack at all, only some horses that had broken loose and stampeded through the camp.”

  I tried to get him to lie down and rest, fussing over him in a manner I deemed wifely. But he refused, saying he had to help sort the wounded.

  Then he took my hands and said, full of tender concern, “Dearest Rose, I would not have asked you to come if I had suspected fighting would break out again.”

  “I could not have stayed away, knowing you were hurt,” I murmured, touching his head. “At least you were not in the battle. You were almost fortunate to be kicked by that horse.”

  “No, it was our first test as a regiment, and even though we routed the federals, I failed by not being there,” John said in a grim voice. I knew that his sense of honor had taken a blow.

  Just then a man lying on the ground not ten feet away cried hoarsely, “Nurse, water!” I saw two women who appeared to be nurses in the distance, but none close by, and realized he was imploring me. I appealed to John, who looked about until his gaze came to rest on a man lying beneath a nearby tree, his face covered by a ragged cloth. John walked over and detached the canteen from the dead man’s waist and shook it. Water sloshed within. He handed me the canteen and nodded. I bent down and held the canteen to the man’s lips. I had to lift his head with my other hand. He smelled of sweat and blood. I had never been so close to a man who was a stranger to me, and I felt myself blush. But he gulped the water and murmured his gratitude as if there were nothing improper in what I had done.

  Kneeling there, I breathed a prayer of thanks that it was not John who called helplessly for water or who lay in the stillness of death.

  “What else can I do to help?” I heard myself say.

  John took me to the assistant surgeon, Dr. Walker, who was so desperate for nurses he merely pointed to a box of bandages and handed me a pitcher, a basin, and a small flask of spirits.

  “Save the whiskey for the worst cases,” he ordered.

  He turned away and I stood there stupidly. I had no idea how to determine a “worst case,” let alone treat one. Seeing my confusion, John advised me just to clean the minor wounds. I thought he would stay beside me, but then he was called away. Finding myself alone, I commenced nursing those whose needs were within my small ability, wiping away dirt and blood and giving water and reassurances that I hoped were not in vain. The unaccustomed sights and smells bewildered me and nearly made me sick, and I doubt that I did much good. I thought to myself, I have come to nurse my husband, and here I am wiping the wounds of strangers!

  Later I found John, cleaned his wound, and clumsily applied a fresh bandage. I asked him where I might find a bed to sleep in. He laughed and led me to a spot beneath a tree where he had devised a makeshift tent and placed my bedroll.

  “Am I to sleep on the ground?” I asked in disbelief.

  “A man in the army learns to sleep anywhere,” he answered.

  “But I am a woman!”.

  John looked embarrassed. He knelt down and unrolled the bedding.

  “You are going to sleep beside me, at least? After all, I came here to be with you.”

  John smiled. “No, it would be unseemly. Darling, you shouldn’t even be in camp, except that you are helping Dr. Walker. Tomorrow I’ll settle you in a proper tent.”

  “A proper tent?” I repeated, finally understanding that I was to have no privacy with my husband and even less comfort. But I was too tired to argue further. I lay down and covered myself with a blanket. The ground was uneven and the noises of frogs and crickets, cries of pain from the injured, and shouting and laughter kept me awake for a long time. When the first rays of light woke me, I was so stiff and sore I could barely stand up.

  September 3, 1862 Warrenton Junction

  Tom has built me a narrow cot, and so last night I slept a little better. Forgoing the “proper tent,” which was already crowded with two nurses and many supplies, I preferred my makeshift one. Reinforced with canvas on the ends, it shields me from view, and furnished with a tin chamber pot and small lamp, it is, I must admit, almost suitable. I wonder what Lizzie would think if she knew that I have been living out of a tent for three days now!

  John’s entire chest is discolored with bruises though his cuts are starting to heal. He is well enough to tease me by pretending to have lost his memory after striking his head.

  “Who is this woman? I don’t recall meeting her,” he said to his companions.

  “I am Mrs. John Wilcox, your wife,” I rep
lied, humoring him.

  “No,” he said, “I am General Robert E. Lee, and my wife is Mrs. General Lee.”

  The whole ward rocked with laughter, which is better than any tonic. As I write this, I am still shaking with mirth!

  Besides John, I care for twenty or so convalescents, thankfully none of them with mortal injuries. I am very unskilled and the other nurses must be tired of my constant questions. But I have learned a few things. 1) If you keep a wound moist, the bandages do not stick. 2) Gentle pressure and elevation will stop bleeding in a wound that has opened up again. 3) A little whiskey is beneficial when poured in a wound, but does even more good if you spare a nip for the patient himself.

  I even had a swallow last night and consequently slept well.

  September 4, 1862

  Thank goodness I am married, or my husband himself would ruin my reputation with his impulsive affections! I was going around the ward with my wash basin today when he drew me behind the hospital tent and into his embrace.

  “What do you think you are you doing?” I whispered frantically as water spilled on my skirt.

  “Why, kissing my wife.” He drew back. “You are she, are you not?” His eyes twinkled merrily. Affection for my rakish, handsome soldier-husband welled up, and I returned ardent kisses.

  “I had a dream about you last night,” he murmured as his hands began to roam over my body. His touch was sweet and melting. I longed to be truly alone with him, in the dark, to permit his every caress! But duty called me back to the ward, and I returned to my work, a mite disheveled.

  “What can I do for you, Baxter?” I asked my next patient.

  “Why give me a kiss, like you bestowed on that lucky fellow,” he replied, beckoning me closer. I felt my cheeks redden.

  “Sir, that man is my husband. He is entitled to kiss me, while you are not,” I said in a tone of rebuke. Then Baxter himself blushed, and I struggled not to laugh, for I saw the humor in the situation. So I said, in a softer tone, “But if you will behave, I will have you as right and healthy as he is now.”

  “I’d be much obliged,” Baxter said meekly. Then, with some trouble, for his right arm was in a sling, he fumbled in his pocket and drew out a tintype.

  “My gal. I’m going to marry her the minute I get home,” he said longingly, showing me the picture of a young woman with fair hair falling to her shoulders.

  “She’s very pretty. I will gladly help you write her a letter.”

  So Baxter dictated, while I wrote. He had fine and true sentiments, and I easily forgave him for trying to kiss me.

  At noontime I stirred the soup pots and managed to add extra beef and beans into the ration for my ward. All afternoon I laundered sheets and bandages and distributed supplies, including chloroform for the surgeons’ use. After supper came another round of bathing wounds and writing letters. Dr. Walker came through the ward and soon left, saying, “I see I’m not needed here.” I felt as if I had been paid a great compliment. In truth, I have never worked so hard, nor felt that I have done so much good in all my eighteen years as I have in these last three days.

  When I told John this, as we sat beside a campfire kindled against the cool night air, he put his arm around me, and I know we were both thinking of our past wrongs. But we did not speak of them, though someday we must. Instead we talked about our childhood. I described how Margaret used to sew little dresses for our cats, which we played with as if they were dolls. John told me his two brothers died of smallpox when he was young and he barely remembers them.

  I think that Tom is almost like a brother to John. It heartens me to see how he cares for John’s welfare, and how John protects him in turn. Why should one of these men own the other, and there be such inequality between them? I kept this question to myself.

  When nothing but embers remained of the fire, John and I parted with the assurance that we would see each other tomorrow, if only to exchange a look as we go about our duties and draw strength from the knowledge of our love.

  September 5, 1862

  This morning John and I had our first row, a terrible one. I am so shaken I can barely write.

  I was washing out the breakfast pot when John came up to me, his hands deep in his pockets, and said that I should go back to Richmond now that he was better. I dropped the pot with a clatter. “Don’t you want me here?” I asked in a stricken voice. He did not reply to that but said he was concerned for my safety. I said, “I’m worried about your safety, too, but I’m not telling you to go home.” He reminded me that I was merely a civilian. Gesturing to the hospital tent, I said I was needed, couldn’t he see that? Then he said he could not have his wife caring for strange men, like that Baxter fellow. “I have not done anything improper!” I said in outrage. “How can you doubt my virtue? Or is this something to do with your gentlemanly honor?” By now the hornet’s nest was completely stirred up. I said he was jealous without any reason. He countered that he was my husband and I had pledged to obey him. Finally I said, “I won’t go back to Richmond. You can’t tell me what to do!” and stalked off. It was humiliating to be seen crying, so I hid in my tent.

  It is after midnight and still I cannot sleep. Is it the common fate of wives to struggle against men’s authority, then break, like wild horses made to take the bit? Perhaps Mother was right, and I should have waited to marry. But I thought marriage would make our love firm and enduring, like baking sets a cake. I should have learned by now that love can make one unstable. Is John now wishing he had not married me? Whatever will we say to each other in the morning?

  Rosanna

  Chapter 18

  September 6, 1862

  When I saw John after breakfast, he too looked as if he had not slept. I was afraid to meet his eyes. But he came up to me and said, “Rosanna, let us put yesterday’s quarrel out of our minds.”

  “No, John,” I said firmly, “I cannot simply forget what is unpleasant. It will come back to haunt us. We must talk.” I took his hand in mine and drew him aside. “I must tell you, although I do not love the South’s great cause—”

  “Dash it, Rose, be more discreet!” he interrupted, putting his hand up to my lips.

  I gently brushed it away. “Hear me out. I do love the South, though not the holding of slaves. Maybe it is because of my Yankee friends.” I waved my hand. “That is not the issue now. Rather, in the last week I have come to embrace an even greater cause: relieving the suffering of those around me.”

  “Women do not belong in the field. You have no responsibility to these men,” he protested.

  “But I do feel responsible for them,” I insisted. “And you cannot be more surprised than I am. I have always been the most selfish of creatures, I know. But now I am finding some reward in doing good.”

  His look was doubtful. He was not yet persuaded.

  “I have another, more compelling reason, John,” I said, speaking softly, though in great earnest. “Now that we are married, I cannot bear to be parted from you, not knowing when I may see you again. So please, let me stay and do some good.”

  John looked beyond me, his brows drawn together in an expression I could not read. My heart thudded, fearful of how he would reply.

  “I want you to be happy. You are my wife.” He sighed and looked down at his feet. “I will not oppose you.”

  And so we achieved peace. I had the good sense not to exult in my victory, but merely showed my gratitude with a kiss. John spoke with Dr. Walker, who agreed to let me to stay with the regiment, for he had need of another nurse.

  I wrote to Mother and Father that I would not be returning to Richmond. I explained that a woman does not debase herself by contact with suffering, disease, and death. Rather, by nursing the wounded soldier she repays his sacrifice with her own lesser one. If they understand this, perhaps they will not think me so selfish and thoughtless.

  September 7, 1862

  Late last night I was startled by a movement outside my tent and, thinking it was some ill-intentioned soldier,
nearly cried out for help, when I realized it was John creeping about! In a moment he was inside my tent. “I had to be with you tonight,” he whispered, lying beside me. “Don’t worry; no one saw me leave.” Those were all the words he spoke, and even they were unnecessary. When I awoke he was gone. I was afraid to come out of my tent, for fear that everyone would see on my face what transpired in the night.

  This morning, prisoners captured from a New York regiment were brought to camp. I expected to see them abused, but instead they were given food and their wounds tended to. Six or seven of them played cards with their guard, who had even laid aside his rifle. The guard gave them tobacco, and they all told jokes. Why, they could have been cousins or neighbors, not enemies at war!

  September 8, 1862 leaving Warrenton Junction

  Just as I was becoming accustomed to my rough lodgings and the routines of a field hospital, the army pulled up stakes to march northward. Tom brought Dolly to me, and I secured my belongings in saddlebags while he, in a flash, folded my tent, dismantled my cot, and loaded them on a wagon. I will ride Dolly and when it rains take cover in one of the ambulances, a four-wheeled wagon covered in canvas.

  I am not the only woman traveling with the army. General Gordon’s wife, whose name is Fanny, left her children in the care of a Negro mammy in order to be with her husband in the field. The officers dislike her, for she is considered quite demanding. She rides in her own carriage, while the nurses, Mrs. Throckmorton and Mary Ward, ride in an ambulance. Mrs. Throckmorton’s husband and son are with the regiment, so there is no reason for her to stay at home. She is very devout, always reading from her Bible, and wears eyeglasses held firmly in place by folds of fat on her cheeks and brow. Mary Ward is the only one of us ladies with any training as a nurse. She is somewhat sharp featured and reticent, but capable. There is also a Creole woman who sells food and trinkets from a cart pulled by a donkey. Finally, some women I hesitate to call ladies follow the troops for entertainment of a baser sort.