The Velvet Shadow (16 page)

“Which company do you lead?” She raised her eyes to find him watching her.

“I’m not tied to a company; I serve the entire regiment.” He inclined his blond head toward an older gentleman on the sidewalk, who bowed respectfully at Alden’s approach. “I assist the lieutenant colonel and the colonel who commands the regiment. Our regiment is one of four that make up the Second Brigade. Three or four brigades make a division, two or more divisions make a corps, one or more corps make up an army.”

“That’s quite enough, thank you.” Flanna held up her hand in protest. “Surely you don’t expect me to remember all that?”

“Roger said you were bright.” Alden’s mouth curved into an unconscious smile. “You cannot tell him I said so, but he thinks you are more intelligent than he.”

“Really?” In spite of her nervousness, Flanna laughed. Roger would never admit such a thing to her, but it was nice to know he appreciated her gifts…especially since no one else in Boston seemed to.

“We’re almost there.” Alden paused on the sidewalk across the street from Boston Common, then turned to her with a decidedly serious expression on his face. “I would not bring you here if I were not extremely worried about Private Fraser. In a few moments you are likely to see men gambling and hear language unfit for a lady’s ears.”

“Major,” Flanna gave him a wavering smile, “I assure you, vile language is the least of my worries. Please, transfer your concern from my ears to our patient.” She looked behind her and smiled when she saw Charity scurrying toward them with her medical bag. “Now that my equipment has arrived, I suggest we tend to your sick soldier.”

Alden pressed his lips together, then extended his arm toward the edge of the camp. “After you then, Dr. O’Connor.”

Flanna lifted her skirts as she stepped from the sidewalk to the street, then crinkled her nose as the first scents of the camp reached her nostrils. The smells of roasting meat mingled with the ammoniac odor of horses and the stench of human sewage.

“They should do something about the pits,” she said. “Don’t they read Deuteronomy?”

“I beg your pardon?” Alden asked, walking by her side.

“The sewage pits.” Flanna absently waved her hand toward the outskirts of the camp. “They should be moved farther out. Each man should carry a shovel and immediately dig a hole and cover it. There should be no standing sewage. It’s all explained in Deuteronomy, chapter twenty-three.”

Alden didn’t answer, but his flush receded in a most dramatic fashion, leaving two red spots lingering on his pale cheeks.

“Major Haynes,” she continued, ignoring the guards’ wide eyes as she entered the camp, “if you are to assist me, I must ask that you leave all false modesty behind. I am a woman, but I am a doctor, and there are few—if any—bodily functions with which I am not well acquainted.”

If she had shocked him, he recovered well. “Agreed, madam.” He arched one golden brow. “If you will come with me, I will lead you to Private Fraser.”

Following Alden, Flanna and Charity wended their way through a maze of canvas tents and campfires. Though Flanna had walked past the camp nearly every day, she had never really been close enough to observe the details of military life. She saw groups of men brushing their uniforms and blackening their leather outside their tents. Others huddled around fires, stirring pots of some food that did little to whet her appetite in terms of aroma or appearance. Through the spaces between tents she saw the parade field, where some fifty or so men marched in a line with rifles on their shoulders. A band consisting of a half-dozen trumpets, a quartet of drums, three violins, and a pair of fifers stood at the edge of the field playing “Yankee Doodle” in a sprightly rhythm.

“Drill.” Alden answered her unspoken question. “They must know how to march before we can move southward. The music helps them stay together.”

“I understand.”

Finally the major paused outside a tent barely big enough for two people. “We put Fraser in here, not wanting the others to disturb a sick man,” Alden explained, squatting down by the low entrance. “I can have him carried into one of the bigger tents if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Flanna took a deep breath to quell the leaping pulse beneath her ribs. She had managed to stanch her nervousness on the long walk to the camp, but in the last five minutes the very
maleness
of this place had awakened every apprehension. If she had to examine a man, let it be in a small space, with no curious eyes to note her discomfort. “I’d like to talk to the private alone.”

She squatted as low as her voluminous crinoline would allow, then smiled as a ridiculous, irrational thought struck her. Mrs. Haynes and those silly suffragists certainly had the right idea when it came to dress reform. Whoever decreed that women should wear four-foot
hoops around their legs certainly must have intended that they be confined.

“Charity, help me, will you?” She stood and looked around for a private place to discard the unwieldy foundation garment. But when she glanced behind her, she saw that the dozen or so soldiers around the nearest fire had frozen in a tableau of curiosity, pausing from their work to take an unseemly interest in hers.

“What am I to do, Miss Flanna?” Charity asked, wringing her hands.

“Let me think.”

Flanna squatted again, her skirt mounding around her as she peered inside the small tent. A center pole blocked her path; she couldn’t even waddle in. She couldn’t crawl forward, for the hoop skirt would tilt upward and expose her pantalets to an entire company of curious Yankees.

“Dog take it all!” The crude expression was one of Wesley’s favorites, and she felt better after saying it. In a flash of decision, she stood and pulled her apron off, then tossed it to Charity. As the maid watched in stupefaction, Flanna smoothed the fabric of her dress until she had exposed the seam that joined her bodice and skirt. “Scalpel, Charity,” she said, extending her hand.

“Miss Flanna?”

“My scalpel, if you please. Now.”

Charity draped Flanna’s apron over her shoulder and dropped the medical bag to the ground. After fumbling among its contents, she pulled out the gray felt sleeve containing Flanna’s surgical instruments, then slid out the sharpened scalpel and gingerly placed it into Flanna’s palm.

The touch of the cool metal seemed to steady Flanna’s nerves. Without hesitation, she tugged on her skirt with her left hand and sliced the threads with her right, effectively opening the seam three inches. She heard the murmur of voices behind her, and the exclamation, “The fool woman’s gone and cut herself! Major, where’d you find this lunatic?”

“Charity,” Flanna handed the scalpel back to her maid, “will you please work your fingers into the hole and untie the string that holds my hoop skirt? I’ll never be able to maneuver in this.”

Nodding, Charity came forward and did as she was told. When Charity had untied the string, the cage-like contraption fell from Flanna’s skirt, billowing the fabric of her plain plaid housedress. The soldiers behind her cheered in newfound appreciation for her ingenuity.

“Now, to tend my patient.” Flanna stepped over the collapsed steel hoops and knelt to crawl into the tent. Before she could move, however, another spasm of doubt twisted her stomach, and she shuddered.

“You can do this.” Alden’s hand fell upon her shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “And I will do anything I can to help.”

“Just stand aside so Charity can hold the tent flap shut, will you? I’ll be working on my hands and knees, and I’ll not provide any further entertainment for your men.”

Alden lifted his hands and stepped back. “A fair request, Doctor.”

“I’ll hold the door shut, Miss Flanna,” Charity said, coming to stand by Flanna’s side.

“My medical bag?” Flanna put out her hand, and Charity slid the heavy bag so that the handle rested beneath Flanna’s palm.

She took a deep breath. Time to begin.

Her eyes searched inside the tent, and the tenseness in her back eased somewhat when she saw the small figure huddled upon a pallet. Just one sick boy from Carolina.

“Keep the flap closed, Charity.” Flanna grasped her bag and crawled into the tent.

Private Henry Fraser was a small soldier, barely five feet tall, and very young, for no whiskers had yet sprouted upon that pointed chin. He lay curled on his side, his hands clasped between his legs, his head close to his knees. His shaggy golden hair was damp with sweat, and his complexion had gone sallow beneath a dusting of freckles.

“Private Fraser?” Flanna knelt beside him, her medical bag opened beside her.

The boy’s eyes fluttered open, then sought hers. “You—you came? You’re the lady doctor?”

“Yes, I’m Dr. O’Connor.” Flanna lightly rested the back of her hand on the boy’s forehead. His skin was damp and warm; his face flushed with a low fever. The sour scent of vomit emanated from his clothing, and as Flanna reached out to mark the pulse in his wrist she felt a rapid, staccato beat.

“Do you have pain?” She lowered her head to look in the boy’s eyes.

He tilted his head toward her and nodded slightly. “Yes’m. Right here.” Gingerly he reached down and touched his trousers, a few inches to the right of center.

Despite her medical training, Flanna drew back at the strangely intimate gesture. If this was some sort of vulgar joke…Alden
had
said half the men hated her for being Southern and female.

“Why didn’t you send for the regimental surgeon?” she asked, her voice colder than she intended. “Most men would rather suffer than have a woman examine their private parts.”

“Please, ma’am.” The private peered at her through tear-clogged lashes. “I couldn’t tell anyone else. They’d send me home, and I need the money. But it hurts, and I’m afraid I’m gonna die.”

“Tell anyone else what?” Flanna examined her weeping patient more closely. Was the boy underage? Quite possibly. Lincoln and his generals were happy to enlist anyone they could.

“My name’s not really Henry.”

Flanna pursed her lips as the light of understanding began to dawn. “You enlisted under a false name? Whose name was it, your elder brother’s? Son, if you’re too young, you should tell Major Haynes. He might let you sign up with the musicians. I understand there’s a brigade with a twelve-year-old drummer boy—”

“My real name,” the boy interrupted, shivering under the effects of fever, “is Henrietta. Henrietta Fraser.”

Flanna sat back, frozen in a paralysis of astonishment. Private Fraser was a
girl?
Why on earth would a girl want to join this regiment? She drew a deep breath, feeling a dozen different emotions collide. Motivations didn’t matter, but one thing was certain—Henrietta Fraser did not belong in the army.

“You’re not really from Carolina, are you?”

“No ma’am. But I’m from the country, and don’t speak like the folks ’round here. I thought—I hoped—the major wouldn’t know the difference.”

“All right.” Flanna rose to her knees again. “I’m going to examine you, Henrietta, and then I’m going to tell the major what you’ve told me. No matter what you’ve heard, war is not a carefree adventure. This excitement and silliness will fade away, and you’ll wish you were home soon enough. So let me see the spot that’s giving you pain—”

“You can’t tell them!” Henrietta tensed, her hand protectively covering her abdomen. “You can’t! They’ll want the money back, and I’ve already sent it home. My folks know what I’ve done, and they placed me in God’s hands. And if they have given me leave to stay and fight, who are you to say I can’t?”

Flanna shook her head. “What money? A soldier’s wages aren’t enough for this sort of sacrifice.”

“The bounty.” The girl hissed in pain between her clenched teeth. “They were givin’ a hundred dollars to any soldier who’d promise to serve at least two years. That’s more money than my pa makes in a year. So you’ve got to help me—
ohhh!”

The girl gagged and vomited. With clinical detachment Flanna noticed that her patient was now spewing forth the thin liquids of an empty, agonized stomach. The symptoms of appendicitis—fever, nausea, vomiting, and pain on the lower right side of the abdomen—were all present. Whether in a hospital or in this tent, Henrietta Fraser would certainly die from peritonitis unless something was done. But what?

Flanna sat back and pressed her hand to her mouth. One segment of her studies had included the medical records of Claudius
Aymand, an English surgeon who had surgically removed a swollen appendix in 1736. As far as Flanna knew, no American physician had yet attempted such an operation. But this girl would die unless someone did.

Leaning forward, Flanna pushed her patient’s wavy hair from her damp forehead. “Henrietta—let me ask you again. Will you let me take you to a hospital?”

“No.” Clenching her teeth, the girl curled tighter around her abdomen. “My ma and pa would die of shame if anyone found out. I’d die before I’d let you tell on me.”

Biting her lip, Flanna looked away. “I have to be honest. You might die. There is an operation—but I’ve never performed it. I can’t promise that you’ll survive, but I can promise that I’ll do my best for you.”