Two Girls of Gettysburg (16 page)

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.

An army on the move presents a magnificent sight, stretching for miles like a ponderous snake. The scouts and sappers clear the way for the ranks of infantry, or foot soldiers, who are followed in turn by
the artillery. Teams of horses pull the cannons and wagons while the men march alongside. The caissons dig deep ruts in the road and sometimes roll into a ditch, and the whole line comes to a halt while they are heaved back into place. Mules laden with ammunition plod along, balking frequently. Then come the commissary wagons and ambulances, which sometimes stop to pick up a straggler. The rear guard follows, protecting us from being attacked from behind.

I was enveloped by clouds of dust kicked up by the artillery and supply wagons and had to tear a strip of muslin from my petticoat and tie it around my face in order to breathe. Mixed with sweat, the dust became muddy rivulets that collected about my collar. It was after midnight when we halted for the night, and I had no means of washing. Most of the men slept wherever their legs gave out beneath them. Mary Ward, Mrs. Throckmorton, and I slept in the ambulance.

September 9, 1862 somewhere in Maryland

This morning Tom brought me buckets of water for washing up. It makes me uncomfortable to be served by a slave, who must be unwilling in what he does.

I said, “You don’t need to wait on me, Tom.”

“Mastuh’s instructions,” he replied. I’m afraid I offended him by seeming ungrateful. I must try to do him some kindness in return.

I shared the water with Mrs. Throckmorton and Mary Ward, and at least our faces and hands got clean. How thoughtful of John. The ladies agree he is a gentleman.

As we marched through the town of Frederick, some citizens cheered us while others regarded us in silence, either from hostility or fear that their neighbors will take them for spies. The state of Maryland is bitterly divided between secessionists and those loyal to the Union.

John believes his regiment might be called into battle if reinforcements are needed at Harper’s Ferry. Having enlisted without firm convictions, he is now, like the rest of them, eager to fight the Yankees.

September 11, 1862 South Mountain

At last, a real bed to sleep in and a washtub for bathing! While the regiment is bivouacked on the hillsides, Mrs. Throckmorton, Mary Ward, and I are billeted in a nearby farmhouse. (I am learning a new vocabulary.) The owner, Mrs. Alter, is a widow whose only son is fighting with the Confederate army in Kentucky. Mrs. Gordon lodges in a nearby house that serves as the general’s headquarters, but she takes tea with us here. She talks incessantly of her children, making me miss little Clara and Jack.

The foothills of the South Mountains resemble paradise compared to the war-ravaged fields of Virginia. Acres of corn, their russet tassles swaying with the breezes, refresh the sight. Horses graze happily in fields of sweet timothy and clover. The trees are so heavily laden with apples and pears that their branches drag on the ground. The men stuff their haversacks with the fruit despite orders against stealing, but who can blame them?

The respite here is sorely needed, for the troops are in a weakened condition after the Manassas battle and the long march. Many can hardly walk, while others are dehydrated from heat or from dysentery, the bane of a soldier’s life. Mrs. Throckmorton dispenses her own infallible remedy for loose bowels, an infusion of raspberry leaves and wild ginger. (Dr. Walker has resigned himself to the presence of women in his medical tents.) A dozen men lie ill with typhoid, and since quinine is already scarce, we gathered boneset leaves and scraped dogwood bark to make a tea that seems to remit the fever. Every day I learn more about the treatment of these common miseries.