A/N: Happy Nurse Appreciation Week! May 6-12. Please no reviews, as this is a re-post of an old story, and its follow-up called 'Victress'.
Of Indomitable Spirit
We sorted them much as one would go through the week's laundry. Shirts here, pants there. Those actively bleeding here, the hopeless there. Stumbling around surgeons, attendants and ward boys, we assigned them into wards according to disability.
The armistice had been signed, but our war continued, and the ambulance convoys came. Our own veritable front line. It seemed just as the first batch was settled, the matron would put out the call to arms again. Her bellows were worthy of any Federal drill sergeant.
I wandered through my assigned ward: Twenty-three husks of men filled the room. I suffered along with them, knowing what little could be done for this hopeless lot was not enough by half. Gathering my pans and linens beside me, I clapped the ward boy on his shoulder and gave a wry smile, very much imagining myself going into battle armed with soap and clean towels. Jonas was not as optimistic, yet he tugged his water bucket and ladle up high and we marched our way to the first bed.
Vile odors assaulted our noses that my flask of rosewater couldn't assuage. Minié balls had struck the corporal, one high above the hip and one through his cheek. Both bullets had passed through leaving jagged holes in his neck and back.
He caught my sleeve and peered at us with one dull eye. "Water…"
Like all of the wounded men, he had a raging thirst. Jonas raised the ladle, but I stayed his hand, knowing the outcome.
The corporal looked at me as if I had raised my fist and struck him.
Exhaling, I took the ladle and raised it to the soldier's lips. Sipping at first, his eye closed in ecstasy. Just as I feared, he started to lap the water and it dribbled out of his cheek. With Jonas' strong arm behind his back, the corporal heaved and wheezed, coughing out spittle and blood. With a garbled 'thankee, thankee' he fell back to his bed, sated with the few drops.
I finished changing the last of his bandages and paused. When I first stepped into the hospital three weeks ago, the matron sized me up and down, much like a review of troops, and clucked her tongue, wondering how long I would last.
I wondered, too.
Our next member was no better off. Nor the one after him. But we washed and bandaged, comforting as best we could. Before we'd gotten a third down the row, Jonas was sent for clean water and toweling.
Alone in the ward with my charges, a low moan split the air. It came from the far bed where I could see no head, but the misshapen lump in the middle of the cot told me it was occupied.
The sounds emanating from the bed were puzzling. The wounded, as a rule, were quiet. Ward Three especially so, since this was the end of their journey.
Pulling back the blanket, I found the soldier knees to chest. He was a cavalryman by the eagle buttons on his tattered coat. The hair was lengthy, his sparse beard caked with dirt and grit. I leaned in closer and saw a battalion of lice crossing his pillow. The pale face was sculpted, defined by skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones. In the throes of a fever, he moaned and shivered, clutching at the bedclothes.
I snatched up his registry card. First Lieutenant Scott G. Lancer, 2nd U.S. Cavalry, Richmond. He'd been sorted wrongly. He didn't belong in this death ward. I called for Jonas, then for anyone within hearing distance.
Two attendants came panting through the doorway.
"What is it?" O'Brien swept his eyes around, trying to discern the urgency, for there was never any ruckus coming from Ward Three.
"This soldier needs to be moved."
The men rolled back on their heels. O'Brien shook his red head at me. "Look at' im. He'll be here soon enough."
I snapped my spine into place. "He belongs in Ward Five, not here."
He stared at me, then blew out a breath when I met his eyes, daring him to argue.
They walked to the bed and threw back the coverlet. O'Brien yanked on the soldier's coat, its seams giving way with quick pops. He bent down and grabbed a thin wrist.
"Be careful!" The lout could be brutish at times.
An unexpected growl came from the solider. "Let go of me."
As O'Brien prepared to pull, a fist shot out from the bed, glancing off the orderly's chin. The Lieutenant turned, burrowing deeper into his sheets.
I came between them and put my hand on the boy's cheek. He quieted as they often do, then looked up, his fever-bright eyes huge in the hollowed-out face. Gripping the sheets in one dirty hand, the other snaked out to cover my own.
"Please…"
I shook my head.
"...let me stay."
Knowing it was for the best, I pulled away.
He struggled, not understanding. All the soldier knew was the first bed he'd had in a very long time was about to be taken away. The matron's admonishment rang in my head: you will not invite familiarity by using first names. The boy's face crowded out her words.
Stroking his forearm, I broke the taboo. "Scott, quiet now, let us help you."
Jonas and I watched as the attendants bundled the officer's slight frame into the sheet and carried him out the door. My roommate, Beatrice, was working on Ward Five. He would be gently washed and given a clean bed. Despite my confidence in knowing he was in good hands, my guilt for turning him out raged.
Catching up the blanket, something colorful fell out of its brown folds. A worn yellow and blue shoulder strap. I glanced towards the door…Bea would have him under her watchful eye by now, and my patients needed me here.
Plugging up my feelings, I shoved the strap into my apron pocket.
#-#-#-#-#
Beatrice, in good favor with the matron, worked the day shift. I toiled through the night. It was no slight to me; being of a nocturnal bent, it rather suited. Nevertheless, I received daily reports from my roommate.
As soldiers always seem to do, Lieutenant Lancer inquired of Bea the whereabouts of a friend named Daniel Cassidy. We rummaged through the rolls of past and current patients, but the name was not familiar. Perhaps he'd been too ill to move.
The boy settled in, along with many of his comrades. With enough food and rest, the surgeons gave him promising reports.
I conspired to see how he was doing, but the matter was taken out of my hands when another nurse fell ill and I was re-assigned—with Bea's wonderful intervention—to Ward Five.
The hustle and bustle was something not accustomed to after spending most of my time in Ward Three. Here, coal-hods bumped against nurses and beds as young boys carried them through the wards. Surgeons rounded, calling from behind the mosquito netting for fresh bandaging and tinctures of laudanum or morphine.
Rising above all was the cacophony of the living.
Lieutenant Lancer was in bed twenty-four. As Bea reported, he no longer needed help to feed himself, doing nicely with the diet of farina and toast. He was shaven, head to chin, and put in a too-large hospital tunic. Propped up against the headboard, he looked like a baby owl peeking out of its nest.
The fever had dissipated, a healthier hue erasing some of the paleness. I approached his bed with some trepidation, holding the evening tray in front of me as a talisman to ward off any disparaging looks. He turned at my advance and I could see him trying to put thoughts in order.
His brow wrinkled in puzzlement until a fine blush crept across his cheeks. I put the tray down and hesitated.
"I apologize, Miss…" He rubbed his hand back and forth over his shaven head. "I didn't realize…"
These men struggled to cast off any surmised weakness, and this boy was no exception. I smiled. "It's of no consequence. You were just in the wrong place."
"It seems as though that very thing has been a harbinger for my military career."
My owl had wit.
I busied myself with his tray. "You have an extraordinary right punch. At least Mr. O'Brien thinks so."
His eyes widened.
Flapping out the napkin, I placed it under his chin and pressed a spoon into his palm. "And if you hadn't of done the deed, I most certainly would have."
A cautious smile made its way to his lips.
#-#-#-#-#
The best time for writing home was after the evening meal. It helped to spend time with pen and paper. Solid black scribbles, some unrecognizable, but nonetheless written to someone they called their own.
And my owl? The very same.
I asked who he was writing to and was met with silence as he concentrated on the task, his hand quivering over a bold scrawl.
Ever curious, I prodded. "A mother?"
He shook his head.
"A father, then."
He blinked. "My grandfather."
His hand meandered to the paper's edge, the pen teetered, then fell. Practiced in such exercises, I caught it before it tumbled to the floor, and gave him a pat on his trembling arm.
Then we sat with heads together—one telling, the other writing—transcribing thoughts and salutations. The faraway grandfather would hear of better tidings, the welcoming of cooler climes and nourishing food. And, even though I hesitated to write it myself, the ministrations of a kind nurse. The news he wouldn't receive in the missive could fill many other pages.
But soon enough this grandfather would see what wasn't written in black and white.
Spent, he lay back upon the pillow and closed his shadowed eyes. The pen was tucked away amongst other things in my apron pocket: a strip of bandage, two buttons, a spoon, a well-read letter from my sister, rosewater and quinine tablets. A motley mix which gave me as much comfort through the night as I supposed clean bedding did to these boys.
I turned to lower the light and felt his eyes, watching. Nodding to him, the wick was left at its usual height. We had a closeted agreement the Lieutenant and I—the lantern would burn until my rounds were finished.
Despite the matron's firm orders to the contrary.
#-#-#-#-#
Melancholia rose through the ranks at night, heralding a portent of unease among both nurses and patients. Ward Five was no exception. What was pushed aside and forgotten during the light of day could not be ignored in the dark of night.
Fevers heretofore suppressed during much of the day, ran unchecked. Pain, no matter how minor, made its appearance as well. Night terrors were shared alike.
The ward had quieted from the day's activities and the lamps turned down. I could identify my patients by the sounds they made in darkness. Major Jacoby's sonorous wheeze, Sergeant May's loud treble on exhalation. The Lieutenant's soft sighs.
Mosquito netting was pulled around most beds by evening and Jonas offered to help me with the rest.
He walked to Lieutenant Lancer's bed and jerked the mesh. Frayed, it pulled away from the ceiling hooks and tumbled down, encasing the patient.
Startled out of a deep sleep, the Lieutenant woke up fighting. In his excitement, Jonas flung himself over the bed to keep the patient still.
Disturbed by the scuffle, patients from across the room shouted for help, a few thumping their way on crutches to the middle of the ward—ready for battle.
And I was left fumbling with the lamp.
It was the matron who put an end to the chaos. Armed with a roar and several attendants, Jonas was picked up, patients soothed, and bedclothes re-arranged. After questioning my abilities to handle the ward by myself, she left in a swish of skirts and petticoats.
The incident with the netting affected him. Remembering his registry card on admission, I knew what 'Richmond' meant.
I washed the sheen of sweat from his face and back, then sat with him. Listening.
His rank was a battlefield commission after a brief period of enlistment, pinned on by Phillip Henry Sheridan himself. The shoulder strap lying in the reticule in my room came to mind. It needed to be returned.
He took pride in his soldiering and had seen the elephant, until the time of his capture. He spoke of his imprisonment in passing, much like describing a recent countryside trip. The words were too smooth, I had to believe there was something more—there was terror in his eyes when the netting fell.
I offered him water and waited. An escape attempt. A tunnel collapse. He bent his left leg at the knee and rubbed his thigh. I knew a puckered scar lay there, formed by a bullet. Sighing, he turned his head away.
Not yet twenty, he had lived a whole life already.
How many bedsides have I sat, able to offer nothing but a cool cloth or a gentle hand or merely to lend an ear? My head full, I wondered of my real value to Lieutenant Lancer, to all the patients of Ward Five.
He was silent, his voice replaced by a light snore. I lowered the wick and allowed my nagging tears to fall in private.
#-#-#-#-#
His bed was empty. We frequently played a round of 'Where's the Lieutenant' in the early evening hours. Not an unusual occurrence, since he had gained a small measure of mobility. His favorite haunt was beside the far window, looking out. Noticing Major Grady's wheelchair was missing, but the man was still abed, I knew it contained the Lieutenant. But where? And where was Jonas?
Something was amiss last night; he was restive, not eating. It was worrisome. I pushed the letter from Boston into my pocket and went in search.
The venues of choice for the Richmond men were the stone wall by the well, beside the horse barn or the shady spot under the oaks. I chose the oaks. It was the furthest away from the wards.
Before I could get to the hallway, Jonas met me at the door. The ward boy ducked his head.
"He's worse, Miss."
Dismayed, I saw the Lieutenant's pallor and racking shivers despite the blankets on this warm day. Ague.
Three men filed behind the chair. "It wasn't his fault," the soldier said, nodding to Jonas, "the Lieutenant was readin' to us outside." He waved a water-stained copy of Thoreau in the air. "We didn't think it would hurt any."
They never should have taken him out—wasn't he starting to get ill last night? I bit my tongue. My temper was short these days and a struggle to keep maintained. I took a deep breath and led the group back to bed, reaching for the quinine in my pocket. The letter from home would have to wait.
At first he was restless, unable to get comfortable. I endeavored to calm him, but his fever raged. Tossing his head, incessant yells to go forward, then a single aching 'retreat'. He grabbed my arm, almost tumbling me into the bed. An attendant intervened with strips of cloth, wanting to tie him, but I refused.
Toward morning, he quieted, but the fever and chills had sapped his strength. I heard a tapping and one of the three men from the oaks appeared out of the shadows of the ward.
"How is he, Miss?"
I shook my head.
He slumped on his crutches. "We wanted to hear the words, pretty like they are. Thought it would perk up the Lieutenant some, too…it's been such a long time since he was outside."
My breath caught. He was in the throes of guilt, burning with it just as hot as my patient. I looked down at the Lieutenant, still flushed from the bitter fight—they asked for nothing. Who was I to condemn their actions? They looked to me for help, to relieve their sufferings—not compound them. My lack of ability was appalling.
At four o'clock, the matron entered the ward on her rounds. "The Lieutenant?"
"He is no better."
"You've lost hope, then." Her voice was soft—kind—unlike anything I'd heard her use before.
"I fear he won't survive."
"My dear…"
I dared to interrupt. "What good are we to these men?"
The matron drew herself up. "Your actions may seem petty, but I assure you they are not. A basin and soap, a few rags. We go from one sufferer to another alleviating pain, changing an uneasy position, allaying thirst or bandaging wounds. Is that trivial to these soldiers who have had so little for so long? These men have not given up…why have you?"
The mild rebuke brought order to my thoughts.
She glanced down at my patient and patted his lax hand. "If it should come to pass that God calls this young man forward, you'll know you've done everything in your power to aid his comfort."
The matron turned to me. "You've cared for him, and hundreds of others, as if they were your own family. They are the better for it. I've no higher praise than that."
She paused at the door and turned around. "You'll do, Miss." Nodding, she walked out.
I sat in the gloom, listening to the muted sounds of the ward, and contemplated her few words.
The Lieutenant shifted and sighed beside me. I pulled the coverlet up higher on his chest, letting my hand linger. His breaths were even, his face relaxed.
Searching within, I found my heart lightened. Perhaps we would both 'do'.
#-#-#-#-#
It was June and I was a three-month nurse, Bea an old veteran of nine. We celebrated our anniversaries with tea and toast at the small desk in the center of our ward. Private Johansson presented us each with a wilted daisy, made precious by the fact he had crutched out to the stone wall to retrieve them. His stump almost healed, he would be discharged back to his wife soon. A harmonica was produced by the drummer boy from Ohio—a month ago he couldn't catch enough breath to talk. A gay tune issued forth and our men clapped or nodded as able.
I looked at Bea and saw my weariness mirrored in her eyes. As I glanced about the ward, I knew we had done some good, and it raised my spirits.
We would have continued on through the night, if not for the matron and her stern throat clearing from the doorway. Bea bid us a swift goodnight with a promise to return in the morning. I caught my owl's eye and winked at him.
He returned it with a grin.
#-#-#-#-#
The surgeons thumped his chest and listened to his heart. Despite being able to count almost every rib, they declared him fit for travel—and I agreed. He would need respite for a long while. But better in the arms of family than the beds of the hospital amongst strangers.
Although after all this time we were hardly strangers to one another.
He pushed off from his chair using a cane, and straightened to his full height, towering over me. It was disconcerting to realize how tall he was after only seeing him horizontal.
The laundered blue tunic was more patches than uniform, but serviceable. I assumed his grandfather would welcome him home regardless of the state of his dress. But this coat was missing one item.
I searched though my pocket of bottles and bandages, pulling out the shoulder strap.
Surprised, he fingered it for a bit, rubbing the threaded gold bars between thumb and forefinger. Then passed it back to me. Smiling, I gestured for him to bend down. The strap was fastened to his coat and Lieutenant Scott Lancer, 2nd Cavalry, emerged.
Something hot pricked behind my eyes when he clasped my hand. In his fevered state, those hands fisted and grabbed, pushed and pulled. Now they were warm and gentle—and would be strong again.
We fought the battle for his convalescence together, and the truth was he had done as much for me as I did for him. My path of duty, chosen on a whim, had taken on greater significance.
There were patients injured far more severe, pathetic wretches that made my heart crack. A myriad of faces, with an ocean of voices in supplication. But this young man will be the one I remember.
The call went up, the convoys were leaving. He bent down and brushed my cheek, murmuring a simple thank-you into my ear. I watched from the doorway as he was helped into the wagon, then turned and gathered my basins and water.
My patients needed me.
The End
05/06/10
Revised: 3/2/2012
Author's Notes:
"Of Indomitable Spirit" was a phrase often used to describe Clara Barton, a Civil War nurse and founder of the American Red Cross (1881).
A nod goes to Louisa May Alcott's "Civil War Hospital Sketches" for the idea of this story