Chapter 9
Henry Wilkinson was born and bred in the coastal town of Lewes in Delaware. The son of a soldier, he had not followed his two older brothers to West Point as was the family traditional, too concerned with science and books to give the army much thought. Even at university he was different from his classmates – unconventional was what they called him to his face, a damn fool behind his back. His interest in natural remedies and the practices of Indian shamans did not sit well with his professors and he found himself graduating near the bottom of his class.
His dream was to go West, all the way to California where he could look upon an ocean clear across the country from the one of his childhood. He needed a job so he could save his money and set out for California as soon as he could afford it. The hospital in Washington was not exactly his first choice, but Henry was smart enough to know it was a means to an end. Enlisting to fight was the furthest thing from his mind.
"I'm not cut out for fighting, I know that much," Henry told Kid one evening, as they sat talking. "The truth is I don't have the stomach for it."
The Kid looked at the bowl of tasteless stew he was trying to eat and smiled ruefully at Henry's choice of words. "I know what you mean."
Henry smiled. "Kid, you need–"
"To eat, I know," he replied. He forced himself to take another bite.
Kid had been at the hospital for nearly three months, well enough to be up and around, but still hampered by his shoulder which had weakened his left arm. Boredom was his worst enemy, so Henry's visits were the only things he had to look forward to. Luckily for him the doctor would stop by throughout the day to check on him, bring him books to read, and usually ask about Rock Creek and the other places Kid knew so well from his Pony Express days. Every detail fascinated him, especially Kid's stories about the close shaves he and the other riders had experienced. To Henry it was a like dime novel come to life – he drank in Kid's words and never seemed tired of hearing his tales.
Kid tried not to do all the talking. He coaxed what he could out of Henry about the war. He was cut off from any other news of the fighting, so anything he could find out from the doctor was valuable. He wanted to know how the Confederate army was faring, of course, but he was more concerned with news of the Union army in Virginia. The snippets he discovered about McLennan's amassing forces off Chesapeake Bay made him anxious for Lou, when a coastal invasion became the obvious choice after overland efforts to get to Richmond had not gone well for the Federals.
Some days Kid wondered if Lou had even stayed in Virginia. He had not received a letter from her so he could be sure if his note reached her at Rob and Isobel's farm. Perhaps she had gone home to Rachel in Rock Creek. She would certainly be safer there, and most days he wished she had. There was no reason to think something had happened to her, reasoned Henry, when he saw how worried Kid would become. He reassured him that the Union army had no interest in upsetting the Virginian townsfolk. It was Richmond the army was after.
Kid wrote to her when he could, trying to fill his letters with positive news about his circumstances. He told her of Henry's kindness, of the other Confederate soldiers, now also prisoners, who arrived infrequently at the hospital. He wrote to her of his belief that he would be set free or exchanged soon – he had heard mention of prisoner exchanges from a couple of the other Confederates. Each letter he signed from "your loving husband", and wished he had better words to express how much he loved and missed her.
Kid absently twirled his wedding ring on his hand now, his dinner forgotten, feeling the warm gold band which had not long been placed on his finger and yet he couldn't remember what it felt like without it. Once a perfect fit, it was now too large for his finger. The shirt Henry had given him when his own had been ruined from his injuries was no longer the right size for him either.
"Here, I almost forgot," said Henry, producing a wrapper of cloth from his jacket pocket which was slung over the back of his chair. He opened the package to reveal several small pieces of corn bread. "I figured you could do with this more than me."
Kid took the bread with a small but genuine smile. "Thank you, doctor."
"When are you going to stop calling me that? I told you, it's Henry."
"Henry," Kid corrected himself. "I appreciate it… everythin' you done for me."
Henry smiled in return, keen to brighten Kid's mood. "You can repay me by telling me about Hawk's Raiders. You never did finish relating how you managed to escape them."
Kid tried a little of the corn bread and couldn't help but grin at the look of anticipation on Henry's face. He swallowed and started his story.
In the months since the battle at Manassas there was minor fighting in Virginia and Missouri, then Kentucky. Victories were shared by both sides, but none had much effect. As winter drew closer the armies set up camps and dug in for the interim. In November typhoid fever swept through the hospital, infecting many of the recuperating soldiers, including Kid. Once again Henry stayed by his bedside whenever he could, but there were more Confederate soldiers in the hospital now, and Henry found himself taking primary responsibility for them all. It was not a job that the other doctors, particularly those who had enlisted, were very interested in, when there were plenty of Federal men to tend to.
As Christmas approached and Kid slowly regained his strength, he did what he could to assist Henry with the other prisoners. Most of them were worse off than he, and some died from the infectious fever that had them writhing in agony. Henry, appreciative of the help, taught Kid how to check and clean their wounds, and keep the men hydrated and fed as best they could. The rest of the time Kid spent reading to the soldiers, or listening to them whisper farewells to loved ones who would never hear the words. Kid could provide little comfort to them, but he knew just having someone there was some benefit to the men who died that winter in the hospital.
It was a dark and particularly bitterly cold evening when Kid sat by the bedside of a young Confederate soldier who was barely conscious. His arm had been amputated at the shoulder only the day before, but his blood loss had been so extensive that no one held out much hope for him. Kid wrote down a few words for him and promised to have them sent to his family. He read a few passages from a book Henry had given him, but when he looked up to check on the boy he saw that his chest was no longer rising with each breath. He was still, his eyes half open and staring at nothing. Kid closed them properly and sat back heavily in his chair, weary and despondent.
It was more than an hour later when Henry came by to check on the patient, and found Kid still sitting by his bedside. With one look the doctor could see the young man was dead.
"I'm sorry, Kid," he said quietly, so as not to disturb the other patients who were asleep around them.
"Me too," Kid replied. With a sigh he stood and walked away as Henry covered the boy's head with his blanket.
He caught up with Kid not long after, who had returned to his bed at the end of the ward, away from the other patients and near Henry's office. The doctor had moved him there after he succumbed to typhoid fever like the other men, as the new bed afforded Kid some measure of seclusion from the sick and dying men in the hospital. Henry ducked into his small office and poured them each a cup of hot coffee, and then took up his usual seat by the bed. They would often the spend the evenings like this, talking over the day's events as they sipped the dark, bitter brew.
Kid was quiet in his melancholy, and Henry knew there was more to it than just the young soldier's death.
"Merry Christmas, Kid," said Henry, raising his cup in a toast.
Kid couldn't quite bring himself to reply, but he held up his mug of coffee. He couldn't believe it was already Christmas, almost the new year. 1862. It had been six months since the battle at Manassas – six months at the hospital where he had almost died twice, spent weeks at a time weak and unmoving in bed. He was still not fully recovered from his fever, but this was not what made him so heavy of heart.
He had received no letter from Lou, no word that she knew where he was and that he was all right. The few letters he'd managed to send her through Henry had gone unanswered and, for all he knew, not received. He hoped and prayed she was safe, that it was some problem with the mail that was the cause of her silence. Any other reason was too painful to consider.
"It wouldn't be Christmas without presents, would it?" Henry said. The doctor pulled out two bundles from underneath the bed and handed them to Kid.
For a few precious moments his hopes soared, thinking they were from Lou. But the first present was Union care package that, Henry explained, had been destined for a soldier who had died that morning. It contained two pairs of blue woolen socks, a small bible, some hard candy and home-cured jerky. The second package was from Henry – a Charles Dickens novel.
"Thank you, Henry," Kid said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. He appreciated the efforts of Christmas cheer from the man who, in the most unlikeliest of circumstances, had become his friend. "I wish I had somethin' to give you in return."
"You already have, doing what you are for the other patients," Henry assured him. "It's a great help to me, Kid, and I appreciate it."
Kid shrugged, not feeling particularly useful, especially when the men died just as the boy had not an hour ago.
"Do you like working in the hospital, Kid?"
The Kid thought about his response before he answered. "It's the least I can do."
"Good, I was hoping you'd say that." Henry set his coffee cup on the floor and pulled a letter from his pocket. "I've been offered a job – it's at the hospital at an army training camp in Chicago. They're going to use it as a camp for Confederate prisoners."
"Oh," was all Kid said in reply. He wasn't sure how he felt about Henry's news. It was the first the he'd heard any mention of a camp for prisoners. The growing number of Confederate soldiers in the hospital and others being held in Union encampments, no doubt, meant there must be need for one now, he realized. And that meant the war not going to be over any time soon.
"If you like, I can fix it so you can work with me there, in the hospital," Henry went on, growing more animated. "You'd still be a prisoner, but you wouldn't have to… you know, be held with the others."
Kid frowned. "I don't deserve no special treatment."
"I don't mean that, Kid. I only meant you could be of real use at the hospital, just like you are here. You could help the men that way," said Henry.
"It's in Chicago?"
"That's right, Illinois. It's called Camp Douglas."
Kid stared at the now empty cup in his hands, his mood darkening further. "Chicago's an awful long way from here."
Henry tilted his head in confusion. "It's where the camp is, I guess they want it away from the fighting."
"My wife's in Virginia… at least, I think she's still there," Kid said quietly.
"I know, Kid. But it's not like you can see her. She hasn't even responded…" Henry bit back his words when he saw Kid's eyes flash in anger and hurt. "You said yourself, she might have gone home to Rock Creek. Chicago's a damn sight closer to Rock Creek than Washington."
Kid contemplated the truth of Henry's words. "Maybe you're right."
"Besides," Henry continued, a little regretfully. "I'm sorry to say it's not like you have a choice. The orders are for all Confederate prisoners to be sent to Camp Douglas in the new year. We'll leave in just over a week."
Kid nodded, keenly aware that choice was the very last thing he had anymore. If he did, he would have been back by Lou's side in a heartbeat.
"You'll see, Kid, it'll be all right," said Henry reassuringly. "It won't be long before this is all over."