Page 57 of Under the Tulip Tree
I nodded and left the room. My stomach roiled at the sight of the buckets of blood-soaked rags in the hallway, awaiting someone to rinse them so they could be used again and again. The smell of blood, gunpowder, and death hovered in the air.
Panic and nausea rose up in me.
I had to leave. To slip away into the darkness and never return. I’d seen too much. Too many men lost their limbs. Too many men lost their lives.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, the sight that met me stilled my feet.
The wounded filled the converted gun factory, covering every inch of space. Some men lay still as death while others moaned and cried out in pain. Nurses and volunteers flitted around, tending the men as best they could, but there were simply too many in need of care.
One older woman eyed me from across the room. “You here to help?”
I shook my head and bolted forward before she could argue. The door opened as I reached for the handle, and a soldier with a wounded man in his arms blocked my way.
“Help him,” he begged, his fear-filled gaze landing on me. “He’s my friend, and he’s hurt bad.”
Blood oozed from a wound in the man’s gut onto the floor. His eyes were rolled back in his head, and I knew he wouldn’t make it. None of the surgeons would even try to save him.
“I can’t,” I hissed and stumbled out the door into the cold night. I hurried down the wide steps to the street, intent on escape, but something solid on the ground nearly tripped me. I leaned closer and gasped.
A body lay at my feet, staring into nothingness.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I found more bodies rowed up outside the hospital as far as I could see in both directions. Women with lanterns cared for the livingamongthem. Men with stretchers carried off the dead into the night.
Hot tears rolled down my cheeks, turning icy in the frigidair.
How could I run away and abandon these poor wretched souls? They’d fought for my freedom, whether they intended to or not. Too many had died already. There weren’t enough volunteers and doctors to keep up with the steady flow. They needed help. From anyone willing to give it.
I looked to the stars above me, my breath forming puffs of steam. “I can’t do this no more,” I whispered. “I can’t.”
“Ma’am?” a soldier nearby called out, his voice weak and his pale face illuminated by feeble light coming from the window. Blood and dirt caked his uniform, yet his youthfulness reminded me of Albert Underwood. “Ma’am, may I have some water?”
A simple request. Just something to moisten his parched lips. A task that would bring a small measure of comfort while he lay on the hard, frozen ground, wounded and unsure of his tomorrows. Could I ignore him and walk away?
I sent one last fleeting glance south, toward the contraband camp, before nodding. “I’ll get some water.”
I turned and trudged back inside the hospital.
Day and night came and went. I lost track of how long I’d been tending the wounded. The battle had raged for two bitterly cold days before the Confederates retreated, with Federaltroops on their heels. While folks in the city celebrated our survival, those of us in the hospitals knew the cost.
I sat beside the bed of a bearded soldier, his head and arms swathed in bandages, spooning broth into his mouth. Neither of us spoke. I found most of the men preferred silence to pointless chatter. A cough now and then or the low murmurs of conversation—these had replaced the terrible groans and cries of the wounded fresh from battle. Now the long process of healing must begin.
It rained hard during the night. A light drizzle continued to fall outside the window. We’d managed to get the remaining men inside before they were soaked, although a great number were beyond help.
I learned that the white woman I’d seen the first day was Miss Annie Bell. A nurse whispered that Miss Bell had been at other battles, including Gettysburg, and her esteem of the woman rang clear in her awed voice. It reminded me of how I’d felt helping Miz Michaels prepare for wounded at the hospital in her charge, two streets over. That these women were willing to give of themselves so deeply to help strangers wasa mystery I still hadn’t solved, yet here I stood among them.
“No more.” The soldier turned his head away from the spoon I held. He closed his eyes, effectively dismissing me.
“I’ll be around if you decide you want more.” I stood and headed to the makeshift kitchen for another bowl of broth for another wounded soldier. So many weren’t able to feed themselves because of lost limbs, broken bones, or burns. I’dseen several of the men look at my deformed hand, and I wondered what they were thinking.
“You’re doing a fine job.”
I turned to find Miss Bell watching me from the stairwell. She came down the remaining steps. I noticed she’d donned a clean apron but still wore her soiled dress.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“It isn’t easy caring for the men. They’ve seen and done things most of us will never experience. It will take time for them to heal, inside and out.”
I’d never been a soldier in war, but I’d had my share of battles. I knew what she meant. “Yes, ma’am.”
