Page 67 of Under the Tulip Tree
She ran off sobbing, leaving me with a terrible ache in my gut. Illa’s words echoed in my mind, like the loud-soundingbrass she’d spoken about.“Without charity of heart, they are meaningless.” Meaningless.
I stared after the woman, although she’d disappeared in the morning crowds. Like my Sam, didn’t her Whitley deserve decent care whether he lived or died? Whether he was white or black? No matter which side he’d fought on? Like as not, I wouldn’t have been able to save her husband, but did that matter?
I ran the rest of the way to the hospital on College Street, directly to Sam’s bedside.
He read the anguish on my face and reached for my hand. “Tell me.”
With sobs, I told him about the young woman and her husband, about Illa’s visit and my nightmares.
“What should I do, Sam? What should I do?”
A soft smile slowly lifted his lips. “‘But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies.’”
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
My insides tumbled and my knees shook, but I walked into the prison hospital with my head high two days later. Illa had secured a volunteer position for me with the matron, and I was assigned to the second floor. The smell of sickness lingered in the air when I entered. Illa confided that this hospital was not as well maintained as the others, even the one for black soldiers. I couldn’t blame those in charge for their neglect. These men were the enemy, after all. Illa and Sam’s encouragement to get past those sentiments was the reason I was here, but not everyone felt the way they did. I would have never stepped a toe inside the building if it weren’t for Sam’s persistence.
The Federal soldiers standing guard eyed me as I climbed the stairs, but they didn’t prevent me from passing by. With a deep breath, I opened the door of the room I was to attend. Mytask was to shave the men who couldn’t do so for themselves, yet the very thought of being so near a white man—especially a Confederate—sent wave after wave of fear coursing through my veins.
Low murmurs of conversation hummed in the big room. Several windows along the far wall revealed the disagreeable weather outside, and the space held a chill despite a stove in the corner.
A nurse with bright-red hair poking from her cap changed the bandage wrapped around the foot of a patient. I’d heard many of the Confederate soldiers didn’t have shoes and had resorted to binding their feet in rags. The bitter weather, however, was no match for such inadequate coverings, and frostbite had claimed far too many toes and feet.
The nurse glanced up at me and noted the shaving kit and bowl of water in my hands. “You can start there,” she said, indicating a gentleman lying abed near a window. He gazed out to the cloudy sky, and I imagined he wished he were anywhere but this prison hospital. He looked older than most of the soldiers I’d seen, his once-dark hair nearly completely gray. A days-old scruffy beard covered hollow cheeks.
I made my way to the man’s bedside. “Sir, would you like a shave?”
He turned and frowned when he saw me. His eyes darted to the nurse. “Where’s that other lady? The white one. I want her to shave me.”
The nurse continued to wind a clean bandage around her patient’s foot. “Mrs. Williams transferred to a differenthospital. If you wish to be shaved, then Miss...?” She glanced at me.
“Frankie.” It was custom for slaves to take the family name of their masters, but I’d never done so. I didn’t want to be known by the name of a white person who’d done me wrong, not even Mr. Waters. He might not have ever beat me, but he’d owned me same as he’d owned his horse.
“If you wish to be shaved, Miss Frankie will see to it. Otherwise, you will forfeit the opportunity to have your beard removed.”
Despite the tension in the room, I noticed she had a different way of talking. Almost musical. I was certain she wasn’t from around here.
The man huffed and seemed to weigh his options. Finally he gave me a curt nod. “Fine. You best not cut me, gal.”
I bristled at his demeaning attitude. After nearly three years of relative freedom, I wasn’t used to being spoken to as though I were a slave again.
“There are no ‘gals’ in this hospital, sir.” The nurse drew everyone’s attention with her stern voice. “You will address her as Miss Frankie, or you will not receive a shave.” Her gaze swept the room. “That goes for all of you.”
A rumble of assent filled the space before the nurse gave me a nod to proceed.
I set the items on a small table between the beds, my hands shaking. I wished I hadn’t listened to Sam. I’d never shaved a man before. Now certainly wasn’t the best time to learn either, especially on someone so unwilling.
With a steadying breath, I picked up the brush, dipped it in water, and began creating a lather from the shaving soap. The woman who’d given me the kit said the razor was recently sharpened, and I prayed she was right.
I was nearly ready to commence shaving the man when his eyes landed on my knotted fingers.
“She ain’t even got two good hands,” he bellowed, panic in his widened eyes. “I won’t have a cripple cut my throat.”
Although I didn’t usually give my hand a second thought, his ugly words made me tuck it between the folds of my skirt.
The nurse walked over. She sent the man a dark scowl before addressing me. “May I see?”
Shame washed over me. No one had ever asked to see my poor hand before. Most people avoided looking at it and pretended it didn’t exist. Slowly I raised both hands for her examination. The bent, knobby fingers of my left hand looked so pathetic next to the normal ones on my right. I rarely considered my disfigurement, but now I saw it through the eyes of the soldier and the nurse. It occurred to me I would probably question the ability of someone with a hand like mine had I been in their place.
