Page 69 of Under the Tulip Tree
We both turned to see one of the patients lift his arm.
“We best get back to work, Miss Frankie.” She moved away, but not before giving me a nod and a smile.
I spent the remainder of the day emptying slop buckets, helping Miss Fitzgerald change bandages, and feeding themen who couldn’t manage the bowl of thin soup. When I sat down to help the soldier with the green eyes with his supper, his expression grew dark. I was mighty tired after a long day, so I was in no mind to suffer through his ugly looks.
“If you’d rather wait for one of the nuns to help you with your meal, I’m happy to be on my way home.” I knew as well as he did the Catholic nuns helping in the hospitals throughout the city were all white.
His brows rose, and he met my gaze. “You’re very outspoken, aren’t you?”
I tempered my anger. “I’m just tired, is all, sir.”
After a long moment, he nodded. “If you’ll help me sit up, I’m getting fairly good at using the spoon with my left hand.”
Together, we managed to get him settled against the pillow and wall. I noticed a circle of fresh blood on his sleeve where his arm should have been.
“I best check your bandage. Looks like you’ve opened the wound.”
A wave of despair washed over his face when he looked down at the spot. “I wish I would’ve died out there,” he hissed and turned away.
The vehemence of his words rendered me silent. I imagined life would be difficult for a one-armed man once the war was over. I didn’t know his occupation, but I did know life was full of opportunities, especially for a white man. He would heal eventually, both inside and out, and what he did after that was entirely up to him.
I cleaned what was left of his arm, barely more than a stump, and wrapped it in a fresh bandage. Once his shirt was back in place, I settled down with the bowl of soup. He glanced at it, then at me.
“Why are you doing this?”
The question caught me off guard. “Doing what?”
“This.” He motioned to the soup, then to his arm.
I understood then. Sam’s words echoed in my mind.
“You ain’t like them, Frankie.”
I shrugged. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
He let me help him with the soup then. I held the bowl while he carefully spooned it to his mouth. Some dribbled on the cloth I spread across his chest, but for the most part he got it all past his lips.
“You did real well,” I said when the bottom of the bowl appeared. I hadn’t intended to say anything, but a bit of pleasure brightened his eyes when he handed me the spoon.
I left the prison ward and headed over to see Sam. I told him about my day, and he beamed like a proud pappy.
“Best watch out, or they might find out you ain’t as mean as you want folks to believe.”
Only Sam could say something like that and make me laugh.
I returned to the prison hospital the next day and the next, surprising myself. While none of the men were overly friendly when I tended them, the dark looks I’d endured the first day had diminished.
Miss Fitzgerald approached me when I arrived for work at week’s end. “I fear Captain Wallace has taken a turn for the worse,” she whispered, a grave look on her face.
I glanced past her to the gray-haired man. He’d refused a shave every morning, and yesterday he hadn’t eaten anything.
We went about our duties, but something about the cantankerous man drew me time and time again. I’d offer water; he’d refuse. Broth? A cool cloth? The answer was always a terseno. The man grew weaker with each passing day, but he didn’t seem to care. It was as though he’d given up on living.
I lay in my cot later that night, troubled by the man’s listlessness. Why should I care if a captain in the Confederate Army died? So many thousands of men had perished in the war, one more wouldn’t matter. Would it? I tossed and turned, gaining Nell’s mumbled complaints from her cot. Finally, long before the sun rose, I knew what I needed to do.
When I arrived at the hospital, Miss Fitzgerald wasn’t there yet, and most of the men were still asleep. An older nurse presided over the room, but she gave me little notice. With my coat buttoned tight to ward off the morning chill, I quietly made my way to Captain Wallace’s side. His face looked ash-colored in the dim light, and his breathing was labored. He wasn’t long for this world, I suspected, and I thought of the woman in the street whose husband died inside these walls.
Did Captain Wallace have a family who would miss him?
