She prayed for Jimmy as well. When she had finished, she whispered, “Try not to fret. God already has looked after your friend, for Dr. Turner is now the surgeon on duty. He’s a kind and capable man.”
His face brightened somewhat. “Thank you, Miss Emily. That’s right good to hear. Some docs are better than others ’round here.”
She knew which doctor he was referring to, and although she probably should have defended Dr. Mackay’s skills, she let the opportunity pass. She stood, pleased that the worry in Jimmy’s eyes had faded.
“Rest well,” she said to him.
He smiled and turned to his side. Emily straightened his coverings once more, then turned, as well, only to crash directly into the chest of the angry Scotsman.
* * *
Words were quick to shape in his mind, but Evan held his tongue as his blue wool collided with her Southern-grown, Baltimore-milled cotton. The woman came no higher than his breastbone. After staring seemingly transfixed at his brass buttons, she dared to raise her eyes. Her cheeks were pink with embarrassment.
He stared down at her.
What is she waiting for? An apology? Did the little Southern miss expect him to play the part of a gentleman and beg her forgiveness for the improper contact? She’d get no such courtesy from him. Why should she? She’d had no trouble holding hands with a rebel just moments ago.
Perhaps it is her close proximity to a Yankee that fills her with such shame.
Evan wasn’t a gambling man, but if he were, he’d lay money down that she was one of the nurses who’d altered her oath of loyalty.
“Haven’t you duties to attend to?” he asked.
“Yes, Dr. Mackay.”
“Then see to them.” He pointed to the water buckets on the table in the corner. “Fill them with fresh water, then scrub the floor. It is a nesting ground for disease!” Lucky for her, she did not need to be told twice. She scurried away, skirt and petticoats swishing.
Incompetent little socialite, he thought. Little Miss Baltimore. She’s probably never worn anything less than silk before now.
“You shouldn’t treat her that way.”
Evan turned in the direction of the weak yet determined voice. Boyish curls framed a scowling pair of eyes.
Aye. Her love-struck suitor. “Were you speaking to me?”
The rebel pushed up on his elbows, trying to marshal what was left of his Southern pride. “I am, sir, and I will kindly ask you not to speak that way to her. She is the finest nurse here. And, I might add, she’s been here longer than you.”
Evan turned his back, stepping away. He cared not how many months of service the woman had.
“You could learn a lesson from her,” the boy called. “A little compassion would do you no harm!”
Evan’s ire rose. His fists clenched at his side, but he didn’t give the boy the satisfaction of knowing the words had affected him. You didn’t show any compassion when your mob surrounded my brother, he thought. When they bashed him with paving stones!
He told himself the Maryland rebel wasn’t worth his time, and he moved on. There were wounds to probe and minié balls still to extract. As he made his way through the rows of iron cots, he cast a glance in Little Miss Baltimore’s direction. The water had been replenished. She was currently on her hands and knees, scrubbing the vile floor.
Another experience I doubt she’s had the pleasure of until now, he thought. We shall see how well she handles it.
* * *
As Emily raked the scrub brush across the filthy floor she dealt with Dr. Mackay’s temper the only way she knew how. She prayed for him. Actually, she prayed more for herself than for the man.
Oh Lord, please give me grace. I can’t work alongside him without it.
Dealing with the Federal army’s disdainful attitude toward Confederate men was nothing new, but most of the guards, doctors and hospital commanding officers were professional enough to keep their words to themselves or at least voice their condemnation outside the wards.
Some even took pity on the wounded souls and showed them kindness. Jeremiah Wainwright, a young steward who Emily knew to be a Christian, was such a man. Dr. Jacob Turner was another. He was a good-natured New Englander who treated the Confederates not as prisoners or scientific studies, but as men.
Just yesterday Emily had been called to his section, to assist as he probed a North Carolina man’s back for shrapnel. The poor soldier had leaned upon her, trying not to flinch while Dr. Turner carefully extracted the metal.
“Do I hurt you?” the old man had asked considerately.
“Not too terribly,” the soldier had said.
Emily had known by the tightness of his muscles that the Carolina man wasn’t exactly telling the truth, but because of Dr. Turner’s gentle demeanor and a story of snapping New England lobsters, he’d been able to endure the painful procedure without crying out or fainting.
If only Dr. Mackay could be more like that, she thought. A little kindness would go a long way to promote healing and to foster interest in eternal matters.
Though a few ragtag Bibles lay at the bedsides of the men, Emily knew many in this hospital were starved for spiritual comfort. In the past year, she had held the hands of the dying, both Confederate and Federal alike. She had sat with those who’d lost their dearest friends on the battlefield, who then asked, “Where is God in all this terrible suffering?”
She gave them the only answer she could. “Right here grieving with you.”
The will of God made no sense at times to Emily. Why He had allowed war to come instead of an end to slavery, then a peaceful compromise of ideals, was unknown to her.
She dared to glance at Dr. Mackay. How long the hostilities continue will, I suppose, depend on men like him. The intimidating physician was now standing at Edward’s bed, perusing his wounds with a look of cold indifference. Julia sat her post, pale and frightened. Emily hurried to finish her scrubbing so she might join her friend. In her delicate condition the last thing Julia needed was to hear that man’s sharp, condemning tongue.
The dinner bell rang, calling all officers to the dining hall. Emily breathed a sigh of relief when Dr. Mackay exited the room. She put away her brush and bucket and went to her friend.
“What a horrible man,” Julia whispered. “There is no compassion in him. He looked at Edward as if he were nothing more than a stray dog.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Emily touched Edward’s forehead gently. The fever was going down. “He is much cooler.”
“Oh, thank the Lord.”
Within a matter of moments the rest of their friends appeared: Sally and the Martin sisters, Trudy and Elizabeth, and Rebekah Van der Geld, the only one of them who staunchly supported the Federal army’s occupation of Baltimore. Each had come to inquire of Edward. As they clustered
