Authors: Ginny Dye
The first boom of cannons and pop of gunfire erupted just after one o’clock that afternoon. The heavy, overcast sky seemed to catch it and throw it toward the city with frightening clarity. The wait was finally over - or was it just beginning? Only time would tell the outcome of the battle. Would Richmond still be the capital of the Confederacy when the noise died away?
Within minutes the streets were thronged with people hurrying to higher elevations to view the fighting. Carrie hurried to join them. In spite of her revulsion of the war, it was impossible not to want to know what was happening. There was no way she could stay in her father’s house and simply listen. She had to be with the people. She had to be a part of what was going on in her world.
The book she had been attempting to read had been tossed aside unceremoniously. She couldn’t even remember the title. It was one she had idly chosen from her father’s extensive collection when she was trying to decide how to spend the day. Not that it had held her attention. For the first time in her life, no book could interest her. The events surrounding her made the fiction she had been trying to read look comparatively flat. Nothing but the drama that was unfolding in Richmond would be able to arrest her attention.
The crowd surging up the hill was, save the quiet mutterings of a few people, silent. Their tense, strained faces spoke of their anxiety and fear. Carrie noticed a few of her neighbors who seemed content to listen from the safety of their porches, but most of the town seemed to be migrating to the highest points around them. From there they would be able to look out and possibly see the battle play out before their eyes. She was sure everyone wanted to know if the Federal troops broke through the Confederate defenses. Not that the knowledge would do much good. There was nowhere to run.
The thunder of cannon rivaled the fury of the storm the night before. Buildings shook and windows rattled as it rolled into the city. Carrie gazed around her, growing increasingly frightened as the mutterings of the people took on sounds of panic. The steady popcorn staccato of gunfire drifted on the breeze between the loud explosions. Carrie allowed the flow of people to pull her onward, taking comfort in the very numbers. Finally they all reached the top of the hill. When Carrie turned to look, there was really nothing to see except the already thickening cloud of smoke that blended with the slate-colored sky.
“What’s happening?” one lady cried.
“Those Yankees are fixing to get a taste of Rebel fury is what’s happening!” a stout elderly gentleman shouted, waving his ornate cane defiantly.
“Who started the fight?” another asked anxiously.
“There’s no way of knowing,” another responded. “All we can do is wait to find out what happens.”
Carrie stood quietly, staring out at the scene, trying to find Robert with her heart. Where was he? Was he already wounded? Would she see him again?
“My son is out there in that cloud of smoke,” one nearby lady said softly.
“Both my boys and my husband are out there,” another responded.
Carrie watched as the two women clasped hands and stared off into the distance. Suddenly she turned and strode rapidly back in the direction she had come. Standing on the hill and staring was going to do no one any good. What was going to happen was going to happen. There was nothing she could do to change it. Experience had already taught her what the result would be, however. The place she could do some good was the hospital. She knew the flow of wounded would start flooding in before the day was over.
Janie looked up in relief as Carrie stuck her head in the door. “I knew I could count on you to come,” she said simply. “We need help preparing beds for the wounded.”
Carrie nodded sharply and turned toward her assigned ward. She completely lost track of time as she moved from bed to bed, covering them with fresh sheets, laying out bandages, and filling pitchers with water. As she worked, she tried to keep up the spirits of the wounded soldiers chaffing in their helplessness.
“The firing done stopped!” Samuel called. “I reckon that means our boys let them have it!”
“We don’t know what it means,” Walker replied. “It could mean we’re about to have Yankee nurses.”
Carrie opened her mouth to reply, but the renewed sound shelling intruded into the brief silence, saving her from having to think of something cheerful to say.
“They’re after them again!” Samuel cried. “Give it to ‘em fellows!”
Carrie couldn’t help noticing the looks of relief on some of the faces surrounding her. These boys had seen the horrors of battle first hand. They were not eager to be pulled back into the carnage again. For now, the hospital was a haven of safety for them.
Once Carrie had finished in her own ward, she hurried into the buildings that until now had been empty. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that by the end of the fight for their city all the wards would be full. Her arms and shoulders ached as she made bed after bed. Resolutely, she ignored the pain - it was nothing to be considered when she thought of what the soldiers were experiencing. For just a moment, red hot anger flared in her that men determined to have their own ways were willing to send other men to suffer and die in such a horrible manner. Fatigue soon deadened the anger. She moved mechanically from bed to bed and wondered what face would soon be lying on the pillow she fluffed.
Carrie wasn’t sure when she noticed the firing had stopped. Instead of the constant rumble of cannon and guns, there was silence. But it was not a silence that offered peace. It was heavy like the calm before a great storm. The soldiers had done their job for the day. Now it was up to the citizens of Richmond to do theirs. She still had no idea who had won the battle. Were Union troops moving into the city even now? She would find out soon enough. Right now she had a job to do.
Carrie had finished in one ward and was moving with several other women to another when the sound of wagons drawing up the hill gained their attention. The women exchanged knowing looks. “It’s our turn,” Carrie said simply. Ahead of her, she saw the rush of medical personnel hurrying to meet the first of the ambulance wagons pulling into the hospital yard. Resisting the urge to examine faces for any sign of the man she loved, Carrie walked quickly back to her assigned ward.
Changes had been made there during the time she was gone. All the soldiers still left were Virginians. All those from other states had been moved to other designated wards. The anticipated number of patients deemed it necessary to divide them in such a way in order to make it easier for family members searching for their loved ones. Carrie had been told of the changes, but it still was hard to lose the patients she had grown so fond of.
She sighed heavily and moved to straighten the newly empty beds. Then she straightened, hunched her shoulders, and tried to work out some of the soreness. Her work for the day was really just about to begin. In just a matter of minutes, a broken mass of humanity would begin pouring through the door. She could greet them with fatigue and self-pity, or she could cast aside her own cares enabling her to give to the wounded whole-heartedly.
“God, make me your instrument to the ones you bring to this ward.”
Carrie had barely uttered the words before the first of the stretchers was carried in. She knew from the briefing they had received earlier that many of the soldiers would have to wait for medical attention. The women’s job was just to make them as comfortable as possible until one of the doctors could get to them. Carrie watched the first man being carried in and barely managed to suppress her groan. She tightened her lips and hurried forward.
It was almost impossible to discern anything about the soldier. She could tell he was fairly young, but the mud and black powder from the guns encased his entire body. His shirt, crusted with blood, stuck to his body in some places, and gaped away with holes at others. Someone had wrapped a course bandage around his head, but it, too, was a crusty brown from dried blood and was matted to his forehead. The broken bone of one arm protruded through the gaping skin, causing it to twist on the stretcher at an awkward angle. In spite of it all, he was conscious.
As soon as the stretcher carriers deposited him on the bed, Carrie leaned over him. “Hello, soldier.”
“Howdy, ma’am,” he said weakly.
“You’re going to be just fine. We’re going to take good care of you.”
“I appreciate it,” he managed as he grimaced with pain.
Carrie dipped her cloth in water and began to gently bathe his face. Now that the crisis was here she was oddly calm, steely determination and compassion flowing through her body. “What is your name, soldier?”
“Johnny... Johnny Whitestone.”
“Well, Johnny Whitestone, I’m just going to try to clean you up a little bit. It may be a little while before the doctors can get to you, but they will see you just as soon as they can.”
“Yes, ma’am. There ain’t no big hurry. There’s other fellows hurt lots worse than me.”
His accent identified him. “Are you from the mountains, Johnny?” Carrie knew talking would keep his mind off the pain that would be rushing in soon. Once the adrenalin of the battlefield ebbed away, there would be nothing but searing pain to take its place.
“Yes, ma’am. From up around Charlottesville.”
“This your first battle?”
“No, ma’am. I been fighting ever since Manassas. I guess I’m luckier than most. This is the first time I’ve got hurt.” He paused for a moment, and then his face brightened. “We stopped ‘em, ma’am. We pushed them Yankees back. I reckon our capital will be safe a while longer.”
Carrie continued to wash away the grime from his face. She could tell the effort of talking was taking its toll. “Just lie back, Johnny. The doctor will get to you soon.” She longed to take the bandage off his head and tend to the wound underneath before infection had more of a chance to set in, but she knew she didn’t dare.
“I be right thirsty...” Johnny muttered.
Carrie touched his forehead – his eyes were already taking on that familiar fever-glazed look. Steadying his shoulders, she helped prop him up then lifted a glass to his lips. His broken arm shifted, causing him to cry out in pain. She watched his face harden with determination as he gulped some water and then settled back against the pillow.
“Thank you...”
“Miss Cromwell!”
Carrie looked up sharply, squeezed Johnny’s hand, and then sprang for the door as another stretcher entered the ward. There were three other women working with her, so every fourth patient was hers to care for.
“Hello, soldier...” Her words died on her lips. The man they were carrying in was seemingly lifeless. The bandaged stumps of his right arm and leg were bright with blood. Thankfully he was unconscious. The reality of his situation would be a brutal presence soon enough. Carrie tightened her lips and went to work. At least he would have a clean face when he woke up. As she gently wiped his filthy face with a warm, soapy cloth she prayed. Prayed he would not give up hope when he came to and realized what had happened. Prayed infection would not set in and sap the fragile life that even now hung by a thread.
The hours blurred as the ward quickly filled with men in all conditions. Carrie had no idea what time it was when she was able to make her way back to Johnny Whitestone. She had seen him taken from the ward and also seen him carried back in attended by one of the male nurses. He was just coming around from the anesthesia.
“Hello, Johnny,” she said cheerfully.
“They took my arm, Miss Cromwell,” he said dully, his pain-glazed eyes searching hers for some understanding of what had just happened to him.
Carrie laid her hand on his shoulder. She would never understand the cruelty of a world in which a young man in the prime of life could wake up without an arm. “So they did, Johnny. Now you’re going to have to use all your energy to get well.” She fought to make her voice encouraging.