Wedded to War (44 page)

By the time Caleb Lansing had finished reading the letter from Charlotte, his shoulders sagged. So she knew now what it was like to make a mistake that would cost a human life, when your only mission was to save it. His heart ached for her. That kind of guilt could drive a strong man mad. But she must not be paralyzed by it …

And this Phineas fellow was still in the picture? Caleb was shocked.
How could Charlotte—sweet, smart Charlie—possibly be still entangled with that dolt?
Disappointment in her judgment and guilt that he had not tried to win her love himself played tug-of-war with his heart.

He had to write to her. He had to tell her how he felt about her.

But he was so tired. He hadn’t shaved in days, neither had he made the effort to bathe. It was too exhausting, and what was the point? He’d be sweating in this southern climate until almost winter, anyway.

Suddenly, winter itself seemed to settle on his skin. He was so cold. Though the sun shone bright and hot in the Carolina blue sky, Caleb’s body was seized with violent shaking. He curled up on his cot and shivered under a single blanket for the better part of an hour. Then, as quickly as it had come, the chill had vanished into the hot, wet air of his tent.

He reached for his looking glass, vaguely noting his rapid pulse as he did so. His heart beat as if he had just done a double-time march of five miles, carrying his fifty pounds of gear. A look in the mirror proved what he had suspected. His skin had turned opaque, the color of light red clay.

And no serpentaria for miles around
, was his last thought before succumbing to the overpowering pull of sleep.

Edward Goodrich strolled the circular walkway in front of the Chesapeake Hospital on the banks of Hampton Roads. He tried to imagine what his father would think of him now, in a true military uniform, with a genuine military commission, in the only Union fort in the Upper South. Just last month, a bill had been signed officially authorizing a chaplain for each permanent hospital. Edward had requested Fortress Monroe, the Army of the Potomac’s base for the Peninsula Campaign. Now that he was here, he daily—if not hourly—relished the fact that he was within a single boat ride of Charlotte Waverly at the Sanitary Commission’s headquarters at White House. If he was honest with himself, Charlotte’s approval was even more important to him than his father’s.

And so was her proximity. The memory of their Christmas dance together was still fresh, and powerful enough to make his heart pound. When Charlotte had told him she would be following the movements of the Peninsula Campaign on the floating hospitals, he all but despaired to think of being in Washington City without her. She understood him so well. She knew just what to say to encourage him. It didn’t hurt that she was so lovely to gaze upon, either. He was a chaplain, not a priest. He was a man, after all.

Seagulls squawked and the sea breeze misted his face as Edward climbed the front steps to the entrance of the female seminary-turned-hospital. He slowly paced the wards, looking for someone coherent enough to talk to, or write a letter for. When a thin, yellow hand reached out for Edward, he stopped.

“Well, hello there, Charlie!” Edward pulled a chair next to the cot
and sat down, genuinely glad to see this patient looking stronger today.

“Charlie?” he said, one eyebrow cocked. His voice sounded thin and distant.

“That’s what you said when I first saw you, soldier. I assumed that was your name—was I mistaken?”

“I did? Oh. Well. Yes. No, my name is Dr. Caleb Lansing.”

“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Lansing. Can I do anything for you today?”

“Yes, actually. I wonder if you would be so kind as to help me write a letter, if I dictate it to you.”

“My pleasure, Doctor,” Edward said, pulling out his paper. “Ready when you are.”

Dr. Lansing took a deep breath. “Dear Charlie,” he began.

Aha
, thought Edward as he wrote the words.
A friend. Of course.

“Don’t be alarmed at the unfamiliar handwriting. I am only sick with fever, and am now close to convalescence, and the chaplain—I’m sorry Chaplain, what’s your name?”

“Edward Goodrich.”

“Right. Edward Goodrich is writing this on my behalf. I received your letter just before I fell ill. Please don’t think my silence meant judgment or disapproval.” He paused to breathe. “The few conscious moments I have had since I read your letter have been filled with thoughts of you.” He stopped then, clearly searching for the right words, and Edward realized that this friend was a woman.

When he began again, the thoughts came out only in halting phrases, leaving Edward to fill in the blanks to form complete sentences.
I understand how you feel … responsible for Marty’s death … must let that go. Do your best … Pray for guidance …

Dr. Lansing broke off again and closed his eyes, and for a moment Edward thought he had fallen asleep.

“I can’t think straight,” Dr. Lansing finally said. “Is any of this making sense?” He was almost out of breath with so much talking already.

“If I may be so bold, sir, you seem to be beating around the bush,”
said Edward. “But war is no time for hedging. Come right out with it and say plainly what you feel. Take your time.”

Nodding, he slowly dictated:

The effort cost him, and he fell asleep. Edward tucked the letter away and came back for three more sessions of dictation before Dr. Lansing had finally poured his heart into the letter and confessed his love to this woman.

“How was that?” he whispered, and Edward assured him the message was convincing. He pitied the poor man, so thin and jaundiced-looking, blisters still on his skin from the relentless fever. He looked to be a poor candidate to win anything more than a woman’s sympathy and motherly ministrations.

Love could be so painful. Dr. Lansing seemed like a good man, though, and Edward truly hoped it would work out for them. Caleb signed the letter with his own weak hand, then fell back on his pillow from the exhaustion of such an effort.

“Where shall I address it, Doctor?”

Dr. Lansing’s breath came rapidly, his beating heart could be seen pumping beneath the thin wall of his chest. He closed his eyes and whispered, “Charlotte Waverly, Sanitary Commission Floating Hospitals, White House Landing, Virginia.”

Edward may as well have been struck from behind, so shocked was he as he watched his hand obediently address the envelope. Dr. Lansing now asleep, Edward rose in a daze, and his feet carried him across the ward, out the hospital, and down to the walkway by the water.

Though the sun hid her face behind a veil of steel-grey clouds, a
wet blanket of heat pressed down oppressively on Fortress Monroe. Thick, sticky wind whipped up Hampton Roads just over the bank. A layer of sea mist combined with the beads of sweat on Edward’s face until it all ran down together in salty rivulets, soaking the collar of his wool uniform.
Suffocating.

The letter felt like it was burning a hole in Edward’s pocket as he walked laps around the circular sidewalk in front of Chesapeake Hospital, but he would not take it out to mail it. He would not touch it at all until he decided what to do. At the outer rim of the walkway, he was within just a few yards of the water, lapping hungrily at the bank, and Edward had to fight the temptation to feed it with Dr. Lansing’s letter.

Just mail it, Goodrich!
He had always sought to do the right thing before. If he was nothing else, he was an honest man. He was even honest with God about the holes this war had poked in his faith.
Why is it so hard to be honest now, and just mail the blasted letter? Do I trust God for the affairs of my life without trying to manipulate what happens?

She is not engaged yet,
his heart cried out.
It is not manipulative to simply make your own case. There is still a chance. Seize the day and write your own letter! Do it now, just do it, just write her a letter and pour out your heart!

The Union flag snapped in the wind above him, and seagulls screamed overhead, like sirens. But all Edward Goodrich could hear were the words now forming in his head.
Dear Charlotte, you may think me very bold, but I cannot deny my heart …

C
harlotte should have known it would come to this, eventually. But it was still a shock to see Phineas Hastings stride down the rickety gangway of the
Daniel Webster
at White House Landing, looking wholly out of place. Smooth fair skin, perfectly groomed hair, mustache, and goatee, immaculately trimmed fingernails—it was as if Prince Charming had been plucked out of his fairy-tale world and dropped into the swamps. The contrast was jarring.

Mosquitoes droned in Charlotte’s ears, echoing the alarm sounding in her head as he made his way to her.

“Charlotte.” His tone held accusation rather than a greeting.

“You’re here,” said Charlotte, but her voice did not hold much surprise.

“So are you.” The charge, leveled. There was no denying the statement.

She looked down at her dress, acutely aware that if he had ever
considered her his princess, the spell must surely be broken now. From chin to belt, she was sticky with sugar, yellow with lemon juice, greasy with beef tea, and pasted with milk porridge. Her apron and skirts were stiff with blood and human filth.
And I am a member of the Sanitary Commission? Oh, that I could whitewash myself!

Phineas flicked a finger under the hem of the shirt she wore over her dress. “What do you call this?”

“Dr. Agnew left some flannel shirts behind when he returned to New York. He didn’t need them anymore, and our shirtwaists were positively filthy—we were only allowed to bring two uniforms, and getting any laundry done is quite an ordeal.” She bit her lip. She sounded nervous, even to her own ears.

“You mean to tell me, you are wearing men’s clothing now over your hoopless skirt? What’s next, Charlotte, trousers? Like the female soldier I told you about?”

Charlotte stiffened.

“We’re going home.”

Had Charlotte been found guilty in court, she would feel no less condemned and sentenced than she did right now. Phineas’s gaze held hers firmly, almost daring her to contest the decision as she had done a thousand times before, with passion, confidence, and self-righteousness.

But this time was different. She made no appeal. She had killed a soldier—maybe more, who really knew? Caleb had never written her back with the reassurances she so desperately craved from him. And Ruby—well, this was no place to raise a baby. If Aiden caught swamp fever, his death would be upon Charlotte’s stubborn head, too. If Ruby’s turn for fever came, Aiden would surely follow. Charlotte could not take that risk.

Lowering her chin, Charlotte whispered, “I am not indispensable.” It felt like confession.

Phineas’s shoulders relaxed. “When can we leave?”

“When one of the ships bound for New York fills up with enough
men.” Charlotte replied like one in a trance. “We’re bringing Ruby and the baby.”

“Pardon me?” His face paled slightly. Maybe he was still recovering from the choppy voyage.

“I told you about her. She had a baby, and we can’t leave them here. They’re coming back to New York with us.”

“And then what will you do with them, pray tell?”

Charlotte paused. “Phineas, her husband has recently died. She has a newborn baby. Let’s just get her back to New York. There is nothing for her here, not now.”

She studied his face then, and wondered why his eyelid was twitching.