Let There Be Light (9 page)

Heads were nodding.

Walton continued. “I received a wire late last night from Union army headquarters in Washington, D.C., stating that a train is on its way to Frederick, carrying ninety-three wounded Union soldiers from that battle. It will be arriving about noon today. Since we are already almost to capacity in the military ward, this number of patients arriving is going to put a tremendous load on us. We’ll have to put some of our present patients on cots so the new ones can have the beds.

“From the information I received in the wire, I know there will
be several amputations to perform, and a good number of the men will need surgery for bullet and shrapnel removal. Others are not wounded so severely. I know this is going to add exceedingly to your workload, but you have each demonstrated before that you are willing to labor long and hard to care for the men who have bravely fought on the battlefields for the Union cause.”

Heads were nodding again.

Walton smiled. “You’re a great bunch. If I had my way, every one of you would be given a medal of honor from Congress. All right. You’re dismissed.”

As the meeting broke up and the day staff went to work, every preparation possible was made so they would be ready when the train brought in the ninety-three wounded men.

The train arrived in Frederick just before noon. Several army wagons were at the depot to take the wounded Union soldiers to Memorial Hospital.

Medical carts and stretchers were employed to bring the patients into the hospital from the wagons. Some of the wounded men were taken directly to the military ward, while the greater number was hurried to the surgical unit. There, the staff physicians did quick examinations to determine the order in which the amputations and surgeries should be done. Nurses and their assistants in the military ward went to work to patch up the men who were less seriously wounded.

By three o’clock in the afternoon, men who had had surgery and amputations were being brought into the crowded ward and placed in beds made available by other patients being placed on cots.

One young officer was lifted from a medical cart and placed on a bed, while a nurse and her assistant stood by. The officer was still unconscious from the morphine which had been administered before his surgery. One of the attendants handed the nurse the wounded officer’s chart, then he and his partner hurried away with the cart to pick up another patient.

“Loretta, you go ahead and make him comfortable. I’ll look over his chart,” Millie Ross said.

“All right, Millie,” said Loretta. She adjusted the pillow under the patient’s head, then moved around the bed, tucking sheets and covers close around his body. When she was finished, she studied the pale face of the unconscious soldier for a moment, then turned to Millie. “The surgery was on his lower back?”

Millie looked up. “Yes. The surgeons had to take a piece of shrapnel out. It says here that it was quite large, but no serious damage was done to the spine.”

Loretta nodded. “That’s good. At least he will walk again. How many severed spines have we seen from what cannonballs have done to our soldiers?”

“A lot of them. And bayonets too.”

“Yes. And how horrible it is to have to stand by when they are told that they will never walk again.”

Millie looked at the unconscious young officer with compassion. “He’s going to be here a good while for recuperation, but at least he won’t have to live the rest of his life paralyzed.”

Another medical cart was seen coming through the door.

Millie raised her hand to get the attendants’ attention, and pointed to a vacant bed further down the line. They nodded, acknowledging that they understood. Millie hung the chart at the foot of the young officer’s bed. “Okay, Loretta. We’ll let this one rest. I’ll come back and check on him after we take care of this next patient.”

Some thirty minutes later, Millie hung the chart of the big husky Union sergeant on the foot of the bed. The sergeant was already beginning to come out of his unconsciousness. “Loretta,” said Millie, “you stay with him. I’ll go check on our young officer over here.”

Loretta was dabbing a wet cloth on the sergeant’s forehead. She nodded. Millie turned and moved along the line of beds, looking at each patient as she passed them. One of them called out, “Hello, Millie! Why don’t you come and hold my hand? It really hurts.”

She smiled, waved him off, and moved up to the bed of the young officer, who now had his bleary eyes open and was looking around.

Millie bent over him. “Lieutenant, can you see me?”

He ran his tongue over his lips and tried to focus on her face.

Millie could tell he was still quite disoriented from the morphine. “Are you thirsty, Lieutenant?”

He licked his lips again and nodded.

She picked up the cup that was on the small table beside his bed and poured it half full from the water pitcher. She placed one hand behind his head and carefully lifted it as she put the cup to his lips. “Just sip it slowly.”

When he had sipped all the water he wanted for the moment, Millie set the cup on the table. “You can have more when you’re ready.”

He tried to smile while still attempting to focus on her face. He could barely make out her features, but what he could see told him that she was very pleasant to look at. Her voice was so soft and sweet. He wondered if he was dreaming.

She picked up a cloth, dipped it in water, wrung it out a little, and placed it on his forehead. He told himself he wasn’t dreaming. The coolness he felt was real. “Wh-where am I?”

Millie leaned down close. “You’re in Memorial Hospital, Frederick, Maryland.”

“Oh. Now I remember. The train …”

“Yes. The train brought you here. Your chart says you are Lieutenant Nathan Conrad of the Seventh Pennsylvania Artillery Division, and that the surgeon had to take a large piece of shrapnel out of your lower back.”

Nate Conrad ran his tongue over his lips again. “Yes. Nurse?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

He worked his jaw for a few seconds. “How—bad?”

“Do you mean, will you walk again?”

He closed his eyes. “Y-yes.”

“There was no serious damage to your spine. You will walk again.”

His eyes opened and a smile curved his lips. “Oh. Wonderful. I won’t be a cripple.”

“No. You—”

Suddenly, Lieutenant Nate Conrad’s eyes closed and his body relaxed. Millie smiled. He was under the influence of the morphine
again. She removed the cloth from his forehead, laid it on the table, and smiled down at him. “You rest now, Lieutenant. I’ll check on you later.”

She started to walk away, then paused for a moment, and fixed her eyes on the sleeping face.
There is something special about this one
, she thought. Then giving herself a mental shake, she left his bedside to attend the mountain of duties still awaiting her attention.

During the next hour and a half Millie stayed busy with other patients, but twice sent Loretta to check on Lieutenant Nathan Conrad. The first time Loretta returned, she reported that the lieutenant was still asleep. The second time, she drew up beside Millie, who was taking a wounded soldier’s temperature, and said softly, “He’s coming out of it, Millie.”

The redhead turned and looked across the ward and focused on Nate Conrad’s bed. He was rolling his head back and forth slowly, and rubbing his eyes.

Looking at her assistant, Millie said, “You finish up here, Loretta. I’d better go see about him.”

When Millie drew up beside Nate’s bed, he was mumbling something that didn’t make sense and still rubbing his eyes. Millie took hold of his hands to stop the rubbing and looked down into his eyes. They were glassy and unfocused.

Millie had started her nursing career just after the Civil War began in the spring of 1861. She had become quite used to the muttering of wounded soldiers who were awakening from under the influence of anesthetics. They seldom made any sense.

After a few minutes, the patient went quiet again and slipped back into his deep sleep.

An hour later, she went to the lieutenant’s bed and found him awake, but still a bit disoriented. She had to tell him once again where he was and assure him that he would walk again. His pain was severe, so after feeding him what broth she could get down him, she administered a strong dose of laudanum.

Millie rested the lieutenant’s head back on the pillow, placed the cup on the table, and tucked the covers up under his chin.

He looked at her with dull eyes, then tried to adjust his position in the bed. Sudden pain shot through his back. He grimaced and said something once more that didn’t make sense.

She smiled and spoke softly. “No more talking now, Lieutenant. Lie still and let the laudanum do its job. The laudanum will help you to rest. By the time you wake up in the morning, I’ll be here for another shift.”

His eyes drifted closed before the last words left the lovely nurse’s mouth.

When Millie’s twelve-hour shift was about over, she made it a point to stop at Lieutenant Nathan Conrad’s bed once more. He was sleeping soundly.

That evening in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Jenny Linden entered the parlor, made her way to the rocking chair, and kissed her mother’s cheek. She placed the day’s edition of the
Harrisburg Journal
in her hands. “You can read while I go start supper, Mama.”

Myrna looked up at her daughter with fearful eyes. “Is there anything in the paper about more battles?”

“Not this time. There’s one small article on the first page about a couple of skirmishes, but none that involved Papa’s unit or Nate’s.”

Myrna sighed. “That’s good news.”

Jenny let a frown crease her brow. “I have to tell you something, Mama.”

“What?”

“We had a man try to rob the store today.”

“Oh?
Try
, you say. But he was unsuccessful.”

“He was unsuccessful.”

“No one was hurt, I hope.”

“No.”

“Tell me about it.”

Jenny gave her mother a detailed account of the attempted robbery, including how she had knocked the robber out with the ax handle. She finished by saying, “Mama, the policemen who came to the store and took the robber to jail told me that Chief Wymore will be coming to the house to talk to me sometime this evening.”

“Do you know why?”

“Not really. I guess he just wants to hear the story directly from me. You go ahead and read your paper. I’ll let you know when you can come and set the table.”

Supper was over, the kitchen was cleaned up, the dishes were done, and mother and daughter were busy with their reading in the parlor when there was a knock at the door.

Jenny closed her novel, laid it on the table beside the sofa, and rose to her feet. “That will be Chief Leonard Wymore.”

She dashed into the hall and hurried to the door. When she opened it, she saw a middle-aged man with a well-trimmed mustache that matched his salt-and-pepper hair. The badge on his chest reflected the light from the lantern that burned in the vestibule. He removed his hat. “Miss Jenny Linden?”

“Yes, Chief Wymore. I’ve been expecting you. Please come in.”

The chief stepped inside. Jenny closed the door, took his hat, hung it on a peg by the closet, and led him into the parlor. She introduced him to her mother, explained that her father was a Union captain in the War, then they sat down on the sofa.

Wymore smiled at Jenny. “Miss Linden, I want to tell you that I very much appreciate the courageous thing you did to foil the robbery. The Hendersons appreciate it too, I assure you.”

Jenny smiled in return. “They have already expressed it, sir. This robber … was he already wanted by the law?”

“I’ll say he was. His name is Rufus Hickam. He was in Sing Sing Prison in Ossining, New York, for armed robbery. He broke out four weeks ago and has been on the run. When he gets out of the hospital, he will be returned to the prison with an addition to his original fifteen-year sentence.”

Jenny’s eyebrows arched. “Hospital?”

“Didn’t the officers tell you they were taking him to the hospital?”

“No. He was still unconscious when they carried him out of the store to the police wagon. His head was bleeding some, but one of the officers had tied the robber’s handkerchief around his head. I figured they were taking him to the jail.”

“Well, Hickam is in the hospital, handcuffed to his bed with an officer sitting just outside his room. I stopped by the hospital on my way over here to look in on him. The doctor who stitched up the gash in Hickam’s head said he had been struck in the head three times. Did you have a hard time rendering him unconscious?”

Jenny shook her head. “No. I knocked him out with the first blow. He had stuffed the money in his pockets. I had to empty them out. By the time Emma and I were putting the money in the metal cash box that goes in the safe, that no-good was coming to. So I hit him a second time and knocked him out again.”

“So why did you hit him the third time?”

Jenny’s features tinted. Her eyes were like pinpoints as she said levelly, “Did Emma tell you what that low-down skunk did to her?”

“You mean the slap in the face?”

“Yes.” Her features darkened and her eyes flashed. “I was so mad at that dirty beast for slapping Emma, I cracked him over the head one more time, just for good measure!”

“Oh, I see.”

“Chief Wymore,” spoke up Myrna, “my Jenny has a bit of a flinty temper.”

Wymore nodded. A grin curved his lips. “Well, Mrs. Linden, sometimes a little bit of temper can be a good thing.” He turned to Jenny. “I commend you, Miss Linden, for having the courage to take on Rufus Hickam and thwart the robbery, but—”

“But what, Chief?” Jenny’s eyes still had a fiery quality. “That criminal had no business striking Emma. He had that third blow coming.”

“I know you had to have been strung out emotionally, Miss Linden, but you could have cracked Hickam’s skull with that third blow and killed him. If you had, you’d be facing manslaughter charges. I’m glad Hickam is still alive, and that the doctors say he will live. I really would’ve hated to arrest you if he had died. You need to keep a check on that temper. It could get you in real trouble.”