Front Royal, Virginia

July 29, 1861

Evelyn’s needle came to a sudden stop, pricking her finger and drawing a drop of crimson in the process. She discreetly drew a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed the tip of her thumb while the woman across the parlor hurried on.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I heard. Can you believe it?”

Aunt Mary set her material in her lap and gave the woman dressed in olive silk a gentle shake of her head. “Honestly, Mrs. Camden, I really cannot.”

Evelyn kept her chin down and looked at the other women around the room through her lashes. Six of them had gathered for a sewing circle in Mrs. Camden’s impressive home, though Evelyn suspected the women came for gossiping under the guise of fellowship rather than the professed mission of stitching new shirts for Confederate soldiers.

Mrs. Camden, a vibrant-looking woman of middling years, bobbed her head enthusiastically, her tightly pinned lace cap stifling a mass of gray and brown curls. “Oh, but it is true.”

Mrs. Swanson, the other lady of around the same age nodded in much the same fashion, the pair of them reminding Evelyn of two carriage horses tossing their heads for a lump of sugar.

Mrs. Camden waved long fingers at Mrs. Swanson. “Tell them, Mrs. Swanson. It’s quite fascinating.”

Aunt Mary spoke before the other woman could get a word past her thin lips. “Come now, I’ve known Margret Greenman for years. My daughter spent much of her season in Washington under the lady’s care. I cannot imagine such a thing to be true. It’s merely prattle, I’m sure.”

Her daughter and Evelyn. Evelyn thought about the time she’d spent in the company of a woman who was as near to royalty as Washington could boast. Such cunning and connections did not seem out of the lady’s reach.

Evelyn glanced at Isabella, who regarded Mrs. Camden with open curiosity. “I don’t know, Mother. Mrs. Greenman does know everyone who is anyone in Washington. It seems possible.”

“Oh, pish posh,” Hattie Lawrence said, sitting aside her work as well. “So do I. I don’t see what that has to do with the matter.”

Isabella focused on her aunt. “I can see how such connections might lead one to take such measures, especially if one had information they knew could save our men’s lives.”

Hattie’s forehead creased, and Evelyn wondered what thoughts had plowed such furrows.

“I’m telling you,” Mrs. Camden insisted, reinserting herself into the conversation. “It’s quite true. Isn’t it, Mrs. Swanson?”

The reedy woman glanced at Aunt Mary before she spoke, as though wondering if the younger woman would forestall her words again. When Aunt Mary pointedly settled her gaze on the linen shirt in her lap, Mrs. Swanson spoke, her nasally voice filling the bright yellow parlor with more excitement than the day of sewing had thus far provided. “Yes, it’s true. My husband says that Margret Greenman is responsible for sending word to Beauregard’s headquarters and giving him the warning he needed to prepare. She is pivotally involved with our victory at Manassas.”

“How did she accomplish it?” Evelyn interjected, her own needlework forgotten.

Aunt Mary cast her a scathing look. “We should not continue such wonton gossip. This sort of thing is naught but fanciful hearsay. To think a woman of fine standing would do such a thing.” She gave a derisive laugh. “Why, it’s ridiculous.”

Mrs. Swanson turned up her nose, her eyes flashing. “On the contrary, Mrs. Lawrence. It’s quite understandable that she would want to use her extensive connections to aid in our victory. Why, I can hardly think of how anyone would not use whatever advantages she had at her disposable to aid our boys.”

Evelyn’s heart fluttered. Had that not been her very thought? She’d sent her missive on to Daddy with the information she’d learned at the Grady’s party. Had he received it? Would women be sitting in sewing circles talking about how a newspaperman’s information had altered another battle?

Aunt Mary lifted her eyebrows but said no more. Isabella glanced between her mother and the petite woman who’d challenged Aunt Mary and pressed her lips together.

Daring her Aunt’s wrath, Evelyn spoke up. “Do you know, Mrs. Camden, how exactly she accomplished such an amazing feat?”

Mrs. Camden smiled and turned her attention on the only one of the Lawrence family who shared her interest in the matter. “Oh, yes, Miss Mapleton. It’s quite an intrepid tale.”

Evelyn waited while the older lady folded her needlework away and focused on the telling. She took her time in doing so, as though she relished the attention focused on her. She patted the cap on her head, straightened her floral print skirt, and then settled her hands in her lap.

“They say Margret Greenman has gathered a collection of scouts to aid in her efforts.” Mrs. Camden leaned forward, her voice ripe with the implications of her words.

“Scouts?” Hattie interrupted. “What do you mean, scouts? Like frontiersmen that kept a lookout for those filthy redskins?” She cast Evelyn a look Evelyn couldn’t place.

How odd. What association did Evelyn have with frontiersmen?

“No,” Mrs. Camden replied, drawing out the word. “A scout is someone who works in an unofficial capacity gathering secrets, like a spy, but one not associated with the military. These are regular folk who keep alert for information that may be of use to our army.”

The word spy slithered through Evelyn’s ears and set her heart to quickening. Had that been what she’d done when she listened at the Grady’s? Would passing that information on to her father label her a spy?

Aunt Mary mumbled something, and Evelyn had to bite her tongue to keep it from prodding the woman to hurry and tell more. Mrs. Camden seemed to sense her thoughts, however, and appeared to enjoy the sense of urgency swirling underneath Evelyn’s carefully controlled features.

“Now, I dare say no woman in Washington knows more men of power and influence, both from the Southern and Federal causes.”

Hattie seemed to bristle at this, but thankfully, kept her opinion to herself.

“So then,” Mrs. Camden continued, ignoring the thinly veiled looks of disgust from Hattie and Aunt Mary. “Mrs. Greenman came up with this marvelous idea. She tucked a message inside a little silk purse.” She paused to put her hand to her throat in a most dramatic fashion. “And then she weaved that right into a girl’s hair! Why, I bet those pickets never suspected a thing!

“Then this little scout, Miss Sophia Dole, she makes her way from Washington, through the Federal camps at Georgetown, and stops for the night at a plantation near Langley. They say the next day she rode on to Brigadier General Milledge Luke Bonham, who faithfully took the information to Beauregard who then sent a courier directly to Mr. Davis!”

The women continued to chatter about the victory at Bull Run near Manassas and the way they had staunchly stopped the Yanks’ march on to Richmond.

“Well, then,” Isabella replied, taking up her needlework once more. “Since the Federals were unable to make their move on Richmond, then perhaps this will be finished by summer’s end.”

Aunt Mary smiled. “Yes, indeed, dear. Surely come winter they will give up on this hapless invasion and leave us in peace.”

“If you think that is going to happen, then you don’t know men.” Mrs. Camden chuckled, leveling a look at Aunt Mary.

“Why, I—”

“Oh, but I do believe it’s time for tea,” Mrs. Camden lurched to her feet, spilling her partially finished shirt to the floor. “Wouldn’t tea be nice, ladies?”

Evelyn glanced to Aunt Mary, whose cheeks had flushed pink, and watched as she schooled her features back into the refined grace of a high-bred lady. “Why, I would love a spot of tea. Thank you for your hospitality.”

The other women offered their thanks as well, and after a few tensely quiet moments their hostess returned and settled back into the sewing circle. “Have we heard any news of our wounded?”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Swanson said. “We must not forget our brave boys. In fact, the general in command has fixed his gaze upon Front Royal to set up a hospital.”

“I have it on good account,” Mrs. Camden supplied, “that they should be arriving any time now.”

“Oh, my.” Evelyn glanced at the women wasting time with sewing when they should be slicing these linens into strips to use for bandages. “Should we not be preparing to help?”

“I’m sure there are people who handle those types of needs,” Aunt Mary stated, using the tone she utilized whenever she considered a matter beyond contestation.

“Actually,” Mrs. Swanson said, her thin lips parting in a smile, “it’s one of the things Mrs. Camden and I hoped to discuss with you ladies today.”

Before anyone could respond, a Negro slave girl in the final stages prior to womanhood entered the room balancing a silver tray topped with a fine tea set and a platter of sliced bread and peeled fruits. She settled it on the low table at the center of their sewing circle and then silently slipped out of the room once more.

Mrs. Camden lifted the etched teapot and proffered a cup. She poured for each lady in turn and then passed around the cream and sugar before offering the refreshments. Those who had not done so already set aside their prospective projects and sipped quietly for a few moments before Hattie replied to Mrs. Swanson’s comment.

“Am I to understand that you wished to speak to us about a hospital? You don’t suppose the army will wish to commandeer the inn, do you?” She spooned a few blackberries onto a small painted plate and sprinkled them with sugar.

Mrs. Camden regarded her over the top of her silver-rimmed teacup. “There are many who have already volunteered their spaces to care for those who are risking life and livelihood on our accord.”

Evelyn sipped her tea and waited to see what response Hattie would provide. To say no to offering her family’s inn for their soldiers would label her unsympathetic to the cause, but to allow it would cost the family income.

“We will be in need of volunteers for nursing the boys as well,” Mrs. Swanson inserted into the thickening silence.

“I’ll help,” Evelyn piped up. From the corner of her vision she saw Aunt Mary narrow her eyes, but she forged on before her aunt could raise a protest. “Surely lending aid in the hospital would be a productive way for a lady to support the cause?”

To her surprise, it was Hattie who offered support. “Why, certainly! We women are adept at bathing fevered brows and soothing away pains. And I’m sure some of the boys would like for a lady to pen a word home for them.” She smiled sweetly at Evelyn. “Such service seems quite fitting for you.”

“Yes,” Isabella said, settling her cup on its saucer. “Surely even I could pen a few letters. If Father and Paul were in such a position we would want a kindly lady to write on their behalf.”

Evelyn held her breath as Aunt Mary studied Isabella. Perhaps she had a better idea of what drove Isabella’s unexpected response than Evelyn did. Regardless, Evelyn was happy to find some way that she and Isabella could work together to contribute.

Aunt Mary finally slathered on a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Why, of course, darling. It’s generous of you to sacrifice your time. I’m sure there will be some fine officers who would be most grateful for your charity.”

The other ladies added their shallow praise as well, as wide as the gulf but only as deep as the dregs remaining in her tea cup. Evelyn set her refreshments aside and inquired after how they would begin their duties.

“They’ve come! Hurry, ladies! We are wanted immediately!”

Evelyn had scarcely entered the garden outside the cottage behind the Fishback Inn when Mrs. Camden’s fervent call broke the still gray of early morning light the next day. Isabella closed the door behind them, her sensible brown dress the most subdued Evelyn had seen her cousin don in some time.

Birds offered their morning reveille, flitting from branch to branch in the pleasant manner of creatures unaware of the goings on beneath them. Evelyn tied her bonnet ribbon under her chin with quick fingers and rushed to Mrs. Camden.

The older woman’s cheeks puffed with a cherry glow as she waved her ungloved hand at them. “Hurry now, girls. The wounded are arriving, wagonloads of them, and we shall have our hands full within the quarter hour.” She spun back around without further greeting or instruction, leaving Evelyn and Isabella no choice but to hurry after her.

The street in front of the hotel gave credence to Mrs. Camden’s warning, with a mass of rumbling conveyances clogging the road. Two wheeled vehicles with open sides gave glimpses of men lying inside before they hurried past. Larger, four-wheeled carriages with canvas walls that had been rolled up to their roofs were stuffed full of men in dirty uniforms.

Her feet stumbled over themselves and brought her to a shuddering halt just before a pair of bay horses veered to the edge of the road. She stepped back. Dirt spun up from a cavalcade of churning wheels, sending it swirling around the press of people until it thickened the air and made the carriages look like dirty vegetables boiling in a vat of dust stew. How many of them were pushing into town before the day had taken its first full breath?

Isabella tugged on her arm. “Come on, we’re losing Mrs. Camden.”

Not that it mattered. One only needed to follow this mournful parade to deposit herself at the correct location. Mindful of the danger, they ducked into the crowd, weaving their way among horses and carriages and men clutching bloodied arms to their chests. Like fish caught in the current, Evelyn and Isabella bobbed along in a river saturated with the ripe scents of animals, sweat, and blood.

Thankfully the hospital was not far from the hotel, and after a few harried moments, they had gained entrance to the large wooden structure. Evelyn barely stepped across the threshold when Mrs. Swanson thrust a white cloth at her and tossed another to Isabella.

“Quickly, girls. Pin these aprons on. The beds are already filling.”

Evelyn tied the apron strings behind her back and then took pins to secure the upper flap to her bodice. The moans and cries of men perforated her ears and made even such a simple task difficult. Her fingers trembled, and it took two attempts to clip the apron into place.

“What will we have to do?” Isabella asked over the clamor of voices, concern causing her voice to reach a higher pitch than usual.

Mrs. Swanson gave aprons to more girls with freshly scrubbed faces who seemed not long from their beds. Women tied their strings, watching the commotion in the hospital with varying degrees of astonishment.

“Wash, dress, feed, comfort, and nurse them for the next weeks if not months,” Mrs. Camden replied. She spoke brief words of encouragement to each of the women who entered the hospital looking pale-faced and wide-eyed.

A cluster of twenty or so ladies gathered, and Mrs. Swanson ushered them into a small gaggle in a far corner of the main ward and pitched her voice above the commotion. Gone was the quiet woman who’d allowed Aunt Mary to step over her words. This lady stood with a calm self-assurance that belied the building chaos around them.

“Ladies, we have before us an opportunity to care for our dear boys who have fought bravely for us at Manassas and have brought us a great victory! Remember that you are a soft touch, a gentle voice, and a friendly face that is desperately needed after the untold horrors of battle. You’ll need your wits about you and an abundance of compassion. Remember your efforts here are of dire importance.”

Women nodded along, and Evelyn’s blood stirred.

“Find a doctor or nurse in need of assistance and spread yourselves among the beds.” She clapped her hands together. “Let us begin!”

As Mrs. Swanson hurried off, Evelyn was met with the stares of women looking equally as confused. Were they to receive no further instructions? No details on their duties? She had no nursing experience. How, then, was she to tend a wound, or reduce a fever, or assist a doctor? Her stomach suddenly turned, the impossibility of her task sending her insides into a hurricane of turmoil.

Isabella clutched her elbow. “What are we to do?”

As her cousin had received precisely the same amount of instruction as she, Evelyn could not find a proper way to answer the question. The tumbling mass of men washing through the hospital was like a wave of bloodied gray.

“I suppose we follow instructions whenever they are given and do our best to be of service. We’ll just have to spread out among the beds and try to assess what is needed.”

Isabella gave a small nod, and they moved through the rows of hospital beds, drifting in opposite directions. In a matter of moments they were separated by the sheer volume of bustling nurses, volunteer women, and colored servants entangled in the knot of humanity pulsing between the hospital beds.

Evelyn situated herself at the head of a row of beds that extended the length of the great hall. Each row contained tidy beds with sheets tucked in nicely, the white cotton waiting to be soiled with the mud and crusted blood of hundreds of wounded men. She took her place and stood stiffly, hoping her presence appeared calmer than the waves of inner turmoil tossing her about like a ship in a disgruntled ocean.

She had no business here. How could she think to care for any of these? She didn’t know what to do. What if she made one worse or he died under her care?

A shiver ran along her spine. She was inadequate. Completely and utterly inadequate.

There was no time for such self-doubt, however, as rows of carts outside continued to unload their sad cargo at the door.

For a fleeting moment, the selfish wish that she could return to the inn bubbled to the surface. Evelyn pointedly extinguished it. These men were in dire need of any care they could receive, and her lack of training did not have to hinder her willingness.

A woman hurried by, dipping a wide brush into a bowl and flinging droplets of water all around the floor and at the foot of each bed. The cloying scent of some type of cologne mingled with sickness and blood in a paltry attempt to mask the odors that no sweetness could disperse. Instead, the abnormal combination succeeded in further twisting Evelyn’s stomach.

Her feet remained rooted to the floor, her gaze locked on the soldiers as they flowed through the open doors. Some came on stretchers, others were merely cradled in hearty men’s arms. Those who fared best staggered in on crude crutches, some dragging useless limbs.

Unmoored by a desire to help, even if she didn’t rightly know how, Evelyn drifted between them as they fell haphazardly into the beds, her senses raw with the swelling pain that clouded the room as thick as smoke. To her left, one soldier lay, still and silent, as another draped a covering over his face.

Orderlies soon clogged the inflow, insisting that each man’s name and rank be recorded before he could seek his rest and examination. Doctors pointed men in one direction or another, quickly assessing injuries and directing them to various locations. The beds near the front filled quickly as groaning men settled weary frames. And still they came, until the hall was full of wounded humanity. Those able to stand leaned against and then slid down the walls into huddled forms gathered along the fringes of the ward like the unraveling edges of a beaten rug.

Evelyn turned as a stretcher pushed against her, aghast to see the man upon it had lost his arm at the elbow, the remaining limb a mass of bloodied flesh and bone. Her heart hammered so rapidly she thought she might faint. The back of her throat burned, and the urge to run pumped through her veins.

No. She must cork these feelings. She was here to work, not worry or weep.

No sooner had she admonished herself and girded her strength than a woman with a stoic expression stepped in front of her. Appearing to be in her mid-thirties and dressed in the stained attire of one who might know her way around this debacle, the woman assessed Evelyn in one sweeping glance. She must have been somewhat satisfied with what she saw because she thrust a bowl toward Evelyn’s middle. “Here.” She dropped a bar of lye soap into the bowl with a little splash. “See to washing.”

Without further direction, she hurried on to another task.

Washing. She could do that. Bathe the sweat and blood from wearied faces. Evelyn took the bowl and rag and knelt at the first bed, her wide skirts pooling around her. Tomorrow, she would wear fewer petticoats and forego her crinoline cage. Such fashions hindered her movements.

The soldier before her was as young as her cousin Paul. Aunt Mary had pleaded with Uncle Phillip that seventeen was far too young to be scarred by war. In the end, however, both father and son had gone to do their duty. Did this boy have a mother who had pleaded for him not to fight?

What would that mother think to see her boy, his face coated in dirt and crimson that flowed from a gash along his hairline? He stared at Evelyn with sandy-brown eyes haunted by shadows and deep set with exhaustion.

Brave Boys, the paper had called them. And they must surely be, for Evelyn could not fathom the courage required to face the prospect of shell and shot that could tear a body to shreds.

She dipped her rag into the tepid water, wrung it, and dabbed at the boy’s brow in the most motherly fashion one her age could muster. “There, now. We’ll get you cleaned right up.”

The boy merely continued to stare at her, the wide inner circle of his eyes not seeming to fully recognize her presence. Perhaps whatever had caused the gash on his head had knocked free some of his senses. Or maybe he’d merely suffered a great shock at the unimaginable horrors he must have seen. Determined to draw his mind anywhere but back to the battlefield, Evelyn refrained from seeking answers a newspaperman’s daughter yearned to know. Instead, she spoke of the pleasantness of Front Royal and how soon the men would surely receive a good meal. He would welcome that, wouldn’t he?

Still, he made no reply, and when she had finished cleaning his face and gash to the best of her ability, she turned to the next man on the line of beds.

The same woman who had given her the bowl of water returned, pushing auburn locks away from her sympathetic eyes. She looked down at the boy Evelyn had washed and gave a gentle shake of her head. “Come, my dear, you must wash quickly and much more thoroughly. Have the men remove socks, coats and shirts, and scrub them well. Put on clean shirts…” She thrust a pile of linens against Evelyn’s chest, disrupting the bowl of water. “And then the attendants will finish the…sensitive areas and lay them in bed.”

Before Evelyn could protest, the nameless woman was gone again. Heat crept up her neck at the thought of removing a man’s shirt. Had she been asked to dance a jig for their entertainment, or give them a shave, or do any number of other ridiculous things, she would have likely been less staggered. But to have to disrobe strangers at a moment’s notice?

She drowned her scruples in the dingy water of her wash bowl and resolved to do anything—well, within fathomable reason—they asked of her. What was the sacrifice of her feminine sensibilities in the face of what others had suffered? One quick glance around the crowded ward, and she was assured that many other young ladies had found themselves with the same task. How had Isabella fared with such a request?

She glanced at the next patient on her row, and seeing him regard her much too closely, turned her back on him once more. Better her first attempt at such necessary humiliation be with the boy who seemed rather oblivious to her actions.

Clutching her block of soap with determination, she assumed the most businesslike air she could garner, and set herself to the job. She separated her feelings from the task as much as possible, reminding herself that these things must be done and telling herself to think of the young man as a brother who needed motherly tending. With that in mind, she managed to wash all but his waist and legs, and after a fair amount of struggling, got him into a clean shirt that contrasted roughly with his mud-stained pants.

With a flaming-hot face, Evelyn turned to the next man on the line. She calmly instructed him to remove the necessary garments without a single glance at his face. Only after she performed all of the washing as quickly as possible and had him buttoned into a clean shirt did she look into his eyes.

He smiled shyly at her and then turned away his gaze. “I thank you, ma’am, for doing such an unpleasant thing without causing me more embarrassment than necessary.”

Evelyn dipped down and settled herself on the bed, her aching feet glad for the moment of reprieve. A laugh bubbled up from her at the ludicrous nature of the conversation, and the soldier joined her in it, his beard dancing as he did.

“We’ll do what we must to save ourselves from this Northern aggression,” she teased, “be it shooting or washing.”

He chuckled again, calling her a right and good patriot, and then his eyes drifted closed. She laid his soiled clothes on the floor at the foot of the bed and readied herself to move down the row.

She further numbed to the task with each man in line, and soon one face melded into dozens of others. At some point, Evelyn lost count of how many men’s bare torsos she had sponged. Boots, socks, and feet were naught but a mass of mud. She dutifully tended each one as she imagined a tidy mother might see to washing rambunctious boys on a Saturday night. Some took it like sleepy children, their exhausted heads lolling to one side or another. Others looked as grimly scandalized as she felt, and even a few of the roughest in appearance colored like bashful girls.

At one point in the dredges of the relentlessly long day, a man with a gunshot wound to his face asked for a looking glass and she was able to scrounge one up for him.

“By goodness,” he said, rubbing at where Evelyn had dressed his swollen face as best she could. “That’s too bad, it is. I reckon I wasn’t a bad looking chap before, but now I’m done for. What woman will have want of a man with a thunderous scar?”

Evelyn knelt beside him. “Here, now. Don’t you know a woman cares more for the inner being of a man than his outer appearance?” At his doubtful expression, she shed her attempt at humor and gently laid a hand on his arm. “Take heart. I’m sure your lady back home will see it as a mark of honor. Such a scar is but a badge won in great bravery and service.”

His eyes glistened, and he squeezed her hand. “Thank ‘ya, ma’am. For saying so, even if it probably ain’t true.”

She gave him a gentle smile and moved on until she came to the end of the ward and collapsed behind a stack of linens consisting of cut shirt-sleeves, bandages, and towels. Her back ached, she hadn’t had the first snip to eat all day, and her head felt light.

A doctor found her there some moments later and tugged her to her feet. “Ah, miss, you look as though you will drift away before you make it home to your bed.”

Evelyn blinked up at his face, a face lined with years and set with eyes that held the knowledge of the pain of life. She gave a weak nod. “I’m sorry, doctor. I sought only a moment of rest.”

He patted her shoulder and turned her toward the door. “It’s nearing on midnight. Most of the girls have long since gone. You’ve done all you can for today.”

Several moaning men were still swathed in dirty jackets. “The work is not yet done.”

He guided her around the beds and to the center aisle of the ward, pointing her toward the door. “It’s never done. But if we do not rest, we will be unable to take up the task again on the morrow.”

Resigned to the wisdom of his words, Evelyn placed one heavy foot in front of the other, and with only a vague sense of her surroundings as she navigated through a fog of exhaustion, found her way back to the Fishback Inn.