Washington Infirmary

Washington City

July 4, 1861

Samuel Flynn pulled in the caustic scents of human waste, blood, and disease through his nose, held it for a moment, and then let it back out with a sigh he hoped his patient would not notice. The smells turned his senses, but he would not let them master him. He’d worked too hard to fall victim to his own nose. Yet, the ailment ever sought to undo him despite the years he and Father had spent praying against it.

Samuel peeled back the thin blanket and assessed the skinny form of this moment’s patient and mentally recited what he’d learned. Nicolas Jones, eighteen, meant to report to training after being released from the infirmary. Eighteen looked to be an exaggeration. Samuel swept aside Jones’s auburn hair and pressed the back of his hand to the boy’s forehead. No fever.

He lifted one eyelid wide. “Pupils are not dilated. That is a good sign.”

Worry flashed in that brown eye in the instant before Samuel let the lid fall. Jones had found his first tastes of battle by way of an angry mob deflecting volunteer soldiers from reporting to Washington.

“I believe you will soon be on your way to join the other recruits.”

Jones stared at him as he checked the pulse at his wrist, neither resistant to Samuel’s probing nor necessarily helpful. Not that Samuel expected anything different. Jones had been apathetic since he’d arrived some weeks ago. Samuel hadn’t let on to Dr. Porter he’d begun to wonder if some of the symptoms stemmed from avoiding joining the men drilling. Perhaps the rage of an angry mob had given Jones second thoughts about joining the actual fray.

Samuel stared down at him and tried to ignore the man retching in the corner of the room. “If you do not wish to volunteer, that is none of my concern. But you cannot take up a bed in the ward with naught but laziness as your ailment.”

Jones’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir.”

Samuel grunted at this further proof Jones had understood and regained mental function after his head injury. Samuel understood the boy’s fears, but could not stomach cowardice wrapped in deceit.

Finished with his assessment, Samuel nodded to one of the Sisters of Mercy, who was cleaning vomit from the floor, and quickly made his way through the large chamber of the Washington Infirmary. He sucked air through his mouth, grateful his curse had not yet betrayed him here.

Not for the first time, he wondered what would happen if these halls ever became filled to the brim with wounded soldiers bursting with the pungent odors of rot and death. He would no longer be able to conceal his weakness.

He ground his teeth. As his father’s only son, he would carry on the legacy before him, even if he had to fight his every breath to do it. With a patient or two at a time, he could manage. With the numbers this pressing war threatened, it would be all the more difficult. A hospital physician he could not be, but a country doctor to families, well, that was a dream he could achieve.

Physicians and students from the wards joined him in the hall, wiping their hands on aprons and nodding to one another in greeting as they made their way toward the midday meal.

“Ho, there, Dr. Flynn!”

Samuel paused and waited for Marcus Hammond to catch up, giving the short, pudgy man a slap to the shoulder.

“A title neither of us has yet to claim, Mr. Hammond.” Samuel chuckled.

“But soon enough, my young friend. Soon enough.”

Though only twenty-five years to Samuel’s twenty, Marcus was not the only medical student or attending physician to make note of Samuel’s age.

But though he was younger in years, Samuel did not lack in training. None of the others had toiled at a doctor’s side since the time he was old enough to feed and dress himself.

Marcus pushed his round glasses up on his nose. “You’ve only your final assessments remaining, Samuel. Surely Dr. Porter will sign you into full commission within the month. I’m quite surprised he hasn’t already.”

Samuel cast a sidelong glance at his friend. The two had entered into their medical studies at Columbian College around the same time and often had found themselves tending the poor on many of the same occasions. They’d settled on a comfortable friendship, at least as much of one as could be had in the little free time afforded to them.

“Let us hope that’s true.” With any luck, Samuel could complete his studies and return home before the army found a greater need for the infirmary than a few bruised volunteers.

Marcus broke into an excited grin. “Word is we defeated Jackson at Falling Waters.”

Samuel had heard the news from a few excited fellows in the east ward. “I hear the cry of ‘onward to Richmond’ from nearly every window each night on my way home. The people are restless.”

“Indeed. It’s a grand and noble campaign.”

“Noble, most assuredly. Though I still hold the conviction that abolition can be accomplished without bloodshed. It’s foolish to think violence will bring about a merciful cause.”

“Nothing of greatness is ever accomplished without bloodshed.”

Marcus’s words wove an odd mix of humor and resignation, and as they rounded a corner, Samuel declined to respond. Regardless of the noblest reasons, war never seemed a grand thing to him. It meant death and suffering. And now it came when he was too near finishing his medical training for him not to become a part of it. Could not the Lord see fit for him to carry out his calling quietly?

Samuel shook depressing thoughts from his mind and took a place at the table. They passed the day’s portion of crusty bread, beans, and salt pork. One thing was certain: the charitable ladies of the city only extended their grace to the poor so far, and unless a lady over-prepared for a party and found herself with half-eaten abundance, the meals at the hospital were barely palatable.

“You haven’t listened to the first syllable I’ve uttered, have you?”

Samuel discreetly eyed Marcus. A rounded man with soft features and thick spectacles, he looked the part of the kindly family physician.

Samuel swallowed a bite of tasteless meat. “You were extolling on the specifics of the battle.”

Marcus blinked. “Quite right.”

Samuel could easily guess the topic even though he hadn’t been listening.

“So, then,” Marcus prompted, “what do you think?”

Samuel chewed a chunk of dry bread and washed it down with tepid black tea. “What do I think about what?”

Marcus groaned. “I knew it.” He stabbed his meat and paused with the morsel halfway to his mouth. “If you ask me, McClellan better start moving. Greeley has the right of it in those headlines. We cannot allow that Confederate congress to take place.”

Samuel nodded along. “Surely this rebellion will be quelled within the month.” If not, he may not be able to control his condition long enough to receive his physician’s title.

“Let us hope that is so,” Marcus agreed. “Those arrogant fools need to be put in their place with swift assurance.”

After finishing the rest of the meal in companionable silence, Marcus wiped his mouth and rose from the table. Samuel bid him a pleasant afternoon and downed two more pieces of bread to coat his stomach before he quit the dining area and finished his duties of changing bandages, checking the medical supplies, and collecting soiled linens.

Then he turned his attention to the best part of the day.

In the western wing, the sound of childish giggles greeted his ears. While open to the soldiers who found themselves at the hands of unruly Southern sympathizers, the infirmary still maintained its original purpose of caring for unfortunates who did not possess the means to procure medical aid.

The children clustered together in a row of metal cots with threadbare mattresses. They battled various sicknesses, some of which were cured with simple rest and adequate nutrition. He paused at the door for a moment, watching them while they were unaware of his assessment.

One little girl spied him and the volume in the room quickly rose. Samuel’s lips curved. Even in their illness, the little ones demonstrated joy.

“Mr. Flynn!” Young Benjamin’s pale face split into a wide grin as Samuel neared. “Have you come to give us a tale?”

Samuel drew his brows low in mock seriousness. “I don’t know, Benjamin. That depends on if you have minded the sisters today.”

The boy made a face and crossed his arms over his gown. “They want me to stay in that bed all day.”

Samuel indicated where Benjamin stood with bare feet. “Which is where you should be now.”

The boy glanced at the other children currently sharing the space, but they kept their eyes downcast. Benjamin huffed. “A man shouldn’t be confined to a bed.” His voice rose in indignation. “Nor be forced to wear an infant’s gown all day!”

Samuel rubbed his chin, the day’s worth of whiskers rough against his fingers. “I’d say you have a point there, sir.”

Benjamin beamed. “Then you’ll tell them right good, won’t you, Mr. Flynn?”

“Well, now, let’s see.” Samuel tapped a finger on his chin. “A man has certain responsibilities, wouldn’t you say?”

Benjamin’s forehead creased. “I reckon he does. But what’s that got to do with wearing gowns and lying about?”

Samuel ignored the comment and pretended to ponder. “Yes, truly a man has many responsibilities.” He fixed the boy with a serious stare. “And what are you responsible for, young man?”

He wrinkled his face. “I ain’t but nine.” He shrugged. “Least, that’s what they say at the orphanage. But I don’t believe them.”

Samuel didn’t allow him to digress. “Well, now, you said a man shouldn’t be in bed all day in his gown, didn’t you?”

Benjamin drew his eyebrows together but gave a stiff nod. “So?”

“Then we established a man has responsibilities, correct?”

He nodded again, this time more reluctantly.

“So, Benjamin, as a man, what responsibilities do you have?”

Benjamin glanced at the girl to his left with ashy brown hair and big eyes. “I got to take care of my little sister.”

Samuel sank on the bed next to the boy and gripped his bony shoulder. “And if she stays in bed and gets her rest and gets better, what do you think is going to happen?”

Understanding lit his eyes. “Then the nuns are goin’ to send her back to the orphanage.”

Samuel waited.

“And if they do”—his voice dropped so as not to alarm his sister—“then Emily won’t have no one to look after her.”

Samuel patted the boy’s shoulder. “Like I said, a man has responsibilities. What do you think might be the best course of action so you can be certain you are there to care for her?”

“I got to get better,” he said without hesitation.

Samuel rose and turned to the shelf on the opposite wall to reclaim the worn book he’d been reading to the children. “Best you get on that, then.”

“Can’t make it happen,” the boy grumbled.

“Perhaps not.” Samuel thumbed through the book to his place. “But you can listen to those who have more knowledge about something than you do and follow their advice. A man has no shame in following wise orders and making himself stronger, now does he?”

Benjamin puffed his chest. “No, sir. Ain’t no shame in that.” With the determination and pompous movements rivaling any soldier drilling in the fields outside the city, the boy marched to his bed and settled himself in it.

The other children pulled their covers about them while Samuel sat and opened to the next chapter. Their excitement settled as Samuel read, his voice rising and falling as he recounted a swashbuckling tale of adventure on the high seas. In those precious moments, they forgot their ailments as their imaginations tasted the salty air and vanquished every foe. And then, all too soon, the chapter came to an end.

“Please, sir, won’t you read a bit more?” The soft voice of Benjamin’s sickly sister stirred his heart. The little one seldom spoke.

“I wish I could, Emily, but you know the sisters will soon be here to make their rounds, and we don’t want to interfere. I think I smelled a tasty stew for tonight.”

She looked to her brother, who gave her a brave nod, and then smiled sweetly. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.” He patted a few heads and ruffled Benjamin’s hair before replacing the book and turning to leave.

A soldier stood waiting for him in the doorway, a small fellow with narrow shoulders and facial features a touch too soft for a man. He waited stiffly as Samuel approached, his crisp blue uniform still new. “Are you Mr. Flynn?”

Samuel caught the scent of lye soap and mint. “I am.”

“The head physician said to come to you to procure our supply of quinine and calomel.”

Samuel stepped past him and motioned for the man to follow him down the hall. “What supply? I already sent the allotment for the military medical staff.”

The soldier kept his eyes downcast as though he feared he might trip in the empty hall. “Dr. Porter said to prepare crates to send with us.”

Samuel’s skin prickled and he paused. “Crates?”

Now the man looked at him as though he were daft. “Yes. Dr. Porter said you were in charge of counting the supplies and would be the one to prepare the crates.”

Samuel resumed walking, leading the way to the supply closets. “Forgive my questioning, Mr…?”

“Frank Thrash. Private Frank Thrash.”

“Private Thrash, none of the other men who came to supplement their supplies have ever asked for this much medicine at one time. Is there an outbreak among the ranks? Perhaps some of our staff could help.”

“No, sir.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspirator’s whisper. “The boys are well and hearty and ready to march.”

Samuel’s pulse quickened as they rounded a bend and came to a stop in front of the supply storage. Fifty thousand men, regulars and volunteers, had converged on the capitol, and for nearing two months had trained for something Samuel had continually prayed would not come to pass.

Samuel opened the door and kept his face impassive. “Marching? Part of your drills?”

The soldier straightened to his full height, which fell short of Samuel’s by several inches and squared thin shoulders. “We march to Virginia, sir.”

Samuel’s chest tightened. McDowell would move thousands of unprepared men hot with war fever across the invisible divide that fractured the land. An invisible line that now separated him from his sister Nellie and made her husband an enemy.

Declining a reply, he lifted a crate and ignored the smell of dust, chemicals, and wood shavings. Private Thrash waited in the doorway as Samuel filled it with small paper pouches of calomel. How would those recruits fare once the dysentery came upon them? He’d had a theory for some time that small organisms in the water could make men sick, but no one seemed to give his idea any thought. But then, they couldn’t smell the differences in the water as he could. Those green boys would stop at any creek during their long march and scoop up handfuls of tainted water. Then their bowels would revolt.

His face must have settled into a scowl, because the young soldier clapped him on the arm. “Not to worry now, Doc. Our boys will be back soon. Once we take Richmond, this will be over.”

Samuel thought to offer a perfunctory smile but found his lips lacked the gumption to do so.

Private Thrash leaned to help him pack the pouches, his clean scent mixing with the stringent smell of the calomel. “Some of the boys are worried this will be finished before they get to see any action. Me, I just want to set things to rights and get home.”

Samuel nodded, but he didn’t worry the action would be over before the men got to see it. He worried the action would engulf them all, and thousands would descend upon the quiet halls of the Washington Infirmary in a bloody mass of needs he felt ill-prepared to combat.