April 12, 1861
Friday night, and I did not allow Roger to visit. My thoughts are far from him, far from Charity, far from everything but my studies and the exam that looms like a steep mountain before me tomorrow. I have never felt lonelier, yet this a self-imposed loneliness, a situation I must endure until my examinations are done.
Will I remember all that I know is true? And will the things I have learned from my father conflict with the things I have been taught here?
My father’s favorite verses come to mind: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto-thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” I know what Papa would say were he here now—“Flanna, me girl, just because you’re not to lean on your understanding doesn’t mean you’re not to use your God-given brain. Use it, darlini’, and work hard. Work like everything depends on you, then pray like everything depends on God.”
I can only pray that God will bless his truth and my efforts. I have worked so hard to please him.
The Boston winter melted into spring, and the day of Flanna’s final examination arrived. On Saturday morning, April 13, she stepped outside the boardinghouse and stared wordlessly at the changed aspect of the street. Trees that had been bare and leafless when she last noticed them had begun to frill themselves like glorious gold-green parasols. The air carried hints of warmer days to come, and brilliant sunlight washed the sidewalk under a clean blue sky.
Flanna glanced at Charity, then laughed softly. “I knew we were working hard,” she said, lifting her skirts as she descended the stairs, “but I had no idea how hard.”
“It will all be over soon,” Charity promised, following with Flanna’s notebooks and medical bag. “Just a few more hours, Miss Flanna, and we’ll be making ready to go home.”
“Right you are,” Flanna answered, moving briskly toward the street. In honor of this auspicious occasion, Roger had arranged for his mother’s closed carriage to drive Flanna and Charity to the college. The driver waited on the street, his eyes lighting in a look of admiration as Flanna approached.
She allowed him to help her into the carriage, then slid to the end of the bench and waited for Charity. She took a deep breath and counted to five, her father’s old trick to calm an unsettled stomach. She would soon stand before a committee of five doctors, all men, and all determined to expose her every weakness.
Charity climbed in, and the door closed. “You ready, Miss Flanna?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to pray for you?”
Flanna reached out and squeezed her maid’s hand. “Please.”
Charity closed her eyes and moved her lips in a soundless prayer. One of the horses whickered as the carriage lurched forward, and the jangling sounds of horse and harness rattled Flanna’s nerves.
She looked down and stared at her hands. For two years she had given her attention to the study of medicine. For the past four months she had invested nearly every waking moment in preparation for this examination council. While the world outside her window raged with news of secession and strife, she had concentrated on anatomy, chemistry, toxicology, physiology, obstetrics, gynecology, and surgery. While the other girls had spent their leisure hours gossiping about “that Carolina girl,” Flanna had given particular attention to the study of hygiene—a discipline not endorsed by current medical experts, but one her father supported and Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell routinely practiced. Clean patients, Flanna believed, were healthier patients.
At last the carriage pulled up outside the college. After asking Charity to wait in the vestibule, Flanna walked immediately to the large lecture hall. The five doctors were already present, and they peered at her curiously as she opened the door and thrust her head into the room.
Dr. John Gulick, chairman of her examination committee, looked up with an unwelcoming, cold, and piercing eye. “Come in, Miss O’Connor, we are nearly ready. It is good of you to appear promptly.”
Flanna took a deep, unsteady breath, then moved toward the empty table in the center of the room. She waited beside it, her hands clasped, as the doctors shuffled papers and skimmed various documents, ignoring her.
She eyed the empty table at her right hand. One solitary chair sat behind it, and once she had assumed that examination seat she would not rise until she had either proved herself capable or failed completely.
The thought of failure was anathema. How could she go home if she failed her exams? She knew her father regularly boasted of her progress to his patients, and all of Charleston expected her to follow in Elizabeth Blackwell’s hallowed footsteps. That bright daughter of the South had established herself in no less intimidating a place than New York City. The folks at home expected something equally spectacular from Flanna O’Connor.
She shifted from foot to foot, then looked down at the floor and forced her mind to run in mundane, less worrisome channels. Despite the political unrest, mail was flowing between the two nations. Since the news of Texas’s secession and Jefferson Davis’s election as president of the Confederate States of America, Flanna had received one letter from her father. In it, he encouraged her to concentrate on her studies and keep her mind fixed to her task, but he also bragged that South Carolina had seized the former Federal properties of Fort Moultrie, Castle Pickney, and the arsenal at Charleston. “Our eyes turn now to Fort Sumter,” he had written, “which sits off our shore like a beacon in the night. Federal soldiers still guard the garrison, but it will soon be ours. Why should we tolerate the presence of foreign soldiers on South Carolina’s shores?”
“We are ready, Miss O’Connor.” Flanna flinched at the sound of Dr. Gulick’s raspy voice. “Please relax and be seated. You may take your time as you answer these questions.”
Flanna smiled to cover her embarrassment and moved to the chair. Graceflxlly maneuvering her expansive skirts around the legs of the table, she took her seat, then folded her hands atop the table.
A balding man she did not recognize lifted a bushy brow. “I hope you did not misunderstand, Miss O’Connor. You are allowed to use notes. Have you forgotten to bring them?”
“No sir.” Her voice, like her nerves, was in tatters, and she took a deep breath to strengthen it. “No sir, I did not forget. But I believe I can best prove my abilities and readiness without notes. After all, not every doctor has access to his notes and journals when he or she encounters an emergency situation.”
Dr. Gulick’s full mouth dipped into a deeper frown. “Perhaps you are unaware that the purpose of this college is to encourage women. It is our belief that no woman can pass this examination without notes.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across the paunch at his belly. “We would be pleased to recess for the space of a few moments if you wish to fetch yours.”
For a moment Flanna was tempted to ask Charity to bring her notebook, but the look of malign satisfaction on Dr. John Gulick’s face quelled that urge. She had never liked him as a teacher, for when he wasn’t half-drunk he patronized his students, talking to them as if they were children. Her father had treated her with more dignity when she was ten years old.
She would not reinforce Dr. Gulick’s prejudices.
“With all due respect, gentlemen,” she said, keeping all expression from her voice, “I am ready to proceed without notes. I would not want to waste your time fetching props I do not need.”
A thunderous scowl darkened Dr. Gulick’s brow; another doctor laughed. “All right then.” Gulick spat out the words as he lifted a sheet of questions. “Shall we begin?” He hesitated, seeming to measure her for a moment. “Tell me, Miss O’Connor, in full detail, what implements you will carry in your medical bag if this committee is inclined to award you a degree.”
Flanna mentally listed the items in her father’s medical bag, then took a deep breath and began to recite them: “Castor oil, calomel, jalap, Peruvian bark or cinchona, nux vomica, splints, forceps, and my stethoscope. I, sir, would also carry a scalpel, with an adult dose of either chloroform or ether, in case I had to perform a surgical procedure.”
“On what occasions would you use jalap as treatment?” the bald doctor asked.
“Whenever a powerful cathartic is needed.” She returned his gaze. “What else may I answer for you, gentlemen?”
“I have read your paper on aseptic techniques.” Dr. Gulick’s eyes darkened and shone with an unpleasant light. “Why would you waste time with such foolishness? Why would you splash your patients with cold water and insist that physicians wash their hands before surgery?” He held up his burly hand, displaying veins that squirmed across the skin like fat blue worms. “Is there something on my hand that will harm a patient? Do you believe in hexes and superstitions, Miss O’Connor? If not, why would you resort to all this foolish hocus-pocus?”
Flanna’s pulse began to beat erratically at the threatening tone in his deep voice, but she inhaled deeply and counted to five. She had been expecting this attack. Her views on cleanliness were unconventional, but her father had practiced hygiene for years with great success. One of his medical professors had been a devout Jew, and that doctor insisted that his students follow the ritual cleansing practices outlined in the Old Testament.
“Oy, if God himself tells us to wash our hands, shall we not trust him?” Flanna murmured, mimicking her father’s oft-repeated motto.
“What’s that?” Dr. Gulick asked. “Speak up, I can’t hear you.”
As casually as she could manage, Flanna began to frame her answer. “Sirs, I base my opinion about hygiene on two things: God’s Holy Word, which you would not want to refute, and my father’s record of success. He has been using water to clean wounds and instruments for years.”
“I’ll not accept the record of any Confederate doctor,” Gulick snapped, his voice sharp with fury.
Flanna turned her gaze toward another examiner, the pleasant fellow who had laughed earlier. “Consider, then, the record of Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell of New York. She follows the techniques of cleanliness advocated by Trotula and Hildegard, who outlined such practices in ancient times. The rate of puerperal fever among Dr. Blackwell’s patients is far lower than the rate of a similarly located New York hospital where doctors do not wash their hands between patients. Dr. Marie Zakrzewska has established similar good results with hygienic methods.”
“A confounded waste of time and effort,” Gulick countered, his mouth twisting unpleasantly. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the examiner Flanna had addressed cut the professor off.
“Dr. Gulick, when are you going to give the rest of us an opportunity to learn from this remarkable young lady?” he asked. When Gulick remained silent, the pleasant doctor gave Flanna a look of faint amusement. “Thank you, my dear, for explaining why you believe cleanliness is important. If you want to bathe your patients, I’ve no doubt that it will do many of them good. Now”—he paused and looked down at his notes—“can you please explain for me the function of the human circulatory system? Take your time, my dear. Even the most advanced healers do not fully understand it.”
Flanna took a deep breath, then began. “The circulation of blood, Doctors, originates with the human heart…”
Two hours later, Flanna thanked the committee and moved toward the doorway. Once she reached the hallway, she closed the door and leaned against it, her heart beating in a staccato rhythm. She had passed! Try though they might—and they had tried, most sincerely, to trip her up—they could find no fault in her preparation. Even dour Dr. Gulick had awarded her a passing score. Soon she would receive a diploma with her name etched in broad, black strokes—Dr. Flanna O’Connor!
She looked around, anxious to share her news. Charity was waiting downstairs in the vestibule, no doubt, and Roger might have arrived by now. Flanna hurried down the stairs with a quick step and a light heart, feeling as though her feet might begin to dance at any moment. She had succeeded!
Charity lay curled on a sofa in the entry, her knees drawn up on the cushions, her head pillowed on her hand. Flanna stooped and woke the girl with a fierce hug.
“Gracious, Miss Flanna, what’s come over you?”
“We did it, Charity.” Flanna felt a blush of pleasure rise to her cheeks. “I passed my exams. You are looking at the youngest doctor in the family.”
“Sakes alive, you really did it?” Charity’s arms slipped around Flanna’s neck, and they shared a tight embrace, one triumphant heart beating against another. “Oh, Miss Flanna, your papa will be so proud!”
“I can’t wait to write him.” Flanna pulled out of Charity’s embrace and wiped a tear of joy from her cheek. “Or should I wire him? We could stop by the telegraph office on the way home.” She looked around the small vestibule. “Have you seen Roger? He said he would be here when my exams were done.”
“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Mister Roger.” Charity shook her head for emphasis. “Not a glimpse, and I’ve been sitting on that sofa nearly all day.”
“Well then.” Flanna tried to smile, then closed her eyes as a flash of loneliness stabbed at her heart. A woman ought to have friends around when she had good news to share, but the people who mattered most to her were far away. Papa and Wesley would hear her announcement through an impersonal telegram, then they’d run across the street to share the news with Marsali and her boys. While Roger, who ought to be here, had undoubtedly been detained by some fascinating political gossip spilling in a tavern somewhere.
Flanna opened her eyes and gripped Charity’s arm. Her maid, at least, was near, and if Charity’s was the only friendly face in town, so be it. “Let’s go to the telegraph office immediately.” Flanna pushed her dark thoughts aside. “And tonight we’ll ask Mrs. Davis for some of that delicious ham she keeps squirreled away in the larder. We’ll have a feast.”
“Miss Flanna?”
About to stand, Flanna stopped short, caught off guard by the expectant expression on her maid’s face. “Yes, Charity?”
“Does this mean we can go home now? I’m awful tired of living here with these Yankees. I want to go home and see my folks.”
Flanna paused and looked out the window. Boston and all its glory lay outside, cobbled streets crowded with fancy buggies, busy people, and prosperous traders. Roger had nearly convinced her that this city might hold the promise of her future, but in the last few weeks she had felt the sting of its scorn. Her fellow students, her landlady, and the members of society who had once enthused over her dresses, her slender waist, and her wit—none of them had spoken to or inquired about her in past weeks.
She had hidden herself away, to be sure, but she had kept her weekends free, and not a single invitation had been delivered. She suspected her lack of social acceptance had more to do with her origins than her study habits. And if Boston society thrust her out, Roger would soon desert her too. In the heart of Massachusetts, how popular could a Rebel-loving politician be?
It was time to go home. Now that she’d accomplished her goals, she could be the doctor she had always wanted to be. She had made her father a promise, and she fully intended to keep it.
Turning from the window, she stood and gave her maid a broad smile. “Yes, Charity. We’ll go home just as soon as we settle things in Boston.”
“Flanna!” Roger burst through the doorway, his eyes blazing and his body as tense as a bowstring. Flanna lifted her chin, ready to brace herself against his list of excuses and rationalizations.
“Flanna, dearest!” His eyes brimmed with emotion as he came forward and grasped her elbows. “I came as soon as I heard. I knew you’d want me to be with you.”
“How could you hear so soon?” Flanna asked. “I’ve only just learned the news myself.”
A tremor passed over Roger’s face. “You’ve heard already?”
“Of course I’ve heard. I was there.” She repressed the urge to stamp her foot in exasperation. “You weren’t. You promised you’d be here when I came out of the examination room, but—”
“Your exams!” A sudden spasm of grief knit his brows. “I’m sorry, dearest, but this is far more important than your test!” His grip on her arms tightened. “Darling, the Confederates have fired on Fort Sumter! At four-thirty in the morning yesterday the Rebels opened fire, and the garrison surrendered! The Union flag was lowered in defeat, dishonored!”
Flanna hesitated, blinking with bafflement. “So this means—?”
“War, darling.” Roger relaxed his hold on her arms and brought his hands to her cheeks. “It’s unavoidable. So kiss me now, before I go see Mother. She’s certain to be in a dither at this news, and she can never find her smelling salts when she needs them.”
Before Flanna could protest or answer, his mouth covered hers hungrily, taking the kiss he had sought for months. When he pulled away, he patted her cheek. “I’ll make arrangements for you, Flanna, before I go. You can stay with Mother while we put an end to the trouble, then we’ll be married in the wedding you’ve always dreamed of.”
“Roger—” She tried to speak, but words would not come. Her anger had evaporated, leaving only confusion, and Roger was moving away, toward the door and the bustling street.
“I’ll come to you tonight,” he promised, walking out the door. “Wait for me.”
While she watched through the window, Roger climbed into the waiting carriage and ordered the driver to go.
Mixed feelings surged through Flanna as she and Charity walked back to the boardinghouse. The major event of the morning—her examination—seemed a lifetime removed, like an event from a distant past. The breaking news about Fort Sumter traveled through Boston like a wind-whipped grassfire; drivers called out to one another, and women gasped in delighted horror as they greeted each other with the news. In a sudden epidemic of patriotic fervor, merchants rifled their storage rooms for bolts of red, white, and blue bunting. The storefronts along Washington Street seemed to have bloomed in a patriotic frenzy since breakfast.
“Miss Flanna,” Charity whispered, edging closer to her mistress’s side, “I’m scared. If those Yankee girls at the boardinghouse were mean to us before this, how mean are they gonna be now?”
“I don’t know, Charity.” Flanna lowered her head as they quickened their steps. “But I don’t want to tarry and find out.”
Outside of T. R. Burnham’s, Flanna caught sight of Mrs. Gower, a close friend of Mrs. Haynes’s. Since Flanna had welcomed the new year at Mrs. Gower’s holiday ball, she smiled and attempted to greet the lady, but Mrs. Gower stared right through her. Flanna felt the pressure of the woman’s hard gaze as she and Charity passed.
“Law sakes, did you see the look that woman gave you?” Charity’s voice rose to a screeching pitch as they hurried down Washington Street. “If she’d had an egg in that shopping basket, she’d a thrown it at you, Miss Flanna. We’ve got to go home, as quick as we can.”
“I know.” The serpent of anxiety curled around Flanna’s heart slithered lower, to twist around her stomach. Could they go home? Now that fighting had broken out, could they travel safely?
She breathed a huge sigh of relief when they finally reached the boardinghouse. Mrs. Davis opened the door without comment, but the two girls they passed in the hall stared at Flanna as if she had suddenly sprouted horns.
Flanna and Charity raced up the stairs, ducked into their room, and slammed the door. Flanna tensed at the sight of a letter on her bed, then nearly wept with joy. Though the ink was smudged, she recognized her fathers handwriting.
Falling on her bed, she ripped open the seal and began to read:
April 1, 1861
Dearest Daughter,
My prayers are with you as you prepare for your examinations. Rest assured that Wesley and I have every confidence in you. You are a remarkable young woman and as most talented physician, and we are certain we with be rejoicing with you when your day of testing is done.
I don’t know what sort of news reaches you in Boston but these are trying times in our beloved South Carolina. Spirits are high, and our young boys are certainly rarin’ for a fight. Those who are most eager to bear army against their brothers in the North have composed an entire list of grievances. Among their many complaint is the fact that the Yankees refuse to honor the federal law requiring the return of runaway slaves. Northern politicians consistently close their eyes to the beneficent aspects of slavery, choosing to believe fairy tales rather than investigate the truth for themselves. They are quick to make heroes and idols of foolish caricature like Mrs. Stowe’s Uncle Tom, and they choose to look upon Christian, law-abiding slaveholders as Simon Legrees. Even more unforgivable, Yankees had contributed money and support to the murderer John Brown, whose proven purpose was the murder of innocent Southern women and children. Most heinous, and I myself cannot understand Yankee thinking on this point, when John Brow was legally executed for his crimes, our Northern foes crowned his vile head with martyrdom.
If you hear of trouble—and unless I am sadly mistaken, you soon will—know that the rascal Lincoln has engineered the situation. Fort Sumter, which sits like a beautiful our own city, is the foremast object of contention. Our men have demanded that the Federal commander surrender this South Carolina fort to South Carolina men, but thus far the officer, a Major Anderson, has refused. (Let it be noted, daughter, that Major Anderson is from Kentucky and has owned slaves himself. He is surely sympathetic to our cause, but is bound to the Union as long as he wears a uniform.) We suspect that Lincoln will reward this stubborn soldier and send federal troops to reinforce him, thereby forcing our hand. We cannot allow the soldiery of a foreign country to keep us from property that belongs by right and by nature to South Carolina.
It will be a fight, dearest daughter, so if you hear news of trouble, you are not to come home. The rails may not be safe, and the water routes are likely to be even more dangerous. But we are confident that our boys can meet this challenge and settle it within a few weeks. So wait where you are until you hear from me again.
It appears that a battle looms on the horizon, and I shall be needed. Though the forces and fury of war may separate us for a few days, know that I love you…and that I pray God will keep yow safe in the palm of his hand.
If it comes to a fight, may God help the right.
Your loving father,
Donnan O’Connor, M.D.