THREE

Joseph Brady grimaced and squared his shoulders. Hiding his limp was proving more difficult than usual this evening. Before his foot had completely healed, and against the doctor’s orders, he’d fashioned a block of wood, lodged it in the toe of his boot, and forced his foot inside. At first the pain had been excruciating, but he’d learned to ignore the discomfort and hide his limp—at least most of the time. A change in the weather always caused him problems.

Thunder rumbled overhead as Joseph lifted his foot to rest it on the small footstool hidden beneath his desk. He wasn’t ashamed of his deformity, but he didn’t want sympathy. Even more, he didn’t want to be treated differently. The Army had classified him unfit for battlefield service after his surgery and assigned him to this desk job at the Arsenal. At first, he’d told himself it was better than being mustered out, but nowadays his life more closely resembled that of a civilian than a soldier. Even though he took orders from the colonel and lived in the Arsenal’s military barracks, his duties were much the same as the civilian supervisors. His uniform set him apart from the civilians, but little else distinguished Joseph as a graduate of West Point who had once led men into battle. While it was true that producing munitions was important to the war effort, it would never fulfill his desire to fight once again for the Union.

He sighed, reached across the desk, and dipped his pen into the inkpot. Keeping records had become a tedious part of each day, but if he was to depart in the morning, he needed to finish. A flash of lightning streaked across the sky as he entered the final daily production numbers for his section. He blotted the entries and leaned back. As he pushed up from his chair, a gust of wind caught the door and slammed it closed. Joseph dropped back in his chair at the crashing sound. Once his heartbeat slowed, he silently chastised himself, stood, and crossed the room. Will this jarring reaction to loud noises never end?

Pulling the brim of his black felt Hardee hat low on his forehead, he descended the steps and made his way to the barracks. Dark clouds hung on the horizon, and the sound of rolling thunder followed him inside. Moments later, a slanting rain cascaded against the rows of windows that bordered both sides of the building. Joseph sat on the edge of his bed and massaged his lower leg. He longed to pull off his boot and permit his foot the freedom that would relieve some of the pain, but first he needed to pack.

He wouldn’t be at the Allegheny Arsenal long—two weeks at most—at least that was what his orders had suggested. Due to the war creating travel interruptions, traveling to and from Pittsburgh would fill most of his time away from the nation’s capital. He’d balked when he received the order from Colonel Furman, yet his arguments had fallen upon deaf ears. The colonel cared little that Joseph had been at the Arsenal for only a month and declared him the best candidate for the assignment. Joseph’s pride wouldn’t permit him to use his injured foot as an excuse. Painful or not, he’d have to make the journey and do his best to discover any useful methods that might increase productivity at the Washington Arsenal.

After packing and eating supper in the dining hall, Joseph reviewed his itinerary and returned to the barracks. He longed to remove his boots and go to bed. He needed to be rested before starting his journey. Regardless of the storm, he hoped he’d sleep well tonight. While he was in the hospital, one of the chaplains had suggested Joseph might rid himself of his frequent nightmares if he read a chapter from the Bible and prayed before retiring. The practice hadn’t been foolproof, but it had helped. And it had restored a modicum of the faith he’d embraced in his earlier years.

He reached into his traveling case, retrieved his Bible, and opened to the Psalms. Joseph often found encouragement and comfort in the Psalms, especially those penned by David. Perhaps it was because David had been a warrior who had found strength in the Lord when facing difficult circumstances. As nightfall darkened the room, he slid the Bible back into his case, sunk into the thin mattress, and began to silently pray.

As the darkness deepened to an inky black, Joseph’s dreams were interrupted by the boom of cannons and the clang of flashing bayonets. Hundreds of gray-uniformed men appeared and crested a hill, their cry for blood filling the heavens as they charged toward his company of ragtag soldiers. Captain Melrose shouted an order to advance, but instead of moving forward, the soldiers drew together and formed a giant orb of blue. A cannon thundered and struck its prey. Body parts hovered above him while droplets of blood dripped on him. Bloodcurdling screams pierced his ears.

Someone was shouting his name and yanking on his shoulders. “Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Come on, wake up! You’re having some sort of nightmare.”

Joseph awakened with a start. His heart pounded, and his limbs quaked beneath the sheet. The corporal in charge of the barracks stood over Joseph, his eyes wide with fright.

When Joseph sat up, the young soldier took a backward step. “Sorry, Lieutenant, but your cries were even louder than the storm. Some of the other men complained you were keeping them awake.”

Joseph forced a deep breath and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward the window. “I think that storm became a part of my dream.” He paused, marshaling his memories. A drop of water fell on his head, and he recalled the dripping blood from his dream. “And I think there may be a leak in the roof.”

The corporal looked up as another droplet fell. “Right you are, Lieutenant. Let’s move your cot over a bit so you don’t get soaked. I’ll report the leak, and once the rain stops, I’m sure someone will get up there and patch the hole.”

Joseph swung his legs off the side of the cot, edged to the end of the bed, and grabbed his right boot. He didn’t miss the corporal’s fleeting look of alarm as Joseph tugged on his sock and shoved his foot into the boot. He’d done his best to hide the affliction since arriving at the Arsenal. Discussing his injury created either sympathy or fear. He disliked the display of both, especially from his fellow soldiers.

He pushed up from the bed. “That will do for now. You can go on with your duties, Corporal. I can move the cot without help.”

Joseph leaned down and grasped the edge of the bed. His booted foot clomped an irregular beat with the slapping sound of his bare foot as he pushed the cot across the narrow plank floor. When Joseph turned, the corporal hadn’t moved. His eyes remained fixed on Joseph’s booted foot.

With his head still bowed, he gestured. “Is that . . . did you . . . the battle where that happened . . . is that what caused your nightmare?”

Joseph grunted, sat on the bed, and pulled off his boot. “Get some sleep, Corporal. That’s what I intend to do.” He’d spoken with authority, and the young soldier quickly followed his order. Joseph lay back in his bed and covered himself with the sheet. The storm outside had abated, but the one raging inside him would likely continue for the remainder of the night.

The sun hadn’t yet peeked from beneath the horizon, but the rain had stopped sometime during the night. For that, Clara was thankful. Walking to work in a spring or summer rainstorm wasn’t for the faint of heart. The muddy, garbage-laden streets would bring messy boots and skirt hems trimmed with muck into the Arsenal this morning. With the arrival of each storm, Clara hoped the stench of the area streets would be miraculously cleansed, though she was once again disappointed. There seemed to be nothing that could purify the disgusting odors of Washington during the heat of summer—not even a soaking rain.

With a determined step, Clara approached the intersection of 4 ½ and South O Streets. If Beatrice and her brother were waiting, she’d walk with them. Otherwise, she didn’t intend to break her stride. When a quick look about didn’t reveal the couple, she melded into the crowd of workers and continued onward. Long ago she’d given up the practice of accompanying friends to work. After being tardy on two occasions due to such attempts, she’d decided it was more practical to walk alone.

The front porch of the laboratory was only a few feet away when Clara heard pounding feet and a woman shouting her name. She turned and caught sight of Jeremiah running toward the freight yard and Beatrice rushing toward the laboratory. With her bonnet askew and lunch pail swinging pell-mell, Beatrice hurdled up the porch steps. Clara held her breath and prayed the girl wouldn’t knock her to the ground.

Beatrice held Clara’s arm while she gasped for breath. When she’d finally recovered, she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped perspiration from her forehead. “I thought we were going to walk together.”

“I hope you didn’t wait for me. I’m certain I told you that if I saw you in the passing crowd, we would walk together.” Clara continued toward the door. “We’d better hurry or we’ll be late.”

The two of them followed the other women into the laboratory, placed their lunch pails and bonnets along the wall, filed into their respective positions, and edged onto the long, narrow bench. A young man arrived at their table with supplies and placed them on the table. Clara picked up a dowel and paper.

Beatrice glanced about, then nudged Clara with her elbow. “I wonder why Lieutenant Brady isn’t at his desk.”

“He’s gone.” Clara was careful to keep her voice low.

Beatrice blew a long sigh and grinned. “I can see he’s gone.” She turned her gaze toward the door. “Perhaps he had to meet with the colonel before coming to the laboratory. His desk looks so sad without him.”

Clara stifled a laugh. Beatrice certainly seemed the dramatic sort, especially to Clara, who had never entertained such histrionic thoughts. To her, a desk was a desk, either occupied or unoccupied. She’d never viewed a piece of furniture as an object that exhibited physical attributes. As she removed the former from the cylinder, she turned her attention toward the lieutenant’s desk. Perhaps it does look sad without him.

After removing a handkerchief from her pocket, Beatrice pretended to blot her upper lip. “Do you know where he is?” The ruse to hide her whispers had failed.

In two long strides, the supervisor appeared at their side and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Ladies! That is enough! The day has barely begun and we are off to a poor start. I shouldn’t need to remind you that visiting is prohibited. Focus! Your attention must be on your work. If you ladies continue this behavior, I’ll be forced to discipline the entire group.” After pinning them with a deep frown, he turned and strode toward a table on the other side of the room.

Once his back was turned, a woman seated across the table glared at them and mouthed the words be quiet. She pressed her index finger to her pursed lips.

Beatrice might not understand the supervisor’s warning, but Clara did—and so did the other women sitting at their table. The supervisors had learned they could more easily enforce the rules if they threatened to discipline the entire group. Those who weren’t at fault then sided with the supervisors. Losing an hour of pay or having a reduction in hourly wage was something none of them could afford.

When the bell rang announcing the midmorning recess for breakfast, the women filed out with their bonnets and pails. Beatrice grabbed Clara’s hand. “Let’s go over there under a tree.”

Instead of cooling the air, the previous night’s rain had left them with another layer of clamminess that made it difficult to breathe. While walking to an area where they could be alone, Clara considered how many of Bea’s questions she wanted to answer. Clara surmised Bea had more than a passing interest in the lieutenant, since she’d earlier commented on his good looks and now was eager to know his whereabouts. By the time they sat down, Clara was certain she’d divulge the lieutenant’s whereabouts but unsure if she should say anything more. Would it be more considerate to divulge their plan to write each other during his absence so Bea could set her sights on another fellow, or should she withhold the arrangement she’d made with the lieutenant?

The thoughts zigzagged through her mind as they continued walking to a grassy spot. Beatrice pointed to an oak tree with a vast crown and a trunk so immense it looked to be one of God’s original creations.

After dropping her lunch pail, Beatrice glanced over her shoulder. “This looks like the best place. The others are sitting closer to the laboratory. We’ll have more privacy over here.” She sat down and molded her back against the tree before removing a thick slice of bread and hunk of cheese from her bucket. “Oh no. This is Jeremiah’s pail. He’s not going to be happy with me.” She chuckled. “And he’s going to be very hungry by the end of the workday. My pail has only one small piece of bread and an apple.”

“Such a small amount for the entire day?” Clara was certain she couldn’t manage to work all day with so little food. “Were you going to eat the bread at morning break and the apple for dinner break?”

Beatrice shrugged. “It wouldn’t have mattered, but now I’ll have my choice of cheese, buttered bread, a jelly sandwich, or an apple.” She looked toward the rear of the complex, where her brother worked. “Unless Jeremiah comes searching for me.”

Clara followed Beatrice’s gaze toward the outbuildings. There was no sign of Jeremiah. Perhaps his supervisor was keeping a better eye on Jeremiah than he thought.

“So, do you know why the lieutenant is absent?” Beatrice bit into the wedge of cheese before breaking a small piece of bread from a thick slice.

“He’s gone to the Allegheny Arsenal in Lawrenceville. It’s near Pittsburgh. In Pennsylvania.”

Beatrice jutted her chin. “I know where Pittsburgh is located, Clara. I’m not totally lacking in education.”

Clara’s mouth fell open. “My response was meant only to clarify the lieutenant’s location. I apologize if I’ve offended you.”

“I’m sorry. Looks as though I’ve gone and done it again—spoken without thinking and let my quick tongue get me in trouble. Please forgive me.” Beatrice blotted her forehead. “I’d like to blame my quick response on this unbearable humidity, but that’s not the case. I’m so accustomed to snapping at Jeremiah that I forget and do it with others.” She finger-pressed the folds of her skirt and inhaled a breath. “Did the lieutenant tell you when you visited with him last evening?”

“Yes, he told me he was leaving and—”

“I wish you would have told me as soon as you left the laboratory. I would have gone back and bid him farewell. I do wish he was going to be here. There aren’t many men as handsome as the lieutenant around here. At least not that I’ve seen.”

Clara chuckled. “Well, you’ve been here only a short time. I think you’ll discover there are more men working here than you think.”

Beatrice shrugged. “Perhaps. But I doubt there are many as attractive as the lieutenant.”

Beatrice’s comment confirmed what Clara had guessed. Bea was smitten with the lieutenant. But so was Clara. Should she tell Beatrice the lieutenant hadn’t been permanently reassigned—that he’d be returning to the Washington Arsenal once he’d completed his duty and that she and the lieutenant planned to exchange correspondence during his absence? If she withheld the information, would Beatrice be angry if she later discovered Clara had been writing to him and known of his return?

Before she arrived at a decision, Jeremiah appeared in the distance. He was waving his lunch pail overhead, and his shouts were loud enough to wake the dead.

Beatrice frowned and pointed toward her brother. “I fear he’s found us.”

Clara tucked the remains of her breakfast in the pail and stood. “It’s near time for us to return. We might as well meet him halfway, don’t you think?”

“I suppose. Perhaps he’ll cease shouting if he sees we’re walking in his direction.” She held the lunch pail aloft and swung it back and forth like a lantern signaling a lost ship.

Jeremiah came to a panting stop in front of them long before they’d walked halfway. “You have my . . .”

Beatrice extended the lunch pail that hung from her fingers. “I know. I ate all but the apple.”

Jeremiah’s eyes widened as he reached for the pail. “You better not have.” He tugged on the lid and glared at her. “You ate the cheese.”

Beatrice laughed and nodded. “You should be thankful that’s all I ate. Maybe you’ll grab your own lunch pail tomorrow.” The warning bell rang, and she shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Sorry, but you’ll have to eat alone, dear Brother.” She grinned and looped arms with Clara. “Come on, Clara. We’d better get back to the laboratory.”

Today’s exchange between brother and sister bore a different tone. It appeared that food was more important to Jeremiah than the familial bond Clara had first observed. She glanced back over her shoulder at Jeremiah. What an odd combination Jeremiah and Beatrice were. She’d seen siblings argue as children, but it seemed these two hadn’t yet outgrown such tendencies. As they entered the lab, Clara considered her new friend.

Friend? After only two days, did she truly count Beatrice her friend? Perhaps that term was an overstatement. Still, Clara remembered her first days in the laboratory when she’d hoped someone would help her. She couldn’t help but feel compassion for Beatrice. After all, it was never easy to be the “new girl.” So far, she’d merely tried to make Beatrice feel comfortable in her new surroundings.

They’d exchanged pleasantries but little else. She wasn’t sure she could call Beatrice a friend just yet, but Clara hadn’t had a close friend since Nellie moved away a year ago, and Clara had to admit she missed the bond of friendship she and Nellie had shared. Of course, Nellie and Bea were nothing alike. Nellie had been timid and quiet, and Bea was the opposite. Still, Bea appeared to have a good heart and seemed to want a friend as much as Clara did.