Page 12 of Caught in Time
“When Dr. Abbott says they’re doing the best they can with what they have he means it,” Annabelle had said. “And you’d be wise not to refer to things which do not yet exist. You will only draw attention to yourself.Penicillin? Charlotte, really! What were you thinking?”
She cringed, as the memory chagrined her, but Annabelle was right, and if she wanted to blend in—which she wanted to do—she would have to be more careful. She should probably apologize to Spencer again, but she really hated to do so, especially when she was in the right. Sighing heavily, she rotated her head to ease the tension in her neck and shoulders. Tomorrow was going to be a disaster. She’d made the mistake of meeting the gaze of the patient with the horrible wound. His gray eyes had held such deep pain, they belied the youthful features that told her he could not be more than fifteen.
How could she not care?
Too chilled to continue avoiding the other occupant of the house out-of-doors, Charlotte turned to wander back to the house. Charlotte opened the back door and walked across the sitting room where Anabelle sat in a wingback chair.
“I think you need to get to bed. You need a good night’s sleep before you go to back to work at the hospital,” Annabelle advised.
Charlotte turned and walked up the stairs to her bedroom.
She made quick work of her clothes and got into her nightgown. She turned back the covers and quickly lay down in the bed. She tossed and turned, tangling the covers.I wish I could sleep!Visions of the hospital’s miserable occupants haunted her.
Tiring of the futile quest for sleep, Charlotte left her bed long before sunrise. It was raining again. Flipping the lid of the clothes trunk, she began sifting through the contents in search of suitable clothing. She knew that Civil War nurses did not wear hoops under their dresses due to safety, convenience, and hospital or Sanitary Commission regulations. In the end she donned a simple brown skirt and tan blouse.
After a quick breakfast and a few chores, she embarked on a quick walk the short distance through mud-covered cobblestone streets to the Marshall House Hospital. After she had arrived, she realized that the shock of the hospital’s atmosphere—and its lamentable downfalls—had ebbed. She was morbidly fascinated. Moving toward the back of the ward, her eyes drank in every aspect of the place.It looks more like a holocaust camp than a hospital—oh! I must not mention Nazis or World War II, or even World War I for that matter!
Men in union uniform strode with importance about the facility, young orderlies strode up and down stairs, completing errands, following orders, and volunteers were carrying out a variety of tasks.
As if on cue, Spencer Abbott appeared before the wide door of the operating room throwing a bloodied apron into the corner. Her heart positively lurched in the face of the pure devastation mirrored in his eyes. The man looked tired and drawn, and so terribly young in that moment, all she wanted to do was to wrap her arms around those broad shoulders and pull him to her.
Slowly she approached. “Spencer? Are you all right?”
He glared at her, as if asking himself what the hell she was doing there.
“Miss Liddell,” he clipped, “if you have come to once more to take me to task about my methods of healing, you may leave. I am not in the mood to listen. I lost Jimmy Gooding this morning.”
Instantly, Charlotte understood his dour mood and once again the shattered pieces of her heart trembled in sympathy. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked it, but her knowledge of medical advances yet to come assailed her conscience and she bled for him. No doubt many physicians in this day had lost countless patients who could have been saved in her time. How many young soldiers had placed broken bodies into Spencer’s hands, trusting his skills to perform miracles and give their lives back to them?
“What do you need me to do?” Charlotte asked quietly. “Remember, I agreed to help in whatever way I can.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, then without looking at her again, said to an orderly, “William, please show her the cleaning closet and whatever else you think she’ll need. The lady finds the condition of our wardunacceptable.” This time, he shot a pointed look at Charlotte. Heat flamed in her cheeks, but she refused to be intimidated.
“Spencer,” Charlotte said timidly. “I wanted to apologize for everything I said yesterday about the hospital.”
His shoulders visibly sagged as he turned his back to her. “Don’t worry about the incident, Charlotte.
She was very sorry for having upset him so.
****
Already having formeda plan of action, Charlotte donned an apron and took mental note of the meager supplies available to her. Basins, scrubbing brushes, rags, big bars of what had to be lye soap. Lye soap! She looked at her hands, which she knew the stuff would burn raw.
Tears burned as she turned a blurred, compassionate gaze to Spencer, who stood with shoulders slumped over an empty cot on the ward. How dare she think her lot unfair when he was faced with the suffering of these young soldiers and their families? These people had lost friends and brothers, entire homes—every man who died meant at least one broken heart. The tragedy, like ripples on a pond, would eventually toucheveryone.Whatever hand she’d been dealt, never had she suffered an army invading her homeland or lost anyone truly close to her.
All those callous comments she’d made about the unsatisfactory state of the hospital, and he’d been fighting to save the life of his friend.
She had been more than cruel to the poor doctor.
****
It was early afternoonwhen Charlotte finished scrubbing and organizing the large ward. Her duties primarily consisted of cleaning. Cleaning had always been an outlet for her, a means of subduing nervous energy, and after today she should be feeling sufficiently numb to sleep.
The day seemed to last an eternity but eventually evening closed in around them and she dropped wearily onto the floor. The floors gleamed, and every soldier had been supplied with clean linens and a fresh washbasin. She cleaned, sutured, and bandaged the soldiers’ wounds.
It had been a long time since she had been so physically exhausted. Work as a surgeon had always been difficult and challenging but a great deal of that had been thinking work, mentally exhausting—what she had done today bordered on the realm of backbreaking. Her muscles would be screaming tomorrow.
Charlotte knew that Civil War nurses were responsible for duties far beyond the care of their patients’ bodies. She decided to help the wounded and dying soldiers write letters home to their families and prayed for their swift recovery. She talked to patients about physical and mental battlefield traumas, including the loss of limbs. Charlotte taught soldiers how to adapt to their wounds and accompanying physical limitations. She comforted the dying, making their passing as peaceful as possible.
