the kitchen and poured steaming water into basins. The ambulance drivers helped their charges to beds, then left. Virgilia saw one sleazy brute eying her. She feigned annoyance and turned her back. Men often noticed her, though it wasn't beauty to which they were responding, merely size. She didn't mind. Once, no one had noticed anything.
'What 'n the divil is this goddamn place?' The booming voice had an Irish lilt. Behind the stove, now radiating heat, Virgilia saw a broad-shouldered soldier in his twenties, red-haired and red-bearded, thrashing about on his cot. 'Don't look like Erie, Pennsylvania — nor the old sod neither —'
Pip told the soldier he was in the Union Hotel Hospital. The man started to climb out of bed. Pip restrained him. The soldier cursed and made a second effort. We will begin with him, Virgilia thought. Others were watching, and establishing authority in the ward was important.
She strode to the Irishman's cot. 'Stop that foul talk. We're here to help you.'
The bearded soldier squinted at her. 'Skip the help, woman, an' give me something to eat. Ain't had a thing but hardtack since Burny sent me up that damn hill to die.' He wiggled his left foot, wrapped in stained bandages. 'Feels like all I did was surrender me toes, or a bit more.'
The movement had pained him; that caused anger. 'Jasus, woman, don't stand there. I want food.'
'You will get nothing until we remove those filthy clothes and wash you down. That is standard hospital procedure.'
'An' who the fu — Who's gonna do the washing, might I ask?' The Irishman rolled his eyes around the room, clearly telling her he saw no one capable by sex or training.
'One of my nurses will do it. Miss Alcott.'
'A woman bathe me? I should say to God not!'
Above his beard, his cheeks were red. Pip set a bowl of water beside the cot, then handed Miss Alcott two towels, sponge, and brown soap. The soldier attempted to roll away from the women. Virgilia gestured.
'Bob, help me.'
She seized the Irishman's shoulders and with some effort kept him in bed. 'We do not want to inflict more pain on you, Corporal, and we won't if you cooperate with us. We intend to remove everything except your undergarments and scrub you thoroughly.'
'All over?'
'Yes, every inch.'
'Mother of God.'
'Stop that. Other men besides you need attention. We have no time to waste on the false modesty of fools.'
So saying, she ripped his collar open. Buttons flew.
The Irishman didn't struggle much; he was too weak and hurting. Virgilia showed the stupefied Miss Alcott how to ply a soapy sponge, then a towel. The towel was dark gray after two passes over the corporal's skin.
The Irishman kept his body rigid. Virgilia lifted his right arm and washed under it. He wriggled and giggled.
'Let's have none of that,' she said, showing a slight smile.
'Jasus, who'd of thought it? A strange woman handlin' me like she was my mother.' Sheepish then. 'It don't feel too bad after what I been through. Not too bad atall.'
'Your change of attitude is very helpful. I appreciate it. Miss Alcott, take over, and I'll start on the next man.'
'But Miss Hazard —' she swallowed, pink-faced as the Irishman — 'may I speak to you alone?'
'Certainly. Let's step over there.'
She knew what was coming but dutifully bent her head to hear the whispered question. She answered with similar softness so as not to embarrass Miss Alcott. 'Bob Pip or one of the other soldiers finishes each man. They have a saying: the old veterans wash the new privates.'
Miss Alcott was too relieved to be shocked. She pressed a fist to her breast and breathed deeply. 'Oh, I'm thankful to hear it. I believe I can handle the other work. I'm getting accustomed to the odors. But I don't believe I could bring myself to — to —' She couldn't even bring herself to say it.
'You'll do splendidly,' Virgilia said, giving her an encouraging pat.
Louisa Alcott did do well. In two hours, with the help of a third volunteer nurse who joined them, they had stripped the entire population of the ward of unwearable clothing and all but essential dressings and bandages. Then the orderlies brought in coffee, beef, and soup.
While the men ate, the surgeons began to appear, distinguishable by the green sashes worn with their uniforms. Two entered the ballroom, one an elderly fellow Virgilia hadn't met before. He introduced himself and said he would handle all cases not requiring surgery. She knew the other doctor, a local man who went straight to work inspecting patients on the far side of the ward. Virgilia found army surgeons a mixed lot. Some were dedicated, talented men; others, quacks without professional schooling, qualified by only a few weeks of apprenticeship in a physician's office. It was those in the latter group who most often acted as if they were eminent practitioners. They were brutal with patients, curt with inferiors, vocal about lowering themselves to serve in the army. She was able to tolerate the pomposity of such quacks only because they shared a common purpose — the healing of men so they could return to their regiments and kill more Southerners.
The surgeon approaching was no quack, but a Washington practitioner of solid reputation. Erasmus Foyle, M.D., barely reached Virgilia's shoulder, but he bore himself as if he were Brobdingnagian. Bald as an egg except for a fringe of oiled black hair, he sported mustachios with points and sweetened his breath with cloves. At their first meeting, he had made it evident that Virgilia interested him for reasons that were not professional.
After an ingratiating bow, he said, 'Good morning, Miss Hazard. May I have a word outside?'
The last soldier Foyle had examined, a man with both legs bandaged from knee to groin, began to roll to and fro and moan. The moan slid upward into a high-register shriek. Miss Alcott dropped her bowl, but Pip caught it before it broke.
Virgilia called, 'Give that man opium, Bob.'
'And plenty of it,' said Foyle, nodding vigorously. He slipped his right hand around Virgilia's left arm; his knuckles indented the bulge of her breast. She was about to call him down when something occurred to her.
Men looked at her differently from the way they did in the past. How useful could that be? Perhaps she should find out. She let Foyle's hand remain. He blushed with pleasure.
'Right along here—' He guided her through the doorway and to the left into a dingy hall where no one in the ward could see them. He stood close to her with his small, bright eyes on a level with her breasts. Grady had loved her breasts, too.
'Miss Hazard, what is your opinion of the condition of that poor wretch who's screaming?'
'Dr. Foyle, I am no physician —'
'Please, please — I respect your expertise.' He was practically dancing from boot to polished boot. 'I have respected and, may I say, admired you since chance first threw us together. Kindly give me your opinion.'
The foxy little man reached for her right arm as he said that. He slipped his fingers around and under.
'Very well. I don't believe the left leg can be saved.' She hated to say it; she had watched men as they regained consciousness after going under the saw.
'Amputation — yes, that was my conclusion also. And the right leg?'
'Not quite so bad, but the difference is marginal. Really, Doctor, shouldn't you ask your colleague instead of me?'
'Bah! He's no better than an apothecary. But you, Miss Hazard, you have a real grasp of medical matters. Intuitive, perhaps, but a real grasp.'
Just as he had a grasp of her arm. His knuckles pressed into her bosom again. 'Surgery for that man as soon as possible. Could we perhaps discuss other cases at supper this evening?'
The sense of power intoxicated her. Foyle was no great physical specimen, but he was well off, respected, and he wanted her. A white man wanted her. It couldn't be clearer. She had changed; her life had changed. She was grateful to Dr. Erasmus Foyle. Not as grateful as he wished her to be, however. 'I should love that, but how would it be construed by your wife?'
