Chapter Eight

Fairfield Hospital
February 1862

Dr. McGrath’s office was dark, deserted. The coat-tree inside his door stood empty. Julia huffed in frustration. She had risen before the sun, skipped breakfast, and walked two blocks through frozen mud and icy wind to hail a cab in order to get to the hospital by six o’clock—and Dr. McGrath wasn’t even here. If his rude behavior yesterday was an indication of his true character, she might have guessed he’d tell her to come early and then be deliberately late himself.

She stood in the hallway for a moment, debating what to do. Except for the distant sound of men coughing in the wards, the hospital was quiet. Since Julia had no idea where the linen room was or what she was supposed to do there once she found it, she decided to take a seat in the doctor’s office and wait for him. She had just removed her cloak and hat and hung them on the doctor’s coat-tree when the ward matron she’d seen yesterday came into the front hall. She was a plain-looking woman in her forties with thick dark brows and a careworn face.

“Oh …hello,” the woman said. “I thought I heard the door. I’m Eleanor Fowle. How may I help you?”

“I’m …I’m Mrs. Robert Hoffman,” she said, deciding to continue the lie. “But please, call me Julia. I’m looking for Dr. McGrath.”

“You were here yesterday, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I applied for a position as a nurse. The doctor told me that I could begin working this morning as a supervisor in the linen room.”

“The linen room? Are you sure?”

“That’s what he said. What time does Dr. McGrath usually arrive for his morning rounds?”

Her dark brows creased in a disgusted frown. “It all depends on how drunk he got last night.”

Julia was so surprised by the matron’s words and the blunt way in which she spoke them that she couldn’t reply.

“I’ve shocked you. I’m sorry,” Mrs. Fowle said. “But it’s the truth, and you may as well know it. He played a mean trick on you yesterday with Mr. Jackson, and the doctor is even meaner when he has a hangover—which is quite often, I’m sorry to say.”

“What about the job he offered me?” Julia asked, hearing the tremor in her voice. “Was that just a mean trick, too?”

“Well, we are desperate for help in the linen room, but I don’t think it’s a job you would be suited for.”

Julia felt as though the floor beneath her had given way. This had all been a joke. Dr. McGrath had no intention of hiring her as a nurse. She longed to turn around and march away from this miserable hospital, but where would she go?

“To be honest,” Mrs. Fowle continued, “I think the doctor is using the linen room the same way he used poor Mr. Jackson yesterday. He’s trying to scare you off.”

“But why not just send me away? Why all these games?”

Mrs. Fowle released a long sigh, shaking her head. “Because Dr. James McGrath is a bitter, meanspirited man. He doesn’t need any other reason than that. If you’re wise, you’ll leave before he arrives.”

The matron was right—Julia should leave. She should give up the idea of becoming a nurse and go home. It’s what everyone had been trying to tell her from the very beginning. But the thought of admitting defeat made her angry. “May I ask, Mrs. Fowle …if Dr. McGrath is so horrible, why do you stay here and work with him?”

“Because our soldiers need me,” she said without hesitating. “I came to Washington City to take care of my husband after he was wounded at Bull Run. He died from his wounds, but there were so many others who needed my help that I simply couldn’t abandon them.”

Julia felt her feet touch solid ground again. The soldiers needed her. She’d run away from them once, and she was not going to do it again. “If I did decide to stay,” she said, “if I took the job in the linen room, do you think the doctor would eventually allow me to work as a nurse? Because that’s what I really want to do—to help wounded soldiers, like you do. I applied to Miss Dix, but she told me I was too young. And in a roundabout way, she suggested that I look for a position here.”

“If you’re sure that’s what you want,” Mrs. Fowle said doubtfully. “I’ll put in a good word for you when there’s an opening. In the meantime, I should warn you that your job in the linen room won’t be easy.”

“I appreciate the warning, but I would still like to stay.”

Mrs. Fowle smiled for the first time. “I believe you’ve won this round, Julia. Dr. McGrath will certainly be surprised to learn of your decision. Have you eaten?”

“No, there wasn’t time. He told me to be here by six.”

“Absurd man. Come on,” she said, turning toward the ward. “The cooks always feed the nursing staff first—and it’s usually ready about now.”

Most of the patients appeared to be sleeping as Mrs. Fowle led Julia through the ward and into the hotel kitchen. She smelled bacon and coffee and heard the clatter of dishes even before she passed through the swinging kitchen door. Two other nurses were already seated at a small wooden table, and Mrs. Fowle introduced Julia to Annie Morris and Lucy Nichols, the matrons of two other wards. The women explained to Julia that they were both widows with grown sons or sons-in-law serving in the army. Mrs. Fowle told them Julia’s story, and they discussed Dr. McGrath while they ate thick, tasteless flapjacks and bacon.

“There is more than a hint of mystery surrounding that man,” Mrs. Morris said. “I understand that he once had a thriving medical practice and was quite well renowned—until he got drunk and killed a wealthy patient he was treating. There are even rumors that he spent time in prison for it.”

“He’s certainly mean enough to be an ex-convict,” Mrs. Fowle said.

“I’ve never heard anything about prison,” Mrs. Nichols said. “I was told that he became a drunk after his patient died. And that he’s been drinking ever since because of it.”

“I don’t suppose it matters one way or the other,” Mrs. Fowle said, shaking her head. “Regardless of his past, his drunkenness and boorish behavior are inexcusable.”

Julia took a bite of bacon. It was as tough as leather and much too salty. “If it’s common knowledge that he drinks too much,” she said, “why does the army allow him to run a hospital?”

“Oh, he’s a very skilled physician when he’s sober,”Mrs. Nichols said. “After Bull Run they needed every doctor they could get their hands on and weren’t about to turn one away. He’s a contract surgeon— which means he hasn’t actually enlisted in the army.”

“And even though he’s vulgar to the outside world,” Mrs. Morris added, “I must say that he’s wonderful with the patients. Very gentle, very kind to them.”

“I’ve been here for almost as long as he has,” Mrs. Fowle said, “and I’ve seen several wonderful nurses leave because they couldn’t tolerate his bullying. But at the same time, his hospital has one of the lowest death rates of any in the city.”

Julia’s curiosity was piqued. She wondered if she could find out the truth about the doctor’s past somehow and use it to her advantage. She already considered Dr. McGrath her enemy and would use any ammunition against him that she could in order to secure a job as a nurse. “Where is he from?” she asked.

Mrs. Fowle shrugged. “He won’t talk about himself at all—and you’ll get your head bitten off if you ask. But I’ve seen the letters he gets every week from Mrs. James McGrath, and the return address is New Haven, Connecticut.”

“I saw a picture of his wife and daughter in his office yesterday,” Julia said. “She looked like a lovely woman.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it, too,” Mrs. Fowle said. “But that’s another mys-tery. For as long as he’s been here, he’s never once talked about his family or gone home to visit them. The letters arrive every week like clockwork, but wouldn’t you think his wife would want to come here to live—or at least visit him? After all, that’s why many of us came, to be closer to our husbands.”

“No, think about it, Eleanor,” Mrs. Morris said. “As horrible as that man is, I’d keep my distance, too, if I were his wife. And I’d be grateful for every mile there was between us.”

“You seem like a nice young lady, Julia,” Mrs. Nichols said. “Take my advice and look for work someplace else. He only offered you this awful job to try to get rid of you.”

“But if you really need someone in the linen room,” Julia said, “and if the army is so desperate for nurses, why does Dr. McGrath deliberately drive everyone away?”

Mrs. Fowle spread her hands. “The man is a mystery, I tell you. I don’t think he knows the answer to that himself.” The other ladies nodded in agreement. “Anyway,” she said, pushing back from the table, “it’s time we returned to work. I’ll show you the linen room, but none of us will blame you if you decide to leave. It’s a terrible job. Right now most of our patients are plagued with diarrhea and dysentery. … Well, you’ll see.”

Julia did see. The hotel laundry was a cramped room in the rear of the building with a table, four large wooden tubs, a collection of flatirons, and a stove to heat the water. The shelves where the clean bedding was stored were nearly empty, and the mound of soiled sheets waiting to be washed stood as high as Julia’s head. The pile reeked so horribly of sickness and human filth that it made her eyes water. She nearly vomited her breakfast. She pulled a scented handkerchief from her pocket and held it to her nose.

“Am I supposed to scrub all these bed linens myself?” she asked.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Mrs. Fowle said. “The army will pay for four laundresses, but they all keep quitting, and no one has time to find replacements. Meanwhile, the laundry keeps piling up. Lena is the only laundress we have left, besides you. With so many patients suffering from diarrhea, we’re in an awful mess. Sorry, but I have to get back to my ward now. I’ll tell Dr. McGrath you’re here when he decides to show up. Oh, and make sure you speak softly to him. He’ll probably have a hangover.”

The first thing Julia did was open a window to let out the stench. Cold air flooded the room, but she still couldn’t keep from gagging. Then she looked around in dismay. Julia had never done laundry in her life and had no idea where or how to begin. Nathaniel’s accusation came back to haunt her once again—she was a pampered, spoiled woman.

The stove, she finally decided. She would start by finding some firewood and lighting the stove to heat the wash water. But she had never lit a stove in her life, either, and when the sole laundress finally arrived an hour later, Julia still hadn’t managed to kindle a fire.

“You putting too much wood,” Lena explained in broken English. “You must to start with small wood, then to put big wood.”She soon had the stove blazing.

Lena was fifteen, she told Julia, and needed the job to help support her family, newly arrived from the old country. She had worked in the hospital laundry for two months and knew a lot more about it than Julia did, but Lena was a plump, listless girl who daydreamed a lot. The only way they would ever conquer the mountain of linens was if Julia pitched in and helped.

Together they pumped water and hauled it inside by the bucketful, filling the two copper cauldrons on the stove. “The water must be hot,” Lena said. “To kill the louse.”

“You mean there are lice in this bedding?” Julia cried, dropping the load of sheets she held in her arms.

“Yes, the soldier-men all have the bugs. They hop into the sheets.”

Julia found a broom handle and used it to transfer the bedding into the cauldrons. Lena showed her how to shave the soap into the steaming tubs and agitate a load of sheets with the plunger, beating until the soap foamed and her shoulders ached. Any stains—and there were plenty—had to be scrubbed clean by hand on a washboard. Then the sheets were wrung out and transferred to the rinse water to be beaten some more. Julia and Lena each grabbed an end and twisted the sheets to wring out the rinse water, then hung them outside in the frigid air to dry. Julia’s hands quickly grew chapped and raw from the combination of hot water, caustic soap, and icy air. She had never done such menial, backbreaking work in her life.

The two women labored all morning scrubbing soiled sheets, but by the time they hung the last one out to dry, the nurses had made their morning rounds through the wards and a new mound of dirty ones had materialized in the laundry room doorway. The only thing that kept Julia from weeping was her fear that Dr. McGrath would arrive and catch her doing it. She remembered his smirking face and scornful words: “I can play this little game for as long as you wish, Mrs. Hoffman.”

The cooks sent a tray of food out to the laundry after the patients had been fed their noon meal, but the sight and smell of stinking sheets had made Julia too nauseated to eat. Lena devoured both of their portions. Then the girl pointed to the baskets full of dry linens from yesterday’s wash. “Those we do now.”

“You mean we need to fold them?” Julia asked.

Lena shook her head. “They stiff from hang outside. We must to iron. Making soft.”

They took the cauldrons off the stove and began warming the flatirons, then cleared the wooden tubs off the table so they could use it as an ironing board. Lena was adept at juggling several irons on the stovetop at the same time without letting any of them get too hot and scorch the sheets. But Julia’s arms and shoulders ached so badly from the work she’d already done that she could barely lift the heavy irons. Twice, she grabbed a handle that was too hot and blistered her palm. When she burned an iron-shaped hole in one sheet she wanted to give up. Her feet ached from standing on them all day. She longed to remove her shoes but feared they would never fit on her swollen feet again if she did.

The work never ended. As fast as the sheets were cleaned and pressed and put on the linen room shelves, more filthy ones arrived. By late afternoon, the shelves were just as empty and the mound of dirty ones just as big as they had been that morning. It was impossible to keep up. When Lena finally announced that it was time to go home, Julia was quite certain it had been the longest, most miserable day of her entire life. She did not wish to ever spend another one like it.

She wanted nothing more than to sneak out and never see any of these people again, but her coat and bonnet were still in Dr. McGrath’s office. Julia would have to go through the ward to retrieve them. She drew a deep breath and opened the wardroom door, looking around for Mrs. Fowle. The least she could do was let the matron know that she would not be returning tomorrow. But when Julia spotted Dr. McGrath bending over one of the patients she changed her mind. He was certain to have a smirk on his face and a sarcastic comment to toss her way, and she didn’t trust herself not to burst into tears. Besides, she knew that she looked frightful. Her hair had fallen loose a dozen times, her natural curls frizzing uncontrollably in the steamy room, and she’d hastily pinned it back in place without a mirror. The sleeves of her muslin dress were badly wrinkled from being rolled up all day, and the front of her dress was water-stained and soaked clear through all of her petticoats to her skin. Julia quietly backed away, deciding to use the rear door of the laundry and walk all the way around the building to retrieve her coat.

The late afternoon sky was already turning to night as she stepped outside, and she shivered in the damp, freezing air. She managed to slip through the front door without being seen and quickly grabbed her things from the rack in Dr. McGrath’s office. But no sooner had she shoved her arms into her sleeves and yanked open the door when she heard his gruff voice behind her.

“Ah …Mrs. Hoffman?”

Julia cringed. She stopped midway through the door but didn’t turn around, glancing only briefly at him over her shoulder. “Yes, Doctor?”

“The matron told me you were here today. I meant to come see how you were doing out in the linen room, but we got so busy that I never made it.”

“Your presence wasn’t necessary,” she said coldly. “I’m sure you had better things to do than visit the linen room.”

“Yes. Quite true. So …should we expect you back tomorrow?”

Julia knew that if she looked at his face he would be grinning, challenging her. She would not let him win.

“Of course,” she said, then slipped the rest of the way through the door and let it slam shut behind her. But Julia had no intention of ever coming back.

As she emerged into the dark, windy evening, her wet clothing clung to her skin, chilling her with its icy grip. She wondered if she would catch pneumonia. There wasn’t an empty cab to be found anywhere near the hospital, and she was forced to wander farther and farther through the dismal streets in search of one. A half hour passed before she finally succeeded. She was about to climb into the carriage and sit down for the first time since lunch, when a ragged little Negro boy no more than five or six years old ran up to her carriage and tugged on her coattails.

“Please, pretty lady, can you give me some money?”

His large dark eyes seemed to fill his face as he gazed up at her. The boy shivered in a thin, ragged jacket several sizes too large for him. He was barefooted—in February. Julia quickly dug in her change purse and gave him a handful. He grinned and ran down the street to intercept the next pedestrian.

“Either you’re new in town, miss,” the cab driver said, “or else you’re from up north.”

“I’m both,” she said, sinking onto the carriage seat at last.

“Thought so.” He snapped the reins and they started forward. “After you’ve been here a while you’ll get used to contrabands. You’ll learn not to let them get to you.”

“Used to …contrabands?” she asked, repeating the unfamiliar word. “What are they?”

“That kid who just duped you is one. They’re former slaves from places like Virginia or the Carolinas. Washington is full of them. Most of them ran away and followed our Union soldiers to freedom, but now that they don’t have masters to take care of them anymore they don’t know how to live. So they send their kids out to beg in the streets. You’ll learn to ignore them eventually. Everyone does.”

“But what about the Fugitive Slave Law?” she asked, remembering what she’d learned at Nathaniel’s abolition lectures. “According to the law, don’t all runaway slaves have to be sent back to their owners?”

“Not since the war started, they don’t. That’s why they’re called contrabands. They’re spoils of war, the property of the victors, just like land or houses or any other booty that’s been won in battle. Except that there aren’t any jobs for all these slaves and no place for them to live except in the shantytowns they build. Poor souls have never been free before, and they don’t know how to fend for themselves. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am sympathetic. But if kind folks like you keep giving them money every time they beg, they never will learn how to earn an honest wage.”

“He was just a child,” Julia said. “And he was shivering. How could I look the other way?”

“You got Negroes back home where you come from?” he asked. The mention of home unexpectedly brought tears to Julia’s eyes. She couldn’t reply.

“I figured not. Like I said, you’ll get used to seeing them. You’ll learn to ignore them.”

When they finally reached the boardinghouse, Julia’s muscles were so stiff from hard work and so frozen from the cold she could barely climb down from the carriage. She didn’t think she would ever be warm again. She pulled open the boardinghouse door and entered the vestibule, grateful for its stingy warmth. Her landlady met her.

“You’re too late for supper,” the woman said without a word of greeting. “I believe I explained to you when you paid the first month’s room and board that we eat promptly at five-thirty, didn’t I?”

“Yes, ma’am, you did. But this was my first day of work at the hospital, and I didn’t know it would take so long to finish or to find a cab. And there was so much traffic with the streets full of army wagons—”

“Well, a hungry stomach makes an excellent schoolmaster,” she said primly. “I trust you’ll leave work on time tomorrow.” She turned and marched away.

Julia climbed the stairs to her drab little room and found it so cold she could see her breath. She remembered then what else the landlady had told her that first day—she was responsible for her own fire. Shivering, she knelt by the hearth and rekindled the coals the way Lena had taught her, first with “little” wood, then with “big” wood. Her empty stomach rumbled and growled while she worked. It would be the first time in her life she had ever gone to bed hungry.

When she stood, her hands black with soot, Julia caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The bedraggled-looking woman who stared back at her was a pitiful stranger with disheveled hair and a drab, stained dress. The tears Julia had been holding back all day were finally unleashed. She threw herself down on the sagging bed and sobbed. What was she doing here? How had she sunk so low?

If she were home she might be attending a party or a ball tonight, dressed in a gown of silk and lace, with rustling taffeta petticoats and swaying hoops. Her hair would be perfectly curled and trimmed with ribbons and jeweled combs; her grandmother’s topaz necklace would sparkle around her graceful neck. She remembered the glorious feeling of entering a room, knowing she was beautiful, and seeing the admiration in every man’s eyes, the envy in every woman’s. Why had she come here? Why was she doing this to herself?

The life Julia found herself living was not at all what she had pictured. She had given up everything to be a nurse, not a scrubwoman. She was supposed to be saving lives, offering comfort to wounded soldiers, accepting their words of gratitude and blessing— not working for a drunken, abusive doctor, scrubbing human filth from soiled sheets. She wanted to go home.

She had sacrificed her pampered life and had changed completely on the outside. But tonight Julia recognized that she was still the same on the inside—still a spoiled rich girl. No matter how much hard work and suffering she endured, she could never change. And Reverend Nathaniel Greene was never going to love her. Tomorrow she would swallow her pride, admit she was unsuited for nursing, and go home.

Julia awoke to the distant sounds of reveille and drums, coming from one of the hundreds of army encampments surroundingWashington City. The aroma of coffee drifted up the stairs, and she climbed out of bed, shaky with hunger. She quickly splashed water on her face, put on her wrinkled dress, and hurried down to the dining room.

Four other girls already sat around the table, silently eating a breakfast of oatmeal, dry toast, and coffee. They were all plainlooking young women, dressed in the drab clothing of the working class—just like she was. No one greeted her as she slipped into a seat at the table. The serving girl set a bowl of lumpy oatmeal and a plate of toast in front of her.

Back home in Philadelphia, Julia’s parents would be eating breakfast in their dining room right now, the table spread with fine china and silver and white linen. Hot food would be waiting on the buffet in silver chargers—soft scrambled eggs, buttered rolls, tender slices of ham, delicately seasoned potatoes. Her father would have his newspaper open in front of him, and he would read a paragraph or two aloud from time to time, as was his habit.

Julia lifted her spoon and swallowed a sticky clump of oatmeal. If she hadn’t been famished, she never could have choked it down. By the time she’d finished the last sip of bitter coffee, all her lingering doubts had vanished. She would go home.

Julia nearly raced up the stairs. She changed into her traveling suit, fixed her hair in a flattering style, and packed her plain brown dress and everything else into her trunk. She would hail a cab; she would order the driver to come to the boardinghouse and fetch her trunk; she would go to the train station and purchase a ticket to Philadelphia. Her father would probably be horrified when he found out she had traveled without a chaperone—but then again, maybe he would be so happy that she had finally come to her senses, he wouldn’t care.

Outside, the day was bright and clear, the winter sun surprisingly warm, a perfect day to travel. Julia stood in front of the boardinghouse for several minutes, waiting for a carriage. When none drove past she finally decided to walk a few blocks east to one of the main thoroughfares. It was a bustling street with vendors hawking pretzels and fried dough cakes. Uniformed soldiers marched past in tight ranks, their guns and bayonets pointing to the sky. All manner of vehicles clogged the rutted streets, from Conestoga wagons and buckboards to broughams and buggies—everything, it seemed, but a vacant cab. She heard music and followed the sound to find an old Negro man playing his fiddle on a street corner. Passersby tossed coins into his hat. He was crooked and bent with age, his white hair and beard a stark contrast to his dark skin. The tune he played made Julia ache with sorrow. He played as if the fiddle were a fountain that overflowed with memories of all he had endured.

She bent and dropped coins into his hat, then quickly turned away. That’s when she saw them—two little Negro girls, no older than three or four years, silently begging with outstretched arms as thin as kindling wood. Unheeding pedestrians hurried past, and Julia remembered the cab driver’s certainty that she would learn to ignore the contrabands, too.

Julia slowly walked toward the girls, drawn by pity. The smaller child looked up at her with pleading eyes and said, “I’m hungry.” Something inside Julia seemed to break.

She could leave Washington today and return to her elegant life in a warm home with plentiful food, but these two children and dozens of others like them would still be here—shivering, begging, their stomachs as empty every night as hers had been for only one. She would lie down on clean linen sheets in her four-poster bed, leaving suffering soldiers like Private Jackson to die on bare, stained mattresses.

Julia dug two coins from her purse and crouched in front of the girls. “Do you live near here?” she asked.

The older child nodded and pointed vaguely down the street.

“I’ll pay you to show me where you live. I’d like to talk to your mama. Will you take me to your house?”

The child took the coins from Julia and nodded again.

Clutching each other’s hands, the two girls silently led her down a narrow alleyway off the main street to the shantytown where the contrabands lived. It was stuffed beneath a railroad trestle near the river, a warren of shacks made of packing crates, scraps of wood, old barrels, rags, and jagged pieces of metal. As she picked her way through the debris, following her small guides, Julia could barely distinguish the homes and personal belongings from the scattered piles of trash.

The children led her to a nondescript pile of junk where a Negro woman sat with a small baby on her lap, poking at the fire she had built in front of the shanty. She watched apprehensively as Julia approached. Julia felt just as nervous.

“Hello …I’m Julia Hoffman,” she said. A mound of rags behind the woman shifted at the sound of Julia’s voice, and a second woman sat up, clutching another infant. There was a strong resemblance between the two women, and Julia guessed that they were sisters. Neither one looked much older than she was.

“I have some work that needs to be done,” Julia said, “and I was wondering if you would like to have a job …to earn some money?”

The first woman looked at her through narrowed eyes. “What kind of job?”

“I work in an army hospital. I’d like to hire you to scrub laundry. The army will pay you good wages. Have you done that sort of work before?”

“We can wash clothes, sure enough. We used to cook meals, hoe the garden, do all kinds of work.”

“Good. Would you like the job? I could use both of you.”

The women glanced at each other, communicating silently, then the first one said, “Me and Loretta always willing to work. Lord knows we don’t want our girls begging. But who gonna mind these young ones while we work? How these babies gonna eat? Our men working for the army, and ain’t nobody to take care these children all day.”

It took Julia only a moment to decide. “You may bring the children, too. As long as all the laundry gets done, I don’t care if you keep them with you.”

The woman gave a quick, hopeful smile as she scrambled to her feet, shifting the baby from her lap to her shoulder. “This hospital very far? Can we be walking there every day?”

Julia hadn’t thought about transportation. Fairfield Hospital was too far away for the women to walk, and it would be too expensive for them to hire a carriage every day on laundresses’ wages—if they could even find a driver willing to transport Negroes. Yet Julia knew she had to make this idea of hers work. She needed their help, and these women and their children needed hers. As she edged closer to the fire, warming herself, Julia remembered that the hospital used to be a hotel. Surely there were servants’ quarters somewhere in the building. And even if there weren’t, the laundry room was clean, warm, and dry, a much better alternative than a bed of rags beneath a railway trestle. The only obstacle that she could see was Dr. McGrath. Julia decided she would deal with him when the time came.

“Pack all your things and bring them with you,” she said. “I’ll let you live at the hospital.”

The second woman had crawled out of the shanty and risen to her feet, too. She stared at Julia in astonishment. “That true? We ain’t dreaming? You give us a job and a place to live?”

“It’s true,” Julia assured her. “The job is yours if you’d like it.”

“I surely would rather work than see my children starve,” the first woman said. Tears shone in her eyes as she hugged one of the little girls to her side.

“What’s your name?” Julia asked.

“I’m Belle and this here’s my sister, Loretta.”

“It’s nice to meet both of you. Listen, I’m going home to change into work clothes. In the meantime, you can pack all your things. I’ll be back in an hour or so with a carriage.”

Lena was already at the hospital when they arrived and had just finished building a fire in the stove. She looked completely overwhelmed by the mountain of work she faced and greatly relieved to see help arriving. Belle and Loretta didn’t waste a minute. They saw right away what needed to be done and began hauling water, sorting laundry, and setting up the wooden tubs. In no time, they had fearlessly attacked the mound of soiled sheets, working so quickly and efficiently that Lena seemed to be standing still in comparison. The two little girls Julia had found begging now ran errands for their mothers, fetching wood, shaving soap into the tubs, tending the babies when they fussed.

Julia watched in amazement as the women bustled around. It was as though they’d been working here for years. She hardly dared to move, knowing she was probably more of a hindrance than a help. But when the two women began to sing while they labored, Julia was so astounded she couldn’t speak.

“My Lord delivered Daniel from the lion’s den, Jonah from the belly of the whale…”

The joyful sound shivered through Julia, bringing tears to her eyes. She had done the same work they were doing all day yesterday, yet the last thing in the world she had felt like doing was singing. But Belle and Loretta were so grateful for what they had—a warm place to stay, a job that would earn a living for themselves and their children—that they couldn’t help bursting into song.

“He delivered the Hebrew children from the fiery furnace, then why not every man?”

The work went smoothly all morning, the little girls helping, the babies napping in empty laundry baskets near the stove. But when the three laundresses went outside to hang the sheets out to dry, one of the babies woke up and began crying loudly for his mother. Julia had no experience with small babies. She picked him up as if he were made of glass and jiggled him in her arms, trying to soothe him.

“Shhh. It’s all right. Your mama will be back in a minute. Shhh.”He wailed louder still.

Suddenly the laundry room door burst open and Dr. McGrath filled the doorway. “Why do I hear babies crying?” he thundered.“What is going on out here?” His face was so pale and angrylooking that he might have caught Julia giving aid and comfort to a troop of Rebel soldiers instead of tending a helpless baby.

“He belongs to one of my laundresses,” she said, trying not to let the doctor see her fear. “He’s crying because he wants his lunch.”

“Get that thing out of here! Now!” He pointed to the back door as if the baby were a burning stick of dynamite that she needed to toss outside before it exploded. “This is an Army hospital, not a charity.”

“I will not,” she said bravely. “It’s cold outside. Besides, he has no other place to go while his mother works. Do you want your hospital to have clean sheets or don’t you?”

“Of course I want clean sheets. And kindly lower your voice. There is no need to shout.”

“I’m not the one who is shouting.” She gave the baby her knuckle to chew on, and he quieted for a moment. The doctor massaged his temples, looking visibly relieved.

“Now,” Julia continued, “I believe you made me supervisor of the linen room, Dr. McGrath, and this is how I’ve chosen to run it. If you force my laundresses to quit because they can’t keep their children with them, then I will be forced to quit, as well.”

“Don’t tempt me. … ” he growled. But Julia sensed that he was backing down. She summoned her courage to continue.

“I know how to manage servants, Doctor, and I know from experience that they are most productive when their own needs are adequately met. Since it’s impossible to support a family on what the Army pays them, I’ve told my laundresses they may stay here in the servants’ quarters.”

“You did what?”

“You put me in charge of this laundry room, didn’t you?” she asked, sounding braver than she felt. “Look, these are probably the best laundresses the hospital has ever had. Your linen room is running smoothly, and the shelves will soon be filled with plenty of clean sheets. Are you sure you want to fire these hard-working women and let everything go back to the way it was before, just because I’m allowing Belle and Loretta to live in the attic?”

Dr. McGrath glared at her for a long moment, then turned and stomped off. Julia smiled at his retreating back. “I’ll take that as a no,” she said.

When Julia arrived at the hospital one morning a week later, she was surprised to find Dr. McGrath already at work in his office, seated behind his desk as he had been on the first day they’d met. He had his curtains drawn tightly closed, and he sat in the dark, writing with one hand, supporting his head with the other. His face was pale and pinched with pain. Hangover or not, she had no wish to speak with him and was trying to slip quietly past his office without being seen when he called to her.

“Mrs. Hoffman, would you come here, please?”

She slowly backed up, stopping in his office doorway. If he felt half as ill as he looked, he was certainly suffering.

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Have you ever had the measles?” he asked without looking up.

His question was so unexpected that for a moment she couldn’t reply. Julia remembered how she and Rosalie had lain sick in bed together, covered with spots. Dr. Lowe had come twice a day to check on them, while their mother had hovered nearby, wringing her hands and ordering compresses and sponge baths. Julia felt her heart wrench with homesickness the way a stomach twists with hunger, and she suddenly longed for her mother, for her room, and even for her prickly sister.

“Yes,” she said, struggling to compose herself. “I had the measles when I was ten years old.”

He dipped his pen into the inkwell and continued to write as he talked. There was a trail of ink spots across his blotter from his trembling hand. “Good. Go see the ward matron on the second floor. What’s her name? Nicholson…?”

“It’s Nichols. Lucy Nichols.”

“Whatever. Go see her. Your services are needed as a nurse.”

Julia’s heart began to race with excitement. She hoped this wasn’t another one of the doctor’s mean tricks. “Um …what about the linen room?” she asked.

He looked up at her, rolling his eyes at her stupidity, then spoke in a slow, condescending tone, as if talking to a simpleton. “Can’t they do without you for a few days, Mrs. Hoffman? Are you completely indispensable?”

“Of course not. My new laundresses are excellent workers.”

“All right, then. Promote one of them to supervisor and get your dainty little rear end upstairs. We’ve got a measles epidemic on our hands.”