Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [97]
“The Medical College Hospital is full,” the doctor insisted. “You can’t send us any more.”
“All of the other hospitals are overflowing, too,” Mr. Goode replied. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You must find more places for them.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know . . . take them to homes or schools or hotels, even warehouses—someplace where they’re out of the sun and the dust. Someplace where they can rest and get a drink of water.”
Everywhere I looked the wounded men lay, waiting on the train platform and on sidewalks and even on the city streets. Some of the men moaned and wept and begged for morphine or a drink of water, men with missing limbs and savage wounds and filthy, blood-soaked bandages. I was staggered by the knowledge that we didn’t have enough hospitals to care for them all, enough ambulances to transport them there, enough doctors or nurses or beds or medicine.
Sally closed her eyes against the terrible sight, refusing to budge from our place near the ticket office as we waited for the casualty list to be posted. I longed to run home, but my greater need was to search for Charles and Jonathan among the mangled bodies. I forced myself to walk between the rows, searching each exhausted face, looking for a Richmond Blues insignia on each uniform. Some of the men grabbed the hem of my skirt as I passed, pleading for help, for mercy, for the assurance that they weren’t going to die. By the time the list arrived, and I learned that neither Charles St. John nor Jonathan Fletcher was on it, I knew that it would be a long time before I could erase the horror of this day from my mind.
As I clung to Sally, weeping and thanking God for Charles’ safety, the doctor I’d seen earlier suddenly interrupted us. “Ladies, please. I need your help . . . these men need your help.”
“We’re not nurses—” Sally began.
“You don’t need to be. Please, just help me. Talk to the men, reassure them.” I saw the fatigue on the doctor’s distraught face, the bloodstains on his hands and coat. From what little I’d seen on the platform, I knew that he faced an overwhelming task.
Sally backed away from him. “I can’t . . .”
He gripped her arm, refusing to let go. “I noticed that you were looking for someone’s name a moment ago. A boyfriend? Husband? Brother? Suppose he was one of these wounded souls, lying on a train platform in a strange city.Wouldn’t you want some kind, compassionate woman to help him? I’m not asking you to tend their wounds. Just give a soldier a drink of water. Help someone write a letter home—especially the ones who are dying. Help me feed the men who can’t feed themselves. Talk to them, encourage them. . . . Please.”
“Sally, we have to help him,” I said. “You know we do.”
The doctor’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you.” He relinquished Sally’s arm, and after directing us to the City Almshouse where a makeshift hospital was being organized, he hurried away to intercept another group of women and beg for their help.
The scene at the City Almshouse so overwhelmed me that I staggered against the doorframe for support. Mutilated men lay wall-to-wall on the bare floor, leaving scarcely enough room to walk down the rows between them. Every square inch of floor space was filled, yet still more injured men continued to arrive, filling the yard outside, waiting for someone to die and make a space for them inside. Blood stained the soldiers’ bandages, their clothing and faces, the floors, even the doorposts as bodies flowed in and out in a steady stream. I’d never seen so much blood in my life.
The matron seemed grateful to see us, but she had little time to spare for instructions, let alone pleasantries. “Start with that room,” she said, pointing to a smaller room off the main hallway. “Most of them haven’t eaten in two days, a lot of them need water. You’ll have to help some of them feed themselves.” She appraised Sally, whose beautiful face had turned the color of paper, and added, “Talk