They kept the floors from staining red, and helped carry the endless trays of food and medicines, tagging along in the wake of the doctors and helping the nurses manage the unruly ones who awoke afraid.
And even with the help of these men, and two dozen nurses like herself, and five doctors working around the clock, and a whole contingent of laundry and kitchen women, the smell never, ever went away.
It worked itself into the wrinkles in Mercys clothes and lurked in her hair. It collected under her fingernails.
She carried it with her, always.
Captain Sally? Mercy called out, and as soon as the words were spoken, she spied the woman standing near the front door, accompanied by another woman and a man.
Sally was small and pale, with dark hair parted severely down the middle of her head and a plain black dress buttoned tightly from waist to chin. She was leaning forward to better hear the other woman speak, while the gentleman behind them shuffled back and forth on his feet, moving his gaze left to right.
Mercy. Captain Sally wended through the maze of cots to meet the young nurse. She had stopped shouting. Mercy, I need a word with you. Im very sorry, but its important. Would you join us? She indicated the anxious-looking man and the stoic woman with a New Englanders ramrod posture.
Who are those people? she asked without agreeing to anything.
They have a message for you.
Mercy didnt want to meet the man and woman. They did not look like people with good
news to pass along. Why dont they come inside to deliver it, then?
Sally said, Dearest, and she pressed her mouth close to Mercys ear. Thats Clara Barton, the Red Cross woman, and no onell bother her. But the fellow beside her is a Yankee.
Mercy made a little choking sound. Whats he doing here, then? she asked, though she already had a very good idea, and it was horrible.
Mercy-
Aint they got their own hospitals, hardly a hundred miles away in Washington? He doesnt look hurt none too bad, anyhow. She was talking too quickly.
Sally interrupted. Mercy, you need to talk to that man, and Miss Barton.
That Red Cross woman, what does she want with me? Ive already got a job nursing, and its right here, and I dont want to- Sweat warmed the inside of her collar. She tugged at it, trying to give herself some air.
Vinita. The small woman with the big rank put her hands on Mercys shoulders, forcing the younger nurse to stand up straight and meet her eyes. Take a deep breath now, like we talked about before.
Im trying, she whispered. I dont think I can.
Breathe deep now. Let it out, and take your time. Hold yourself up. And come, lets have a talk with these people. Her tone softened, dipping from commander to mother. Ill stay with you, if you like.
I dont want . . . , she began, but she didnt know what she wanted, so when Sally took her hand and squeezed it, she squeezed back.
Someplace private, the officer said. Sally nodded at Clara Barton and her nervous companion, indicating that they should follow; and she led Mercy through the remaining rows of cots and out the back, and down a corridor swiftly-urging their followers to hasten-and then they were in the courtyard of what used to be Judge Robertsons mansion. Tents peppered the yard and bustling officials came and went from flap to flap, but they ignored the nurse and her party.
Back between the trees, where the chilly, sun-dappled grass moved with shadows from the leaves overhead, Captain Sally led all three to a picnic area where the ground was cleared and a set of benches was placed for lovers, or lunches, or rest.
Mercy was still squeezing Sallys hand, because the moment she let go, someone was going to speak.
When everyone was seated, Sally pried Mercys fingers off her own, then held the shaking hand and patted it gently as she said, Miss Barton, Mr. Atwater. This is Vinita Lynch, though around here, most everyone calls her-
Mercy, said Mr. Atwater. Hed been good-looking once, but was almost haggard now, with dark hair and brown eyes, and a thin body that seemed on the rebound from the very cusp of starvation.
Mrs. Lynch, he tried again. My name is Dorence Atwater, and I was in the camp at Andersonville for six years. He kept it low, soft. Quiet. Not wanting anyone to hear.
He wasnt fighting anymore, and he wasnt in uniform, but the cadence of his speech marked him as a northern boy-a real northern boy, not a border-state boy like Vinitas husband. He didnt have an accent that could go either way: Kentucky or Tennessee; Virginia or Washington, D.C.; Texas or Kansas.
Mr. Atwater, she said, more curtly than she meant to. But all her words were clipped, and her grip on the matrons hand was leaving crescent moons where her nails were digging deep. That mustve been . . . difficult.
It was a stupid word, and she knew it. Of course the camp had been difficult; everything was difficult, wasnt it? Marrying a border-state Yankee was difficult when her Virginia home stayed gray. Missing him for two years now was difficult, too, and folding his letters over and over again, reading them for the hundredth time, and the two hundredth time, that was difficult. Nursing the injured was difficult, and so was wondering with each new wound if itd been inflicted by her very own spouse, or if her very own spouse was somewhere else-maybe a hundred miles away in Washington-being nursed by a woman much like herself, dutifully tending her own cannon fodder lads on sagging cots.