DESTINY OBSCURE

Joel Berman

BOOKS BY JOEL BERMAN

NON-FICTION

UNDERSTANDING SURGERY
A Comprehensive Guide for Every Family

COMPREHENSIVE BREAST CARE
and
Surviving Breast Cancer

SLAVE LABOR

THE DEATH OF AMERICA
The Deterioration of Ethics, Character, and Education
In the United States

FICTION

SCALPEL THE GIRL WITH EMERALD EYES

THE CLOAK OF HIPPOCRATES

CIRCLE IN THE WATER

A FEW LOOSE SCREWS

FLOATING WORLD

A GREEK TRAGEDY

MURDER BY DESIGN

SOMETHING OF THE OLD

THE OLDEST SINS

SHORT STORIES

FIFTY-TWO PIECES

POETRY

AN ALPHABETIC COLLECTION OF RIDICULOUS MEDICAL POETRY

for Nicole, Claudia, and Danny

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

—Thomas Gray, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”

INTRODUCTION

t was a time of peace, or so it was said, a time of joy for returning sons and a time of anger and sadness for a dead president, a time of freedom for some and oppression for others, tempered happiness for the victors, misery and disheartenment for the defeated. There were a hundred thousand acres of burnt cotton fields, the rubble of grand old mansions, and the destroyed soul of a confederate nation. An unloved president sat in the White House, disenfranchised black men wandered homeless and confused throughout the countryside, and the last dregs of starved men had made their way north from the atrocities of the Southern prison camp at Andersonville. Just about every Southern family had a tale of woe, of loved ones killed, maimed, or impoverished, and dying memories of a world that had disappeared.

In spite of the demands of a government wanting to repair the rifts, the victors wreaked havoc on the defeated. Carpetbaggers sniggled their way into the unsuspecting remnants of defeated cities, adding misery to the lives of those they met, stealing, conniving, and draining the last drops of blood from an already anemic land.

It was 1867 and the Congress was reeling after Secretary of State William H. Seward, according to many in the Congress, had irresponsibly drained the treasury of 7.2 million dollars to purchase a worthless, mostly frigid wilderness called Alaska from the Russians. And an enthusiastic young man named Horatio Alger, who would eventually become the author of more than a hundred stories depicting young men “leading exemplary lives, struggling valiantly against poverty and adversity, gaining wealth and honor in post-war America,” published his first book, Ragged Dick, a study in the achievement of “The American Dream.”

A neoclassical artist with Calvinist virtues and morals, and violent anti-Catholic and anti-immigration sentiments, Samuel F. B. Morse had turned his interests to science, eventually patenting the first telegraph in 1840. By 1867 he had helped in the final completion of the oft-failed transatlantic cable. The world was shrinking, and the nation, turned towards peace, was emerging as a rising world power. Great fortunes were being made in the cities, and the once backward nation was able to reserve its place alongside the culture, economies, and power of the European monarchies.

But while there were growing centers of prosperity in the urban communities, the populace was mostly rural: hardworking men and women just managing to eke out a living from the land. And while history records the successes of a few, untold thousands struggled, suffered, and died ignominiously in the backwater towns and distant farms. Chapters and tomes were written about Washington, Jefferson, Franklin, Lincoln, Sherman, Grant, Longfellow, Whitman, Thoreau, Melville, and so many others, and the common man was all but forgotten.

PROLOGUE

he rust-colored and yellow maple leaves reflected the bright autumn sunlight, gently flickering as the trees swayed in the light wind. Like intermittent short breaths—the rustling of branches, followed by a few seconds of silent calm—the breeze came and went throughout the day. The temperature, near to freezing the previous night, had risen to a tolerable forty-five by mid-afternoon. A partly overcast sky permitted sunlight to penetrate the clouds, the heavens sometimes clearing to a pale blue. In times of silence, the landscape remained still, with no visible birds or other creatures breaking the solemnity of the wooded glen.

A dirt road passed close to a wooden fence enclosing an open section of pasture empty of cows and holding only a few bales of freshly stacked hay. In the distance a cottage perched on a slight rise. A small green lizard darted quickly across the road and disappeared into a border of tall grass, scattered dandelions, and hemp nettle. And if one looked closely, there were giant spider webs spanning occasional branches with their inert weavers waiting motionless in the center.

The morning dew had disappeared from the ground, but rain from the night before had left large puddles of mud and the indentations of recent wagon wheels on the road. The scene might have passed for a sixteenth century landscape by Bruegel were it not for the presence of a solitary telegraph wire stretching between poles and terminating at the distant cottage. Or perhaps this was some kind of temporal mistake, and the poles didn't really exist, or the wires were actually hemp, stretching the long distance for no explainable reason. No matter. If one were to keep glancing at the scene, there would soon appear a figure, moving slowly towards that wooden structure. At first, a huddled, formless creature barely five feet tall, wrapped in an olive army blanket over a threadbare sweater and hood, then a wisp of dark hair, and then a thin, pale hand pulling the cover over herself and the parcel she carried in front of her.

And when the hood fell away, the victim of a stronger puff of wind, the head of a young woman was exposed, her eyes sunken and glancing earthward, moving first to one side, then the other. Finding a grassy clearing, she sat down heavily with a soft sigh. She was wet from her waist down and, as she sat, the blanket pulled away to expose her swollen abdomen, heavy with child.

Without warning, droplets of rain began to fall, increasing in intensity. The woman rose with difficulty and moved a short distance to a spot under one of the maple trees still bearing resplendent foliage. The sprinkle turned into a downfall, and the stillness of the spot was replaced by the sound of water rushing through the trees and heavy droplets pounding the earth. The road became a mire of splashing mud, and the woman huddled closer to the trunk of the tree.

A guttural scream broke through the natural sounds, panting and screaming continuing for several seconds, then disappearing. The woman, grasping her abdomen, fell backwards, knees bent, gasping for air, seemingly oblivious to the rain, which, finding her now exposed, pummeled her from above. The ground around her legs filled with water and blood as her screams waxed and waned with each painful contraction. And then, in a moment of arduous moaning and screaming out, a small bloody mass appeared between her legs, followed by the unmistakable cry of a child.

The woman quickly sat up and leaned forward, pulling the child out and up. She removed some thick lisle from the blanket and tied it around the snake-like umbilical cord; then, leaning forward, she bit through it, separating the baby from its placenta. She brought the infant to her chest and wrapped the blanket around the two of them. After a few more minutes, her body extruded the placenta, and she lay back, breathing heavily, blood still pooling around her thighs.

The child cried a few more times, and then there was silence except for the pounding of the rain that washed the blood from the woman's motionless form in small rivulets, at first dark red, then pale pink, and then, after half an hour, clear and crystalline, reflecting the last light of the fading autumn day.

After an hour, the downpour ceased as quickly as it had begun. The woman stirred and, with difficulty, stood up, holding the child between her breasts. A shiver ran through her body, but she ignored it, singing a little song to herself and the child.

“What shall we call Suzanna's little baby? What shall we call him underneath the lilacs?”

Her lilting voice was soft, and she began walking toward the cottage, now almost a hundred yards ahead. There was no noise from the infant, which had attached itself to her left breast, suckling at will.

“What shall we call Suzanna's little baby? Mamma's little baby in the cool moonlight,” she mouthed the words of an old Negro spiritual, changing the name of “Mary” to her own … Suzanna. And instead of calling the child “Emmanuel,” as in the song, she sang, “Let us call him Ezekial, Ezekial, Ezekial, under the lilac tree.”

She stopped every few yards, leaning against a tree, panting heavily, weak from blood loss and the labor she had just undergone. The child grew heavier as her strength waned and, at the bottom of the rise on which the cottage stood, she sat down on a patch of soft wet moss at the base of a tree. She rested for several seconds before trying to rise again, but found she was too weak to stand. After several unsuccessful attempts, she began to cry softly, crawling with one hand and both legs, holding the infant to her with her free hand. The moon had not yet risen, and the evening pressed into pitch black nightfall, the silence broken only by her steadfast movement towards the light flickering in a window now less than one hundred yards in front of her. She could feel the wet sticky passage of blood down her legs as the energy ebbed from her, and she finally sat down against a tree trunk, able to move no farther. Her grip on the infant loosened. The child slipped down from her breast onto her abdomen, still beneath the moist blanket.

Deprived of its feeding, after a few moments, the baby keened from its perch on the now huddled figure, pausing only to breathe every few seconds. The shrill sound pierced the silence of the evening. The mother's breathing was slow and almost silent, except for an occasional deep intake of air into the semiconscious body.

Then the woods were filled with the howling of two wolves that had picked up the unmistakable scent of blood while making their way through the Onondaga wilderness. The faint breaking of twigs under their feet, at first distant, came closer, and then the wolves ceased their soundings as they arrived on a hill overlooking the land where the woman and child lay exposed to the animals’ night-piercing vision. As if aware of constant danger, the two wolves stood together on the rise, two hundred feet away from the road, sniffing the air, turning their heads from side to side before slowly making their way forward toward the magnetic odor of blood and living creatures ahead of them, moving silent as shadows through the undergrowth.

The woman awakened from her semi-coma, hearing growling just a few feet in front of her. She could see the eyes of the two creatures almost upon her. She shrieked out as loud as she could, surprising the animals, but they stood their ground, circling their human prey. She was too tired to run or fight, so she turned, exposing her back to the wolves, her head and arms cradling the child protectively beneath her body.

The first wolf charged cautiously, biting the woman on her thigh, then shaking its head back and forth, the limb moving with its mouth. The woman tried to cry out again, but no sound emerged from her weakened body. The second wolf, the female, now encouraged by its mate, sprang towards the woman, then stopped a few feet away, interrupted by the sound of horses’ hooves and wagon wheels along the road. The first wolf stopped, still holding the woman's thigh in its teeth, eyes staring toward the oncoming noise, unwilling to release its prey. And then the woman gave out one final scream as the sound of the wheels drew closer. The carriage stopped a few feet from where she lay.

“It's a woman, John,” a female voice called out, holding a small lantern in one hand.

“There are wolves about,” a man's voice stated, raising a pistol and firing into the night sky.

The two wolves turned rapidly and disappeared into the woods. The man fired another round into the air and stopped to listen for a moment. Then, fixing the wooden brake against a wheel, he jumped from his seat onto the muddy ground and made his way to the huddled woman.

“There's a woman and a child, Abby,” he called out. He was a tall, muscular fellow and easily lifted both mother and child in his arms, carrying them back to the carriage. The baby began crying, and the mother, barely able to open her eyes, mouthed the words, “Thank you,” before falling into unconsciousness.

Abby took a blanket from the seat and wrapped it around the two wet bodies while her husband mounted the carriage and urged the horses forward up the rise and finally under a covered carriageway next to the cottage.

PART I
John

CHAPTER 1

r. John and Abby Roundsfield had only recently returned home to their extended farmhouse on the outskirts of Syracuse, New York, having deserted the place for four years during the War. Abby had remained with her mother, father, and two sisters in New York City, helping with their clothing store, while John, a medical doctor, served as a lieutenant in the Union army. At forty-six years old, he had a full beard and the rugged countenance of one who had been raised on a farm and still worked the land, even after completing his medical degree. At six feet one inch, he towered over his friends and associates and was always immediately recognized in a crowd. In addition to his stature, his blue eyes and ruddy complexion, along with a forceful character, always made him the center of attention at any gathering.

The cottage, initially two rooms, had been built by John's great-grandparents at the turn of the century. A second story was added later, and a library and formal dining room had been built on to the back of what initially appeared to be a small home from the front. The rear land included a barn and servant's quarters.

John was an only child whose parents had passed away from smallpox six years earlier. He had inherited everything. The homestead was just a few miles outside the city proper, and the short journey by horse or carriage to his office and the small hospital he attended on a daily basis usually took him only fifteen minutes. To facilitate matters, his had been one of the first private homes to have its own telegraph service, making him easily available on short notice for any emergency. Having used the relatively new invention during the Civil War, his personal connections allowed him to have the hospital pay for the needed wires after he and several friends installed the poles and cleared tree branches for the installation.

Abby, née Pennington, was his second wife. His first, Mirabelle Wilson, had died in 1858 in her only childbirth at age twenty-eight, along with the twin boys, leaving him devastated and alone until he met Abby at a medical convention in New York City, just a week before the attack on Ft. Sumter. The attractive twenty-one-year-old had begun work as a nurse and was attending the meeting with three other nurses from Manhattan. John was immediately attracted to her and, within a week, had asked her father for her hand in marriage. Avery Pennington had initially refused to accept such a rapid engagement, noting the age difference and his daughter's relative naïveté. After all, her suitor was the same age as her father! But the urgency brought on by the war, the obvious infatuation of his daughter with this educated physician, and the fact that John wanted to marry before enlisting as a doctor in the Union Army made Pennington change his mind. The two were married in a small ceremony two weeks later.

They returned to Syracuse, where she began working alongside her husband while settling into their home for the few months they would have together before he received his first assignment. The women who had been the former Mrs. Roundsfield's friends immediately resented this young, attractive wife. Most of the women in their middle or late forties were housewives, not nurses, tending to several children and home duties. They were alarmed by the attention their husbands showed towards this new nurse. Even the other nurses, many of whom were old maids, took an immediate disliking to the woman whose bubbly smile and youthful enthusiasm accentuated their age and homeliness.

In her nursing classes in New York, Abby had not been aware of this difference, maintaining close friendships with twenty-three student nurses. But here in Syracuse, as the new young wife of a prominent physician, she felt the cold stares of the wives and nurses, and the warm glances of the other doctors.

“They hate me, John,” she cried on her third evening, after a busy day with him in the clinic.

“Who hates you, my dear?”

“The other nurses … and the wives. I see them talking behind my back. Why, one referred to me as ‘that hussy nurse.’”

He was taken aback. “Who said that?

“I think her name is Miss Johnson … the tall woman who worked with us on Mr. Pellman.”

“Edith? Edith Johnson said that?” He smiled. “That old biddy never has a kind word for anyone. She's been alone and unhappy for years. I'll have a talk with her.”

“No, please, John. That will only make matters worse. I'll just have to do my best and hope they'll grow to like me.”

“I'm sure they will.” He held her to him and kissed her gently.

She rarely spoke of it again, but in the ensuing weeks she never received any callers, and her dinner invitations were consistently turned down. But she was happy with her husband and enjoyed working side by side with him, both in the hospital and clinic and during his visits to the patients’ homes. Because of her work, he hired a Negro housemaid, Betty Willard, to do cooking and cleaning. Betty was a vigorous woman in her fifties who had fled South Carolina three years before, leaving a dead husband. Her two grown children had been sold away from home years before. Betty lived in the extra room behind the house and was grateful when Abby befriended her and began teaching her to read and write.

And then, in late July of 1861, John's first assignment came through. He was dispatched to a makeshift military hospital just behind the front lines at Blackburn's Ford, where General McDowell's troops had suffered the loss of nineteen men, with thirty-eight wounded. It was his first true exposure to war casualties. Two men had terrible leg wounds and needed urgent, lifesaving treatment. John would never forget those first screams as he watched an older surgeon complete the amputation of a leg through the thigh in less than sixty seconds. A combination of ether and chloroform anesthesia was used during the procedures, but early in the war there was very little experience with these agents, and problems of too much or too little of the drug was always a concern. Sometimes, the patient awakened during a procedure and had to be retreated with more chloroform or ether, with occasional dire results.

The wounded lay all around him while he was told how to manage the filthy, gaping wounds. Most of the men were treated and sent off to hospitals in the larger cities. But several of the mortally wounded were mercifully allowed to bleed to death. The mangled, often headless and limbless corpses were retrieved from the battlefield and buried as quickly as possible, with few, if any, markers and only a written record of the men's names sent back to their families.

Late in the evening, he composed his first letter to Abby by candlelight. Having worked for twelve hours straight, his hand quivered a bit, and his handwriting, usually flowing and beautiful, reflected his exhaustion.

Three days later, on July 21, a bewildered John Roundsfield watched as several thousand Union and Rebel troops confronted one another at Manassas, pitting General McDowell against the Confederate Generals Johnston, Beauregard, and a man John had never heard of before, a fellow named Thomas Jackson, who many were calling “Stonewall” for his staunch defenses against the Union Army. Any comprehension of war and destruction John had conceived at the Battle of Blackburn's Ford was annihilated by what he saw on that day. Unable to stop and treat many of the wounded, and barely able to collect and bury any of the dead, the troops were forced into a terrible retreat to Washington, D.C.

John was overcome with emotion in his second letter, written several days later after working two days straight with the wounded.

And in the coming months, without his noticing, his dark black hair took on streaks of gray, and his face, once jovial with bright eyes and cheerful countenance, developed a dour, sad expression.

Any sense of organized practice of medicine deteriorated into makeshift attempts to save those who were the least wounded, rather than expend time and effort on those with extensive wounds. A man with a severely crushed leg and incipient infection might have been débrided several times and nursed back to health under normal circumstances, but in the wartime setting was treated once, and then amputated, if no improvement occurred. The survival rate after amputation under battle conditions was poor, and John found the pain and suffering endured by the men to be almost intolerable. Many of the doctors and nurses were hesitant to care for badly infected or wounded men because of the risk to themselves.

The most senior surgeon, Dr. Fitzhugh, a sixty-two-yearold, full-bearded prominent and wealthy man, had left a lucrative practice and teaching position in Boston to contribute his services to the Union army. Educated at Harvard and receiving higher education in Paris and Budapest, he was a professor of surgery at the Massachusetts General Hospital and a frequent lecturer at universities around the country. Men of his caliber usually remained in the large medical centers rather than risk their lives near the front lines. His colleagues were both surprised and appalled that such a gentleman would leave the comfort of his home to attend to the wounded in the rough conditions of the front lines. He was very highly regarded by the common soldiers and admired by John, who had studied under him several years before.

On one particular afternoon, Robert Maxwell, a nineteenyear-old recruit, was bayoneted in the leg by a Confederate soldier. A Union officer on horseback shot and killed the Confederate who had wielded the sword, then quickly dismounted and tied his belt around the wounded man's thigh, stemming the hemorrhage. He lifted him onto his horse and carried him behind the lines to safety.

Dr. Fitzhugh was the first physician on hand, and immediately took over the management of the dying lad. One half hour later, in attempting to staunch the bleeding after removing the tourniquet, Dr. Fitzhugh cut his own hand while suturing the gaping wound. The young man lived for a few hours before bleeding to death.

Six days later, the doctor's wound putrefied. He was returned to a hospital in New York and, refusing to have his arm amputated, he died in sepsis five days later. The news of his passing reached the camp and had a dampening effect on those caring for the wounded. Dr. Fitzhugh was well-liked and respected. He took care in his ministrations of the sick. That such a thing could happen to him devastated the other doctors and soldiers.

By December, many of the men were disheartened by their losses, and troop morale deteriorated. Between cold weather, illness, and retreat, many felt the war was a lost cause.

“Let the goddamned rebs have their Confederacy and their slaves,” men were often heard to mutter, seeing their friends maimed and slaughtered.

After a minor Union victory at Drainesville, Virginia on December 20, 1861, the men were encouraged, but still depressed about the progress of the war. This Civil War was supposed to have lasted only a few months. After all, the North had all the industry, while the South had predominately cotton and slavery. The North had twice as many troops, and the Southerners refused to consider arming their slaves. Men asked, “What's wrong? Why are we losing so many men and so many battles?” Many of the commanders considered this to be verbal treason, and in two of the units men were shot for inciting anti-war riots.

Toward the end of December, John was given his first leave. Military action had slowed during the cold weather, so he made his way to the nearest train station and departed for New York City. He was the only officer in the compartment and had been able to freshen up and dress in a clean uniform. The other soldiers, bedraggled and dirty, initially looked upon this well-groomed lieutenant in his spotless uniform with disdain. When they discovered he was an army physician and had been working steadily without any break for six months, their attitude changed, and they welcomed him, offering whiskey that had been secured during a recent skirmish in Virginia.

He arrived in Manhattan shortly after midnight on December 25, was able to secure a horse, and made his way to the home of Avery Pennington, arriving at two in the morning. Snow was falling, and the streets were covered with a layer of white untrammeled by the horses and carriages of the daylight hours, gracing the world with a cleanliness John had not seen for half a year. Here, he was spared the stench of decaying bodies and the morass of blood and pustulation that had been his daily experience. He mounted the stairs to the house and knocked on the door several times before Avery, peeking through the side window, recognized his son-in-law and hollered out, “It's John. Amy, it's John!” This was followed by candles being lit as the front door was opened and the entire family in their bedroom clothes welcomed him into the foyer.

Abby was shocked by his graying hair and heavy beard, caught between tears and joy when she saw him.

He saw her reaction. “I think I've aged fifty years, my dear,” he said.

She embraced and kissed him. “You look just fine to me, Lieutenant Roundsfield.” She smiled, embracing him again. She took his hand and, while the others returned to their rooms for robes, led him into the living room, where a Christmas tree stood in one corner, adorned with handmade decorations. In the fireplace, embers still aglow from the previous evening exploded into flame when several new logs were added. He sat in a soft chair for the first time in months as the family, smiling and excited to be with him, prepared tea and baked goods for their middle-of-the-night visitor. There was so much to say and so many questions to ask, and yet for many minutes all was silence as they stared at him. Finally, Mrs. Pennington spoke up. “God bless our Dr. Roundsfield. Thank you, Lord, for bringing him safely back to us.”

There was a soft “amen,” then everyone spoke at once, wanting to know what was happening, how he was doing, and a hundred other questions that kept them together until five in the morning, at which time they moved over to the Christmas tree and began handing out gifts, including several for John.

He looked embarrassed. “I'm afraid I haven't been able to purchase any gifts this year,” he stated.

“Seeing you here and well is the best gift of all,” said Abby, handing him a package. He opened it and held up three pairs of woolen socks she had knitted for him. On the ankle of each, she had embroidered her name.

“So you won't forget me,” she said.

Tears in his eyes, he said, “Thank you for being such a wonderful wife … and wonderful family.”

“Well, I'm just about worn out now, John,” said Avery. “What say we all turn in for a few hours, and then get together for a grand Christmas meal at two o'clock this afternoon?”

Abby's mother, Amelia, or Amy as she was called, and younger sisters, Mary and Anna, hugged him and disappeared from the room. Avery came over to him and, holding his shoulders, said, “I'm proud of you, John. We're all proud of you.” He was beginning to have tears in his eyes, so he turned and left the room.

Abby threw her arms around him, kissed him deeply, and then led him to their room.

CHAPTER 2

heir married life in a constant turmoil, John managed to break away from his duties in various areas of combat to return to New York for a few days. One major objective was to start a family, yet after several attempts Abby remained childless. By June of 1862, it became apparent to all concerned that the war would drag on for many months and possibly several years. In view of this, Abby found work in a general hospital in Manhattan tending to many of the war wounded. Here she became aware of the horrors facing her husband on a daily basis. But at least she worked under better conditions than the filthy and ill-equipped battle hospitals set up in tents and shacks and occasionally in the homes along the way.

In September of 1862 President Lincoln announced as a major war goal the Emancipation Proclamation, which would end slavery in the South at the conclusion of the hostilities. For many Northerners this was merely a side issue as hatred grew between the combatants with the slaughter of thousands of young men on either side. With the idea of restoring the Union as the supposed real issue, the animosities between the two sides rose to a boiling point where the victorious in any battle wreaked as much havoc on the combatants as possible. The gentlemanly concepts of war, personified by the polite request of the Southern General for the North to evacuate and turn over Ft. Sumter on April 12 of 1861, were displaced by vicious attacks and behavior unseen in the American Revolution. Now, capturing territory was eclipsed by a desire to kill and maim as many as possible.

Although the Union army under Grant won a victory at Shiloh, Tennessee in April, 1862, the South continued to be victorious with a major victory at the battle of Antietam, Maryland in September, 1862, and the second Battle of Bull Run, Virginia in August 1862. The troops under Lee pushed northward until the Union victory at Gettysburg in July 1863 under General Meade, the major turning point in the war.

With each victory or loss, the outcomes for each side were Pyrrhic and the work for the limited number of physicians was overwhelming. By Christmas of 1863, John had aged even more in appearance, lost his youthful demeanor and carried the memories of dying and maimed men home with him. His few days with Abby, though marked with lovemaking, mostly consisted of sleeping and eating in an attempt to regain some of the energy needed to carry on.

“It seems a never-ending struggle,” he said to his fatherinlaw. “I have a feeling it will end when every young man between 18 and 24 is dead or wounded.”

“But the newspapers say that we are winning, John,” replied the older man.

“I just don't know anymore. This two-month war is now in its third year.”

“But Lincoln says it's just a matter of time now.”

John did not answer. He had heard so much inexpert expert opinion and reporting, he did not know what to believe. The casualties continued to mount and, in many of the greater battles, blood mixed with mud on the ground turned the battlefields red.

And still, no pregnancy, and the depression of the war mixed with their failure to conceive, each blaming themselves, put a strain on their marriage.

The Union victory at Vicksburg split the South in two and from then on even the doubting soldiers took heart that victory was within reach. In 1864 Grant was put in charge of the army, fighting terrible battles of attrition against Lee with losses in the thousands at each campaign. Then General Sherman captured Atlanta and made his devastating march to the Sea, destroying everything in his path and breaking the back of the South's resistance. Lee finally surrendered to Grant at Appomattox Court House on April 9, 1865. The Union had lost 360,000 men dead of a fighting force of 2,200,000, and the South had 260,000 dead of 1,064,000.

John remained, taking care of wounded for another three months, and then, discharged from the military, made his way back to Manhattan and then to Syracuse to start life over again with his wife. But he was a changed man, rarely smiling and with memories of youthful lives cut short or irretrievably destroyed. Young men returning to their farms with a missing arm or leg, blind, disfigured, were seen at every way station and in every train. John often felt guilty that he had survived, living as a physician behind the lines, safe from injury. Awarded a medal for meritorious service, he initially wanted to decline the honor and was forced to receive it in front of the troops by his commanding officer. After that day he would never wear it, keeping it in a box to remind him of the horrors of war; he felt it was a ridiculous, meaningless piece of medal with a ribbon attached, in some way supposed to honor his activities when so many had fought and died. Aside from a few carefree hours with Abby, he had not laughed or smiled for over four years!

Returning to his practice in Syracuse, he found that half his work consisted in further surgeries and care for war wounded. This would continue for several years until the patients finally reached some level of functionality and wellness or died. In many cases John began to feel death would be a blessing for many of them. The severely wounded and disfigured came home to find wives and girlfriends deserting them for men who could support them and raise a family. The supposed war heroes were soon forgotten, many becoming homeless when parents died and friends forgot or wished to forget the misery of the war. In the first few years after the fighting ceased, many disabled men died lonely and deserted; many took their own lives.

It took John and Abby six months before their relationship returned to a semblance of normal. They made love, worked side-by-side and carried on, but for a long time the memories and depression remained, casting a pall over everything they did.

John knew he was able to have children, having had his first wife die in childbirth. Although it was never mentioned, both he and Abby understood that she was the reason for their inability to have children and this too became an impediment to a normal married life. All around them friends and acquaintances were blessed with one, two, three children, and Abby remained barren. The women, who had secretly envied and hated her, now felt superior to this attractive woman, who could not fulfill her womanly responsibility.

At times she would sit alone and cry, and John would comfort and reassure her that in time she would bear children.

“It is in God's hands, my dear.”

“And God doesn't want me to have a child,” she cried, running from the room.

They existed as husband and wife, doctor and nurse throughout the first difficult post war years, until the autumn of 1867, when God, who had seemingly closed a door, suddenly opened a window.

It was cold that afternoon, the countryside flush with red, yellow, and brown leaves. They had been to three farms on the outskirts of Syracuse tending to two sick children at the Beardsley's, a festering leg wound from a tractor injury at Miles’ and checking on Mrs. Wallford, who was dying of breast cancer. By evening-fall, their horse and carriage sloshing through the raindrenched road, they had just about reached the cottage when they heard the unmistakable sound of a crying child and the wailing of wolves.

CHAPTER 3

he two oil lamps in the foyer were always kept lit as a source of fire for other lamps, the wood stove, and the fireplace. The main heat source was still a wood-burning fireplace in each room, well stocked with logs each week.

It was cold enough for them to allow William Tell, or Willie, their huge Bernese Mountain dog, into the house to keep warm. The animal had been in the family for almost eight years and, though huge, was gentle to the extent that it occasionally went on rounds with the doctor and his wife. When John had to leave for emergencies, Abby always took the dog into the house as added security and protection. Willie's size alone was enough to scare off wolves and unwanted visitors, though he rarely bared his teeth. This evening, he took his usual place in a corner away from the hearth, eyeing the visitors, but not disturbing them. He was well-trained and stayed put when told to do so.

John ignited the kindling in the main hearth, and within a few minutes a roaring fire had raised the temperature in the room to a warm, comfortable level.

Abby tended to the newborn first, washing and drying the child, wrapping him in dry towels and placing the bundle near the hearth. This took only a few minutes, during which time John was examining the mother, who was cold and poorly responsive, slipping in and out of consciousness. With his wife's help, he removed the woman's wet clothing, wrapped her in blankets and examined her abdomen.

The uterus did not feel firm and contracted as would be expected after a delivery, and she continued to ooze blood onto the towels placed beneath her. With the blankets wrapped around her shivering body, John proceeded to massage her lower abdomen in an attempt to cause the womb to start normal contraction in order to stop the bleeding. During this time, Abby brought the newborn to the mother, laying it on a breast and attempting to get the infant to suckle, which it began to do vigorously. This animated the mother, who opened her eyes and tried unsuccessfully to mouth some words before dropping back into a coma.

John placed a blood pressure cuff on the woman's right arm and could only elicit a single pressure of 60 mm of mercury.

“She's lost a lot of blood, and the uterus isn't contracting. She's cold and in shock, Abby!” He directed a well-known look toward his wife, one she understood.

She elevated the woman's legs on a chair in an attempt to raise the blood pressure. For a while, this appeared successful, only to be followed by increasing pallor and more labored respirations. Abby took the child from the woman and sat in a rocking chair near the fireplace, cradling it in her arms. Her gaze wandered back and forth from the flames to the woman lying on the floor and her husband kneeling close to the inert body.

And if she dies? What if she dies? What will become of this child? she pondered, glancing down at the squirming pink body in her lap. Her thoughts were confused and conflicted, as she hoped on the one hand for the woman's survival, while at the same time she was plagued with her own selfish desire to take this child as her own. Her feelings disturbed her. After all, she thought, I'm a nurse; I should want her to live. The baby moved in her arms, and she held it closer to her bosom. She had never had thoughts like this before, and she felt guilty and angry with herself. She began to breathe heavily, staring down at the tiny hand wrapped around one of her fingers. Then she looked again at the woman just a few feet away. This strange person with this newborn child, she thought. Surely, this is a gift from God.

In spite of the increasing warmth of the room, the woman's appearance looked progressively dour. Instead of a rosy hue, her lips took on a pallor, and her limbs, now swathed in blankets, felt cool to the touch as John continued his ministrations. After half an hour, the woman's eyes opened briefly, she made an attempt to raise her head, then dropped back onto the floor. Her breathing ceased, and John, first placing a stethoscope to the chest, glanced towards his wife and shook his head. He reached up, closed the eyelids, then pulled the blanket over her face.

“How is the baby?” he asked.

“Seems fine. I still have some milk in the icebox, and we have those bottles we used on the Fergusson child after the mother died. I'll warm up some milk.”

He saw the puzzled expression on his wife's face. “Are you okay?”

“I … yes. I'm fine. It's very sad.” She turned her head away, not wanting him to see through her guilt and shame.

“Good,” he said. “I'll wire Constable Darlington. I've never seen this woman. She certainly never saw me in clinic during her pregnancy.” He uncovered the face and looked towards his wife. “Recognize her?”

“No,” she responded softly. “I wonder why she was out on a day like this. Maybe she knew we lived here and was trying to get to you.”

“Perhaps. But why not stop at one of the neighbor's or at the hospital in town? Doesn't make sense.”

He rose up and went into his study, took out the electromagnetic battery energy source, sat down at the desk and began tapping out a message on the telegraph. A few seconds later, another signal sounded as the constable responded to his urgent call. Then he turned off the current.

“He'll be out in the morning. We can keep the wrapped body in the mudroom without any added heat. It won't freeze, but won't start to putrefy overnight.”

Abby returned with a bottle of warm milk and attempted to feed the baby. As a nurse, she had done this many times before and understood how difficult the task might be with a newborn. John stood nearby, observing his wife in the rocking chair with the child. He had mixed emotions as he saw how she doted on the child and seemed very comfortable with the tiny swaddled body in her arms.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I'll just remain here this evening.” She handed the infant to John. “I'll change into a warm nightgown and robe and be right back.”

John held the tiny child. The baby's eyes were closed, and the respirations were slow and regular. He had delivered hundreds of babies and held them all. But this one was different. He did not want to put words to his thoughts, watching his wife return from the bedroom in a woolen robe to take a seat in the rocker and reach up for the infant. There is a tragedy here, he thought, and there may also be a blessing.

He pulled his own chair next to his wife.

“John,” she said, “what will become of the child?”

He knew the question was going to be raised, but just stared and shook his head. “Let us wait until the constable arrives in the morning. There may be a husband or a family.”

“I hope not,” she said softly.

“What?” he said, not sure he heard her.

“Nothing, my darling. Nothing.”

He did not respond. He saw that emotions were overriding rationality and decided it would be best to remain silent. They sat without speaking, and after a while the rocking chair ceased its motion. Abby had fallen asleep with the child against her chest.

The grandfather clock in the corner struck twice. Where has the time gone? He mused. He put another two logs on the fire and sat down again. He could hear the wind blowing outside, and the occasional crackling of a branch, but no howling. From time to time, a popping sound arose from the fireplace as the dry wood ignited.

The now overcast sky prevented any moonlight from making its way through the windows, and John welcomed the relative solitude, a condition he had rarely experienced during his years amidst the cries of the wounded and dying on the battlefield. A transcendent peace fell upon him that he had not known for a long time as he observed his wife and the stranger's child, and he said very quietly, “God must surely be here.”

CHAPTER 4

he struggling, kicking legs, a crying out, and the pungent fecal odor awoke Abby three hours later. The swaddling towel was wet with urine and meconium. She rose from the chair, startling John who had fallen asleep in the chair beside her.

The fire, less vigorous, was still burning brightly; he arose and, smiling down at his wife and the child, placed two more logs on the andirons.

“I'm going to the kitchen, John. Heat up some water while I get some fresh towels.”

She carried the crying child into the kitchen, removed all the soiled garments and gently wiped away the wet and ochre stains. After a few minutes, John returned with warm water, and she began bathing the baby.

He carried the soiled items to the washbasin, rinsed, washed them, and began hanging them on a line strung from one side of the room to the other.

At this moment, a surprised Betty Willard appeared, standing at the front door and peering through the window. She knocked.

“Come in, Betty,” John called.

The black woman, wrapped in a heavy coat, stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “I heard a baby, Doctor, and thought you might … “ She stared at Abby, who was now affixing a small diaper to the child's bottom and wrapping him in a blanket.

“The mother died last night after giving birth,” said John. “Her body's in the mud room, Betty. Constable will be here in the morning.”

“Oh, dear me. Dear me. Poor chile.” She stepped toward them. “You need some of mamma's help here, Doctor,” she stated, taking the wet articles from the doctor's hands, shaking her head, and placing them back into the wash basin to rewash and rinse.

He smiled. “Thank you, Betty. We'll be taking care of the baby for a while until we find her family.”

Abby glanced at him, swallowing visibly and choosing not to respond. Betty looked from one to the other and understood immediately.

“I'll just get these things washed, then fetch some heated milk for baby.” She smiled. “Boy or girl?”

“A boy,” said John. “A healthy boy.” It was the first time he actually looked at the child closely. There was a shock of dark hair on the baby's head and deep blue eyes characteristic of newborns. This often changed after the first few days or weeks. And though he had tended to thousands of newborns, this was the first time he had actually assisted in changing soiled clothing or cleaning a smelling baby's bottom.