For This We Are Soldiers: Tales of the Frontier Army Page 4

  “Suh, you are a forlorn hope in the kitchen,” she said to the eggs, which were getting all glossy, as good scrambled eggs should.

  She found a small cart on wheels, so it was with her own Louisiana flair that she rolled dinner into the ward and witnessed the eagerness of hungry men.

  Poor, poor Mr. Lysander Locke. His eyes were half open in the same sickroom stare she recalled from times of illness in the Chambers household. She was hard pressed to remember a time she had ever been bedridden. Sick, yes, but that meant nothing on a plantation, unless you were white. She looked at the peaceful men lying there, wondering why others were born to serve.

  “Pancakes and scrambled eggs, gentlemen,” she said, certain that three of the four had never been called gentlemen before.

  The hospital steward’s relief was nearly palpable, to Ozzie’s delight. As Colm helped the avulsed ankle into a sitting position, the burn looked on with interest. “I can’t remember when I last saw maple syrup,” he declared, pushing himself upright.

  Soon the soldiers were eating. Ozzie voiced no objection when the burn asked permission to douse even his eggs in maple syrup.

  Lysander Locke was more of a challenge. As Colm struggled to help him sit up, Locke sighed in a most theatrical way.

  “You’d better lend a hand too, my dear miss,” the actor said.

  She obliged, quietly pleased when Colm twined his fingers with hers and offered a firmer foundation to a man more substantial than the usual run-of-the-mill soldier. They hauled Lysander Locke upright. If the steward kept his fingers twined in hers a little longer than a casual observer may have thought necessary, Ozzie still had no objection. Their heads were close together too. Colm Callahan smelled strangely of camphor, which puzzled her. Camphor?

  She gently released her grip on Colm and stepped back, but Lysander Locke plucked her sleeve. “Do I ask too much, my dear, to ask you to feed me? I feel so weak.”

  Ozzie looked at the steward, who nodded. His eyes were full of concern, and made her wonder if she had become entirely too cynical at the advanced age of twenty-eight.

  Mr. Locke is not at death’s door, she thought.

  “I dislike eating alone,” her patient said as she tucked a napkin under his chin. “Is there enough for this fine young man too?” he asked, indicating Colm.

  “Yes, Suh,” she said. “We’ll need another plate.”

  That fine young man took the cue and hurried to the kitchen, returning with two plates and forks. “There’s enough for all of us,” he said, taking his share and dishing a plate for her. “We can take turns feeding him.”

  They did. Before long, the actor was regaling them with stories of fame and fortune in Drury Lane, and then Broadway. But it wasn’t entirely about him. After the scrambled eggs were gone, he paused in his narrative.

  “Laddie, you have a faint accent that places you in New York City, and perhaps somewhere more removed.”

  “Aye,” Colm said. Ozzie smiled as he blushed. Such a shy man. “The farther removed is County Kerry, which I left at the tender age of five.”

  “Thence to the teeming metropolis of lower Manhattan?”

  Colm nodded, his expression more serious. “You needn’t know any more.”

  “But I wish to,” Lysander Locke said. He indicated Ozzie. “And so does this fair damsel, who saved us from starvation. By the way, my dear, what is your place of origin?”

  “A plantation in Louisiana,” she told him. “It belonged to the LeCheminant family, but it might be in the hands of a bank now, or maybe a Yankee scalawag.”

  “I see no regret,” Colm commented, his eyes lively.

  “None from me, Suh.” She could have told him much more, but she didn’t need his sympathy, and she didn’t know the actor well enough to need his, either. As a house slave, she had been treated kindly enough, discounting the times Madam LeCheminant took after her with a hairbrush when Ozzie had talked back to Madam LeCheminant’s daughter. She still had scars on her back and neck.

  Lysander Locke looked at them. “Here I am, stove up and wounded and relying on you both to entertain me, but you’re struck dumb!”

  Ozzie glanced at Colm and started to laugh, just a quiet one, because she had been taught years ago to call no attention to herself. But she couldn’t help herself when Colm turned away, his shoulders shaking. She laughed louder, until she was leaning against the iron footboard of the actor’s bed.

  “What is so funny?” Lysander demanded finally, with all the careful enunciation and drama he probably saved for the stage.

  Colm recovered first. “It’s this way, sir. Speaking for myself, I’ve never considered myself an entertainer.” He turned his smile on Ozzie. “Miss Washington? Have you ever been asked to entertain someone?”

  “I have, Suh,” she said, her voice soft. As she braved a glance at Colm Callahan, she saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes. Where it came from and how, she did not know, but it gave her courage to continue. “I was the personal slave and entertainer of Lalage LeCheminant, who was five years old, my age. If I couldn’t entertain her, I got the hairbrush for my pains.”

  Colm’s smile vanished. She’d said too much and turned to go, but he touched her elbow. That was it, nothing more. She had long suspected that Colm Callahan may have had a less-than-pleasant childhood of his own. Too bad she would never be brave enough to ask about it.

  She recovered as gracefully as she could, looking down at the little watch pinned to her bodice. “Dear me, Suh, I think your other patients need more flapjacks.” With all the poise she could muster, she pushed the cart down the row toward the other men.

  A

  Colm seated himself so he could at least pretend to listen to Lysander Locke, and still keep an eye on Ozzie Washington. He already knew that the actor could carry on a conversation requiring little from the listener save the occasional aye and nod.

  Locke was saying something about the importance of being in Deadwood within a day or two as Colm watched Ozzie finish serving flapjacks and retreat to the kitchen.

  “I will have you know that I once served in the Swiss Guard and saved Pope Pius from assassination by cutting a man’s throat with my teeth.”

  “Aye, sir,” Colm said, which earned him a balled up napkin thrown at his temple, followed by a theatrical laugh aimed at the back wall.

  “Ah ha! I could have told you I was Judas himself, and you’d have nodded,” Lysander Locke declared with triumph. “You’re not paying attention. You’re a goner, did you know?”

  “I … what?” Colm asked, embarrassed.

  Locke’s voice turned into a stage whisper. “Laddie, I know a smitten man when I see one.”

  Colm sighed, deciding then and there not to reenlist in September. When even a moth-eaten old actor could see right through him, it was time to take up another line of work in a distant city, perhaps Constantinople. Colm waited a moment, knowing that his good humor would return. It did, but not as soon as usual.

  “You’re right, sir,” he said, knowing it would be foolish to argue with a patient who would be gone in a week or less. “I’ve admired Ozzie Washington for years, but—”

  “You’ve made no move because she is a woman of color?” the actor supplied.

  Colm started in surprise. “Not at all!” he exclaimed, wanting to brain the man with a bedpan for such an observation. He was tired; that was it. How had he gotten himself into this discussion?

  “Then why are you wasting time?”

  Colm opened his mouth to make some stupid reply, then closed it. “I have things to do,” he mumbled, and left the ward. In the hall, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. What had happened? He was precise and efficient for 364 days a year, until the 365th, when an actor showed up with a broken leg.

  “Are you all right, Suh?” Ozzie had such a lovely voice, and she even sounded concerned.

  He could have made some noncommittal reply—yesterday, he probably would have—but something had changed. He ju
st wasn’t certain what. The earth’s axis hadn’t shifted, and as far as he knew, no out-of-control meteor raced toward Wyoming Territory. He could go upstairs and busy himself with something, except that he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay in the corridor with Ozzie.

  “Suh?”

  “Never been better,” he told her, and it might have been true. Deep breath. “You know I need help. Ozzie, I’m about to fall asleep.” He shifted to look her in the eye. “Am I asking too much of you?”

  Bless her heart, she knew just what he meant. Trust a woman to know. “We’re going to take turns here,” she said, and he heard some uncertainty. “I sort of wish you would be closer than your quarters, in case something happens, but I know you need to sleep.”

  “Let’s do this: While you’re in the ward, I’ll sleep on the cot in Captain Dilworth’s office.” No point in standing on overmuch ceremony. “I … I changed my bed linens yesterday, so you can sleep in my house while I’m awake in here.”

  She nodded, practical as he was. She turned to say something when a moan came from the ward. Ozzie’s eyes opened wide in fright, but then she giggled. “He’s such an … an actor,” she whispered, leaning toward Colm. “I’ll see what’s wrong.”

  He nodded, content to let her do his dirty work, because he was a most typical man. She returned a moment later. “I have been requested to keep Mistuh Locke company,” she said. “You, Suh, get to wash the dishes.”

  “And I shall,” he said. “Then I will go to bed. I’ll take the cot in Captain Dilworth’s office while you watch in the ward.”

  A worried frown appeared between her eyes. Impulsively, he smoothed it down with gentle fingers. “If anything happens, just knock on Captain Dilworth’s door. I won’t be far.” She gave him a relieved smile, which warmed his heart.

  A

  Before sitting beside the actor, Ozzie did her own ward walk, something she had seen Suh do. The private with the avulsed ankle was full of flapjacks and settling himself down for the night. When she rested the back of her hand against his forehead, he opened his eyes.

  She glanced at the chart hanging at the foot of his bed. “Is everything all right, Private Henry?” she asked. “If you need something, just call me.”

  He nodded and closed his eyes. Private Jones with the burned forearm was in some pain. “I’ll ask Steward Callahan if there is something—”

  A mighty crash of pans came from the kitchen.

  “You may want to trade places with the steward for a few minutes,” Private Jones suggested. “He doesn’t shine around crockery.”

  She laughed and took his suggestion. With some relief, Suh turned over the dishes to her. “Let me measure powders any day,” he muttered as he hurried from the kitchen.

  He returned sometime later as she made her last swipe of the dish towel around the last plate. “My timing is exquisite,” he joked. “I’ve administered powders and done bedpan duty,” he said, ticking the items off on his fingers. “Two out of three are asleep, and you must listen to the actor for a while. G’night.”

  He tipped an imaginary hat to her. A moment later, she heard the door to Captain Dilworth’s office close.

  He had left a kerosene lamp on the table in the corridor, a hospital lamp with four slatted sides for varying degrees of light. On the back of a blank prescription, she found a note. Take this with you, Suh had scrawled.

  Ozzie closed two of the slats and carried the lamp into the ward. Feeling like Florence Nightingale at Scutari Hospital, she held it high and satisfied herself that the privates slumbered. Lysander Locke was wide awake. She pulled up a chair, made herself comfortable, and asked him why he couldn’t sleep.

  “I am an actor. We are always awake in the evening. Curtain comes down at ten of the clock.”

  “And then you sleep?”

  “No, no. I smile graciously at well-wishers, remove my makeup, then toddle off to a nearby chophouse. In New York City, I take a hansom cab to Delmonico’s.”

  She couldn’t overlook the wistful tone in his voice. “It’s been a while since New York City?” she asked, then could have bitten her tongue, because it sounded so heartless.

  Lysander Locke sighed. Maybe he was more tired than he wanted to let on. “Far too long, my dear,” he said. “Denver wasn’t quite the cultural center I was led to believe.”

  He didn’t say it with any self-pity, but Ozzie knew what he meant. She could have made some offhand remark, but something had happened between them. She wasn’t certain just what, but maybe it was her turn to talk. She took a deep breath.

  “I know how that feels. Freedom is nice, but it’s not all that easy.”

  Her words, softly spoken, seemed to hang there like mist. She gathered her nerve and looked at Mr. Locke, wondering what he was thinking.

  He gazed back, his eyes so kind, even though she knew he must be in pain. “How did freedom come to you, Miss Washington?”

  She told him about borrowing courage from some unused source to finally walk away from the LeCheminant plantation. “I think I was twelve. My mother would know for sure, but she was sold into East Texas when I was five.”

  You can’t possibly want to hear this, she thought, and started to rise. There must be something she could fold, or put away, or straighten, and this man did need his sleep. He put out his hand, motioning down, so she remained where she was.

  “Sold? Your mother?”

  Ozzie nodded, startled that her eyes should start to brim. She knew she would never find her mother, though she thought about her every day. “She was a house Negro. Maybe she made Madam LeCheminant angry.”

  “Your father?”

  Ozzie shrugged. “Monsieur LeCheminant. That would explain the anger.”

  Mr. Locke made a sudden noise that didn’t sound in the least theatrical.

  “Never mind, Suh! That was life in the South.”

  Through the years, she had given the matter some thought. Maybe Mr. Locke would find it interesting.

  “I don’t know for certain, but I do know this: Whenever a new baby with light skin was born in the slave quarters, some house slave ended up on the auction block in Shreveport. Madame LeCheminant was not a kind woman. I have scars.” She stopped, certain she had said too much. “Well, Suh, everyone has scars. Some show and some don’t.”

  When Lysander Locke spoke, his voice shook. “Did you … did you choose your last name?”

  “I did,” she declared with pride, then looked around, fearful she had spoken too loud. Private Henry shifted positions, but Private Jones continued to snore.

  “I gather your choice wasn’t LeCheminant?” the actor teased, but gently.

  “Never,” she said emphatically, but quieter. “Some chose Jackson, or Lincoln, or Jefferson. Others gave me all sorts of suggestions, but I wanted to choose something for the first time in my life. Washington freed his slaves. I like it.”

  “So do I, Miss Washington, but why Ozzie?”

  “It’s really Audra,” she said with a laugh. “My mother named me, but Lalage LeCheminant called me Ozzie.” How much of the truth did the actor need? “I insisted that my name was Audra and got the hairbrush for being impertinent. I’m used to Ozzie now.”

  “Do you never use Audra?” he asked. “It’s lovely.”

  “Well …” She hadn’t planned to tell him, but it was late, and she was tired. Maybe talking would keep her awake.

  The two slats of the ward lamp gave off such a comforting glow. She could almost imagine herself sitting in front of a fire in her own parlor, if she had one.

  “I pretend to get letters from my mother.” For just a moment, the sorrow of the whole thing grabbed her. She had not seen her mother in twenty-three years; why should it matter now? She would have stopped if she hadn’t seen such interest in the old actor’s eyes. “I … I address it to Audra Washington and send it to myself.”

  “Right here?”

  “I give it to a soldier heading to Cheyenne, or maybe Omaha, and he mails it from t
here. Or he may be going to Billings, in Montana Territory.” She touched his hand. “Or even Deadwood! That way, I’m never quite certain when it will come back. Sometimes …” She paused again, hoping he would not think her foolish. “Sometimes I even forget, and the letter is almost a surprise. As if …”

  “Your mother actually sent it,” Lysander Locke finished. “You’re a remarkable lady, Miss Washington.” His voice was lower now, the words strung out. His eyes closed.

  “Do you receive other letters, my dear?” he asked, when she thought he slept.

  “Who would write to me?” This was becoming too serious; she had to turn the conversation. “Mr. Locke, how does your mail keep up with you?”

  He yawned. “My mail? I don’t get much mail either.”

  It had never occurred to Ozzie that there were others like her.

  “You hear from your family, don’t you?”

  “What family?”

  “Well, I mean …”

  He opened one eye. “I devoted myself to Shakespeare.”

  She couldn’t think of anything to say to his artless declaration, mainly because she could not fathom anyone choosing such a life on purpose. How odd; how sad.

  “Maybe someday you will settle down and have a family,” she ventured cautiously.

  No answer. She peered closer, hoping he would forget this entire conversation. Ozzie sat in silence as his breathing became regular and deep. Poor man, she thought as she stood.

  Suh had draped Mr. Locke’s clothes over the foot of the iron bedstead. Moving quietly, she took his suit coat and shook out the wrinkles, or tried to. The material wouldn’t cooperate. She looked closer. The wool was cheap, even though it looked good from a distance. His bright green cravat had been creased and folded many times. How many cravats did Mr. Locke possess, or was this his only one? She put the coat on a peg reserved for patients’ clothing and wet her fingers to smooth out the cravat.

  He had a shabby little suitcase; perhaps he had other trousers. She gave the suit her critical appraisal: shiny wool with what looked like bits of filler fabric woven in.