Wedded to War (Heroines Behind the Lines) Read online

  Pressing a violet-scented handkerchief to her nose, Alice held her parasol low over her head, blocking out as much of the view as possible as she began walking. “Where are we going?” Her words were muffled, but her discomfort was not.

  A disheveled drunk leered at the sisters from a rotting doorway, raising the hair on Charlotte’s neck. “The House of Industry. It’s just up ahead.”

  With her parasol in one hand and a fistful of skirts in the other, Charlotte set a brisk pace. As they turned onto Worth Street’s littered sidewalk, Alice skirted a child leaning against a lamppost, hawking apples from a broken crate. Charlotte stopped short.

  “Maggie?” She reached out and touched the girl’s soot-smudged cheek while Alice gawked from five feet away. “It’s me, Miss Waverly! I used to teach your mother sewing. How is she?”

  Maggie peered up with eyes too big for her face, too old for her nine years. “About the same as usual—only there’s not enough sewing to go around, she says—so Jack sweeps the streets and here I am. Say, wouldn’t you and the miss over there like a nice red apple?”

  “Of course!” Charlotte reached into her dress pocket and traded several coins for two small, bruised apples smelling of fermentation.

  “Charlotte!” Alice gasped while Maggie’s dirty face brightened. It was far too much money to spend on apples—especially rotting ones.

  “Go on now, Maggie. Give your mother my best.”

  With “Bless you Miss!” ringing in her ears, Charlotte joined Alice with both apples in one hand, skirt now dragging on the sidewalk.

  “Can we hustle, please?” Alice’s voice was still muted behind her handkerchief. Charlotte was eager to comply. Virtually every tipsy wooden building on this block—including Crown’s Grocery—housed a brothel, and none of them bothered hiding the fact. Bareheaded and bare-chested women stood in doorways quoting their rates to passersby, even in broad daylight—which was a dirty yellow, like a fevered complexion. By the time they stepped into the slanted shadow of the six-story House of Industry, Charlotte noticed she had been holding her breath. The vapors in this area could truly make one sick.

  “Ah, there you are!” Mr. Lewis Pease, founder of the charity, had been waiting for them in the shade of the brick building, and now waved the sisters inside, away from the seedy, star-shaped intersection for which Five Points was named, half a block away. “And who is this lovely young woman?”

  “Forgive me, this is my younger sister Alice—Mrs. Jacob Carlisle.” Charlotte and Alice entered the building ahead of Mr. Pease, who closed the door behind them. “She’s in town visiting for a spell while her husband is away on business.” She set the apples down on the hall stand and wiped her gloves on her skirt.

  Pease bowed slightly. “A pleasure to meet you, madam. Mr. Dorsheimer is already here,” he added in a whisper just as the visitor’s barrel chest entered the room ahead of him. “Ah, Mr. Treasurer. Allow me to make the introductions. Miss Waverly, Mrs. Carlisle, this is Mr. Phillip Dorsheimer, Treasurer of the State of New York and the New York State Military Board. He’s here all the way from Buffalo, and we’re so fortunate he’s making time to meet with us.” Mr. Dorsheimer ignored Charlotte’s outstretched hand, fading both her smile and her confidence.

  Mr. Pease continued. “Mr. Treasurer, Miss Waverly here was the one who suggested we make a bid for the contract. She used to be a sewing instructor here.”

  Without even the slightest acknowledgment, Mr. Dorsheimer frowned at his pocket watch. “Can we get on with it?” His jowls quivered as he spoke. Charlotte took a deep breath and squeezed her parasol handle. So far, this was not going as she had hoped it would.

  A thin smile tipped Mr. Pease’s lips. “Yes, quite. I’d like to give you a tour of the facility before discussing the terms of the uniform contract. Unless you’ve been here before?”

  Mr. Dorsheimer cleared his throat. “Oh, I’ve been to the Points before, but not here in this building.” Of course. Well-to-do New Yorkers often came down to see Five Points for themselves to satisfy a macabre curiosity. “Well, allow us to show you around,” said Mr. Pease, leading the way. “This is a fairly new headquarters for us, and we’re rather proud of it. This corridor leads to the workshops where neighborhood teens and adults learn several trades. At first we taught only basic sewing, but now we also teach baking, shoemaking, corset making, basket weaving, and millinery. Go ahead, look around.”

  Mr. Dorsheimer tossed cursory glances into a few of the workshops.

  “We have more than five hundred workers currently. Five hundred!” Mr. Pease beamed. “I pay the workers according to what they produce. Sewers can earn up to $2.50 a week—now I know that doesn’t sound like much to you and me, Mr. Treasurer, but it’s a lot more than needlewomen normally earn. We’ve also opened a day school for the children so they are educated, fed, and even clothed while the parents work at their trades here.”

  They walked a little farther and turned into a large open room. “This is the chapel where we hold religious services,” Mr. Pease continued. “Of course there is also the Five Points Mission just across the street, whose primary objective is to feed the souls and point them to new life in Christ. The House of Industry began as a branch of the Mission, because I found they had a hard time hearing the Bible when their stomachs were growling. And what better way to feed the multitudes than to teach them a trade so they can feed themselves?”

  If Mr. Dorsheimer felt anything, he hid it well in those doughy folds of skin. The palms of Charlotte’s gloves began to dampen with sweat.

  “One last thing I’d like to show you.” Climbing a set of stairs brought them to a well-ventilated floor with spacious dormitories, each with iron beds that termites couldn’t penetrate. “We started out housing our worker women, so they wouldn’t need to go back to the brothels at night. But now we also shelter dozens of abused, neglected, and homeless children who are waiting for adoptive parents.”

  Mr. Dorsheimer, winded from the exertion of the climb, did not look impressed.

  “These rooms are humble enough, indeed,” Charlotte added, “but when you consider many of these people are used to sleeping on the bare floor of a room with no windows and laid out like sardines in a can, you can understand the charm of a bed and some—air, can’t you?” Calling it “fresh air” would have been a lie. With human waste collecting in trenches behind most Five Points tenements, no air had been fresh here for decades. At least windows allowed circulation.

  Dorsheimer glanced at his pocket watch again, a scowl sagging on his face. “This is all very well and good,” he huffed, “but can we get to the bottom line? How much would it cost to give you the contract? I need twelve thousand uniforms, and I need them as quickly as possible.”

  Mr. Pease turned to Charlotte. “Yes, of course,” she said. “We propose a payment from the state’s Military Board of thirteen cents per shirt, so that would be a total of $1,560.00. Total.” She bit her lip.

  “Fifteen hundred dollars?”

  Charlotte stole a glance at Mr. Pease. Was that a lot? Or not very much?

  “Fifteen hundred sixty dollars, sir. To be precise. Plus, you’d supply the flannel and buttons,” she said.

  “I need more than just shirts, miss.” Dorsheimer’s tone was sharp, biting. “I need trousers, jackets, and overcoats, too, and I need it all in three weeks. Twelve thousand sets. And you provide the material. Not me. Do I look like I’m in the garment business?”

  Alice’s eyes widened into large pools of cornflower blue. Charlotte’s narrowed into slits.

  “Twelve thousand complete uniforms in three weeks. I wish I could say we could do that, Mr. Dorsheimer, but you’re asking for a huge sum on an extremely short deadline. Not only can we not perform miracles, but I doubt any single company in New York could do a satisfactory job under your specifications.”

  “I’m sure if we joined together with a few other sewing organizations, we could do it,” said Charlotte, swiveling between Mr. Pease and Mr.
Dorsheimer. “But we need a little more time to make the arrangements. This contract would mean a great deal to the House of Industry and to the workers in a financial sense, but it would also be a perfect way they could serve their country and their fighting men at war. You could be guaranteed of fine quality products made by conscientious workers.”

  “Not possible. The boys are going to war, and they need to be clothed.”

  “Mr. Dorsheimer, please. Consider the greater value of giving a charity the contract. The House of Industry has made a profound impact on Five Points, rescuing people from poverty—and the immorality that sometimes goes with it—and helping them walk a better road.”

  Mr. Dorsheimer raised a hand to stop her, but she didn’t slow down.

  “I’m sure you know President Lincoln came to Five Points just last year, just before his Cooper Union speech that launched him toward the presidency. And what did he choose to see in Five Points? Not the brothels or groggeries, but the House of Industry.”

  “Miss—” He tried again, but she couldn’t stop.

  “Maggie’s mother, and dozens like her, needed this contract. Sir, the good work we do here inside these walls is becoming even more famous than the degradation outside of them. Invest in the House of Industry with this uniform contract, Mr. Dorsheimer, and you’ll be getting the products you want and doing society a favor at the same time.”

  At the end of her speech now, Charlotte caught her breath; Alice stared at her in disbelief. No one said a word until Mr. Dorsheimer jabbed a stubby finger at Charlotte.

  “My responsibility, young woman, is to the State of New York, not to your pet project here in the slums.”

  Charlotte’s face burned as she, Alice, and Mr. Pease watched Mr. Dorsheimer trudge out of the building, taking her hope with her.

  “It was worth a try, Miss Waverly,” Mr. Pease said.

  Alice leveled her gaze at Charlotte. “Another good idea, right Charlotte?”

  Frustration swelled in Charlotte’s chest. “Why? Why would you say such a thing? It was a brilliant idea! It made so much sense!”

  “Charlotte, when will you ever realize that not everyone sees the world as you do? You act so surprised when others disagree with you, when you are the one stepping out of the range of normal.”

  Charlotte crossed her arms tightly across her waist. “You used to look up to me.” Her throat grew tight with the unshed tears of bitter disappointment. “You used to believe in me.”

  Alice laid a tentative hand on Charlotte’s arm. “I believe your intentions are good. But once again, you spoke too boldly. Perhaps if you had not been so vehement with your outburst, Mr. Dorsheimer would at least have considered giving you the contract.” Alice sighed, resignation in her eyes. “You must—you must—know your place, dear sister, or one of these days, you will stand to lose much more than a sewing contract.”

  Charlotte opened her mouth to deny it, but could make no reply.

  Chapter Two

  New York City

  Sunday, April 28, 1861

  Curling up on the plush cushioned bench inside the parlor’s bay window, Charlotte welcomed the bundle of marmalade and cream fur that bounded onto her lap.

  “So there you are, Dickens!” Purring vibrated beneath her hand as she stroked his glossy coat. She had named the cat with her favorite author in mind, but quickly realized the little feline was beautiful on the outside but a dickens on the inside. Probably the way everyone sees me—especially men!

  Still stinging from the news that the uniform contract had gone to Brooks Brothers, Charlotte was in no mood to be courted today. But courting season had arrived with the daffodils, and it would not be put off, even for war. No, courting was serious business. She should know. She had been through ten years of it herself, and not one had produced a suitable match. Still, she couldn’t help but assume some of the blame for that.

  This year will be different, her mother kept telling her. Perhaps she was right. Even so, by the time Phineas Hastings took his leave of her front parlor this Sunday afternoon, she was more than ready for some solitude.

  Charlotte held nothing against Mr. Hastings. In fact, she had respected the law professor ever since she had met him at a guest lecture given by Frederick Douglass at the Broadway Tabernacle. Mr. Hastings was intelligent, charming, educated, and a regular churchgoer. His parents—God rest their souls—had brought him up well. Not quite as tall as—She shook her head as if to erase the thought. Comparing every suitor to a ghost from her past served no one.

  Importantly, her mother approved of Phineas. A wry smile lifted Charlotte’s lips. Little did Caroline know, however, that as soon as she had put an end to Charlotte’s work at the House of Industry, Phineas had given the charity a large donation—all the proceeds from a recent lecture he had given—just to cheer Charlotte up. Since then he had made a few more donations, perhaps more to win Charlotte’s affections rather than from his own concern for Five Points, but she didn’t care. Regardless of his motivation, his generosity to the charity endeared him to her.

  In addition to teaching law, Mr. Hastings was one of New York’s most well-known crusaders for abolitionism. His fiery rhetoric—and the fact that he had shared the stage with Douglass, even if only for a moment—left her in awe of him from the start. Most men didn’t understand why Charlotte attended lectures, but Mr. Hastings had actually seemed to enjoy conversing with her about politics and culture, religion and philosophy. It was what had attracted her to him in the first place. He wasn’t afraid of a woman who used her brain.

  “Then again,” Charlotte told Dickens, “I imagine I would be happier if I just didn’t think so much.” She leaned her head against the windowpane, her cat still warming her lap. Discontent seeped into her, like the cold air through the glass. Large, wooly clouds sagged in the air, snagging on church steeples and streetlights as they drifted across a grey flannel sky. Every roll of thunder echoed the rumblings of her spirit.

  The passionate preaching from the pulpit this morning and the newspaper at her side she thumbed through now deepened her unrest. Since the attack on Fort Sumter almost two weeks ago, New York City had rallied together for the Union cause, but the news headlines did not support the city’s optimism. Virginia had seceded on April 16. Troops on their way to Washington were attacked in Baltimore. Southern sympathizers had burned several railroad bridges to prevent Union troops from passing from Baltimore to Washington, and the rioting continued. Col. Robert E. Lee officially resigned his commission with the U.S. Army to lead Rebel troops in the Army of Northern Virginia. A Southern attack on the Federal capital was imminent.

  And she wasn’t doing a thing about it.

  Sighing, she reached for the Blue Willow teacup on the walnut table next to her, and breathed in the fragrance of orange and cloves. She picked up today’s New York Times and froze. Without taking her eyes off the paper, she rattled the cup back on its saucer.

  CALL FOR NURSING CANDIDATES BY THE WOMEN’S CENTRAL ASSOCIATION FOR RELIEF

  Women have not hitherto been employed in military hospitals as nurses. The nursing is done by soldiers drafted out of the ranks for that purpose….

  Nursing in military hospitals is a very different thing from nursing in civil hospitals, and still more from private nursing. The class of patients to be nursed, the character of the under nurses, who will always be men, the social isolation of the position, and the absolute necessity of enforcing military discipline, combine to render nursing in military hospitals a service of peculiar difficulty which can only be accomplished successfully by a select and disciplined band of nurses.

  The following regulations for selecting candidates have been drawn up—these regulations being approved by the Hospital Association to whom they were submitted.

  Age.—Each candidate must be between the ages of thirty and forty-five years, exceptions being only made in the case of nurses of valuable experience.

  Health.—Only women of strong constitutions will be recei
ved; chronic disease, or other physical weakness, disqualifying for service.

  Character.—Every applicant must present a written testimonial or introduction from a responsible person who can be seen. Only persons of the highest respectability will be received.

  Discipline.—A promise of cordial compliance with all the regulations of the service will be required.

  Dress.—A regulation dress will be appointed by the board, which each nurse will be required to adopt, no hoops being allowed in the service.

  Number of Candidates.—Ten Bands, or a class of one hundred, will now be enrolled, due notice being given in the daily journals when the lists are full. Should a second corps be needed the call will again be published in the papers.

  The Registration Committee meet daily in the Cooper Institute in the Philosophical Rooms, on the fourth floor, between the hours of two and four P.M. They earnestly invite all ladies possessing the necessary qualifications to present themselves for registration.

  Those who are fitted by nature and position to engage in this new and difficult work, will render invaluable aid to their country by devoting themselves to its thorough accomplishment.

  Signed,

  Drs. Elizabeth Blackwell,

  Edward Delafield,

  J. R. Wood, and Elisha Harris.

  She read the notice again.

  Are they crazy?

  As the first woman to earn a medical degree in the United States, Dr. Blackwell could be expected to come up with such an outrageous plan to insert women into the men’s sphere of work. But there were three other doctors names attached, all highly distinguished men.

  Wincing from being in the same position for too long, Charlotte unfolded her legs from under her, sending Dickens to the floor, and began to pace the room, the ribboned hem of her skirt skimming the French rug beneath her feet. Just imagine. Women serving their country so close to the action! She had read all about England’s Florence Nightingale and her work in the Crimean War, but never dreamed such a thing would be possible in this country. They must be desperate for help.