Free Wedded to War by Jocelyn Green Page A

Elisha Harris below the number 24.
    “It’s your ticket to the training program, my dear,” he explained. “Present it at New York Hospital beginning 6:30 Monday morning. Don’t be late.”

Monday, May 20, 1861
     
    C harlotte had never felt so awake at six thirty in the morning. The hum of two dozen chattering women buzzed through her veins as she stood among them in a meeting room of New York Hospital.
    Alice should be here, too
, Charlotte thought for the hundredth time.
It only makes sense that she should prepare herself as a nurse if she has any desire to follow Jacob when his regiment goes south.
So far, however, Charlotte’s letters had failed to convince Alice. Her place, she maintained, was at her home.
    “Ladies!” Dr. Blackwell called the women to attention. “You sound like clucking chickens, but you look like one great big bruise!” The women looked at each other and laughingly agreed. Regulation nursing uniforms not only kept them from wearing hoops, but prohibited them from wearing any color but dark blue, black, grey, or brown.
    “I will not be the one to train you during your course, but I wanted to say a few words to you before you begin.”
    All eyes were on her now.
    “Many of you know that since we founded the Women’s Central Association of Relief several weeks ago, letters have been pouring in from women all over the country, sharing stories with us of how poorly their soldiers are faring. The flood of correspondence became so overwhelming that we realized our small association, as it currently is, can’t meet the needs. But we also realize the needs must absolutely be met.”
    Nodding heads agreed.
    “Dr. Bellows and Dr. Harris left for Washington on May 17 to petition the government to make W.C.A.R. the official United States Sanitary Commission, to ‘prevent the evils that England and France could only investigate and deplore,’” she continued. “They are still there. The news has not been good. Dr. Bellows has written to us: ‘The War Department regarded us as weak enthusiasts, representing well-meaning but silly women.’” She looked up from the letter and scanned the fresh faces in front of her. “That’s you, you know. ‘Well-meaning but silly women.’” More than one of them turned a rosy shade of indignation.
    Folding the letter and tucking it into the pocket of her apron, Dr. Blackwell sighed. “This nursing corps we have created is what the W.C.A.R. is most known for right now. And like it or not, people are going to be watching us like vultures, ready to swoop in and finish us off if we fail at what we have set out to do. If we fail, I am afraid that women’s associations will be discredited and will not be put to use in the war effort. I am afraid that the door will slam shut behind you, and any woman who wants to become a professional nurse after you will have to work twice as hard, or harder, to kick it in again. But most of all, I am convinced beyond any doubt that hundreds of thousands of lives will be lost.”
    The silence in the air sizzled with tension. Deep concern was etched on every face.
    “The army currently has twenty-eight surgeons to care for seventy-five thousand volunteers.” Dr. Blackwell let the numbers sink in before continuing. “Twenty-eight. We must do our part, not just to prove whatwomen can do, but because if we don’t support the medical department, the Union army will simply not survive. Right now, men are dying when they could be cured with some very basic care and better hygiene. They are dying. As if the wounds of war were not enough, our soldiers are creating their own disease with their lack of personal hygiene and their filthy camps. And it will kill them. Dr. Bellows says that by their recent investigations, one half of the men already recruited will be dead of camp diseases by November 1. I’m sorry to lay this pressure on your shoulders, ladies, but I only do so because I know you can make a difference. You are not