Handpicked Family. Shannon Farrington

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      The barest hint of a smile tugged at Dr. Mackay’s lips. They are so much in love, Trudy couldn’t help but think. She couldn’t help but wonder if someday a man would look at her that way. It certainly won’t be Mr. Carpenter.

      A self-pitying lump threatened to form in Trudy’s throat, but she swallowed it back.

      “When the people arrive we will need to first assess their conditions outside,” Dr. Mackay said. “If there is even the slightest indication of typhus or smallpox, we must immediately isolate them.”

      Trudy understood. She knew from experience that they could not bring patients bearing such illnesses into close contact with others. They must be quarantined. “Where shall we put them?” she asked.

      “My house,” Reverend Webb said.

      Trudy could tell Dr. Mackay did not like the preacher’s sacrifice any more than she, but if typhus or smallpox patients came to them, they had to be treated somewhere. Trepidation wiggled its way up her spine. What would happen if the reverend and his wife took ill? Who would nurse them? What would happen if the entire relief staff took ill?

      She pushed those fears from her mind. Dr. Mackay was still speaking.

      “We will need to prepare a treatment area for the noninfectious patients here inside the church,” he said. “I expect many cases of malnutrition, unhealed wounds and the like.”

      Under the physician’s guidance, Trudy and Emily prepared a medical area for detailed assessment of complaints and treatment. Trudy hoped whatever they encountered would not be serious, given their minimal supplies. They had been left with plenty of soap and bandages, as well as basic surgical instruments, but the case of morphine and ether was gone.

      After organizing the treatment area. Trudy helped Sarah Webb sort through what remained of the dry goods and fresh vegetables. They set allotments of equal portions for each potential visitor. Sacrificially, Mrs. Webb had also raided the last of what remained of her own supplies and prepared a soup.

      “I’m sorry it isn’t more,” she lamented, “but between the Confederate requisition armies and then the Yankees, this was all I could hide.”

      “You must have had a secret compartment in your larder to save as much as this,” Trudy said, trying to inject a little lightheartedness into the heavy situation, “or was it the root cellar?”

      “Neither,” Mrs. Webb admitted, a hint of mirth in her face. “I reburied last year’s potatoes and rutabagas in sacks in the garden.” The smile then faded. “But I’m afraid this is the end of my resourcefulness.”

      “You are out of food, as well?”

      “Yes. Just about. I managed to save a few of our smallest potatoes for seed this year, but the harvest was very poor. I did come across a patch of ramps the day before you came, though.”

      Trudy had never heard of ramps before, except for those used in the place of stairs. “What is that?” she asked.

      Mrs. Webb again smiled. “It’s like a leek. You eat the bulb.”

      “Oh?”

      “They are excellent in soups.”

      Trudy leaned over the pot. Even as thin as the mixture was, it certainly smelled excellent.

      Across the way, Mr. Carpenter had set up a desk of sorts, one made out of a piece of salvaged wood and two sawhorses. According to Reverend Webb, he had been collecting names and basic information to locate missing family members, including reconnecting former slaves with loved ones who’d been separated during the war. Apparently he planned to publish notices about the missing in his paper, and convince fellow publishers in other cities to do the same.

      It was hard not to admire a man who used his press in such a way. Trudy eyed him stealthily for a moment. Mr. Carpenter’s hair was as black as coffee. He had dark eyebrows, a slight cleft in his chin and a strong, handsome jaw. He could have passed for a rich statesman were it not for the crumpled collars and askew cravats he always wore. He had a tendency to tug at them when he worked. He disliked the confinement of frock coats as well, always preferring to roll up his sleeves. He had done so today. Trudy couldn’t help but notice once again his muscular forearms.

      Catching herself, she shook off such thoughts, remembering that Peter Carpenter had proven he was not the man for her. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, they shared a belief in helping others, but he was not interested in marriage. He didn’t want a family.

      And he isn’t exactly a churchgoing man, she reminded herself. Oh, she knew that he believed in God, but for some reason “organized religion,” as he put it, had “no practical use.” So how exactly has he come to know and be on such good terms with the Webbs? she wondered. Had it been some connection before the war? Her curiosity getting the better of her, she asked Mrs. Webb.

      “My husband, James, nursed his brother Daniel after the battle of New Market.”

      “Oh,” Trudy said, her eyes inadvertently going to the still stained floor. “Mr. Carpenter has never really spoken of him.” Although Trudy knew he had a brother. She had learned that detail during the time that she, her mother and her sister had taken shelter in Mr. Carpenter’s parents’ home outside Baltimore when the city had been threatened by Confederate attack. He has two, if I remember correctly. Daniel and Matthew.

      “I suppose he wouldn’t speak much of him,” the preacher’s wife said. “It must be very painful.”

      “Painful?”

      “Daniel survived the battle, but wound fever took him and several other Virginia soldiers a week later.”

      “I see,” Trudy said. A cold chill passed through her, but her feeling was not limited to her employer’s loss alone. Trudy knew very well that fever could have just as easily taken her own brother.

      Mrs. Webb must have recognized it, as well, for she looked at Trudy sympathetically. “I thank the Good Lord that he spared your own brother.”

      “Indeed,” Trudy replied. “And I shall be even more grateful when he is released from prison.”

      Mrs. Webb patted Trudy’s arm. “I pray for him daily, and all those like him. May God grant them the courage and grace to return to peaceful society.”

      “Amen,” Trudy said.

      Mrs. Webb then continued with her previous story. “James wrote a letter to your Mr. Carpenter with the terrible news that his brother had passed away. Daniel wanted it that way. I remember him saying he didn’t want his parents to learn about the death of their youngest son by letter.”

      Leaving Mr. Carpenter to deliver the dreadful story. “And Matthew?” Trudy then asked. “His other brother? Did he survive?”

      Sarah Webb shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about him, except that he was a Yankee.”

      With that the woman walked away. Trudy resisted the urge to follow after her even if by eyes only. Mrs. Webb had been headed in the direction of Mr. Carpenter’s table. Instead Trudy picked up the nearby water pail and marched outside to the pump.

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