State of Ruin

Her second day in the ward had gone infinitely smoother than her first. That, at least, gave her hope. It was nearing two o’clock in the afternoon; the morning had vanished in her busyness. Her hair was hardly pinned up anymore; it was easier to run her long, wavy locks behind her ears as they fell and continue on. There was blood beneath her fingernails that would take forever to scrub away, and her dress was stained with fluids of all sorts. She was experiencing a certain level of repulsion she’d never felt before, and it was no longer a question as to why only dark-colored dresses were allowed. She could only imagine what her mother would say if she saw her in that state. There was a stressful total of twenty-three men left in the ward, but with the ward surgeon, orderlies, attendants, and pain prescriptions, managing them was not terrible. Two of the soldiers had taken sick and passed at the beginning of her shift. It was her first taste of tragic death, and it rendered her numb most of the morning. But the day progressed. By the afternoon, each of the remaining men seemed stable and relatively appeased. Truthfully, most weren’t needy; they were used to the inconveniences of soldier life. Complaints were few, and the men kept occupied by reading, playing games like backgammon, or regaling war stories to see who the most valorous soldier was. Regardless of how they kept engaged, it was unending relief that finally, by evening, Mona had nothing to do. Dr. Angle had been in the ward since midmorning, and with his continued presence and her free time, she decided it was time to escape to the far corner—to Mr. Cleary. Despite her interest in Dr. Angle, there seemed to be a special, secluded area in her soul that was stirred by thoughts of the Rebel. Perhaps he was a reminder of the reality of a war pitting Americans against each other, turning brothers into foreigners. And the way he’d made his way into that hospital, so far from Sharpsburg…something about his mysterious presence intrigued her, and she felt a moral obligation to see that he recovered. She was ready to hide away in the corner of her ward with the Rebel, to not only explain everything, but to unwrap his bandages and clean him up while none of the Union men were paying too much attention. Mr. Cleary appeared to be sleeping, as he had most of the day. With the amount of pain he had, she was sure to be on top of his prescription. As promised, he was quiet and self-contained; he ate, drank, and moved very little. No matter how he may have wanted to, he hadn’t complained once…but she knew he had to be growing impatient with his tense environment. Just as Mona approached and took a seat on the wooden stool beside Mr. Cleary’s bed, a fiddle played from the other side of the ward. The maestro, one of the lesser-wounded men, had gathered a few men around to participate in the ditty. Lucky enough, one of the men joining the crowd was Mr. Cleary’s only bed neighbor, the arm amputee who went by the name of Arch. Left isolated, Mr. Cleary’s spot in the ward was ideal—but at the same time the sound of the strings had caught his attention. With his face turned toward the music, Mona felt her confidence plummet. Seated so close yet unbeknownst to him, she didn’t know how to prevent startling him with her greeting. She decided to watch him for a moment as he took in the beauty of the instrument, lost in his thoughts and darkness. His white hospital tunic was half off his shoulder, revealing a shiny, muscled chest that was sweaty from a fluctuation of fever and cold. His dusty, pale hair was a mess beneath the facial bandages that ended above his mouth, and his right hand was neatly bandaged atop a missing finger. What belongings he had—his shoes and shirt—were bundled away in a parcel in the laundry room. He looked like a prisoner. And while many of the soldiers were singing and laughing, the Rebel only gave a pensive sigh. His breaths were soft and muffled, though not as shallow as they’d been when he arrived. With the strange camaraderie that had begun in the ward, the Rebel was a sore thumb. And he was keenly aware of that. Words finally gave way to her shyness. “Good afternoon, Mr. Cleary.”