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4

    The river never changes.  The course can change, meandering over here, flooding over there, filling or emptying with silt.  The river, though, stays the same; it’s just like every time you went up and down the damn thing.  Sometimes you were fearful of battle; once you were nearly dead from battle.
    You thought you had experienced the last of war, and that stench of death.  Then your steamboat turns a bend, and you come within wind of the wreck of the Sultana.  Wreck isn’t the proper term for it.  The former ship doesn’t even exist anymore.  It’s been obliterated.
    Just a few weeks ago it had been just another steamer on the Mississippi.  The Government had contacted it to bring back its soldiers from the deep South.  It might have had enough room for four, maybe five hundred men.  They packed it to the gills.  Over two thousand men were on that boat.  They were sleeping out on the decks, shoulder to shoulder.  Maybe they figured they could pack more on board because the men were so rail thin.  Most of them had been prisoners of war, from hell holes like Andersonville, finally given their taste of freedom and a trip home.
    The boilers exploded on the way up the river.  The luckiest men, if you can call the survivors that were blown straight into the water, were spared the flash of steam and shrapnel.  A few hundred died of their burns.  The other 1,500 men or so were blown to pieces.  They tried to bury as much of the men as they could find.  Yet the banks, and the little eddies and log jams downstream were filled with bits of bone and brain and fingers and balls.  Most of it’s gone by the time your boat passes by, but you can still smell the rot.  
    It’s a familiar smell.  You start to wonder if the war isn’t really over.  It wasn’t over for those men.  Why should you be any luckier than them?
    New Orleans, on the other hand, seems to have changed completely.  You don’t recognize the dock your boat ties up at, but you’re pretty sure it’s the one you last left on.  The whole city is buzzing.  Buildings are going up, others are being torn down.  The Anaconda has loosened its grip all along the Southern coast, so a port city like this is already booming.  People seem downright cheerful and optimistic.  They probably don’t feel the same out in Mobile.  New Orleans has always had plenty of loyal Union men, and plenty of negroes.  It was primed for a return to business.
    The hospital isn’t there anymore.  You suppose there’s no reason it should be.  That kind of thing is temporary, and the war’s over now.  Doesn’t mean it feels like anything less than a kick in the stomach though.  You had hoped it was still there.  You had hoped that she was still there.  She was the only reason you came here, instead of going home where you belong.
    You start asking around. Most people don’t even know there had been a hospital there, and it couldn’t have been gone more than a few months.  That’s how fast everything is changing; that’s how new everybody else is around here.
    Some people remember the hospital.  You ask about the black maid, though, and nobody has any idea who you’re talking about.  There are few leads in where she might have gone, or who might know. It seems impossible, but that pit in your stomach just keeps sinking deeper and deeper.  Your heart, too, begins to harden around the edges, preparing you for the inevitable breaking you know has to come sooner or later.
    Days pass, then weeks, as you track down every possible hint of where she may have gone.
    Now you’re only left with one possible hope.  There’s not much hope at all with this lead, really.  You’ve been putting it off until the bitter end.  You’d give up, but you can’t.  
    It’s another day’s travel up to Baton Rouge.  You walk down a dusty residential street.  It’s a rather nice neighborhood.  Big oak limbs cross over the road.  The houses are big, and freshly painted.  You check the address, and decide you’ve come to the right house.  
    You pass up the walk, through a well kept garden, and knock on the heavy front door. You wait nervously a moment until you hear footsteps approaching.  The door swings open.
    “Yes?” he asks.  It’s a man.  White.  Middle-aged, with a big bushy mustache.  You were expecting a servant to answer.
    “Sorry to bother you, sir,” you say, taking off your hat.  “But is this the Johnston residence?”
    “This is the right place, young man.  I’m Earnest Johnston.”
    “And your wife is Susan Johnston?”
    “Yes,” he raises an eyebrow.
    “Formerly Susan Redheart?”
    He puffs himself up and sticks his thumbs in his pocket, as if defensive.  “Yes, that’s correct.  And just what is it that you want to know about my wife, sir?”
    You tell him, quickly.  You were a patient at the hospital.  She treated you there as a nurse.  You were hoping to find somebody you had known at that hospital, and would like to know if his wife might know what had become of her.
    “Ah, I see!” he says with a suddenly welcome smile.  “Come in, come in.”  He waves you through into a large, wide foyer.  There’s a large staircase.  The man bellows up the stairs.  “Susan!”
    “Yes?” her voice calls down from above.  You recognize that voice.  It makes your blood run cold.
    “There’s a young man here to see you!  A former patient of yours!  He’s looking for somebody you might know!”
    “I’ll be right down!” Susan Johnston – nay Nurse Redheart answers.  
    Her husband ushers you into the den, and offers you a seat.  “I was a doctor at that hospital myself,” he explains.  “Although I can’t remember treating you.”
    “I can’t say I recognize you either, sir,” you say.
    “Ah well, I didn’t start practicing there until shortly before it closed.  You’re a soldier then?”
    “Yes, sir.  Well, I was, sir,” you answer, giving your rank and unit.
    “You must have seen action nearby then?  If you were a patient at the hospital?”
    “I was wounded near Vickburg, sir.  Then took ill, and brought down on a steamer.”
    “Ah, Vicksburg, yes, Vicksburg.  Splendid campaign.  Textbook campaign.  I’m sure they’ll study it for years,” he says, as sure as any civilian who read about it in the newspaper.  “You know, I was a soldier once myself.”
    “Oh?”
    “Mexican War,” he says.  Then he goes on about his big adventures, and the grand excitement of the Battle of Chapultepec.  As a kid, you remember hearing stories from veterans of that war.  It seemed amazing at the time.  Now that entire war would have been a minor skirmish compared to what you went through.  You start to wonder if you’ll ever tell your story again to anybody but Zecora.  He’s been talking for awhile now, but you’ve completely drowned him out with your thoughts.  He doesn’t seem to notice.
    You’re both startled when his wife walks in.  You stand up and introduce yourself, shaking her hand.  Then you all sit down again, herself in the big chair next to her husband.
    “My apologies,” she says, nicely enough, “but I can’t say I recall your stay at the hospital.”
    “Oh...”
    “I hope that doesn’t sound rude of me,” she says, “but there were thousands of boys who came through our wards.”	
    “That’s quite alright,” you say.  You’re kind of glad she doesn’t remember you.
    “You must be looking for one of my nurses,” she says.  “All those thousands of boys.  At least half of them fell in love with my nurses.  And most of my nurses ended up marrying some few of them.  Not that I blame them.  I met my Earnest at that hospital, after all.”
    “Actually, ma’am, it’s not one of the nurses I’m looking for.”
    “Oh?”
    “She was a maid, actually.”
    “I see.”
    “She was a black woman, actually.  You’ll probably remember her going by the name of Alice.”
    Nurse Redheart stares at you coldly.  You’re not sure if she’s lost in thought, or if she’s about to eviscerate you with the knitting needles she has tucked under her arm.  She’s still just as formidable as she used to be since retiring from the medical profession.
    “Oh, you must mean Zecora,” she says.
    It takes you completely by surprise.  “Yes, ma’am,” is the only thing you can spit out.
    “And she wasn’t a maid, she was a nurse of mine.”
    “Uh...”
    “You know what?” she says, more to her husband than to you.  “That’s right.  She started out as a maid, but I made her a nurse when I saw how good she was with the patients.”
    “Hmm,” her husband strokes his mustache.  “There weren’t many negress nurses during this war, but I’ve heard of one or two besides your own.  This war certainly changed things.”
    “She wasn’t just any nurse,” Redheart says, “she was the best I had.”
    “Harumph,” her husband says, not sure if he believes that.
    “I dare say,” Redheart goes on, “if negroes can be soldiers and sea captains and spies, there’s no reason they can’t be fine nurses.”
    “Hear hear!” the doctor agrees.
    “Ma’am?” you ask, confused about where this conversation is going.
    “Let me ask you this,” she turns back to you.  “Why is it that you’re looking for this woman?”
    “I... well... I... uh...,” you’re squirming in your chair.  You know it.  You know that the two of them can see it, and how uncomfortable you’ve become.  “The thing is... she was very kind to me.  Very kind.  Back at the hospital, you see.  She wasn’t even a nurse then, but a maid.  She had no reason to do me a kindness.  Yet she did.  I saw very little of that sort of kindness during the war.  I just wanted... I just wanted to repay her some kind of kindness, if I can.  She can’t live an easy life.  So... I want to find her again.  To see if she needs anything.”
    “I see,” she tells you.  She looks right through you, like you’re a child in trouble at grammar school.  “I think I remember you now.  You had Yellow Fever, this was while recovering from a gun shot.  I’m sorry, but I don’t know what’s become of Zecora.”
    “Oh.”
    “The hospital shut down last... last November was it?”  Her husband nods.  She continues.  “That was just before Earnest and I were married.  I was so distracted with the wedding... and everybody ended up going their separate ways.  I’m not sure what happened to everybody.”
    “I see.  Well, I’m sorry I wasted...”
    “I may know where she’s gone off to, though.”  Your heart skips a beat.  She continues.  “We knew the hospital was closing.  A number of my girls were getting married themselves, but the others were worried they wouldn’t find work.  There were several rumors of positions being opened elsewhere.  We received word that they were looking for work up in Chevalboro.  Their midwife passed away, and they were looking for a replacement.”
    “Chevalboro, ma’am?”
    “You see, the thing is, son, as eager as my girls were to get a job as a midwife, they didn’t have much experience in the practice.  There weren’t very many deliveries in a hospital filled with young men.”  
She says it matter-of-factly, but her husband has to stifle a laugh.  “Except for Zecora, you see.  Apparently she had some experience as a midwife.  I don’t know anything about that woman’s history.  Maybe she was a midwife on whatever plantation she came from.  Or back in her home in Africa.  They must have midwifes in Africa, I suppose.”
    “Certainly,” her husband agrees.
    “Chevalboro, ma’am?  I can’t say I’m familiar with it.”
    “I’m not surprised.  It’s hardly even on the map.  Halfway to Shreveport, by road.  When you get to Farmingham, take the pike south.  It circles around the bayou, then Chevalboro is right on the edge.  You can’t really miss it, despite how small it is.  There are only a handful of plantations out that way.  It’s mostly a negro town.  Come to think of it, I don’t know what’s happened to it since the war broke out.  If they need midwives, they’re likely mostly birthing negro babies.  It must be a perfect job for that Zecora.  I don’t know if that’s where she’s gone.  But if she’s a smart woman, and she’s certainly that, then I would certainly expect it of her.  That’s where I’d go if I were looking for her, at any rate.”
    You rise to your feet.  You don’t really mean to stand up right then, but you can’t help yourself.  Your knees are buoyed by hope and impossible expectations.  Redheart and her husband rise up with you.  Your mouth spills out words of gratitude for the advice.  They don’t want to see you go, they’re offering you a place at their table for dinner.  Now you’re apologizing for your rudeness.
    They look at each other and smile.  Then they see you to the door.  There’s a flurry of handshakes and Mrs. Johnston even gives you a farewell hug.  Then you’re down the walk, through the garden, to the street, with calls of goodbye.
    “Oh, son!” she calls after you.  You stop and turn.  “Please do be careful.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “I do mean it.  You see, most of Louisiana, places like Chevalboro... they’re not like New Orleans.  They’re not so friendly to... Northerners.”
    “Ma’am?”
    “I’ve heard tell that the Home Guard is still active up in that part of the country.”
    “I see,” you tip your hat to her again, thankful for the advice.  
    “Goodbye then, goodbye!” they call after you.  They stand there on their porch, watching you go.  You’re walking briskly beneath the big boughs of those old oaks, almost skipping.  Soon you’re out of earshot.  You don’t hear them talk to each other.
    “Oh, I do hope he finds her,” she says.
    “Indeed.  So do I, although I don’t quite believe it.  This war has certainly changed things.  You won’t find many people who agree, though.  It’s downright dangerous.  This society just won’t have it.  Not in a hundred years.”
    “Some things are more important than society.  Oh, I think it’s romantic.  Like Romeo and Juliet.”
    “Yes, well he better keep a sharp eye out, or he’s going to get the both of them killed.”
    “Yes,” she agrees as they turn back to go inside.  “I wouldn’t want this to turn into a tragedy.”