One
Washington, DC
February 1864
The light, sweet honey scent of burning candles did not quite mask the odor of blood and sweat in the makeshift ballroom. Not far from the White House, the room was tucked inside a military hospital, itself a repurposed clothing factory. Noise echoed in the vast space, with cots, machinery, and great rolls of cotton neatly stacked against the walls. Tall windows let in slanted rectangles of light upon women in dark uniforms setting out flower arrangements. I too felt out of place. Dressed in a ball gown, I was like a fresh flower in a room meant for working men.
Double doors opened from an anteroom, and chattering guests tumbled in. An orchestra hummed, tuning up as men clad in sharp Union dress uniforms gathered in conversation groups with women in their finery. Nearer to me, a line of men on crutches and in rolling chairs aligned themselves along a wall, each of them missing a limb or two or otherwise too broken to join the healthier soldiers.
I nodded my greetings, hesitant at first. Like most young women in my small town of Cold Spring, New York, other than a glimpse of a few limping, bedraggled returned soldiers, I had been sheltered from the consequences of war. Here, the wounded men clambered over one another, some in hospital pajamas, some half in uniform, reaching out to me, seeking to be included despite their infirmities.
I ignored the bloody gauze wrapped around heads and the stench of healing flesh as I shook their hands, right or left, bandaged or missing fingers, making my way down the line. One after the other, they thanked me for coming and begged me to dance and enjoy myself.
In the letter that had accompanied the invitation to the event, my brother had been clear: The ball is intended to be a celebration of life, a brief interlude for men who have seen too much, and the last frivolity for too many others. It pained me to look into their eyes, wondering who amongst them were enjoying their last pleasure on this earth.
“So pleased to meet you. I’m Emily.” I offered my hand to a soldier with one brown eye, his face cobbled by burns.
He held my hand in both of his. “Miss Emily, you remind me there is still some joy in life.”
I smiled. “Will you find me when it is time to dance?”
The soldier laughed.
My face flushed. It was too forward for a lady to ask a gentleman to dance. And perhaps he was unable.
“You can’t tell from my pajamas, but I’ve earned my sergeant’s stripes.” He tapped his upper arm. “I won’t be joining the butter bars.”
The term butter bars rather derogatorily referred to the insignia of newly minted lieutenants. Belatedly, I recalled my invitation was to the Officers’ Ball, and the sergeant had apparently come to watch. My cheeks warmed. I had gaffed thrice with one sentence. Not an auspicious beginning, considering my goals for the evening.
More women filtered in, each on the arm of an officer. In contrast to the men against the wall, the exuberance and freshly scrubbed skin of these officers made me doubt they’d seen battle. I felt rather out to sea. I had insisted on arriving without a chaperone, as I had expected to be escorted by my brother, but he was nowhere to be seen.
His last letter had said the fighting had slowed during the winter months, but that could change at any moment. Even if it hadn’t, he was a target. I shook the image of a sniper out of my head. Surely, if something terrible had happened, they wouldn’t still be setting up for a ball.
The soldier still had a firm hold on my hand. I pasted a smile on my face and peeked about the room. Was it more awkward to mingle with the others, all in couples, or rude not to?
The sergeant jutted his jaw toward the center of the ballroom. “Go now. We’ll be watching.”
I nodded and slipped my hand from his, resisting a peek at my white silk gloves to see if they’d been soiled. My ball gown showcased the latest fashion: magenta silk, the skirt full in the back and more fitted in the front. My evening boots echoed the profile; with an open vamp and high heel, they reminded me of Saint Nicholas’s sleigh. I smoothed the gown’s travel creases and mulled its merits. Comfort: adequate. Usefulness: very good, considering its purpose was to please the eyes of young men. Mother had disapproved of the deeply scooped neckline, but she had sheltered me long enough. I was now twenty years old and craved amusement.
The handsome dress uniforms and elaborate gowns each guest wore suggested formality and elegance, but raucous laughter shattered the tranquility of the elegant piano music. Clusters of young men erupted in challenges and cheers, guzzling whiskey and fueling their spirits.
I stepped closer to a particularly animated group in which a tall, handsome captain held court among a dozen lieutenants. Perhaps he could advise me as to where I could find my brother.
“What will you do after the war?” someone asked.
“Rather the same thing as before. Build bridges. Blow them up.” The captain raised his glass, and the others followed, laughing and cheering.
A bespectacled, earnest-looking young man asked, “Sir, why would you blow up bridges in times of peace?”
The captain’s smile faded, and he leaned into the group as if sharing a great conspiracy. “There are only so many places to build a bridge, and sometimes we have to blow up an old, rickety bridge to make room for a new one.”
I stepped back, feeling awkward for eavesdropping.
The captain continued his lesson. “I’ll be helping the country to heal, connecting Kentucky and Ohio with a long-abandoned project. And then we’ll be doing the impossible. Connecting New York and Brooklyn with an even grander bridge. It will become one enormous city. If you want a job after the war, boys, come see me.”
I shook my head. The captain didn’t lack for hubris. But just as I was about to approach to inquire about my brother, he excused himself and hurried off.
* * *
Twilight had faded, and the candles and gas lamps burned brightly, as if the assembly’s energy had leached out and lit the room. All the women seemed thoroughly engaged, so I wandered about, my worry for my brother steadily increasing. A tiny glass of golden liquid was thrust at me, and I took a sip, the burning in my throat a pleasant sensation.
The orchestra played a fanfare, and a deep voice rang out. “Ladies and gentlemen, the commander of Second Corps, Major General Gouverneur Kemble Warren—the hero of Little Round Top.”
Relief ran through me like a cool breeze on a hot day. I should have known that the commander of thousands would need to make an entrance. Officers snapped to attention and saluted the colors as they passed, then held their position for my brother. My heart fluttered when I saw him, taller than most, shaking hands as he made his way through the crowd. Our family called him GK, as Gouverneur was a most awkward name. Thirteen years my senior, he was now in his thirties, with sleek black hair and a mustache that met the sides of his jaw.
After months of worry and cryptic letters from which I could only gather that his troops had won a major battle in northern Virginia, seeing my brother lifted me two feet off the ground. I waved as he scanned the room, his eyes finally finding me.