He shook his head. “Not yet. They were due to arrive this afternoon, but they met with trouble switching trains.”
There were two stations in Baltimore, about ten blocks apart. To switch from one station to the next, either a carriage was taken or the train cars were pulled by horse along a set of tracks. It was one of the reasons Pinkerton’s men had been concerned about Lincoln going through Baltimore on his way into Washington before his inauguration. So much could happen in those ten blocks, and it appeared the soldiers had experienced it firsthand.
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Reports are saying over nine hundred soldiers were involved and at least thirty of them were injured. Four died.”
I looked out the window, thinking of all those men traveling to the city in need of help. The only hospital in town, the City Infirmary, would not be able to meet the need, especially if there were serious cases. “When is the train expected?”
“In a couple of hours.”
I stood and paced to the window, wondering when the rain would let up. There would be others helping at the train station, so why couldn’t I?
Then Clara Barton came to mind. I had learned about her in a medical history class. She had been living in Washington, working in the US Patent Office. When she heard about the mencoming in from Baltimore, she had leapt into action. Many of the men were from Massachusetts, her home state, and she would know them. She would realize the great need in the city and launch a campaign to gather supplies for the soldiers. It would eventually lead her to start the American Red Cross in the 1880s, ultimately saving countless lives.
At this very moment, Clara was probably on her way to the train station, which was north of the Capitol Building.
“Joseph?” I turned back to him as he was about to leave the room. “Will you hitch up the carriage?”
He glanced toward the rain-covered window. “Miss?”
“I’d like to go to the train station to see if I can help those injured soldiers.”
“Your father won’t be happy.”
He was right. If anyone in society knew I had gone to help the injured soldiers, there would be talk. And talk was never good for a politician or his family. Yet I couldn’t sit back and do nothing.
“I appreciate your attempt to protect me, but if he can do his part for the cause, then I can too.”
Joseph didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. “I’ll be ready to go in thirty minutes.”
I tried to push aside the misgivings I felt. I didn’t want to hurt Papa’s political career, but I also couldn’t deny my own need to help.
“Saphira,” I called as I walked through the parlor, across the elegant dining room, and into the back kitchen.
Saphira was sitting at the table with our cook, Goldie, peeling potatoes. Both women looked up, surprised to find me in their domain, and stood at my entrance.
“We’re going to need a few supplies,” I told the ladies. “Bandages, whiskey, a needle and thread, and any morphine that we might have in the house.”
Saphira and Goldie stared at me, their potatoes and peeling knives forgotten in their hands.
“We’ll also need any food we can spare that will travel well. Biscuits, fruit, bread.”
Neither one moved, looking at me as if I had just lost my head, and I realized I hadn’t told them what I planned to do.
“I’m going to the station to meet the soldiers coming in from Baltimore. There will be injuries, and they will be hungry.”
“What will you do with the needle and thread?” Saphira asked.
“I intend to sew up wounds, if there are any.”
Saphira’s face blanched. “S-sew? Skin?”
“I have no time to explain,” I told her. “I must go change and meet Joseph outside in thirty minutes. Will you please place everything into baskets? And if we can spare a blanket or two, please add those as well. I’m sure we’ll need them.”
Saphira looked to Goldie, who hadn’t said a word, and then nodded at me. “Yes, Miss Margaret.”
I went upstairs to change into an old gown, slipping off several cumbersome petticoats, as they’d only be in my way. I put on comfortable shoes and was thankful my hair was in a snood so I would not need to deal with misplaced pins or wayward hair.
