Thirty minutes later, I was tucking the blankets around the supplies Saphira and Goldie had gathered in the kitchen. Joseph entered, his overcoat wet from the rain, and silently took the baskets and walked back outside.
“What will we say to your father when he gets home?” Goldie finally asked as I was about to leave through the back door.
I paused, knowing I’d have to deal with it sooner or later. After today, Papa might ban me from ever doing something like this again, but I had to try.
“Tell him I’m doing charity work. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
With that, I stepped out into the rain and walked across the wet ground to the waiting carriage.
It took an eternity to arrive at the station. The mud and rain had made the roads a mess. If I wasn’t so excited and anxious, I would have been shivering in the cold carriage. As it was, I sat on the edge of my seat as we arrived, surprised to see such a large crowd gathered to meet the train. Would anyone recognize me?
More importantly, where was Clara Barton? No matter what happened today, I was determined to befriend her. She would do some of the best work in Washington in the coming years, and I planned to be at her side—quietly, of course.
As Joseph waited in line to drop me off, I looked at the medical supplies inside the basket closest to me. Though it wasn’t yet common practice to disinfect wounds—it would be several years before Joseph Lister made carbolic acid a common antiseptic—even ancient civilizations used alcohol in wound care, so I wasn’t using modern techniques.
When Joseph came to the door to help me carry my supplies, I had a moment of hesitation. It was one thing to help like the others would help, but what if I saved a life that wasn’t supposed to be saved? Or what if someone recognized me stitching up a wound? It wasn’t seemly for a woman to do doctor’s work—not yet. By the time the war was over, it would be common for women to administer medical aid. But now? What if these men didn’t even want a woman ministering to them?
“Miss Margaret?” Joseph asked, a frown tilting his brow.
I looked past him to the throng of waiting people, saw that no one was carrying any sort of supplies, and made a decision that I prayed I wouldn’t regret. I couldn’t sit back and let Clara Barton work alone.
Handing Joseph the basket of medical supplies and taking the hand he offered, I alighted into the elements. He had found a spot close to the depot, so it didn’t take long to reach shelter. Joseph carried both baskets and followed me as I looked through the crowd for a young woman who could be Clara. Ihad never met her and didn’t remember what her picture looked like in my medical history textbook, so I had to guess.
Finally, I found a young woman who could be her. She was of medium height, with brown hair and a plain face, though the kindness in her eyes made them remarkable. Her dark hair was parted down the middle and held back in a snood, just like mine. The dress she wore was dark and plain, and the only jewelry adorning her outfit was a beautiful brooch at her throat.
People milled about. Thankfully, I didn’t recognize anyone. Most people spoke in excited tones as they waited, but not Clara. She stood alone near the tracks, watching silently for the train to arrive.
I walked up to her and stood a few feet away. In 1861, it wasn’t considered proper to introduce myself to a stranger. As I stood there, trying to catch her eye, not even knowing if thiswasClara Barton, I suddenly felt like a time-crossing stalker. Despite the seriousness of the moment, I had to stifle a giggle.
She glanced at me then and looked behind me at Joseph, who still held my baskets. Her gaze returned to me, and I smiled.
“How smart,” she said, “to bring supplies. I didn’t think to grab anything as I ran out of work to come here.”
“I heard the soldiers met with trouble in Baltimore, so I brought some food and a few medical supplies in case there are injuries.” I motioned to the baskets. “You are free to help me distribute them. I’m sure we will need all the help we can get.”
“That’s very kind and thoughtful.” She took a step toward me and extended her gloved hand. “I’m Miss Clara Barton.”
I was awestruck for a moment, aware of the great things this woman would do with her life, and I felt small compared to her. But I rallied in a heartbeat and accepted her hand. “I’m Miss Margaret Wakefield. How do you do?”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She let go of my hand. “Any relation to Senator Wakefield?”
I hesitated, not wanting to make the connection for fear shewould repeat my name to someone who would tell him, or someone who would spread gossip. But this was Clara Barton; how could I not tell her the truth? “He is my father.”
She studied me with a critical eye, probably wondering why I was risking my and my father’s reputations, but she said nothing.
A train whistle sounded in the distance, and all of us looked toward the tracks again.
Several hundred people began to cheer, though none of us knew what we would encounter when the train unloaded. It might be full of injured soldiers—or no soldiers at all. It could be a false alarm.
When the train came to a stop and the soldiers started to stream out of the cars, the crowd erupted in more cheers. But it didn’t take long to see that several of them were wounded, some of them so much so that they would need more than a few stitches and a bandage to make them well.
“I know many of these men. Come,” Clara said. She took my hand and pulled me through the crowd toward them. “I’ll introduce you, and we’ll see what we can do to help.”
I nodded once, having been ready for this moment my entire life.
It was late by the time the carriage arrived back at our home. The sun had already set, and I knew my father would not only be worried, he’d be angry.
Especially when he realized I had brought two soldiers home to recuperate.
