From the journal of Laurel Monteille Covey...final entry
April 10, 1865: It's over. Although the word of General Lee's surrender is upon everyone's lips, I find it difficult to comprehend. I feel as if my entire life has been spent caring for wounded soldiers, yet it has been less than three years. Three years that began with hope and now ends with something less than a whimper. So many lives lost, so many homes destroyed, and families torn apart, either by loyalty or death. I continue to administer to the injured, yet I walk as if someone else controls me. I do not know how to feel. It is a frightening sensation and there is a part of me that fears I am no longer the woman I was before the War began.
I must make plans but it is like trying to see through muddy water. However, there is one ray of illumination, one goal I must achieve--I must deliver the messages I hold within my journal to those poor soldiers' families. Most families are around Virginia, but others are scattered from Tennessee to Texas. My journey will not be an easy one, but there is nothing else left for me. I must have a purpose, a reason, to rise each day or I am afraid I will go mad.
Or, if I have already begun the path to madness, I pray that I might deliver the messages before I am devoured by my own insanity.
October 11, 1864: The war continues... Although I have heard the word siege used, to me it is simply synonymous with war. Whether it is siege or war, I see evidence of fighting every day as wounded soldiers are brought to the tents. Some times I feel as if I'm separate from my body as I watch myself administer to the injured. My blood-stained hands are steady and my voice is even, yet there is a tiny place inside me where I scream my horror and anguish. I rarely allow myself to visit that place any more, for to do so creates such pain, such rending in my chest. It is far less painful to carry out my tasks for these unfortunate soldiers if I refuse to open that door within me. However, when I lie on my cot at night and cannot shut my ears to the suffering, sometimes I allow myself to cry. One day that, too, I will deny myself. I will both mourn and rejoice that day.
After graduating from college I served as an Army nurse in an Evac Hosp. Surgical ICU in Vietnam. Reading thru your "journal entries" brought back so many memories! I also enjoy reading about the Civil War period. Thank you for bringing this topic to light - please let me know if Laurel Covey is a real person and if it is possible to read her journal or if it is just a part of your story? Thank you -
May 3, 1864: I have always thought the phrase "be careful what you wish for because it may come true," was mere folly. However, I now believe it holds more than a kernel of truth.
A week ago I learned that I would be allowed to work in a tent hospital. Because they are closer to the battlefields, these so-called hospitals are the first to receive the wounded. Today I began my work in a tent near the Spotsylvania Courthouse. The injured soldiers were transported here by mule and wagon, then quickly dispatched onto the ground so the stretcher bearers might go back to retrieve more wounded. As I stared at the bleeding soldiers lying on the earth, my head and stomach could not fathom such callous destruction of the human body. I turned away to lose what little I had eaten earlier that day. As I was retching, I heard one of the male nurses tell another fellow that he expected such from a weak woman. Pride and anger helped me to regain my composure and I steeled myself for the grisly task of caring for the poor souls.
Tonight my clothing is stained with blood, but my conviction is unshaken. I will do what I can, even if it is only to be with a soldier as death comes. I know if my loved one was dying, I would want him to pass to the next world with someone at his side. I can only pray that someone was with Robert when he died...
November 19, 1863: Although four months have passed since Robert's death, sometimes it feels as if it were yesterday, and other days like it was years ago. I believe the doctors and nurses expected me to discontinue my work at the hospital when my husband was killed. Yet comforting and caring for the wounded soldiers is the only thing that helps me lay aside my own grief and sorrow for a little while. I have returned to the Richmond hospital where I began my ministrations, but I feel a restlessness to be closer to the battlefields. Perhaps I can help save more soldiers' lives if I can get to them sooner. Some have told me this is folly, and that women are not allowed to serve in the hospital tents. It is said that the gentler sex will not have the fortitude for such primitive conditions. I beg to differ and have to all who will listen. I cannot explain my determination, except to say that I will do everything in my power to save more lives and by being closer to the fighting, I believe I can.
I was reminded that Thanksgiving will arrive next week and I searched for something to be thankful for. And I found it, in the beautiful smile of a soldier--a boy no older than seventeen--who went home today.
July 14, 1863: I am numb. Words cannot express the sorrow that presses down upon me. Today as I was tending a wounded soldier, a letter was brought to me. I did not recognize the cipher on the envelope but the darkest, most chill, foreboding filled me. I asked to be excused from my ministrations and, as if he knew, the doctor gave me leave with the utmost sympathy. I did not open the envelope until I was in my room with the door locked. Then, with shaking hands, I read it. The first line is forever engraved upon my memory: "With heavy heart I do inform you that your husband, the honorable Major Robert Covey, died upon the battlefield at Gettysburg."
The unfairness of it brings such rage I am fearful of my own feelings. With Robert gone, I have nobody. My father disowned me when Robert chose to fight for the Confederacy. Robert's family was never overly fond of me and I will not look for comfort from them. Yet for now, dealing with Robert's death takes every ounce of my strength. Never more will I see his smile nor laugh at one of his silly jokes. Never again will I feel his lips upon mine.
Even as I recall our time together, I cannot help but wonder about Robert's last minutes on this earth. Did he die immediately? Or, and I cry to consider, did he suffer at the end? Did he speak of me in the moments before he passed? I must learn the answers if I am to find some acceptance and peace.
I think of all the men I have seen in the hospital and every one takes on the face of Robert. Will I be able to return to my nursing duties? Yet what else is there for me? Nothing but an endless lifetime.
May 2, 1863: Today was another day of receiving casualties from Chancellorsville. For the past four days, the mule-drawn ambulances have brought soldiers from the tent hospitals near the front lines of the battle. Although it was said to be a victory for us, the casualties are more numerous than I can recall from previous campaigns. Many men have lost limbs, and others bear wounds in their belly or chest. A large number also have their faces swathed in bandages, hiding God knows what kind of horrible maiming. Yet I continue to be awed and humbled by their spirits. They joke with one another, comparing their wounds, yet at other times, I have seen one soldier comfort another with surprisingly soft words. Most of these men are farmers or laborers with little education, but every one of them believes in what they fight for. Their fervency frightens me. This war will not end quickly, nor will it end without bitterness no matter the victor.
April 1, 1863: The War continues, yet the morning began with rare mirth amid the misery and suffering of the hospital. It seems someone decided a chamber pot would make a good home for a half dozen frogs. Fortunately, the soldier who was to use the pot had a stalwart heart and a well-placed sense of humor. After my own startlement I, too, laughed at the diversion and even helped gather the frogs to be released in a more fitting setting. No one confessed to the prank but we were reminded that despite the War, All Fool's Day was not to be forgotten and humor can heal nearly as well as medicine. It is a lesson I must deign to recall in the days ahead.
Despite my previous foreboding, I have received two missives from Robert since Christmas. Perhaps my dark thoughts were merely a resonance of my depression over the holidays. I continue to pray for Robert's well-being and look forward to the day when this dreadful war is over and we are reunited.
Love this entry. In my experience this is very similar to many things that went on in the wards...
Something to relieve the monotony and tragedy for a short time.
December 25, 1862: I received the best Christmas present I could hope for today. While I was attending to the wounded soldiers, a courier arrived with a handful of posts. He carried a letter from my beloved Robert. Although I ached to read it immediately, my responsibilities to the wounded came first. Throughout the day I often slid my hand into my pocket, to touch the envelope that held Robert's words. I felt closer to him than I had since the day he rode off to war. Finally, after walking home that evening in the icy slush of the cold, bitter evening, I sat in front of the stove and opened the envelope. I trembled at his descriptions of his living conditions and the battles he fought, yet knew he spared me far worse horrors. I reread it over and over, and when I finally lay it aside, I could recite it from memory. However, it was his closing words that haunted me. "You have my utmost love and respect, dearest Laurel, but I have chosen this fight and whatever my fate, I accept it without regrets. Good-bye."
It felt like a final farewell.
I can't wait for this book to come out. I was a military nurse during two wars. It seems as though you have a feel for the horrors that are war in the operating room.
December 18, 1862: The page wavers in my sight and the pen is heavy in my hand, but I cannot rest until I have written what is in my head and heart. Although it has been only a week since I left Richmond, I feel as if an entire year has passed since I came to Fredericksburg. A major skirmish erupted at Marye's Heights and although I heard there were at least three times as many Union casualties, our own dead and wounded numbered in the thousands. The hospital I am working in was a warehouse not many days ago and it is now filled with the cries of soldiers and the stench of blood and body eliminations. The few doctors are taxed beyond their means, working hours on end to repair damage inflicted by minie ball, bayonet, and grapeshot. How many of these unfortunate soldiers will live and how many will die is something I do not wish to contemplate. However, the evidence of the fragility of mortal life is all around me and I cannot ignore it.
Although I was running hither and thus, I sat with a young soldier, barely out of boyhood, who had no hope of seeing another sunset. His freckles stood out against his flour-pale face and he barely retained the strength to tell me of his family and the home he pictured so vividly those last few minutes of his life. He asked me to deliver words to his parents. How could I refuse such a plea? Yet those words will remain silent on the page I've written them until there is time to find his loved ones.
It is one week before Christmas yet I feel no holiday cheer. I have not heard from Robert in nearly a month and my only wish for Christmas is to hear of his safety and wellbeing. That, and a wish for an end to this war that wages brother against brother, son against father...daughter against father. No, I cannot allow myself to dwell upon that. I have chosen my life and the man I wish to spend it with. Although I may have moments of uncertainty, I know I've made the right decision. If only we can survive until this War is over.
June 27, 1862: This morning I was awakened by a pounding on my door. Mule-drawn ambulances were arriving at the hospital and casualties were expected to number in the hundreds. I quickly donned my dark dress and white apron and hurried through the dawn's rosy glow to begin my service, just as my husband does his duty as an officer in the Army of Northern Virginia. Although I'd been trained as a nurse, nothing had prepared me for the scene which met me at the hospital. I cannot--and do not wish to--describe the scene I beheld though it is burned into my memory forever. Litters of wounded soldiers, some with missing limbs, others with horrific open wounds covered with blood-soaked bandages, and all in such horrible pain. One man reached out to me and politely asked for water to soothe his parched throat. His hoarse voice drew me out of my shock and I pressed back my horror to serve those who serve the Confederate States of America so loyally. The day passed in a blur of soldiers and blood and heartbreaking loss. It was late when I returned to my small room at the boardinghouse but I cannot sleep with the recollection of such suffering and sorrow filling my head. Instead, I write my observations and feelings in an effort to purge the torment and anguish from my thoughts. However, I suspect nothing will ever be the same again. War is not for the faint of heart and if I wish to continue caring for the wounded, I must harden my spirit yet at the same time pray I never lose my compassion.
(Laurel's story will be told in A REASON TO LIVE, a western romance coming in September 2006.)
I will be using this blog to post entries from a journal kept by Laurel Monteille Covey--the heroine in my upcoming book "A Reason to Live". Laurel was a Confederate nurse who kept a journal during the War Between the States, and her entries will introduce her in a very personal way. "A Reason to Live" opens three months after the war ended and will tell the rest of Laurel's story.
Get ready to share in Laurel's trials, tribulations, joys and victories...
Coming in May.
