Monumental Decisions

From: Monumental Decisions CHAPTER ONE: IF THE CREEK DON'T RISE The Nolans were American Southerners to the core, but their roots reached way back to Ireland. In the 1840s, The Great Potato Famine devastated the Irish people, especially the poor. Rather than face starvation, many farmers and their families chose to flee their homeland for the shores of the New World - America. The fertile land of the Carolinas was an ideal place for some of them to begin a new life. The Nolan family decided to settle on a small stretch of land just outside Old Brunswick Town, North Carolina. It was now the Seventeenth of August, 1865. A curled cheese rind left from lunch lies on the kitchen table. A scatter of cornbread crumbs on the floor. In spite of the suffocating late summer heat, the window was cracked open. Some fresh air often killed the stench of chicken blood and singed pinfeathers that had escaped from beneath the basement door. In the corner, a dead roach. This was no antebellum mansion. Slumped to one side, Jennie stood staring into the sink. A few yams, some turnips, a handful of greens, and a lone, singed chicken carcass rested in a strainer. She wondered how she could possibly turn this into a supper, one that would be enough to fill herself and her three younger brothers. Josiah was the youngest, just turned six. Then Jeb, only three years older. And Jesse was sixteen, just two years shy of his sister. As Jennie sliced the vegetables, her mind wandered to the war. The needs of wounded war veterans were inspiring many women to form groups to come to their aid. Jennie had heard of one in Virginia, Sally Louisa Tompkins. After serving as a nurse during the war, Tomkins used her own money to turn an old Richmond mansion into a hospital. Its purpose was to administer care to soldiers of the Confederate Army. Her selfless deeds inspired Jennie. She wanted to join the ranks of those who were ministering to the horrific physical and psychological wounds of her fellow countrymen. She learned of a place nearby where wounded veterans were being treated. An abandoned smokehouse, it sat near the shore of the Cape Fear River, and it was within walking distance of her farmhouse. Still early in the day, she could make it there by noon. Jennie quickly slipped on the best of her two dresses. The yellow one. A tiny floral print, faded by now. She hoped no one would notice it was made from feed sacks. But, it had no holes. It was clean. She started down the narrow dirt road past the site of Saint Phillip Church brought to ruins by the British in 1776. It served as a stark reminder of the first Americans whose lives were lost in their fight for independence. Just ahead, Jennie saw the remnants of Fort Anderson built by those same patriots. Finally, she reached the river. A few yards from the water stood a small, wooden building. It had been whitewashed in an attempt to freshen its worn exterior. Above the front door hung a hand-painted sign that read, simply, Veterans Aid. The heavy door creaked as Jennie pulled it open. Inside, an elderly woman sat at a desk. Her gray hair was loosely tied back with a frayed, blue ribbon. Sweat streamed down the back of her neck. As she rolled strips of gauze into neat little parcels, she slowly looked up. "May I be of assistance, young lady?" she said in a low voice. " My name is Jennie Nolan, and I'm not a nurse." Stunned by her own words, Jennie stopped speaking. Her freckled face flushed pink with embarrassment. She quickly sat down in the closest chair. Then, she began to speak once again. "What I mean to say is, not really, but I've nursed my brothers from the time they were tots." "Most of us here have little more experience, but we're learnin'," the woman replied. "Can you cook?" "Simple stuff, but filling." "Good enough!" the woman exclaimed as she pointed to the back of the room. "Get an apron. You can start now, right?" Caught off guard, Jennie said, "Uh ... sure. I can do that." As she began to walk toward a small anti-room in the rear, she passed a woman who looked much like herself. She was feeding a young man from a small bowl. His entire chest was wrapped in bandages. The next woman was writing a letter for a veteran who looked to be no more than a boy. He stared up at the ceiling, quiet, motionless. The woman softly uttered words as she wrote. It seemed like she was making up the text as she went along. The last woman Jennie passed was reading from a bible, her hands clenched together in prayer. Jennie grabbed an apron and walked out to the back porch. Due to the extreme summer heat and the risk of fire, cooking was done outside. Lined up on a long table sat jars of pickled pigs' feet, bags of white rice, and a roasted wild turkey waiting to be sliced. A woman was filling pudding bags with pork blood to make ready for the boiling pot. Sitting at the bottom of the porch steps was a full corn crib. Burlap bags of sweet peas were still in their shells. No words were needed, there was plenty to do. Jennie got to work. And so Jennie's personal call to duty began. Days were filled with whatever was needed to be done the most at the time. One morning, she stood inside the front door, startled by the sound of a noise on the other side. Slowly, she cracked the door open. The figure of a tall man was visible in the shadows. He stood still, not making a sound. "Do you need help?" Jennie said in a soft, hesitant voice. "Uh, yeah ... I guess. I'm lookin' for a friend. Heard he 's here." "Come in. What's his name?" Jennie asked. "Thomas Tillman. Is he here?" "Yes, I believe he just arrived," she said, motioning for the man to enter. Finally, he stepped into the light. He was younger than she thought. Thin, but rugged. The two walked slowly to a bed around a corner. Alone, a man lay half asleep. "Tom," Jennie said slowly, "...you have a visitor". With a half-focused gaze, the man looked up. "Holt? ... Holt Purvis? Zat you?" he said in a faint voice, only half believing his eyes. The young visitor nodded. Seeing that Tom recognized him, Jennie quietly slipped away to give them privacy. As she left Tom's bedside, she noticed that Holt had wounds of his own. Some healed. Some healing. His tattered clothes were that of a farmer, except for his high-topped boots. Well worn, muddy. They were army issue. Returning to her chores, Jennie heard an argument ensue between the two men. The sound of their voices escalated disturbing the other patients. Jennie turned to confront them but, to her surprise, Holt was gone. Tom was still upset, but his painful wounds forced him to calm down. The muffled rumbling in the room began to subside. The incident was over.