The Resurrectionist by Matthew Guinn Page A

again.
    â€œMiss Thacker, I admire your candor. But I cannot help thinking it would be better suited to a more, shall I say, liberal environment. Perhaps you should consider a move northward? My former colleague Joseph Warrington administers an excellent nursing program at the Philadelphia Lying-In Charity. I would gladly write to him on your behalf.”
    She rose, and as she did caught Doctor Johnston’s eye lingering on her waist.
    â€œI can afford a relocation to the north no better than a whalebone corset, sir,” she said. “If you decide I’m suitable for the position, please send word to the commissary by Miller’s Ferry. I am staying with my people across the river for the time being.”
    Johnston’s mouth was still open on an unspoken word when she shut the door behind her.

    F RIDAY NIGHT , A PRIL nineteenth, and the booming of Charleston’s guns on Fort Sumter seemed still to be echoing across South Carolina a full week later. In honor of the occasion, the faculty had decided to celebrate what they called the Second American Revolution in grand style, with a secession ball. Tonight, nearing eleven, the school glowed with candlelight from every window and its doors had been thrown open to the select society of Columbia, who now thronged the ground-floor rooms in their finery, the sound of their voices jubilant over the whisper of crinoline and starched linen and the tinkling sound of crystal and sterling service put to full use. In one corner of the parlor a hastily assembled group of slaves was flailing away at “Dixie” for the third time, Napoleon Horry scratching his fiddle as though he meant to saw it in half while Ben Smith clawed at a gourd banjo behind him. Ben’s son Sam was keeping time for the trio, squatting on the floor and slapping a set of spoons between his knees while pairs of ladies and gentlemen danced, awkwardly attempting to match the song’s tempo with a sped-up waltz.
    In his dusty suit of tails, Nemo stood behind a bar improvised from a dissecting table and a white tablecloth, nodding and smiling as he refilled glasses. After this long day the line of people in front of the table seemed interminable, but he was happy to celebrate secession with the white folks, since the war would be the end of all of them. He appeared to be the only one here tonight who knew it, though; even Doctor Johnston was a bit tipply, having allowed himself a third glass of punch to toast Abraham Lincoln’s imminent defeat. He stood over in the corner talking with Nurse Thacker, who looked uncomfortable in her new dress and touched her neck from time to time as the doctor spoke.
    But Nemo had a more pressing concern than the fate of the Union: he was nearly out of whiskey. He had laid in provisions since Wednesday but had grossly underestimated the thirst that secession would elicit in the gentlemen in attendance. And now he saw, midway back in the line, Charles Hampton, coming on inexorably for yet another tumbler of rye. Apparently Mister Hampton intended to drink Columbia dry before departing for Charleston to join the fight; his face burned crimson above the gold lieutenant’s stripes of his freshly tailored uniform. Nemo eyed his last bottle of whiskey nervously as he ladled out another glass of punch.
    Hampton was tapping his julep cup on the table even before the lady in front of him moved aside. Nemo poured out the last of his whiskey into the cup with a deferential smile. But Hampton did not budge.
    â€œFill her up, boy,” he said, tapping the cup again.
    â€œCan’t do it, sir. We fresh out of whiskey.”
    â€œOut, you say?”
    â€œYes, sir. We cleaned out. Ben over there was supposed to bring another barrel this afternoon, but he didn’t show up with nothing but his banjo. Can I pour you some apple brandy? How about some gin or rum punch?”
    â€œRum! Good God, man, we’re not sailors. We must have