The Better Angels: Hearts Touched by Fire, Book 4

by Gina Danna

  “You did well today, private.” She sipped the dark brew, savoring the rich taste as it awakened her exhausted body back to work. “Have you helped a doctor before?” The boy had been there, anticipating her next request with an accuracy that unnerved her a bit, perhaps because it had reminded her of herself when she followed her father on his calls to patients.

  He shuffled, looking at his feet for a moment. “A time or two. Was hoping to be one one day, before this war.”

  She smiled. “You’ll be good.”

  He opened his mouth to say something when Letterman and Waxler appeared, the latter one’s face contorted in anger.

  “Nurse Lorrance,” Letterman greeted. “Might I have a word.”

  Kelleher disappeared but Waxler loomed large.

  “How dare you go against my command on that rebel!”

  Ada’s blood raced and it took every ounce of her restraint to keep her tone low. “Doctor Waxler, you left a wounded man to be cared for at some distant time because of his uniform. He was bleeding profusely. He needed aid.”

  “He is the damn enemy!” Waxler snapped. “Our own men needed aid as much as the damn enemy, therefore, by rules of war, ours get treated first!”

  She bit her tongue. Arguing with him would be pointless. What was done was done.

  Letterman eyed her but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Commanding the medical corps had to be strenuous enough, without two of his underlings arguing over who to treat first. Finally, he spoke.

  “What was the man’s prognosis?”

  “He had a—”

  “Doctor Waxler, if you please, I asked her.”

  Waxler fumed, making Ada swallow a knot that formed in her throat. Letterman put her in an awkward position, but then, she no doubt put him in one too, with her being a doctor herself.

  “A bullet had penetrated his lower leg, near the ankle. By all appearances, it had scored his leg, but the damage it left would easier lead to death, if left on its own.”

  Letterman’s lips waggled as he listened. Waxler’s face turned red.

  “He is the enemy!”

  Letterman didn’t register Waxler’s outage but asked her, “And you were able to stop the bleeding?”

  “Yes, sir.” She squared her shoulders. “I also believe he has a fracture in his heel, sir. The bone wasn’t stable and he reacted to the movement when I cleaned the wound.”

  “It needed to be amputated! And we have no time to deal with the rebels when our own need help,” Waxler continued to argue.

  Ada glared at him. The man was an excellent physician, from his education and his practice she had witnessed here, but his attitude needed adjusting. She so wanted to blurt out at him but grinded her teeth not to.

  “So the wound did not lean toward amputation?”

  She blinked, realizing Letterman was asking her. “No sir. Though he may have a long recovery, if it is indeed broken.”

  “It’ll hinder him, if it is in the ankle.” The major inhaled. “One less rebel to fight us, I’d say. Good job, doctor. I’ll leave those handful of secesh in your care.”

  Her breath left her. He’d called her doctor for once and left her a ward to care for. Stunned, she vaguely heard herself saying thank you and as he left, heard the strangled Waxler gain his voice, uttering arguments against it to their retreating commander.

  “Congratulations, Ada.”

  She turned to find Will at the doorway to the hall, grinning. Instantly, a wave of excitement race through her. She’d won recognition for her skills. It was a victory she hoped she’d earned well and prayed the major would never regret it. Gathering her strength, she thanked him and took her cup and headed toward her patients with renewed spirit.

  Francois woke, groggy and swore his mouth was full of cotton. He licked his parched lips, trying to gain his senses, but too weak to push up off the thin pallet he was on. He stretched in an attempt to shake off the layer of lethargy that encompassed him, but his right leg rebelled. To move it sent shards of pain streaking up and he moaned, angry and hurt. Vague memories of falling, of waking up and finding himself in agony, but pinned as the devils worked on him haunted his thoughts.

  Where the hell was he?

  The sound of pouring water made him turn his head, gauging the distance to that mouthwatering liquid. There was a woman, tipping a pitcher of it into a basin and his parched mouth begged for the whole bowl. He opened his mouth to speak but the cotton that lined it and down his throat gave no volume to his voice.

  The woman turned. When her gaze found him, he recognized her. She was the one he’d begged to stop the others from taking his foot, the word amputate still ringing in his ears. Instantly, he shot a look down at his right foot, fearing he’d find the source of his pain coming from a severed limb but when he saw the bandaged form, he collapsed in relief.

  “Good morning.” She was at his side, lifting his head with her arm, a cup of water in her hand, pressing it against his lips. “I wondered when you’d wake.”

  The water tasted like manna from the heavens and he craved more but she murmured.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” She pulled the rim back slightly. “You’ve had chloroform and been out for some time. If you take too much, you may choke.”

  He wanted to snarl, but even that made the water in his throat skip and he fought against the cough.

  “See.” She took the cup back and laid him down. “There will be more. Relax.”

  He stared at her. She was the angel, or was it the devil he recalled, burning his feet earlier. Even now, she was moving toward the end of the pallet and he immediately tried to escape her touch.

  “Do not touch me!” he growled.

  She gave him a raised brow, yet continued, lifting his calf and shoved a wad of blanket under it. “Have no worries, soldier. You’ll keep your foot. But you were shot and though it went through, it didn’t go deep. You’ll recover, though it might have nicked a bone. We’ll wait and see.”

  Slowly the colors in the room blared and he saw the navy uniform on the medical staff and what appeared to be a Union flag in the corner hanging.

  “I’m in a Union hospital? I can’t stay here,” he retorted. “I need to get back to my men.”

  “There’ll be no leaving anytime soon,” she continued her exam, ignoring his reference to being captured.

  “Let me go!”

  She took a step back, shooting him a questioning but stern look. Biting her lower lip, she crossed her arms. “I can’t stop you. While I’d advise against it, that is, if you want to walk again, go ahead. Leave.”

  Francois heard the smugness in her tone and that irritated him. Some Yankee witch thought she could prevent a good Southern soldier from doing his duty? At the moment, she was the only one here. In his peripheral vision, he noticed four other patients, none of who appeared awake or moving. Assessing the odds, he sat up and went to swing his legs off the pallet when a sharp, jabbing pain exploded in his injured leg. The minor lift of it sent a cascade of lightning shards burning through him, his ears began to ring and he felt lightheaded. He fell back on the bedding, furious to be held back.

  Instantly, she was back at his side, shifting his bandaged leg back over the padded blanket. “You should’ve listened to me. Hopefully, you haven’t damaged yourself further.”

  Settled back into his bed, Francois grimaced. “Charming. Didn’t realize the North be sendin’ women to fight us.”

  The woman smiled as she pressed the cup of water to his lips. It was a grin that made his insides melt, as if she was simply a lady and he, a true gentleman, meeting her at a soiree or dinner.

  “No, sir. I, myself, and the other ladies here are to help men like you, hurt in this ghastly affair. The color of your uniform does not matter. Our job is to tend the wounded.”

  The trickle of water this time, was easier to swallow. He nodded his head as thanks, his energy evaporating quickly as the pain subsided. But the notion of him being a captive echoed in the back of hi
s mind, and he wondered if he’d ever wake again when his world turned black.

  There were bugs here. Their buzzing had been soft but now grew and Francois turned his head in a vain attempt to shoo the noise away. It was a wasted effort. He swatted at them and found nothing there. Slowly, he opened his eyes, expecting to find a swarm around him and found no insects. Nothing but the room he’d seen earlier. The bothersome noise, though, took on a new facet and that he discovered by peering down the bed he was on to find another set of doctors, or so he assumed, considering they were in white jackets and looked a bit more studious than the lady with her hair pulled back and garbed in black with a white apron, carrying a cup in her hands.

  One of the doctors rubbed his chin as he stared at Francois’s leg. He threw back the sheet and without even taking note that his patient was awake, he twisted the foot, moving the bandage aside. Francois growled, dying to move his leg but the pain stalled him.

  “That was her prognosis?” the doctor muttered, never even registering Francois’s pained expression. Instead, he frowned and continued. “The wound looks plausibly good, though I see no pus at this point.”

  “She’s very good, sir,” the other doctor replied.

  “You say you studied with her?”

  “Yes, sir. At Pennsylvania, sir. She,” he coughed, his tongue thick as he went on. “She was enrolled in the medical school. To be a physician.”

  “Heard about that damn school allowing women in. Disgrace to us all.” He turned the foot again, sending another jolt of pain through Francois. “He’ll still loose the use of that foot. Should’ve had it amputated, would’ve been the wiser move. While it now appears relatively well, though without a clear pus, I doubt it’ll be of any good.”

  Instantly, Francois remembered this physician. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave my foot alone,” Francois jumped in, as he saw the surgeon’s hand reaching again toward his limb. “Sir,” he corrected his manner.

  The doctor looked startled. “Oh, didn’t see you awake, Reb.” He pulled the sheet over the leg. “Dr. Leonard, do tell her I approve.”

  “Yes, Dr. Waxler.”

  Reb? He just called him Reb and then ignored him? Damn Yankee had no manners! Francois opened his mouth but Waxler spun on his heel, and stalked away, his hands clasped behind his back with the other know-nothing doctor in his path.

  Slamming his jaw shut, he tore his gaze off the retreating physicians and finally took a look down at his injured leg. An achy throb increased from it being manipulated but outside that, all Francois saw was bandage. The foot, including his ankle, was wrapped in linen, a stained fabric, though he could see where part of the pinkish tone was red, right over the part of him that hurt the most. He forced himself upright, into an almost sitting position, slinging the good leg to the side as he tried to move the other. In his heel, ice-hot pain seared him and it took ever energy he had not to yell. Yet, he could move some, for he saw his toes wiggle a tad. Every ounce of him wanted to scream every expletive he could drum up, but for what?

  “Surprised to see you up.”

  Francois spun his head, gripping the side of the pallet to stabilize himself when the scenery around him began to waver. He found one of his Tigers laying on a pallet, his arm bandaged, as well as his chest.

  “Wiggins, you shot?”

  Wiggins snorted. “Not bad, so they say. At least, I wasn’t threatened to lose a limb.”

  Francois guffaw. “Not if you had that woman waiting on you. Asked her to not let that beast take my foot and guess it worked. It’s still here.” He gestured toward the wounded foot.

  “Yes, well, I been seeing her about here. Appears she got some pull, or bad luck, depending.” Wiggins chuckled. “But she’s been most attentive to you. Thinkin’ she’s got her hat perched for ya.”

  Francois sighed. “I don’t need a meddling nurse, pretty or not.”

  “Ah, so you did see her. Boy, we’ve been gone for so long, anything in a dress is worth the look! And she ain’t sore on the eyes at all!” Wiggins grin widened. “Think from all the fussing she’s been doing, she’s taken care of the most of us rebs. That doc with all the bars not likin’ it none, either, but he don’t wanna handle us, either. Ole school teachings of saw off the damaged limb. Done took Charlie Webb’s arm off.” His face turned somber. “Gruesome hit. All tore to shreds. Didn’t live nigh on a day after that sawbones did his work.”

  Francois saw the empty pallet next to Wiggins, guessing that’s where the young soldier from New Orleans had been. He recalled Webb. Good soldier but might a young, Francois thought, with his rifle almost taller than he was. But bullets didn’t choose who they hit, just whoever crossed their path. Francois couldn’t help but shudder, knowing he’d be in the same lot if that officer had had his way.

  “How long I been out?”

  “Day and a measure, I reckon. Thinkin’ its start of December.”

  December 1? The battle was four days ago? “Did we win?”

  “Don’t matter much. We’re here. Prisoners to Yankees.” Wiggins spit on the floor.

  “No doubt, they’ll be seeking exchanges,” he muttered only to be shorted by Wiggins, who laughed loudly.

  “Non, monsieur. That Yankee general put a stop to them a while back. Prison, most likely. Prisoner of war camp.” Wiggins shuddered and that made Francois’s stomach knot.

  They’d have to escape—even if it killed them.

  Chapter 10

  “I have fought against the people of the North because I believed they were seeking to wrest from the South its dearest rights. But I have never cherished toward them bitter or vindictive feelings, and I have never seen the day when I did not pray for them.”

  —General Robert E. Lee

  Egos. This war was truly a battle of egos.

  Ada blew a steady stream of air to get the loose strand of hair out of her eyes and blinked hard. She needed to concentrate and it simply wasn’t possible with the raging officers storming around, barking orders as if the enemy was charging on them here in the hospital. Egos…

  Waxler busied himself, examining one of the soldiers in Ada’s wing. The lanky lad who had an impish smile when she brought him water, squirmed under the ranking surgeon’s perusal. Waxler had left the initial care to her but now stood like a hawk, inspecting her work and expecting failure by her hand. He picked up the man’s arm and peered at it.

  “Soldier, how does it feel?” His question was more of a command than a question. Even Ada felt the floor tremble.

  “Fairly well, sir,” the Creole snapped back, tampered with trepidation. He was in enemy territory, after all.

  Waxler ignored the man’s tone, still looking at the wrapped upper arm. “Dr. Leonard, well done indeed. Amputation would have been a better course, of course.”

  Will opened his mouth to speak but Ada jumped in.

  “Yes, sir, but it wasn’t needed.” She tipped her chin up in defiance before she added, “Sir.”

  Waxler snarled. “Nurse Ada, I did not include you in our conversation.”

  She inhaled, her hackles rising at the insult but she squashed the emotion as she glided to them.

  “Yes, Dr. Waxler. I just wanted to add to Dr. Leonard’s great assessment, considering the situation, sir.”

  The commanding surgeon cocked his head, his gaze narrowed. “Your work seems to be beneficial, though your role here is supportive. Men are to be treated by the proper physicians, Nurse Lorrance.”

  He was trying to provoke her and it was working. Will stood to the side of Waxler and he gave her a stern headshake. She bit the inside of her lip to keep a stoic face.

  “Yes, sir, but with the lack of supplies back here, we had to make do. The wait for one would deem the wound ill-suited to repair.” She so hated having to correct the man’s horrible mood of women physicians. He always made it sound as if she’d be better kneading bread instead of saving lives.

  Waxler’s brows inched upward as he glared at her. “Correct.”
He glanced down at the rebel soldier. “You are in good hands, soldier. She’s one of the best nurses here.” He spun on his heel and went to the next patient to finish his rounds.

  It took everything she had not to throw her tin cup at him.

  “You did an excellent job, doctor.” Will’s quiet praise cut through her anger.

  “I question myself, though,” she countered, her vision starting to blur. “That one private, if only I had gotten to him quicker.” One of her patients had died yesterday, despite her desperate attempts to save him.

  “Ada, stop. Internal wounds are not easy to find and the bleeding can do them in before we even locate the source. You did the best you could.”

  She blinked hard, trying to swallow the tears that wanted to form. He was the first casualty she’d had in the ward under her care. He wasn’t the first to die while she was serving the wounded in war, but he took the place of her first failure as a doctor and that hurt her deeply.

  Will took her by the shoulder and escorted her across the room, filling her cup with water, shaking her remorse off with the distraction.

  “Ada, I gave you the care of these men. I can’t continue to cover for you. Waxler’s teetering on rejecting all of the Dragon’s nurses except it would cut his staff short.” Will snorted. “As much as he’d hate to say it, your abilities and skill on organizing the staff have enabled us to manage the lot. But do remember, he’s not the type who welcomes women in the army, especially ones who are physicians. Just be careful, Ada.”

  She put her hand on his sleeve and squeezed. “Thank you. I will.”

  “Apparently, the fight is done here, from what we’ve heard. Be ready to pack up and move.” He tipped his head as a farewell and left.

  Inhaling deeply, Ada realized her heart was racing. Will had more or less turned the ward, with its five Confederates, over to her. Four, she corrected herself. It was four. Steeling her backbone, she put a mask of sorts on, so the rebels wouldn’t see her worries and went to the man with the ankle wound.