by Gina Danna
The patient was half-propped up, his sapphire blue gaze piercing into her soul, as if he wanted to know the hell she found herself in, thanks to officers like Waxler and the bulk of the staff. Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder if that look was desiring something…
“Good morning, soldier,” she started, moving the sheet off his injured foot. She yanked out the linen wrap in her apron , putting it on the bed before she began to unbandage his wound.
He snorted. “Yes, it appears early in the day. Your commander starts his demands early, I see.”
Ada couldn’t stifle the laugh. “Yes, Dr. Waxler is up with the birds.”
“If there are any left to be found,” the man concluded. “I appreciate the care for my injury, though as much as you all want to view it, perhaps leaving it uncovered would be more beneficial.”
She stopped and frowned. The mischief in his eyes danced to a tune she didn’t hear but it made her give him a smile. “Perhaps, though covered it should fare better. I want to inspect it and see.” She pulled the used linen off.
“See what, whoa!” He managed to move the limb out of her reach. “Just what are you doing?”
Her grin widened. With a twinkle of her own, she exposed the feather she’d scratched across the ball of his foot, pleased he felt it enough to withdraw it. “Excellent. You felt that?”
“Of course,” he snapped, trying to move it again. “It tickled. I wasn’t aware you Yankees were made to repair us only to torture us in return.”
“Hardly. You are too quick to assume,” she stated, now peering at the stitched incision at his ankle. “It held and I see little swelling. You can move it, so all appears good.”
“It stings.”
“Yes, well bullet wounds do that, I hear.” She dipped her sponge into the basin of water near the foot of the bed and wiped the area gently. “What is your name, sir?”
“Does it matter?”
“To me, it does. Makes our conversation a little more comfortable.”
He snorted. “Corporal Francois Fontaine, 9th Louisiana Company.”
The man to his right muttered something she couldn’t hear. It slightly irritated her but now wasn’t the time to teach these Southerners etiquette. “Your friend found that amusing.”
“Oh, Wiggins finds many things humorous.” As she tucked the end of the bandage into the wrapping, Francois leaned forward. “I will walk again, right?”
Ada swallowed. “Yes, given time. Rest. We will try moving you later, to see how you fare.” She quickly tried to hide the fear in her voice as she re-wrapped it. The surgery was correct, she was sure at the time. She’d cleaned it, stitched the rivet in his skin shut and carefully set the ankle and foot in line, as nature would have it, so if it was fractured, it’d mend. Only time and rest would tell. Problem was, he was the enemy, now a prisoner and maimed. She could only pray he’d heal.
“Get some rest, Corporal. I’ll check on you later.” And she whirled out of the room, the demons of failure chasing her.
Francois watched her run from him and instantly became agitated. This nurse, a woman way too pretty to be stuck in a building of sick and wounded men, ran from him. He’d never had a darling dash away like that. He growled.
Wiggins started to laugh.
“I fail to see what is so damn funny.” Francois twisted to see his fellow Tiger but the move jostled his leg, sending a myriad of pain from his ankle.
“You.” Wiggins maneuvered himself to a seating position, despite the useless arm, still slung around his neck. “I saw you eying that nurse. Not sure which is worse. You or her gawking over the other.”
“I do not ‘gawk’ at ladies,” Francois snarled. Though the woman in question could provoke that, even in her dark brown dress, her hair pulled back with no adornments of any type on her person. She was attempting to look severe and plain, and was doing a damn good job at it too, if it weren’t for her smile.
“If’n you ain’t, I still declare she got her bonnet, as it were, set for ye.”
Francois took a look at himself in the mirror that was across the room. He frowned. A mirror here was an odd article to be found but a quick survey of the room, with its papered walls of Greek monuments and the white wainscoting, with the windows pristine but lacking drapery, he’d guess this was the dining room. The window dressings, he now noticed, were all over the room in different areas, like the set he saw folded under his injured leg. He doubted the Union had olive green silk blankets for their men. His neck bristled at the looting of the house and the damage that would remain, like the stains he saw on the wooden floor planks, darkened with blood.
He returned to his image in the mounted looking glass. His cheek was bruised, with another one on his exposed left shoulder and his hair was tousled in the most unbecoming way, as if he’d had a busy night with LaJoyce…The bandaged foot looked large and it made him wonder if it was just swollen or over-wrapped. He raised himself further, to bend over and check but the move made the leg flare again and he groaned in frustration.
“Damn! We’re here, imprisoned as it were, and I don’t even remember how this came to be.”
Wiggins sighed. “The Yanks made a massive move forward, more than we anticipated on our part. Marse Lee dun thought they’d be over yonder. If they did there as well, I’ve no idea, but we tried to hold our own.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t pretty. At one point in the retreat, we jumped over that ridge to make it out from their rifles, but, if I recall right, the rocks slipped from all the rain that’d come through. I barely made it but got hit, and by the time I managed to get up, done have a whole regiment of Yanks pointing their guns at me.” He exhaled. “You slipped on them rocks and I heard you hit the ground as they started firing. When you saw them upon us, you reached for your gun but that Yank done hit you with the butt of his and that was all for you.”
Francois’s faulty memory of that battle flittered through his mind. Now, at least, he knew where the bruise on his face was from and the throb in his temple. “We’re not in a good position.” He glanced at the other two soldiers. Both were asleep, one with his leg wrapped and the other with his head and chest.
“Yessum,” Wiggins agreed. “Hard to tell with them two. O’Reilly hasn’t been up but once and then, he retched everywhere. Tourant’s got a fever, been saying odd things without being awake. Not looking great for them, either.”
Francois exhaled. He tried moving his foot again and bit back the pain. He swung the better leg over the side of the bed and slowly brought the other up. The stinging was painful but not enough to stop him. He grinned at Wiggins. His friend’s eyes narrowed. He ignored it and sat upright, leaning over till his feet touched the floor. His good foot steadied him but when the other touched the boards and he put his weight on it, a lightning bolt exploded, and crippled, he fell to the floor, his last thought was of Emma and how he had to get out of here. Then it all went black.
Chapter 11
“If {sic}Meade ever did a noble act in his life, it was when he concluded not to fight Lee in his strong hold upon the banks of Mine Run at a temperature of the weather, far, far below freezing. Newspapers blame him and call him a coward for not doing so, but let their editors…have seen and felt what I saw and felt up that occasion and instead of taunts and ridicules, they would bestow words of commendation.”
—Union surgeon, Daniel Holt, December 1863
December 2, 1863
* * *
Prevailing winds inched up another notch, their freezing path decimating anything that was exposed. Even in her bedchamber, Ada curled, still clothed in her woolen dress with her wrap on and the drapery the laundress shoved into her hands, a long lengthy piece of silk, now folded in four, covered her. Sleep that night was next to impossible, for even if she got her teeth to stop chattering, Maybelle and the other two in the curtain space next to hers, continued. Who ever thought that Virginia could get this cold?
Slam!
The window in her closet had one of its shutters
break loose of its hooks and it banged into the windowsill only to fly back open onto the house. She nearly jumped at the sound but, when she recognized the source, she got up, tossing her covers aside and pushed the window open and relatched the errant piece. The blistering cold air rushed into her room and managed to seep through her garments to brush her skin, making it prickle in the cold. A shiver raced through her, but she didn’t step back from the window until she witnessed the soldiers far out scurrying in the dawn air, collecting their supplies. She also saw the first of what would be many ambulances pull up the drive where it halted. They were moving.
Her mind raced. There were many patients and not enough help, if all was left to them to accomplish this. Straightening her skirts, re-pinning her pinner apron on and dampening her hair so it laid flat in its tight bun, she raced out of her room to wake the other nurses.
“Ladies, wake up! We are needed right now!”
Many mornings, it seemed to take an act of the Almighty to get these three moving but today, they burst through the blanket flap door, ready to move.
“We could hear them not too long ago, stirring the pot,” Maybelle answered Ada’s quiet question. “I could see the men getting ready, so we’ve been getting ready.”
“I’m pleased to see that. It’s a might chilly, so fortify yourselves with some coffee.” As they headed towards the kitchens, she turned and ran right into Will. He chuckled and gave her his cup.
“Looks like you’ll need this. We’ve got a lot to do today.”
She took a sip of the black drink and relished the heat that spread down her throat. “I wasn’t aware we were leaving so fast.”
“Meade has ordained the Confederate numbers are too big here for him to squash Lee after all. We took this place, he claims, but the bigger plan would be thwarted.” He shrugged. “Or so I hear.”
“Your diagnosis is McClellan-disorder?” She couldn’t resist. General McClellan had held off fighting the rebels for half a year, claiming the other side outnumbered his, though she’d read too many newspapers claiming otherwise. After all, the population of the South was less than the North.
Will opened his mouth but another voice boomed across the room. Waxler.
“Dr. Leonard, Nurse Lorrance, we have a hospital full of patients we must ready to leave. Start with the less wounded, sir, and we’ll get them out first.”
“Sir, what of the Confederates?” She knew the moment the words spilled out, she’d cause a stink and watched it become a reality as the officer’s face turned a shade of red.
“They can stay here and freeze, for all I care,” he snapped. “Our men go first. Doctor!” He eyed Will and with a nod, took off toward the main rooms, where the Union patients were.
“Ada, don’t push the man,” Will warned. “We won’t let them freeze.”
As he turned, she grabbed his arm, flooded with concern. “Where are we headed?”
“Back north, winter’s quarters, I’ve heard.” He stalked off.
Downing her coffee, she noticed Maybelle watching her. “Yes, Nurse?”
The girl had a knowing look in her eye and it made Ada wonder what set her off, but then her fellow nurse lapsed into a dreamy-eyed stare.
“He’s quite dapper, is he not?” Her voice sounded dreamy.
Ada shook her head, her brows knitting together. “Dapper? Dr. Leonard?” Will was nice enough young man, though dapper in this setting didn’t fit well.
Maybelle laughed. “Oh, heavens, not him. Dr. Waxler.”
Ada’s heart skipped a beat and she blinked. “Maybelle, you are aware that Nurse Dix does not approved of nurses who sign on to find romance. It is inappropriate, to say the least.” It even made her blood curl, but then again, if her own heart’s desire was here, could she hold true to that one requirement?
The nurse tilted her head, a knowing look in her eye. “Nurse Lorrance, I’m only going by the precedence I’ve seen you set, setting your affections for a surgeon.”
Ada closed her eyes. There was no time, and as if on cue, a loud crash of metal clashed in the other room. “Now is not the time, or place. Come, we must devote ourselves to our wounded.” And she’d pray to God not to allow her alone with the girl again. Romance had no place in the medical ward.
The sound of the wind whipping past the house, its trail singing a song with the windows and shaky shutters only seemed to reinforce the chill that had grabbed hold of him, worse than any he could recall ever. Francois wanted to curl up under the thin wool blanket but the throbbing in his ankle kept him grounded, even though his toes were ice.
How he slept amazed him. Perhaps it was the medicine they gave him. Laudanum. The bitter concoction of whiskey and opium had been watered down but the taste never could be hidden. It set his mind to swirl, thoughts blending of home and the war and Emma, childhood and LaJoyce, to even his father. It made him sluggish and as much as it deadened the pain, he’d give anything just to think straight.
The long night seemed to toll but when the first ray of sunlight peaked through the clouds, he breathed a sigh. He’d lived through the night. Not that he should be worried, he thought. Anytime he thought he’d died, all he had to do was nudge that injured leg just a tad and the buckshot of pain reminded him he was still condemned among the living.
“Fran, you hear all that?” Wiggins whispered. “Sounds like either there’s been another fight or they’re leavin’!”
He struggled to hear what his buddy was saying and it seeped though the walls that there was a lot of motion, with an occasional clash of furniture and dishes. “Oui, it does sound as if they’re breaking camp.”
Wiggins wiggled out of his bed and crept to the window, his bare feet making no noise. Glancing out the window, he laughed. “We must be on the backside of the house, because all I be seein’ are some slave shanties and the cookhouse. Ain’t nobody back there doin’ nothin’.”
Francois smiled. Wiggins was joking, because even he could see the movement outside. Not that he could focus, that damn laudanum still seeping through his system.
The door burst open and four Union soldiers came in, armed and looking dismayed they’d been sent in to see to the rebels.
“Time to get you boys rollin’!” the one with the most stripes ordered.
“I do beg your pardon?” Francois noticed only he and Wiggins were awake and none of them were dressed.
The man’s response was to throw a set of Confederate clothes to him. Francois recognized his uniform quickly. Still thickheaded, he stared at them, toying with the shirt. It was still stained with mud and filth.
“Ain’t got all day, boy!” the soldier near his bed snapped. “Gotta get you all on the road.”
The other two wounded were rousted and Francois could see their confusion. None of them were exactly well enough to dress.
“Dressed or not, you’re going. It’s colder than Hades out there, so if you be wanting to stay warm, I’d figure out how to get that secesh-shit back on.”
Perhaps he had said something, Francois mused. Getting the shirt on wasn’t hard, neither was his shell jacket. It was the trousers that proved difficult. One leg in was relatively easy. The other? It wouldn’t bend so he laid back and breathed deep. The others were forced up, but they weren’t struggling with a wound like he had. Wiggling out of the one pant leg he got on was easy but to get the other, he’d have to try it first.
“Come on!”
Anger mixed with the laudanum set Francois off. When his legs swung over and he tested his injured foot, Francois saw the Yankee shooting him a look. Inhaling deeply, he put the good foot down, but his hesitancy to move fast enough triggered the bluecoat to snap. The man grabbed Francois’s shirt and yanked him up.
“I done told you to move!”
Without even considering the consequences, no doubt due to the pain that ripped up his leg when the injured foot had been forced into use, Francois’s curled fist stuck the Yankee squarely in the jaw. The man yelped, curses flowing out of
his mouth like a faucet, yet his grip on Francois broke. Francois fell to the floor. A ping rang and he looked. His miniature painting of Emma fell to the floor. He would not leave that behind.
“Get up! Ain’t got time for this, Gardner!” The other soldier pushed his buddy out of the way right, but as he rose, he kicked at Francois’s outreached hand before he reached his possession. Pain roared from the kick and he doubled, falling to the floor when Wiggins got to Francois’s side.
“Here,” he said, putting his arm around him to help him up.
Staggering, they limped down the hallway to a wagon in the back. The pain subsided as he hopped along with Wiggins’ aid. He bit his tongue from wanting to put that white trash soldier down a notch or two but when he opened his mouth, Wiggins nudged him and gave a short head jerk ‘no’.
“We ain’t the only ones leavin’,” Wiggins remarked low.
Francois took a look about. Everything was moving in a mass wave of boxes being packed, staff scurrying about and other patients being geared to leave. He wondered about that woman, that nurse, oddly finding his search futile.
“Wonder where they’re taking us.”
“I can tell ya where you traitors are headin’,” the guard spat to the floor, the planks stained by the tobacco he chewed.
Francois scowled at the impertinence of the man. Yankees here apparently had no manners, but he restrained the reprimand that formed on his tongue seeing no point in trying to correct this miscreant.
The soldier never noticed the disgust on Francois face. Instead, he cheerfully said, “Sending you to prison, where you can waste away. How’s that for ‘state’s rights’, huh?”
The guards snickered but none of his group even peeped a word. Men like this, Francois thought, will have their own time in hell. Of that, he was sure.
Another jostle, made as the guard pushed Wiggins forward and his support faltered, making Francois land on the ball of the injured foot. He bit back the swear word that came and found his comrade’s support again as he limped out of the ruined mansion-hospital to the buckboard that awaited them. It’d be a harsh ride to bear, heading straight to jail. He inhaled deeply. He had wanted to escape the hell of living in the presence of a woman he loved but could never have and he’d succeeded. But that damnation just changed its perimeters to four walls. Emma would never know what happened to him.
