by Gina Danna
His foggy brain, juggled images of a dark, dank room, filled with filthy, ragged men, the stench of confinement filling the air but what he saw now was the opposite. The room was airy, the heat from the fireplace, one that was vacant in the memory, heated the room. He was on a mattress. His fingertips pushed against the pad beneath and verified it was a read bed and not ticking thrown on the ground, imitating one. The air was clean in comparison, the fragrance of wood burning the main feature. He frowned. Where the hell was he?
Then he saw her. The angel in his dreams, though at times, he was convinced she was the devil when she touched his injured foot. That made him glance down quickly, to make sure the limb was still there and found it wrapped in linen, propped up on a pillow. With a sigh of relief, he fell back. He peered at her again since she hadn’t said a word and found her slouched in the rocking chair, near the bed, a book on her lap but her head bobbed down, asleep.
Did angels sleep? Somehow, that amused him, because he couldn’t imagine those celestial beings needing slumber. Francois couldn’t take his eyes off his angel.
Her blondish mane was pulled back and knotted, he’d bet, at the nape of her neck except tendrils had escaped the pins and the glow from the fireplace made her appear haloed. Her skin was pale and she had an adorable nose, which struck him hard that he’d fine it attractive, but it wasn’t large, bulbous or red, like so many of his fellow Tigers, no doubt from the cold. Her hands were small and delicate. The dress was a dark navy, almost black in appearance, with a white pinner apron and a narrow white collar. From what he could tell, she wore no jewelry, not even earbobs, which was interesting, because most ladies adored baubles.
He could hear her softly breathing and a small gasp snuck in, as if she was dreaming. That small noise made him smile. She was so pretty, he couldn’t wait to see what color her eyes were. He should know it, for he’d seen her before, but his memory failed him. Frankly, his throat was parched, like he’d swallowed a mouthful of cotton, and he wanted a drink of water yet refrained from waking her. Instead, he caught a glimpse of a china cup on the table near him and if he could just reach it, he’d bet the pitcher near it held water. He yanked his arm from under the blankets and went to grab it, but the motion nudged the cat, which meowed as it pulled itself upright and then jumped in the direction he was reaching for. Again, he wasn’t expecting that and, right as he bent to reach out for the cup, the cat leaped in the same direction. The cat’s agility put him ahead of Francois, so it hit the table first, his paws danced to avoid Francois’s fingers and ended up tipping the china cup over. It fell to the hardwood floor, breaking in two.
The commotion startled the girl and her eyes shot open wide as the jumbled skirts and hands knocked her book to the floor with a sudden thud. Upright and at his bedside, she instantly put her palm to his cheek and forehead.
“Are you all right?” She scanned his form, pausing at his injury.
He bit back snapping at the cat. “Considering, I’ve felt better. Just thirsty.” He gulped on dry air. “Feels like I swallowed a bag of cotton.”
She bent to collect the broken teacup, shooting a glare at the cat. “Gwendolyn, I do declare…”
The cat sat on the fireplace mantle, licking her paw fastidiously. Precocious animal, Francois swore.
“Please pardon her. She thinks she’s in charge,” the woman stated as she continued to search for another cup. “As to your thirst, that I’ve no doubt you are,” she answered, pressing the cup to his dry lips. “You’ve been asleep for three days since you got here.”
The water was like gold, and its richness filled his parched soul. He wanted to gulp it but she stopped him, pulling it back a bit.
“Slowly. Hate for you to be wearing your innards, even if there isn’t much there.”
Retching sounded appalling to him as well, so he forced himself to sip. “Where is here?”
“You’re in the capital.”
“Washington?” Even though his thinking was muddled, he couldn’t recall anything after that soldier forced him to march and some of the jail, but he knew that wasn’t here. “How did I get here?”
Her cheeks flamed, giving her a splash of color on a truly ivory-colored face. She was adorable, he decided.
“Apparently, your wound turned rancid. You were teetering on death’s door, according to Dr. Leonard, who was visiting a friend on the prison staff. So you were sent here to truly recover.” She gave him a smile. “At Amory Square Hospital.”
Now the frown set hard. Glancing around the room, taking in the curtains at the multi-paned window, the carved posts at the bed, the damask covered armchair and settee off to the right and the fancy six-drawer dresser with looking glass, he somehow doubted her. “Are Union hospitals this luxurious?” He glanced at the feline still perched on the mantle. “Hospital cat included?”
She licked her upper lip nervously. He was enthralled, his own gaze locked on her.
“No, no you are not at the hospital. In all truth, you shouldn’t be here.” And with that, she turned to fill the dressing stand bowl with water and grabbed a linen rag. She gave the impression she was like one of his parent’s slave children, who’d snatch a biscuit before the cook could stop them. As he remembered, cook swore at them to stay out but chuckled every time. But was this a chuckling moment or not?
“Then, where am I?”
She glared at him before she moved the sheet aside, exposing his wrapped foot. “You are a prisoner of war. Confederates up here normally are under lock and key, not lounging in a bed in a boarding house.”
He noticed her tone changed in that last sentence. “Understandable. It is a war. I am injured and, I might add, pardon the words, hurt like hell. An injured man by all accounts, so why are you scolding me so? If I’m so horrible, why did you free me?”
Her mouth tightened but instead of replying, she lifted his leg to release the tuck of the linen strip. He tightened, expecting it to hurt but it was numb and that confused him. Memories of extreme pain echoed through his memories, not numbness.
As she unwound it, she replied, “I did not. Dr. Leonard, apparently, has some sort of obligation to fulfill.” She shrugged. “You can’t be taken to the hospital. It would throw his career down the river, bringing a rebel in when the prison should have you.” She stopped for a second, taking the rest of the strip off. “He brought you to me as, it seems, we have a much in common so to speak.”
Francois took a look at his foot and was amazed. It was bruised but not twisted, for which he thanked the Lord. Then, her words caught him. “You’re a rebel, too, in disguise perhaps?”
She giggled with a smile. It lightened up her face and all the hardness that had defined it softened. His angel was quite lovely, he thought. As all celestial beings would be…
“Yes, I would say so.” She dipped the rag. “Though mine is not as a fighter for your absurd belief in that peculiar institution. No, I am a doctor, as trained as the men here are, but…” her voice trailed to silence.
“But you cannot treat men. Yes, I know women who are as qualified as the physicians are, back home, even some of the slaves, but they aren’t allowed to advocate a practice except on women, children and slaves.” He paused. “So, what are you doing here? And, if I may be so bold, what is your name?”
The last question brought a splash of color to her pale cheeks. “I’m Miss Ada Lorrance, Dr. Lorrance, though to be able to help in the army hospital, I had to sign on as a nurse.” She instantly turned back to his injury, as if mentioning her position was bad.
A memory tugged at his thoughts. “Wait. I remember. There was that surgeon that said to amputate it and I recall objecting. You saved me.” Those images were clear in his head now, as was the next one that pushed itself through. “You did the mending of my ankle?”
“I attempted to fix it,” she corrected. “Dr. Waxler would’ve taken it off, but he felt his first priority was to the men in blue, thus leaving you and your comrades to suffer till much later.
I simply could not let that happen. You were the worst, and you might’ve died before they got to you.”
That halted his thinking. Blinking hard, he realized she truly was an angel. “Thank you.”
She stopped when he said those words. Gratitude, softly spoken, but she could see on his face it was genuine. His sapphire blue gaze was mesmerizing and she found herself unable to break free. This man, a rebel and an enemy to her country, a member of that awful slaveholding society, laid wounded and needing her skills. If it weren’t for her desire to help others, she could turn him back in and leave his wound to fester. Yet, at the moment, she questioned herself as to who held whom. With those eyes and dark brown, almost black hair, high cheekbones, narrow nose, he had an aristocratic look, one that attracted her. He was surely the devil in disguise, and that was undoubtedly how he lured people to do what he wanted.
She shook her head to vanish that thought and re-concentrated on his wound.
“You appear to be mending, sir. The swelling has dropped considerably and it no longer is hot or weepy.”
He frowned. “Weepy?”
“Often wounds will seep as they heal. Many surgeons believe that is good, though I’ve come to dismiss that as such, because that accompanies fever and inflammation, thus failing in the ‘cleaning’ as once believed.” She put her hand on the ball of his foot. “How does that feel?”
He gave her a sly grin. “Do you really want to know?”
The question was seductive and she bit her tongue, moving her hand to stretch against the sole of his foot and pressed. “And this?”
That made his smile disappear. “I feel it. It tingles some.”
She released and stepped back, dropping the sheet back over him. “We’ll let it rest a bit more and perhaps, try to stand tomorrow. I’ll try to get you something to eat in the meantime.” Anything to escape, she thought, her heartbeat quickening as she raced out the door and away from temptation, for he was all that and more. What was she doing?
Chapter 15
“We had a run for it. Staff officers yelling and calling on the men to rally and support the artillery and the men throwing away their guns and running like mad men and them Rebs a yelling as they came up on the charge with that peculiar yell they have. It sounds like a lot of school boys let loose. I thought Hell had broke loose.”
—Samuel Bradbury, Union Army Engineer in a letter home following the Battle of the Wilderness, 1863
Inhaling deeply, Francois concentrated again. He rocked in the seat, determined to win against the pain yet decided his problem wasn’t his wound, but more so his prison. It was a multi-faceted cell. Far better than that prisoner of war camp he was locked in, but a cell nonetheless. It was very nice, some ways too nice. Lush stuffed chairs, Persian-style rugs and a bed that cushioned every move reminded him of home in Louisiana, not army life in Virginia, nor the Yankee prison up north, yet it locked him in, with no freedom to leave because he wasn’t mobile. An injury received while fighting for the Southern demand of freedom from the repressive and control-driven Northern government. For a man who, in the deep South of Louisiana, with little exposure to the war, thanks to a traitorous brother, now found his core yearning for states’ rights and the Confederate cause—a cause that now filled his whole being, along with the frustration of his situation right now.
Basically, as long as he remained immobile, the longer he’d be under the heel of the Yankees. Even if that heel did belong to a very delicious nurse, no, doctor, who apparently had risked a lot to help him. He frowned, for that alone was another mystery. Why would a Northern lady, medically inclined or not, take care of a rebel like him?
That thought set off a flame of anger, and passion, from deep inside him. He’d walk again, dammit! Placing both feet on the floor, the injured one a bit more gingerly set, he grabbed the bedpost and pulled himself up. The torn flesh at first refused to let him put his heel to the ground, so he stood, that foot balanced on the ball of it. With a grimace and force, he pushed that heel down and released the grip on the frame. At first, it felt all right. His fierce expression relaxed, as he allowed himself to pat himself on the back for this achievement.
Then, the heel rebelled. All the nerves set on fire and Francois crumpled to the floor. Damn it all to hell! He panted, trying to control his anger and the flash of agony that raced up his leg. Steeling his shoulders, he demanded his body to achieve what he desired. It took every ounce of energy and strength he possessed, plus more, but he pulled himself back up to the mattress, ignoring the next surge of pain. Collapsing on the bed, he struggled to stay still and collected himself.
This was one battle he refused to lose!
Ada inhaled deeply, collecting her scattered thoughts. It had been a long day at the hospital. One of the men had died today, despite her best hopes and prayers. He was an amputee from the Virginia campaign, an artillery barrage had shattered his one leg, one arm and pitted his torso with shrapnel. The arm had been removed, the leg a week later. His morale sank, his stumps inflamed and pussed madly as he sank into a fever that stole his soul. He was a sergeant in a New York unit, the number she’d forgotten, but his name was etched into her soul at the moment. Robert Wright. A young twenty-year old law clerk with a new wife he’d left behind for the glory of the Union. Writing the condolence letter to the widow nearly undid her. Those duties were not for her, but since she’d nursed him and couldn’t stop the feeling that she’d failed him, forced her hand. Tears flowed and it took longer to write as she worked hard not to weep across the letter, smearing the ink.
The whole ordeal made her nearly forget the morphine and cane she’d procured for her own patient. Thankfully, she’d placed them near her cloak and bonnet. Wiping her eyes one last time, she collected her goods and left for the day.
At the boarding house, as she drudged to her patient’s room, her mind still tied up with Wright’s death, all precautions to keep her activity quiet from the landlady fled her mind as she gave a slight rap to the rebel’s door and opened it. What she saw before her made her gasp and the cane hit the floor.
Sitting on his bed, the traitor was laughing with the young housemaid who’d brought him a pitcher of water. Ada glared. The girl was giggling.
“I say, I like your accent, monsieur.” More giggling. Ada wanted to slap her.
“Merci, ma petite,” he replied, taking her glass from her. Over her shoulder, he caught Ada’s optical daggers, so he straightened and gave the maid a wink. “Now, Mary, if you’ll let me rest, I’ll see you later, ma chère.”
Mary glanced over her shoulder and caught Ada. “Oh, yes Mr. Francis, I mean, monsieur.” She bobbed before him, then spun and nearly fled from the room, blushing.
Ada frowned. “Truly?”
Francois tilted his head, looking surprised. “I was thirsty. She came to bring me more water. Is that wrong?”
She wanted to throttle him, but just like Mary, his accent and the Southern drawl worked wonders and unraveled her anger. Perhaps it was exhaustion of dealing with him and the hospital…or the loss of young men like Robert that always took a toll on her. His sweet face looked so clear when he passed told her how peace looked. Then she returns to this patient and her blood boiled.
“The thought was to keep quiet and not alert our housekeeper a rebel was here.”
The man chuckled. “I doubt that’ll be her first thought. A Frenchman yes, but prisoner
no.”
That raised her brows skeptically as she chewed that thought. “A Frenchman? Yes, well, I heard you speak and you did very well, but your Southern drawl embraces every syllable.” She sighed and pulled her nursing cap off as one of the pins had been stabbing her neck for the last two hours. “Besides, she’s too young to notice, since you put on a vile manner to hopefully seduce her, despite your injury.”
“Seduce her? My, daresay it was a long day for you?”
He wasn’t going to distract her that easily. “I’ve stayed here for nigh longer than you, and have n
ever seen her outside the kitchen below. How did you get her up here?”
He blinked in surprise, then shrugged. “Perhaps my fall made a slight noise.”
She bit back the snarl in her throat but couldn’t erase the fear he hurt himself more than he appeared at the moment. “Let us take a look at how we’re are progressing.” And she threw the cover back, exposing his damaged leg. As she reached for the linen wrap, his limb trembled. With a frown, she looked up at him.
“It appears slightly red and a touch swollen.” Moving the foot slightly, she noticed he clenched his fingers in the sheets. “How did you fall?” He had to have moved it, tried standing or something.
“I tried to stand.”
That made her jerk upright. “You did what?”
“You heard me. It wasn’t throbbing and I grow tired of just laying here with nothing to do, so I thought I’d stand up, test it out.”
Ada hadn’t realized how her jaw had dropped open, but it had and now, she slammed it shut. She wanted to roar until another notion came to her. “Tell me, dear sir, just how did that go?”
With a disgusted snort, he sank back to the pillows. “Not well.”
She nodded then went to her satchel and withdrew the vial of laudanum. In an empty cup, she poured three droplets and filled it with tea from the pot near the fireplace.
“Here, drink this.”
“I really do not like that brew.”
That made her laugh. “The tea itself, or the laudanum?”
Her laughter lightened the mood because he gave her a lopsided smile. “The latter. It gives a rather sour taste to the tea.”
“Well, in this case, I want you to try something.” She pressed the cup rim to his lips, just like she’d done to hundreds of wounded men recently, her mind argued, as if this was everyday chore. “But I think a little pain killer may aid us, since you obviously did not achieve flight.”
