The Better Angels: Hearts Touched by Fire, Book 4

by Gina Danna

  He jammed the end into the ground and with her on his other side, managed to get himself upright. But to move made him grimace in pain, so he stopped.

  “Let me take a look at it,” she suggested.

  “No! Get me another stick,” he ground out, his teeth clenched.

  “I really think—”

  “We don’t have time to think,” he growled and bent to get the broken branch next to them. As he started to jam it into his boot, she tried to stop him.

  “I am not—” She was cut off as a tree, roughly thirty feet behind them caught on fire, lighting up like a torch.

  The horse yanked back on the reins in an attempt to flee, breaking the grip Ada had, but Francois reached, fisting the whipping leather while teetering with the cane.

  “Give me your apron!”

  Confused but yanking the solid plain white pinner apron off, she handed it to him. He took the stained piece and put it over Rose’s eyes. Without seeing the flames, the horse stopped pulling.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  They walked with silence between them, dodging the lumps of dead men and horses and fallen timber in a mad dash despite his hobbling. Around the next turn, a colored man came running.

  “Sergeant Francois,” he said, putting his arm around Francois as support. “It be bad here.”

  “Edward, get us free of this!”

  Ada frowned as they continued their escape. She couldn’t believe, after all they’d been through, he had the audacity to bring one of his slaves to war with him. It nearly undid her. While she had silently pined away for his company, despite their differences, over the last month, she’d realized she actually missed him and wondered if he thought of her.

  Now, all that meant nothing. She couldn’t care for a man who stood for everything that was wrong!

  If only she could convince her heart of that…

  Chapter 36

  “I do not hope to gain any decided advantage from the fighting in this forest.”

  —General US Grant to an aide after his army’s punishment in the Battle of the Wilderness, May 7, 1864

  The fire rolled onward, eating the badly wounded in its path as the sun started to set. Their cries for help etched permanent stains into Francois’s soul like the fire that killed them. Angry he couldn’t get Wiggins’s body out of the impending inferno boiled inside him. At least, he did have the man’s sack with the letter for his wife inside. The man’s last wish was the very least he could do.

  No one said a word as they slipped out of the battleground. Edward led them, though they weren’t moving fast. Francois’s leg ached enough that he had to stop at times. Neither the slave nor Ada complained, so he pushed forward, determined to beat the pain. But he noticed his angel, Ada, rarely looked at him. He’d seen her coming, afloat it appeared, but since Rose was there when he came fully to, he’d bet her floating was via horseback. He knew she was in turmoil over the slave. Her abolitionist side, no doubt, wanted him to run away, free, but then again, the man was leading them out of the flames, so her speeches remained silent. How long would that last, he wondered.

  One thing he did know was that he was thirsty. He looked for his canteen and found all he had was Wiggins’s haversack and it weighed way too light to be holding his. “Damn!”

  Ada shot him a glare. “I don’t see the need for such vulgar language.”

  Francois couldn’t help but sputter a stilted laugh. “We’re trying to get away from a fire, on a battlefield no less, during a war, and you’re worried about my language?” He laughed again, only this time, he couldn’t stop.

  Edward gave him a questioning look, but couldn’t contain himself either. It only took another moment for the doctor to join them. It was the laughter that made Francois finally feel alive again. As if he’d had his foot on the precipice of insanity—or worse. It was dark now and he bet, by the glow of the fire, they looked like specters. All seemed strangely right until the flames caught another screaming victim. The cry stopped abruptly as did their laughter when the severity of the time shocked them back.

  “I’m parched,” he finally squeaked out.

  Ada picked up her canteen. Francois saw her hand shaking. He frowned, confused, until he saw the color escape her face.

  “Here,” she offered shakily. “All I’ve….” And she crumpled to the ground.

  Francois threw his stick aside and hopped as fast as he could to her. Edward beat him by a second, stopping her head from hitting the rock beneath her.

  “She looks ghostly, sir,” the slave muttered.

  Francois picked up the fallen canteen. “She doesn’t have much left. Probably on this field a long time, looking for wounded, I’d reckon.” He opened the water container and slowly tipped it toward her lips. A little went in but she was still out. “Ada, Ada.”

  She slightly opened her eyes but looked too exhausted to speak. Silently, he swore again.

  “Damn! You’re doing too much. Edward! Help me get her on Rose here. And we need to find a place to go. Not sure where either army is at this point.”

  “This way, sir. I found a shack, looks like an old slave shanty not far up.”

  “Away from this mess? We don’t want any place near the fire.”

  Edward scooped her up. “Massa Francois, best if you get up there too. She’s got all these skirts…”

  The blindfolded mare wasn’t happy to move but did Francois get her turned to mount. Up in the saddle, he couldn’t help but sigh. The pressure off his leg was miraculous. Holding out his arms, he lifted Ada out of the slave’s hold and onto the saddle. Adjusting her took a moment. Edward was right. All her petticoats and the skirt made finding her legs a bit harder but he got her on so his arms wrapped around her as he held the reins.

  As they started moving, Francois inwardly groaned. With her snuggled up against him, he couldn’t stop his body from responding to her, even through this fire. Every curve, her scent, sparked the memory of how she felt when he buried himself inside her. Grinding his teeth, he nudged the mare to keep walking.

  Yes, this was hell itself.

  Every ounce of energy was gone. Zapped. She couldn’t think anymore, nor stand, it appeared. Ada realized she was not only exhausted but her throat was dry, the taste of sulfur on her tongue, since the air was filled with it thanks to the gunfire and smoke in the air. And now they were inside a dry, dirty room with no glass in the windows.

  “Here.”

  A tin cup was in front of her. She took it and looked above to find Francois, leaning on the stick. Also, to the side, she glimpsed a black man bent over, the sounds of metal on metal grinding on her nerves. Curious, and won over by thirst, she took a sip. The favor shocked her. It wasn’t just water, but tasted like vinegar, berries laced with honey and it quenched her thirst, enough so she downed the whole contents at once.

  Francois snorted, giving her an amused look. “Now how do you feel?”

  She blinked and sat upright. “Surprisingly better. What all was in that?”

  “We call it a shrub, or switchel, I believe,” Francois answered, with a small shrug. “Got a bit of vinegar, honey and whatever else can be found. Wonderful quench when lookin’ for relief from the heat.”

  The black man turned, the knowing smile on his face answered who had made the concoction. He reached out. “Take these. I will make another.”

  She stared at the almonds in her hand. “And these. Where did you get these?”

  The man didn’t answer so Francois gave her a wicked grin. “You all in the North don’t know our darkies like we do. Many of them have secrets that can help us in dire straits.” He gave the other man a look. “Or kill us, if they like. On that, better white men acknowledge. It is the white trash and the ne’er do wells that need watchin’, right Edward?”

  “Massa Francois speaks the truth, Miss Ada.” He grinned.

  She blinked hard. “Why do you call him master? You know, you are free. You don’t have to be on that side,” sh
e pointed to his butternut coat. Her goal to help him understand his freedom overrode the niceties they’d exchanged with her. She saw Francois tense.

  “Oh, now, missy,” Edward started slowly. “I heard of the freedom Massa Lincoln proclaimed. Ain’t a secret here, but my home, my wife and family, is in Lous’iana. I ain’t leaving without them.”

  “But you don’t need to serve them here,” she protested.

  He rolled back on his heels, pan in his hand. She noticed he wore a belt and the buckle was odd. It was brass with a capital S and an upside down U next to it. A stolen US buckle? She knew both sides took from the fallen, but why upside down?

  Edward only gave her a wink, as if he saw her staring at him, but he said, “Massa Francois, if’n you please.”

  Francois took the chair, the wood squeaking as he sat. “Edward, perhaps rank would be a better reference, considering.”

  The slave gave tight nod. “Sergeant, if’n you will.”

  Francois just shook his head as Edward kneeled down, still looking taller than Francois, and put his injured foot on his leg, pushing back the dirty brown trouser and dingy drawers, lowering the sock to expose the ankle. An ankle she was way too familiar with. It was swollen and tinged red.

  She was up in an instant, at Francois’ side, her wrist to his forehead checking for fever. He wasn’t any hotter than she was, thanks to the springtime heat. But his injury looked angry. Edward scooped up the goop in the pan and pasted it onto Francois’s skin.

  “Ouch!”

  “Only burns a second, sir. Give it a moment.” He wore an infectious grin, as if he held a secret and that irritated her as he was stepping on her territory.

  Under the hand she’d placed on his shoulder, she knew Francois tensed when the white paste went on but, given a moment, he instantly relaxed. Intrigued, she tilted her head.

  “What was in that?”

  “Oh, little bit of this, little bit of that. Tobacco, few leaves and such.” Edward shrugged. “In about hour or so, the swelling will leave.”

  “Look here,” she started. “I am a doctor and I will prescribe all—”

  “Ada,” Francois started, his speech returning back to the slow Southern drawl. “Rest. Later, if’n I didn’t and only relied on you and what you got, we’d be no better than dead, because I couldn’t move. There’s a battle out there.”

  Fuming, knowing he was right, she turned and stared out the window. The sun had set but the night sky lit up bright with the flames they’d left behind. “That fire will be the deciding factor here,” she spat back.

  Edward shrugged and began to pick up his utensils. “Wait. He’ll be better to move.”

  Ada leaned back against the table and crossed her arms, entirely aggravated and frustrated. How could there be a slave that didn’t want to race to freedom? And one who had talents that would move him further into society? Medicine possibly? Confused, she found herself speechless.

  In the far reaches of the view through the window, the pink color of sunrise began to show. As far as he could strain to see it, part of Francois jumped for joy. Sunrise in this dissolute land always brought the idea of hope, and hope right now was just a fragile thread poised to shatter once the armies got rolling. He downed that thought, and just relished in the slowly spreading rays of daylight.

  He glanced back at his compatriots. Edward had slumped onto the floor to a sitting position, legs bent with his long arms leaning on his kneecaps, head back against the wall. Francois figured the man wasn’t really asleep because he swore he saw the glimmer of his eyes at times. The push he had last night, for the need to make Edward refer to him by rank surprised him probably as much as it did the slave. It was a right call, but Francois realized his exposure to Ada and her argument on the peculiar institution probably was the cause. The woman was a force, that was for sure. He turned his view to find her.

  Ada had fallen to the raised pallet that barely passed as a bed. She’d grumbled and fought against it all the time, but her body demanded she rest. Dedicated physician, Ada drive to help was strong, but time and draining energy won. He knew she didn’t understand Edward’s lack of enthusiasm for being free, and Francois had bit back the chuckle because he knew many of the southern slaves that had family or other ties, would not leap and fly to the north when all they knew was in the South. Oh, there were plenty that would run he had no doubt, but then there were the ones like Edward. Oh, those abolitionists would have their hands tied in more ways than one…

  Suddenly, as if his stare had stirred her, Ada moved, her eyes snapping open. Admitting to himself that perhaps, his admiration of her sleeping form and how he longed to touch her was evident across his face as she glanced at him, once she looked clearly at him he doubted it. Then, she sat upright, a frown on her face.

  “Are you all right?”

  He laughed. “Yes. Good, actually.”

  She stood, shaking her skirt in an attempt to rid the wrinkles that formed during her sleep. “How is your ankle?”

  “You’re worried about my ankle?” After the wayward thoughts he’d been having about ravishing her body, her response was a little depressing.

  She gave him a peeved look as she moved closer and bent to take a peek. “I’m a doctor…”

  She’d just reached the ragged hem of his trousers when he bent, pulling her upright and closer, then he kissed her. She was surprised and at first, didn’t respond. Truth was, she was rigid in his arms but that lasted only a moment, for as long as it took for him to seduce her with his lips to open for him. It was a heady moment, to feel the softness of her lips, the strength yet feminine feel of her body and to taste her again. He’d thought he’d never see her again. Probably would’ve been better if he hadn’t. She always sent his mind into disarray, for she was a siren and a wildcat all wrapped up into a woman whose skills surprised him as she did her best to save lives, regardless of their sides.

  He growled into her mouth, every sense alive and wanting. He hardened and the intense pressure to touch her everywhere grew until, somehow in the dark recess of his mind, he was reminded that Edward was there as well. With the greatest reluctance, he broke the kiss.

  She stood there before him, with shortened breath and lips swollen from his kiss. Her darkened gaze started to clear as confusion and perhaps disappointment, he hoped, took control. He released her from his embrace and she stepped back, still staring intently at him. Neither said a word. Then, she blinked. That action cleared her eyes and all that remained were the bruised lips.

  “Good morning,” he offered.

  He couldn’t decide if she was glaring or concentrating. Instead of a direct reply, she dropped again to check his ankle.

  “Amazing. The swelling is virtually gone.” She gave him a puzzled glance, her doctoral shield back in place. “Again, how does it feel?”

  He shrugged, managing to tamper the passion that soared and almost crashed with her switching to his injury over his attentions. “Sore, a little stiff, but with the stick, I can manage fairly well.”

  She stood. “It looked rather awful last night. Being off it over the last few hours was good, but I’m surprised it’s gone down this much. I’m very curious what he put on it.”

  “You’ll have to ask.”

  “It’s a poultice of herbs, mostly, some of them I mentioned,” the black man stated as he rose. He gave her a lopsided grin. “Little bit of this, little of that, mixed with mud.”

  “Mud?” She pursed her lips and frowned. “Now, I think you’ve started the day off with a fib.”

  Francois laughed. “No, I reckon you’d find he isn’t.” He bent and whispered low, “It’s magic, or so it’s believed.”

  Edward chuckled.

  “Magic?” Ada huffed. “If they’re full of magic, why didn’t they just whisk themselves free?”

  Again, her pushing that agenda. He sighed. Her abolitionist tendencies, of making all white Southerners friends with the Devil, came out in full force. He’d need to squash
this quickly.

  Grabbing his torn frock coat, he nodded to Edward, who also started to collect the few items he had in the saddlebag he’d brought in. Francois turned to Ada.

  “We need to go. Bettin’ both sides will be itchin’ to fight this morning, and we’re in the space between. Need to get to the side, and you out of danger.” He stuck the LaMott revolver he’d taken from Wiggins into his waistband and shoved the cartridge box and caps into his bag.

  Ada stood there for a moment, a puzzled look on her face. In the beaming sunlight, she looked almost angelic. Almost. Until she thought of another insult to throw at him and his country over her frustrations about Edward staying here. He saw her lips quiver, as if she was fighting for the right words.

  Edward, who had stealthy slipped out the door, walked back in, leaving the door open. Francois could see his horse just outside, fully saddle. He whispered a silent prayer of thanks, because he was the one betting she’d be stolen by morning.

  “Massa, your horse is ready.”

  Francois nodded. Ada, though, snarled.

  Chapter 37

  “I will never forget the joy of the wounded when they were brought into our lines. One of them cried out, trying to raise himself from his litter. ‘All right now! I shall not die like a dog in the ditch!’”

  —Union General Regis de Trobriand at Marye’s Heights & Fredericksburg, 1862

  What had been hell yesterday was a night- mare in the morning. The stench in the air nearly made Ada retch as the smell of burnt trees mixed with dying bodies, burnt remains, sulfur and horse manure, illuminated in sunlight. Smoldering lumps of weeds, sticks and heavens knows what else made her ill. She grasped her middle as if to stop the nausea that would be horrible to spill when sitting on top of a horse, and possibly on Francois, who sat behind her.

  “Little rough, wouldn’t you say?” he asked her softly.