Honor Before Heart

by Heather McCorkle

  “Fergusson!”

  Ashlinn laid him down upon the ground. She needed to check his injuries before she moved him any further. The soldier who had born him across his back knelt on his other side. Slowly, Ashlinn’s eyes dragged up along the man’s filthy, blood-splattered uniform. Coppery brown eyes gaped out at her from a face as haunted as a banshee’s. Cliste bounded to the man’s side and began to lick his cheek with great enthusiasm despite the soot, dirt, and blood covering him.

  “Are you real?” Sean asked as he pulled Cliste’s head down and scratched almost absently behind her ears.

  Leaning across Fergusson, Ashlinn took Sean’s face in her hand and pressed her forehead against his. He sucked in a breath and his eyes fluttered shut, moisture dampening their lashes. Tears slid down her cheeks; she no longer could hold them in.

  “Quite real,” she whispered.

  Between them, Fergusson groaned. “Hate to interrupt your tender moment, but, soldier bleedin’ out here.”

  Throat tightening with panic despite his playful tone, Ashlinn’s gaze dropped to Fergusson. Dark blood stained his uniform near his left collarbone. With hands that shook as much from relief as from cold and stress, she peeled away his coat and tore his shirt open.

  “I see why you like her,” Fergusson teased Sean.

  Ashlinn wasn’t sure if his teasing was a good sign or not. She didn’t know the man well enough to know if he still teased when he was in pain or under duress. Her searching fingers soon found the source of all the blood. A small bullet hole sat just below his collarbone.

  “We have to turn him so I can see if the bullet went through,” she said.

  Giving his friend an encouraging nod, Sean grabbed Fergusson’s belt and left arm and pulled. Though he groaned through gritted teeth and cursed quite colorfully in Gaelic, Fergusson didn’t cry out. More cursing ensued as she pulled his coat and uniform down to get a good look at his back. Amidst all the blood, she found a slightly larger hole.

  “This is good.”

  She beckoned for the two soldiers holding the canvas stretcher to bring it to her. Once she laid it out beneath Fergusson, she nodded to Sean, who eased him back onto it. One of Fergusson’s brows lifted, as well as one side of his trimmed mustache—which covered his lips enough that she couldn’t quite tell if he was smiling or not.

  “Another hole in me body is a good thing?”

  She smiled at him, letting her relief show through. “In this case, yes. It means the bullet went clean through, which means I don’t have to dig around inside you.”

  He laid his head back onto the stretcher. “In that case, that ’tis good news.”

  Sean clapped him on his good shoulder, which still made him flinch and groan. “Good news indeed, my friend. Under her care you’ll live to harass more lasses, have no fear.”

  Ashlinn produced a corked bottle from within her medical bag. “The sooner we get this cleaned out, the better. Will you hold him down, Sean?”

  She met Sean’s gaze again, mostly because she couldn’t stop looking at him to make sure he didn’t disappear.

  “Ha! Hold me down. She’s a funny little thing. No worries, little thing. I can take whatever you can dish out,” Fergusson said.

  Raising an eyebrow, Sean shrugged at her. The hard look Ashlinn gave him had him moving quickly to kneel on Fergusson’s chest when she moved around to his shoulder.

  “Hey…”

  She nodded to Sean, who leaned weight onto Fergusson’s chest at the same moment she poured iodine into his wound. The big, muscle-bound soldier screamed, thrashed, and cursed for all he was worth. Sean nearly went flying off of him twice, but somehow kept the bigger man down. When he finally stopped struggling all the humor had gone out of Fergusson’s green eyes. She removed a clean bit of gauze from her bag and pressed it to his wound.

  “Bloody hell, lass, did you have to do that? It hurt worse than the damn shot,” he grumbled.

  Expression solemn so he wouldn’t see the humor bubbling beneath, Ashlinn nodded. “Aye, I did. That will help keep the wound from gettin’ infected, which will keep you from dyin’.” She gently patted his arm. “You rest now. I have done all I can for now. I will sew you up when we get you back to the hospital. Here, Sean, hold this.” She took Sean’s hand and pressed it to the gauze over Fergusson’s wound. Meeting his gaze, she let her hand linger atop his far longer than was appropriate. “I am goin’ to see if I can help any of the others.”

  Sean grabbed her with his free hand as she stood. Looking up at her with beseeching eyes, he said, “Don’t go too far.”

  “Do not worry. I will not let you out of my sight,” she promised.

  With the other nurses in tow, she moved among the hundreds of wounded being carried across the makeshift bridges spanning the millrun. Those that she could help, she did; those that she couldn’t she gave precious drops of laudanum and then opium when the first ran out. Much to her dismay, there were far more who wouldn’t make it than who would, and even more who were already dead. Worse, Michael wasn’t among them. But then, deep down, she’d had a feeling he wouldn’t be. That he was somewhere close she had no doubt. More and more, though, she began to fear he was avoiding battle. Whether or not that meant he had deserted and merely been hiding in this area, she wasn’t ready to face.

  True to her word, she never let Sean out of her sight, to the point of having patients brought to her when possible. Thankfully, more nurses and even a few more doctors from other regiments arrived to help. Despite their assistance, Ashlinn did her best to see to every soldier who wore a sprig of boxwood in their caps, not because they were Irish, but because they were of the 69th; they were family.

  Less than an hour later, they began carrying the wounded back to camp. Ashlinn took up one corner of Fergusson’s stretcher, while Sean and two more soldiers took up the other corners.

  “You sure you can carry this brute?” one of the soldiers at Fergusson’s feet asked.

  She smiled back at him. “All of him, certainly not. A quarter of him shan’t be a problem, though.”

  Drunk on the bit of laudanum she had given him, Fergusson rolled his head her direction and grinned like a fool. “This lass could probably carry the general’s horse back to camp,” he said, voice slurring more than a little.

  His banter lifted her spirits, and with them her guilt as well. That she could be even a little happy surrounded by so much death seemed terribly wrong. Yet she couldn’t help be glad that both Sean and Fergusson had survived. They marched in silence, leaving the ghastly site of the corpse-strewn hill behind only to trade it for the ruined city dotted with bodies. Were it not for Sean’s survival and presence with her now, Ashlinn might have feared she’d ventured into hell.

  By the time they reached the pontoon bridges that spanned the Rappahannock, her arms ached, but considering her burden, it was an ache she welcomed. Due to the narrow bridge, Sean and one of the soldiers carrying the end of Fergusson’s stretcher took over to get across. When she offered to take up a corner again Sean shook his head.

  “I’ve got him. You lead the way.”

  Her arms shook too badly for her to put up much of a protest, so she simply nodded and did as he bid. She led him to the small hospital she had been working at, only to find dozens of soldiers waiting outside. Arms loaded down with blankets so high her chin could barely fit over the top of them, Abigail emerged from the hospital tent. Upon seeing her, the woman’s full lips turned up into a huge grin.

  “Miss Ashlinn, ya’s a’right, thank de saints! And de sergeant, too!”

  Ashlinn relieved her of half the load of blankets and together they passed them out to the soldiers waiting. “I take it we are out of cots inside?”

  “Yes’m.”

  Steeling herself with a deep breath, she pressed a hand to her stomach, mostly to keep Abigail from seeing how badly she shook. “Due to the number of casualties, there will be plenty of tents for these men in th
e area. Let’s get them in out of the wind and the coming dark, whatever tents are closest will do. We will treat them once we get them inside.”

  She turned to give Sean and the soldiers carrying Fergusson directions to carry him to the nearest empty tent.

  “You’ll be along soon to do my stitches, won’t you, Doc?” Fergusson asked.

  “Of course,” she promised.

  Once they were on their way she had Abigail brief her about the wounded, instructed her to move anyone who wasn’t serious out of the hospital and into one of the nearby tents, and asked her to gather any medicinal supplies she could. She looked to the men waiting, some standing and some sitting, others lying down on the cold ground.

  “If you are able to get into one of the nearby empty tents on your own, do so. If not, one of the nurses will be out to help you. We shall get to each of you, I promise.” With that she spun and marched off to the tent they had taken Fergusson to.

  The anxiety building in her dissipated the moment she stepped inside and saw Sean lighting a candle. She nodded to the other soldier who had helped carry him in.

  “Thank you, private.”

  He stood up taller. “You’re welcome, ma’am. Is there anythin’ else I can do for you?”

  “I need boiling water.”

  Sean sat the candle down on a small log covered in wax and met the man’s gaze. “Ask Abigail, the nurse who had the blankets. She’ll have some. Then build a fire close by and put another pot of water on to boil. I have a feelin’ Miss O’Brian is goin’ to need a lot of it tonight.”

  Hand shooting up for a sharp salute, the man straightened, heels clicking together, and then darted out of the tent.

  Together she and Sean removed Fergusson’s coat and shirt, all the while exchanging long looks and finding excuses to touch one another’s hands or arms. Were Fergusson not between them, Ashlinn would have thrown herself into Sean’s arms, propriety be damned. Both the private with the water and Abigail with an armload of medicinal supplies arrived at nearly the same time. Head propped up on the foot of Fergusson’s cot, Cliste sat patiently, her tail thumping away at the packed dirt. With Abigail’s assistance, Ashlinn had Fergusson’s wounds cleaned, stitched, and wrapped in clean gauze in no time at all.

  She rose from where she’d been kneeling beside the cot and met Sean’s magnetic gaze. “I understand if you want to stay with him, but I must check on the rest of the men.”

  Sean rose from where he had been sitting, resting with his back against one of the tent poles. “You should have an escort. The camp is in chaos, a mixture of regiments, and many of the men are…out of sorts. I’ll go with you.”

  Tension drained from her as surely as if she had stepped into a warm bath. “Thank you, that would be much appreciated.” She turned to Abigail. “Are you able to accompany us?”

  Abigail picked up her own medical bag and quickly stood. “Yes, ma’am.”

  With Cliste in tow, they hurried out of Fergusson’s tent and started toward the next closest one.

  The night was a blur of wounds, sutures, and blood. Having both Abigail and Sean by her side gave Ashlinn the strength to see to every man that the other nurses and doctors were unable to get to, which was a lot. For every person with even the slightest amount of medical ability, there were a hundred or more wounded. After she had seen to the last man, Sean finally carried her to her tent, but it was only because she couldn’t walk anymore. Heavy head sinking into her hard pillow, she watched him sit down at the tent’s entrance and stretch out. She wanted to protest, tell him to come join her, but sleep stole over her before she could open her mouth.

  Chapter 26

  Hundreds of reluctant voices combined with the sounds of tents being taken down finally pulled Sean from a deep, dreamless sleep. They were sounds he knew all too well. Camp was breaking. How long this had been going on, he had no idea. The constant patter of rain on canvas last night had drowned out all other sound until now. Looking over at Ashlinn sleeping so peacefully, not a line of worry on her pretty face, he found himself reluctant to leave.

  Yet duty—and nature—called. He tossed the blanket he had thrown over himself aside and rose stiffly from the hard ground. One look down at his filthy, bloody uniform and guilt burned through him. He wished he had at least cleaned up before using her blanket. Fetching his knapsack, he dug out one of the last sheets of music he had left, wrote her a quick note and placed it upon her pillow. He also dug out the fresh pair of socks he had and put them, his boots, and coat on.

  Left with no other reason to linger, he still stood over the cot, staring down at her sleeping form. The light that seeped through the thick canvas of the tent illuminated her, making her golden hair glow softly and the features of her lovely face seem all the more gentle. Despite fighting it, his feelings grew stronger for her every day. And now, they were powerful enough to override even his fear of being a disappointment to her. Even though the battle was behind him with a river between it and them, he still didn’t want to let her out of his sight. But he had to, at least for a moment. Grabbing up his knapsack and his rifle, he forced himself from the tent.

  In the chaos of camp breaking up no one really noticed him leaving a nurse’s tent. Soldiers dashed here and there, packing things up and loading wagons with the wounded. Already men were breaking down the small hospital tent not far away. Rain drizzled down over it all, giving the air an oppressive feel as if it carried the weight of their defeat with it. Sean’s eyes went immediately for the tent they had left Fergusson in only to find it gone. He grabbed the nearest soldier, a man from another regiment that he didn’t recognize.

  “Where are we off to?” he asked.

  “Back to Falmouth.”

  “Do you know a Corporal Fergusson? Do you know where they’ve taken him?” Sean asked. “His tent was right there.”

  The soldier looked where he pointed but shook his head. “Can’t say that I do. Sorry, Sergeant.”

  Sean let him go and the man dashed off. Looking for a familiar face in the bustling crowd, Sean moved on. He found a few of his men, but none of them knew where Fergusson had gone.

  “Sergeant, Sergeant” came a feminine voice heavy with a slave’s accent.

  Sean turned to find Abigail reaching toward him hesitantly as if not sure she should touch him or not. He took her hand in his and gave her a warm smile.

  “Abigail, I’m so happy you’re all right,” he said.

  White teeth beamed as she gave him a shy smile in return. “Thank ya, Sergeant. I’s glad to see ya’s a’right, too. Fergusson is in one of the wagons. I saw to it myself he was loaded up safely.”

  The threat of panic left him like a receding tide. “Thank you, Abigail.”

  “’Course, Sarge. I best see to wakin’ Miss Ashlinn now.”

  He nodded. “Would you let her know I’m checkin’ on my men, and I’ll be along shortly?”

  Dimples formed in Abigail’s cheeks she smiled so big. “’Course I will.”

  After seeing to his morning routine, Sean set out to check on those of his men he knew had survived the battle. All the wounded of the 69th who couldn’t walk, his regiment and the others, were within wagons. Talk among the soldiers was that the 69th deserved to ride within wagons as they had carried the army on their backs the previous day. Such a grand gesture choked Sean up, and he agreed. They had fought valiantly, with both honor and fearlessness. Not all sergeants could say their men had performed in such a manner and he was beyond proud that he could. The Fighting Irish had more than lived up to their name. Sadly, many of them were dead because of it.

  Sometime later, while helping a private with his arm in a sling fold his tent up, Sean spotted Ashlinn redressing a soldier’s wound. The man sat upon a boulder, listening raptly to her instructions with a look of worship in his eyes. He knew how the man felt. Giving her time to finish, he worked his way over to her slowly. So caught up was she in her work that she didn’t see him coming u
ntil he was nearly upon them. Her lovely smile lit her face up, but she kept talking, focusing on her work like a true professional. He loved that about her, the confidence with which she gave her patients instructions, and the way she treated each of them as if they were the most important part of her day.

  Finished, she patted the man on his good shoulder, and started walking toward Sean. Somehow she had found time to wash, brush her hair, and put on a fresh shirt and breeches. He suddenly felt quite self-conscious about the current state of his own attire. Water dripped from his cap as he dipped his head to her. At least the pouring rain had cleaned him up a bit. His tongue burned with a question that he had just recently decided to ask her. Like a coin newly acquired, this question begged to be released. Yet this wasn’t the place.

  Ashlinn paused and looked around. Her back straightened and her shoulders went stiff.

  “Cliste?” she called out.

  A sinking sensation pulled at Sean’s stomach. He turned to look about them. The hound was nowhere to be seen. Ashlinn continued to call the hound’s name, and still she did not come bounding back. Ashlinn’s voice began to take on a desperate sound. Sean grabbed her hand.

  “’Tis all right. She likely just wandered off to beg from the soldiers. Come on, we’ll find her,” he said.

  Though she allowed him to lead her along, she shook her head. “I do not think it is a squirrel,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Hand in hand, they started toward the nearest wagon.

  “Miss Ashlinn, Miss Ashlinn!” came breathless voice.

  The woman ran toward them, her skirt gathered in one hand, black hair a cloud of chaos about a face pinched with concern. “Ya must come quick. Corporal Fergusson needs ya!”

  Alarm shot through Sean like a Minie ball. “What happened?”

  Gasping for breath, Abigail shook her head as she came to a stop before them. “Don’t rightly know. All’s I know is Doctor Taylor said de corporal was having a seizure and won’t let no one tend to him save Miss Ashlinn.”