The Better Angels: Hearts Touched by Fire, Book 4

by Gina Danna

  Maybelle’s gaze was still fixated on Will and it took her a moment to break it. “Dr. Waxler has asked that we prepare for possible arrivals and move our sick back to the barn.”

  Ada’s brows furrowed. “Those boys would not fair well in that old barn. The cold will whip through there like no tomorrow!” The two dozen ill lads did have a couple of malingerers among them, those who refused or were afraid to fight, so they came down ‘ill’ and while their claim of sickness might be made up, she was sure they were not that far being under the weather. The fear in their eyes of possible gunfire and being on the front lines wasn’t produced. Though there were three of them who were simply shirkers and those she put to the work of cleaning slop buckets and changing sheets.

  “General Meade is poised to have his attack on Lee,” Will added. “According to the aide I heard, he’s got his plan to move across the river.” He ran his hand through his hair, a habit Ada noticed he did when his worry built. “We’ll have our hands full.”

  Maybelle pardoned herself and moved past them to talk to the two shirkers that had just brought back clean buckets. Ada bit back a smile because she could hear the nurse tell them to get the barn ready and they nearly jumped with joy, anything to escape cleaning soiled sheets.

  “Ada.”

  She looked up, tipping her chin to see Will.

  “I know, when it gets tough from all the wounded coming in, don’t encourage Waxler from ordering you out. You know that old curmudgeon doesn’t care for Dragon Dix’s staff, and not for nurses who push doctors to use other methods.”

  Her anger stirred. Will was right. The head surgeon, Waxler, did hate women nurses and Dorothea Dix who founded the nursing staff for the army, and especially ones like her that talent surpass simply nursing guidelines. “Half of their prognosis doesn’t hold well. Most of these men do not need to have all their limbs removed.” She stood, forcing her hands not to clench, and turned away from her friend.

  “Ada, please. We need all the help we can get. That’s Lee across that river. Richmond isn’t that far away. It’s going to be hell here and soon. Promise me. I know I need you here. You’re one of the best nurses we have. Don’t do anything foolish.”

  Ada glared, steeling her jaw shut. One of their best nurses. Her nerves prickled as the anger raced through her blood. She wasn’t the best nurse. She was one of the best surgeons and Will knew that. But the US Army refused women surgeons, so she’d swallowed her pride and gone to enroll in the nursing corps that Dorthea Dix hired for the Army.

  Staring at Will, she managed to put the humiliation of being regulated as a woman, and not of much use outside aiding the male doctors as a nurse, aside and sighed. He grinned, knowing she’d behave.

  But one of these days, they’d regret throwing another qualified surgeon aside, simply because she was a woman.

  Giving him a return tight smile, she pivoted, grabbing her notebook and stormed off to pack up the sick and gather strength for another round of war.

  Chapter 3

  In every battle there comes a time when both sides consider themselves beaten. Then he who continues the attack wins.

  —General U.S. Grant

  Rappahannock Station

  November 6

  It was the crisp cool air of the morning that greeted Francois as he dragged himself out of sleep to answer the army bugle call. Damn army kept such ungodly hours, he groused to himself as he leaned over to spit at the empty fire pit. He rubbed his eyes again, his cheeks stinging from the brisk air and he fought the urge to shiver. Virginia was too cold for his liking.

  “I’d be guessing you ain’t used to rising at this hour.” Morris laughed as he rolled up his wool blanket and tarred lining.

  “Waking at this hour is good for priests and slaves,” Francois grumbled, but added a lazy smile. “Not for a good southern gentleman.”

  “Whoa boys! Seems we got us a prince here!” another soldier shouted, his jovial look didn’t reach his eyes, which glared at Francois.

  Morris’s lips pursed. “Don’t pay no never mind to him. Ronnie is typical of half the Tigers, men from the dregs of Nar’leans. Most of them no better than cutthroats and thieves.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re the best out here on this field, you have no doubts on that now, do ya?” Ronnie shot back. He aimed his spittle at the ground and stormed off toward the source of the chicory that was brewing. Even Francois caught a whiff and his stomach rumbled.

  “So I take it, these men despise the planters?” Francois hadn’t seen much of the camp, having arrived late with Morris and, after their frantic pace to get there, it didn’t take long for him to fall fast asleep. He considered it a good night, as Emma only invaded one dream, which should have relieved him, being better than haunting him all night, but it didn’t. Before he could think about that further, Morris jutted in.

  “Most think we are a bunch of lazy rich boys with too much time on our hands, never understanding the large amount of what we do is run a complex system, as plantations go.” He shook his head. “But give them time. They’ll warm to ya, as long as you don’t prove yourself a coward, which I know you’re not.”

  Francois frowned as he stuffed his rolled bedding into a looped piece, tied at one end, imitating Morris’s, who wore his like a slash over his shoulder. “I see I haven’t missed much, being out here.”

  Morris smirked as he led the way to the line. Francois looked up and down the soldiers near him. The Tigers made the news in what few papers they got since the war began and supplies for things like newspapers fell, with the Union blockade stifling all trade. LaJoyce told him all she knew, since her brothel catered many from the Crescent City, how the ruffians from the wharves swarmed to take up the fight against those Yankee aggressors. The rest he gleaned from print, and none of it was pristine. News spread how the Tigers were fierce warriors and how they also took their trade of stealing to the front as well, raiding more than the enemy. Yet somehow, the Tigers hit a chord inside him. These were his people and he’d fit right in…

  “The Federals are just across the water. We’re to hold, and send them straight to hell if they try to gain any hold here. So Tigers, man your posts!”

  A roar ripped through the lines as the regimental leader finished his commands, more than most of it Francois realized he hadn’t paid one wits attention. Inhaling deeply, he straightened his shoulders and fell into line as the Louisiana troops marched to the earthworks near the Rappahannock River.

  Morris stood next to him. “Francois, I’m not sure what demons you be running from, but you better pay attention here. Us Tigers have a reputation to uphold.”

  Francois snorted, readjusting his rifle as he shouldered it to march. It was awkward, not anything he was used to. It’s balance, combined with the wool rolled blanket and the leatherworks that held his ammunition, caps and food with the tin cup bouncing off the tie to the haversack, made him feel bulky, everything shifting as he walked. The rough leather brogans were uncomfortable, even with the wool socks, but it was the uniform and he fit in with the rest. Days of riding across green fields and managing a plantation now just a distant past. Emma, though, wasn’t.

  They marched over the rise then sank into the pit on the backside, every soldier settling in.

  “Them Yankees won’t be messing with us here,” one man boasted. “If their scouts be any good, they’ve seen us and won’t go against the Tigers!”

  A mumbled agreement filtered down the line. Francois sank down, putting the rifle down and yanking the roll off his shoulders. He needed to feel that locket in his pocket. The boiled wool of the grey-brown jacket was thick so he reached inside and searched the inner breast pocket till he found the oval shape. Relief flooded through him as he pulled it out, rubbing his thumb pad over the gold cover.

  “I’d be keepin’ an eye on that piece, if I was you,” Morris whispered. “Gold is scarce around this place.”

  “Anyone who even thinks of takin’ this will soon find himself withou
t any fingers,” Francois threatened softly. With practiced ease, he flipped the lid back so he could see his ladylove. It was a small portrait, painted years before the war, he reckoned, but still, he could see the beauty that captured his heart. She’d given it to him when he’d wooed her and he thought it odd she’d never asked for it back, though the unexpected return of Jack no doubt pushed any thoughts of him aside…

  “Who’s that?”

  He closed his eyes as he slowly shut the pendant and slid it back inside his jacket, to the pocket over his heart. “Emma.”

  “She is waiting for you?”

  Morris was a damn bit too nosey, Francois wanted to grumble. Instead, he sighed and uttered the worst word of them all. “No.”

  His friend frowned. But before he could mutter a word, a hail of gunfire exploded from across the river.

  She was convinced she was lying to herself. The post came and she rushed to the poor corporal who had the terrible position of distributing the parcels. What should be a wonderful moment was always laced with dread simply from the prospect not everyone got a piece. The waiting soldiers often stormed the poor man. For those poor souls with no mail, this was the worst, for they appeared forgotten in this hell they lived in. Ada tried to convince herself she was more worried about them than whether or not she got something. Walking away empty-handed was never her fate, thanks to Dragon Dix and her constant reminder of reports, but what she desired was a letter from her beloved, something that rarely happened…

  Already she was devising a distraction along the lines of rearranging the medical storage in search of another easier method and burying her heart beneath a crate or two. But this time, her luck changed.

  “Nurse Lorrance!”

  She darted her way through the throng and reached for the post. Four envelopes, three of which had Dix’s handwriting, but the fourth was only addressed to her and in a masculine script. Could it be? Did she dare hope? With a deep gulp, she pulled the edges apart.

  It was him! Her beloved! She devoured every word of this very short note, written two weeks past. It was the last line, though, that made her stomach flip.

  * * *

  It has been unsightly here. The wounds that never stop, the saws that never rest. Rosecrans attempts to beat Bragg has become a bloodbath that trails from Atlanta back to here in Nashville. As I scribe this, I find my own strength taxed so apologies for the shortness. Just assure me that you are far from this madness and you risk nothing to get closer to me. We shall reunite when we’ve won, or they have their independence, for at this point, either is possible from what I see at the surgeon’s view.

  Your humble and obedient servant, always,

  Colonel Richard E. Peregoy

  Medical Dept

  United States Army

  * * *

  She pressed the letter to her breast, a surge of relief from hearing his words raced through her veins. He’d finally replied to her correspondence and it made her heart sing, despite the rather cool closure. But he no doubt wrote it with little care, pressed by the war, like they all were. He’d made the leap to staff surgeon and was fully encompassed with the Army of the Tennessee. At times, it made her wonder whether he remembered who he was writing to, but his advice to be cautious she didn’t think was for another. Despite its rather cold signature, signed in military style and missing any endearments her heart longed to hear, she’d hold onto the hope that he was alive, thinking of her and the hint of seeing her again…

  “Ada.”

  She blinked hard, realizing she was standing awkwardly still, in the footpath of the hospital row, clutching the letter as her eyes pooled with unreleased tears. Blinking furiously, she cleared her vision to find Dr. Letterman before her. The great surgeon and instigator for advancement here, on the battlefield for the wounded, surprised her.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, sliding the letter into her skirt pocket.

  “Are you all right, madam? Perhaps you should go inside and take a seat.” A concerned looked etched across his forehead. He motioned toward the tent behind her.

  “No, I am truly well. It was news from a close and dear friend. I’d been worried about him, being with the Army of the Tennessee.”

  “Ah, yes. General Rosecrans’s venture. Bloody affair through and through!” Letterman shook his head.

  The silence that followed made her frown. “Sir, how may I help you? For I doubt your visit here is simply to inquire after my health.”

  Letterman nodded. “It has come to the attention of the staff that some of our physicians are not performing to their best, while there are others who do more than required.” His gaze at her narrowed. “In fact, they are found stepping into a position they are not qualified for.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Major Letterman, I do the best I am allowed to do.” Had Will reported her acting as a doctor? A position that, despite what the Union Army proclaimed, she was more than qualified for. Anger sparked in her blood.

  The doctor snorted with a half a smile. “Madame, I have no desire to upset you. I know you are a graduate of the Pennsylvanian School of Medicine. In fact, I’ve been told you out rank some of our stewards, and perhaps a physician or two, in your knowledge and skills, but I must remind you that the Army will not let you practice on any of our men.”

  The words still stung. They had been repeated every day, she swore, since she entered the college. But she held herself still. “Sir…”

  “No, let me finish. While I must uphold Army regulation, I am not always present. And,” he paused. His voice lowered as he continued. “I also know the staff is often overwhelmed with the numerous wounded. Do the best you can to aid them, but be aware of the eyes that watch you.”

  She wanted to faint. He told her to help? She gulped. “Yes, sir. Thank you, Major.”

  “Make no mention of it.” He gave her a half smile that quickly vanished. “With that knowledge, I must also inform you that you and the nurses, with the rest of the medical staff, must pack quickly and head to the main house, located a half of mile from here. One we have…acquired, as it were, for a better medical facility.”

  Ada’s eyes widened. The battle had started and already, command knew it would be bad. With a quick nod, she bid him farewell and raced to find the staff. As she’d witnessed before, things would go downhill fast, so she pushed all thoughts of her distant love aside and braced herself for the bloodbath to come.

  Chapter 4

  “…the North is determined to preserve this Union. They are not a fiery, impulsive people as you are, for they live in colder climates. But when they begin to move in a given direction…they move with the steady momentum and perseverance of a mighty avalanche.”

  —Sam Houston, Governor of Texas, 1861

  What he had read in the papers on the horrors of battle didn’t even begin to touch the picture of the real moment. Francois had reacted, as the rest of the Tigers, on the Union assault, firing his gun, reloading and firing again toward a sea of blue that did not seem to stop. Smoke filled the air and Morris had sworn reinforcements must surely be on the way, but the rise behind them cut the Tigers off from the rest of Lee’s forces. It was as if they were alone, fighting Goliath but without the rock and sling to bring him down.

  The fighting became intense. Francois followed his compatriots and attached his bayonet to the end of the weapon, swinging it like a club at the oncoming Yankees. One soldier pressed closer, too close it seemed for him to twist the gun to hit the man so he plunged forward, sinking the triangular blade into the enemy’s gut right before he received the same attack. The soldier’s eyes widened in fear as he gurgled blood that rose into his mouth and spat it at Francois, who tried to duck but couldn’t total escape the red stream. With a yank, he pulled his gun free and his opponent fell, never to move again.

  Francois stood, feet frozen to the ground, unable to move, his ears ringing. His weapon gleamed in red blood that dripped off the bayonet and gunstock. The angle he had to use to disengage
had turned the rifle into a funnel and the blood had oozed down, covering his hands. Well, he assumed it was the fallen man’s blood, though with all the carnage around him, it could be from any of them, maybe even him.

  “Come on!”

  The push against his shoulder, the violent shove by Morris, snapped Francois back to the present. He blinked but nodded as he grabbed his rifle. “To where? Got them all around us.”

  “Hays be there,” Morris pointed.

  Their commander was still on his horse, but surrounded by Yankees swarming in. His sword was in the air and it took Francois a moment to realize the man’s panicked look spoke a million words. He was going to surrender due to numbers but with the soldiers so close, he couldn’t sheath his sword without damaging his animal or worse. Almost in response to the tension the equine could sense, he bolted with Hays still onboard, clinging to the leather as the horse raced to the bridge.

  “Now!” Morris yelled, stabbing the Yankee in front of him with the bayonet before he took off to the river.

  More blood. Francois could barely comprehend the scene when the need to survive kicked in as another set of soldiers appeared. He raced down the slope with Morris, toward the river. He could see Hays’s frantic ride across, driven by a steed running with fear, but the Yankees firing at him clogged the opening to the bridge.

  “We gotta take the river!”

  Francois looked down at the water, the urge to argue against it dissipated as bullets whizzed through them, barely missing him. This was war. What he’d been able to avoid and now raced into…

  “Come on!” Morris raised his rifle above his shoulders to keep it from the water and jumped.

  Francois moved toward the edge, hesitating still. Most of these men had been hardened by the years of fighting but he’d managed to remain home, running the plantation since his father was a senator for the new government and the number of slaves they had kept Francois at home to manage them. It wasn’t that he was afraid, he thought, but…