by Gina Danna
“I persuaded her that my skills were slightly more involved than simple household ailments.” She shrugged, gobbling down the last bite. “Where did you get the honey? The medical stores held none for consumption.”
Will’s lips thinned when he rolled them in and glanced away. “It is possible that I, too, may have a few tricks up my sleeve.”
She frowned but he said no more. Eventually, she’d find out, because he always shared with her. Her mind scrambled with ideas. He had a sweet tooth but honey also held a good potential to ward off infections if the wound was laced with it. Every housewife would use it. Question she had was, there was war all around them. Had he hidden this all along? She opened her mouth to ask when he promptly shut her down.
“So, let me take a gander here, and please, correct me if I’m mistaken, but,” he started. “You diving into work makes one wonder if you received a note from home, or,” he paused. “That vermin in the west.”
Revived and now irritated, she stood, straightening her skirts. “Will, not now.”
He snarled, “I knew it! Ada, what is it going to take for you to realize he’s an outrageous liar and no good?”
Anger flared inside her, her blood in flames. “How dare you! You have no reason to give us half a thought.”
“I beg your pardon,” he shot back, the words dripping in sarcasm. “Why are you here, Ada? This isn’t a place for a lady, nor for one love-struck on a jack—”
“Doctor, I would stop, here, and now, while we’re are still on speaking terms,” she seethed back. She inhaled deeply, trying to control her breathing and saw he, too, panted, his face red with anger. “What would you have me do, Will? Go home?”
He calmed. She saw the rigid stance relax. “Yes. There is nothing more than blood and war here. Not a place for a proper lady.”
Ada shook her head. She’d heard that for years. Particularly in medical school. “We both know I’m needed here.”
With a step toward her, Will took her hands, his face contorted. “So do the women and children at home. Did you think they would fair well without medical aid? People are sick at home, too.”
The familiar argument. Women doctors resigned to only seeing women and children. She thought Will saw the bigger portrait of this conflict. Now, she knew better.
“Will, I am here to help. Those soldiers, those men, need help in ways that surpass all you and the other surgeons can handle. Dorothea Dix saw that, and for that, she has helped the army medical staff beyond their recognition.” She bit her lower lip, the next few words a sting she had to endure. “Perhaps Richard is part of the reason I joined, but frankly, I can also put that blame on you, too. They need help, and in the worst way. I’ll stay, until it is done.” Or I perish, she thought abysmally. Nurses received low wages, were provided no provisions and pushed to give part of their earnings to care for the sick. But she was determined to survive.
It was that moment, when their heated argument cooled, that another officer entered.
“Excuse me, Surgeon Leonard, Nurse Lorrance.”
Instantly, Will released her hands and she quickly pulled them back. It was Major Surgeon Jonathan Letterman. Ada gulped.
Letterman gave them a stern look. “I understand we’ve had a heated discussion, or so I was told. As to the truth or not, I cannot have that between my nurses and surgeons. We are all under pressure to care for these wounded souls, so tempers can be short. Among my surgeons, I expect protocol of an officer. Among my nurses,” he eyed her. “I expect gentility, fortitude and duty. Are we clear on that understanding?”
She bit her tongue from arguing she was more than qualified to aid beyond bedpans, wound cleansing and fever reduction and nodded. Will murmured, “Yes, sir.”
Letterman walked past them, toward the back of the walled hospital tent. “We are moving our facilities back, toward another farmstead. The main house is sufficient for better surgical conditions and the upper floors, along with the outlying buildings should suit our operations well.” He spun on his heel. “General Meade is pushing another assault on the morrow, so we need to move supplies and as many patients as we can, as our position is precarious here.”
“Yes, Major,” they both answered.
“And keep your ‘discussions’ to a minimum. The last thing I need right now is to remove either of you as the Union needs your assistance in the worst way.” He gave them a curt nod. Ada could see the smile he fought to hide. As if they were children in the pantry and he caught them with the cookies in hand. “Get to work. Dawn will arrive shortly.”
After Letterman left, Will gave her a glance. His own gaze softened, but he took off toward his corner of the hospital to pack. Ada wanted to giggle. She should return to Philadelphia to help the people she was ordained to help, when there were plenty of doctors who avoided the army at all costs and gladly took on the patients? Obviously, no.
“Miss James, Maybelle,” she called, knowing the nurse was no doubt around the corner, eavesdropping. “Call the other nurses. We need to pack!”
She heard the muttered ‘aye’ and smiled. Going over to the medical chest, she began to re-pack it for the new location. Purpose. She was here for a purpose. And it was a way to keep herself going during the loneliness and the heartache that ran deep. Now if she could just bury the frustration of being reduced to a nurse when she knew she could help so much more…
Chapter 6
“During the night of the fifth, two men came back to the Lacey House, both slightly wounded. One was a Rebel...the other one of our men. They had got together, both had lost their muskets, and as the brush was getting afire they made the best of their way out of it together, taking their chances as to which of the two lines they might fall.”
—Union Soldier, Grand Army of the PotomacBattle of the Wilderness, May, 1864
November 20th
“Here.”
Francois looked up just in time as Morris shoved a tin cup his way. The waft of acorns and whiskey rose from the contents. “Thanks, I think.” He sniffed again, not sure if he was to drink from it or what.
Morris laughed. “You knew that stash of coffee wouldn’t last long. Not with this group.”
“Acorns?” He had a hard time seeing how the tree nut could be used as a drink.
“Yessir,” Wiggins joined, walking up and plopping himself down on the tree stump nearby. “We Southerners find a way to get by.” He gave them a lopsided grin. “’til we see the next supply train, or house.”
Still frowning, Francois brought the cup to his lips. The cold had seeped into his bones by now and the slow rain that started to fall made it worse. He wanted coffee but at this point, anything warm would do. He took a sip. The fiery drink virtually burned his lips and tongue as the liquid lit a flame of warmth as it went down his throat. The whiskey that was in it, very mild but there, smoothed the edge of this brisk day.
It took him a moment to realize both men were watching him. “May I help you?”
“Just wondering what you thought,” Morris answered. “Recipe is my own.”
“And the whiskey?”
“End of the line for now,” Wiggins sighed. “Takes the edge off the cold.”
It definitely took the sting off the tree-scent. Francois took another sip. The liquor eased the stiffness from the inside out and he relaxed just a bit, taking in all he’d witnessed and done. The wool on the uniform was stiff and if he moved right, the cotton lining on the jacket didn’t stop the roughness. It scratched through his cotton undergarments. The army only issued uniforms, the undergarments were lacking so he had to rely on his own and the shirts Morris told him to bring. Since it rained, the roughshod brogans, which were not well made to start with, were soaked. The stiff shoes were sucked into the mud and many times, he really just wanted to leave them there, but knew that wasn’t ideal. Out here, when might he get another pair? Probably off a dead man and that he refused to think about, though this pair might have come from that very source since he suspected th
is wasn’t a new outfit. War….
“So, I figured where I’ve seen you.”
Francois turned. It was a private he’d run into on the battlefield first, then seen in camp the last few days. Joshua McFadden, from New Orleans, an Irish lad with a freckled face on a bronzed complexion and red hair dirtied by camping with the army.
“Where might that be?” He didn’t recall ever seeing this boy before, but if it were in town, he rarely took note of the laborers. His business was always with shippers, lawyers or LaJoyce.
“I’ve done see you in that whore house, down on Carondelet. Bonne Jeux. That colored corner, all fancy looking with the pretty girls.” McFadden nodded. “Yes, that was it. You were talking to that fancy madam who runs it. Miss LaJoyce. She’s a luscious sweet darky.”
There was something about the gleam in the Irish lad’s eyes that made a flare of rage tick off inside him. His jaw tightened and lips clenched as his shoulders steeled. “Really?”
Wiggins stared at him, as did the soldiers trying to warm themselves over their fire. Morris jumped.
“Of course you did,” Morris stated. “Those lovely beauties come from the Fontaine plantation.”
Francois’s had a pang of some emotion he couldn’t name strike at his gut. Most of the girls in LaJoyce’s house did come from Bellefountaine. LaJoyce did not come from there, but she knew how they managed to accrue such exotic creatures.
“Oh, I’ve seen those tarts,” Wiggins added. “Way out of my pocket, that’s for sure! But they’re a beauty to be enjoyed with a glance. Mulattos often are, though as I seem to recall, don’t they have different colored eyes? Like blue or green? Don’t often see those in the coloreds.”
The men around them nodded, murmuring some had seen them and what beauties they were. Francois knew exactly why they had unusual hues, but he didn’t offer it. For some odd reason, another emotion raced through him, one of feeling guilty and that irked him.
Another one of the men, one whose name escaped Francois, spoke. “That be right. Right tasty, too. But those colors do grab ya, that’s for sure. The talent makes them even better.”
The hair on the back of his neck bristled and his irritation inched upward, he couldn’t decide if that was because of a guilt he’d never felt before, or because to earn a living his girls had been used by these men and that last thought really unnerved him. Wasn’t that why he turned them over to LaJoyce? He knew she’d protect them—well, as best as any madam could do, under those circumstances…
“Yes, I see it now,” Sylvester McComb said, sitting down on the boulder nearby. “Since you got your face, I see a semblance.” The Irish boy tilted his head. “Even now, sitting like you is, I see a reflection of those ladies, like you in dark, like them, with blue eyes.”
The men around him turned, each studying his face. Francois tempered his breathing, working hard to manage the flaming anger inside him. One thing, it warmed him despite the chill around them. Even though it was November, the ride here and the days in the field with the army had exposed him to the elements unlike he’d ever been in his life.
“That, my boy, is one roasting by the sun!” Morris chuckled, midway through their ride east. They had stopped to water their horses in northeastern Alabama when Francois took his hat off to splash his hot face in the water.
“Oui,” he replied, trying to move his lips more to one side of his cheek as he dabbed the other with a damp handkerchief. “I do feel the pinch. Don’t believe I’ve ever felt this hot.” His skin prickled to the touch and the water cooled then sizzled, it seemed.
Morris jammed his own hat down. “Just need to get you a better hat. That fancy one you got doesn’t have a brim worth a damn against this sun.”
Francois stared at the hat. It was one of the latest, from England, one he received while New Orleans was still in Confederate hands. “But it makes me look handsome, I believe Miss Rollins declared.” He smiled for a moment. Clara Rollins had made that remark, at a picnic held at Eastertime. Before Emma arrived…his smile vanished. And his exposure to the sun continued, making his pale skin red…
His buddy laughed now, before this quieted group.
“See? I declare you owe me a silver dollar!” Morris chuckled, slapping Francois’s shoulder. “That burnt face is almost as dark as the rest of these heathens. You’ll be fine.”
The others broke their stare and mumbled. One of the first things Francois had noticed was how all the soldiers had bronzed faces, tanned from months in the field. He was definitely an initiate, all pale with a bright red burn but as time passed, and the burn peeled, only to repeat and repeat on their journey, that by now, his complexion was darker with a tan.
McComb still glared at him. “Fontaine, yes, now all coming back. Remember the slave auction, where that name was mentioned. Bell’fontaine, if I recall right. You don’t need to buy any slaves or so I’ve heard.”
Francois remained silent, letting a small smile twitch at his lips. No, they hadn’t purchased any in a long time. Sold, though, was another matter. McComb looked frustrated, as if he wanted to say more but was either lost at the words, or more likely, not as dumb as he appeared, because if he defiled the Fontaine family…
“Attention! Company!” Roared an officer who rode into camp, with his staff behind him.
The soldiers around them rushed to collect themselves and fall into line. It took another minute before Francois or McComb moved. McComb was breathing hard, his face flush, thinking he’d nabbed the rich planter’s son at some sin. Francois didn’t answer. He teetered between wanting to agree some of his slaves were attractive, and wanting to strangle the man, because his innuendo was plain. The desire to tell him the real story tugged at his conscience. But in the end, he stood and shoved his hat on his head, falling into line with the rest of his comrades.
“Shoulder arms!”
The corps, in unison, brought their rifles up, muzzle resting on their right shoulder as their palms scooped it to stay. Francois followed suit and couldn’t help but be amused. The eldest Fontaine, destined to inherit a legacy of the family, stood now with normal people, who had thrown their lot in with their new country, the Confederate States of America. He never would have thought he’d be here, but that charming feminine laughter that plagued him still echoed in his ears. Even now, he could see her and he instantly brought his free hand to rub against the hidden pocket over his heart, where the miniature portrait of her rested. Oh, my Emma… Her name rang in his ears as they started their walk to the battle stations and for once, he hoped those Yankees would end his torment for loving a woman he could never have…
The sound of a trumpet rang through the air, soft through the trees and tents but noticeable. It woke Ada with a start, making her sit up right from the slumped position she’d taken over the top of the table before her. Papers rustled beneath her as her hands steadied herself, then braced her when the soreness of falling asleep while writing a letter hit. In fact, ink from the pen bled on her hand, making her forefingers dark. After all these months, hadn’t she gotten used to the revelry being called every dawn? Staring down at the crumpled paper, she gathered not.
Slowly she rose, feeling the ache from her crouched position. Outside, she heard the men across the compound, scurrying about camp, shoving on hats and coats to run to the call. She inhaled deeply and pulled herself together, adding another petticoat under her skirt and a sontag to wrap over her bodice, as a cloak was too much to wear in the hospital tent. The dark navy wool dress was warm but the chill in the air still made her shiver. She hadn’t thought the South would turn so cold, or she’d have brought more wool dresses and another quilted petticoat or two to wear. That made her stop. No, she would not have, because she had condensed her clothes to two carpetbags, not the trunk needed for all those clothes.
Her ‘room’ was a corner room, no wider than a cot and small table shoved in, with a curtained doorway, since the actual door had been removed for a surgical table. The closet area next to her
s was not much bigger, though enough to fit the other three nurses snugly, also curtained shut. Neither area could sport a fireplace and the single-paned window in her area offered no real wall to block the late fall cold. She shivered. Just like the makeshift storage area, this space was tight, yet it was the only way for them to have any privacy from the patients and staff. The tacked up sheets over the doorframes offered little buffer to the groans and moans and other noises spouting from the patients. But the women gladly took the faint privacy from the men, a chance to close their eyes and try not to dwell on the sounds that echoed through the adjoining room.
Steeling her back and shoulders to help her face the day and the patients it would bring, she stepped out into the ward. The room itself had a dozen makeshift beds, filled with the wounded. A chill swept through it because two of the windows were propped open, fighting with the fire that attempted to keep it warm. Drowning a growl in her throat, she went to the first window and removed the nail that kept it open and lowered the sash.
“Thank you,” the patient lying nearby whispered. “It turned a might chilly.”
She went to him and touched his forehead. It was warm, though his jaw trembled, lips sealed to keep the chattering teeth quiet. Quickly, she went to the trunk near the wall and yanked a moth-eaten wool blanket out.
“Here, this will help you thaw,” she greeted as positively as she could and hoped she’d masked the worry of his condition from showing on her face. She tucked the blanket around him. “How is your stomach fairing today?”
To her eyes, he still looked a bit squeamish but how could he not? He’d come to the surgeon with another flux of diarrhea and the doctor issued blue mass to stop it, but when that medicine stopped everything, protocol demanded opium be administered. It had opened his system back up, but the blue tinge from the first treatment still remained on his lips, which Ada found disconcerting.