by Gina Danna
She went to the warming stove and pulled the coffee pot off, careful how she maneuvered as the tin ware was hot, and poured him a cup. “Here,” she stated, shoving the heated cup into his hands. “Surely the incoming will stop soon.”
Will snorted. “Heard Meade has declared a success but is pulling back. Typical.” He drank. “They’ve also brought us more secesh. All shoved to the side, deeming our men first.” He shook his head. “I’ll have no strength left by then.” He gave her a sorrowful glance. “This is a time we need all the help. They shouldn’t keep you back here, as nothing more than a nurse.”
“I’m helping as I can,” she retorted, relishing a moment of no patients. “I am a nurse. I’m doing the best I can.”
Will started to speak, but a roar from the Confederate room exploded. Without another thought, they both took off toward the racket and entered into another room of hurt.
Ada saw the man. He appeared tall, taking the entire length of the makeshift bed, his dark hair slick with sweat and rain. But it was his piercing blue eyes that drew her. They were brilliant blue, like sapphires, and glowing with anger at the men around him on the dining table where he was laid. His uniform was dirty but definitely a rebel uniform. It was torn but she found no blood until she glanced down at his legs. His left pant leg was ripped and soaked in blood. Dr. Waxler held his left foot in his hand, raising it slightly, looking for the injury. The soldier squirmed under the pain, requiring another soldier to hold him down.
As Waxler twisted the foot, trying to pull the socking off, the man’s scream rippled loud and clear. Blood dripped onto the table. Waxler snorted.
“Foot’s injured. We’ll need to amputate.”
She witnessed the soldier’s eyes widen at the surgeon’s pronouncement and he let loose a blood-curdling scream.
“Emma!” Then he collapsed, passed out.
Ada couldn’t take her eyes off him, his outburst too hard to ignore. Made her vaguely wonder who this Emma was, a wife probably, so dear to him, he’d call for her now in dire need. Waxler put the foot down, shaking his head.
“We’ve got our boys to deal with first. This damn rebel will have to wait.” He turned to leave, the attendant at the man’s head, followed suit.
“So you’ll leave him to die, perhaps, because he is the enemy?” she sputtered, her total surprise at this surgeon’s abrupt departure.
Waxler tensed. “As I recall missy, you claim to be a doctor yourself. Men like him don’t worry if you are or not, just that the pain will go, so I’ll leave his care to you. I, and Dr. Leonard here, have more pressing cases to attend.” He started to walk and added over his shoulder, “Dr. Leonard, if you please.”
Will blinked, stunned as Ada at the man’s statement, and mouthed apologies, leaving her.
It took her a moment to realize she’d finally gotten what she wanted. A chance to prove her training, but heavens, staring at her patient, she couldn’t move. He was the enemy. If he died, no one would care, but if she succeeded, perhaps she’d be able to truly help more. Steeling herself, she gulped. God help me!
Chapter 8
“The hoarse and indistinguishable orders…,the screaming and bursting of shells, canister and shrapnel as they tore through the struggling masses of humanity, the death screams of wounded animals, the groans of their human companions, wounded and dying and trampled underfoot by hurrying batteries, riderless horses and moving lines of battle…a perfect hell on earth…”
—Massachusetts’s private recalling years after the 2nd day of Gettysburg, 1863
Francois let the darkness pull him deep into its embrace, letting his mind drift. Scenes returned, but not of that Southern belle who had his heart, but of gunfire and smoke. Soldiers hollered, some from pain, others bellowing orders. Bullets whizzed through the air, nearly missing his ear, and his eyes strained to see through the grey field of gun smoke. Yankees poured over the ridge and for every one he witnessed hit and fall, ten more appeared to take a stance. It was one of the few times Francois felt alive…and living on the edge. Fear and bravery pushed him toward his command and beckoned to their orders. When the man next to him got shot in the head, blood splattered, rising up like a fountain and a portion of it fell onto him, smearing his cheeks and neck.
It was then his memories heated like a furnace. Fighting against the ooze of the blood and stumbling forward, what he hoped was sweat falling into his eyes, he realized he’d have to jump off the ledge to follow his troops. It was an easy jump, so similar to the type he made back on Bellefountaine, near the river. Without a second thought, he jumped and at that moment, his world crumbled. The edge of the ridge buckled from too many soldiers doing what he was attempting. Add his distorted vision to the mix and he floundered off the hill. The moment his feet hit the ground, he realized he’d slipped and landed hard on the rock below. Pain shot up from his heel, like a hot poker shoved up his leg. He stumbled, realizing he couldn’t stand as a bolt of lightening hit his ankle hard, crippling him. Another hit of fire raced across the same leg’s calf and he fell, striking his head on a stone. Then all memory stopped, till now.
He woke to bright lights, with fleeting figures and a drone of voices that ranged from low mumbles to a few words. His head throbbed and the chattering in the air with the light only made it worse. It took a moment to realize there were men around him dressed in white, not the black he envisioned hell would wear. But the blood-red streaks on their white coats made him reconsider that thought. He tried to gain where he was, all came to a screeching halt when the creature at the foot of the bed he was on, pulled on his brogan, yanking the poor torn leather off. Pain engulfed him, like a river of fire, erupting from his heel. He roared, wanting to yank his foot from the man’s grasp but realized he couldn’t. Amidst the sea of pain, he heard the man speak, the words chilling to his heart.
“Reed! Bring me that bag,” the man called. “Need to amputate this…”
Amputate? Francois rolled, the scene around him blurred. They’d take his foot?
“Emma!!!” His world blurred but he refused to fall into the dark that wanted to consume him for fear if he did, they’d cut the injured limb off and that he’d refuse at all costs! He started to try and break free from this demon’s hold on him, despite the fear he was swimming in a river with his movements slow and sluggish. Each attempt seeped his energy but his will to stop the bone saw was huge.
“Shush, now,” a cool feminine voice whispered to him. “Relax. I won’t let him take it.” She cooed softly, lulling his body to stop contorting against a now vacant ghost.
He tried to open his eyes, blinking to clear the fog that filmed his gaze. It was a woman that he knew from her voice but the lady before him was in a navy blue prim dress with nothing adorning it other than the white collar and the white pinner apron. Only hints of her tawny golden hair danced outside her white cap.
“Emma?”
“No. Sorry,” she replied softly.
He couldn’t see her face as she was bent over, examining his foot. So far, she hadn’t grabbed it like that man had, when he twisted it and sent the jolts of pain riveting through his body. No, she gently held it on the sheet it rested on.
“Are you an angel or the devil in disguise?”
She gave him a slight chuckle, one barely audible, but he did hear it.
“I’m a doctor,” she replied, her gaze still fixated on his leg. Finally, she glanced up. “My apologies. I’m Nurse Lorrance, sir.”
He frowned. “Doctor or nurse? Or a ghost?” It had registered in his thinking that other men he’d seen were like her, dressed in navy, the Union’s color. A casual glance beyond her, into the other room, showed a Federal flag on the wall. He hadn’t remembered being caught but then, he didn’t recall anything after that fall.
“That, my dear sir, is a good question. For now, let us stay with nurse. It is easier on your palate, I’ve no doubt.”
He caught that hesitation in her tongue, as if she’d spent a lifetime just
ifying her worth. He was familiar with that to a certain extent. He watched her intently as she worked. Her touch was soft, like Jenny’s back at home. That elderly matron slave had been a mammy to them when they had minor aches and pains and she, too, had chuckled when he squealed as a boy when she poked at an injury. This Miss, or Nurse Lorrance did the same, though he kept his complaints quiet. Flinching was another matter.
She cocked her chin, her eyes narrowing at the limb. Still lifting his heel slightly, she looked about and found in reach a butternut coat that she wadded up under his calf when she lowered the foot. The wool of the material scratched his skin but the pain kept him from moving.
“Stay there, sir,” she mumbled as if that command was an afterthought. “I’ll return shortly.” She turned to leave when he bent and grabbed her arm.
“You’re not going to let them take my leg!”
Her lips pursed as she peeled his fingers off her. “I will do my best, Private…” she raised a brow, expecting him to tell her.
“Corporal.” He dropped his hand to the cot he was on. “Corporal Francois Fontaine.”
“Corporal Fontaine,” she repeated. Her eyes mesmerized him, playing a myriad of colors at once—amber blue with a silver glint. Realizing he was staring at her, he blinked and when he looked again, she was gone.
His leg throbbed and when he’d reached for her, he’d set off a sting in his arm from the previous wound. Parched but too weak to do anything about it, he rolled his head and closed his eyes, praying the girl wasn’t a ghost but an angel, though God knew he didn’t deserve one…
Ada raced into the linen closet where they had stored some of the medical supplies. Biting her bottom lip, she couldn’t shake the scared but determined look on that man’s face out of her mind. She knew Waxler and the other surgeons would diagnosis the foot unsalvageable and amputate it, but she didn’t think, from her view of the wound, that it was that severe. She needed to clean it to see it better.
“How is that soldier?”
She gasped and dropped the cotton bandages to the floor. Stooping to retrieve them, she glanced over her shoulder.
“Will, you should have announced you were there.”
He shook his head wearily. “If you’d looked, you would’ve seen me.” He sighed. “I had to step away. It’s a mess out there.”
His hands were scarlet stained from blood and his hospital coat splattered crimson.
“There’s coffee in the kitchen. I’ll have Maybelle bring you some—”
“While you do what?”
She squirmed under his narrow gaze. “I’ll need hot water and one of the medical kits.”
Will laughed. “They are all in use, Ada. No one will let a nurse have one, especially not for use for the enemy.”
Anger struck her with those words. Wadding the cotton into ball under her arm, she swung around and hit him square in the chest with the palm of her free hand.
“Enemy? He’s a wounded man, Dr. Leonard. One bleeding and needing attention. In fact, there’s a whole ward of them back there. They deserve to be seen just as the men in there!”
“Ah, my abolitionist lady has turned soft on the slave-owners?”
Her blood boiled more. “Get out of my way, Will!” She stormed past him and into the former dining room, where hell greeted. Surgeons at work over the ghastly wounds of the Union men, many moaning, one screamed from the work being done. She hadn’t been this close to the pit of Hades, as Lettermann kept the nurses only in at the periphery.
“See why you were refrained from this?” Will stated. “This isn’t the worst, either.”
Still angry at him, she went to the empty table, no doubt where he stationed himself, and snagged his kit. “You don’t appear to be in need right now.”
“Ada!” he called after her.
She blazed back to the Confederate. He was insensible once more. She was thankful for that. Now, she needed that water.
“Here.”
Will stood next to the bucket of hot water. “Let’s see what he’s got.”
She dipped the cotton strip into the water and cleaned the wound. “Appears the bullet entered here,” she took the wand with the pearled ends. She gingerly put the probe into the wound and searched. After a moment, she pulled it. The pearl tip was still white, though dripped in blood. She went around to the other side of the leg and found a smaller hole.
“The exit, I believe.” She probed the area and again, the tip remained white, not great in size but enough to indicate exit wound.
Will sighed. “So we’ve irritated the Major over a simple gunshot wound. Ada…”
She took the foot by the ankle and turned it slightly, feeling an unusual bend in the ankle that made her groan. “Easy wound, one that should heal, but I strongly suspect there is a break in the bone.”
Will stared, only to sigh again, running his hand through his hair. “So, he’s lame. He’ll limp at best, if it heals. Though if Waxler finds it, he’ll amputate regardless.”
“Will, we can’t let him!”
She realized she sounded frantic and he knew it, too. He frowned, his gaze burning.
“Ada, what are you doing? This man is the enemy, for God’s sake! A Southerner, the type who supports the one thing you’ve been ranting against at those rallies, falling in with all the other abolitionists. He’s a slaver, probably owns a share. So why, in all that is holy, do you want to waste your time on him?”
His words stabbed at her soul. She knew he was no doubt right and even she couldn’t understand the need to save him, other than as a physician, that was what was right, even if it did rub her strangely.
“Will,” she started softly. “We were trained to heal, not ignore those who are sick or injured just because of what they say or believe. You know they will not let me help like I’m trained to do and when you and the rest of the corps are overwhelmed, I’m regulated to the nurses.”
“You shouldn’t be shamed by that, Ada,” he murmured, taking her hand. “Nursing is a good position. Besides, you know better what is needed and I know I’ve never been without what I need.”
“Will, please. Let me take care of this ward. Or at least him. Major Waxler will let these men suffer due to their uniforms and that isn’t right. You know that,” she argued.
She could see him wavering. He was a good doctor so she hoped he’d see her position.
“All right, Ada. I’ll do the best I can in keeping Waxler unaware of your absence. But don’t waste too much time back here, you hear me?”
She couldn’t help the grin that formed. “Yes! Thank you!”
Will shook his head and turned to leave, but not without motioning to the hospital steward who had come to the doorway, to help her.
Lifting her chin in triumph, she called to the steward. “Corporal Jakes, I need your help.”
Chapter 9
“Our bleeding, bankrupt, almost dying country…longs for peace…shudders at the prospect of…further wholesale devastations, of new rivers of human blood.”
—Horace Greely told Lincoln, 1864.
It was the dream that stabbed Francois the hardest. It was spring, with the lilacs in bloom and the soft whisper of birds and bees milling about him. The blossoming of the countryside, the rebirth after a winter that never seemed overly harsh in southern Louisiana, was a welcoming sight. A period he relished. More so that spring of last, when Emma had arrived. Since the war had started, Francois had run Bellefountaine in the absence of his father, Pierre Fontaine, who sat in Richmond as a Confederate senator. Running the estate was a challenge he found fulfilling despite the lack of his usual haunts. When she arrived, though, everything changed.
Emma consumed his attention and his heart. He couldn’t help but smile at the memories that portrayed themselves to him at this moment. But then, a sudden stab jolted through him, as he walked across the greens toward her. It was a crippling pain, in his right ankle. The smile he had crumbled as he faltered. It intensified and he couldn’t help
the agonized yelp that bordered on a scream, enough that the whole world he saw before him shattered, to be filled with a room in a house that stank of male sweat, urine and a myriad of other stenches he didn’t want to think of.
His eyes shot open and found a man with a stern look, brown hair and mustache above him.
“Nurse Lorrance,” the man called.
Francois tried to bolster himself upright and curl his leg away from the white coat figure near the foot of his bed but the man above him pinned him down.
“Let me go! Ouch!!” Another pain ripped through him.
“Just as I thought,” came the very feminine voice, just past his jailor. “Corporal Jakes, hold him for another minute.”
Francois’s eyes widened. He was trapped in a house of horror. Again, his foot was manipulated and he squashed the roar that begged to come. No point in giving them any satisfaction their torture was working. Then he realized his foot was being bandaged. He was lightheaded and woozy, confusing him further.
“There, I believe I have finished. Thank you, Corporal.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jakes released him, grabbed the rag off Francois’s chest and turned to walk away. The scent of the rag wafted to Francois nose and it hinted at sleep—a temptation he so wanted to take as the trace of chloroform swirled in the air. His lids grew heavy and he felt distant from what was happening, the last thing he swore he saw was that woman in white…
For once, Ada’s exhaustion had a certain mark of gratification to it. She stood in the supply ‘room’ as the corner was referred to, and let herself sink into the over-stuffed chair, every inch of her five feet, six inches screaming for her to halt.
“Ma’am.”
She looked up and found the young man who had assisted her, Private Kelleher, holding a porcelain cup full of steaming coffee. The scent of the java pulled her lulled thinking out of its daydream and she accepted it with gratitude.