by Gina Danna
She bit back a smile at his manner correction. “And you are?”
“Matthew Caruthers, ma’am.”
She rolled back on her heel. “This is she, sir.”
The panicked look in his eyes returned. “I needs you to come with me. Tole to tell ya, it be an emergency.”
“Where to, may I ask? Ladies don’t just leave with suitable young men without prior knowledge,” she stated, the grin escape her stronghold.
He inhaled, bringing his shoulders up and straight at her compliment. She’d guess he wasn’t much past twelve…
“Mrs. Turner be needin’ your help, ma’am.”
Ada inwardly groaned. Beatrice Turner, the woman who owned the boarding house she roomed at, had turned very gleeful, knowing she had a woman doctor in the house. More so after Ada helped the woman’s daughter, Miss Ellen, when the girl had fallen ill and needed a doctor. Their regular physician was unavailable but she offered her services. Since then, the woman constantly delivered Ada patients, mostly women, for feminine needs. And according to Society as a whole, that was the only type of patients she should see.
“Thank you, Matthew. Let her know I’ll be there right directly.”
As the boy scampered off, she put her supplies down, looked down her ward to find her work done. She grabbed her wool cloak and darted of out the building. Within minutes, she pounced up the front staircase to the brownstone, both annoyed and curious what the latest crisis was. What she discovered on opening the door to the boarding house, wasn’t what she expected.
“Dr. Leonard, what a surprise to see you,” she greeted, skills of etiquette not entirely washed away by the war. He was stationed at one of the other hospitals and rarely came here.
He stepped closer. “Ada, please, I brought you something of note from New York.”
That caught her attention. “Truly? Why, whatever would you find among all that mess?”
A smile full of mischief played across his face. “Shall we see?”
She frowned. “Will, this isn’t the time or place for this. Mrs. Turner has ears everywhere.”
“I hear your nursing has been excellent.” But when she shot him a dagger look, he straightened and dropped his voice. “Actually, I do have a favor for me and a challenge for you. One I hope you are willing to tackle, as it were. You recall that rebel with the ankle wound?”
The one with the striking blue eyes? How could she ever forget him? “Yes, I do. And he is one of the reasons I had a warning from Miss Dix, to refrain from doctoring.”
“Ah, yes, I figured Waxler had made good his threat to report you. But you and I both know you are more than qualified in the surgical area. And I’d wager a month’s pay, you saved not only his foot, but the respect of several other surgeons.” He paused. “Now, remember, he was sent, as a prisoner of war, to one of the confinement areas.”
Her heart kicked into beating harder as the anger roiled in her blood. “Yes, I remember clearly my patients being yanked from me so. What are you getting to?”
The mischievous cheerfulness evaporated. “I found him, at Fort Delaware. He’s not doing well.”
“Whatever do you mean?” She badly wanted to forget him.
“The wound is faring poorly. Infected.”
She shook off the concern. “Surely the surgeons there will attend to it. Why come to tell me, other than verify Dr. Waxler’s statement I’m not a doctor of means.”
“Ada, you know you are!” His face was red and it was obvious he was mad. “I was called to the Fort by the surgeon there. They hardly supply them and the wound was apparently mangled by the Federal troops who hauled the prisoners away in Virginia. You know, our boys can be rather harsh with the secesh. From what I could tell, the leg is swollen with a stench of infection. It looks off center. They’d amputate but haven’t the right staff or supplies to be able to do it.”
Ada started to pace. She shouldn’t care. Didn’t want to. “Last I saw of him, he was doing well, well, as best as I could tell in twenty-four hours after surgery.” Then she stopped and turned to face him. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I managed to…” He cleared his throat. “Bring him back with me.”
Her throat dried. “You what? How? Why? Surely that isn’t possible.”
He looked away and the tenseness thickened. “I, well my family, owe his family for a deed of years back. Once I learned his name, I couldn’t leave him there.”
“Oh dear, Will, what have you done? What could they owe you to jeopardize your position?” Shock rattled through her. To move a prisoner, just because of an injury, wasn’t something allowed, or so she believed.
He got closer and took her hand. “Ada, please. It is your work. Besides, they won’t be watching you. I know you’ve been practicing outside the army hospital—”
“Will,” she started but he cut her off.
“Please, Ada. I’ve already risked everything, asking for favors to cover this, but it is very important. What they’ve done, long before the war I will say, saved my family, and for that, I’m indebted to him and his. As you can see, I cannot care for him here. He’s not to be here. Rebel or not, this is important. But while I’m tied by rank, you could.”
Of course, he couldn’t take the man under his care, ruining his career, but she could. Anger flared at the mere thought that she could sacrifice but not him.
She’d been furious her patients were taken from her so easily that day, Waxler demonstrating how her place was not in practicing medicine. He’d gone further on that once they’d returned to Washington, complaining to the right set of men who’d reduced her position back to nursing, despite all her education and proven abilities. The only slight redeeming factor was the patients she helped through Mrs. Turner’s recommendation, women who were in need of medical care since the majority of physicians were dealing with the Union soldiers. Granted, this case might heal that wound Waxler had started…
“All right. I’ll try. Where is he?”
Francois swung between confusion and unstableness to vaguely cognizant of where he was, or so he thought. Pain was the one constant, ebbing from stabbing deep and sharp to mildly annoying nuisance. What he wouldn’t give to not have it at all!
The last few days, maybe they were weeks, a small voice in his head echoed, teetered in his mind. He’d seen the darkness and the hell that rose from its depths, to bright light and warmth. That had made him wonder if he was dead, waiting for judgment while sitting in purgatory, except he didn’t think that room had everyone else come and go, as he seemed to see people then they were gone, and if his recollection was in place, he didn’t think they were dead.
Memories of the battle danced in his head. The sound of the artillery, the squeals of maimed horses and the moans of wounded men, the whizzing in the air like insects but these bites tore human flesh with a voracity that could kill. Cold and dampness never left, or so he thought. The battlefield was freezing and the prison no improvement. Even now, in purgatory, he shivered, yet the blazing hell ate at him at times before another blanket of ice settled.
He’d seen the house he was taken to, controlled by the Yankees but after that, the scenes blurred. There was a march of sorts, one he stumbled through before collapsing and being thrown like a bale of cotton onto a wagon, to end up in a barrack with no heat, fed sparingly of greasy food and murky water. Vague memories of his fellow soldiers danced in his head, as did the changeling angel, who looked like Emma or his mother or this woman at the Federal house who’d prodded at his injury like he was a piglet. Damn, he was thirsty but had no strength to see if there was any water or perhaps fearful there was, because the dark cell’s only drink was actually grimy to swallow, as if it carried sand or poison or both, leaving an odd taste in his mouth. The thought made him pale…
Suddenly, a brisk of air flew into the room as the door opened. After the hours of silence, the commotion was startling and Francois nerves tingled at the coolness, interrupting his warm nest on the bed. A be
d, he realized, that was like those at home—soft and cozy. A true bed. God, it’d been long time since he’d been in one of these.
But his sudden realization and longing to snuggle further came to a screeching halt as his movement jostled his injured ankle, sending jabs of pain racing up his leg. He bit his inner lip, refusing to let these visitors see him agonized. Besides, he had no idea who they were, perhaps angels…or demons…
“Oh, my dear Francois, what have you done?”
His mother loomed over him, concern etched across her face. He tried to focus. Marie Fontaine was a force to be reckon with, so these white face ghosts that hovered behind her were in for a rude awakening. That thought almost made him laugh. What was his mother doing here? Wherever here was? But there was something about her being nearby, to see her loving face and the golden glow of her hair making her look angelic warmed him.
Marie gave a quick examination to his ankle and tsked angrily. “I knew I should have forbade you from your self-conceived doubt. War is no place for my boys.” She shook her head and it sent a pang that reached inside him, wrapping around his spine and making him shudder.
Then she made a light, casual touch of his foot and the result ripped through him like a cannon shot. He nearly leaped off the bed, wanting to beg her to stop, as her hand still maneuvered the ankle and foot. It wasn’t a harsh, abrupt exam, but it was enough to make him groan. He squeezed his lids tight, working hard to control the pain and bite back the roar that threatened to escape.
“Shhh,” Marie whispered, her tone soothing and touching his soul. She rubbed his cheek softly. “Don’t move. Tell me what happened.”
He opened his mouth to answer but she tipped a cup to his parched lips, and with it being his mother, he couldn’t refuse. The liquid wasn’t tea, as he suspected, but it had an odd taste, one he swore he knew. Whatever it was, a wave of calm spread through him and his thoughts blurred, and the pain ebbed. For once, in a long time it seemed, he was comfortable, warm and felt the wave of love coming from his mother. He wanted to sigh with relief.
But the relief never came. Instead, the cozy feeling shattered as hell returned. He shot halfway upright automatically as she moved his foot, the lightning hurt raced through him.
“What the hell!” He roared, his eyes wide open when he saw her. That nurse from the Union hospital. Confusion mixed with the torment and he collapsed without hearing her answer. He fell back to the bed, angered, mad and scared.
Now what?
The moment he hit the mattress, the pain overwhelmed him and the darkness won.
Chapter 14
“We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection.”
—Abraham Lincoln’s Inaugural Address
March 4, 1861
Ada found herself lost. At a standstill, she blew the wisp of hair that had freed itself from her coiled braid pinned at the nape of her neck and fell into her eyes. Staring blankly at the wall of supplies, she could not recall what she’d come in here for. With a deep breath, she steeled her shoulders, straightened and forced herself to concentrate. She’d spent too many hours at the hospital and way too long caring for that man that the lack of sleep was catching up to her. She bit back the growl that threatened to escape her lips and yanked the bottle off the shelf and turned to return to the ward when she ran right into Dr. Waxler.
“Nurse Lorrance.”
She jerked back, juggling the bottle with fingers that seemed very loose. “Dr. Waxler, I beg your pardon.” He actually ran into her, she was convinced, but waiting for him to apologize would take a month of Sundays, so she darted to the right.
“My dear, you look a bit pale. Are you all right?”
His words brought her to a stop. Her mind raced. Last thing she needed was a prying doctor. “I’m fine, sir. Just a bit in a hurry. If you’ll excuse—”
“Yes, you have done your duties here quite well, considering.”
That remark made the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. “I do what is required of me,” she snapped then bit her tongue. How dare he provoke her so? “I’ll do whatever is necessary to help our men to recover. You know that.” She paused for a moment. “Sir.”
She saw his mouth wiggle, as if he was fighting to hold back the smile of satisfaction. He made her skin crawl, because he knew perfectly well she could be aiding the patients so much more but it was an argument she had no time for. The end of her shift was coming and she had her own patient to see to. Again, she spun and this time, escaped any further words.
Grabbing the washbasin and her rag, she gave the young man in the bed a cooling wipe of his brow and prayed the fever was finally gone. But as she gave him a pasted smile, she soon found her mind wandering to her own patient as she continued to wipe his brow.
“Nurse Ada?”
She stopped and looked down at him. His face betrayed his youth, no more than sixteen she’d discovered. And after the race to ‘join up’ with his friends, he now found himself without an arm from battle. Her heart clenched.
“Yes, Private Sparks?”
“I think I’m pretty good, Miss Ada.”
It hit her that she’d doused the poor boy’s face with too much water from the rag and even his sad pillow was sopping. “Oh, dear, let me see to that.” She went to rise but he grabbed her hand.
“It’s fine. But you look lost, Miss. Maybe takin’ care of us is hard to keep doin’ day after day. We all be a sorry lot.”
Tears wanted to form but she bit her tongue to stop it. Instead, she gave him a sympathetic grin. “No, you fine young men risked your lives for the Union. It is I and the country that owe you a thanks. Tending you is a pleasure,” she reassured him.
He snorted as he squeezed her hand. “Hope you sleep well tonight, Nurse Ada. We don’t want ya gettin’ sick and not able to be here for us.”
A lump formed in her throat. With a nod, she took her supplies and virtually ran from the room.
Will had left that man in the room adjacent to hers at the boarding house. It wasn’t an ideal setting, but Will had quite the knack to sway anyone to his way when he set his mind to it. She wasn’t sure what he’d told Mrs. Turner but the woman had been very quiet when Ada tended to a man in a room next to hers.
Her patient’s fever had lessened to barely there. That first night, though, had been rough. The rebel soldier nearly catapulted off the bed when she touched his injured limb, but then he passed out. Placing the back of her hand against his forehead had verified her fear that he was burning with fever. The ankle and foot were swollen and the incision she had made now looked puffy yet hard with puss that had leaked.
“Will, hand me that pillow,” she pleaded. Will handed her the cushion and she placed it under the bruised foot. “We’ve got to get the swelling down. Whatever happened to him?”
In a broken voice, the patient answered. “Damn Yankees made me walk!”
Ada’s eyes widened in surprised, a sickening curl in her stomach when she knew if that happened, the wound was damaged then, for it wasn’t ready for the pressure. “Will, I need morphine, ether and a surgeon’s kit.”
“Ada, I can’t do that and you know it! I’ve risked enough as it is.”
She spun to face him. “Let me put this to you as it stands. If what he said is true, it would tie in with this infection. You say your family owes his for some past indiscretion you wish to not tell me. Fine, but I’ll lose him if I can’t open this back up and reset it, if I can, or it will have to be amputated, and that I’ll do my best to refrain from. My only hope is to clean it out and pray, do you hear me?”
Will had stared at her and she couldn’t tell if he was on the verge of having her locked up as insane to demand this, or if she’d touched a chord inside him to help. His response, though, spoke volumes. He growled and left in the flurry but in quick time, he returned with her request.
As long as the man remained unconscious, she didn’t dare u
se the ether but wanted it in case he woke, and she’d bet he would. Tipping his foot at an angle to see the former incision, she saw the clotted blood and crusty layer. The mess would block it healing right and he’d need it amputated!
“We’ve got to clean it.” She looked at Will, who gave her a nod but remained silent. Irritated, she glanced about for a cleaning agent. Nothing was in reach.
“Will, hand me your flask.”
“My what?” he mumbled in a mocked surprise.
She shot him an angry look and promptly reached across, her hand slipped under the flap of his coat and found what she knew was there, inside the pocket. Pulling out the silver flask, she opened the lid.
“Ada…”
“Will, please. Now hold him.” She barely waited for him to brace the unconscious man before she poured a smidgen of the whiskey on the wound. As the alcohol burned through the dried glaze and blood, the rebel’s eyes shot open and he screamed at such a pitch, made her wonder if that was what the ‘Rebel Yell’ was since it sent a jolt of ice down her spine. Will fought to keep the man down but the patient’s roar was short and he fell back into the mattress.
“You’ve got no choice but to give him some ether,” Will grumbled, straightening himself after he released the man. And he yanked his flask from her grasp.
Francois suddenly found he couldn’t breathe. The pressure against his chest was heavy, like a wool overcoat, wadded into a lump that occupied the space over his heart. And it vibrated. Struggling to get air, he shifted in an attempt to thwart the weight. Whatever it was, it responded by moving. The motion woke him and as he struggled to focus, his eyes too dry to see at first until he blinked several times, only to discover the object on his back was a mound of black fur. A being that turned and zeroed its golden eyes on him. Startled, he realized it was a cat and he wanted to snort but the animal was laying on top of him. Where the hell did a cat come from? One thing was certain—the feline had to move! Lifting his right hip, he managed to push the cat off him, though it remained at his side. Falling back down, he could finally inhale.