by Gina Danna
But a subtle voice echoed deep. Ada. He was insane, he decided, picking up the rifle one more time when the enemy’s fire hit him. It was like a thud, as if he ran into a chair, that ignited into a rippling pain that burned. Again, Ada was his last thought as he sank to the ground.
The incoming wounded were like waves of the ocean she’d seen once, years ago. A mess arrived like mad dogs that were looked at, treated and moved to their areas of either surgery or minor bandaging or taken out to the outside area for those deemed not able to be saved, like those with their stomachs ripped apart. Then there was a slowdown, where Ada could breathe and take a sip of water, only to be overrun again.
It wouldn’t matter who was in charge, the Union medical department was understaffed for this huge endeavor of Butcher Grant. She decided after the third wave yesterday that the nickname was right, despite the fact General Meade was still in charge of the Army of the Potomac. Grant was here, and she determined that was all it took, for Meade would throw care to the wind to maintain his command.
“Here you go, Doctor.”
She looked at the young orderly handing her a cup of water. “Thank you.” She took a sip, staring at him. He was way too clean after now two days of battle. “May I ask who you are, sir?”
He gave her a smile and his cheeks flushed. “Private Jonathan Thorpe, ma’am.” He bowed, which made her smile.
“Private Thorpe, how old are you?” She frowned. Not only was he too clean, he looked way too young and his voice squeaked of youth.
Thorpe swallowed. “I’m fourteen, ma’am.” When her jaw fell open, he quickly added, “I’m the drummer boy for General Hancock’s Corps. Got sent to carry the wounded in, so I kinda stayed to help out.”
Fourteen. She wanted to gasp. Way too young for this! “Well, thank you for your help, Private. We always need the help around here.” She smiled.
“More wounded!” Came the cry and she turned to see the oncoming stretcher carriers.
“Private Thorpe, go help them, please.” As the boy scurried off, she put the cup down and returned to her makeshift table.
But she wasn’t ready for the first patient.
“Will! What happened?” She raced with her bag in hand as he was escorted to a nearby chair.
“It’s hell itself out there,” he muttered, cradling his right arm.
She saw the blood-drenched frock coat sleeve and the rips in the fabric. “We gotta get this off you. Here.” She pushed the uninjured side off first, hearing him grimace when it jostled the injured one. “What happened?”
“It’s a disaster out there. Wilderness is the right name. All thick like a wild land and it tears at you as you try to get through it.” He bit his lip when she worked to get the injured side off, and paled as she yanked gently.
The sleeve was torn and bloody so she ripped the fabric off. It was still too covered in blood and grime and fabric for her to see, so she found her cup of water, thankful the boy had filled it so it still had plenty in it, and poured it on his arm. He jumped with a screech but she ignored him as she turned his arm. A jagged gash ran down the forearm, similar to other gashes she’d seen. A bullet grazed the arm.
“You’ll live. I’ll get you cleaned…”
“No, no,” he muttered but with urgency. “I need you to find another to go out there. If you think you have it bad in here, it’s worse out there.”
“Will, please. Let me take care of this.”
He yanked his arm from her, surprising her with his determination. “I can get a steward to do this. You have severely wounded out there.” He stood and walked away, a little swaying, but managed to get to a steward as Ada stood, her mind racing.
She went to the flap of the large walled tent that served as the hospital. Before her were roughly, she guessed, twenty wounded, carried or walked in by men who were worn out and tattered. This was the hospital tent closer to the Rapidan. She knew there was another closer to the front. Biting her bottom lip, she wondered how they’d all be sorted, when one of the doctors out there was gone. Stewards were needed here and there, just like the surgeons. Mulling the thought over in her head, counting the surgeons nearby, she pondered her decision until she saw one incoming soldier, yelping at every hop on his good foot as he leaned on the man helping him in. The wounded leg was in a tourniquet, but below the knee swung loosely.
“Get him inside immediately,” she ordered the soldier helping him and got a nod in return.
That made up her mind. Turning, she raced back in, grabbing a bag and shoving bandages and surgical tools inside.
“Nurse, I mean, Doc Lorrance.” Maybelle walked up her eyes wide open. “We got wounded.”
“Yes, I know. But Dr. Leonard has returned. Help is needed on the field. I’m going. He can help out as best he can here.” And without giving it another thought, she grabbed the bag and raced out the tent flap and into the war.
Chapter 35
“Richmond must not be given up. It shall not be given up.”
—Confederate General Robert E. Lee to Confederate President Jefferson Davis, Seven Days Battle, 1862
Will had said it was hell itself. It took no time at all for Ada to agree. The sun was setting, so she feared her time would be limited. She dove in and quickly found her first downed man. He was covered in dirt, sweat, blood and black soot. The moment she touched him, to roll him over to see the erupting wound, she recoiled. His skin was cold with death. Bile climbed up the back of her throat and she focused hard, swallowing it back down. He wasn’t the first dead man she’d seen, nor would he be the last.
“Joey, go that direction, and I’ll go this way. Let’s stay in sight of each other, just in case,” she suggested to the hospital steward. Joey Adams nodded and took his satchel of medicines down about twelve feet. She liked this steward. He had been in medical classes when the war broke, so what he did know allowed him the position of steward, not surgeon, but she figured after the war, he’d excel at medicine.
The ground was layered with the fallen. Some begged for water, and it didn’t take long for her canteen to be almost empty. The air was also littered with the sound of gunfire and cannons exploding. They were distant, allowing her to believe that Will’s fate wouldn’t happen to her, but the war itself was a bit distracting. The further she went, the fainter the sounds of war became. Unfortunately, the noise of the wounded rose, and she heard plea after plea for help.
An eerie glow cast the skies a brighter orange than the sun as it set but she plugged on, trying to help the few she could until she heard the crackling noise, like a fireplace. It stopped her in her tracks as she scanned the horizon. She was in an area with battered trees, a blanket of fallen leaves and mud and a minimal number of downed men, most of them long since lost to this world. She realized she couldn’t see Joey either, so she opened her mouth to call him when she heard that noise again, followed by a loud scream of severe pain.
Whipping her head around to the direction of the dying yell, the sound curdling down her spine she saw the bigger menace. Fire. Now, it all registered in her head. The crackling that she heard was fire and fear with its icy fingers, tried to wrap around her, but her inner soul, the one that drove her to medicine with the need to help others, stomped it down.
“Joey!!”
“Doc!” The reply she hoped to hear was closer than she thought.
“This way. There’s fire eating the wounded alive!”
Francois heard the noise. It was a snapping sound, a hiss even, like a snake and he frowned, wondering how the hell a snake could live in this hell. Then a masculine moan, one laced in pain also echoed around him and the two combinations made him struggle to open his eyes, fighting the cloak of darkness that lured him to stay.
All he saw when he opened his eyes were fallen timbers and layers of old leaves. He did catch the odd fluff that lightened the grungy color of earth with snippets of blue, gray and white puffs, no doubt shredded pieces of uniforms and remains of paper cartridges. Among the l
ittered ground were other soldiers of gray. Most were stagnant and that disturbed him enough that he fought to move.
Pushing with his arms, he raised his head and shoulders, slowly pulling himself up to a sitting position. But as his butt came into contact with the ground, he had a stabbing pain from his injured foot race up his leg. With a groan of frustration when he tried to move it and the burning sensation remained, he tensed but refused to lie back down. He looked down over himself and didn’t find any injury outside the old one throbbing plus a few cuts and scrapes.
Trying to bury the pain, he switched his attention to the area around him, trying to rediscover where he was. The distant sounds and small tremors of cannon fire reminded him. The War. They were in the Wilderness. His senses came back in full. When he tried to rise, his ankle reminded him how that wasn’t a good idea, so he dragged himself over to the closest inert soldier near him.
Concealed in torn up earth and decaying leaves, the body in the heap didn’t move. His uniform was butternut, qualifying him for any number of units in the Confederate army. Francois nudged him.
“Get up, soldier,” he barked, giving the body a sudden shove and when the soldier rolled back, Francois wished he hadn’t. Half the man’s face was ripped off, the remains blackened from the gunpowder. “Rest in peace,” he murmured, crossing himself, adding a silent prayer as he moved on.
The next one was several feet away, also not moving. Betting that one was the same as the prior, Francois looked about. His body hurt from being dragged over the rough ground, and with the way it looked, it’d be pummeled by the next yard so he’d need help to get out of there. He spotted what looked like a long enough and hopefully sturdy branch and pushed himself closer to grab it. It took a minute but after he jabbed the end to the earth and used the pole to pull up from, he figured it was good enough to use. With a big limp, he staggered to the next body.
This one, though moaned.
Instantly, Francois fell to his knees, ignoring the pain, and worked to uncover the soldier.
“Wiggins?” Astounded to find his fellow Tiger, Francois fumbled for his canteen, uncorked it and gave it to him for a sip.
Wiggins took a swig, a grateful look in his eye. “That explosion just blew me away, as if I could fly.” He snorted but halfway though, started to cough. Francois was horrified. Blood stained Wiggins lips and it was then, Francois saw the bloodstained teeth.
“We gotta get you out of here,” he said with more determination. “Come on.” He stood with his make shift cane but his buddy didn’t move.
“No, no,” Wiggins said, shaking his head. “I can’t move.”
“I’ll get you a cane as well,” he offered, giving the trees a look, searching until Wiggins grabbed his arm.
“Won’t be no good.”
Francois stared at him. Wiggins, looking pale even under the sunburn he’d gotten over the last couple of days, leaned back and pull his bloodstained and torn shirt apart. His abdomen had a blacken bullet hole that had ripped through Wiggins’ clothing and skin to bury itself. Francois’s heart dropped. Gut shots were death.
“I can’t leave you here,” Francois stated and then he whistled, hoping his horse would hear. Where was that steed anyway?
Wiggins laughed, but it was a short, gurgling sound. “You’d just be taking a body. I don’t have long.” He swallowed but the blood from the laugh coated his chin. “Gotta letter to the missus in my haversack. Will you get it her? Tell her I love her and will see her again.”
The mare trotted up, surprising Francois, more so since he was staring agape at his friend. She nudged him so he took the reins, leaning on his makeshift cane and her to stand.
“You’re going to be telling her that yourself,” Francois snapped, bending down, still leaning on the cane while trying to help Wiggins up.
Wiggins moaned, though he tried to rise. All around them, the air grew hotter. Francois was soaked in sweat. The more crackling, only this time, it was closer. Peering over his friend’s head, Francois saw the fire getting nearing them. Another scream filled the air along with the crying tones of others unable to move out of its path. It was that pending doom that drove him faster. He threw his cane down and devoted all his strength to Wiggins, though the man was sluggish and felt more like a sack of grain than an able to live man.
“Come on! We got to move!” he urged him as Rose danced on her hooves, the impending fire spooking her.
In that second, Wiggins’s eyes rolled back into his head as he slammed to the earth floor. Near his body was his revolver and only a few feet away, a Yankee soldier dead. Francois figured they’d both killed each other. The desire to yell, to curse at the war, overwhelmed him, but for what purpose? His friend was dead. Inwardly, he laughed. Wiggins died an honorable death, according to men like his father Pierre Fontaine, so his family should be proud. It made Francois want to retch. A dead son and husband did little good now…
Determined not to leave him on this field to burn, Francois dragged his friend closer to the horse, still holding on to the cane but in the end, dumping it to move Wiggins. Damn, the man was heavy! But the horse would have none of it. The flames roared behind him, Francois knew that, because the heat had him drenched in sweat and carrying another. But he was so close and she’d settled for a moment though he could see her head still high and eyes wide with fear. If he could only get that last step…
But it never came. He tripped. The weight of Wiggins now limp form and a vine or something in the leaves beneath them, caught his toe. He stumbled, bringing his friend down with him to the earth, Francois hitting a stump before he hit the ground. Dazed, his vision scrambled, he saw the faint form of Rose jumping back, tossing her head in the air as she darted away from the flames. He should go with her, but a slow blackness started to grasp hold on him, and his last thought was an image of Ada, the woman who had tugged his heart. She was also the woman who would shun him in a heartbeat. It was quite a problem, though apparently, one he’d never know how to solve.
The air was thick and hot. Even though she could hear the distant gunfire and artillery blasts, her biggest opponent was the embers of the encroaching fire that darted across the sky. Her woolen gown would protect her, as the fabric was too dense and the sparks would suffocate but true flames wouldn’t. When her heart skipped a beat as fear wrapped down her spine, she shook her head and concentrated anew on her task.
So far, she’d seen a handful of wounded, mostly dead. One with severe damage to his body, covered in blood, all she could do was hold his hand as he cried out for his mother and, in his delusional thinking, thought she was that woman. It was a pretense that didn’t last long. Once thinking he was with his mother, he gave her a brief smile—so angelic really—before he passed away. She closed his eyes as she laid his hand down, across his body, and fought against the tears that were forming. Crying over the senseless killing would serve no purpose, her medical thinking barked, so she picked up her bag and moved on.
The fallen she now came across were thinning, and the moans fading. As the heat gathered, she decided it was time to turn around when out of nowhere, a horse came trotting right up to her. Startled, Ada stood still. This animal was saddled but without any insignia on it claiming whose horse this was. No US stamped into the saddle blanket or on the bridle brass. What shocked her more was the equine came to a full stop before her without Ada doing a thing. Stunned, she tried to figure what to do. Ada hadn’t ridden in years. The war had her ride in a carriage or walk, and her few times in the saddle were sidesaddle, even that was years ago. But if she could get on the horse, perhaps she could see quickly if the former rider was back there. She’d hate to leave anyone to the flames, though they were getting closer.
Giving the animal an eye over, Ada looked at her. “Well, girl, you wanna show me who you left behind?”
Cinching her medical bag to the strap on the rear of the saddle, she led the mare to a tree stump to mount her. Pulling every lesson she had in dealing with equine
s, which was very limited, she got the horse to sidle up to the stump, while she gathered her skirts, thankful she only had on a corded petticoat and petticoat, shoved her boot into the stirrup and pulled herself up onto the saddle.
Riding astride felt odd and she twisted in the seat, trying to find a way to situate herself when the mare started walking. Ada gathered the reins and forced herself to breathe. With a glance around, she didn’t find any more bodies and she relaxed slightly, hoping the rest was clear and she could ride back to the army until she saw movement.
On the forest floor, a soldier with dark, almost black hair lay with a long stick next to him. Intrigued, she wondered who he was right as the horse came to a stop. The limb reminded her of a cane, and with the dark hair on his head, her first thoughts went to Francois. How dare she be looking for wounded and a man on the other side entered her thoughts. Dang rebel!
Then, he moved.
Instantly, she tried to jump off the saddle, only to remember all her skirts at the last moment. It was a jarring landing but she did get off and rearranged the skirts, which were eschewed badly. She got to his side.
“Francois?”
He popped his head up and gave her that seductive smile of his. “Why, Doctor, what a pleasant surprise.”
She wanted to hit him but more sparks rained over them. The horse pranced and she feared the animal would bolt. On this uneven ground, she couldn’t support him. “
“Come on. I need you to get up.”
He rolled to the side and saw the dead man next to him.
“He’s already beyond help,” she murmured. “We need to go or end up like him.”
Francois snarled but didn’t’ say a word. Instead, he grabbed for the dead man’s haversack, grasping it tightly as he bent his healthy leg underneath him and tried to rise, but his face contorted in pain. “I need my stick!”
Scanning around them, she found the one he mentioned and grabbed it. “Here.”