by Gina Danna
The sun was setting, coloring the battle’s aftermath in the grey-pink of winter. Vacantly, she scanned the still bodies, but nobody looked like Jack. She feared she’d missed him as he lay dying in the field, alone, in pain. Her hands clenched as she fought the desire to scream when, from the corner of her eye, she saw one body move. She turned her head toward a man who was fighting to breathe. He moaned. Or had he actually talked? She went closer.
He lay face down in the mire, a pool of blood beneath him. As he raised his head feebly, he moaned again, “Help.”
She froze. The voice sounded like Jack’s. Within a second, her strength returned full force, and she raced the few feet to the soldier in blue.
“Jack?” She turned him over as he bellowed in pain. His chest was bathed in crimson. Pushing his mud-caked hair off his face, she wanted him to open his eyes. He looked so like Jack but was filthy. “Jack?”
His eyes flashed open. Those emeralds were wracked with pain. It was Jack!
“Mister Judd!” she cried. “Mister Judd!”
She heard him clomping toward her, his medical box rattling.
“Let’s see what’cha got.” The steward pushed her hands off the man and felt his cheeks. “He’s cool but not cold yet.” He grabbed Jack’s collar, ripping it apart, yanking downward. At Jack’s vest, he pulled harder, the brass eagle buttons flying into the mess around them. The shirt underneath was red, plastered to his chest and Jack flinched as Judd ripped it off.
Emma gasped. The wound looked like a gorge. Shreds of his shirt and jacket stuck to the jagged edges of his flesh. Black gunpowder residue clung to his skin. When Judd twisted Jack’s shoulder to see his back, blood spurted from the bullet hole. Jack didn’t utter a sound, but his face paled under the waning sunlight.
“I can’t see that it exited.” The steward reached for his box, throwing the lid open. “I can’t tell if it’s a bullet or shrapnel or what,” he stated angrily, rummaging through the box.
“We need to get him under better light,” Emma finally stuttered, her voice returning. “You can’t do anything to him in the dark.”
Judd looked at her and saw the battle raging in his eyes.
“Hell,” he muttered, looking around him. “You two, over there,” he called to two men searching another area nearby. She could barely see them as evening set in.
They ambled over, shovels in hand. Gravediggers. She shuddered.
“Grab him and follow me.” Judd closed his box and stood.
The two plain-dressed soldiers grumbled but dropped their tools and scooped Jack up in their arms. Jack groaned as they jarred his body, their walk unsteady because of the rough ground. Emma followed, her eyes never leaving him.
They headed to the Union camp. Emma’s nerves became more frayed as they walked into the Yankees’ tented grounds, her skin crawling. They were there to kill Southerners, to prove they were the masters of the land. They’d killed her husband, the way she figured it, and maybe her brother, too. And now, they could take the man she loved from her. Oh, how she hated them. Still, she would not leave without Jack, so she swallowed her pride and anger and proceeded to the hospital tent.
Inside the tent was another world. Oil lamps and candles lit the area, reflecting off the white canvas and illuminating the nightmare around her. At the far end, where there were tables made from simple wood slats and rails, was the surgeon’s ward. Cots filled with the wounded and dying covered the rest of the area. The smell of kerosene, beeswax and alcohol filled the air. Moans and screams punctuated the stillness of the morbid scene and ricocheted throughout the tent.
Judd motioned to an attendant to clear the cot in the far corner and waved to the grave diggers, who dumped Jack onto it and retreated. Emma was at his side immediately. Judd shoved a pan of water and a sponge into her hands. He gave her the flask as well.
“Clean that blood off so I can take a better look.”
She nodded and he left.
The sponge emitted an odd odor, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. Putting the sponge down, she reached underneath her gown and ripped off a section of her petticoat. The sponge would be more absorbent, but she refused to use it because of the way it smelled. Plunging the piece of petticoat into the water, she washed the blood and gunpowder from Jack.
Jack opened his eyes and stared at her. “Emma,” he whispered.
She gave him a weak smile. “Shush now.” But he had passed out again.
Judd returned, a pained look on his face as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Surgeon’s too damn busy.”
“Can’t you fix him?” she asked, desperation creeping into her voice.
He shook his head. “I’m not a fully trained doctor…”
“Do you know what will happen if he isn’t seen soon?”
“Yes,” he muttered. “Same thing if they see him now. They’ll take his arm.”
She gasped. “His wound’s in the shoulder.”
He gave her a hard look, but then it softened. “They’ll take it all up through the shoulder blade unless the bullet can be found.”
“Then find it,” she demanded.
“They’d probably still amputate to make sure there’s no gangrene.”
Emma’s mind whirled, remembering Billy and the pain he had endured after his leg was amputated. He was so miserable that he’d gladly sacrificed himself for his family. For her. Anger and anguish fought for control. Her fists clenched at her sides, and she felt the weight of the revolver in the coat pocket. A loaded revolver.
“Then he can’t stay here,” she said, her voice tight.
“And where would you take him?”
Her mind raced. The trip back to the camp was too far. Being jostled on horseback would hurt Jack further, if he even survived the trip.
Judd eyed her speculatively, lowering his gaze to the bulge in her pocket. A mixture of emotions played across his face, wavering between refusal and resignation. With a tired sigh, he muttered, “There is a house, a shack really, just beyond camp. I know the officer using it. Ain’t seen him in a while but reckon’ maybe I could convince him to give it up for a, uh, nurse.”
“He’d do that? For a ‘nurse’ who cares for only one man?” She didn’t believe him. She stroked the gun, not wanting to use it, but…
Judd snorted. In a voice so low only she could hear it, he stated, “Where d’you think I get my ‘medicinal’ whiskey from?”
She suddenly understood and nodded. She’d do anything to save Jack.
Judd persuaded a couple of wary musicians to move Jack. Neither questioned why one officer should be moved to private quarters when no one else of his rank had been. Judd led the way, his bag in hand, and they put Jack on the cot in the shack as Emma lit the lamps. The shack wasn’t much bigger than her bedroom at Rose Hill. It had a fireplace, a tiny table and two chairs, a cot and one window. Though bleak, it was perfect for Jack.
Judd and Emma pried the uniform jacket, vest, suspenders and shirt off Jack. He moaned as they twisted his body to take off all the soiled clothes. His wound started to bleed again.
She placed her hand on his forehead. “He’s going to burn with fever soon if we don’t get that out.”
Judd paced the room, running his hand nervously through his blond hair. “I’ll never get anyone here fast enough.”
“At least look for the bullet,” she begged. She hoped if he could find it, he could remove it. She’d grovel if she had to.
His eyes narrowed, his jaw ticked. Swiftly, he went to his box and removed a metal wand, the one with the porcelain tips that she’d picked up earlier. “Where’s that flask? I ain’t got no water here.”
Emma pulled it out of her coat pocket and then placed the coat on the chair. The cabin was cool and Judd stoked the embers but claimed the cool air would help Jack, slow his bleeding. She’d try to remember that as she shivered, holding the lamp above the wound as the steward splashed whiskey on the wand.
“Hold that back,” he ordered. When she
withdrew the lamp, he poured whiskey onto the wound. Jack shot upright and yelled, his eyes wide open in pain as the alcohol burned into his shoulder. And just as promptly, he fell back into oblivion.
Judd motioned for the light and gingerly stuck the probe into the hole. Emma watched him. The man’s hand shook, and a fine sweat formed on his upper lip and forehead as he paled, moving the rod around till he struck something. He withdrew it and looked at the white end that was no longer white. It was gray. He smiled.
“Found it.” He stood up and stepped back.
“Then take it out.”
He shook his head adamantly. Fear had come over him. Emma frowned.
“You have to.”
“I can’t,” he argued. “Not trained to.”
“He needs your help,” she implored.
“No!” He walked away and came right back. “They won’t let me do things like that.”
Frustration took control of her. Reaching for the coat, she yanked the revolver from the pocket and pulled the hammer back as she pointed the muzzle at his chest. “Yes, you will.”
Raising his hands, he looked at her. “I can’t.” His hands shook violently and all the color had drained from his face. He was terrified.
It suddenly dawned on her. The man’s flask wasn’t for medicinal use. He was a drunkard.
She released the hammer and lowered the weapon, devastated. Putting the gun down, she looked at Judd’s tools and saw a long pair of tongs. “Teach me.”
He flinched at her determination but nodded. They went back to the cot. He poured a bit of whiskey on the instrument and handed it to her.
“Carefully search for the bullet again. It’s down to the left. Don’t push it. We don’t want it to go deeper. Then, insert the tongs, closed, till you get to the cartridge.” He swallowed hard. “I’ll hold him down. It’ll hurt him, but if he’s going to live, we gotta get that out.”
She nodded and, with the utmost care, followed his instructions. Jack jerked when she placed the bullet extractor into his flesh, and the steward barely had enough strength to hold him down. She grasped the bullet and Jack moaned as she withdrew it. The bloody, misshapen lead came out and she dropped it on the floor.
“Give me your petticoat,” Judd ordered, pressing the wound shut as it bled.
She turned away from him and reached underneath her skirt to unbutton her petticoat. It fell to the floor and she stepped out of it to hand it to him. He wadded up the garment up and pressed it against Jack’s shoulder.
The realization of what she had done to Jack struck her, and she began to tremble. Judd grabbed her hand, dragging her to his side of the bed and placing the hand where his was. “Press hard. I’ll need to stitch it up.”
She nodded, only vaguely aware of what he was doing. She was too focused on Jack.
Judd pried off her hand and used the curved needle and black silk thread to stitch the hole closed with three easy loops. “You’ll have to take him.”
She looked at him. “Where? Why can’t we stay here?”
“If command finds out I’ve helped you with this, I’ll be in trouble and your husband placed under the surgeon’s care. Regardless of whether he lives or not with what we did, it won’t matter to them. I’m not qualified to practice, and they’d never take you as being a whit of good. They’d decide amputation was still better and saw his arm off anyway.”
“But is it safe for him to travel? Look at him!” She panicked. It was late, freezing out, and she’d no idea where her horse was, let alone Jack’s.
The steward laughed nervously. “Ain’t no choice. Look, rest for now. Somehow, I’ll find his horse or a horse and blankets and some pain killers for you to take. The surgeons will be busy for a while yet, but the rest gotta sleep. This fight ain’t over yet. We’re still here and so are they, so guns’ll be firing tomorrow too. You need to leave tonight.”
Her bottom lip trembled although she fought to control it. All she could do was give him a quick nod.
He smiled at her and touched her arm. “You’re a brave woman. Because of you, he still has an arm and possibly a chance to live. Next thirty-six hours will be the hardest. Fever’ll set in. If his arm turns black, then he’s a goner. Gangrene. Nasty way to go.” He shook his head in disgust. “He looks strong and going with you, his chances are better than if you stayed here.” He walked to the door. “Don’t be lettin’ no one else in. I’ll be back before long.” And he slipped out the door.
Jack moved restlessly on the bed. She went to him. “Oh, Jack,” she cried, tears falling freely down her cheeks. He felt warm, his face flush. He murmured incoherently and she shuddered.
How on God’s green earth was she ever going to get him out of here? She looked upward, and her heart cried out, praying to a God who had tormented her for loving the wrong man.
Our condition is horrible…Troops utterly disorganized and demoralized. Road almost impassable. No provisions and no forage.
—General Braxton Bragg, April 8, 1862
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Pain. Sharp, deep, unrelenting pain. If he remained still, it pulsed only in his left shoulder, but if he moved, it radiated throughout his body. He moved as little as possible but sometimes had no choice. Periodically, his mouth was forced open and a bitter, biting liquid was poured down his throat. He’d cough it up if he could, but he lacked the strength.
The sounds of violence became faint and the air grew still. He sometimes thought he was dead until movement sent a godawful anguish through his nerves and muscles. But the “poison” had begun to lull his pain as it muddled his already foggy mind. Despite the hard cradle he occupied, he slipped into merciful oblivion and darkness.
When Jack eventually woke, eyes wide, he didn’t move. He was physically drained. The rope bed cut into his back and buttocks. He felt damp and uncomfortable. The bedclothes were soaked, as though he’d had a fever that recently broke. He propped up on his elbows, but the shock of pain from his shoulder caused him to collapse in agony. Regaining his breath, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself to a sitting position and felt slightly cooler. His gaze swept the room.
A wood slat ceiling, logged walls, two doors and a window. He saw a chest and a table with two chairs. And in one of the chairs sat John Henry, a stern look on his face, a revolver in his hand. The muzzle was pointed at Jack.
What the hell had happened?
The door opened and Emma walked in with a pot and an armful of linen.
“Jack,” she murmured, a concerned look on her face.
His angel. She hadn’t left him. He glanced back at her father.
She followed his eyes and put down what she had been carrying.
“Daddy, please,” she pleaded, taking the revolver by the barrel, as though it was just candy and he a child.
“Caroline, don’t…”
“I’m Emma, daddy.” She sighed deeply, aggravated about having to correct him so often. She steered him toward the doorway. “Why don’t you get me some more firewood from the next room, near the fireplace there?”
With a turn, she was at Jack’s side, her palm on his forehead. “How are you feeling?”
That touch, oh yes, he remembered her light touch. “Weak. My arm hurts.”
She grinned. “Yes, well, you were shot.” She felt his bindings, her fingers working the knot.
He grasped her wrist. “I don’t understand. I was on the battlefield. What happened?”
Her lips quivered. “Why don’t we see about getting some clothes on you?”
He couldn’t move. The pain reached behind his eyes. His mind was clouded with memories of people, sharp instruments, a painful trip here and Emma caring for him. She must have undressed him. Was she the angel who wrapped her body around his to warm him?
He frowned and focused on her. She looked tired. Ragged, really. Her hair fell down her back in a waterfall of curls with only a few hairpins holding the sides back. Her day dress was a drab brown plaid, the coll
ar stained with perspiration. She was pale and gaunt.
“How’d you get me back here? Where are we?” His questions made her tense. “You shouldn’t be here. I sent my father’s address…”
“Yes, and how was I to find it in all this mess?” Her eyes flared, her cheeks flushed with irritation. Her hands fisted on her hips as her anger grew.
He sighed. “Emma, you told me I was shot. Fell on the battlefield. I didn’t ride back here myself. And where are we, anyway?”
She looked away and dipped a rag in the pot of water. Squeezing the excess out, she wiped off the sweat from his face. “I got your message, the other message you sent. You know, the soap? I figured you gave me the address, expecting I’d use it and leave but also, with that soap, hoped I wouldn’t.” She refused to meet his eyes. “Then, we heard the sounds of the battle. I had to find you.”
He felt her hand quiver as she wiped his neck. It hurt to raise his left hand, but, by God, he had to touch her. His fingers encircled her wrist as he pushed himself off the cot with his right hand. For a moment, he felt lightheaded but struggled to stay upright.
“You were insane to go there. You might have been killed, taken prisoner, any number of things,” he responded in a hard voice. “What about Nathan then? Hum?”
She pulled her hand away. “I got a weapon.”
He gazed beyond her to the table with the revolver. His brows inched higher. “A LeMat? Where did you get that?” It was an expensive piece. A Confederate-made weapon out of New Orleans. One neither he nor John Henry owned.
“What does it matter how I got it?” She turned away.
He looked down. When he stood, the blanket fell off him, and he was naked as the day he was born. Damn.
A thud sounded on the mattress. His clothes—uniform navy pants, suspenders and a plaid shirt. No drawers. His nose wrinkled at the thought of the woolen pants against his naked flesh. It was a small price to pay, he figured, reaching for the pile.
“When I learned you were going to be taken to those butchers,” she said, “I convinced the medical steward to remove the bullet himself and let us go.” She pulled the sheet off the mattress. “He even found your horse for me. Found Petey, too, in the woods where I’d left him.”