About twenty minutes out, we got to a rise. The soldier raised his hand to signal us to stop. “Ma’ams, I’d take ye further, but I dinna think this horse can make it. I dinna wanna kill her. We got all the Loyalists under control, so ye willna be in harm’s way. The camp’s jest down there, to the edge of the trees, almost to the river. Captain Pomeroy has a man on the lookout fer us. There should be a rider coming out to escort ye the rest of the way. Thank ye for comin’, and God bless ye both.”
“God bless us all,” Sarah and I replied at the same time. We looked at each other and shrugged. “And God help us,” she added as she looked toward the chaos that was the camp.
Just then, we saw a horse soldier—this time in uniform—racing toward us. We trotted up to meet him.
“I’m here to escort ye the rest of the way, ma’ams,” he said as he turned his lathered horse around, eager for us to follow.
“Just a minute, please,” I said to our new companion. He frowned, but didn’t argue.
Sarah and I turned around. “Thanks,” we chorused and waved farewell to our shepherding young soldier. I was happy to see that he looked better than he had earlier, his mouth now turned up in an embarrassed smile at the appreciation he was receiving.
The new soldier led us to where we hoped we’d meet Jody and the others. They weren’t there to greet us, but our first escort had been right: the area was a bloody mess.
I didn’t want to imagine what had happened to cause so much spilled blood. It was obvious that there had been lots of hand-to-hand combat with sharp objects. The ground was uneven, churned up in areas where boots and hooves had dug in. The most ghastly aspect of the landscape, though, was the dark, tacky, maroon goo that covered the dormant winter meadow in large splotches, creating what looked like an immense half-eaten raspberry syrup-covered waffle. It was so gummy that it made squeaky, squishy noises as we walked across it. It was also slippery, as I found out when I took an extra-long stride across a little rivulet on my way to wherever it was we were going. I almost fell backside-first into it, but was saved the indignity by the soldier who was ushering me. “Watch yer step, ma’am,” he warned as he caught my elbow. “It’s a bit on the slick side, it is.”
Sarah was walking ahead of me with her two young guides. Anyone could tell by her bearing that she was the woman in charge. Then, just over the rise, we saw it. Tarps had been strung up between the trees, and oh-so-many wounded bodies were lying beneath them, a field of fallen men in sunshine and shadows. Since the bodies were still moving, I assumed this was the hospital and not the morgue. “Come on,” Sarah said. “We’re needed.”
I hadn’t heard her, though. I was stunned and just stood there, unable to move, unaware of time or thoughts passing.
Sarah had to turn around to come back and get me. She grabbed my hand and pulled me along with her, not scolding or saying a word.
I was in shock at seeing so many moaning, broken, bloodied bodies—carpeting the ground as far as I could see. Earlier, when I thought about helping Sarah, I had imagined a few injured soldiers, not more men than I could count. I didn’t have a long-term memory, but I was sure I had never experienced anything like this before.
I moved along behind her, doing whatever she told me to do. “Hold this, wash this, lift his head, move his feet, pull this skin together so I can stitch it...” I worked mechanically and obeyed all of her demands, but I had no initiative. At least, I didn’t at first.
The atmosphere in our work area was truly thick, and I found it difficult to breathe. The air was moist from being trapped under the canvas ceiling. The smell of sweating, scared men vomiting and/or losing control of their bowels was more than my stomach could handle. The wounds, pain, and fears were indiscriminate. There were frightened soldiers of all ages here, waiting for relief—either from the doctor’s hands or from death. It was becoming too much for me.
I had to get away—for a minute, at least—so asked Sarah if I could step out to get some fresh air. I didn’t tell her I felt as if I were losing it, and that I needed to find a way to isolate my sanity from this mess, to find a place to tuck it away until we were done here.
Then I saw him. He was half-hidden behind the tree. He couldn’t have been much more than eight years old. He was trying not to sob, but the tears were racing down his dirt-smeared cheeks, snot running past his lips and off his chin. Something clicked to ‘on’ in me.
“Here you go,” I said as I wiped his tears, then his nose and chin, with a short strip of bandage. “Now, how can I help you?”
He pulled his hands away from his belly and I saw his problem. He had a slice across his abdomen. It wasn’t too deep. It could probably do with a few stitches, though. I grabbed a clean cloth and put it over the wound. “Hold this here, and I’ll be right back, all right?”
He bobbed his head up and down, “Yes, mum.”
I weaved my way through the wounded men, some sitting, some prone, and approached Sarah. I quickly explained about the boy. She was palm deep into an older man’s shoulder. Most of the wounds were saber and knife inflicted, but a few soldiers had managed to fire their muskets or pistols. Sarah was digging out a musket ball, but could still talk to me. “Can it wait? I really need your help here with the more severe cases,” she said, never taking her eyes off her patient.
“Yes, I suppose it can. Let me tell him to stay put, and I’ll be right back to give you a hand.”
I quickly made my way back to the boy. “I need to help some of these other men with bigger cuts than yours. Do you think you can make sure no one comes in here with a sword or a rifle meaning to harm us? I need a sentry, and there’s no one but you to help me right now.”
“Yes, mum, I’ll watch fer ye.” He pulled back his shoulders and reversed his frown, his eyes blinking back the last of his tears, feeling better for having a responsibility.
I returned to Sarah. “Looks like you’re about done there. Have you had a chance to do triage yet?”
Sarah lifted her head from the bandaging. “Triage?—you can perform triage?”
“I’m feeling better now. Let me see what’s out there. I’ll move the men about so the worst cases are closest. Then I’ll get right back here to help you.”
I didn’t know if I was skilled or even experienced in ‘triage,’ but the word just popped into my head and, well, I threw the ball up in the air, caught it, and now I was willing to run with it.
I grabbed a bundle of clean rags and headed outside to the impromptu north wing of our hospital. If the man could walk and talk, he was at the furthest end. Those capable of talk only were a little closer, and so on. I took care of profuse bleeding cases on the spot. I was surprised that these men didn’t know how to apply direct pressure to a wound to keep it from bleeding. I also gave quick field instruction on tourniquets and when to back off on the pressure.
Most of the injuries had happened right where we were. We learned that our friend, Colonel Henry “Light Horse Harry” Lee, had come directly into contact with Colonel—a.k.a. Dr.—John Pyle’s troops. Somehow, the Loyalists under Pyle thought that Lee was with Tarleton’s troops, and that he and his men were on their way to join General Cornwallis. Just as they were greeting each other, face to face, one of Lee’s men, who was new to the area and a little too eager, saw the red strips of cloth on Pyle’s soldiers’ uniforms, a sure sign of a Tory. When the patriot asked where his loyalties lay, the man said, “King George.”
The patriot’s response was a hearty clout with his saber. It was soon apparent to Pyle’s men that Lee and his legion were not who they seemed to be. The Loyalists were spooked, confused that the soldiers in green uniforms—like the ones worn by their hero, Tarletan, and his men—would be fighting against their own colleagues.
The Americans started slashing their swords and firing their muskets at whoever wore the red strips of cloth—a sure sign of Tory allegiance—regardless of the jacket color. All hell broke loose as the mounted patriots, with a militia to back them up,
soon routed the Loyalists, who were mostly afoot.
And now Sarah and I were dealing with the aftermath.
The Americans most definitely won this battle. At least I didn’t see too many men whom I recognized as patriot militia. There were well over 200 men here who needed attending to, most of them Loyalists. Many of those who could talk, were cursing and complaining about the deception they had fallen for. I supposed it could have been worse.
I was glad Sarah and I weren’t alone in our ministrations. I saw two others, men, who were doctoring the wounded. Still, there were more than enough wounded patients to overwhelm our small crew of medics.
I took care of triage, and then took a break to check on my young sentry. I decided not to stitch his wound. Instead, I improvised a little honey bandage to keep the shallow gash joined and sealed. I was just tying off his cloth bandage when I paused and turned around. The hairs on the back of my neck were sticking up as if someone had just blown across them. Did someone step on my grave? That was the old saying that came to mind when I turned in answer to that strange feeling.
And there he was.
“Ready for one more?” he asked soberly. “He can’t walk, and I think someone should look at the back of his head—there’s a lot of blood. Is Sarah nearby?”
It was Wallace. He wasn’t wearing his jacket and was covered with blood from shoulders to knees.
“Uh, she’s right over there. You’d better take him to her right away.”
I finished my young friend Nathan’s bandage, gave him a big hug, and then thanked him for being the lookout. “See if you can find your family. I’ll bet they miss you. Make sure you eat something, and don’t lift anything heavier than a dead chicken, okay?” I didn’t know how to get it across to him not to lift over five pounds, but a chicken weight was close enough.
“Yes, mum. When I’m done, can I come back and be sentry again?” he asked, his big pale-green eyes imploring.
“I’d appreciate it if you would. Make sure your mother knows where you are, though, you hear?” I was firm, but ended my command with a smile. Kids—cute little buggers, and I was going to have two. At least.
Wallace! I suddenly remembered he had just come through. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be keeping a low profile.
And there he was—laying out the injured British soldier on the impromptu operating table in front of Sarah. I rushed over and quietly stood at his side. I wanted to reach out, turn him to me, and give him a big hug, but the timing wasn’t right.
“I’m sorry, Wallace, he didn’t make it. The wound on the back of his head wasn’t too bad, but he also had a broken neck. He was probably alive when you picked him up, but it was just a matter of time. You knew him, didn’t you?” she asked gently.
“Aye, er, yes, ma’am. But maybe it’s just as well; he said he couldn’t feel his arms or legs. I’ll take him out…oh, God, Sarah, where’s the morgue?” Wallace’s brow furrowed, as if he were about to cry. He looked around, unsure of his surroundings, now taking in big gulps of air, trying to keep from losing it.
“Here, let me go with you,” I said. “We can stop on the way back and get you cleaned up a bit. Hopefully none of that blood is yours.”
Dang, that was the wrong thing to say! What is the right thing to say, though, when a man has just lost a friend?
There was really nothing I could say, and an apology would have made my faux pas more obvious. I put my hand at his elbow, barely touching him lest I invade his personal mourning, and walked beside him in silence. I knew his fallen friend was heavy, but he still strode straight and tall. I glanced up and saw a single tear making a track through the dust and grime on his face.
I led him to the area that had been set aside as the morgue. I noticed Wallace said a little prayer, and then made the sign of the cross, after he laid his friend’s body down to rest. He saw me looking at him and said, “Jody told me what to say for the dead. It may not be much, but it’s all I can do. And he’s right; it does make me feel better.” He sniffed and wiped his face with his sleeve, not showing any embarrassment at wiping away the tear.
We headed down to the creek. Wallace stumbled a bit, but managed to grab a tree to steady himself. He took off his shirt and rinsed it in the water, then used it to wipe the blood off his chest and belly.
That was when he saw it.
He had a slice through the groin area of his pants and there was blood—his blood. He pulled apart the fabric and looked inside. He paled at the sight of it, and plumped down hard on a big rock at the river’s edge.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He was stunned—silent—staring into nothingness, his eyes as empty as a Greek statue.
“Can you make it up there?” I asked, pointing to the small ridge we had just descended. “I don’t want to check you while you’re sitting on a rock.” I started the ascent, then looked behind me and saw he was still seated, a stone mounted on stone.
“Come up here and lie down where there’s more sun.” I waddled down to him and held his arm, helping him back up to the flat area I had indicated. He obeyed at the touch of my hand, but hadn’t seemed to hear my voice. I didn’t know if he was in shock, but I wasn’t going to chance it.
“Here, lie down and put your feet up. Let me have that wet shirt.” He obeyed my commands only because my hands were pushing or pulling him as I spoke. “Now, cover up with my shirt, and let me put my scarf around your neck.” I took off my flannel shirt and scarf, and bundled him up as best I could.
Now Wallace was the robot. I was sure he was in shock. His soul had left his body, but maybe that’s what shock was. He was too big for me to move any further, and everyone else around here was in worse shape than he was.
I rushed back to the ‘hospital’ and grabbed a couple of blankets, a fistful of clean rags, and the little suture kit and bottle of alcohol Sarah had given me. I didn’t say anything to anyone, and no one said anything to me. Fine: the light was fading fast, and I had to be quick about whatever it was I was going to have to do.
I looked down at his prostrate body and saw more than I should have seen through the slashed gap in his trousers. “I have to take these pants down and see the wound. Lift your bum and I’ll try to get them off.” Wallace’s hips moved up a little, and then dropped down hard. “Here,” I urged, “You’re going to have to help me. I can’t lift you, and I have…”
I glanced up and saw that Wallace was crying. He was sobbing without the noise. The chest heaves were there, though. He was utterly devastated. “Okay, then just hold still, see what I care. That just means I’ll have to cut off your pants. I don’t know where you’re going to get another pair on such short notice, though….”
I looked up, hoping that I had smacked him into reality with my ridiculous remark. Nope. He was still crying, the tears now streaming down his cheeks. He was oblivious to what I was saying or doing. I sliced through his pants, trying to cut through the seam’s stitching so they could be sewn back together.
Then I saw the actual wound: a slash across his groin and lower belly. I used a wet rag to wash away the dried blood. There was lots of it, but it was only from the surface capillaries being cut—it wasn’t a deep gash. When I pulled the pants away further and exposed him all the way, I realized why he was so upset. Beneath his curly red pubic hair, all that was visible of his penis was a sliver of skin, sliced and ready to fall away. It looked as if his manhood had been cut off, and all that was left was a small, humiliating tab of flesh. I pulled at the skin and saw what the problem really was. He was so cold that everything else had just shrunk up; it was just foreskin that was hanging on by a scant eighth inch of skin. Then I looked lower. He had no balls. Really, his testicles had disappeared, but there was no wound down there.
I realized what had happened, then snorted, and smiled.
That got his attention.
I looked up and saw he was staring at me, as emotionless as a mannequin. I giggled again, trying to elicit some respo
nse. Any noise, any emotion, was better than the silence of the soulless.
I turned away from him and stared into the sky, spotted with clouds, the only peaceful area around. Then I looked back at his less-than-magnificent male equipment. I snorted again and reached for my surgical scissors and alcohol. Another giggle sneaked out.
Come on, mister—speak to me. I need to hear you talk again.
He had finally had enough. “What’s so damned funny? I lose my cock and you sit there, laughing?”
“No,” I drawled, “But what is so funny is that I’m here in a war zone, performing a bris on you. Do you know what that is?”
“No,” he replied curtly.
“It’s the Jewish rite of circumcision. If I leave that flap of skin on, it will just get irritated, infected, or in the way. So, hold your breath and count backwards from twenty.”
“20, 19, 18, 17,” he rattled off rapidly.
“In Spanish,” I said, “otherwise you’ll go too fast. I want you distracted, okay?”
“Fine, then: viente, diez y nueve, diez y…”
One quick snip and that was that.
“All done.” I covered up the wounded area with a clean rag bandage. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?” I asked as I spread the blankets back over him.
“Fine, now I have a Jewish prick and no balls. How is that going to make me a good husband and father?” he said curtly, his previous blank stare replaced by a scowl.
“Oh, darlin’, let me help you,” I cooed. I reached under the covers and warmed my hands on his stomach—flat, six-pack tight, with lots of curly hairs on it. He flinched a little at my touch, but that was probably because he was trying not to be ticklish. I reached my now warmed right hand even lower, putting it over the area where his left testicle should have been. Then I reached up a few inches higher and found the depression. I gently pushed down, and plop, down it came. I reached across and performed the same manipulative procedure to the right side, releasing his testicles from his abdominal cavity.
Naked in the Winter Wind Page 33