The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  Day melted into night. Fireflies and moths fluttered against the lantern Cora Mae held while Dr. Wilcox performed his work in the jaundiced glow.

  “No more,” the doctor finally said at midnight. “We must rest.” He wiped his saw back and forth on his apron as she splashed a bucket of water over the door on which the surgeries took place, sluicing the blood into the red-stained grass.

  After four hours of sleep that felt like none, she awoke with muscles as sore as her heart.

  “Good morning, dear.” Anne smiled down at her. “I hate to rush you, but Dr. Wilcox has already sent for you. He needs you straightaway.”

  Covering a yawn, Cora Mae nodded and stiffly rose from the cot. “How is June?” She bent and kissed the girl’s tangled hair as she slept.

  “She’s getting along, but it’s all so much for her to take in. I keep her close, so don’t you worry.”

  “That’s a comfort to me. Thank you.” There was more to say but no time to even begin. Instead, she raked her fingers through her hair and bound it up again at the nape of her neck.

  The walk to the square was bewildering. Wind sighed mournfully through the oak trees while songbirds trilled cheerfully from their branches. Overhead, a cloudless blue sky hung over scenes of incredible anguish. White hospital tents flapped in the breeze like angel wings, shielding the men from the sun, and perhaps the heavens from the hell below.

  When Cora Mae found Dr. Wilcox at his table, two freedmen were already with him, looking to be in their early twenties and strong.

  “Miss Stewart, this is Joshua and Titus. They’ll be assisting us today.”

  Cora Mae nodded to each of them. “Good morning.” She turned to the doctor. “Do you still need me, then?”

  “I need all of you. The fellows we’ll be operating on today may put up a fight, and Joshua and Titus will need to hold them still.”

  She frowned. “Won’t they be unconscious for the operation?”

  “Too much time has passed since their injuries.” He waved to the freedmen to bring the next patient to the table.

  “But how can you! With nothing for the men!” Shock sharpened her tone.

  “Do not pretend to care more for them than I do. If we put them under at this point, they very likely will not wake. Feel sorry about it later, but now we must do the work.”

  Disbelief paralyzed her as a young man was helped onto the table.

  “Don’t take my hand! Don’t take it off! Oh God, help me! Get away from me, you old sawbones!” His brown eyes were wild with terror, his hand already crushed to an unrecognizable pulp. Joshua and Titus flanked him, laying their broad, dark hands on his body.

  “Miss Stewart!” Dr. Wilcox’s voice snapped her back to attention. Bags drooped beneath his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in a week.

  Drawing a deep breath of air, she plunged into her work. “Hello, soldier, my name is Cora Mae Stewart.” She took the scissors and began cutting up his sleeve. “What’s your name?”

  “M–Morris. James Morris the third.”

  She cut the sleeve from his arm all the way up to his elbow. “Where are you from, James?”

  “Chicago. Illinois.” His speech slowed, likely because he’d lost so much blood already. “Please—stop.”

  “What’s Chicago like? You have family there?” She held his gaze as Dr. Wilcox threaded the tourniquet band under his arm.

  He looked at her, puzzled for the briefest of moments, and she offered a soft smile, even as she noticed Dr. Wilcox set knife to flesh from the corner of her eye.

  She placed a hand on James’s elbow while the freedmen stabilized his arm and legs. “Look at me, James. Keep looking at me. You will get through this.”

  “Oh no, oh no no—” He struggled under their hands.

  “Try not to move. It will be over soon.” She watched his face turn beet red, and then his eyes rolled back in his head. He had passed out from the pain, but he was still breathing.

  When Dr. Wilcox finished minutes later, Joshua and Titus carried him off the door and laid him under a tent.

  “Next!” The doctor called, and she prayed that God Himself would be her strength, and the doctor’s, too.

  Every operation bruised her. The screams she would carry in her mind forever, she thought. But Dr. Wilcox didn’t flag, and neither did she, until at the end of the day, he pronounced them finished. “I’ve had no time for rounds.” He pushed his splattered spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “In the morning, I’ll need you to change whichever dressings are three days old. Then come back to me.”

  For the second night in a row, Cora Mae slept in her clothes.

  Chapter Nine

  July 22

  Pail in her hand, and heart in her throat, Cora Mae entered the Methodist church. The smell nearly knocked her back, but her determined feet walked over the soiled hay anyway. Most of the men crowded onto the pews would only need their dressings moistened. There were only a few whose bandages needed to be completely changed. Ethan Howard was one of them.

  Flies peppered the foul air, along with voices invoking God’s name such as this place of worship had likely never heard before. Sorrow threatened to drown her to see so much suffering in one place. She felt no rejoicing that Confederate soldiers had caused it, nor was she unaware that Yankee soldiers had likely dispatched the same amount of anguish. How long, Lord? When will this wretched war end?

  Pushing a strand of hair off her forehead, she squinted again at the sea of faces. There at the end of a pew, she spotted Ethan and went to him, bracing herself for his protests.

  As she drew near, however, alarm bells clanged inside her. His blond hair was dark with sweat. His complexion was so altered, he barely looked himself. She placed her hand to his brow and quickly drew it away. His skin was scorching hot. Quickly, she wiped a cool, wet cloth over his face, neck, and torso.

  “Sergeant Howard? Ethan.”

  He didn’t stir.

  Glancing at his bandaged arm, she pulled fresh linens and lint from her apron pockets and laid them on the pew. While cradling his elbow in one hand, she unwound the dressings until only the adhesive strips were left. With a sponge, she soaked those until they loosened. Holding her breath, she removed the sodden strips—and the ball of soiled lint tucked inside—until his skin was bare, and she set them aside. Odor assaulted her senses.

  Choking back a sob, she looked at the seam where Dr. Wilcox had fused the skin back together at the end of his abbreviated forearm. It was so swollen, she was sure it was the cause of his fever. A bright red hue crept upward toward his elbow. Was the unchanged dressing the cause? She couldn’t help but wonder as she sponged his arm clean.

  With nimble fingers, she took a pinch of lint, wadded it into a dense pack, and held it against the seam at the end of his arm. Then she wrapped it snugly into place with fresh strips, winding the bandage around and around until she finally tied a knot below his elbow.

  Ethan’s eyelids fluttered. “Cora Mae? Am I dreaming?” He didn’t sound like himself. “This is no place for you.” His chest rose and fell with his breath.

  And he was gone again, deep into a fevered sleep.

  She said a prayer and moved on to the next patient in need of fresh dressings, more troubled than she cared to admit.

  Wagonloads of casualties came pouring in again, this time bearing wounded from the Battle of Atlanta. While Anne kept watch of June, Cora Mae steeled her nerves against the screams of shattered men and helped Dr. Wilcox do his job in the sweltering tents.

  Surely a callus had formed over her heart, for she no longer quaked at every rasp of the saw, every snapping of bone. Only sweat, not tears, now wet her face as she understood Dr. Wilcox’s efficiency was not cruel, but merciful.

  But once another twenty-four hours passed from the time of the battle, the anesthesia was necessarily put away, and operations performed without it. Cora Mae never would get used to this. She reckoned the doctor felt the same, for all his brusque demeanor. The terror
, the thrashing about, the begging and pleading to take life rather than limb—it was enough to shake a cedar tree from the ground.

  “Enough,” Dr. Wilcox declared at last. “Clean up, eat something, get some rest.”

  She rinsed the ruined door. “Will there be more battles soon?” She could not imagine how many more men the Union had to spare.

  “More battles, yes. Soon? I don’t know.”

  Wearily, she nodded and parted ways with the doctor she’d come to respect.

  As she threaded her way between the hospital tents, wounded men stared at her from their sultry shade. “Dirty Secesh!” The words cut through the air. “She’s a Secesh! And a butcher!”

  Cora Mae whirled around, in search of her accuser. James Morris III came stumbling from beneath his tent, waving his handless arm in the air.

  “You didn’t tell me you were one of the exiled Roswell hands with an ax to grind—or should I say a bone saw!” Eyes blazing, he shouted, gesturing wildly to other amputees. “Held me down without anesthesia while the doc cut off my hand!”

  “Aw, shut up and leave her alone.” A voice came to her defense from somewhere in the tent’s shadows. “She’s a saint for nursing the likes of us, especially after what we did to her homeland.”

  “No, no, Morris is right! She did the same to me!” called another man. “Held me down, gave me nothing for the pain. Didn’t seem troubled a bit as I felt the blade slice through me.”

  James came and waved his bandaged forearm in her face. “How would you like to know what it feels like?”

  “Please.” Her voice was hoarse with fear. “You’ll rupture your stitches. You need to rest. Go back and lie down.”

  A smile slid over his face. “How’s about you come with me!” In a flash, he had both arms around her and tripped her so she fell to the ground on top of him.

  She screamed, and he laughed harshly, grinding her against him.

  “Let her go, Morris!” Whoever yelled it apparently couldn’t do more than that. “You’re a disgrace, you fool!”

  “Hey, what say you roll her this way when you’re done with her!”

  Terror cut through Cora Mae. In their eyes, she was their enemy still and had deliberately caused them pain. What wouldn’t they do for revenge? Her voice utterly useless, she rammed her knee as hard as she could between Morris’s legs, but succeeding only in bruising the ground.

  “Woo! Feisty little Secesh, ain’t ye?”

  A shot cracked through the air overhead, the force of it shuddering through her.

  “Unhand her, you rat, or the next bullet will be for your head.” Dr. Wilcox’s voice boomed above them. Morris relaxed his grip, and she rolled away from him, mortified. Standing, she dashed behind the doctor, who still had his pistol trained on Morris. Once the young man slinked away, Dr. Wilcox escorted her all the way to her sleeping tent.

  “Coming back to work tomorrow, I hope?” he asked gently.

  Cora Mae put on a smile. “Of course.” She was pleased that her voice did not shake.

  The sun was high in the cotton-tufted sky the next day before she found him at the square. “How is Ethan Howard? Have you checked on him yet?” A basket of dressing supplies swung from her elbow, and a pail of water hung from her hand.

  “Ah, Miss Stewart.” His eyes sparked with something she couldn’t read. “I’m afraid you won’t be needing those anymore.” He took the pail and basket from her and set them on the ground. “Walk with me.”

  She followed him from the hospital tent into shade cast by the three-story Masonic Hall. “How is Sergeant Howard?”

  “I’m afraid there’s been a change. He’s no longer your concern.”

  Her breath hitched. “I beg your pardon? You can’t mean—he isn’t—”

  “You won’t be nursing anymore.” He wiped his brow with his handkerchief then stuffed it back into his pocket.

  She stared, waiting for an explanation. “I don’t understand.”

  Sighing, the doctor rubbed his hand over his unshaven jaw. “Word travels fast, even when the messengers don’t have both feet, as it happens. News of your incident yesterday evening with Private Morris reached Sherman’s ears. He called me in to explain, which I did to the best of my ability. Turns out, he never authorized the chief surgeon to hire any mill hands to stay on as nurses.”

  “No, it was General Dodge.”

  “Sherman outranks him.” He squinted at her. “He says this disorder among the men must end. That he can’t have doctors spending time guarding Southern nurses, or patients interrupting their healing to lash out at you, or other patients growing sympathetic to the plight of Southern civilians because of you.”

  Her head ached with concentration. “What are you saying?”

  “Not me. Sherman.” His apologetic tone unnerved her. “He’s ordered you north, just like all the other mill hands. You and the girl in your care will be given two tickets and passes to get you through. The train leaves…” He consulted his pocket watch. “In thirty minutes. You’ll both be on it.”

  “No.”

  “I realize you’ve not yet been paid. Take this.” He stuffed a roll of greenbacks in her hand, along with two documents. “Your oaths, and a letter of recommendation. It should help you find gainful employment. Lieutenant McDowell’s enlistment is up, and he’s agreed to escort you as far as Louisville.” Chin to his chest, he muttered, “Blast this war.” Then he signaled to someone, turned, and walked away.

  In a daze, she watched him from the sidewalk, and then her gaze drifted to soldiers she’d met and cared for over the last several days. It was not a role she’d aspired to, but now that she was stripped of it, she hardly felt relief. Go north? Today? The gears of her mind turned so laboriously to grasp this, she was breathless with the effort.

  A touch on her elbow, and she turned to find a soldier waiting for her. “I’m Lieutenant McDowell, ma’am. Here’s your tickets and passes. I’ll be riding with you. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you on the journey.”

  Stunned, she took in the earnestness in his brown eyes. “What will I do in Louisville?” she wondered aloud.

  “Papers say there’s a women’s refugee center a block from the depot. A thousand mill hands are there. You could find shelter and rations there, I wager.” He scratched through his charcoal-colored beard. “But some reporters say there’s not enough beds or blankets. Still, they have to stay there because they won’t take the Oath of Allegiance to the Union.”

  She blinked. “You mean this?” She showed him her oath.

  “Yes, that’s the one. If you’ve signed that, you won’t need to sit out the war in prison. But you’ll need to find your own work and lodging.”

  “Cannelton.” The word burst from her. “In Indiana. There’s a mill there, Sergeant Howard said. Can you help me get there?”

  “That’s on the Ohio River. Once we get to Louisville, I’ll see you onto a steamboat, and it’ll be up to you to get off at the right dock. But we better hurry now.”

  Still reeling, she marched past him and headed toward the tent she’d called home. When she reached it, June was outside folding linens with some freedwomen. Anne was nowhere to be found.

  “What is it?” June asked when she saw Lieutenant McDowell at Cora Mae’s side.

  “Get your things, June. And mine, too, please.” She turned to McDowell. “I want to look for Mrs. Littleton. I want to say good-bye.” And if she could catch a glimpse of Ethan, too, it sure would set her mind more at ease.

  The train whistled from a few blocks away.

  “No.” McDowell looked in the direction of the depot. “We’re going, now.”

  Shock numbed her. Even good-byes were stolen from her, just as they had been at Roswell. Without another word, she plunged into the tent and looked frantically for a paper and pencil to leave a note for Anne. Finding none, she took a tin of talcum powder and dashed a thin layer across a folding table. With her fingertip, she traced her farewell: Thay sent us north.
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  Chapter Ten

  July 26

  Above Ethan, a crystal chandelier caught the light and threw miniature rainbows against whitewashed walls. The air was thick with heat and flies and with the smell of wounded men. Turning his head, he stared hard at the bouquet of bandages beneath his elbow, until his sight overrode the sensation that his right hand was attached to his stump.

  Finally, the uncanny feeling receded, and mere pain took its place. Sweat filmed his brow as he gritted his teeth against it. Then a pitiful moan filled his ears. On the plank next to him lay a patient with one leg.

  “Water,” he rasped. “Oh for the love of God! Bring me water!”

  Ethan pushed himself up and scanned the sanctuary crammed full of men. Not a nurse or doctor was among them. “What’s your name, soldier?”

  The patient opened his eyes. “Joseph Parker.” His gaze flitted to Ethan’s right arm. “You?”

  “Ethan Howard.” And although he had but one arm, he still had two legs for walking. “Let me see about that water. I’m mighty thirsty myself.” Cautiously, he swung his legs over the side of his plank and jumped down onto the straw-covered aisle.

  Light-headedness slowed his pace, and the sun nearly blinded him when he stepped outside and sneezed. But he was up and moving. It felt like a victory. Ache throbbed beneath his bandages, but he shoved that aside as he focused on the pump. Surely he could work it with one hand.

  Just before he reached it, a short, plump woman swept toward him, a pail and dipper swinging from her fist. “Hello there!” A wisp of black hair sprung from her bun and coiled beside her wilting collar. “You need some water, honey? Let me get it!”

  Warmth flooded him. “Much obliged, ma’am.” He nodded to her, and he wondered if seeing his bare chest and reduced arm made her as uncomfortable as he was. “But would you mind if I pump it myself?”

  “Oh, there’s no call for that, dear, I can manage it.”