A Place in Your Heart

by Kathy Otten

  He turned to a nearby table to rinse his knife and bone saw. But the once clear water which filled the basin had turned the color of burgundy. Its color darker than the blood which dripped from the oil cloth that currently replaced the embroidered silk piano shawl. He rose and searched the room for an orderly.

  He shoved the basin at a passing man. “I need clean water.”

  The young soldier grappled to keep from spilling it. “Yes, sir.” He hurried off.

  A new patient was lifted onto the table. Charles stepped close to evaluate the wound.

  Blood coated the entire side of the man’s head and face. The shiny wetness matted his hair and sideburns. It coated his neck crimson, soaked into the collar of his uniform coat, and turned his white shirt to scarlet.

  The knife and bone saw Charles held, slipped from his grasp. His heart thudded wildly against his sternum. The pounding reverberated in his head and drowned out the clatter of his instruments hitting the hardwood floor. He gulped short panting gasps of air.

  Breathe. There is always a lot of blood with head wounds.

  Catching his breath grew more difficult. His vision narrowed so that all he saw was a head split open, bleeding on the cobblestone street. He eased back a step.

  “Captain?” Brooks frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  Charles shook his head and backed away. He ran a sweaty palm down his clammy face as he struggled to breathe.

  “Captain, what about the patient?”

  “Captain, I got your water.”

  Spots danced in front of his eyes. He couldn’t do this. Not now. He had to get out of here before he passed out, before his heart exploded inside his chest.

  He spun on his heels. Lurching to the door, he stumbled over and around the wounded. He staggered his way outside to the back of the house and pressed his shoulders against the wall. Short, panting breaths heaved in and out, as though he’d just out run a Rebel charge. His rubbery knees gave out. As he slid to the ground, his back bumped over the rough bricks.

  What was wrong with him? How long could his heart maintain this erratic rhythm before it gave out? It was Fredericksburg all over again.

  When this had happened at Armory Square the night the wounded came up from Falmouth, Gracie had been beside him.

  For a moment he could almost feel her hand on his back, rubbing up and down, grounding him, slowly relaxing him, driving the irrational panic from his body.

  He crossed his arms on his updrawn knees. He dropped his head to his forearms and closed his eyes. Gradually his breathing slowed, easing the tightness in his chest. The boom of artillery resounded through the clearing.

  He’d had these attacks frequently when he was a boy, and except for that one time at school, they’d disappeared along with his nightmares as he’d grown older.

  In medical school he’d extracted bone fragments from a cadaver with a fractured skull, but he’d felt no irrational panic then.

  Were these nervous attacks random, or were they related only to head wounds with blood? Or was there another antecedent? Had the constant shelling caused a disturbance in his mind?

  He couldn’t think about this anymore, and he couldn’t hide back here forever. Someone would find him, and it would be a repeat of Fredericksburg for certain. Rolling to his feet, he headed around the house the opposite way, avoiding the rows of dead. He couldn’t face them, or the living right now.

  In the front yard another doctor wove his way in and round the wounded who drifted in from the surrounding battle. Behind him trailed his assistant with a notebook and pencil. Head down he busily recorded the name, regiment and wound of each man.

  They paid Charles no attention when he passed. Though he didn’t know either man beyond their name and rank, he recognized the grim lines etched in their features. Theirs was the bleak task of prioritizing the wounded, separating those who had a chance to be saved from those who would die.

  At least Charles didn’t have to play God. His role was to fight God for every life placed on the table before him. His jaw clenched with a renewed determination to save as many men as possible, not to abandon any more men to his childish attacks.

  Lengthening his stride, he headed for the front steps of the veranda.

  From the side, a soldier approached, his left arm held against his body. His face pale beneath the grime, tight lines bracketed his mouth and drew deep furrows across his brow.

  “You a doc?”

  Without his coat and its medical insignia, the only clue the soldier would’ve had was the blood staining Charles’ shirt sleeves and apron.

  “Yes,” Charles replied, his gaze already assessing the arm. No blood. He exhaled a sigh of relief, grateful for the reprieve of taking his bone saw to another limb. He’d come to hate the feel of cutting through bone, hated the way each abrasive stroke shivered all the way up his arm.

  No wonder people called him a butcher. Major Carlton had. But it wasn’t the doctors. War was the butcher. The surgeons were merely here to salvage what was left.

  “I think it’s broke, Doc.” The private unbuttoned his coat and eased his injured arm from the blue wool sleeve.

  Charles cupped the arm with one hand and pushed up the shirt. A large red welt, swollen and bruised, discolored most of the forearm. Charles slid his fingers over and around the heated area searching for a bulge of bone beneath the skin.

  “Come inside and I’ll—”

  “I ain’t goin’ to let you cut it off!”

  Charles glared down at the man. Another who believed him a butcher. “Unless a Minié ball has somehow entered your arm without leaving a scratch and shattered your ulna into bits, I believe a splint and eight-yard bandage will satisfy.”

  The young soldier released a breath and rubbed the back of his uninjured wrist across his sweaty forehead, smearing through the black of dirt and gunpowder. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Jason!”

  Charles whirled in synchronization with the young private.

  Striding toward them, came another grime-covered private carrying a rifle, his focus on the soldier with the broken arm.

  “Shit, Jase. Are you all right? That tree limb come down…Thought sure you was a goner.”

  “Naw, broke my arm is all, and busted my rifle all to hell.”

  At least the pair seemed to have forgotten Charles. A funny catch tightened the muscles of his chest at his mistake.

  Why had he turned at the sound of his name?

  No! Not his name. Charles P. Ellard was his name. It was the name inscribed on his medical diploma. Charles P. Ellard was a respected physician. His grandfather was a retired state senator. Charles had merely responded because Jason was on his mind, revived in long forgotten memories.

  Regardless, whoever that boy had been, he was long forgotten. Jason was part of a past Charles could never get back, any more than he could get back a mother whose memory was as elusive as the voice in his dreams. He’d best move beyond the tumult Gracie had brought into his life and focus on something productive.

  “Private, let’s go inside. I need to splint that arm.”

  The soldier looked up. “Oh sorry, Doc, er…sir.”

  They’d nearly reached the veranda when, in the lull between artillery booms, the wild shouts of hundreds of voices to the west caught Charles’ attention.

  “What the hell?” the private asked no one in particular.

  From inside the house, a captain from General Hooker’s staff, jumped off the porch and jogged past. Stopping near the intersection, the officer raised his spy glass and focused it on something farther down Orange Plank Road. “My God, here they come!”

  A panicked mêlée of soldiers, yelling in a jumbled mix of English and German, surged up the road in a mighty wave of men, crashed through the dense woods on either side and raced into the clearing. Some ran, others rode single and pillion on the horse and mule teams cut loose from supply wagons. Other teams pulled battery wagons and caissons, with more men piled on, clinging to every avai
lable inch of space.

  Had the Confederates broken through on the army’s left flank?

  From the house behind him, officers charged past Charles, waving their arms, shouting, “Stand and fight!”

  Charles would have been astounded if one man could even hear another, let alone understand the orders.

  The panicked division continued its stampede of men, wagons, and cattle. Soldiers raced by without their caps or coats, some men didn’t even carry their rifles.

  The flood rushed right past the house.

  “Holy shit,” the private with the broken arm murmured. “They’s headed right for Hancock’s line. If they don’t slow down, they’ll be through to the Rebs on the other side.”

  Charles ushered the soldier inside.

  The surgery buzzed with speculation and unanswered questions. Would Hooker be able the stop the Rebel advance? Would they be forced to retreat? How would they move so many wounded out without ambulances?

  “We keep working until ordered otherwise,” the major announced above the moans and cries of the wounded, over the yelling and shooting outside.

  No one even mentioned Charles’ hasty departure and prolonged absence.

  From outside the open windows, a round of cheers erupted.

  “Receive them on your bayonets, boys!” a deep voice cried out. “Receive them on your bayonets!”

  The soldier whose arm Charles tried to wrap, wriggled on the chair like a small boy, constantly swinging his attention between the activity outside the window and every person who entered the room.

  The lively melody of a regimental band playing Yankee Doodle muted some of the outdoor commotion. Charles tied off the bandage around the splint and let the anxious soldier go.

  “Ellard!” Major Andrews voice rose above the din. “I could use your help here!”

  Charles grabbed his surgical kit and wove his way through the crowded room. Andrews and Breen stood on either side of a table farthest from the piano. A soldier lay with his abdomen torn open from an apparent shell wound, with protrusions of his intestines and omentum.

  “I can’t get it back,” Andrews said. Anxiety raised the pitch of his voice. “I push it in on one side, and as I do, the abdominal muscles spasm and push it all back out at a different angle.”

  Outside the band moved on to the rousing notes of The Red, White, and Blue.

  Charles leaned close and studied the fist-sized mass. An image popped into his head of Gracie, her shoulders squared, her brown eyes filled with that familiar amber fire as she declared, “I stood by William’s side during surgeries and passed him instruments. I helped him clean the intestines of a man gored by a bull, before putting it all back inside that man’s belly. Me delicate sensibilities did not send me into a swoon then nor will they here.”

  A wistful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He could benefit right now from her expertise in the matter.

  “I want to enlarge the opening,” Andrews said, “then with your extra hands we’d have more room to slide it all back inside.”

  Charles straightened and shook his head. “No.”

  Andrews stiffened.

  Breen, who’d been standing on the other side of the table asked, “Why not? It seems logical.”

  Charles met Andrew’s offended glare. “Sir, you asked for my help. Your suggestion is illogical. What is logical, is the fact that widening the opening will merely allow more of the mass to spill out.”

  He stepped away from the table and seized the arm of the first soldier he spotted. Tugging him toward the head of the wounded corporal, he said, “Raise up his head and shoulders.” He gestured Breen to the end of the table. “Grab his ankles and raise them up high.”

  With the patient now forming a V, the abdominal muscles relaxed. Charles grabbed a pair of silver spatulas from Andrews’ surgical kit and lifted the abdominal walls away from and over the mass. Once the intestine was back in place, he closed the wound with sutures and collodion.

  Breen gave a low whistle.

  Charles looked up, and Breen grinned.

  Andrews gave an indignant huff, then grumbled, “Nice work.”

  The Star Spangled Banner played outside.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Much of the fighting ended after dark. Hooker had moved his lines and kept the Rebels at bay. The retreat Charles feared had not come to pass. The wounded, however, limped in or were carried in all night.

  During a lull after midnight, Charles had a chance to find some food and catch a few hours of sleep. But early morning artillery batteries soon pounded away at each other to the south, east, and west of the woods. The ground shook through each bombardment, forcing him up and moving at dawn. Shells and canister shot created scattered fires in the dense undergrowth of the surrounding woods. Wind sent the acrid bite of smoke drifting through the open windows.

  “Damn shelling’s too close,” Major Triscut announced as he entered the former sitting room. His gaze honed in on Charles. “We have orders to move the wounded out. I’m going to scout a location and get a new hospital set up. Any ambulatory wounded can start on the road toward the pontoon bridges. You see to the wounded here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Around them orderlies and hospital staff hurriedly repacked panniers with equipment and supplies.

  “Your assistant surgeon, Captain Brooks, will support you. And be careful.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Major Triscut whirled and strode from the room. Charles restocked his field pack while the rest of the medical supplies were loaded onto the mules and horses.

  Anything that could be used to transport the wounded was pulled into service: carts, wagons, horses, stretchers, blankets.

  The windows rattled as the barrage of artillery drew closer. A resounding bang rocked the house on its foundation. The window glass cracked. Bits of ceiling plaster pelted down like hail on Charles’ head and shoulders.

  Shouts rang out from the hall.

  “We’re being shelled!”

  “They hit the house!”

  “Get the hell out of here!”

  “Hooker’s been hit!”

  Amidst the chaos, more wounded arrived. Those who could walk, didn’t stop, but continued down the road. Charles turned away all but the most serious injuries and only then to see them stable enough to endure the move.

  Another boom shook the house. Inside its echo, crashed falling brick and timber. The walls cracked. Chunks of ceiling shattered on the floor, covering the surgery with clouds of plaster dust.

  “The house is on fire!” someone yelled.

  “Get these wounded out of here!” Charles roared, his voice nearly lost in the cacophony of chaos.

  He strode into the hall and grabbed the first man he saw by the arm.

  “But sir, the house is on fire!” The soldier tried to pull from Charles’ grip.

  “I don’t give a damn if your hair’s on fire. Grab one of these wounded!” He shoved the man and sent him stumbling toward an unconscious soldier lying on the floor.

  Charles turned and hoisted another man over his shoulder and headed outside. The support column and part of the veranda had been torn away when the house was hit, and he had to maneuver around the damage to get to the front steps. He laid the soldier in the grass, well away from the house, then whirled and raced back in for another.

  A wall of orange flames consumed the woods behind the house. From the second story windows, flames stretched up over the brick and licked along the edge of the eaves. Rolling clouds of black billowed upward through gaping holes in the roof, obscuring the sun.

  Charles made several trips along with officers and enlisted men who streamed out, bent over, wracked with coughing as they hauled patients to safety.

  Brooks dashed back inside, and Charles followed several paces behind.

  Coughing, Charles buried his nose in the crook of his elbow. Fire roared as the dry lath snapped and crackled. His eyes stung. Thick smoke filled the foyer with black, abso
rbing all light and oxygen.

  He had to hurry. The floor boards and joists were so dry the house was being consumed like kindling in a forest fire. And if the wind shifted, the wall of flames burning at the edge of the woods would jump the clearing and engulf the house.

  “Brooks!” A fit of coughing overtook him, but he bent forward and kept moving. “Brooks! You have to get out of here!”

  Where the hell was the man? Didn’t he realize any wounded who still remained had most likely succumbed to the inhalation of smoke?

  “Help.” The faint cry came from somewhere near his feet.

  Unable to discern even the outline of a shape on the floor, Charles dropped to his hands and knees, his hand outstretched. Tears ran down his cheeks. He blinked against the burn as well as the futility of trying to see through the rolling blackness.

  His fingertips brushed over wool fabric covering the soft form of a body.

  “Brooks?” Charles choked out then erupted in a fit of coughing. His inability to draw breath as debilitating now as it was during one of his attacks. He gave the shoulder beneath his hand a shake. “Brooks?”

  His lungs screamed for viable air. Coughing, he pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, though it probably did little good. Smoke engulfed him like a demon consuming his soul. He could no longer find even a glimpse of daylight. Each way he looked was the same. Which direction led to the front door? Tentacles of panic wrapped around his heart, squeezing tighter with each thud against his chest.

  Stop.

  Blind terror would get him nowhere.

  Think.

  When he’d crossed the threshold moments ago, the length of his stride had been shorter, perhaps four feet between the heel of one foot and the toe of the other. How many steps had he taken? Four? Five, before he’d stopped and called for Brooks? Better to overestimate and say six.

  When he’d dropped to the floor he’d been facing the rear of the house. Then he’d pivoted to the left about ninety degrees as he groped for the man who’d called for help. If he’d calculated correctly, he only had to turn another ninety degrees and continue straight out the door.