by Kathy Otten
“Captain Ellard asked me to find you.”
“Is something wrong?”
He glanced down and smiled sheepishly. “Well, he’s been hiding it, but he’s been in pain all day.”
A rush of guilt seared her cheeks. She’d been so caught up in her worry for Robbie, so afraid he’d pass away alone like Gilbert, she’d hadn’t given a thought the burn on Doc—Jason’s shoulder. No wonder he’d been so quiet.
“I gave him a bottle of medicinal whiskey, thinking he’d drink in moderation, but he hasn’t eaten all day. And well, just so you understand he might be a little…”
“Aye, I understand.”
“I wanted to change the bandage, put on some more of that honey you left, but he insists that you do it.” He reached for the kettles. “I’ll take these back for you.”
“Thank ye, but I’ve a few more tents to feed. I’ll be by with something for ye both to eat.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m going back on duty. The captain is in our tent. Major Andrews ordered him to get some sleep.”
“And where is yer tent?”
“Over in the same spot as last night. Your jar of honey is there and a fresh pile of bandages.”
He veered off toward the surgery tent, and she continued slip-sliding through the mud toward the cook tent.
****
“I don’t know if you are aware, but I have been writing a treatise on Pyemia and Surgical Fevers.”
Doctor Ellard lay on his stomach atop his blankets, raised up on his elbows, writing in a notebook open on the blanket in front of him. His shirt and bandage were off, leaving the burn and his back exposed to the air.
Gracie sat on the canvas cloth spread between and under the two bedrolls inside the small Sibley tent. She set the small pot of farina on his haversack and pulled a stack of crackers wrapped in a clean handkerchief from her pocket.
“No. I did not know that.” She pulled off her dripping hat and set it on the ground beside her.
“And what are your thoughts on laudable pus?”
“William said ’twas a good thing, a sign the wound be healing.”
“I asked for your thoughts Mrs. McBride. Surely you have made observations, formed opinions of you own, rather than spout parroted versions of your husband’s.”
She shifted uncertainly and sat back on her heels.
“I do not know. Some patients get better and some do not.”
The bottle of whiskey Captain Breen had spoken of lay on its side, securely corked and one-third gone.
Doctor-Jason shot a glance over his shoulder. “I can feel your censorious frown. No. I am not drunk.” He turned back to his notebook and his furious scribbling. “Well, maybe a little. I have the right to be. My damn back hurts.”
A gust of wind fluttered the untied tent flaps, carrying with it a mist of rain. She swiped the moisture from her cheek. Jason shivered.
“I’ve brought ye food if ye’re hungry.”
“Later. What I need you to do is look at the burn now and each evening to come. Take daily notes on the visual condition of the burn, and I will document my symptoms.”
He passed her his notebook and pencil.
“I tried viewing it through the use of multiple mirrors but failed to get a look accurate enough to document.”
She rose up on her knees and leaned close. “The size o’the burn ’tis the same. The skin around the edge red. Redder closer to the burn.”
“Write. How wide is the area? Has the redness spread?”
Hastily she drew a rough sketch and tried to measure using the first joint of her thumb as an approximation of an inch.
“How do the blisters appear? Are there early signs of laudable pus?”
“I cannot say, for I did not count and measure the blisters last night.”
“Come now Mrs. McBride, I sense reluctance on your part. Yet, here I present an opportunity to use another aspect of your nursing skills. It is what you want, is it not?”
“’Tis a clear film over the area, like water. Some o’the blisters be larger and maybe there be a few more smaller.”
“Count and measure, Mrs. McBride. Document the facts.” He reached out and grabbed the bottle by the neck and pulled out the cork. Rolling part way onto one arm, he tipped the bottle to his lips and downed a hefty swallow before slapping down the cork.
“You never gave me your thoughts on laudable pus.”
Seventeen tiny blisters. She jotted them down. “Aye, I did. Ye just refuse to accept me answer.” She tossed the book on the ground in front of him.
“Now why did ye ask for me? Captain Breen could o’ done this and bandaged yer wound, too.”
“Because Jason Reid is wounded, and he wants to feel the tender ministrations of Nurse McBride for himself. He wants you to hold his hand and whisper to him in the dark. Lay your hand against his brow and take away the pain.”
“Doctor Ellard, I be—”
“Charles Ellard is dead. You know that. You read the note. There is only Jason Reid, and he is not a doctor.”
“Ye are drunk, doctor.”
“Not a doctor. Just a man.”
“Then why are ye writing a paper on pyemia and surgical fevers?”
“Now that, my sweet Gracie is a con-dum-drum, cun-drum-dum. A real goddamn puzzle.”
Ignoring him, she reached for the jar of honey Breen had left for her. Without telling him what she was going to do, she scooped some out with a square of linen and lay it over the burn.
“If ye can sit up, I can be wrapping this for ye.”
He pushed up onto all fours, wavered for a moment, then sat back on his heels.
“Why are you so anxious to leave? I haven’t even gotten a kiss.”
“Ye are drunk. I be having patients to see to. And I want to sit with Robbie, in case he wakes.”
Folding two linen squares she placed them on top of the honey-soaked pad.
“My brother, Robbie Reid. Robbie Reid is my brother. But you know that. Chaos, Mrs. McBride.”
Holding the pad in place she began unrolling an eight-yard bandage around his back and over his shoulder.
“Robbie is in my paper. Or rather his gunshot wound. Minimal laudable pus. Wound healed quickly.”
When the length ran out, she picked up another.
“His bed near the door, away from dysentery and gangrene. Lots of fresh air. Even in winter.”
“’Tis why ye put Sergeant Baker in that bed.”
“Doctor Middleton Goldsmith.”
Gracie tied off the end of the bandage. “Who?”
“He wrote a report. Gangrene is caused by miasma on putrid flesh. Treat with bromine or iodine.”
“I must be going.” She wiped her hands on her apron.
“Bromine and iodine. Rhymes better than mercy and Gracie.”
She reached out and snatched the bottle with one hand as she shoved the bowl of farina at him with the other. “Ye best eat something. And no more whiskey.”
Without room to stand, she made a less than graceful exit backing out of the tent. Rising, she let the canvas flap fall back in place.
“Gracie, you didn’t give me my kiss.”
Whirling on her heels she hurried away. Rain splashed down on her head, but she kept walking, for if she returned for her hat, she might never leave that tent.
Chapter Nineteen
“The ambulances will be moving the wounded today.” Gracie softly spoke the words to Robbie in the dark gray of early morning. She sat on the ground between his pallet and the next, keeping vigil, holding his hand, being certain he’d not die alone in the dark.
“Ye’ll be back at Armory Square in no time, with me and yer uncle Mark. ’Twill be like going home. Won’t that be fine. And I’ve some grand news to share with ye, once ye wake and I can tell ye to yer face.”
She gave his hand a squeeze and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
A light pressure brushed over her thumb.
She stilled the
n stared at her hand clasped with his, even though it was merely a silhouette in the dark.
“Robbie?” She scooted closer and rested her other hand on his chest. “Robbie lad, can ye hear me?”
The pressure against her hand grew a little stronger.
“Oh Sweet Mary, thank ye. Thank ye.” She squeezed back and gave his chest a quick pat. “Ye’re going to be fine, Robbie Reid. Ye’re going to be fine.”
Relieved, she drew her knees up and rested her head on her arm. When she woke, she found herself slumped against Robbie’s pallet. The rain had stopped, and sunlight glistened off the world outside the tent.
She shrugged her shoulders and gave her neck a quick roll in each direction to ease the kinked muscles. She pushed to her knees and arched her lower back.
She glanced at Robbie. His eyes were open and focused on her. “Top o’ the morning to ye Robbie Reid. And how are ye this fine day.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Would ye like me to fetch ye something to drink?”
He replied with a slow blink of his eyes.
She pushed to her feet. “Ye rest. I’ll be back. Ye’ll feel better with a bit o’ something in yer stomach.”
Stepping carefully around the wounded who still slept, she slipped outside and started toward the cook tent. As she rounded the last row of hospital tents, she slammed into Doctor Ellard.
Hot coffee spilled down the bodice of her dress. She swiped at the warm damp fabric. He probably expected her to tell him to look where he was going, but she was too happy. She met his gaze and grinned.
He scowled.
Her smile broadened. “He’s awake.” Rising onto her tip toes, she put her hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. “Thank ye, doctor.”
He blinked. His brow furrowed.
She took the tin ware mug from his unresisting fingers. “I’ll get ye another cup.”
“Wait. Gracie.”
She searched his face expectantly, too happy over Robbie’s improvement to wonder at the sudden tension in his voice.
He glanced at the sky for a moment then met her gaze. “Why did you kiss me?”
“’Tis because Robbie is awake. Ye saved him.”
“And that’s why you kissed me?”
“Aye.” She smiled. “’Tis a fine clear morning, and Robbie be awake.”
“I removed the broken pieces of skull. I have not saved him. There is still the risk of inflammation of the dura mater and a hemorrhage of the brain.”
“Ye said as much yesterday. But—”
“I do not want you to kiss me out of gratitude for my surgical skills. I want you to kiss me because you want me.”
He ran his hand around the back of his neck then grabbed her shoulders, his clear blue eyes earnestly searching her face.
“You have made it clear from the first, that I respect the part of you that is a nurse. You know I do. You are also aware of my attraction for you.
“However, just as you have two sides, so also do I.
“I appreciate the respect you give me as a physician. I know you crave physical intimacy, but I am not William McBride. I am Jason Reid.
“You have been so busy trying to make me into William that you have no idea of the man I am outside of the hospital. Whatever future you envision between us is not the same one I see.
“Thank you for seeing me through my nervous attacks, for giving me a family, my identity, but this has to end. I wish you well and hope you find the happiness you found with your William.”
He leaned close. Slowly his lips pressed to hers. There was none of the usual harshness, the invasion of his tongue, his desperation to claim her. Instead the light pressure of his kiss, the gentle nip of first her bottom lip and then her top, held a sadness she hadn’t expected from him.
She reached her hands around his waist, up his back, intending to pull him close and never let go. But he was right. Though she craved intimacy, did it mean she craved him?
His hands slid down her arms and cupped her elbows. Slowly he pulled back. His gaze lingered for a moment, then he turned and walked away. She watched his back until he disappeared behind a tent and was gone.
****
He wove his way between several tents, unaware of any particular destination.
He needed to quit drinking at night. Breen kept pushing those damned Dover’s powders, but he didn’t want to start taking opiates. Alcohol was better for the pain. Except he couldn’t remember half of what happened when he drank. He supposed he had a low tolerance for whiskey. An Irishman he was not. Gracie had come to his tent last night. He remembered that. And laudable pus. Had he actually tried to charm her with a discussion on laudable pus? What the hell was wrong with him?
And he remembered begging her for a kiss.
That specific memory this morning was like a dousing of ice water. Pathetic. That’s what he was. Groveling for her affection the same way he’d once groveled for the friendship of the boys at school.
Well he had some pride, and while she might embrace the doctor side of him, she had no idea of who he was as a man. Grandfather was right. They would never suit. Miss Adelaide Emmerson would be the perfect match, someone demure and quiet, who never challenged him. Someone like his mother.
He stopped. Except Julia Harrison Ellard was not his mother. Nothing he knew of his life, of who he was, was real.
My name is Jason
Charles is dead.
My name is Jason.
He had an uncle at the hospital in Washington. Uncle Mark. An uncle and a brother. Robbie. A brother. A real brother.
God, please let the kid make it.
“Captain.”
He turned. Major Andrews walked toward him, his large boots slapping against the mud and wet grass.
“Everything all right?”
“Thinking,” Jason replied automatically. The response had become his pat answer when he was caught staring into space.
“Good. Well, orders came to start moving the wounded toward the pontoon bridges. Problem is, with all this rain the roads are a mess, which means rough going for these poor boys. River’s running high and breaking up the pontoon bridges. It’s going to take a while to get everyone across the Rappahannock and on up to Aquia Creek and then to the hospitals in Washington.
“I’m sending you with the wounded and most of the supplies from the brigade wagons. I’ll stay here with Captain Breen and follow once we’re done. My trick knee is telling me we’re in for some more rain. God speed, Captain.”
He saluted and spent the morning readying the patients for transport. Using extra blankets, he rolled them and tucked them around Robbie’s head and neck to hopefully keep him as still as possible on the journey.
He grabbed a cup of coffee as the ambulances rolled toward the fords. The rest of his day was spent riding back and forth, up and down the ambulance train, helping where he could, rebandaging wounds and stitching wounds that tore open. The cries and moans of the men who endured the harsh jerks and jolts of ambulance travel were not sounds he’d soon forget.
A day and a half in the saddle, and they finally reached the division hospitals on Potomac Creek just before the skies opened up to send more rain pouring down.
Another day of travel on the steamboat and he was back at Armory Square Hospital. He and a good portion of the severely wounded—and Robbie.
He ordered Micah and Harvey to clean up young Reid—it was hard to think of him as his brother—and assign him a bed near the side door next to Sergeant Baker.
Since all his belongings were at Falmouth, he washed at the sink in the bathing room and stopped back at Corporal Reid’s bed to make a few notes on his patient card.
From the next bed came a raspy gasp.
“By God, it is you.”
He dropped into the chair between the beds. Such a strange sensation, to look at this man, shorter and broader, with light hair, brown eyes, and bandaged throat, and know that as he’d operated, he’
d been saving the life of his uncle Mark.
“I begun to think the lady nurse was right and it was the fever.” He swallowed and cleared his throat. “You’re the spittin’ image of Jonathan. We all thought you was dead. But you’re his boy ain’t ya? You’re Jason.”
Jason. He closed his eyes absorbing the sound of his name on someone else’s tongue, knowing somehow it felt right.
“The orderlies, the other patients, they call ya Doctor Ellard. A doctor. Don’t that beat all. Ya always was a smart little duffer.”
A hand landed on Jason’s knee and gave it a little squeeze. He opened his eyes. This man was really his uncle. Uncle Mark.
“But why a different name, boy? What happened to ya. What happened to your pa?”
A lump rose in the back of Jason’s throat. Unable to find words, he shrugged and shook his head.
“And my nephew, Robbie there. You two worked together and didn’t even know you was brothers. Ain’t it somethin’ the way life works out? Maybe after the war—ya could visit. See your ma. Got a real need for doctors where we live.”
Jason looked up as footsteps approached. An orderly he didn’t know walked up.
“Excuse me, sir, but Major Bliss wants to see you right away.”
Jason nodded and stood. He met the gaze of his uncle Mark and inclined his head. So many thoughts tumbled around in his mind he had no idea what to say.
Instead he followed the young orderly up the aisle.
****
Major Bliss met him in the front office where he stood talking to an older man with black walking stick.
Nausea rolled in Jason’s stomach, sending an acidic burn up the back of his throat. It was too soon to deal with his grandfather. He had no idea what to say or think. Hell, he had no idea how he even felt about the man.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
His grandfather stepped forward and looked him up and down. “Heard you were wounded. Except for that unkempt beard and your scruffy clothes, you look fine.”
“I assure you, sir, I have been injured.” And suddenly it was all too much, the hunger, exhaustion, emotional upheaval, and the pain across his shoulder. He longed for a hot bath, a big bowl of soup with some crackers that weren’t hard tack, a nice soft bed, and clean sheets.