by Zina Abbott
Before Carlyle Hall Station, Kansas
M arcus hated skirmishes such as the one in which he now found himself engaged. His job or not, he was on a mission of mercy to care for two injured soldiers, not fight an enemy force. Now, depending on the outcome of this confrontation, he might have several more wounded men to treat. Hopefully, no one got killed.
Fortunately, even though Marcus’s position as a surgeon meant he almost always was far enough away from a battlefield that he did not need to engage the enemy or defend himself, he did know how to use weapons. Then again, not being in the thick of things had been true during the recent War Between the States. It did not hold true with frontier fighting. Fighting units were smaller. Battles, instead of involving hundreds or thousands of men on each side, were more often fought between groups made of fewer men spread out over a larger area. Hit and run. With the federal government slashing the military budget like it did once peace between the North and the South was declared, it was difficult for the Army to maintain a strong enough presence in the frontier to fight effectively against the Plains tribes. Which is why I’m ruining my uniform trousers by kneeling on the bottom of an ambulance so I can shoot over the wooden sides at a superior fighting force of Cheyenne warriors. For, Marcus knew, that was the truth of the situation. Whether they were Cheyenne, Arapaho, Sioux, Comanche, Kiowa, or Apache—any of the tribes who seemed to make their home or come to hunt in the territory administered by the Department of the Missouri—man for man, the natives were better horsemen and better warriors than the average white soldier.
There were some exceptional soldiers who enlisted or reenlisted after the civil war ended, but they were the minority. The rest were men who fit in various categories. Some were immigrants—many who did not speak English well—whose presence was not welcomed anywhere else. Some were filled with wanderlust and chose the Army as a means to be transported to the West. The number of desertions among troops stationed on the frontier justified the claim that some men intended from the start to leave as soon as they were far enough west they could steal a horse and travel the rest of the way to the western state or territory of their choice. Some, like many of the men from the 38th Infantry who helped guard his ambulance, were probably former slaves. For too many, the Army was an option of last resort. And those are the men I’m depending on to protect me, the other men, and the Army ambulance and team. Thank heaven Fort Hays has the buffalo soldiers of the 10th Cavalry. They are proving themselves to be a fighting force to be reckoned with.
Unfortunately, it was not the 10th Cavalry riding escort this day. In addition to infantrymen in the wagon with him and on top of the stagecoach, the assigned white cavalry troops were led by a sergeant he knew he had seen somewhere, but could not place.
“Captain! Up front!”
The shout—laced with a touch of panic—came from his driver, Corporal Chester, who, at this point, had deserted his bench seat and clutched the ribbons guiding the team while he kneeled behind the front wall of the wagon box. Marcus turned and aimed his Spencer seven-shot carbine forward. He took aim at the native warrior reaching for the harness on the right lead mule. Winged him. As the horse and its rider pulled away, Marcus, still on his knees, rose straight and shifted to the right to aim at the other Cheyenne also reaching toward a leather harness strap. He missed his shot but ducked down when the warrior spun on his horse and brought his rifle around.
Ratcheting another bullet in the chamber, Marcus again rose and aimed. Immediately after pulling the trigger, he heard something make contact behind him and felt the sting like a hot piece of iron against the back of his shoulder. As he spun to the left, he again worked his rifle lever. Realizing he had used his last bullet, he pulled his Army revolver from his holster and fired at the man riding several yards out at the side of the ambulance.
A piercing series of cries filled the air. In a unified maneuver, the attackers melted away.
To Marcus, the relative silence, void of weapon fire, felt eerily unsettling. Were they gone for good—at least for the time being? Or were they merely regrouping?
“They gone, Captain?”
Still on his knees, Marcus twisted his upper body—first to his right, and then to his left—before he answered the driver. “Appears that way, Corporal.” With a sigh of relief, he holstered his pistol and set his rifle on the bench. “Slow the rig way down, Corporal, so the rest of our men can catch up and we can see how they fared.” He turned to the two infantrymen who had been riding in the ambulance with him. “You men all right?”
The men looked at each other and responded with assurances none of them were injured.
“Then, reload your weapons, men. We gave them a warm reception, but we don’t know if they’re done for the day, or if they’ll come back.” Marcus felt favorably impressed with this squad of black troopers who arrived at Fort Hays that summer—bringing cholera with them, unfortunately, since he learned that St. Louis, from whence they came, also suffered from an epidemic of the disease before it reached western Kansas. He winced as he placed the heel of his palm on the bench to lever himself back into his seat in order to also load his weapons.
When he had been turning about, he had noticed some pain in the back of his shoulder. After placing his rifle on the bench next to him, Marcus now rolled his left shoulder, only to experience discomfort. Must have a flesh wound. He lifted his elbow in the air shoulder-height, and then brought his elbow in front of him. His wound complained, but the pain was not unbearable. He lost little, if any, mobility.
Marcus turned toward the driver and noticed the man had climbed over the side and once again sat on the driver’s bench as he pulled the ambulance inside the rock wall of the stagecoach station. “We’ll only stay at the station long enough to water these mules and check on any injured. As soon as the coach changes out their team, I want to leave for the fort at Monument Station right away. I think it will afford us better protection.”
“Yes, sir. You got any idea how the stagecoach fared? I thought they were right behind us, but they seem to be way back there.”
“No idea. Most of the mounted patrol stayed with them. We’ll find out within the next few minutes.” Please let that contrary woman and her child be all right. Marcus reached for the Spencer to reload it. He paused and stared at the trembling in his left hand. Can’t be shock. I wasn’t injured any worse than someone with a scraped knee. He decided it must be the excitement of battle wearing off. He forced his hand to remain still enough to open the weapon so he could reload. He no sooner clicked the fully-loaded stock in place once more than he heard a voice behind the ambulance call to him.
“Captain! Sarge has been hit.”
Marcus looked up and saw two troopers approach on horseback. One of them rode double. He turned to the driver. “Stop the ambulance, Corporal Chester. We have an injured man to bring on board.”
As Marcus scooted along the bench to the back of the wagon, the two of the infantry privates, hurried to unlatch the back drop-gate of the vehicle. Marcus jumped to the ground and approached the injured man.
The soldier with the sergeant’s stripes clung to the man in front of him. His forehead was buried against the man’s back. With his left hand, he pressed a bloody handkerchief to the side of his thigh.
With excitement in his voice, the soldier riding single told the tale. “Cheyenne got his horse, Captain. They tried to get him, but we wouldn’t let them. Three of us kept circling him and shooting anyone who looked like they were coming after him. Think I got one of them, but not sure how bad. Sarge, here, dropped his carbine, so the Cheyenne probably got that. But they didn’t get him.”
“Good work, soldier.”
The injured man raised his head and swayed. “Horses and munitions are hard to come by. It’s the devil I’ll be paying with my captain, now won’t I?” As his body slumped, he threatened to drop off the horse on the opposite side from where Marcus stood.
Marcus grabbed for the man and pulled the soldi
er toward him. “Let’s get you in the ambulance and worry about your horse and carbine later, Sergeant.” He turned to two of the infantrymen who followed him. “Help me with him until we can get him moved inside and on the left bench.” He called over his shoulder to the man remaining at the back of the ambulance. “Private, get that stretcher under the seat on the right side and bring it over here.”
The infantry soldier rushed to do the captain’s bidding.
Marcus focused on the men supporting his new patient. “Watch for that injured leg.” He reached for the wounded man’s shoulder and, with the others, supported the weight of him as the sergeant all but fell into their arms. “I suspect he’s lost a lot of blood. When that stretcher gets here, I’ll support the injured limb while you support the rest of him.”
Soon the stretcher was on the ground. As Marcus issued his orders, the men managed to position the sergeant onto the stretcher with its pull-out handles. Then, with Marcus at the man’s head on his injured side, he directed his makeshift ambulance crew to carry his new patient to the rear of the wagon. Gripping the stretcher with one hand, he used the other to pull up the padded, fold-down bench and pulled out the iron leg to create a bed wide enough to hold the injured man.
The infantryman who had climbed back inside the wagon—seeing what the captain did with the end of the bench closest to the rear gate—scooted sideways in the now-narrower center aisle to pull up the iron leg at the end of the bench behind the driver’s seat.
With Marcus giving orders to coordinate their efforts, the three infantrymen slid the stretcher into the ambulance. At the dust cloud that arose as the stagecoach rolled past them and pulled inside the station, he muttered a curse under his breath. It was quickly followed by the rest of the mounted patrol.
Marcus climbed inside the ambulance and turned to the soldier next to him. “Private, there’s room for another man up on the driver’s bench if you’d ride there, please. He might appreciate a guard sitting next to him until we reach Monument. There’ll be enough room for me and the other two men on the remaining bench. While you’re waiting, see if he’d like help caring for our team.”
The infantryman grinned wide. “Yes, sir!”
Marcus turned to a second soldier who had rejoined him inside the ambulance. “Private, set your carbine down for the time being. I need you to assist me.” From his trousers’ pocket, pulled out a folded, white cotton handkerchief which he pressed against the wound. “Hold that bandage in place. I need pressure on that wound to make sure it stops bleeding. I’ll wrap a bandage around it and tie it off in a moment.”
Marcus reached beneath the bench and pulled out the supply chest. From inside, he reached for and unfolded a wool blanket. He turned to his barely conscious patient. “What’s your name, Sergeant?”
The man licked his lips. “Mulroney, sir. Sgt. Mulroney, usually with the quartermaster’s department. Would you be having any water about, Doc?”
Without turning his gaze from his patient, Marcus addressed the infantryman not holding the bandage. “Private, I need you to pull the water casket out from under the patient’s bench.” He leaned over and slid a medical chest from beneath the same bench. He opened the lid and pulled out a dark glass bottle of laudanum and a tin cup.
Once the soldier brought the casket to him and tipped it for him to work the spout, he partially filled the cup. Setting the cup on the edge of the bench, he added some laudanum. Marcus lifted the wounded man’s head and placed the cup to his lips. “This is some nasty-tasting stuff, Sergeant, but it will help with the pain for now until I can get you to a place where I can tend to your wound properly. All I’m going to do for now is wash off the worst of the dirt, put a pressure bandage on you, and keep you covered so you don’t go into shock. If you’re still thirsty, I’ll give you a little more water to help wash the taste down.” He turned and studied the sun that edged toward the western horizon. “We’ll lose our light within a couple of hours. Still, as long as we don’t have visitors again, we’ll make it to Fort Monument before dark.”
Marcus partially covered the man, leaving the injured leg exposed. “If you’re with the quartermaster department, what were you doing working escort patrol?”
“The cholera took the sergeant usually leading this troop, sir. I’d been riding escort patrol before Lieutenant Burdock decided on me working with him. I’ll not be knowing how many times traveling between forts with the lieutenant, we’d be helping with the escort. The Cheyenne getting me be a first for me, Captain.”
“There’s a first time for everything. Let’s hope this was your last.” Marcus knew the man’s panting and writhing from the pain would soon ease as the laudanum took effect. He refilled the cup with water, poured it over the open wound, and then wiped the area clean. “It looks like the bullet lodged in there but missed the bone. No essential blood vessels were hit. We’ll get you fixed up when we get to Fort Monument, Sergeant, although it will be a few weeks before you’ll be able to ride a horse comfortably.” He tore off and folded a fresh strip of bandage and pulled a bottle of carbolic acid from his medical trunk. After filling the cup halfway with water, he dribbled in a small amount of the antiseptic. “This will sting like the devil, but it will help stop the infection.” He dripped some of the acid on the clean cloth and pressed it against the wound. After tying the pad tight to the sergeant’s leg, Marcus noticed the sergeant drifting off to sleep. He drew the wool blanket over him.
Marcus turned to the infantryman who earlier held the bandage. “Private, I’m going to check on the stagecoach to make sure no one was injured. While you and your fellow soldier next to you keep watch for problems, I also want you keep an eye on this man while I’m gone. If his breathing gets shallow, he starts thrashing around, or anything looks out of the ordinary, you holler for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Climbing over the man’s legs, Marcus grabbed his personal medical bag and left the ambulance. As he walked toward the stagecoach, his gaze roamed the scene in an attempt to assess the situation. From what he could see, the driver and shotgun messenger were on the ground and ambulatory, as were a few of the male passengers. From the manner they shook their heads as they talked to each other, he assumed they remained uninjured. What about Mrs. Humphry and the baby?
Marcus tugged on the bottom hem of his uniform jacket as he straightened his back and marched toward the coach. He hoped he would not open the door and find a hysterically crying woman crumpled on the floor.
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Chapter 8
~o0o~
P lacing his hand on the handle of the coach door, Marcus sucked in a breath to prepare himself for discovering the worst inside. Through the window, he could see the door on the opposite side remained open, and he knew a couple passengers had exited and now shared war stories with the others outside the coach. That did not mean those who remained inside were not injured—or dead. Don’t let one of them be Mrs. Humphry.
Rather than peer through the window to assess what he would find inside, he jerked the door open and stepped forward. His gaze was drawn to a man sprawled across the forward-facing bench. Sitting on the center bench, Mrs. Humphry bent over him and held a white cloth to his arm.
“You’ve got wounded in here? Move aside, Mrs. Humphry, and let me take a look.” Marcus placed his foot on the metal rod that served as a step as he prepared to enter the coach. He quickly realized Mrs. Humphry had not moved one inch. He might as well have not spoken. The only indication she heard him was the ripple in her jaw muscles and the tightening of the skin around her eyes.
Without looking at him, Mrs. Humphry snapped out a response with what he recognized as an irritated tone. “Not now, Captain. I’m busy.”
In the dead silence that followed, Marcus clenched his back teeth and stared at her. So much for a hysterically crying woman crumpled on the floor. He was the surgeon. He was the expert. He was an officer and was accustomed to being ob
eyed. Yet, she dismissed him as irrelevant. Confounded woman.
From what he could see, the passenger’s injury must have bled quite a bit. He wrinkled his forehead as he stared at the black silk strip of fabric tied on the man’s bicep. A glance at Mrs. Humphry’s waist now missing its sash tied with the elegant bow he had noticed earlier told him where it had come from. As much as he wished to speak in a direct manner with the woman, that tactic had not worked well in the past. She made it clear that she not only did not like him, she did not trust him. With a man’s life possibly in danger, he decided to take a different approach.
Marcus struggled to keep any hint of sarcasm out of his tone of voice. “Pardon me, Mrs. Humphry. I wish to assure you that I have been a surgeon treating battlefield wounds for many years now. If you deem it acceptable, I ask to be allowed to inspect this man’s injuries.” Marcus suppressed a smile as he watched her, wide-eyed, turn to face him.
Seeing her face flush red and her mouth agape, he knew he got through to her. A sense of guilt at the thought he embarrassed her shot through him. He realized she had been focused on and dedicated to giving the injured passenger the best care of which she was capable. He must find a reason to compliment her on her efforts.
“My-my apologies, Captain. Of course.” Still holding the white pad in place, she pressed her lips together and scooted her backside toward the far end of the bench to allow him room to enter the coach. He reached his fingers to the pad so she could let go and sit straight. The pleasure he felt as he noticed the warmth of her fingers against his when they connected surprised him. When she released her hold on the bandage, he sensed a loss.
“Where’s the baby? Is he all right?”
“Yes. The noise and confusion of the attack frightened him, but he fell asleep. I suspect he cried himself into exhaustion. I-I do hope he stays asleep a little longer.”
His gaze on the injured man, Marcus nodded toward the black silk tourniquet. “That was good thinking to stop the bleeding. I see you are very resourceful, Mrs. Humphry.” Compliment accomplished. Might as well give the woman her due. He lifted the bandage and cocked his head as he studied the wound. This was no through-and-through injury that could be stitched up and watched for infection.