Blood Moon

by Jana Petken

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Isaac lay on the hard wooden floor of an army cart, squirming with pain and trying to speak through chattering lips. Three Union soldiers sat in the back of the cart with him. One was binding Isaac’s wound, whilst the other two trained their eyes and rifles on the street. The cart swayed from side to side, travelling faster than it should on this narrow street leading to the hospital, but speed was of the essence.

  Snipers had been active in two areas near the harbour, taking shots at any blue coat that happened to pass the rebel positions. These Confederates marksmen were like ghosts, hiding in the shadows throughout the city at any time of day or night. The Union had been unsuccessful in rooting them out, and their new policy of sweeping civilian houses at random had not achieved anything, bar an ever-growing hatred that spewed from the eyes of the civilian population. Isaac had been unlucky to catch a bullet, but fortunately the sniper had not been a particularly good shot, one of the soldiers commented.

  The cart drew up outside the hospital. Isaac moaned loudly as he was carried by two men with fumbling arms, racing through the entrance and down the hallway to the operating rooms.

  Inside an empty surgical room, Isaac tried to stop the panic and fear that had risen up quite suddenly at the sight of the wooden table that would probably see him lose his leg. He prayed that the rebel doctors, who shunned him every day, would look kindly on him now and do everything they could to leave him with two limbs. He was sure he could repair the damage without cutting through flesh and bone. If the leg was attached to another man, he would show the doctors all that he had learned at Williamsburg, where speed and nimbleness of hand were requisites for any measure of success, and where limbs could be saved with good surgical skills.

  The surgeon arrived. He took a split-second look at Isaac’s leg and then gave him a shot of opium. Isaac had craved the drug all the way here. He would have killed for it or paid any price to get it into his veins on that short agonising journey.

  He looked up with glazed eyes, feeling a luxurious floating sensation fill his body and mind. He had to say something quick, he thought, watching the surgeon gather his tools around him. Isaac could hear the man barking orders to a couple of nurses, yet not one of them was paying attention to their patient on the table. He panicked again, but thanks to the opium, he quickly quelled the fright. There was no time for fear right now. He was falling asleep, and he was more concerned with urging the surgeon to save his leg than giving in to the fear of losing it.

  “Listen to me. You need to clean out the wound – make sure you get all the fragments out of there. Use use quinine and iodine and bind it well …”

  “I’m sorry, son, but it has to come off. There ain’t no saving it – bones are shattered, and there’s a chance marrow will poison your leg as quick as a bird can shit on you. I ain’t got nothing that’ll put this knee back together.”

  Isaac had said these very same words to soldiers. They had begged him to leave the limb be, until their begging was all his ears could hear. “I beg you – I’m begging you – don’t take it. Just don’t,” he mumbled. Isaac saw the mask descend. It covered his nose and mouth, and he immediately smelled the chloroform that would drip onto it. God no! he screamed silently.

  Nelson sat by Isaac’s bedside, tears brightening his eyes and anger staining his good heart. Isaac’s face was ashen and his head dotted with perspiration. He slept soundly with the remnants of chloroform in his body and enough opium to ease his pain for a good long while. Mr Isaac was a kind and gentle soul, Nelson mused. He never did harm to nobody. Mr Isaac’s war was over. He would go home to Boston when he was better, and ole Nelson would be by his side.

  He stared at the white sheet and the shape of the body underneath it. A full left leg, long of bone, was stretched down the length of the mattress. The other, stumped mid thigh, was thick with bandages and propped up slightly atop a pillow. Nelson had seen this sight before, but never had he felt this raging anguish that was ripping his heart to shreds. “Don’t you worry none, Mr Isaac, sir. Ole Nelson here will nurse you like a newborn babe and help you walk again,” he whispered. “There ain’t no shame in havin’ one leg – ain’t no shame at all. You be as good as new soon. That’s a promise I aim to keep.”

  He hated the Southern slavers, those damned self-lovin’ men and women that stole a body of its decency and rights. He despised them even more now, after doin’ what they’d just done to Mr Isaac. He even hated Miss Mercy today, for leaving the major to find that Massa Jacob, who was not half the man as the one in this bed right here …

  Isaac opened his eyes and was struck instantly by the question of his leg. He sensed a presence and turned his head to see Nelson’s black face, paled and taut with grief. He hadn’t the strength to lift his head to look at the lower part of his body, but his wounded leg was still burning like a poker, and that was a good sign. Maybe he still had it. “Nelson, my leg … Is it there?”

  “Hush now, Mr Isaac, you needs to rest awhile.”

  “Answer me – my leg?” Isaac insisted. “I need to know – I can’t see the damn thing.”

  “They took it off you, Mr Isaac. They took that leg right off you. I was there, right outside. The doctor saved your life. You was struck real hard, like some men we saw in Williamsburg, with them bullets they call, minieballs, crashin’ in and breakin’ everything like a crushed hen’s body. Now, I knows you’s a great doctor, Mr Isaac. You knows it too, but not even you could have done saved that broken ole leg.”

  Isaac turned away and closed his eyes, unable to face Nelson’s pitiful eyes brimming with tears. He had his answer. The bastard Reb doctor had taken his leg. He was alive but less of a man. He was a one-legged cripple and would be for the rest of his days. As a doctor, he knew exactly what would happen to him now. It would be life or death, depending on whether marrow had seeped into his bloodstream or not. There was risk of infection and catching some other disease that roamed the hospital. There was the agony of learning to walk again with the aid of a wooden limb. He’d witnessed the pain that hardy fellows went through when trying to come to terms with the cumbersome new prosthetics, made with wood and steel. Jesus, he would rather use crutches than put one of those on. His mind drifted to Mercy. Thank God she had run from him. She had saved herself from a hell of a life with half a man.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Towards the end of June, an eerie quiet descended upon Richmond. The noise of soldiers’ thumping boots on the capital’s streets had subsided into the soft tiptoeing whispers of a population gripped in fear. The dreadful news of battles right on the capital’s doorstep had not been surprising to most, but no one had been fully prepared for the massive Yankee army advancing on the capital.

  Reality struck hard. The South was in peril, its people fighting to save its fledgling constitution and their dreams of a prosperous future free of Lincoln’s and Washington’s iron grips. The zest for fundraising balls and parties waned and was replaced by an even greater enthusiasm to build and stock hospitals. The surgeon general’s requests had come through the capital building and into the ears of Richmond’s elite with startling speed, and the rich set out to accommodate his needs with equal pace.

  All the wondering about if or when the enemy would advance towards the capital was over. The Yankees had gained ground, sweeping across the countryside like an unstoppable swarm of locusts, just waiting for the right time to devour Virginia’s hallowed soil.

  The conversation in the Bartlett household of late had been focussed on the newly erected Chimborazo Military Hospital, a sprawling maze of buildings earmarked to treat wounded Confederate soldiers. Mrs Bartlett, with her usual zeal, was determined to offer the services of the Richmond society ladies, no matter how distasteful the task of nursing might be, she informed the surgeon general upon her arrival at the facility.

  Mercy had heard that the hospital was a great achievement, but as she stood staring at the long framed buildings stretching from the edge
of a ravine for as far as she could see, she believed the only great thing about it was its sheer size. When the women inspected the interior of the buildings, Mercy noticed that many of the male attendants were walking aimlessly around, paying little or no heed to sick or wounded patients. She was not impressed by what she was seeing, but she defended the attendants to the other women. It was obvious to her that these so-called nurses were, for the most part, Confederate soldiers, injured or sick themselves and now determined not to return to their armies’ front lines.

  Mercy watched Mrs Bartlett’s mouth clucking away with her chicks in the far corner of the ward. As she watched the ladies shake their heads, cover their mouths and noses with handkerchiefs, and then leave the ward one by one, she instinctively knew full well that not one of them was planning to give her time to nursing these poor unkempt men lying between dirty sheets and threadbare pillows.

  God’s truth, what a mess, Mercy thought, after the women had left her alone in the ward. Brimming chamber pots sat on the floor. Dirty and bloodied rags lay where they had been carelessly dropped, and untidy trolleys were scattered in the aisles. The poor patients were moaning out to attendants, who scurried away like frightened mice, as though afraid to get their hands dirty. If this was the hospital being readied for the fundraisers’ inspection, what would it be like when it was full to capacity, with injured men coming through the doors in droves? Mercy thought. The state of the place was apt to kill men just as soon as cure them. She couldn’t think of a worse place to work, yet she was excited by the idea of doing just that.

  She spotted a doctor talking with a patient at the end of a long row of beds. She stared at the sick man between the sheets, and for just a second, she felt her pulse race wildly. At first glance, he had looked remarkably like Jacob, with the same dark beard and unruly coal-coloured hair, but as she walked closer, she decided that the resemblance ended there. Jacob was handsome. He could almost stop her heart just by looking at her. This man’s face was older, gaunt, with sharp uneven features. He was nothing like her Jacob.

  Her breathing steadied, but her thoughts were now filled with Jacob and the terrible danger he was in right now on the front lines. She cursed the thought but imagined Jacob here, wounded or sick. Wouldn’t she want him to have the best possible care? Just thinking about him ending up here in a bed ignored, without a comforting word or proper nursing care, was enough to give her the impetus she needed to speak her mind. She was going to start working here right now, and no amount of dissuasion from the women would stop her.

  She took a quick look into the hallway and saw that the women were still there talking to the surgeon general and no doubt offering money instead of their hands. It was not money that would improve this place, Mercy thought; it would be hard-working people with a mind to scrub floors and surfaces, boil sheets and pillowcases, and tend to these poor soldiers as best as possible. There was nothing worse than a body lying in a bed and smelling like a sewer, unable to wash itself.

  The doctor noticed Mercy standing alone at the doorway. He approached her and smiled. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  “Actually, Doctor, I believe I can help you. My name is Mercy Carver. I grew up in London, in a cesspit of filth and disease. I’m no stranger to hard work or sickness, and I’ve seen my share of bloodied men. I would like to offer you my services starting right now. This place needs a good clean, and I believe that’s a job I’m good at.

  “I’m sure the other ladies will be more than happy to put their hands in their deep pockets and shovel their money into this hospital, but I don’t think they’re so keen on working here – so this is why you need me.” Mercy took a deep breath and looked at him expectantly.

  The doctor smiled and studied Mercy’s determined expression. He took her arm, walked her into the hallway, and then stopped just out of earshot of the other women. “Young ladies shouldn’t have to see the terrible sights in a hospital,” he said, “but even the surgeon general’s begging for help. You will be working hard and seeing things you won’t like. We have a few men down with fever and dysentery, and there will probably be a lot more in the coming days or weeks. Do you want some time to think about your offer?”

  “Time? I don’t think there is any time. I’m not an expert in war, but even I’m guessing that you will be overflowing with damaged bodies very soon. I know all about sickness, Doctor, and this is why you can’t turn me away. Our brave soldiers are defending the city. For all we know, the battle has already begun and they are going to turn up here like a rip tide any minute. I have a very strong constitution, and a place like this doesn’t scare me. It just makes me want to make it better.”

  Mercy heard Mrs Bartlett’s shrill voice and waved at her impatiently. “Doctor, I have to leave now. So shall I come back this afternoon?” She looked hopefully at him, raising her eyebrow enquiringly. “Well, Doctor?”

  “Yes, please come back as soon as you can. I’m much obliged and so are the patients.” He smiled again and gave her a lingering look before walking away. He turned again to face her, clearly having had an afterthought, and said, “Miss Carver, wear an old gown. Whatever you wear, it won’t stay clean for long.”

  Mercy walked briskly towards the little crowd of elegantly dressed socialites just exiting the building and issued her apologies when she caught up with them. “Mrs Bartlett, I’m going to start work this afternoon. It looks to me as though they could use some help, and I have submitted my services.” She stared at the faces one by one, and just as she’d thought, not one of them stood with her.

  “You cannot work here, my dear. Why, you’ll make yourself sick in no time, and you’ll look as filthy as an old rag doll,” Mrs Bartlett told her. “I’ve never seen such a dire sight. I declare, I’m quite overcome – I can hardly breathe.”

  “It is dire, and that’s exactly why we should aid these poor men. All it will take is a good scrub and a few boiled washes to get this place cleaned up. I am working here. My heart’s set on it, and you know me: there’s no talking me out of something I’m set on doing. Do you really mind, Mrs Bartlett?”

  Mrs Bartlett was annoyed. A disapproving scowl sat on her narrow lips, pressed so tightly together that they almost disappeared completely. Mercy stood her ground. She was defying Mrs Bartlett in front of the women, but she couldn’t care less. She was bloody angry with the lot of them. They had skulked around this place, unable to abide the coarse smells that had hit their delicate nostrils and unwilling to go within six feet of a patient crying out for help. Then they’d had the cheek to give their seal of approval, when in reality not even the surgeon general cared what these women thought, as long as he got some money off them.

  “I did think about nursing, but I decided against the idea,” Mrs Bartlett declared. “I believe it will take a particular type of woman to deal with the sick, perhaps one who is used to poverty and disease herself. I’m sure she would be well used to emptying chamber pots and wiping brows. The ladies and I will raise money for our gallant army, and that is a glorious cause of which we can be very proud. You, Mercy, must do what you feel is best, but if you are going to work here, you must promise me that you will not bring any sickness or awful smells into my house. The last thing the senator needs is to take ill while he’s trying to save the Confederacy. Don’t you agree, ladies?” she asked them. The women nodded, entirely in agreement …

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Jacob lay his head down on a makeshift bed on the side of the road, his horse’s bridle held loosely in his hand. His saddle as a pillow, unrolled blanket for a mattress, and his grey coat covering his shoulders seemed particularly comfortable tonight after the past couple of saddle-sore weeks. He was exhausted, body and mind, yet sleep was as evasive as it had been the last fourteen nights.

  They had broken camp earlier, somewhere up the road leading to Mechanicsville, just as darkness had fallen, and they had marched within sight of campfires belonging to General Jackson’s command. He stared up at the cloudles
s sky with a scattering of stars and an almost full moon and thought back to his days in Yorktown, where boredom had crushed his spirit. Those days were long gone, he thought. Lately, there had been no sitting around a campfire wondering why the hell nothing was happening and feeling useless. Ever since the battle of Williamsburg, he and his men had gone on one mission after another, rarely spending more than one night in the same place, and it had felt good.

  Jacob also felt optimistic about the way the Army of Northern Virginia was shaping up. General Lee, now in command, had lengthened the Confederate defensive positions around Richmond, deciding in his wisdom that the South was not of a mind to defend the capital in a long-drawn-out siege or war of attrition but instead would attack the Yankees and drive them back to where they had come from.

  Jacob already knew what was going to happen in the morning. The Yankees had more than a hundred thousand well supplied men poised on its eastern flank,while his army had tenuous lines along the swampy Chickahominy River. It was going to be a brutal, pivotal action, leaving the battle of Williamsburg looking like a small skirmish in comparison.

  He paled just thinking about the day ahead. Dawn was only an hour or so away, but he could already feel the adrenaline pumping and racing through his veins, giving him a burst of energy that he didn’t want until the very moment he needed it. There were no formulas or rules to keeping a body safe and alive in battle, he thought. He could lie here for the next hour and plan how he was going to avoid cannon fire, bullets, or sabres, but the truth in his mind was that God himself, with all-seeing eyes, chose who would live or die.