The Lincoln Penny

by Barbara Best

  So, no is not an option. Her objections seem to go right over his head and Olmstead leaves Jane to play nurse before she can say another word about it. There’s another incredible crash and a section of plaster from the ceiling comes raining down. Things must really be heating up outside.

  Adjutant Hopkins is visibly shaken, “I will be forever indebted, Miss Peterson. Very sorry to put you through…” he winces, unable to finish his sentence.

  “It’s not your doing,” Jane says with a degree of frustration. “Look, you shouldn’t try to get up.” What has she gotten herself into! Jane moves to the bed and wonders if they sue people in the 1800s for malpractice. Hopkins is holding a soiled rag over one side of his face covered with blood. “Does it hurt much?”

  Matthew nods, “Like the dickens.”

  “Private Hickory? I can use your help.”

  The young boy eagerly steps forward, “At your service, ma’am?”

  “Okay, let me think. I need fresh water and salt. More soap. I don’t care what kind. You need to get the fire going, good and hot, and find a large pot or kettle for us to use. I need clean towels and some alcohol, any kind. Can you remember? And we need more light in here, lots of light. Please make it quick.” God help me if he needs stitches. “Oh, Private, one more thing . . . ask if they have any peroxide.”

  “Peroxide, ma’am?”

  “Yes, peroxide. Hmmm . . . maybe they don’t have peroxide yet. Well, if there’s no peroxide, alcohol will have to do.”

  Jane walks the private halfway to the door and turns back, placing her hands on her hips. “So! What am I to do with you?” With a smile, she repeats the line Mister Hopkins’ had spoken to her a short time before.

  Until she can get her supplies, Jane dumps the cloudy water she used to wash up into the chamber pot and a small bit more in a corner of the fireplace to sizzle and evaporate. There is no other place to put it. She empties the pitcher into the bowl to soap her hands vigorously and brings the bowl and pitcher both out to the table in the center of the room. She grabs a towel and with a heavy sigh, commits to the man’s care.

  “Afraid I am blinded.” Matthew grunts.

  “Lord, I hope not. We’ll have to see though.” Jane gently and ever so slowly takes Adjutant Hopkins’ shaking hand and the sticky blood-soaked rag away from his face.

  Shit! Okay. Sound convincing. It probably looks worse than it is. “Not so bad, really,” Jane offers cheerfully. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” She holds her breath.

  Obviously in a lot of pain, Matthew moves his head back and forth.

  “I take it that’s a negative. Here, let’s use a cleaner towel. Whatever you do, do not rub or put any pressure on your eye. It’s just the one eye, right?”

  This time he confirms with a nod, yes.

  “Well, if there’s something in it, we don’t want to cause any more damage. Just let the tears do the work for now until we can flush it out and see what we have. The private will be back in just a few minutes. It shouldn’t be long. Try to relax. You’re going to be fine,” she hopes.

  The injured left eye is swollen badly and pouring water. Shut tight, which is making it almost impossible for the poor man to keep the other, good eye, open. It causes Jane’s eyes to tear up just looking at it. There is also a nasty, gushing cut under his left brow. So head wounds bleed like crazy, right? He’s not necessarily a candidate for the ICU . . . not yet anyway.

  Might be good to keep him warm. Jane grabs up the wool blanket she used last night and one off the other bed in the room and tucks them around the man’s body and legs. Jane thinks she probably should take off his belt and shoes to make him more comfortable, but decides to wait until the boy returns.

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened.” Instinct and an uneducated guess direct Jane to keep the man talking.

  “The colonel and I were inspecting the perimeter . . . and I believe one of the walls fell. It was my misfortune to have been near it at the time.” Matthew tries to smile and make light, omitting details. There is no need to worry Miss Peterson any more than necessary about his mishap or the complete and utter devastation that lies outside this room. Somehow she is remarkably able to cope with the brutal pounding they are getting and the danger she must know she is in. Why, he has seen grown men come completely apart for much less.

  Private Hickory scurries in along with another soldier with the things Jane had asked for. Jane lays everything out on the table, while large wood logs are being added to the fire. Some kind of metal rod is pulled out from the back brick wall of the fireplace to hook a large cast iron kettle. They set two buckets filled with water by the table.

  “Where did you get the water from?” Jane asks the young private, suspicious of everything around her.

  “It’s from the cistern, ma’am.”

  “The cistern?”

  “Supplied by rain,” Matthew interjects.

  “Doc said you might be needin’ this.” The boy unfolds a stained cloth from his haversack that is wrapped around three crude instruments. Some tweezers and two pointed metal picks, one with a tiny hook at the end. “And ma’am, I went ahead and asked about that perox-hide you was wantin’. Funny, I think I said it right, but Doc looked at me like I was a goat with three horns,” he grinned.

  “Geez, that’s too bad.” Jane smiles half-heartedly, and straightens, taking a deep breath and struggling with the sleeves of her dress. It’s about time to get comfortable, “Will you watch him for a minute? I’ll be right back.” Jane goes behind the screen, out of sight, yanks off her under-sleeves, unfastens her collar and drops her hoop, which is pure nonsense and totally in the way. “Well, I’m no Clara Barton, but here goes nothing.”

  With sure steps, Jane crosses the room to where Private Hickory and the other soldier stand, eyeballing her with interest, “Okay. Let’s get some water boiling. Private, I’ll need you and your friend to scrub your hands real good in that bowl. Use the soap and try to get under your nails. Here, use this pointy thing. Be thorough. Hands are nasty things, full of germs. When you’re done, dump the water and wash the bowl. We’ll be using it again.”

  Jane puts a good amount of salt in the large kettle filled with water, submerges the instruments, two metal cups, and some small bowls she found in a cabinet and then, shoves it back over the flames. “We need to boil all this stuff.” She asks the older man to place another bucket of water along the edge of the fire on the hot embers to heat.

  “I believe some of the bleeding has stopped.” Her patient offers.

  Jane checks under the towel. “We should be ready in a minute. Everything has to be sterilized, so there is less chance of infection. We do this even for animals where I come from. I’m sorry you’re in pain. Eye injuries are the worst! I scratched my eye once trying on a friend’s contact lenses . . .” Oops!

  “We’re just about there.” The water has come to a rolling boil with all the items clanking around in it. Jane spreads one of the clean towels out on the table to organize everything she has to work with.

  The private is right beside her. Jane nudges the kid who must be in his early teens, “Good job! All clean and good to go.”

  “Okay, Mister Hopkins. Let’s get your eye flushed out so we can take a look.” Jane put some of the salty water, closest thing she can get to saline, into the pitcher to let it cool down.

  “Here, come sit in this chair,” Jane and the older, silver-haired soldier who came in with the boy help Matthew over to the table. “I need you to carefully pull your eye open as much as you can and I’ll pour this pitcher of solution over it. Just a little at a time. We are trying to wash out any sand or debris if we can.”

  The ground shakes again as another terrible explosion rocks the fort. Jane turns her attention to the private. “What’s your full name?”

  “Private James Hickory, ma’am.”

  “Do you go by James or Jim?”

  “Jimmy, ma’am.”

  He gives Jane the biggest snaggletooth
beam from ear to ear, while she wonders in irritation where his mom and dad are. Why they would let him be here like this. “Okay, Jimmy. Will you please hold the bowl for us? Right here to catch the water. We should do this several times, Mr. Hopkins. It may get a little messy.”

  Jane examines her patient’s eye. There is a small nick or cut near the cornea. Probably not a good thing. Although, other than being badly bloodshot and puffy, it looks clear now of any particles. Nothing is floating around or under the lid and he seems obviously more comfortable. Jane thinks, enough for him to give her one serious once over. Their faces are close, too close. Jane moves back a little.

  “I know you think what I’m doing is pretty weird stuff, huh. The gash over your eye is bad enough, although it’s not quite as deep as I thought. Head wounds always bleed like crazy and there is some swelling already. The main thing is keeping everything clean and free of infection. I’m going to have you cover your eyes in a minute and pour some of this alcohol onto that cut.”

  “It seems a waste of good whiskey.” At Matthew’s resounding remark, his caregiver unexpectedly bubbles over with laughter. It hangs like a sweet melody in the stillness of the room. It has the effect of an elixir and momentarily dulls his pain. Matthew has no idea that he just quoted a line word-for-word from Braveheart, one of Jane’s favorite movies.

  The much-needed portion of laughter is a release from the tremendous stress Jane is under. She covers her mouth, forgetting for a moment the seriousness of her situation.

  “And what do you find so amusing?” Matthew wonders.

  “Oh. It’s sort of a private joke. Silly really.” Jane coughs a couple of times to stifle her giggles, “Please, excuse me,” she smiles, “I must have needed a good laugh.” With this, she is able to continue the grave nature of her work. “Now, this is going to burn like fire, but it will kill the germs. I promise, you will be a lot better off in the long run.” Peroxide sure would have been more humane.

  Jane frowns. She wishes she had some surgical tape as she lightly dabs the edges of the puffy gash that is laying wide open. For something like this, tape might be the perfect solution and fix it right up. Steri-strips were used once when she ran into the edge of a door. Her cut, however, was a bit smaller than this one. Jane looks around, uncertain of what to do next. She really needs to Google it.

  “I guess the doctor or surgeon . . . whatever you call him, is still tied up, huh? Well, let’s see now. Be real still, okay?” Jane takes the tweezers and with steady fingers, gently probes within the wound and swabs the watery red discharge. There are a few tiny pieces of what looks like rose-colored brick she is able to pick out a little at a time. Her patient doesn’t move or make a sound, though this sure as heck must hurt.

  Jane arches her back tightly bound in the confines of her corset and squeezes her shoulder blades together to relieve the ache of building tension. No use pretending, “This is going to need stitches to help keep it closed. So it will heal properly.” Doctor Jane to the rescue. Who the hell is she kidding! Malpractice alert! Unfortunate for her, it appears she’s on her own. No help is coming.

  After washing her hands again, Jane empties the small tin container of sewing needles and thread that hangs from her chatelaine. Sophie’s chatelaine, would you believe it? She uses the tweezers to hold one of her smallest and hopefully sharpest needles over one of the lit candles on the table for a few seconds. Then, swirls it around in alcohol and gives it a good rinse in a cup of her homemade saline solution where the thread is already soaking. Probably overkill, but it helps Jane feel doubly sure it’s sterilized. Everything feels so germy around here!

  “Are you all right with this, Miss Peterson?” Matthew breaks the silence, at least the silence within the room. Outside it’s nothing but.

  Jane looks up to see everyone, the boy, the old man, and her patient, staring at her like she has grown those three horns Jimmy had referred to. Her exposure to animal care at the shelter and the vet’s willingness to let her observe and even help tie off a suture on some of the simpler procedures was a blessing in disguise. She had watched Doctor Mindy perform minor surgeries and stitch up many lacerations on family pets. Jane learned quickly that she wasn’t squeamish when it came to blood and guts. If anything it was intriguing, yet intriguing only within the security of a modern-day clinic and under the guidance and care of a solicitous and experienced Veterinarian.

  Jane is not about to kid herself. What she is doing now is completely different. They have every right to question her! But she can’t falter. “Yes, of course. I’m okay. And you will be too once we get this sutured up. I’ve seen this procedure done many times. Even applied a stitch or two myself,” she asserts, “Don’t worry.”

  “Why, I am not worried in the least. You are doing a superb job . . . please continue.” Actually, Matthew has never seen anything like it. Miss Peterson does not act like anyone he has ever known. Her mannerisms and rituals are odd. Though he detects a measure of uncertainty in her actions, she remains composed and self-assured. She has a strange way in conversing, her expressions unfamiliar. The men are calling her the Mystifying Ghost Lady. Mystifying, he would agree, is a most suitable description.

  Jane threads the needle and ties off a square knot as she was taught. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid this is going to hurt. I’ll make it as quick as I can.”

  Matthew nods. “Please, carry on.”

  Okay, here we go.” Jane holds her hands steady, expecting Matthew’s sharp gasp, as her tiny sterile needle grabs a jagged edge of skin.

  Several minutes later, Jane is proudly inspecting her handiwork. Not bad for an amateur. Three fine stitches. “These won’t dissolve on their own. They will need to be removed in a few days when scar tissue begins to form. Next we need to make a patch for your eye to protect it. You have some other abrasions, but I think they should heal easy enough, if you’re careful and keep everything clean.”

  “The doc has an eye patch. I saw it the other day.” Jimmy chirps with excitement and rushes off to get it.

  “Please be careful, Jimmy!” Jane calls after him as he sprints out the door. “He’s much too young to be racing around so freely with all the craziness around here. It’s beyond dangerous. He could be killed.” Jane takes a small, unused towel and presses it against her forehead and face. Tiny beads of moisture have collected in the groove of flesh above her upper lip.

  With his one good eye, Matthew has been watching Jane’s movements intently, “I presume you will want to . . . ster-il-ize . . . the patch as well.” He drawls, rolling the new word around on his tongue and pushing his aching body up from the chair to stand erect before her. “You are one brave lady, Miss Peterson. I am forever grateful.” He bows forward from the hip in a gentle fluid movement. Eyes focused first on her, and then down in a wonderful display of courtesy before he again, straightens.

  Jane’s first thought is, beautiful. She has never been through anything like this and the man’s genuine expression of appreciation has made her feel slightly uneasy, while at the same time warm all over. So formal, and yet so tender and direct.

  “Ah yes, well . . . you’re welcome, Mister Hopkins,” is all she can manage. Jane doesn’t quite know how to pronounce the man’s rank, since it is not familiar to her. However, he doesn’t seem to mind. Or possibly, he is much too polite to correct her.

  “Jimmy should be back with your patch any minute now. And you, my friend, have turned white as a ghost.” Jane steps forward and pulls her patient’s arm around her shoulder. The older man jumps up to assist Jane in getting Matthew back to bed.

  “There now. I don’t know when someone will come for you, but while you’re in my care, you need to rest. I’ll be right here.” Jane wishes she had some Tylenol to give him. Poor guy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  While Adjutant Hopkins moves in and out of fitful slumber, Jane, the young boy and the old man all wait for the world to come to an end. War is horrible and the noise and smell of one explosion a
fter another, the raised voices and screams of men driven by terror and rage fighting for a lost cause, is sickening. It’s almost too much to handle.

  The intensity of the bombardment rattles Jane to her very core, seeping its way through the crevices of her psyche, beating down her defenses and leaving her vulnerable. By the time this is over, they’ll all be suffering from post-traumatic stress.

  Jane has trouble sitting and takes a cupful of boiled water from the bucket by the fireplace. It’s cool enough to drink and she lifts it to her mouth with tender fingers that performed well this day. It was good to stay busy, but there is little now to do and the trouble outside is beginning to get to her.

  Nerve-racking, simply nerve-racking! Not being able to see what is happening makes her crazy. Never has Jane felt so trapped or helpless. She can’t even begin to think what they are going through. And then there is a part of her that doesn’t want to think about it at all. She doesn’t know these people and shouldn’t be here in the first place. In fact, to be honest, what is most on her mind is, I just want to go home!

  Jane gazes over at Jimmy and the older man, he calls Ole Pa. They are sitting on the floor by the fireplace huddled closely, passing the time. Bent heads almost touching over a deck of playing cards. She thought she had read somewhere young boys were kept away from the fighting. The elderly man doesn’t look fit enough to do much of anything either. By his gnarly hands, she could tell he has a good case of arthritis and he walks with a bad limp.

  It had warmed up quite a bit so the sun must be much higher in the sky now. Out of curiosity, Jane had tried to peek through a pretty good-sized crack in one of the shutters facing the parade grounds, but Ole Pa, who never talked in full sentences, told her in so many words it wasn’t safe. She couldn’t see much of anything anyway. Only what looked like a barricade of huge wood logs stretching from the ground high up against the roof over the veranda. “Does anyone know what time it is?”

  Ole Pa reaches into his pocket for his watch. “Quarter to twelve, ma’am.”