Then Doc stepped out into the bitter cold.
The others had gone, waddling off across the uneven frozen ground, already chilled to the core in their threadbare uniforms.
Nelson glanced inside to make sure no one had stayed behind in an attempt to escape, and then closed the door. “Again, so sorry, Doc.”
“How’s the foot doing?”
“Healed up fine, Doc. Can’t believe that surgeon wanted to cut it off. I’da been a cripple but for you.”
“Dr. Sullivan just hadn’t seen an abscess like that before. Erysipelas presents differently than gangrene. Just don’t step on rusty nails anymore.”
“No, sir.”
Doc gave him a nod and began the slow walk toward the barracks. It hadn’t hit him yet. But it would. James had been like an anchor, a reason to live. He’d promised Ann Marie and Felicia that he’d take care of the boy.
Oh, God. When this finally sinks in, it’s going to break my heart.
He’d made it halfway when the lunatic cried out hoarsely, “Private Baker, back in the ranks. I’m your captain, and you’ll not tarry. This is hostile territory, and we’ve got to stay close.”
The cold had become so intense that even the lunatic’s tormenters—delighted to have any distraction from the boredom—had retreated to the relative protection of their barracks.
Doc shivered, actually happy to suffer in the frigid wind. It proved he could still feel something—even if it were misery. He marched past the lunatic.
Can’t save the whole world. Couldn’t even save James.
“Vail, I know you’re not an Indian, but you will be today. Can’t let the Yanks know you’re scouting their flanks.”
Doc stopped short, shivering. He closed his eyes, asking God what more could possibly lie in store for him today.
Left alone, the lunatic would be dead by morning. Curled into a stiffly frozen ball, he’d make a mess of the stack in the deadhouse. Maybe even cause Nelson to reshuffle the corpses.
Doc turned back, walking over. “Hey, you! Come on. Get up.”
The man didn’t so much as look up, but whispered, “You’re not real.” He shivered hard, asking, “Corporal Pettigrew, do you see him?”
Doc reached down, gripped the man by his torn coat, and lifted. The scarecrow barely tottered to his feet, swaying, leaning against Doc. Jesus, he stank of urine and shit.
“Walk with me … uh, Captain.”
“I’ll need to send Private Templeton to report.”
“You do that. I’m sure the private is an exemplary soldier.”
The lunatic sounded hoarse, as if he’d been yelling and had strained his voice. He barely kept one foot ahead of the other, shivering uncontrollably, like a rack of bones in a buckboard.
Doc barely made it to the hospital yard, just feet from the hospital door, before the ragamuffin collapsed in a limp heap, his face in the snow.
“I see.” Doc shivered and hugged himself. “Maybe Private Templeton didn’t manage to report.”
Doc stepped inside, made his way down between the rows of beds filled with the dying. Typhoid was epidemic again. He found Surgeon’s Assistant Percy Anthony boiling water. Probably because that was a good excuse to stand by the single stove.
“Percy, could you give me a hand? I’ve got a sick call outside.”
Anthony looked up, glanced longingly at the stove, and said, “Sure, Doc.”
Outside the lunatic was muttering into the snow, still facedown.
“Oh, him.”
“Been here before?”
“He’s the worst case of fatigue we’ve ever seen, Doc. Can’t do a thing with him.”
“At least let me get him inside. Leaving him out here? It’s a death sentence.”
Percy Anthony crossed his arms, eyes fixed meaningfully on Doc’s. “Sometimes, Doc, leaving someone out is the kindest thing you can do. You’ve told me that yourself. More than a couple of times over the last six months that I been here. So, let me ask you the question you asked me just last week: do you really want to prolong this man’s suffering?”
Doc pursed his lips, a memory of James’s ever so fragile skin, his green eyes softly imploring.
“I guess you’re right. What’s another…”
In a rasping whisper the lunatic said, “I think it’s Philip, Sergeant. At least, it sounds like his voice.”
Doc whirled, staring down at the filthy, snow-encrusted form. “You know me?”
The man laughed into the snow, his fingers opening and closing, water melting on his dirt-encrusted skin.
“Let’s get him in,” Doc said. “Do me this one favor, will you?”
Together—well, mostly it was Percy Anthony—they lifted the bone rack and muscled him through the door, down the aisle, and propped him in the cabinet corner closest to the stove.
“Got something I can clean his face with?” From the looks of it, the lunatic had been kicked or punched. One side of his face was swollen; dried blood had clotted in his once amber beard. One eye was puffed shut.
Anthony handed him a damp cloth and watched over Doc’s shoulder as he sponged the grime from the lunatic’s sunken features.
Even as he did, Doc swallowed hard, his hand beginning to shake. “Butler?” he whispered in disbelief.
“Yes, yes,” the lunatic cried, “but it doesn’t matter anymore.” His voice changed, as if explaining something to someone. “Of course he does. He’s my older brother. He and Paw don’t get along. Hear he’s a fine surgeon, however. Any of you need sick call? You go straight to Philip.”
“Who are you talking to?” Doc demanded, grasping Butler by his snow-caked jacket.
“He talks to people all the time,” Anthony said as he straightened. “They shipped him in with the Chickamauga prisoners. Said his whole command was wiped out, and he went raving insane.”
Butler cocked his head. “Chickamauga. Now that was a fight, wasn’t it, Sergeant? Company A wouldn’t have charged that hill for anyone but Tom Hindman.” He paused. “You think?” Another pause. “Maybe. I’ll ask.”
“Ask what?” Doc demanded.
Butler’s open eye seemed to clear, and he looked straight at Doc. “The men want to know if there’s any food. It’s been weeks without rations. We know commissary is bad, but they’d give anything for even some hardtack.”
“The men?” Doc felt his insides go runny. “What men?”
Butler pointed a bony finger at the space next to the stove
