Wiggins pulled back, a puzzled look, mixed with disgust in his gaze. “You be lookin’ to die on these grounds? That’ll cost more than you, I reckon.”
“No, no,” he argued. “I don’t wish to die but I will not turn down the reaper if he appears. I will not go down without a fight.” He prayed that dispelled the cast he had just set over his fellow soldier.
Wiggins gave him a half grin and the twinkle sparked his eyes. “Good. Let’s go kill us some Yankees!”
Francois followed him as the drums rolled, calling them to formation. He’d wipe the thought that his brother was one of the Yankee-type and was thankful he wasn’t here. Whatever the hold ‘Marse’ Robert, or General Lee, had over these men now pulled Francois in. One thing was for sure. Lee had beaten and pushed off the Northern invaders time and time again. Despite the fog, the muddy ground and chill that wanted to stab him, fire ignited and he hoped, it’d burn the hole in his heart, making him forget her.
The day turned into chaos. Ada had found herself with the misfortune of witnessing this before and every time, her heart sunk as the wounded poured in. Scores of soldiers with ghastly rips in their flesh, buried bullets that brought dirt, material and skin with it. Men moaned and cried, some shrieking from the pain. Yet the doctors and nurses with any experience, worked the best they could with the limited time and supplies they had. That had always irked her. The Federal army had the means to supply them well yet their medicines and supplies bulked up an advancing force, too much so to make it practical to take them yet they were sorely needed when the two sides clashed. So they worked in a climate not to their choosing nor liking, often with poor lights, inefficient supply of water, not enough fires to clean what they had and instruments that never seemed to be enough for the call needed.
“Nurse, nurse!”
Ada spun, trying to find its source, but it was repeated and by many. The closest to her was the hospital steward, across the former dining room, trying to restrain a patient who struggled to get off the bedding.
“You ain’t gonna touch me, damn Yankee!” The rebel sputtered those words. She’d not guess his side since they’d managed to have him somewhat covered and his jacket was missing, along with half his shirt, she noted.
“Nurse Ada,” the steward started. “If you’d give a hand, please.”
She raced to the patient’s other side and took his shoulders with her bare hands. The soldier flinched as she pressed him down and despite her cooing to calm his nerves, when his shoulders hit the mattress, he roared in pain. She looked at him a bit more carefully and discovered her own hand, on the one side, was covered in red blood.
“His wound is cleared of lead,” the steward reported. “Clean shot, straight through.” He glanced at the patient. “Sir, you’ll do in a couple of days.”
Her patient, though, was passed out by the time the steward finished bandaging the wound and moved on. Gently, she laid the sheet over his wound.
“He’ll need it sweet watered.”
She glanced around to find Will rubbing his hands. They were blood stained, just as she found hers. Wiping her palms on her apron, she nodded. “I’ll have Maybelle attend to that.”
Will frowned. “She may not be the best suited for that kind.”
“What? The wounded, or the fact he is a rebel?” To her, a patient was a patient.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I do not.” She stood, facing him, fully aware the men around them needed care, not to be neglected by them. “These men in here are wounded. Sides do not matter.”
“Ada, please. We must attend our own first.”
She tightened her jawline. “Dr. Leonard, medicine knows of only one side, and that is those needing help.”
“And orders stand—” he started when a crash rang through the air.
Without another word, she followed Will as he bolted to the back room from whence the noise came. She wasn’t ready for what she found. In the center of the room, Maybelle stood, her one arm clutching around her middle, the hand of the other over her mouth as tears streamed down her face. Around her feet stood a puddle of spilled, dirty water, a wet rag and the broken bottle of some liquid, its brown concoction swirling down the waxed wooden floor.
“Good, Nurse Lorrance, glad you arrived,” muttered Surgeon Waxler. “One of your staff has loss her wits. Please replace her at once.”
Ada took Maybelle’s bent arm, tugging her to follow her. Poor Maybelle was pale and she could feel the girl tremble.
“Maybelle, surgery is the last place for you to be,” she said softly. “I left you to see to the lads in the front, those with the least wounds.”
“I did as you said,” the girl replied, sniffling. “But Dr. Waxler required aid and no one was available, so he took me.” She shuddered. “I want to help, but I wasn’t ready…” she whimpered.
Ada guided her out of the building to the front porch. Wounded were on the floorboards, most had tourniquets on, or their hands resting on packed bandages over wounds the surgeons had yet to see. Out here, the surgeons regulated the minor injuries, the type that could wait while they tackled the harder cases first. Still, she noted, many were pale and their moans were building as their pains increased.
She took Maybelle back to the bucket off the side, where a lonely chair sat, and another bowl with dry rags nearby. “Rest. We will need you, but this time, stay out here or head to the laundresses and see how they fare on those bandages. I fear we will need the rest shortly.”
Maybelle nodded as
