With her mindset and a reprimand for Waxler forming on her lips, Ada stormed back into the hospital only to run into chaos unfolding. The patients appeared to have multiplied while she had stepped out and the escalade of moans, with a painful yip periodically, grew. She could barely move through the remains of the front parlor thanks to the influx of men. The setting sun outside, or the faint remains of it, darkened the hell just that much further. Fearing she’d step on some of the wounded, now many lying on the floorboards since all the beds and settees were occupied. Some of the men tried to catch her attention, pulling at her sodden skirts and she found her resolution to make it across, to the supply table, was being tested.
“Miss, miss, please,” one man pleaded, his pitch high enough it did stop her.
She made the mistake of looking down. What she found made her heart weep. A young soldier, his sandy-colored hair matted with blood and caked with mud, had a gapping gash on the side of his face framed by black soot from black powder. One hand had a tight grip on her skirt hem but the other had was missing half its fingers from the looks of the blood-soaked wrappings, and his clothing, half ripped open as many soldiers did when hit, searching for the wound, exposed an oozing hole on his side. Swallowing the bile that crept up her throat, she bent and unwrapped his fingers from her skirts.
“Soldier?”
“Private Matthews, ma’am,” he replied, his lips curling in a smile. The shock of pain in his eyes beat on her soul. “Am I gonna die?”
“Yes,” she wanted to tell him. The stomach wound deemed his death. How he’d made it inside versus being left out near a tree, one they always found to rest these poor souls under, she’d never know. To her, he’d risked his life in the debacle, he deserved the truth. But his youth and the need in his voice made her shake her head. “You hold on, Private Matthews. Help will be here in just a few.”
He closed his eyes and nodded.
Feeling her heart clench, she tore away, upset and angry that all the lives here meant little, just to gain a goal against the enemy. Her hands fisted at her side as she fought the anger. More needed help, not her opinion. She headed back to the supply room, a break sorely needed, when she ran right into Will. Surprised, she stepped back.
“Apologies, I did not see you.”
He gave her an odd stare, as if he hadn’t seen her at all. A curl of his dark hair fell across his forehead and she saw the lines that formed from concentrating too hard, a distant look in his eyes.
“Will, are you all right?” She didn’t like his appearance, as if he wasn’t here mentally, but all the blood on his white surgeon’s coat and the stain of it on his hands told her he definitely was. When he didn’t answer, she pushed again, “Dr. Leonard?”
He shook his head, as if to shake off a moment and gave her a terse grin. “Ada, this is too much. I am exhausted and just at wits end.”
She went to the warming stove and pulled the coffee pot off, careful how she maneuvered as the tin ware was hot, and poured him a cup. “Here,” she stated, shoving the heated cup into his hands. “Surely the incoming will stop soon.”
Will snorted. “Heard Meade has declared a success but is pulling back. Typical.” He drank. “They’ve also brought us more secesh. All shoved to the side, deeming our men first.” He shook his head. “I’ll have no strength left by then.” He gave her a sorrowful glance. “This is a time we need all the help. They shouldn’t keep you back here, as nothing more than a nurse.”
“I’m helping as I can,” she retorted, relishing a moment of no patients. “I am a nurse. I’m doing the best I can.”
Will started to speak, but a roar from the Confederate room exploded. Without another thought, they both took off toward the racket and entered into another room of hurt.
Ada saw the man. He appeared tall, taking the entire length of the makeshift bed, his dark hair slick with sweat and rain. But it was his piercing blue eyes that drew her. They were brilliant blue, like sapphires, and glowing with anger at the men around him on the dining table where he was laid. His uniform was dirty but definitely a rebel uniform. It was torn but she found no blood until she glanced down at his legs. His left pant leg was ripped and soaked in blood. Dr. Waxler held his left foot in his hand, raising it slightly, looking for the injury. The soldier squirmed under the pain, requiring another soldier to hold him down.
As Waxler twisted the foot, trying to pull the socking off, the man’s scream rippled loud and clear. Blood dripped onto the table. Waxler snorted.
“Foot’s injured. We’ll need to amputate.”
She witnessed the soldier’s eyes widen at the surgeon’s pronouncement and he let loose a blood-curdling scream.
“Emma!” Then he collapsed, passed out.
Ada couldn’t take her eyes off him, his outburst too hard to ignore. Made her vaguely wonder who this Emma was, a wife probably, so dear to him, he’d call for her now in dire need. Waxler put the foot down, shaking his head.
“We’ve got our boys to deal with first. This damn rebel will have to wait.” He turned to leave, the attendant at the man’s head,
