Instantly, she was back at his side, shifting his bandaged leg back over the padded blanket. “You should’ve listened to me. Hopefully, you haven’t damaged yourself further.”
Settled back into his bed, Francois grimaced. “Charming. Didn’t realize the North be sendin’ women to fight us.”
The woman smiled as she pressed the cup of water to his lips. It was a grin that made his insides melt, as if she was simply a lady and he, a true gentleman, meeting her at a soiree or dinner.
“No, sir. I, myself, and the other ladies here are to help men like you, hurt in this ghastly affair. The color of your uniform does not matter. Our job is to tend the wounded.”
The trickle of water this time, was easier to swallow. He nodded his head as thanks, his energy evaporating quickly as the pain subsided. But the notion of him being a captive echoed in the back of his mind, and he wondered if he’d ever wake again when his world turned black.
There were bugs here. Their buzzing had been soft but now grew and Francois turned his head in a vain attempt to shoo the noise away. It was a wasted effort. He swatted at them and found nothing there. Slowly, he opened his eyes, expecting to find a swarm around him and found no insects. Nothing but the room he’d seen earlier. The bothersome noise, though, took on a new facet and that he discovered by peering down the bed he was on to find another set of doctors, or so he assumed, considering they were in white jackets and looked a bit more studious than the lady with her hair pulled back and garbed in black with a white apron, carrying a cup in her hands.
One of the doctors rubbed his chin as he stared at Francois’s leg. He threw back the sheet and without even taking note that his patient was awake, he twisted the foot, moving the bandage aside. Francois growled, dying to move his leg but the pain stalled him.
“That was her prognosis?” the doctor muttered, never even registering Francois’s pained expression. Instead, he frowned and continued. “The wound looks plausibly good, though I see no pus at this point.”
“She’s very good, sir,” the other doctor replied.
“You say you studied with her?”
“Yes, sir. At Pennsylvania, sir. She,” he coughed, his tongue thick as he went on. “She was enrolled in the medical school. To be a physician.”
“Heard about that damn school allowing women in. Disgrace to us all.” He turned the foot again, sending another jolt of pain through Francois. “He’ll still loose the use of that foot. Should’ve had it amputated, would’ve been the wiser move. While it now appears relatively well, though without a clear pus, I doubt it’ll be of any good.”
Instantly, Francois remembered this physician. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave my foot alone,” Francois jumped in, as he saw the surgeon’s hand reaching again toward his limb. “Sir,” he corrected his manner.
The doctor looked startled. “Oh, didn’t see you awake, Reb.” He pulled the sheet over the leg. “Dr. Leonard, do tell her I approve.”
“Yes, Dr. Waxler.”
Reb? He just called him Reb and then ignored him? Damn Yankee had no manners! Francois opened his mouth but Waxler spun on his heel, and stalked away, his hands clasped behind his back with the other know-nothing doctor in his path.
Slamming his jaw shut, he tore his gaze off the retreating physicians and finally took a look down at his injured leg. An achy throb increased from it being manipulated but outside that, all Francois saw was bandage. The foot, including his ankle, was wrapped in linen, a stained fabric, though he could see where part of the pinkish tone was red, right over the part of him that hurt the most. He forced himself upright, into an almost sitting position, slinging the good leg to the side as he tried to move the other. In his heel, ice-hot pain seared him and it took ever energy he had not to yell. Yet, he could move some, for he saw his toes wiggle a tad. Every ounce of him wanted to scream every expletive he could drum up, but for what?
“Surprised to see you up.”
Francois spun his head, gripping the side of the pallet to stabilize himself when the scenery around him began to waver. He found one of his Tigers laying on a pallet, his arm bandaged, as well as his chest.
“Wiggins, you shot?”
Wiggins snorted. “Not bad, so they say. At least, I wasn’t threatened to lose a limb.”
Francois guffaw. “Not if you had that woman waiting on you. Asked her to not let that beast take my foot and guess it worked. It’s still here.” He gestured toward the wounded foot.
“Yes, well, I been seeing her about here. Appears she got some pull, or bad luck, depending.” Wiggins chuckled. “But she’s been most attentive to you. Thinkin’ she’s got her hat perched for ya.”
Francois sighed. “I don’t need a meddling nurse, pretty or not.”
“Ah, so you did see her. Boy, we’ve been gone for so long, anything in a dress is worth the look! And she ain’t sore on the eyes at all!” Wiggins grin widened. “Think from all the fussing she’s been doing, she’s taken care of the most of us rebs. That doc with all the bars not likin’ it none, either, but he don’t wanna handle us, either. Ole school teachings of saw off the damaged limb. Done took Charlie Webb’s arm off.” His face turned somber. “Gruesome hit. All tore to shreds. Didn’t live nigh on a day after that sawbones did his work.”
Francois saw the empty pallet next to Wiggins, guessing that’s where the young soldier from New Orleans had been. He recalled Webb. Good soldier but might a young, Francois thought, with his rifle almost taller than he was. But bullets didn’t choose who they hit, just whoever crossed their path. Francois couldn’t help
