The nurse tilted her head, a knowing look in her eye. “Nurse Lorrance, I’m only going by the precedence I’ve seen you set, setting your affections for a surgeon.”
Ada closed her eyes. There was no time, and as if on cue, a loud crash of metal clashed in the other room. “Now is not the time, or place. Come, we must devote ourselves to our wounded.” And she’d pray to God not to allow her alone with the girl again. Romance had no place in the medical ward.
The sound of the wind whipping past the house, its trail singing a song with the windows and shaky shutters only seemed to reinforce the chill that had grabbed hold of him, worse than any he could recall ever. Francois wanted to curl up under the thin wool blanket but the throbbing in his ankle kept him grounded, even though his toes were ice.
How he slept amazed him. Perhaps it was the medicine they gave him. Laudanum. The bitter concoction of whiskey and opium had been watered down but the taste never could be hidden. It set his mind to swirl, thoughts blending of home and the war and Emma, childhood and LaJoyce, to even his father. It made him sluggish and as much as it deadened the pain, he’d give anything just to think straight.
The long night seemed to toll but when the first ray of sunlight peaked through the clouds, he breathed a sigh. He’d lived through the night. Not that he should be worried, he thought. Anytime he thought he’d died, all he had to do was nudge that injured leg just a tad and the buckshot of pain reminded him he was still condemned among the living.
“Fran, you hear all that?” Wiggins whispered. “Sounds like either there’s been another fight or they’re leavin’!”
He struggled to hear what his buddy was saying and it seeped though the walls that there was a lot of motion, with an occasional clash of furniture and dishes. “Oui, it does sound as if they’re breaking camp.”
Wiggins wiggled out of his bed and crept to the window, his bare feet making no noise. Glancing out the window, he laughed. “We must be on the backside of the house, because all I be seein’ are some slave shanties and the cookhouse. Ain’t nobody back there doin’ nothin’.”
Francois smiled. Wiggins was joking, because even he could see the movement outside. Not that he could focus, that damn laudanum still seeping through his system.
The door burst open and four Union soldiers came in, armed and looking dismayed they’d been sent in to see to the rebels.
“Time to get you boys rollin’!” the one with the most stripes ordered.
“I do beg your pardon?” Francois noticed only he and Wiggins were awake and none of them were dressed.
The man’s response was to throw a set of Confederate clothes to him. Francois recognized his uniform quickly. Still thickheaded, he stared at them, toying with the shirt. It was still stained with mud and filth.
“Ain’t got all day, boy!” the soldier near his bed snapped. “Gotta get you all on the road.”
The other two wounded were rousted and Francois could see their confusion. None of them were exactly well enough to dress.
“Dressed or not, you’re going. It’s colder than Hades out there, so if you be wanting to stay warm, I’d figure out how to get that secesh-shit back on.”
Perhaps he had said something, Francois mused. Getting the shirt on wasn’t hard, neither was his shell jacket. It was the trousers that proved difficult. One leg in was relatively easy. The other? It wouldn’t bend so he laid back and breathed deep. The others were forced up, but they weren’t struggling with a wound like he had. Wiggling out of the one pant leg he got on was easy but to get the other, he’d have to try it first.
“Come on!”
Anger mixed with the laudanum set Francois off. When his legs swung over and he tested his injured foot, Francois saw the Yankee shooting him a look. Inhaling deeply, he put the good foot down, but his hesitancy to move fast enough triggered the bluecoat to snap. The man grabbed Francois’s shirt and yanked him up.
“I done told you to move!”
Without even considering the consequences, no doubt due to the pain that ripped up his leg when the injured foot had been forced into use, Francois’s curled fist stuck the Yankee squarely in the jaw. The man yelped, curses flowing out of his mouth like a faucet, yet his grip on Francois broke. Francois fell to the floor. A ping rang and he looked. His miniature painting of Emma fell to the floor. He would not leave that behind.
“Get up! Ain’t got time for this, Gardner!” The other soldier pushed his buddy out of the way right, but as he rose, he kicked at Francois’s outreached hand before he reached his possession. Pain roared from the kick and he doubled, falling to the floor when Wiggins got to Francois’s side.
“Here,” he said, putting his arm around him to help him up.
Staggering, they limped down the hallway to a wagon in the back. The pain subsided as he hopped along with Wiggins’ aid. He bit his tongue from wanting to put that white trash soldier down a notch or two but when he opened his mouth, Wiggins nudged him and gave a short head jerk ‘no’.
“We ain’t the only ones leavin’,” Wiggins remarked low.
Francois took a look about. Everything was moving in a mass wave of boxes being packed, staff scurrying about and other patients being geared to leave. He wondered about that woman, that nurse, oddly finding his search futile.
“Wonder where they’re taking us.”
“I can tell ya where you traitors are headin’,” the guard spat to the floor, the planks stained by the tobacco he chewed.
Francois scowled at the impertinence of the man. Yankees here apparently had no manners, but he restrained the reprimand that
