The soldier never noticed the disgust on Francois face. Instead, he cheerfully said, “Sending you to prison, where you can waste away. How’s that for ‘state’s rights’, huh?”
The guards snickered but none of his group even peeped a word. Men like this, Francois thought, will have their own time in hell. Of that, he was sure.
Another jostle, made as the guard pushed Wiggins forward and his support faltered, making Francois land on the ball of the injured foot. He bit back the swear word that came and found his comrade’s support again as he limped out of the ruined mansion-hospital to the buckboard that awaited them. It’d be a harsh ride to bear, heading straight to jail. He inhaled deeply. He had wanted to escape the hell of living in the presence of a woman he loved but could never have and he’d succeeded. But that damnation just changed its perimeters to four walls. Emma would never know what happened to him.
But he couldn’t silence the small voice that echoed would that nurse here wonder? To hell with war!
Ada worked furiously all day long. Packing a hospital, particularly one set up temporarily, was difficult. Every time, she wondered how things had been so strewn all over the place, only to discover once she thought she had everything, another drawer was opened, or box turned. What had been so organized, that she had known where to go for what, evaporated the moment the command came to pack up.
To make matters worse, she had to get the laundresses motivated and the cooks to continue their meals yet pack at the same time. Not to mention her own tasks with the patients, which reminded her of her ward in the back. The Confederates. She’d yet to see them all day and had sent Maybelle back but had yet to hear a report. Every time she’d thought she’d run in to check on them, Waxler summoned her with new orders.
“Damn Meade wants us out now!” the surgeon had groaned. “Letterman is nowhere to be found. And Meade’s convinced the Rebels will come if we don’t skedaddle.” He shook his head, then stormed off.
“Here, drink this.”
She glanced up and found Will. He held a cup for her and she frowned. “Poison or wine?”
Will snorted. “Neither. Just water. Sides, can’t have you dying on me, I mean us. You hear the news. Waxler’s fit to be tied over it all.”
She downed the liquid and realized she was thirsty. And hungry, but there was no time to break. Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, she peered at her friend and pushed. “How are my patients?”
“Fine, I reckon.”
“Fine?” her brows shot up. “I thought you went to see them.”
“Did. This morning. All fit as can be, considering. But you know they’ve been escorted out.”
“Out?” Shocked, she grilled him with her gaze. “None of them were in a condition to be moved abruptly.”
“Well, not sure how abruptly is was, but they were moved. Been sent to prison, I hear.”
“Prison??? Will, you know as well as I do, they’ll not survive that!”
When she started to turn to try to find Waxler, determined to find out where he’d sent them, Will caught her by her arm.
“I wouldn’t do that. Not now.”
“They’re in danger!” she argued. “That one may never walk again if he isn’t cared for properly.”
Will snorted but refused to budge out of her way. “We’ll find out later. You know, we’ve got to go!”
She hated when he was right. Biting her bottom lip, holding back, she turned and continued her mission. But she was determined to find that rebel again.
Chapter 12
“Always mystify, mislead, and surprise the enemy, if possible; and when you strike and overcome him, never let up in the pursuit so long as your men have strength to follow, for an army routed, if hotly pursued, becomes panic-stricken and can then be destroyed by half their number.”
—General Stonewall Jackson, CSA
Washington D.C., December 1863
Will Leonard smiled. To do so actually hurt, he decided, as his lips curled upward and his skin pulled with muscle ache. What had seemed a millennium since he’d truly smiled was probably no more than six months, he’d guess. But then again, most of that time had been out with the army, during a war he quickly learned to despise, yet the call to aid the wounded kept him grounded to it.
“Here, here!” he joined in with the rest of the men at his table and raised his glass of wine.
“I’d gather this is better than anything you’ve had recently.”
Will snorted. “Oh, I can’t say field rations can be held up next to roast goose, no. And true bread certainly holds its own against hardtack.”
“Truly, you were rationed hardtack? I am amazed.” Dr. McKendrick took a bite of his roast beef and grinned. “I thought, as an officer and a surgeon, you fared better.”
Will looked down at his plate, taking a view of the chinaware, the true set of silver utensils, the crystal stemware and the meat, real vegetables in a wine sauce, the bread with authentic butter and inwardly he groaned. Those men on the field, who sacrificed it all for the Union, lived off raw beef, poorly self-cooked, with hardtack, desiccated vegetables and water, of which over half of the rations were ill-prepared and kept in a manner that would send them later to him for treatment for stomach and digestive problems.
“We did, to a certain extent, but overall, rations were hard to get at times. Particularly if the rebels cut off our supply lines.” He took another swig of wine.
“Does this mean, being with us tonight at Albert’s, you’re out of the war?” the petite brown-eyed minx next to him queried. She’d placed her fingers on his sleeve to capture his eye, and she was lovely enough to make him want to give her more attention, but he was
