She shook her head to vanish that thought and re-concentrated on his wound.
“You appear to be mending, sir. The swelling has dropped considerably and it no longer is hot or weepy.”
He frowned. “Weepy?”
“Often wounds will seep as they heal. Many surgeons believe that is good, though I’ve come to dismiss that as such, because that accompanies fever and inflammation, thus failing in the ‘cleaning’ as once believed.” She put her hand on the ball of his foot. “How does that feel?”
He gave her a sly grin. “Do you really want to know?”
The question was seductive and she bit her tongue, moving her hand to stretch against the sole of his foot and pressed. “And this?”
That made his smile disappear. “I feel it. It tingles some.”
She released and stepped back, dropping the sheet back over him. “We’ll let it rest a bit more and perhaps, try to stand tomorrow. I’ll try to get you something to eat in the meantime.” Anything to escape, she thought, her heartbeat quickening as she raced out the door and away from temptation, for he was all that and more. What was she doing?
Chapter 15
“We had a run for it. Staff officers yelling and calling on the men to rally and support the artillery and the men throwing away their guns and running like mad men and them Rebs a yelling as they came up on the charge with that peculiar yell they have. It sounds like a lot of school boys let loose. I thought Hell had broke loose.”
—Samuel Bradbury, Union Army Engineer in a letter home following the Battle of the Wilderness, 1863
Inhaling deeply, Francois concentrated again. He rocked in the seat, determined to win against the pain yet decided his problem wasn’t his wound, but more so his prison. It was a multi-faceted cell. Far better than that prisoner of war camp he was locked in, but a cell nonetheless. It was very nice, some ways too nice. Lush stuffed chairs, Persian-style rugs and a bed that cushioned every move reminded him of home in Louisiana, not army life in Virginia, nor the Yankee prison up north, yet it locked him in, with no freedom to leave because he wasn’t mobile. An injury received while fighting for the Southern demand of freedom from the repressive and control-driven Northern government. For a man who, in the deep South of Louisiana, with little exposure to the war, thanks to a traitorous brother, now found his core yearning for states’ rights and the Confederate cause—a cause that now filled his whole being, along with the frustration of his situation right now.
Basically, as long as he remained immobile, the longer he’d be under the heel of the Yankees. Even if that heel did belong to a very delicious nurse, no, doctor, who apparently had risked a lot to help him. He frowned, for that alone was another mystery. Why would a Northern lady, medically inclined or not, take care of a rebel like him?
That thought set off a flame of anger, and passion, from deep inside him. He’d walk again, dammit! Placing both feet on the floor, the injured one a bit more gingerly set, he grabbed the bedpost and pulled himself up. The torn flesh at first refused to let him put his heel to the ground, so he stood, that foot balanced on the ball of it. With a grimace and force, he pushed that heel down and released the grip on the frame. At first, it felt all right. His fierce expression relaxed, as he allowed himself to pat himself on the back for this achievement.
Then, the heel rebelled. All the nerves set on fire and Francois crumpled to the floor. Damn it all to hell! He panted, trying to control his anger and the flash of agony that raced up his leg. Steeling his shoulders, he demanded his body to achieve what he desired. It took every ounce of energy and strength he possessed, plus more, but he pulled himself back up to the mattress, ignoring the next surge of pain. Collapsing on the bed, he struggled to stay still and collected himself.
This was one battle he refused to lose!
Ada inhaled deeply, collecting her scattered thoughts. It had been a long day at the hospital. One of the men had died today, despite her best hopes and prayers. He was an amputee from the Virginia campaign, an artillery barrage had shattered his one leg, one arm and pitted his torso with shrapnel. The arm had been removed, the leg a week later. His morale sank, his stumps inflamed and pussed madly as he sank into a fever that stole his soul. He was a sergeant in a New York unit, the number she’d forgotten, but his name was etched into her soul at the moment. Robert Wright. A young twenty-year old law clerk with a new wife he’d left behind for the glory of the Union. Writing the condolence letter to the widow nearly undid her. Those duties were not for her, but since she’d nursed him and couldn’t stop the feeling that she’d failed him, forced her hand. Tears flowed and it took longer to write as she worked hard not to weep across the letter, smearing the ink.
The whole ordeal made her nearly forget the morphine and cane she’d procured for her own patient. Thankfully, she’d placed them
