Up close, during the actual fight, the blue and the gray intermixed at times, unable to see others on their side or not. No one could see. The thicket made charging through or retreating a difficult thing to do. Uniforms were ripped, hats pulled off, skin scraped over and over again.
General Ewell pushed and all the men, particularly the Tigers, pounced as well as they could. At one point, Francois’s horse whinnied painfully with a jerk to her right, almost unseating him but he fought to remain on, only to promptly get off to examine her. She’d been grazed by a minet ball, the bullet nicking her front withers near the saddle, and close to hitting his thigh. He yanked out his handkerchief and swabbed the wound. It wasn’t deep but he gathered until this eased, perhaps she shouldn’t be ridden. Well, not till the bleeding stopped, he reckoned.
A bullet whizzed past his head, the noise so loud, he jumped back a space. His blood started to boil. That Yankee son-of-a-bitch nearly took him out! Fury overrode common sense. He pulled his Enfield out of the gunstock on his saddle, loaded it and fired back. Then he pulled it back and reloaded it. It was madness. Falling in with the Tigers, Francois followed commands and loaded, held back, reloaded and advanced to fire again. His foot throbbed but he leaned more toward the better foot and ignored the pain. Even when his hat flew off his head, he didn’t notice.
To hell with the Union!
But a subtle voice echoed deep. Ada. He was insane, he decided, picking up the rifle one more time when the enemy’s fire hit him. It was like a thud, as if he ran into a chair, that ignited into a rippling pain that burned. Again, Ada was his last thought as he sank to the ground.
The incoming wounded were like waves of the ocean she’d seen once, years ago. A mess arrived like mad dogs that were looked at, treated and moved to their areas of either surgery or minor bandaging or taken out to the outside area for those deemed not able to be saved, like those with their stomachs ripped apart. Then there was a slowdown, where Ada could breathe and take a sip of water, only to be overrun again.
It wouldn’t matter who was in charge, the Union medical department was understaffed for this huge endeavor of Butcher Grant. She decided after the third wave yesterday that the nickname was right, despite the fact General Meade was still in charge of the Army of the Potomac. Grant was here, and she determined that was all it took, for Meade would throw care to the wind to maintain his command.
“Here you go, Doctor.”
She looked at the young orderly handing her a cup of water. “Thank you.” She took a sip, staring at him. He was way too clean after now two days of battle. “May I ask who you are, sir?”
He gave her a smile and his cheeks flushed. “Private Jonathan Thorpe, ma’am.” He bowed, which made her smile.
“Private Thorpe, how old are you?” She frowned. Not only was he too clean, he looked way too young and his voice squeaked of youth.
Thorpe swallowed. “I’m fourteen, ma’am.” When her jaw fell open, he quickly added, “I’m the drummer boy for General Hancock’s Corps. Got sent to carry the wounded in, so I kinda stayed to help out.”
Fourteen. She wanted to gasp. Way too young for this! “Well, thank you for your help, Private. We always need the help around here.” She smiled.
“More wounded!” Came the cry and she turned to see the oncoming stretcher carriers.
“Private Thorpe, go help them, please.” As the boy scurried off, she put the cup down and returned to her makeshift table.
But she wasn’t ready for the first patient.
“Will! What happened?” She raced with her bag in hand as he was escorted to a nearby chair.
“It’s hell itself out there,” he muttered, cradling his right arm.
She saw the blood-drenched frock coat sleeve and the rips in the fabric. “We gotta get this off you. Here.” She pushed the uninjured side off first, hearing him grimace when it jostled the injured one. “What happened?”
“It’s a disaster out there. Wilderness is the right name. All thick like a wild land and it tears at you as you try to get through it.” He bit his lip when she worked to get the injured side off, and paled as she yanked gently.
The sleeve was torn and bloody so she ripped the fabric off. It was still too covered in blood and grime and fabric for her to see, so she found her cup of water, thankful the boy had filled it so it still had plenty in it, and poured it on his arm. He jumped with a screech but she ignored him as she turned his arm. A jagged gash ran down the forearm, similar to other gashes she’d seen. A bullet grazed the arm.
“You’ll live. I’ll get you cleaned…”
“No, no,” he muttered but with urgency. “I need you to find another to go out there. If you think you have it bad in here, it’s worse out there.”
“Will, please. Let me take care of this.”
He yanked his arm from her, surprising her with his determination. “I can get a steward to do this. You have severely wounded out there.” He stood and walked away, a little swaying, but managed to get to a steward as Ada stood, her mind racing.
She went to the flap of the large walled tent that served as the hospital. Before her were roughly, she guessed, twenty wounded, carried or walked in by men who were worn out and tattered. This was the hospital tent closer to the Rapidan. She knew there was another closer to the front. Biting her bottom lip, she wondered how they’d all be sorted, when one of the doctors out there was gone. Stewards
