“If you can get McCabe into the carriage, do it, and then get out of here. I’ll claim you stole it. Good luck.”
They climbed out and the major entered Laughton House, leaving her to find her way alone, one more turn in a never-ending labyrinth twisting through a bloody battle, meetings with President Lincoln, General Sheridan, and General Grant, and now a seemingly impossible rescue mission at Chimborazo. Her life and family’s property were threatened. She’d had only bites of food and very little rest. She had walked, run, ridden on a horse, in a wagon, on a steamboat, and in a carriage. Damn, she was tired, and she wanted to go home.
Maybe the end of the maze was around the next corner. She could only hope.
Since there were only a handful of sentries patrolling the grounds, she assumed the hospital didn’t have many escapees. She turned in a slow circle to orient herself. The guardhouse and five dead houses sat on the northern perimeter. If McCabe had died, she would find his body in one of those. The patient wards, a hundred one-story buildings, were directly in front of her.
She proceeded slowly toward the building closest to the office, hands behind her, with her head bent in what she hoped looked like deep thought. If this wasn’t the right one, given the vast number of wards, the sun would be up before she had time to search the entire complex. Her plan was to assess the layout, identify exits, count the guards, locate McCabe, and get him out of there.
She could do this.
A small shiver passed over her as she opened the door and entered a candlelit ward. The ward held two compartments separated by a low partition running lengthwise. There were four rows of metal beds and two centrally located stoves. Blink. Sliding wood shutters covered square windows, and were partially open. Blink. The door at her back remained open. Blink. Leaving it ajar would catch the guards’ attention when they passed by. She didn’t want that, but closing it would block her escape. She didn’t want that either. Undecided, she flipped an imaginary coin. Heads. She closed the door.
A chair scraped across the rough plank floor and a young soldier snapped to attention, acknowledging her. “Evenin’, sir.”
She took a calming breath, decided to forgo formalities, and asked with a sharp tone but low voice, “Where’s the prisoner?” She’d be in trouble if there was more than one.
“Down there.” The soldier pointed toward the end of the row on the far side of the room. “Number twelve. If’n you ask me, the man’s gonna die right soon.”
Charlotte headed toward the patient. “Are you the night nurse?”
“Yes, sir.”
With only one night nurse and no guards next to McCabe’s bed, it might actually be possible to sneak the major out. A thought niggled Charlotte. If the patient didn’t need a guard, he probably wasn’t in any condition to walk out with her.
“Sir, we ain’t got no other Yanks. Why’s he here?”
“What? Oh…well.” She bit her lower lip momentarily, thinking. “He was caught down by the railroad tracks.” The lie rolled off her tongue and kept rolling. “Quicker to bring him here. President Davis believes he can identify spies living in Richmond. Has he said anything?”
“I been here all day. He’s yelped some but ain’t said nuthin’.”
Charlotte reached the foot of the bed, studying the patient. He was lying on his back, observing her with eyes half-closed. A filthy blanket was drawn up over the sharp angles of his body. She read the paper ticket tied to the end of the bed. Only his name and date of admission—Major Michael Abraham McCabe, October 17, 1864. There was no information about his condition. She moved to the side of the bed, leaned over, and took the major’s pulse. Too fast. “Is there an exit wound?”
“Nope. Still got that minié ball in his gut. If it don’t kill him, the hangman will.”
“Water,” McCabe said.
She lifted the blanket and gasped at the dirty dressing. McCabe’s distended belly was grossly inflamed around the area of the bullet entry. She pushed on it gently.
He grimaced and cried out in pain.
“Sorry.” The patient had rebound tenderness, probably peritonitis. More than likely the bullet had nicked the bowel. Although he wasn’t actively bleeding, the shallow breathing, fever, and shaking told her he was heading into shock. If she didn’t get him into surgery he would die in the next few hours. She looked at the wound again. She’d seen worse, and those patients had all died on the operating table.
“How long has he been shaking like this?”
“Awhile, I reckon. How long you ’spect he’s gonna live?”
Charlotte tapped her foot, rapidly sorting through options. If she operated on McCabe here and he survived, the Confederate Army would hang him. “At this rate, only a few hours.”
He opened his eyes very slightly, only a sliver, but she could somehow see the color—emerald. He was a handsome man, even with all the swelling and bruises on his square-jawed face. Long, dirty blond hair lay across his forehead, covering most of an open cut above his brow. Over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, probably weighed one-eighty or ninety. If he couldn’t walk, she couldn’t carry him. She checked that option off the list.
He tried to lick his lips, but his swollen tongue stuck in his mouth. His pitiable attempt at communication touched her doctor’s heart. This soldier wasn’t ready to give up. And if he wasn’t, then she wouldn’t give up on him either.
McCabe reached for her hand. “Water.”
She glanced at the nurse. “Bring me clean bandages.”
The nurse stared at her and shook his head slowly, his mouth going tight beneath his mustache. “My orders are to leave him be.”
“I’m not going to watch a man die without
