The Better Angels: Hearts Touched by Fire, Book 4

roar from behind and the rustling of leaves as Yankees came closer drove him to jump.
He plunged into a river, not realizing its depth and he sank to be covered by an icy temperature that felt like a hundred knives stabbing his entire being. Disoriented, he quickly sought to get out when the water around him pinged, as if rocks were being thrown in. Bullets. Those Yanks were firing at them in the river!
He fought his way to the surface and found Morris was still pushing ahead. Fighting against the cold, Francois drudged through the water, dodging bullets, praying to the Lord above to make it, when he bumped into a log just under the water. His knee stirred it to surface and he swallowed hard. It wasn’t a log but a body of another Confederate—one the Yankee shots had found. Still keeping his rifle as best he could out of the water, he worked his way around it but was slow, fighting the water and the revulsion.
“You comin’ or you plannin’ on joinin’ him?” Morris yelled.
Francois looked up and found his friend on the bank. He grimaced and took another step when the icy water pain was replaced by a shear of red-hot pain ripped his upper left arm. Those bastards shot him! Instantly, he dropped the flaming shoulder into the water, begging the cold water to deaden the agony. Somehow he kept the rifle from falling into the water. Anger raced through him and he wanted to turn and fire but the pain ripped through him, almost made him drop the rifle. Thankfully, his grip was still tight and Morris’s urging him kept him going.
The whiz of bullets echoed in his ears and the sound of a cannon in the distance roared but he made the bank and Morris, with two other soldiers, pulled him up. It was great to be out of the ice but now, in the evening air, he shivered. Still furious over his wound, he spun.
“Those damn bluebellies shot me!” He glared at Morris as he pulled the rifle into position, aiming at the Union soldiers facing them on the other bank. His shoulder pinched with the move but his furious mind ignored it until Morris nudged the barrel down.
“Yes, I see that. They done us some damage tonight that’s for sure. All them still over there be prisoners and you saw those already meetin’ Jesus. Can’t lose you as well. Come on!”
Inhaling sharply, trying to control his temper, Francois snarled as he turned to follow Morris. Granted, the Yanks won their spot along the other side of the river but he’d refused to let them win again. With each step, his arm throbbed and the pain riveted down his spine to his legs, making his steps slow. The torn shirt was dirty and soaked with blood. As it dripped onto his pants, he looked as if he’d been run over by a battle. The days of riding across lush fields and playing were long over, to be replaced by pain, fury and the drive for vengeance— for an issue he had no one to blame but himself…
It had been a long day. Ada rubbed her brow and inhaled deeply, trying to ignore the horrific stench of sweaty, dirty and wounded men. Steeling her shoulders and backbone, she lifted her chin as she stepped toward the bed, the re-filled water basin in her grasp.
“They’re coming so fast,” Maybelle whispered.
Placing the bowl on the table and wringing out the washcloth, Ada didn’t have to look at her fellow nurse to know Maybelle was white as a sheet and shaking. The freshly arrived wounded usually looked grotesque, their battlefield wounds ragged and sharp with blood and vomit competing for attention.
“Maybelle, why don’t you make sure the buckets are filled and the soap and washcloths are ready.” She turned toward the newly arrived soldier and bit her own tongue to keep from gasping when she saw the raw flesh, red and oozing, dangling a foot by a mere strand of muscle.
Maybelle nodded but stuttered, “How can you act as if none of this affects you?”
How did she explain it? “Oh, back home, where there wasn’t much around, I was the best practitioner anyone could find.” She ripped the fabric at his trouser leg and grimaced. “After my daddy died, while being the only doc around, I picked up the slack. Mostly ladies and children,” she added. She wanted to scoff. That’s all they’d found ‘suitable’ for her to attend. “But I’ve seen my share of awful. It does affect me, but all I want do is help, so I do. You, my dear, look like you’ve seen a ghost, so helping us on the wash water would be most grand.”
Maybelle nodded and excused herself so fast, she nearly ran into the bed behind her. Ada shook her head and returned to the boy on the bed.
“I ain’t gonna die, am I?”
Her patient’s question surprised her, because she’d thought he was unconscious. There was a glazed look there, like the steward had already poured spirits down him in an attempt to subdue him before surgery. “No, I don’t think so.” Her voice nearly graveled when she added, “You hold your own, son. The doctor will be coming shortly.”
He tried to grasp her hand. The pressure was weak so she met his grip partway but her eyes started to blur. So many emotions swirled inside her. Despair, because his chance of survival was grim from the looks of the wound. Amputation would be the call and rightly so, for the leg had a tourniquet on to stop the blood from pouring out and killing him, but even she could tell the signs it had been on for too long. Anger for this boy losing a foot and more for a rebellion that should’ve been stopped before it happened filled her. Anger for tears bottling up, as she was forced to do, to take care of these patients