The Better Angels: Hearts Touched by Fire, Book 4

own gaze softened, but he took off toward his corner of the hospital to pack. Ada wanted to giggle. She should return to Philadelphia to help the people she was ordained to help, when there were plenty of doctors who avoided the army at all costs and gladly took on the patients? Obviously, no.
“Miss James, Maybelle,” she called, knowing the nurse was no doubt around the corner, eavesdropping. “Call the other nurses. We need to pack!”
She heard the muttered ‘aye’ and smiled. Going over to the medical chest, she began to re-pack it for the new location. Purpose. She was here for a purpose. And it was a way to keep herself going during the loneliness and the heartache that ran deep. Now if she could just bury the frustration of being reduced to a nurse when she knew she could help so much more…

Chapter 6
“During the night of the fifth, two men came back to the Lacey House, both slightly wounded. One was a Rebel...the other one of our men. They had got together, both had lost their muskets, and as the brush was getting afire they made the best of their way out of it together, taking their chances as to which of the two lines they might fall.”
—Union Soldier, Grand Army of the PotomacBattle of the Wilderness, May, 1864
November 20th
“Here.”
Francois looked up just in time as Morris shoved a tin cup his way. The waft of acorns and whiskey rose from the contents. “Thanks, I think.” He sniffed again, not sure if he was to drink from it or what.
Morris laughed. “You knew that stash of coffee wouldn’t last long. Not with this group.”
“Acorns?” He had a hard time seeing how the tree nut could be used as a drink.
“Yessir,” Wiggins joined, walking up and plopping himself down on the tree stump nearby. “We Southerners find a way to get by.” He gave them a lopsided grin. “’til we see the next supply train, or house.”
Still frowning, Francois brought the cup to his lips. The cold had seeped into his bones by now and the slow rain that started to fall made it worse. He wanted coffee but at this point, anything warm would do. He took a sip. The fiery drink virtually burned his lips and tongue as the liquid lit a flame of warmth as it went down his throat. The whiskey that was in it, very mild but there, smoothed the edge of this brisk day.
It took him a moment to realize both men were watching him. “May I help you?”
“Just wondering what you thought,” Morris answered. “Recipe is my own.”
“And the whiskey?”
“End of the line for now,” Wiggins sighed. “Takes the edge off the cold.”
It definitely took the sting off the tree-scent. Francois took another sip. The liquor eased the stiffness from the inside out and he relaxed just a bit, taking in all he’d witnessed and done. The wool on the uniform was stiff and if he moved right, the cotton lining on the jacket didn’t stop the roughness. It scratched through his cotton undergarments. The army only issued uniforms, the undergarments were lacking so he had to rely on his own and the shirts Morris told him to bring. Since it rained, the roughshod brogans, which were not well made to start with, were soaked. The stiff shoes were sucked into the mud and many times, he really just wanted to leave them there, but knew that wasn’t ideal. Out here, when might he get another pair? Probably off a dead man and that he refused to think about, though this pair might have come from that very source since he suspected this wasn’t a new outfit. War….
“So, I figured where I’ve seen you.”
Francois turned. It was a private he’d run into on the battlefield first, then seen in camp the last few days. Joshua McFadden, from New Orleans, an Irish lad with a freckled face on a bronzed complexion and red hair dirtied by camping with the army.
“Where might that be?” He didn’t recall ever seeing this boy before, but if it were in town, he rarely took note of the laborers. His business was always with shippers, lawyers or LaJoyce.
“I’ve done see you in that whore house, down on Carondelet. Bonne Jeux. That colored corner, all fancy looking with the pretty girls.” McFadden nodded. “Yes, that was it. You were talking to that fancy madam who runs it. Miss LaJoyce. She’s a luscious sweet darky.”
There was something about the gleam in the Irish lad’s eyes that made a flare of rage tick off inside him. His jaw tightened and lips clenched as his shoulders steeled. “Really?”
Wiggins stared at him, as did the soldiers trying to warm themselves over their fire. Morris jumped.
“Of course you did,” Morris stated. “Those lovely beauties come from the Fontaine plantation.”
Francois’s had a pang of some emotion he couldn’t name strike at his gut. Most of the girls in LaJoyce’s house did come from Bellefountaine. LaJoyce did not come from there, but she knew how they managed to accrue such exotic creatures.
“Oh, I’ve seen those tarts,” Wiggins added. “Way out of my pocket, that’s for sure! But they’re a beauty to be enjoyed with a glance. Mulattos often are, though as I seem to recall, don’t they have different colored eyes? Like blue or green? Don’t often see those in the coloreds.”
The men around them nodded, murmuring some had seen them and what beauties they were. Francois knew exactly why they had unusual hues, but he didn’t offer it. For some odd reason, another emotion raced through him, one of feeling guilty and that irked him.
Another one of the men, one whose name escaped Francois, spoke. “That be right. Right tasty, too. But those colors do grab ya, that’s for sure. The talent makes them even better.”
The hair on the back of his neck bristled and his irritation inched upward, he couldn’t decide if that was because of a guilt he’d