The Better Angels: Hearts Touched by Fire, Book 4

them to get the barn ready and they nearly jumped with joy, anything to escape cleaning soiled sheets.
“Ada.”
She looked up, tipping her chin to see Will.
“I know, when it gets tough from all the wounded coming in, don’t encourage Waxler from ordering you out. You know that old curmudgeon doesn’t care for Dragon Dix’s staff, and not for nurses who push doctors to use other methods.”
Her anger stirred. Will was right. The head surgeon, Waxler, did hate women nurses and Dorothea Dix who founded the nursing staff for the army, and especially ones like her that talent surpass simply nursing guidelines. “Half of their prognosis doesn’t hold well. Most of these men do not need to have all their limbs removed.” She stood, forcing her hands not to clench, and turned away from her friend.
“Ada, please. We need all the help we can get. That’s Lee across that river. Richmond isn’t that far away. It’s going to be hell here and soon. Promise me. I know I need you here. You’re one of the best nurses we have. Don’t do anything foolish.”
Ada glared, steeling her jaw shut. One of their best nurses. Her nerves prickled as the anger raced through her blood. She wasn’t the best nurse. She was one of the best surgeons and Will knew that. But the US Army refused women surgeons, so she’d swallowed her pride and gone to enroll in the nursing corps that Dorthea Dix hired for the Army.
Staring at Will, she managed to put the humiliation of being regulated as a woman, and not of much use outside aiding the male doctors as a nurse, aside and sighed. He grinned, knowing she’d behave.
But one of these days, they’d regret throwing another qualified surgeon aside, simply because she was a woman.
Giving him a return tight smile, she pivoted, grabbing her notebook and stormed off to pack up the sick and gather strength for another round of war.

Chapter 3
In every battle there comes a time when both sides consider themselves beaten. Then he who continues the attack wins.
—General U.S. Grant
Rappahannock Station
November 6
It was the crisp cool air of the morning that greeted Francois as he dragged himself out of sleep to answer the army bugle call. Damn army kept such ungodly hours, he groused to himself as he leaned over to spit at the empty fire pit. He rubbed his eyes again, his cheeks stinging from the brisk air and he fought the urge to shiver. Virginia was too cold for his liking.
“I’d be guessing you ain’t used to rising at this hour.” Morris laughed as he rolled up his wool blanket and tarred lining.
“Waking at this hour is good for priests and slaves,” Francois grumbled, but added a lazy smile. “Not for a good southern gentleman.”
“Whoa boys! Seems we got us a prince here!” another soldier shouted, his jovial look didn’t reach his eyes, which glared at Francois.
Morris’s lips pursed. “Don’t pay no never mind to him. Ronnie is typical of half the Tigers, men from the dregs of Nar’leans. Most of them no better than cutthroats and thieves.”
“Yeah, well, we’re the best out here on this field, you have no doubts on that now, do ya?” Ronnie shot back. He aimed his spittle at the ground and stormed off toward the source of the chicory that was brewing. Even Francois caught a whiff and his stomach rumbled.
“So I take it, these men despise the planters?” Francois hadn’t seen much of the camp, having arrived late with Morris and, after their frantic pace to get there, it didn’t take long for him to fall fast asleep. He considered it a good night, as Emma only invaded one dream, which should have relieved him, being better than haunting him all night, but it didn’t. Before he could think about that further, Morris jutted in.
“Most think we are a bunch of lazy rich boys with too much time on our hands, never understanding the large amount of what we do is run a complex system, as plantations go.” He shook his head. “But give them time. They’ll warm to ya, as long as you don’t prove yourself a coward, which I know you’re not.”
Francois frowned as he stuffed his rolled bedding into a looped piece, tied at one end, imitating Morris’s, who wore his like a slash over his shoulder. “I see I haven’t missed much, being out here.”
Morris smirked as he led the way to the line. Francois looked up and down the soldiers near him. The Tigers made the news in what few papers they got since the war began and supplies for things like newspapers fell, with the Union blockade stifling all trade. LaJoyce told him all she knew, since her brothel catered many from the Crescent City, how the ruffians from the wharves swarmed to take up the fight against those Yankee aggressors. The rest he gleaned from print, and none of it was pristine. News spread how the Tigers were fierce warriors and how they also took their trade of stealing to the front as well, raiding more than the enemy. Yet somehow, the Tigers hit a chord inside him. These were his people and he’d fit right in…
“The Federals are just across the water. We’re to hold, and send them straight to hell if they try to gain any hold here. So Tigers, man your posts!”
A roar ripped through the lines as the regimental leader finished his commands, more than most of it Francois realized he hadn’t paid one wits attention. Inhaling deeply, he straightened his shoulders and fell into line as the Louisiana troops marched to the earthworks near the Rappahannock River.
Morris stood next to him. “Francois, I’m not sure what demons you be running from, but you better pay attention here. Us Tigers have a reputation to uphold.”
Francois snorted, readjusting his rifle as he shouldered it to march. It was awkward, not anything he was used to. It’s balance, combined with the wool rolled