The Better Angels: Hearts Touched by Fire, Book 4

are not performing to their best, while there are others who do more than required.” His gaze at her narrowed. “In fact, they are found stepping into a position they are not qualified for.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Major Letterman, I do the best I am allowed to do.” Had Will reported her acting as a doctor? A position that, despite what the Union Army proclaimed, she was more than qualified for. Anger sparked in her blood.
The doctor snorted with a half a smile. “Madame, I have no desire to upset you. I know you are a graduate of the Pennsylvanian School of Medicine. In fact, I’ve been told you out rank some of our stewards, and perhaps a physician or two, in your knowledge and skills, but I must remind you that the Army will not let you practice on any of our men.”
The words still stung. They had been repeated every day, she swore, since she entered the college. But she held herself still. “Sir…”
“No, let me finish. While I must uphold Army regulation, I am not always present. And,” he paused. His voice lowered as he continued. “I also know the staff is often overwhelmed with the numerous wounded. Do the best you can to aid them, but be aware of the eyes that watch you.”
She wanted to faint. He told her to help? She gulped. “Yes, sir. Thank you, Major.”
“Make no mention of it.” He gave her a half smile that quickly vanished. “With that knowledge, I must also inform you that you and the nurses, with the rest of the medical staff, must pack quickly and head to the main house, located a half of mile from here. One we have…acquired, as it were, for a better medical facility.”
Ada’s eyes widened. The battle had started and already, command knew it would be bad. With a quick nod, she bid him farewell and raced to find the staff. As she’d witnessed before, things would go downhill fast, so she pushed all thoughts of her distant love aside and braced herself for the bloodbath to come.

Chapter 4
“…the North is determined to preserve this Union. They are not a fiery, impulsive people as you are, for they live in colder climates. But when they begin to move in a given direction…they move with the steady momentum and perseverance of a mighty avalanche.”
—Sam Houston, Governor of Texas, 1861
What he had read in the papers on the horrors of battle didn’t even begin to touch the picture of the real moment. Francois had reacted, as the rest of the Tigers, on the Union assault, firing his gun, reloading and firing again toward a sea of blue that did not seem to stop. Smoke filled the air and Morris had sworn reinforcements must surely be on the way, but the rise behind them cut the Tigers off from the rest of Lee’s forces. It was as if they were alone, fighting Goliath but without the rock and sling to bring him down.
The fighting became intense. Francois followed his compatriots and attached his bayonet to the end of the weapon, swinging it like a club at the oncoming Yankees. One soldier pressed closer, too close it seemed for him to twist the gun to hit the man so he plunged forward, sinking the triangular blade into the enemy’s gut right before he received the same attack. The soldier’s eyes widened in fear as he gurgled blood that rose into his mouth and spat it at Francois, who tried to duck but couldn’t total escape the red stream. With a yank, he pulled his gun free and his opponent fell, never to move again.
Francois stood, feet frozen to the ground, unable to move, his ears ringing. His weapon gleamed in red blood that dripped off the bayonet and gunstock. The angle he had to use to disengage had turned the rifle into a funnel and the blood had oozed down, covering his hands. Well, he assumed it was the fallen man’s blood, though with all the carnage around him, it could be from any of them, maybe even him.
“Come on!”
The push against his shoulder, the violent shove by Morris, snapped Francois back to the present. He blinked but nodded as he grabbed his rifle. “To where? Got them all around us.”
“Hays be there,” Morris pointed.
Their commander was still on his horse, but surrounded by Yankees swarming in. His sword was in the air and it took Francois a moment to realize the man’s panicked look spoke a million words. He was going to surrender due to numbers but with the soldiers so close, he couldn’t sheath his sword without damaging his animal or worse. Almost in response to the tension the equine could sense, he bolted with Hays still onboard, clinging to the leather as the horse raced to the bridge.
“Now!” Morris yelled, stabbing the Yankee in front of him with the bayonet before he took off to the river.
More blood. Francois could barely comprehend the scene when the need to survive kicked in as another set of soldiers appeared. He raced down the slope with Morris, toward the river. He could see Hays’s frantic ride across, driven by a steed running with fear, but the Yankees firing at him clogged the opening to the bridge.
“We gotta take the river!”
Francois looked down at the water, the urge to argue against it dissipated as bullets whizzed through them, barely missing him. This was war. What he’d been able to avoid and now raced into…
“Come on!” Morris raised his rifle above his shoulders to keep it from the water and jumped.
Francois moved toward the edge, hesitating still. Most of these men had been hardened by the years of fighting but he’d managed to remain home, running the plantation since his father was a senator for the new government and the number of slaves they had kept Francois at home to manage them. It wasn’t that he was afraid, he thought, but…
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