Curse of Atlantis (41 page)

Standing on the left side of the raft, without warning, a single stray bullet whistled through the air and entered the back of the first trapper’s head. The lead ball mushroomed and shattered his skull, propelling bone, brain and blood down the front of his tattered clothes and into the river. Instantly, he fell overboard and floated downstream.

In shock from witnessing the death of his companion, the remaining trapper cried out in anguish as he helplessly watched his friend floating away, trailing behind him a path of red water. Reality snapped him back into focus as another bullet embedded into one of the logs of the raft, fracturing it and sending tiny splinters into the water. He looked back at the pelts of beaver and muskrat he and his now deceased friend had toiled over for the previous two months. He hesitated for a moment, then grabbed a handful of beaver pelts, his rifle, and a tiny strongbox of money, then quickly jumped into the water. Struggling to stay afloat with the weight of the rifle, he kicked his boots wildly under the water. As his head dipped below the surface, he was about to let go of the rifle when his feet touched bottom. He pushed off the muddy floor of the river and popped his head above the water, took a gasp of air and sunk below the water again. Finding the bottom of the river once more, he launched his waterlogged body above the surface and gasped for another breath of air. As he sank back into the water, his head now was above the water line. He had managed to move close enough to shore to wade toward land with his handful of belongings safe.

Spotting a large boulder at the river’s edge, he made his way toward it, keeping his head mostly submerged for cover. At the boulder, he threw his pelts and strongbox onto higher ground and positioned his rifle for defense. With the powder wet and useless, he still aimed his weapon, hoping he would not be called on to bluff.

Shaking and scared, the young boy huddled close to the rock. He had just witnessed the drama of the trappers unfold further upriver. At the tender age of seven, he had never seen a man killed before, and the sight of the old trapper's violent death shook him to his core. His world had changed in an instant, the graphic vision imprinted in his memory forever. He openly wept as he watched the remains of the old man drift slowly downstream past him.

Union Corporal Amol Fletcher, part of a three-man team assigned to artillery, had been standing at his post when the first of the four Confederate shells exploded. Fighting two cannons away, the blast sent shrapnel through his team, decapitating one private and missing the other, while he himself took a large fragment to his lower leg, nearly severing his calf from the bone. Instantly, he dropped to the ground in agony. As he cried out in pain, he clutched the dangling flesh, irrationally trying to reattach it to the bone. In his delirium, his world seemed to slow. No one noticed him as he lay sprawled on the ground between the cannons. As bullets passed over his head, he heard their whistle, and for a moment forgot about his injury as a sense of self-preservation overtook him. He rolled on his belly and began to crawl. Pulling with his arms and pushing with his uninjured leg, he slowly worked his way through cannon and soldier, dragging a trail of blood behind him. As hypovolemic shock began to develop from the loss of blood, the pain from his gaping wound became less noticeable. He moved faster and with more determination. Suddenly, a soldier lay in his path, face down. Corporal Fletcher grabbed his shoulder to roll him over as he felt the sting of hot lead graze his forearm and impact the back of the soldier’s head. Instantly, the soldier’s skull exploded, covering Corporal Fletcher's face with blood, bits of brain and bone. He jerked away in reflex and cried out in fear, only to feel the mind-numbing pain of his own injury. As fear enveloped him further, he quickly crawled around the deceased soldier and continued on his path.

 
Up ahead, several yards away, Corporal Fletcher spotted a boulder for protection. Fear and anxiety coursed through his veins as he struggled to stay alive. Desperately, deliberately, he stretched his hands out in front of him, clawing at anything he could use to further his escape. As he crawled, the elevation dropped off slightly, allowing him more protection from the bullets passing above. With grass and mud embedded in his fingernails, he reached the larger boulder and pulled himself around it to safety. Lying on his stomach, he rolled over and sat up against the smooth granite rock. He heard the sound of bullets ricocheting off the boulder and deflecting into the trees around him as he instinctively ducked from the sound. With his adrenaline pumping, he reached down to his grass- and dirt-stained shirt and ripped off a strip from its bottom edge. Taking the strip in both hands, he lifted the hanging flesh and secured it to the bone with the cloth, tying a loose knot to hold his calf in place as the pain caused him to scream in reflex.

A short distance away, a private pulling a horse-drawn ambulance heard the painful shriek of Corporal Fletcher over the thunder of war. This was his first pass through as he searched for casualties. Hearing the horrific screams, he snapped the reins to the team of horses and quickly located the suffering Corporal, barely conscious but still feeling his agony. He leaped down from the buckboard and ran to his side with a canteen of cool water. Kneeling, he placed the canteen to the corporal's lips and slowly poured a few swallows into his mouth.

In his grave state, Corporal Fletcher choked and coughed as the water entered his mouth, causing him to cry out in pain once more. Instinctively he pushed the private’s hand away and opened his eyes.

In a weakened voice, he said, “They've killed me. The Rebs have killed me.”

Looking down at Corporal Fletcher's blood, which had pooled under his leg, the private quickly realized the gravity of the situation. As he reached to lift the fading corporal, he replied, “Nonsense. Doc Morgan will have that leg off in no time. You'll be good as new in a just a few days.” He smiled as he spoke, hoping to lift the Corporal's spirits.

Even in the Corporal's deteriorated state, he knew the grisly torture that awaited him once back at the makeshift hospital. He stiffened a moment and looked down at his maimed appendage. He envisioned the painful procedure, then the disfigured remnant that would be left as a sad reminder of the reality of war. Disheartened, he slumped into the arms of the private, who struggled to lift him into the waiting ambulance. Moments later, laying in one of the hard, wooden gurneys, he was reminded of his agony as the private snapped the reins, abruptly jarring the wagon, sending excruciating pain through his gaping wound and up his spine.

“Sorry,” the Private responded sincerely, although there was little he could do to improve the comfort of the wounded.

Moments later, through his own screams of agony, he heard the cries of another wounded soldier being loaded into the wooden ambulance. He glanced over to see a young boy of sixteen, thin, with wavy yellow hair, being roughly hauled into the gurney on the opposite side of the wagon. With the ghastly wound in his stomach, he didn't have long to live. His blues eyes were sunken and dulled from the loss of blood, a good deal of which completely saturated his shirt and pants, as well as his hands, as he had tried in relieve the pain with pressure to his wound. Lying there in his agony, he cried out to God to end his suffering. Corporal Fletcher could almost feel the young boy's despair as he irrationally waited in vain for a higher power to answer his dying prayer. With the realization that he was all alone, he retreated into the far recesses of his mind, his last haven for solace. Rolling his head from side to side, he murmured under his breath, "Mama, mama." At the end of his consciousness, unable to speak, Corporal Fletcher mustered the last bit of his strength as he stretched out a weak, shaking hand, and gently laid it upon the private’s shoulder.

The young private’s eyes widened a moment as he quietly spoke in a receiving tone, "Mama. I love you."

As the corporal’s world went black, he slipped into unconsciousness, having brought some measure of relief to the poor dying boy beside him. It was all he could do, and it was enough. Shortly after losing consciousness, the young boy quietly died beside him, passing beyond the horrific end into peace.

 
--- --- --- --- ---

Dr. Jeb Morgan paced back and forth by the operating wagon, envisioning the dead and wounded with each report of the Union cannons. With each crack of a twig or an unusual sound of the wind, he craned his head to listen more intently, hoping for any advanced warning of the ambulances delivering their wounded. The minutes felt like hours as he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his
Elgin
pocket watch. He pressed the tiny button of the gold timepiece and popped the cover, exposing the hands of time.

“Huh, only
10:30
,” he said aloud, frustrated at how slow time felt during moments of anguish.

He snapped the cover closed and shoved the watch back into his pants pocket once more. Returned to his pacing, he gazed through the grove of birch trees, trying to view the battle at his protected location. Barely visible, columns of smoke and debris could be seen rising off the valley floor. The sight made him wonder how the Confederates were faring, and if their own surgeon was also nervously pacing.

It started as a low clicking sound, barely audible. At first, Dr. Morgan thought it might be cannon echoes reverberating off the mountains, but as the sound persisted, he recognized the distinctive repetitive sound. It was the hooves from a team of horses as they trotted. He strained his eyes in the direction of the sound, but still saw nothing. He spun on his heels and ran toward the operating wagon.

“Ok, men; we’re on,” Dr. Morgan called out in a deep authoritative voice. “Fetch my smock,” he ordered a nearby private, who was sitting on the ground, sunning himself.

“Yes sir,” the private quickly responded, hopping to his feet.

Moments later, the screams of pain could be heard as the driver hauled the wounded over rocks, logs and uneven ground as he made his way through the birch forest to the makeshift medical camp. He pulled into the clearing and rolled to the waiting operating wagon.

Standing in their clean white smocks stood Dr. Morgan, assistant surgeon George Fowler, Pvt. Douglas, who had been resting earlier, and Pvt. Cleveland. The horses came to a halt with the rear of the ambulance just past the operating wagon. Immediately, Dr. Morgan ran to the wounded and began his assessment. There were three soldiers lying with their feet toward him. He quickly saw Corporal Fletcher's leg and the pool of blood that had collected under it. As he climbed up into the ambulance, the private driving the wagon met him in the middle.

Pointing to the young boy of sixteen, he shook his head sadly and moved his gaze to the corporal lying at the bottom of the wagon between the two gurneys. The young corporal was still conscious and suffering terribly due to a bullet that had penetrated his leg just below the knee and smashed through the bone, leaving a gaping wound and shattered fragments embedded into the raw, mangled flesh.

Assessing the situation, Dr. Morgan quickly pronounced the young boy dead, and turned his attention to the two men still living. Feeling Corp. Fletcher had the gravest injury, he motioned to the two privates to carry him to the operating table. Immediately, the two lifted the gurney out of the ambulance and over to the other wagon.

As Dr. Morgan cut away a portion of the corporal’s pant leg, Asst. George Fowler prepared the chloroform. Dr. Morgan looked up while cutting and said, abruptly, “Save it. He's unconscious. I'll have his leg off well before he ever wakes up.”

Asst. Fowler stowed the chloroform and replied, “You think he'll ever regain consciousness after this?”

“I do.” Dr. Morgan replied simply, then added, “Once I tie off those arteries, I think he'll be ok; that is, if we can control the infection.”

Asst. Sgt. Fowler just nodded as he jumped down off the wagon and came around to the back. He stood for a moment and awaited further orders.

Looking at the gruesome sight, Asst. Fowler watched as Dr. Morgan placed the mechanical tourniquet just above the knee and over the femoral artery. With the strap wrapping around the leg, he pulled hard to tighten the cloth band around the skin. He then turned a large lever on the tourniquet to take in the excess slack. Moments later, the blood that oozed from the wound slowed to a slight trickle.

Dr. Morgan's hands were already covered in blood as he reached for his scalpel. With his pant leg gone, Corporal Fletcher's right leg was fully exposed. Starting at the top surface of the leg, Dr. Morgan began the amputation as he explained the procedure to Asst. Fowler while he operated.

“Right, I know this is your first time, so I'll try to explain as much as practicable. First, we determine the point of incision closest to the wound. We always try to leave as much of the amputated limb as possible. I'd say we could safely amputate about an inch or so behind the wound,” Dr. Morgan said as he placed the scalpel on the top of the leg.

Looking up at his assistant, then up to Corp. Fletcher to ensure he was unconscious, Dr. Morgan was now ready. “Right then. Start at the top, here,” he said, pointing with the scalpel. “We pierce through the upper integuments – skin, that is – cutting through the fascia and just into the muscle. This really should be quite simple with him unconscious.”

As he explained, he pierced through both layers of skin and into the muscle as he sliced from the top and worked his way around to the bottom, blood and fatty yellow tissue immediately oozing from the laceration. At the bottom, he reached around the leg, coming up from underneath on the opposite side and continued to make his incision up the other side, ending at his first point of incision. The two incisions were so quick; Asst. Fowler barely had time to comprehend.