Erin's Rebel (9 page)

Grimacing, she nodded again. “I can do it.” He wouldn’t have asked her if he had someone else. She wouldn’t let him down.

He nodded, and the other surgeon, a dark-haired man named Nate Edwards, showed her where to clamp her fingers.

“Don’t ease up or let go,” he instructed her, “until I say you can.”

“I understand.” Fighting down a wave of nausea, she tried not to think about what she held as warm, slick blood covered her hand. The artery throbbed against her finger.

Instead, she studied the face of the man lying on the improvised operating table. His skin had turned ghastly gray, but his features looked serene. He reminded her of a marble statue, except for the fuzzy beard covering the lower part of his face.

She couldn’t help but wonder if he had a wife, children, or a sweetheart waiting at home. She tried not to watch what the two doctors were doing, but the grind of the bone saw and the scent of fresh blood kept her stomach jumping.

I can’t pass out
. If she let go, it would be over for this poor soul. She’d told Doc she could do this, although, God knows what she was thinking at the time.

After what seemed like hours, Doc told her they’d finished. She had trouble straightening her numb fingers and felt lightheaded when she looked down at her hand covered in warm blood. She would not pass out, nor would she throw up. But she had to get the blood off her. Searching for an unused basin and bar of soap, she scrubbed her hands until her fingers’ tingling indicated the feeling had returned.

When she was finished, a few volunteers from town arrived to help. She spent the rest of her time dispensing water and washing men’s faces and hands. Doc finally told her she’d done enough for today and insisted she go to her tent to rest. Before leaving, she scanned the faces of all the new arrivals, looking for Captain Montgomery. She didn’t think she could sleep until she found him.

A vision of him lying in a smoke-filled field covered in blood flashed into her mind. On the way to her tent, she carefully looked over the soldiers as they returned to camp, hoping to spot him. She found only a handful of broken, discouraged men. None of them recalled seeing the captain since the battle.

When she pulled back the flap of her tent, she distinctly heard Grandma Rose’s voice. “Find him,” Grandma urged, “or all is lost.”

The whispery voice caused a shiver to run down her spine. What did that mean? He wasn’t supposed to die until 1864. Had her coming here altered things? Sinking onto her bunk, she dropped her head into her hands and tried to decide what to do.

If he wasn’t in camp, he must still be on the battlefield. Maybe he was already dead...or he could be hurt, unable to move. Grandma wanted her to find him, so that was what she was going to do.

After settling her cloth bonnet over her hair, she picked up the canteen beside her bunk. The sounds of battle had quieted. Hoping the fighting was done for the day, she stopped by Brigid’s tent and filled the canteen with the water the cook had drawn for supper.

Erin headed for the battlefield. The afternoon heat caused her to feel the full weight of her many layers of clothing. She surveyed the field, wishing she could strip down to her chemise.

Two pickets stopped her. “Where you headed, ma’am?” one of the soldiers asked.

“I need to find someone. He could be hurt or dead.”

The pickets exchanged glances. The younger one, a smooth-cheeked boy, said, “I wouldn’t go out there yet.”

“But the fighting’s over,” she protested.

The older picket, short, stocky, with a wiry-beard, said, “We still heard some shootin’ over yonder. It ain’t safe, ma’am.”

She scanned the field. Men’s bodies, dead horses, and wounded men crying piteously for help covered the landscape. Gesturing angrily, she said, “None of those men are capable of shooting anyone.”

“But the Yankees—”

“I’m not afraid of Yankees.”

The men eyed each other again. The older one looked at her and said pointedly, “Go, if you want to, but if the Yankees shoot you, it will be your funeral.”

She almost laughed aloud. “It certainly will.”

The men parted to let her pass. She slowly made her way across the vast open field.

How will I ever find him
? She threaded her way through prone bodies, stopping every time a man called out for water. She searched for Will, fearing she’d find him among the dead.

The heat, combined with the stench of gunpowder and the scent of blood nearly caused her to collapse, but she had to keep going, had to find him.

“Please...please, ma’am, help me.” She turned at the sound of the pitiful voice. A stocky, heavily bearded man lay on the ground at her feet. She gasped, then covered her mouth when she looked at where his legs should have been. Two bloody stumps poked out from his shredded trousers.

Following her gaze, he said, “I know I’m not long for this world. I don’t want to die alone. If you could jest sit here with me until it’s over, I’d be much obliged.”

Erin bit her lip. She needed to find Will but couldn’t refuse this man’s plea. No one else moved nearby. The stretcher- bearers, who’d started to collect the wounded, hadn’t made it this far. She sat beside the man, facing away from the bloody stumps.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Earnest Watkins.”

“Are you married, Earnest?”

“Yes, ma’am. She’s the prettiest gal you’ve ever seen.”

“Any children?”

“I got three. I got a tintype if you’d like to see.”

“Of course.”

He fumbled in his pocket.

She learned forward to help him fish out a small photo. She scanned the innocent, baby faces. Two boys and a girl. She imagined their mother waiting for this man to come home and wondered how the woman would bear this. Her eyes misted over.

“They’re beautiful children.” She handed the picture back.

He nodded proudly.

“I only wish I could see them one more time in this life.”

“You will,” she lied. She helped him tuck the photo into his pocket, against his heart.

Earnest sighed. “I can’t fool myself. I know I’ve lost a lot of blood. Even if I could survive, I’d be no good to them like this.” He gestured to his legs. “I’m a farmer,” he explained.

She nodded, blinking back tears. “Where are you from?”

“North Carolina.” He smiled weakly. “I only hope my wife can take my body back there when this is over. I’d like to rest back home.”

“I’m sure she will.” But she doubted a woman with three, small children could travel that far and back in this time period.

“I can’t rest here.” He glanced around fearfully.

“You’ll get back.” She patted his shoulder.

“I want to be buried on my farm. Under the magnolia tree.”

Erin nodded, not sure what else she could say. His face turned white as marble. She didn’t think he could last much longer. She took his hand in hers.

“Ellie, is that you?” he whispered.

She looked around. No one else was in sight.

“I know you’ll take good care of the children,” he said.

He thought she was his wife. “The children will be fine,” she assured him. “Don’t you worry. Rest.”

“I love you, Ellie,” he rasped.

His hand slipped from hers. He was gone. She closed his eyes and covered his face with the kepi that lay beside him. Standing over him and recalling her Roman Catholic upbringing, she made the sign of the cross and said a silent prayer for his soul.

She felt drained and exhausted but was determined to continue her search for Captain Montgomery. She only hoped that, if he’d died and it hadn’t been instantaneous, someone had been with him as she’d been with Earnest.

Close to the Federal lines, she found Yankees and Rebels lying side by side, atop one another. She feared she’d never find him in this chaos. She spent several minutes comforting soldiers, both Confederate and Federal. The men were grateful for a sip of water, a smile, and a kind word.

Erin wanted to offer all of these men encouragement but knew most of them wouldn’t survive long enough to make it back to the hospital. One young Union soldier kept calling her Harriet. He promised her they’d marry as soon as he mustered out of the service. Another impossibly young Rebel thought she was his mother. He cried and pleaded with her to take him home.

She couldn’t take much more of this misery. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Fearing she’d never find the captain, she made the decision to go back. Defeated, she rose and gathered her skirts to start the long hike back to camp.

One of the stretcher-bearers, a young, hospital steward named Matt, stopped her. “Ma’am, the captain over yonder asked me to get you.”

She peered at the boy’s freckle-spattered face. “The captain?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where is he?” She glanced around.

He pointed. “Right there, ma’am.”

After thanking him, she followed his gesture. Several men lay in a cluster. None of them moved. Her heart thumped wildly. She frantically searched among the men, whose faces she didn’t recognize. Most of them appeared dead.

Looking back in the direction the boy had gone, she found he had disappeared. Could he have been mistaken? None of the men around her seemed capable of speech.

This is hopeless
.

She walked a few feet, then froze. A man in Confederate uniform lay belly down, his face turned to the side, revealing a familiar profile, with dark brown hair. She sucked in a breath and held it.

Crouching, she touched his face. Cold. Too late. In despair, she covered her face with her hands. She’d lost him. And with that, any hope of accomplishing whatever she’d been sent here to do.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she said aloud.

A low moan answered her.

“Captain?” She touched his face and held her palm close to his lips. His breath faintly fanned against her hand.

Erin rolled him onto his back. Before she could do anything, he moaned again. A bright red stain covered his left side over the gray of his frock coat. She recalled the sudden pain she’d felt back at the hospital. Was there some psychic connection between them?

She laid her head against his chest. He had a faint, rapid heartbeat, and he was breathing. He needed help and fast. If she’d been home, she would’ve used her cell phone to call 911. She couldn’t let him die.

After opening his frock coat, she parted the ruined fabric of his muslin shirt. Blood seeped from a gaping hole in his side. She tore the ruffle off one of her petticoats and pressed the fabric against his chest, then pressed the bloodied coat back against it to hold the cloth in place.

When she took his hand, he gasped and opened his eyes. “Mrs. O’Connell?” he croaked.

She stroked his cheek and smiled. “It’s me, Erin. Can’t you call me Erin?”

He tried to move, causing another moan to escape his lips. “You’ve been shot in the side,” she said. “I don’t know how bad.”

“Doc’ll fix me up,” he murmured. “Get me to Doc.” He closed his eyes.

“Captain? Will?” She shook him, but he didn’t move. “You can’t do this to me, you hear?”