The Vacant Chair (3 page)

Chapter Three

Depot Hospital, White House Landing, Virginia

June 2, 1864

Fanning herself in a patch of shade she’d found under a Virginia pine, Brianna looked away from the opposite riverbank back toward the hospital. The blistering sun beat down on her head through the thin branches, making the air so thick and humid she could hardly breathe. A bare breeze stirred, teasing her with the promise of relief.

She fanned faster, the slight movement of air across her flushed face helping a fraction. Only a few minutes’ more rest. That was all she needed. A short break from nursing the steady flow of wounded who’d been arriving nonstop for the last two days. She hadn’t had time to eat, had slept only in snatches in a cramped supply tent, where she and Ella-May had set cots up while they were so busy. The breeze picked up again, and her empty stomach clenched at the stench of decomposing flesh from the amputation piles awaiting burial.

Dropping the fan in her lap, she toyed absently with her wedding band. Almost three years had passed since Caleb had died in that dingy hospital across the river from Washington, and around a year since she’d left home to work as a nurse. It seemed a lifetime ago instead.

During her first few months as a widow, she’d applied to the Union Army depot hospital in Fredericksburg, but they’d rejected her because she was too young. Eventually the hospital staff had become so overwhelmed that by the summer of ‘63 they had approved her application. Since then, her days were filled with laundry, cleaning wounds, changing dressings, cooking, washing and reading to or writing for the grateful men in her care. Sometimes, when Dr. Healey asked, she assisted him in surgery. He was the only one to acknowledge her medical skill and allow her to use it under his supervision. Brianna adored him for that.

This year’s fighting was the most intense she’d seen yet. Ambulance trains arrived continually, the casualties so numerous that General Grant had ordered the depot hospital moved from Fredericksburg to White House Landing to shorten the distance between the lines and supply depot.

Brianna scanned the hospital grounds. A sea of three hundred wall tents filled the property near the docks where wounded men went north by steamboat to Washington, and when they were well enough to travel, to other convalescent hospitals in their home states. Far too many of them made the journey in coffins instead.

Blowing out a weary breath, she turned her head and noticed a cloud of red dust rising from the road in the distance. A knot formed in the pit of her stomach. Another ambulance procession. An endless line of human misery stretching as far as the eye could see. Wagon loads of wounded and dying men crying for death’s release from pain and exhaustion, sweltering heat, and the swarms of flies that hovered over their shattered bodies like vultures waiting to pick their bones clean.

Brianna pushed to her aching feet, gathered her skirts and hurried up the pathway, bracing herself against the reek of death as she burst into the main surgical tent. “More wounded coming!” She gathered bandages, morphine granules, carbolic acid solution and a pair of scissors to put into a basket.

Beside her, one of the surgeons stopped work on a patient to wipe a stream of sweat off his face with the back of a blood-smeared hand. Lines of strain and mauve shadows ringed his eyes. He looked twenty years older than when she’d first met him last summer.

When she reached the far end of the grounds, nothing could have prepared Brianna for the sight that met her eyes. So many ambulance wagons were lined up that she couldn’t tell where they ended. There was no way the hospital could accommodate all these men.

Don’t think about it. Get to work.

Moving fast, she instructed the stretcher-bearers where to take each patient: either directly to the operating room, or to be left aside until the more seriously wounded had been taken care of. If they were too far gone already, the attendants set them away from the others and administered morphine to ease their pain before they died.

It took until after sunset to see to the most critical cases. Butchered blue bodies littered the grassy slopes, staining the soil red with blood. Most had been treated at a field hospital before being transported here, but any pain medication they’d received had long since worn off. Everywhere she looked, men writhed in agony and delirium.

She was acutely aware of the minutes slipping past, knowing they might make the difference between life and death for some of these men.

Setting aside her exhaustion, Brianna brushed a lock of hair from her eyes and set to work on another soldier. Even though she’d learned early on to develop a kind of emotional distance, sometimes she still found it hard to stay detached from it all. She kneeled beside a young blond enlisted man and swept her gaze over his ashen face. He gazed up at her stoically, his skin waxen.

Doubting he was older than eighteen, she smoothed the hair from his sweat-soaked forehead and cut away the filthy blue woolen sleeve of his tunic to expose a hopelessly shattered arm. A Minié ball had splintered the humerus down to his elbow. The jagged ends of the bone jutted out at a sickening angle, most of the flesh and muscle ripped away, while the lower half of his arm dangled uselessly. It had to come off, but he was too deep in shock and had lost too much blood to survive an amputation.

His fever-bright eyes met Brianna’s imploringly, and she touched his hot cheek in an offer of comfort. He twitched and closed his lids. When she placed a flask of whiskey to his lips, he submitted without opening his eyes. She pushed away the stark sadness that filled her. He was going fast, but she forced enough of the tepid liquor down him to at least help lessen the pain. After instructing the hospital steward to administer some morphine granules to the wound, there was little else she could do for him. He wouldn’t make it through the night.

She stood to wipe her hands on her bloody apron and caught sight of another patient out of the corner of her eye. He lay near the pine tree she’d rested beneath earlier, his bandaged head propped on a bedroll. He wore black boots and the telltale yellow trim on his uniform. A cavalryman. He appeared to be unconscious. A blood-stained dressing covered the left side of his ribs.

“Leave that one,” one of the surgeons snapped behind her as she started toward the wounded trooper. “Don’t waste your time on him.”

The curt dismissal in the physician’s voice only made her more determined to help. She ignored the command and hurried toward the wounded man. As she approached, something about him tugged at her. He seemed familiar somehow. Did she know him? Not that it mattered. Every man deserved a chance, and she was going to make sure this trooper got his.

Kneeling beside him, Brianna studied his face. A gasp tore out of her when she finally realized who he was, and a strange twisting sensation curled in her chest. The kind captain from White House Landing. He’d not only come to her aid, in the short time she’d spent with him he’d managed to stir a feminine interest within her that Brianna had thought long dead. Her entire body had reacted to his presence, something she hadn’t experienced in years. Lord, he was so still and pale now. The hope that he would never see her under these circumstances had proved futile after all.

Unwrapping the bandage around his head, Brianna studied the shallow wound. There was no way to tell if his skull had been fractured by the impact, and she wouldn’t know for certain what damage it had done unless he regained consciousness. Leaving it for the moment, she cut off his ruined shirt and checked the more serious wound in his side. He was breathing well enough, and he was pale but not gray. Someone had sewn the skin closed with a few hasty stitches, enough to keep him from bleeding to death on his journey here. She bent to get a better look.

The bullet had entered through his ribcage, where the external abdominal oblique and serratus anterior muscles interdigitated. She slipped a hand beneath him but didn’t find an exit wound on his back, assuring her the bullet had not passed through his body. Removing the crude sutures in front, she called an assistant to help her position him. A scissor blade served as a probe as she checked for any cloth or other debris trapped beneath the skin. Thankfully, whoever had sewn him up had managed to pull the bullet out first.

It took her a while to find and remove the bits of bone and uniform from the entry wound, and her tired eyes didn’t help matters. But as long as the bullet was out and she cleaned the wound well enough before infection set in, he had a chance. Provided his blood volume was sufficient and his skull was still in one piece.

Almost an hour passed before she could return to him with her favorite doctor to check his internal organs. By some miracle, they were all intact. None of the rib splinters seemed to have caused any significant damage, and that gave her hope. Because Dr. Healey trusted her ability, he left her to properly stitch, dress and bind the wounds tightly to minimize the risk of hemorrhage. Whatever his name was, the Wolverine had lost a lot of blood, but at least now he had a chance to recover. It was all Brianna could give him.

She washed the blood and grime from his face, noting his sooty lashes, the coal-black brows and stubble on his jaw. He was tall, at least a head taller than her, she remembered. About six feet, with a muscular build. His ebony hair had blue highlights, like a raven’s wing. He’d been so handsome atop his horse that morning at the landing, almost this same exact spot. And she also remembered the frank male interest in his deep blue eyes when he’d looked at her.

Pushing the thought from her mind, she said a silent prayer for him and moved to her next patient.

****

The next morning, as the sun drenched the countryside with liquid gold, staff buried the stiffened bodies in graves scraped out overnight by civilian volunteers. By noon only a handful of dead lay out in the open. At least a third of the wounded brought in yesterday had died, and many more would die yet.

The Wolverine Brianna had treated was in her section. She made her rounds with the other nurses, male and female alike, stopping to visit with those who were well enough to talk of their homes, families and sweethearts. She was on her feet all day. She fetched food and medicine, spooned broth and water down dry throats, changed linens and bandages, dressed wounds and held the hands that reached for her, noting which men liked to be fussed over and which wanted to be left alone. Most were friendly and grateful for her ministrations, but occasionally one would snap and snarl at her, whether out of pain or plain bad temper. She didn’t let it discourage her. 

Toward the end of the day, Dr. Healey caught her rubbing her tired eyes and told her to go home and sleep. Brianna refused. There was far too much work that still needed to be done, and there were only so many hands to do it.

After eating, she went to check on the Wolverine. Since she’d met him and he’d been so kind to her, she felt compelled to watch over him. Slipping inside the canvas tent flap, she found him still unresponsive and decided to give his wounds a thorough cleansing and change the bandages while he couldn’t feel it. He hadn’t woken yet, but that wasn’t uncommon after losing so much blood, and she still held out hope he didn’t have a skull fracture or any damage to his brain. His pupils responded to the lantern light when she lifted his eyelids, and that eased her.

She used a wet sponge to remove the blood-soaked gauze from his head. Still no signs of infection, and the injury appeared to be healing. His respiration rate was slow and even, with no rattling sounds. His chest wound was oozing and no scabbing had started, but at least there were no new fragments of lead or cloth in the wound. All she could do was keep it clean and hope for the best. After she finished, Brianna returned to the tent she slept in when she worked late, crawled into her narrow cot and went out like a snuffed candle.

Her eyes snapped open when someone shook her. She blinked up at Ella-May’s uncharacteristically somber face. 

“You’d best come quickly, Bree. Your Wolverine has developed a serious fever.”

Damn.

Fumbling in the darkness, she lit a lantern and followed her friend to the captain’s tent. Dread curled in her chest when she saw him writhing in the bed. Her hand on his forehead verified dry, fire-like heat. At her touch he moaned in delirium, twisting, the ropes in the cot’s frame creaking.

Brianna flinched at the sudden stab in her chest. His suffering hurt her. She hated seeing anyone in pain, but his anguish was especially painful. “We have to cool him down.” She snatched a sponge and dipped it in a solution of vinegar and water. Ella-May helped her strip him and wash him down over and over.

A few minutes into their efforts, he began to shiver so violently that his teeth chattered. While Brianna tried to comfort him, Ella-May threw a heavy blanket over him, and both of them gasped as his hands closed around Brianna’s wrists and hauled her nearly on top of him.

She held her breath, staring down into the impossibly deep blue eyes. They were glazed, almost feral with desperation. He clenched her wrists as though someone would drag her away from him, his grip like iron bands.

Her heart hammered. Paralyzed by the wild look in his eyes, she ached to soothe him. The feeling was so foreign and powerful it frightened her, because it meant her defenses were already down around him. She didn’t want to feel that acutely anymore.

“Wait…” he croaked, his gaze far away and bright with fever.