me know?”
“Of course.”
Only then, as Emily gave a quick glance around the room, did she notice another soldier now occupied Billy’s bed. Her heart immediately squeezed, for she knew what must have happened.
“He died during the night,” Julia said, guessing what she was thinking. “Jeremiah said the Scottish doctor took him to surgery, but the poor man didn’t survive the operation.”
Though civility compelled at least a moment of pause, an acknowledgment of a life that had passed, Emily knew there was not time. Dr. Mackay needed his supplies. Outside was a dock full of soldiers who could still be saved.
Chapter Four
Little Miss Baltimore had returned, sporting a green silk bonnet straight out of the women’s fashion magazines. When he had told the army nurse to go to the store and buy supplies, he didn’t think this woman would actually seize the opportunity to do some shopping.
But then again, she is a Southern volunteer. I shouldn’t expect anything different. She has at least procured two spools of thread.
“Will these do?” she asked, as if concerned that the color of the man’s stitches might clash with his ensemble.
He took them from her. “This is no garden party.”
She stared at him, eyes wide.
Is she really that dense? “As soon as I finish, bandage him up. Understand?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“And be careful not to spoil that lovely bonnet.”
She blinked. Evan couldn’t tell if she was still unable to comprehend his comment or if she was simply choosing to ignore him. If it was the latter, then he complimented her. After yesterday’s debate over who started this war, at least she was learning to hold her tongue.
He finished suturing, then moved on, patching up every brave boy in blue, every Johnny sporting a red string. The Southern nurse stayed just one step behind him. Evan eyed her repeatedly.
At least she follows my instructions today without argument, without hurling something at me like I am certain she so often wishes to do.
He was no fool. He had seen the disgust, the mistrust in her eyes. She’d thought he was going to sort the wounded into lots by allegiance, treat the loyal and then leave her beloved coconspirators for dead.
He wouldn’t do that. He may despise them but he would do his best to save them. He would do his duty, and to do so efficiently, he could not take time to think about the ones, like the reb from last night, who didn’t survive.
There was a new school of thought circulating among some doctors in regard to how mass casualties should be treated. Many doubted its effectiveness, but Evan had seen it work firsthand. By sorting the wounded into those who could be saved and then in order of urgency of treatment, more could be cared for in a shorter amount of time. He had also learned that assigning a different task to each member of his staff, whether it be cleaning or bandaging, made the process easier.
He glanced about the dock, noting that physicians were scrambling in other sections, while wounded still cried out in pain.
If only they would be willing to embrace new ideas.
Even something as simple as the repeated washing of hands and instruments to help combat the spread of infection was scoffed at by many doctors. Evan cringed every time he saw a surgeon in the field hospital hack off a limb, wipe his saw on his coattails and then move on to the next man.
No wonder so many of our men are dying. For every one the rebs kill, disease takes two.
He continued on, probing, packing, stitching. Mercifully, his thread held until he finished the last of the soldiers marked in red. He walked back through the area, stretching his leg muscles and working the knot from his neck while he checked on his nurse’s progress.
She was actually doing quite well, in spite of her ridiculous bonnet.
The supply wagons were unloaded and Evan still continued. In the hospital the ward masters were emptying all beds possible to make space for the new arrivals. He gave orders to the stewards as to which red-tagged men should be moved inside. He also gave instructions for removal of the dead. In this suffocating heat, speed was of the utmost importance. Nearly all of the wounded Evan had left untagged had expired.
Only one remained.
The Pennsylvania sergeant missing most of his chest was still gasping for breath. She was with him, holding his hand. As he approached, he overheard their conversation.
“I prayed, ever so hard. Beggin’ God to let me see you just once more.”
“Hush now,” she encouraged. “Save your strength.”
“All that’s left for me now, girl, is eternity. But, don’t you cry....”
Evan watched as she smoothed back the sergeant’s hair. The look on his face told him it wouldn’t be long now. She must have known it, as well.
“Have you made your peace with God?” she asked gently. “Do you know Christ as your Savior?”
“Now, darlin’,” he said, “you know I do. Made that decision a long time ago, I did.”
He sputtered. Her shoulders trembled.
“I love you, Anna.”
“I love you....”
Regret shot through Evan, a feeling he knew all too well. No wonder she begged me to save him. But who could have known she would have a sweetheart serving in the United States army?
He moved closer, knowing there was nothing that could be done, yet wishing there was. His collar grew so tight that he had trouble breathing. Memories washed over him. The little lass was doing what he wished he could have done, what he should have done.
Mary...
The rattle began and the man struggled to draw his final breaths. She held on, steady to the end, his hand in hers. When the sergeant died, it was with a smile on his face.
Only then did her unbridled tears fall. Evan stepped forward and closed the soldier’s eyes. When she looked up at him, he was pierced by grief.
Despite knowing some rebel shell had caused all this, despite Andrew’s death and her being a citizen of this dreadful city, something inside him wished to comfort her. He realized up until now he hadn’t even bothered to learn her name.
“I’m sorry, Anna.” He stumbled on the words. “I had no idea who he was.”
She blinked once, twice, wiped her eyes. “Emily.”
“Say again?”
“My name is Emily.”
She slowly regained her composure. Evan looked at her, befuddled. “He called you Anna.”
“He mistook me for his wife. I didn’t have the heart to correct him.”
Tears drying, she stood, methodically covering the man with his own bedroll. Evan could feel his anger building. He wasn’t certain for whom he felt the emotion, for the poor soldier who’d been mislead or for himself.
He had felt sorry for a rebel.
“You deliberately misrepresented yourself,” he said.
“I told him what he wished to hear.”
“Aye. I’m certain that came quite easily. You Baltimore women are skilled in the art of treachery.”
She flinched. He knew his words had stung.
“He prayed he would see his beloved Anna once more,” she said. “Would you have me deny the final wish of a dying man?”
“Are you in the place of God? Have you the power