Ashes in the Wind (13 page)

Footsteps behind her made her hastily tuck away the key and chance a surreptitious glance askance. Her hopes were momentarily darkened as she recognized the tall, broad-shouldered form of Cole Latimer coming toward her. His brief, stiff smile as he swept off his hat was discouraging, but she plucked up her resolve and turned to face him with a coy laugh.

“Why, Captain Latimer, would you believe that you’re just the person I was hoping to see?”

“You’re not here to see Al?” He remembered distinctly telling her that he would be on duty all day. That he was here at all was due to the fact that the surgeon general, upon learning of his father’s demise, had ordered him to take the afternoon off since there were no duties pressing.

“Al?” Roberta questioned apprehensively. Her plans were going astray faster than she could remedy. “Why, I thought that runty little boy had gone fishing or something.”

“He’s here,” Cole stated and, reaching past her, turned the knob and pushed open his door. The overlarge boots stood just inside the entrance, and the bristly swish of a scrub brush could be heard from an adjoining room.

Roberta was through the door before Cole could invite her in, and he followed, closing it behind her.

“Al?” he called.

A noise much like the outraged squeal of a little piglet preceded the sound of running bare feet. “I thought you had to work, Yankee!”

Alaina came to an abrupt halt in the parlor door as she saw Roberta. Each woman stared at the other with something less than pleasure, then Al leaned cockily against the doorjamb and scratched her nose with a forefinger.

“ ‘Pears to me you got company, Cap’n. I suppose now you’ll be wantin’ me to finish up and be on my way, is that right?”

“No, that isn’t right.” Cole scowled at Al before stepping out onto the balcony. His eyes searched the street below until they found the carriage with Jedediah waiting in the driver’s seat. Cole returned to meet Roberta’s questioning gaze. “Not wishing to jeopardize your reputation, I’ll let Al escort you back to your carriage.” He put up a hand to plead his case as she opened her mouth to protest. “Forgive my manners, but I just received word that my father
passed away and this afternoon I fear I’d be poor company at best.”

“Your father?” Roberta asked. “Dead?” At his answering nod, her mind caught on to the fact that there was now no one who stood between Cole and all that money.

Alaina nudged her cousin’s arm gently. “Come on, Robbie, I think the Cap’n wants to be alone.” She turned back to the man hesitantly. “I’ll come back and finish up what I started, then go home. Maybe I can do the res’ tomorrow, or maybe the next day.”

Roberta was highly miffed at being led from the building like a naughty schoolgirl. Alaina refrained from comment and was greeted enthusiastically by the black driver.

“Miz Al!” He chuckled. “Lawsy, I sho’ glad it was you Miz Roberta was a-comin’ to see. I been sittin’ here ponderin’ what I was gonna tell Mastah Angus should his chile come to harm by all dese here scalawag Yankees.”

“Take her home, Jedediah, and don’t stop for anything. I’ll be along directly.”

“Yas’m.” The black grinned broadly. “Doan stop fo’ nothin’. Yo’ hear dat, Miz Roberta?”

“You’ll do as I say, Jedediah,” Roberta informed him sullenly. “Now take me home, and be quick about it.”

“Yas’m. I intend to do jes’ dat, Miz Roberta.”

W
ORD
had filtered down to New Orleans that Grant was guffawing because Law’s command, mistaking it for a cavalry charge, had been stampeded by a bunch of frightened Federal mules in a night battle around Wauhatchie, Tennessee. But a more dignified Confederate explanation had it that the gray troops had already been driven back by Orland Smith and Tyndale when the “mule charge” took place. To the groaning chagrin of the South, however, it was the Yankees’ hearty recommendation that the mules be commissioned as horses.

The city was quiet, almost hushed, and what faces Alaina saw as she pushed Ol’ Tar through the early morning streets were drawn and downcast with the bitter taste of another defeat. It would be a bleak Christmas season for the South this year. It was a bleak enough Monday.

In the hospital stable, Alaina found an empty stall where she could tether Ol’ Tar and clandestinely appropriated a few handfuls of sweet clover hay from an overfilled manger nearby. Noting that Captain Latimer’s roan was present, she affected a boyish whistle and made her way into the hospital by the back door, pausing to hang her pouch and hat on a peg near the entrance before dragging out the
mops, brooms, and buckets. As she backed out of the closet, her arms full of cleaning utensils, she was forced to step lively to avoid being knocked down by a rushing medical orderly whose arms were as full as her own, but with fresh bandages. He gave neither pause nor apology but hastened off down the hall to disappear into one of the surgery rooms.

Alaina glared after him until he was out of sight, then with a few mumbled words about rude Yankees, she leaned the mops and brooms beside the closet door. With her best nonchalant air, she sauntered toward ward 5. She was early enough that she could pay Bobby Johnson a visit before setting about her day’s labors.

The greetings of the Union soldiers were strangely reserved this morning and contained nothing of the usual coarse humor. The ward grew hushed and still as she entered. Her eyes found the empty bed, then the sheet that had been spread over a large stain in the aisle. The dull, vividly familiar color of drying blood marked the cloth where it touched the floor. Refusing to meet anyone’s gaze, Alaina spun on her heel and fled the room, struggling to defeat the haunting nightmares that threatened to invade her mind. She let the door slam behind her and ran down the hall to the surgery room in use. She knew “Al” could not enter and leaned against the wall beside the door, panting to ease the ache in her chest, then Cole’s angry voice came from inside, startling her.

“Who was on the late duty last night?”

“Major Magruder.” Alaina could put no face to the voice that answered.

“I’m not going to let you blame this one on me!” The named one quickly set forth a heated defense. “I made my rounds, and everything was as it should be. Especially him!”

Alaina raised on tiptoe to peer through a clear spot in the etched glass of the door. Cole and Doctor Brooks were working over the midsection of the man on the table while the orderly reached between them with white pads that came away bright red. She could see the patient’s chest rise and fall in shallow breathing. Near his head, the medical sergeant sat on a tall stool and let an occasional drop fall from a small, brown bottle onto a cloth mask that covered the mouth and nose of an otherwise heavily bandaged face.

“Slower!” Doctor Brooks admonished the sergeant.

“Why, ‘especially him’?” Cole questioned as he plied the curved needle and catgut.

Magruder replied from his corner where he rested casually against a cabinet, making no effort to assist. “When I made my ten o’clock round he was caterwauling something about his wife and baby.”

Cole glanced up from his work briefly, his lips twisted in an acid grin. “And what did you say to him, Major?”

“I simply told him to shut up and try to act like a man.” Magruder paused, then continued as if he felt a need for more excuse. “He was disturbing the rest of the ward.”

The two working doctors straightened, Doctor Brooks to watch Cole closely, and the younger man to fix Magruder with an accusative glare. Alaina could see
between them for the first time and caught sight of the long, oozing wound where torn, ragged edges gaped wide across the patient’s lower belly. Her stomach heaved, and she stumbled back to lean against the wall, steadying knees that had suddenly turned to jelly. Cole’s voice came to her as if through a long tunnel, tightly controlled, but with an undertone of savage satire.

“Major, how can you expect a mere boy to act like a man?”

“He is man enough to have a wife!” Magruder’s own anger, or perhaps fear, began to show. “Anyway, I told you he was a waste of time from the very beginning.”

At that moment Alaina wanted to hear the sounds of a Yankee major being brutally beaten, but much to her disappointment, when Cole’s voice continued, it was low and almost gentle, though muffled as he bent again to his task of repair.

“Who found him?”

The major volunteered the information. “The sergeant, at his four o’clock check.”

“What happened to the two o’clock check?”

Again, it was Magruder who answered. “I checked each bay briefly and saw nothing out of order.”

Cole’s voice came in crisp, curt tones. “One of the other men said he was awakened by someone calling out shortly after midnight. Johnson’s bed was empty then, but the man heard nothing more and went back to sleep. You missed a man lying on the floor in the middle of a ward?”

“I tell you, I saw nothing!” Magruder protested.

There was silence thereafter, except for an occasional command or an exchanged word as the operation
continued. Strength refused to come back into Alaina’s limbs. Had she been able to find even a small measure of it, she would have fled. Then, the door beside her swung open, and Captain Latimer’s shoulder held it so.

“Let him rest there for a while before you move him,” he instructed the orderly.

Doctor Brooks came to stand beside him. “You’ve done all you can, Cole. Whether he lives or dies is a decision God must make.”

“I can’t understand why—” A frown from Doctor Brooks warned him to say no more as the other’s gaze strayed behind the door. Cole turned abruptly and met the agonized gray eyes. His manner immediately gentled as he took note of the tear-streaked grime on the thin cheeks and the trembling lips.

“It’s Bobby Johnson.” His voice was soft and understanding. “He fell. Tore most of the stitches out. Half bled to death.” His clipped, disjointed sentences made him angry at himself, and he rubbed a hand across his brow in chafing frustration. “We patched him up—but I just don’t know.” He reached out to console the lad, but the small, work-roughened hand made a vicious swipe of negation as Al’s lips curled back in an unemancipated sob. Utter pain showed naked on the young face.

“Take the rest of the day—”

“No!” The half-choked word interrupted with finality. Al plucked courage from somewhere and strength came anew. She turned her back on the doctors and trudged down the hall, narrow shoulders sagging as if with the weight of the world. Buckets rattled echoingly in the hall, and a moment later the old cistern pump began to clank.

Everybody in the wards knew of the attachment that had formed between the cleaning boy and the blind soldier, although Al had yet to admit it as fact. Sympathetic eyes followed her through her duties, and when she was absent for brief spells, no one sought the urchin out. The attempts at banter were halfhearted and stilted.

Private Bobby Johnson was returned to his bed with the tenderest of care. When no other duty pressed, Doctor Latimer was to be found at the boy’s bedside. The young soldier lay motionless and pale. He showed no signs of regaining consciousness as the day wore on. Alaina was torn between a strong desire to be far away, should the worst happen, and a need to be near if he should come around. She was never far from ward 5. Though she found many reasons to check on something near the last bed on the window side, she could not watch the still form for very long and her visits were short.

Cole heard the whisper again and realized Bobby’s lips had moved slightly to shape a weak, “Who?”

“Doctor Latimer.” Cole rose from his chair and leaned closer. “How is it, Bobby?”

“Hurts!” The answer was simple. “Like fire!”

“Why—did you get up?” Cole searched for more words to clarify the question.

“Thirsty!” The boy understood. His tongue licked at cracked lips. “Like now! Couldn’t ask the major.” The hoarse whisper shook, and Cole wet the parched mouth with a moist cloth. “I had to do something for myself, just for once. Had to—act—like a man.”

Cole touched the boy’s hand. “Rest now. Don’t worry. I’ll be here.”

A wan smile was his answer, and that too faded as Bobby Johnson retreated into the blissful darkness of sleep once more.

Angry at his own helplessness, Cole turned away to find Al standing at the foot of the bed. Alaina stared at the ashen soldier with a far-off look in her eyes.

“I hope Magruder trips and falls headfirst into a privy some dark night,” she hissed.

“You can’t blame the man.” Cole sat back in his chair and tried to explain. “He couldn’t have known what would happen.”

Al seemed not to hear. A slow smile curved her lips as she added with wishful relish, “An’ I hope I’m the one who trips him!”

“Aren’t you about done for the day?” Cole asked as he swung around to face the unrepentant lad.

“I guess.” The gray eyes moved slowly to meet his.

“I’d better warn Magruder to be careful on dark nights.”

The gray eyes never wavered. “Y’all jes’ do that, Yankee.” The words were what Cole expected, but something of the old bite was missing.

“You’re slipping, Al,” Cole taunted. “I thought you hated all us Union bluebellies.”

“Go to hell, Yankee!” This time the old spirit and sting were boldly in attendance.

“I’ll be here at the hospital all night,” Cole called after the departing youth.

The comment came back loud and clear over Al’s shoulder. “Then maybe I ken get some peace fer once’t.”

For the first time that day, honest chuckles were heard in ward 5.

The next day passed much as the one before. Expectant hope that the young soldier might recover thrived in everyone’s heart. When Alaina looked in on him, his stomach was distended, making an obscene hump beneath the blanket. The stain that wet the bandages over his wound was no longer red, but black and malevolently odorous. For the most part, he lay in a stupor, partly induced by heavy draughts of laudanum, though he was given to spells of such groaning and twisting that it seemed that a great rodent gnawed at his vitals. Alaina could abide neither the sight of these spasms nor the thought that she might be elsewhere should he rouse. The hours passed with a tortured, springhalt gait. No change was noticeable in Bobby Johnson’s condition, and when a misty rain began to fall late in the afternoon, it seemed to Alaina that the whole world mourned in gray dismal grief.

The ride home was wet and cold, and Alaina sat for a long time by herself in the dark stables. In part, she had no desire to face Roberta, and in part she needed the time to come to grips with her own tangled emotions. She failed on both accounts, and it was a late hour when the distraught young woman finally sank into a troubled sleep.

It took an effort of sheer will for Alaina to draw herself from the warm bed in the cold, dark, predawn hour. Even then, it was not until she splashed her face with ice cold water from the ewer that her brain began to function. The usual application
of grime, soot, and grease was accomplished amid shudders of revulsion, and it was small solace that Roberta still snored loudly when Alaina crept down the stairs. It was a further test of her will to get Ol’ Tar to move from his snug stall and venture out into the chilling, light rain that had continued throughout the night.

A full hour of her workday had passed before Alaina was free of the shivers that had started with the ride to the hospital. Bobby Johnson lay as still as death except for an occasional shudder that passed through his limp body. Cole hovered near but would answer no question and grew angry when Al pressed for a reply. The day stumbled along on leaden limbs toward the noon hour when, though her appetite decried the effort, Alaina choked down a few bites of food. It was midafternoon when she descended the stairs from the Confederate ward and caught sight of the orderlies carrying a blanket-draped litter out of ward 5 toward the gruesome, brick-lined vault that was loosely referred to as the “morgue.” She did not have to be told the news, for a quick glance into the ward confirmed her fear. Doctor Latimer sat slumped in the chair beside Bobby Johnson’s empty bed. Though the sense of loss made a gnawing pain in the pit of her stomach, Alaina’s eyes were strangely dry as she paused beside a uniformed
officer who also watched the departing detail in silence. A moment later Cole Latimer came from the ward, a grim, angry frown set on his face. He brushed past the slight figure that stepped forward with upraised hand to question him, then strode down the hall and into the dayroom.
Alaina slumped in misery as he disappeared from sight, then stiffened as a broad, blunt-fingered hand came to rest on her shoulder.

“I warned him, of course,” the officer stated. “He made a mistake.”

“ ‘Tain’t so!” Alaina glared up into the offending one’s face and angrily shrugged off his grasp. “Cap’n Latimer is the best surgeon here!”

“Such loyalty,” Magruder mocked. “I’m sure the captain would appreciate your comments. But I meant that the doctor has allowed himself to become too deeply involved with a case that could have had no other end.” He shrugged his shoulders to free them of concern. “I warned him.”

Alaina set her jaw and gazed down at her oversized boots. The agony would have been less for herself had she been able to harden her own heart, but then she might have found herself more akin to Magruder, incapable of any of the softer emotions that made living worthwhile.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, boy?” the major suggested magnanimously.