Sawbones (9 page)

I threaded two needles, my shaking hands making the task more difficult than usual. I turned slightly away from Kindle, enough to hide my tremors but not so far as to ignite his suspicion. Trembling hands would do little to burnish Kindle's nascent trust in me. I knew my mind and hands would settle when the time came. Until then, I needed a distraction.

“How long have you been in the Army?”

“Twenty years.”

“Indeed?” I poured carbolic acid into an iron skillet full of water and dropped my instruments in it along with the two threaded needles. “You aren't old enough to be a twenty-year veteran.”

“West Point when I was eighteen. How long have you been a doctor?” he asked with great difficulty.

“Officially? Four years. I assisted my father for many years prior.” I glanced at him. “Don't think you will get me to tell you my age, Captain.”

“I wouldn't dream of asking.”

“Sergeant Washington, can you help him?”

Washington and a private tried to move Kindle to the table. He held up his hand to stay them. “I do not need help.”

The wind increased, bringing with it the metallic scent of the oncoming thunderstorm. Thin tendrils of lightning flashed across the distant sky. A rumble of thunder followed.

Sergeant Washington and the private looked at each other with concern on their faces. Washington glanced at me and quickly looked away. I pulled him aside.

“How much time do we have, Sergeant?”

“Ten minutes before the storm. Maybe fifteen, ma'am.”

“Would you please have a couple of your men clear a space on the floor of my wagon for the Captain to lie on? They can take everything but the trunks outside.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

While Washington directed the men, I turned my attention back to Kindle. He sat on the edge of the table, light-headed and woozy.

“Time to lie down, Captain.”

“Cut around the wound, follow the shaft down with your finger to find the arrowhead.” I folded his coat and put it under his head.

“Anything else?”

“Pray it's not in the bone.”

“Private,” I said to the nearest soldier, “would you please bring me a pan of warm water? Sergeant Washington, get another soldier and go wash your hands in the remaining warm water with this.” I handed him a bar of carbolic soap. “Do not touch anything to dry your hands. I will give you a clean cloth when you return.”

I washed my hands and when the three men returned, I handed the skillet of acid-soaked instruments to a small soldier standing nearby. I positioned him and Washington at the head of the table and foot of the table, respectively. “Captain, do you have any orders you would like to give your men before you go under?”

“Sergeant Washington, will the bodies be buried before the storm comes?” Captain Kindle asked.

“Yes, suh.”

“You know what to do?”

“Yes, suh.”

Kindle nodded. “I leave the regiment in your hands.”

“No need to be so dramatic, Captain,” I said. “You'll be with us again in no time.”

I was laying a cloth soaked with chloroform over his nose and mouth when Kindle stayed my hand. “I don't know your name,” he said.

“Call me Laura.” His brows furrowed in puzzlement and concentration. “Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Trust me, Captain. I want you to live as much as you do.”

“Precisely what I want to hear from my doctor.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“I'll be here when you wake,” I said, and placed the chloroform-soaked cloth over his nose.

The reverberations of a thousand cannons shook the ground. I covered my head as the earth swayed underneath me. The barn creaked and groaned, instruments rattled on their trays, bottles of medicine clinked against one another as the rumbling sunk into the blood-soaked Maryland mud. Rain pinged on the metal roof, slowly at first, then increasing until the individual notes transformed into a long symphonic chord.

Where was my father? It was long past time for him to have returned from the field. I should have never let him go. I should have gone in his stead.

I groped in the darkness, touching trunks, crates, canvas, a blanket, and finally, the bandaged chest of a man. A flash of lightning illuminated my surroundings and I jerked back.

I sat up, shaking. I was not in Smith's Barn near Antietam Creek but in a covered wagon on the plains of Texas. The wind rocked the schooner, threatening to topple us. Across from me, the wagon's smooth canvas cover was pushing against the thin ribs supporting it. I worried the cover was not secure enough and tried to remember if we had untied it for any reason during our journey. With a snap, the canvas blew out like a sail, just holding together with the sudden change of wind direction. Wet canvas slapped me on the back.

Lightning illuminated the scene again and I caught a glimpse of Captain Kindle, unconscious on the floor of the wagon. His bandages were still secure and his face was devoid of color, save the long red scar across the left side of his face.

I groped for his hand and pressed my fingers against his wrist. His pulse was weak but steady. I couldn't remember where I had placed my stethoscope nor could I see around me to search. Through touch, I placed my ear on Kindle's chest and listened to him take deep, clear breaths. I sat back, as content as I could hope to be in the current situation, and waited for the next flash of lightning.

Where were the other soldiers? Were they in the abandoned wagons or sitting on the plains, under oilcloth, their backs to the storm? Had they been through so many storms there was no fear in their hearts? Or was the fear of a storm inconsequential compared to the fear of being captured and killed by the Indians?

I thought of Anna and the children. What were they enduring this violent night? Were the Indians abusing Anna at this moment? Had they used her and killed her like some broken doll? What about the children? Surely they wouldn't…I shook the image from my mind. I could not allow my thoughts to wander there. No. It would not happen. Even savages wouldn't do that.

I covered my head with my arms. What did I know? Look at what they had done to Maureen. To Cornelius. They cut a baby from a mother's stomach and burned Amos alive. How could I dare give these Indians the benefit of the doubt? They had proven correct every horrible assertion about their nature with the brutality of their attack.

Maureen. I tried to get the image of her wasted face from my mind. I rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands until they burned, but the image of her jawless face still did not leave. Grotesque and bloody, it morphed into gaping grin, mocking me, mocking the idea I would ever be free of this day and my complicity in the outcome. My actions, traced from an impetuous decision in childhood to my cowering in a buffalo wallow, irrevocably led her to the most heinous of deaths, to the death she most feared.

It was dawn and I was alone. The air in the schooner was heavy and gray with diffused light. I rose to call out to Maureen when the sight of a small bloodstain on the bed of the wagon stopped me. Kindle. He was gone.

Dizziness washed over me as I stood and forced me to sit back down. Every part of my body ached and I wanted nothing more than to wrap myself in a blanket and lose myself in a long forgetful sleep. Sounds from outside the schooner prompted me to move again, but more slowly. I needed to find Kindle. He was my patient, his well-being my responsibility.

Rain poured from the sky like water from a pitcher. Thunder rumbled across the flat featureless landscape. Gray flashes of lightning punctured the waterlogged sky. Overnight, the loamy soil had transformed into a quagmire of deep red mud. A few soldiers roamed around the wreckage. I searched the scene for Kindle from the cover of my wagon and realized the soldiers were not aimlessly roaming, waiting for help to arrive.

“You!” I yelled. A young soldier looked up at me, his eyes wide with surprise. He looked around him, wondering if I was addressing him or someone else. I jumped out of the wagon and struggled through the sludge to confront him. “You put that back!” I jerked a box of Cornelius's cigars from his hand and held them to my chest. “These aren't yours, young man!”

“Ma'am?”

“I said these aren't yours!”

“Are dey yours, ma'am?”

“They most certainly are not! They are Cornelius's. Everything in this wagon is his and you are not to touch it!” I looked around at the soldiers looting the wagons of the dead. A few of the soldiers put back what they had in their hands, others shook their heads and resumed their search. Sergeant Washington appeared in front of me.

“Is there something I can do for you, ma'am?”

“You can tell these men to stop stealing!”

Sergeant Washington's gaze was steady, but he didn't respond.

“Well? Are you going to tell them to stop?”

A voice from behind me replied, “No.”

I wheeled around to see Kindle walking toward me using a stick as a cane with one arm, the other arm in the hasty sling of torn cloth I had made the night before. His complexion was still pale but some of his natural color had returned. His eyes were shadowed by the cavalry hat he wore and disguised further by the rain pouring from its brim.

“What are you doing walking around on your leg? You're bleeding again.”

“Yes, I know.” He addressed Sergeant Washington. “Find a hat for the doctor.”

Still clutching the cigars to my chest I futilely ran my hand across my hair, which was plastered to my head. I was too angry to care.

Kindle stepped in front of me and lowered his voice. “Believe me, I don't want to be walking on this leg any more than you want me to. But I must show a brave face in front of my men, so keep your admonishments to a low growl, please.”

I lowered my voice. “Speaking of your men, they are stealing the possessions of the dead.”

“Looting is a military tradition.”

“Looting your vanquished enemies, yes. I didn't know white settlers were the enemies of the Army. Or are all whites the enemies of your Negros?”

The shadow of his hat made the anger in Kindle's eyes terrifying. But the anger of men always brought out my defiance. I raised my chin and met his narrowed gaze.

“Suh.”

Sergeant Washington was a few feet away, holding out a wide-brimmed hat toward Captain Kindle. I recognized it immediately as the hat of one of the abducted boys. Kindle took the hat and thanked Washington, who with a quick glance at me, walked away.

Kindle lowered his voice to a terrifying level. “I will be forever in your debt for saving my life but do not ever speak of my men in that way again. Your people are past caring what happens to their possessions. If my men can find an item or two they may use to barter for something else, or maybe something they will keep to make their lives better, they will do so, and with my blessing.”

He grimaced and touched his bandaged shoulder.

“Is your shoulder bothering you?”

“No.” He dropped his hand. “When soldiers from the fort arrive it will make what my men are doing seem quaint. If there is anything you want for yourself from your fellow travelers, I recommend you put it in your wagon immediately.”

“I suppose I should stand guard over my own possessions.”

“Nonsense. They would not dare touch your possessions.” Kindle looked away and nodded his head. The soldiers around me resumed their search. He held the hat out to me. “You will need this for the journey to the fort.”

“No, thank you, I will not.”

I tried to stomp off dramatically but the deep mud and rain hindered my progress. I climbed into my wagon and sat on a crate. Water dripped into my eyes and off the tip of my nose and streamed off the hem of my skirt onto the wagon floor. I was furious at the looting, furious at myself for implying such a wretched thing about his men, and furious with Kindle for being so maddeningly logical.

I was soaked through, freezing, and my dress smelled of vomit and urine. I closed the canvas flaps of the wagon to give myself a modicum of privacy and shed my wet clothes. I wrapped myself in a quilt and indulged in a bout of self-pity and silent crying.

I wiped my eyes with the corner of the blanket and took a deep breath. The soldiers from the fort would be arriving any minute. It would not do for them to find me a blubbering, naked mess.

My fingers were clumsy with cold, making everything more difficult than it should have been: the latches on my traveling trunk and the small buttons down the front of my dress. I decided to switch to a different dress with fewer, larger buttons when someone knocked on the outside of the wagon.

“How are you feeling?” Kindle said.

Horrid. What a stupid question.

I gave up the idea of changing into a different dress and continued on with the small, pearl buttons. When finished, I smoothed the navy cotton and took a deep breath. I peeked through the back of the schooner and tried to smile.

“Fine, thank you.”

Guilt overcame me at the sight of Kindle. Standing in the rain, water pouring off his hat and onto his shoulders, his scar a vivid red gash down his pale face, he looked as bad as I felt. I opened the flap. “You need to get out of the rain. Can you climb in?”

I helped as much as possible as he struggled in. He stood, hunched under the cover of my wagon, dripping water, trying not to shiver. I removed his hat and threw it aside before removing his cloak. I grabbed my quilt, still warm, and wrapped it around his shoulders. He leaned heavily on his stick, shaking. “Can you stand for a moment more?” He nodded. I quickly arranged blankets to cover a crate and helped him sit down.

“I would suggest you lie on the floor but doubt you would do it.” I made sure the quilt was tight around his shoulders and sat across from him.

“Thank you, this is fine.”

I put my hand on his forehead and discovered he was burning up. “You shouldn't have gotten out in this weather, Captain.” I removed my hand to retrieve laudanum to at least make him more comfortable and to dull his pain.

“No. The coolness of your hand is comforting.”

I placed one hand on his forehead, the other on his cheek. He closed his eyes and murmured his thanks. I sat there for a while, moving my hands to cool different part of his face and watched as he relaxed and his shivering abated. Leaning his head back against the wet canvas of the wagon, he slept.

I removed my now-warmed hands and reached for the laudanum, pouring out a small amount in a tin cup and topping it with whisky. I set the cup beside Kindle and stood, gently walking around him to peer out the back of the wagon.

Would the rain ever stop? The soldiers' eagerness for loot appeared to have been dampened by the relentless downpour, and they had disappeared, to where I didn't know. The overturned wagons were righted but still harnessed to their dead oxen, whose staring eyes, lolling tongues, and terrified expressions told the tale as well as the arrows sticking out of their flanks could. Through the wreckage and rain I could see the mass grave. Maureen's grave. To mark the grave the soldiers had fashioned a crude cross from the spokes of the burned wheel and a piece of rope. Using the charred wood was macabre, offensive, and brought back images and smells from the day before I would sooner forget, but I understood why the soldiers had chosen them.

The grave was necessarily shallow, the storm coming upon us the night before in such haste as to preclude anything deeper than a few feet. I wasn't sure there was enough earth covering the bodies to stand the rain for too many days.

I grasped the rope lashing the canvas to the schooner and let the tears come. The sound of the storm, the thunder, and the constant patter of rain on the roof of the schooner masked the sounds of my sobs. I was exhausted, spent emotionally and physically. I wished I had died with Maureen; Death's eternal sleep was more inviting at that moment than at any other. What lay before me I knew not. I only knew I did not have the will to move forward and find out. I couldn't imagine a time in my future when I would be happy again.

So absorbed in my own misery and bleak future was I that I did not hear Kindle rise and move to stand behind me. Sound around me shifted and I understood for the first time what it was to sense someone's presence without seeing them.

I gathered my emotions as best I could but did not bother to hide the tears pooling in my eyes nor the stains that marked my cheeks. When I faced him I found such empathy and understanding in his expression I almost lost myself to crying again. I fought valiantly, and successfully, against the urge to throw myself in his arms. At that moment, I wanted to be comforted, for another's strength to course through me and give me courage. The last time I had been comforted in that way was at the death of my father. Maureen, so slight of build and full of devastating grief of her own, showed the depths of her natural tenderness and empathy.

Empathy I never repaid.

“Did they say words over the grave?”

“Yes. Sergeant Washington did. If you would like to pay your respects…”

I nodded. “I should have gone before.” Instead of berating your soldiers for looting, I thought. I sniffed and wiped the tears from my cheeks with the sleeve of my dress and apologized. “I fear my emotional state is confirming your nephew's opinion of my fitness as your physician”

“On the contrary, Doctor. I would question the character of anyone unaffected by the events you've been through.”