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  His eyes closed briefly again. “The handsome estate we passed some time earlier. On our way into battle. I remember . . .”

  His lucidity confirmed, she took note of the stripes sewn onto his jacket. “What is your name, Captain?”

  “Roland Ward Jones, ma’am. First Battalion, Mississippi Sharpshooters. Adams’ Brigade.” He started to move his arm and grimaced.

  Lizzie reached out, wondering how to help him, when she saw that part of his right hand had also been torn away, the remaining flesh singed and blackened with spent gunpowder. She felt a stab of sorrow for him, wondering again how he was abiding the pain, much less how he was still alive.

  “Miss Clouston! You’re here.”

  She looked up to see Dr. Phillips, who promptly knelt beside them and began assessing the captain’s wounds. Lizzie read the surgeon’s expression and knew the news was not good.

  “Captain, grapeshot has mangled both of your thighs. Your right is shattered, and your left is badly shredded. Grapeshot also took part of your hand, I see.”

  Something in the doctor’s manner, in his tone, gave Lizzie the sense that the two men knew each other, or at least had met before this moment. The captain’s expression—still calm and focused—didn’t alter when the surgeon gently gripped his shoulder.

  “Captain Jones, there’s an excellent chance that I can mend your left leg. But your right . . .” He leveled his gaze. “I’m afraid the only course of action there is to amputate, as I’m certain you’ve already ascertained. And even then, taken together, the extent of your injuries may yet prove fatal. I’m so sorry.”

  The words, kindly delivered and without a stroke of hesitation, felt like a knife plunged into her chest, and Lizzie clenched her jaw to quell the emotion. She didn’t know this man, and death hovered in every corner of the house. Yet she couldn’t help but feel for him, having come so far and having endured so much. Then to receive such news.

  “You are right, Doctor,” Captain Jones replied, wincing as he covered his shattered hand with his whole one. “But I don’t intend to have that leg cut off, and—”

  Lizzie wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it. But a slow-coming smile—one that touched the intensity of his gray eyes first—passed over his face.

  “—I don’t intend to die, sir. So I want to hold on to what is left of me.”

  Dr. Phillips shook his head. “One’s intentions can only carry them so far in life, Captain Jones. And while I deeply appreciate your bravery and all you’ve done for the Confederacy . . .” He paused. “Your skill in marksmanship and your war record are campfire fodder, as I’m guessing you’re already aware.”

  Lizzie watched the captain’s smile fade.

  “But the severity of this particular leg wound is such that it’s simply not possible for the limb to be salvaged. Much less for me to guarantee that I can sustain your life. Though I’ll do everything I can.”

  “I’m not asking you to sustain my life, good doctor. That is a feat only the Almighty can undertake. What I’m asking is that you patch me up as best you’re able. Without taking my leg.”

  Seconds passed and Lizzie waited, looking between the two men.

  With great effort the captain extended his good hand, and Dr. Phillips, briefly closing his eyes, finally accepted.

  “We’ll get some morphine into you, Captain, then bring you back shortly. I’ll give you all I’ve got within me. But if I determine that the only chance for you to live is to take your leg, then by God Almighty . . . I’ll take it.”

  LIZZIE ACCOMPANIED DR. Phillips into Winder’s bedroom but felt someone’s attention and glanced back. Captain Jones was still watching them, an attendant with a syringe at his side, and she thought again of his comment. I’m not asking you to sustain my life, good doctor. That is a feat only the Almighty can undertake. That was precisely what she’d been thinking at the time.

  She admired the man’s courage and his will to live, especially in the face of such suffering. But it would take nothing short of heaven’s intervention for that to happen. She tilted her head in silent acknowledgment, and though she detected no change in his expression, she somehow sensed a reciprocation.

  Both windows in Winder’s bedroom had been thrown open, and a stiff, cold breeze billowed in, making it even colder than outside in the hallway. Though the room faced the front of the house and the battlefield lay to the back, the sound of artillery still boomed through the open windows, the scream of bullets traveling across the open fields to ricochet off the surrounding hills. And still the explosions came. With each one she imagined yet more soldiers being blown apart. Just like the injured, bleeding men who occupied Winder’s bed and the chairs by the brick hearth, and who either sat or lay on the floor, watching Dr. Phillips—and her, now—as each awaited his turn.

  A shirtless soldier lay on a makeshift operating table—Winder’s bedroom door, she realized, balanced on two sawhorses—and she moved closer to stand beside him. It took every bit of her concentration not to look at his arm—or what was left of it. Artillery of some sort had all but shattered his elbow.

  The soldier shivered, likely from the trauma and the chill. Or maybe he was thinking about what was ahead. He peered up at her and managed a smile of sorts, his face upside down to hers. “You’re a mite kinder to the eyes, ma’am, than them docs are.”

  Perceiving a generous nature, Lizzie leaned closer, reminded of her brother, Johnny. Younger than her by only a year, Johnny and she had grown up being especially close. Last she’d heard, his regiment had been sent to South Carolina. She prayed he was safe and unharmed. This man was younger by a few years, she guessed, and she so wanted to put him at ease. Never mind that her insides were quaking.

  “And I’m inclined to believe, soldier, that someone has already been administering chloroform in my absence.”

  He laughed, or tried to. The sound came out hoarse, and she recognized the fear in his eyes. She also saw Dr. Phillips in her peripheral vision, readying his instruments—a bone saw on the table—and she reached for strength beyond her own.

  “I’ve got a letter, ma’am,” the patient continued, “in my shirt pocket over there—”

  “I’ll see to your letter for you,” she said. “Should that time come.” She gently touched the soldier’s temple, much as she did Winder’s when he fell and skinned a knee. “What is your name?” she asked, instinctively moving her hand to shield his vision from the bone saw and other instruments, as if he didn’t already know what was coming. Same as every other man in the room.

  He swallowed. “My name’s James, ma’am. Second Lieutenant James Campbell Shuler.” His composure faltered as uncertainty flooded his eyes. “Fifteenth Mississippi Infantry, Adams’—” His voice broke, and he grimaced. “Adams’ Brigade.”

  Lizzie nodded. The same brigade as Captain Jones, she noted, then saw that the doctor was ready. “My name is Miss Clouston, Lieutenant Shuler. And Dr. Phillips here is going to take excellent care of you.”

  “Take that cloth and bottle there, Miss Clouston,” Dr. Phillips instructed in his kind but forthright manner. “Hold the cloth over the patient’s nose. Like this . . .” He demonstrated. “Then slowly—very slowly—drip the chloroform onto the cloth. You need to saturate the cloth while also not dousing it too quickly. Remember, we need to use that sparingly. And stop when he goes limp. When the bottle is empty, refill it from the can of chloroform on the floor there. Now, soldier—”

  The doctor reached behind him for a glass Lizzie hadn’t noticed before.

  “—Colonel McGavock, the generous owner of this estate, has donated several bottles of Tennessee whiskey. And each man who lies on this table gets a shot if he wants one. So would you care to—”

  “Yes, Doc, please. I would.”

  With Lizzie’s help, the young lieutenant rose up slightly, accepted the glass, and downed the amber liquid in one swallow. He leaned back again, his expression one of gratitude. Lizzie eyed the bottle surreptitiousl
y.

  The doctor set the glass aside. “When we administer the chloroform, you might feel like you’re going to suffocate at first, Lieutenant. But I promise you won’t. Just breathe through it, son. If I can save your arm, I will. And if I can’t, I’ll make it quick and clean. And Miss Clouston here will make sure you’re not awake for any of it.”

  Judging by the volume of Dr. Phillips’s voice, Lizzie gathered the instructions were meant for everyone in the room, not only Lieutenant Shuler. The young man stiffened his jaw and nodded, then looked up at her, and she felt a weight of responsibility along with the threat of tears. But she wrestled them back, knowing that to shed even one would only add to the already enormous burden these men carried. And giving in to tears might somehow undermine the confidence they had in this surgeon. A confidence they needed and that she sorely wanted to share. The clock on the mantel sounded and she looked up.

  A quarter of six.

  She tented the cloth over the patient’s nose, recalling what she’d read about this procedure some time ago in one of the military publications Colonel McGavock received. She carefully tilted the bottle of chloroform as the author of the article—and Dr. Phillips—had instructed, aware of the slight tremor in her hand. And of the lieutenant watching her.

  She willed a steadiness to her voice. “Breathe deeply, Lieutenant Shuler. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

  Two minutes later the lieutenant noticeably relaxed. Two minutes more, and he went limp.

  The surgeon immediately set to work examining the wound and probing for shrapnel. Three oil lamps lined up on Winder’s dresser beside the makeshift operating table cast a burnt-orange glow, and the trio of flames flickered and danced as the breeze rushed across the clear glass chimneys.

  Atop the dresser was the novel she’d placed there earlier that morning, and in her mind’s eye Lizzie could see Winder as he’d stood only hours ago buttoning up his shirt. He’d yammered on and on, enthusiasm building, about the book she’d planned to begin reading to the children at bedtime.

  A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Or the title Winder found much more intriguing, A Ghost Story of Christmas. She’d read the opening sentence to him and he was hooked, as she knew any seven-year-old boy would be. She’d been saving the book for this time of year. But needless to say, they would not begin reading tonight.

  Dr. Phillips reached for the scalpel. “Time is crucial, Miss Clouston. We have a lot of men and only so much whiskey and chloroform. So keep a close eye on his respiration.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lizzie told herself to look away, but couldn’t.

  The doctor made a deep incision above the point of injury and cut through skin and muscle clear down to the bone, leaving a flap of skin on either side. He tied off the arteries and scraped the bone clean, then reached for the bone saw. The sight of blood had never bothered her, but the first pass of the blade sent a shiver through her that she felt to her core.

  She broke out in a cold sweat and angled her body toward the window, grateful for the icy wind on her face. She filled her lungs with it. Yet she still had to keep watch on the rise and fall of the soldier’s chest, which meant seeing the doctor’s movements from the corner of her eye. As if hearing the sound of what he was doing wasn’t enough.

  “Colonel McGavock tells me you’re the children’s governess, Miss Clouston,” Dr. Phillips said, never looking up. “So you’re a teacher by training?”

  “That’s right,” she whispered, surprised her voice held. She took a deep breath and feared this might push her beyond her capabilities.

  “Well, as a teacher, I’m assuming you’re versed in several languages. I know some Latin, of course, but that’s where my fluency in languages abruptly ends.”

  Lizzie dared glance back. Did the man seriously think this was the time for conversation? He looked up at her and smiled. A quick gesture, scarcely there before it was gone again, and he’d refocused on his work. She realized then what he was doing. This was for her benefit, not his.

  “Yes, Dr. Phillips, I’m versed in several languages. Latin and French, and some German. Though my German is rusty from disuse.”

  “And I believe I detect a soft Scottish burr to your voice on occasion.”

  She nodded. “My father was born in Scotland. He tried his best to pass along his accent to me when I was a ‘wee bairn.’” She spoke the words with the lilt of her heritage. “But my mother is from Kentucky, so his efforts were thwarted from the outset. My father’s a druggist here in Franklin, and I’ve worked for the McGavocks for almost eight years now. They’re more like family to me than employer.”

  “They seem like a fine family, Miss Clouston. Would I be correct to assume, taking into account your father’s profession, that you know your way around a medicinal cupboard?”

  “You would. My father taught me a great deal, which has come in handy being a governess.”

  “I would imagine.”

  He continued to speak, telling her how he’d chosen medicine as his career. She appreciated the opportunity to focus on the ease and confidence in his voice, and she drew strength from it.

  After a moment he paused and leaned closer to examine his progress. “When the bones splinter, they shatter into hundreds of sharp little pieces, like knives. Hence, the minié ball striking a bone doesn’t permit much debate about amputation. And a minié ball—or grapeshot, for that matter—to the gut is almost always fatal.”

  It occurred to her then that all the soldiers she’d seen who’d suffered abdominal wounds were on the floor below. Now she could guess why, and she found herself grateful in a way she hadn’t been before that men such as Dr. Phillips knew how to mend and sew the body back together again. Odd how war had a way of leveling out life. Of making what once seemed so important—such as propriety and decorum in conversation—not quite so significant. And in turn, it made what truly mattered—people, taking care of one another, life—of utmost urgency.

  Sweat poured from the doctor’s face as, with a muted thud, the appendage fell to the carpet. It was a sound similar to Winder’s dropping his ball on the floor. A sound Lizzie had never paid much mind to before, but would never forget from this day forward.

  With a tool resembling a scalpel, only thicker, he continued his labors while Lizzie noted a difference in the patient’s breathing.

  “Now to sew him up and we’ll be done.” Dr. Phillips gestured. “Miss Clouston, he’s beginning to—”

  But she already had the chloroform and cloth in hand. She arranged the cloth over his nose and counted. Soon the lieutenant went limp again. Her sensibilities sufficiently numbed, she watched the doctor cover the remaining stump of bone with skin and muscle tissue before expertly suturing it closed.

  He stood back and wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. “We leave a drainage hole. Because if the wound doesn’t heal properly and gangrene sets in, then we risk the sutures bursting. And a second amputation might be necessary.”

  She nodded. “I’ve seen gangrene before.”

  “At this stage, a surgical fever is our worst enemy.” Dr. Phillips motioned to attendants in the hallway, and Lieutenant Shuler, who was slowly coming to, was carried and laid on the floor by the hearth. Lizzie looked at the clock on the mantel.

  Almost six o’clock. It had taken scarcely more than ten minutes for the surgeon to remove the lieutenant’s arm. She looked around the room—so many men—besides those waiting in the hallway. She glanced behind her and saw Captain Jones where he still lay on the floor, unmoving. His eyes were closed. She hoped he hadn’t—

  “Miss Clouston.”

  At Dr. Phillips’s voice, she looked back to find that another soldier was already atop the table, shirtless and waiting. Cloth and chloroform in hand, she administered the anesthetic, her loathing for this war increasing with every passing second.

  Roland drifted on a wave of morphine, welcoming the drug’s power to relieve the pain, if only for a little while. He heard a
sound, moving toward him from far away . . .

  A child’s laugh. Lena.

  Her girlish giggles tugged on heartstrings already worn thin and stretched to near breaking. As long as he lived, he’d never forget the music of her laughter. Too much time had passed since he’d been home. Since he’d seen her and Susan. He hoped they were faring well in his absence. That they weren’t having to do without. Memories of his and Susan’s final night together during his last furlough—nearly a year ago now—drifted toward him. He could see her face, so beautiful, smiling up at him as she lay in his arms.

  “I knew you’d come home to me,” she had whispered. “As I begged of you so many times in my letters.”

  “I will always come home to you, Weet. Always.”

  She’d smiled at his use of the playful nickname he’d given her, and then—

  Before the memory was fully formed, another came rushing forward. Overbearing and unwelcome, it attempted to displace the former. But he shoved it aside, not willing to allow it, despite its insistence. Instead, he clenched his eyes tight and drew the thoughts of his wife and child close, guarding them as though he were guarding his life. Because he was. They were his life.

  But gradually the memories began to break apart, as they always did, until finally they scuttled and scattered beneath the weight of the unrelenting truth. The breaking wave of loss washed through him again. His eyes began to burn, whether from reality or the remnants of the choking smoke clouding the battlefield, he couldn’t say. He knew Susan and Lena weren’t home. And yet they were. Only not a home he’d ever visited.

  While part of him wished he could join them, he couldn’t forget what had happened on the battlefield after he’d been shot. Then he heard her. He heard Weet’s voice. It was impossible, he knew. But . . .