At the muddy bank of the James, Cliste darted into the brush.
Ashlinn shook her head. “Bloody hound, if you just have a rabbit in there…” she whispered as she followed slowly behind.
One hand strayed toward the knife belted at her waist. At least a rabbit would mean fresh meat for dinner. As much as she detested harming any living thing, she had learned to do what she had to so that she survived this damnable war. Careful of her footing on the slippery slope, she followed Cliste’s wagging gray tail down the riverbank. The big hound began backing out of the bushes, the muscles along her neck and back flexing as she dragged a burden along with her. The sight of the collar of the blue uniform clenched between Cliste’s teeth made Ashlinn’s heart thump so hard in her chest that it hurt.
Or perhaps it was the thrill of hope that caused the pain. The loyal hound never touched the survivors she found, only stood over them. The soldier attached to the collar didn’t so much as stir as Cliste dragged him through the mud. Blood stained the abdomen and left arm of his uniform a dark crimson. It was always hard to tell if the blood on a man was his own or another’s, but this one’s lack of movement did not bode well. One look at his face and the hope that had blossomed in her heart withered and died as if poisoned.
Clean-shaven as he was, she knew instantly that he wasn’t the man she searched for. Swallowing back the tears that tried to choke her, she put her mind to the task at hand. At least she could save someone’s brother, husband, or father this day. Slightly prominent cheekbones and a strong jawline framed a handsome face that tugged at something deep inside her. She found herself wishing his eyes were open so she could see what color they were. His forage cap had gotten lost sometime during either the battle or Cliste’s handling of him, leaving his dark brown hair to tumble loose and drag in the mud. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, a good sign despite the blood covering him.
After a quick glance around the still battlefield, Ashlinn knelt beside the man. She undid the rain-slick buttons of his uniform, exposing his undershirt. Grabbing the collar of the threadbare beige garment, she tore it open easily.
“Sorry, soldier. I know you probably brought that from home,” she murmured as she pushed it open wider.
Blood still oozed from a horrible gash in the man’s left side about four inches wide and deep enough that Ashlinn could see muscle. A bayonet wound, which likely meant it was even deeper than it appeared. From the placement, the chances that the weapon had missed anything vital were good. Another glance at the lengthening shadows of twilight stealing over the land and she knew she wouldn’t be moving him far. Her gaze methodically checked the landscape, looking for anywhere she could hide him away from prying eyes and the weather.
Most of the trees had been chopped down for one army or another’s use, leaving nothing but open fields and brush along the river. A few abandoned cannons and broken-down wagons lay a good distance away back up on the hillside, but they weren’t exactly a good option. Too obvious. A soft woof drew her attention back to Cliste, who stood wagging her tail so hard her entire rear end swayed. The moment Ashlinn looked at her the hound dashed off into the underbrush and disappeared. Another woof sounded, this one echoing.
Trusting her furred companion, Ashlinn grabbed hold of the soldier’s collar with both hands and slowly began to drag him back the way Cliste had brought him. The tall bushes allowed her to duck beneath them, and the mud helped her pull the man along despite the fact that he probably weighed almost double what she did. Once she had him beneath the cover of the bushes, Ashlinn turned around to see where Cliste had disappeared to.
Between the leaves and the shadows of the rapidly approaching night, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust and realize what they beheld. Around the edge of this bush and down along the river a little was a dark spot on the bank that resembled a cave mouth. Like a gray ghost, Cliste bounded from the yawning darkness and reached Ashlinn’s side in less than four steps. While Ashlinn stood catching her breath with her hands on her hips, Cliste took the soldier’s collar in her teeth again and began to drag him toward the cave mouth. Shaking her head, Ashlinn crouched low to avoid the snarling branches and lifted the soldier’s wounded arm out of the mud.
More than once the riverbank sucked at her calf-high boots, nearly making her slip. Only a few feet of rain-slickened plant life lay between her and the muddy waters of the James River. Warm though the evening was, this man had lost so much blood he was bound to get cold, and his battle to survive the night would be hard enough as it was without a plunge into the water. She had to be careful. The closer they got to the cave opening, the less it looked like a cave. It was more like a shelf of ground hollowed out by the river when it had been swollen with winter water. Regardless, it would have to do.
Finally, with Cliste’s help, she was able to pull the soldier inside the makeshift cave. She suffered a few scratches shoving aside leafy branches of the bushes that were trying to overgrow the opening, but they made it inside. The earthen roof was almost high enough that she could stand up and wide enough for the three of them with room to spare. Sitting slightly above the water level, the alcove would keep them warm and dry, which was all she could have hoped for.
Outside, rain began to fall in great sheets, obscuring what little view of the river she had from between the leaves. A sigh of relief slid from her. She’d be able to start a fire without having to worry about the smoke being seen. She had to boil water and cleanse the dead doctor’s medical instruments and stitching material. God knows he certainly hadn’t done it. More than once she had tried to convince the doctors of the Union army that such precautions were necessary, but they always dismissed her ideas as the ramblings of an uneducated woman. All despite the fact that the hacks knew her father had been a forward-thinking doctor and her mother a midwife who fancied herself a scientist. In fact, she had often thought her lineage was part of why they seemed to despise her so. Softly chastising herself, she shook her head. To think ill of the dead invited nothing but trouble.
Like a massive sentinel, Cliste lay down close to the soldier’s head. Again, Ashlinn puzzled over what could possibly make the hound so protective of a complete stranger.
She began to collect the few bits of driftwood that she could find in the dark alcove. She would need more, a lot more, but this would do for now. Several of the branches were dry enough that she was able to strip the bark from them with ease. She piled the strips beneath the wood. From within her frock coat she pulled a small box of lucifers, struck one, and touched the resulting flame to the pile of dry bark. In a few moments the tinder caught. When the tiny flame started to devour the driest bits of bark, she placed a few of the smaller branches over the orange flames. With a bit of coaxing a steady fire soon burned.
Removing her frock coat, she laid it aside, then removed the small satchel she kept hidden beneath it. She dug out a small pan from within the satchel and filled it with water from her canteen. Using a few rocks and larger branches she found near the entrance of the alcove, she made a place for the pan to sit over the fire. Upon her coat she laid out the contents of her satchel: clean linens for bandages, vials of morphine, a bottle of iodine, suture needles, and suture thread that had been boiled and stored carefully within a wax-sealed envelope.
Such items weren’t customary and often got her laughed at by the other nurses and the few doctors who had ever seen them. But they were items vital to a patient’s survival, according to her father. And considering the survival rate of his patients versus any other doctor she had ever known, she put her trust in his teachings. Morphine was the one thing that the hack doctors of this war used, but they did so sparingly and often only on officers. It was hard to come by, which was part of why she kept it hidden inside her coat with her other precious items.
Feeling as prepared as she was going to get, she set to the task of removing the soldier’s coat and undershirt. Unable to move him much due to the wound in his side, she had to settle for removing his wounded arm from his coat and pushing his clothing away from his side wound as much as possible. Not an ounce of fat seemed to cling anywhere to his muscled frame. Though the sight of his mostly naked chest stirred her, it also saddened her. Lack of good