Glory by Heather Graham
Naturally, they were plagued here by other illness as well, including measles, malaria, typhoid fever, smallpox, and mumps. Practicing medicine in camp meant treating almost every malady known to man, all manner of illness, and manner of injury. Bayonet wounds were not nearly as common as those caused by bullets; again, injuries from bullets far outweighed those from shrapnel, cannonballs, and other explosives. Most treatable bullet wounds were to a soldier’s arms or legs, basically because most gut-shot or chest-shot men died on the field. So many who could be saved perished, bleeding to death while battle raged on. Often, no matter how he wanted to really practice medicine, he felt he was little more than a butcher—after a major battle, he had little recourse except to cut away limbs. Limb after limb. And with each cut of his scalpel, each stroke of his surgical saw, he worried that he was cutting a man’s hope and dignity along with his flesh. Sometimes, no matter how quick and expertly done the amputation, gangrene set in, and a man died anyway. The fight for life amidst so much blood was never-ending.
But then again ...
There were those times when he knew that his expertise saved lives. Even limbs. When his patient treatments and precautions saved a company from slow death due to a fever that was quickly quarantined, rather than allowed to run rampant. As painful as it often was, he was glad to be among the men of the Army of Northern Virginia. He missed his home; missed his family, missed his native warmth in winter. But he had gotten used to artillery fire overhead when he worked in wretched conditions on a field of blood. No matter how bad conditions and the situation were, he felt he made a difference, and that made his own life, if often anguished, worthwhile, even gratifying.
Wager was watching him, he realized.
“Paper?” Brent said, sitting back, wary, and not at all sure why. “What paper?”
“Well, all right, it wasn’t a paper. It was a letter, an excellent letter sent to General Lee.”
“Ah,” Brent said. He wasn’t sure whether to be glad that his letters had been read at all—or resentful because they had been read by a man to whom they had not been addressed.
“Yes, I read quite a discourse written by you on preventing the spread of disease ... and, also, a passage by your Florida militia relation, another Dr. McKenzie.”
“Julian’s theory on the use of clean sponges in the operating theater?” he inquired.
“Yes. You both keep excellent records.”
“Right. As I said—required, to the best of my ability, by the surgeon general.”
Sam Wager suddenly leaned forward. “You’re a most impressive young man, Captain McKenzie. As is your cousin. Both with your specialties.”
He arched a brow. What specialty?
Wager was looking at him strangely. “You’re Indian, somewhere in your background, right, McKenzie?”
Brent wondered where this was going. Yes, he was Indian, and Wager knew it. He had his mother’s green eyes, but his quarter part of Seminole blood showed in his nearly blue-black, dead straight hair. His background was revealed as well in his broad cheekbones and the golden pigment to his skin. “My father’s maternal family, sir,” he told Wager.
“Seminole, right?”
Brent nodded again.
Wager sat back, lifting a hand. “Well, there, maybe that’s the explanation.”
Brent carefully set down his pen. “Explanation for what?” He’d known Wager a long time. Wager had never commented on his background, or looked at him in such a manner—or suggested that his bloodline might account for anything.
“Your expertise with disease.”
“Excuse me?” he said, eyes narrowing.
“With the things that men and women catch ... and pass around.”
“Because of my Indian blood I would know this?”
Wager smiled. “Don’t go taking offense. I mean that it makes you more aware of the way that our society brings disease from place to place. It means that you’ve probably spent some time with people who have learned to use nature to their own purposes more than we do. Smart people. Take the fact that so many Indians, Seminoles included, always fought half naked because they were aware that bits and pieces of fabric catching in wounds always make them worse, more prone to infection. All I mean is, you’re one damned decent, thinking doctor, Captain. And your background surely helped make you that way.”
“Umm, maybe,” he murmured. He’d been uneasy since Wager had come in. Now he was feeling downright wary. “But, sir, it doesn’t seem to me to take a genius to make the connection that more sanitary conditions help to stem the flow of disease. Colonel, please, what is the point here?”
“Well,” Wager said, and sat back. If Brent didn’t know the fellow better, he’d think that Wager was blushing.
“We’ve another outbreak, sir. One demoralizing the army, destroying morale.”
“What outbreak might this be, Colonel?”
“Venereal disease, Captain. Straight and simple.”
Brent frowned. Sexual diseases had plagued armies from the beginning of time. Put enough homesick men and boys into a position where they were far from home and frequently facing death on a daily basis, and they were going to forget wives, mothers, sweethearts, and seek the company of the world’s oldest profession. Yes, he was aware of sexually transmitted diseases. He had done his best to help men who could only be treated and not cured; he had given out medications for tortuous itching and agonizing dripping. He had talked and counseled men—young and old.
“Yes, venereal diseases are certainly a problem, Colonel.”
“And you, sir, are just the man to deal with them.”
“What?” Brent said incredulously.
“General Lee himself has been in a sad quandary. Why, Master Robert has the greatest respect and regard for you, sir—”
“We’ve barely ever talked—” Brent protested.
“You’re mistaken, sir, if you don’t think that the general has seen the exceptional work you’ve done here. You can’t realize how much hope and faith he’s putting into your abilities when he plans on putting you to the task of studying and repairing the situation.”
Brent was out of his chair. “Wait! I’ve no special abilities—”
“Captain, sir, you’ll be out of the field of fire for the next few months, waging a new war, a gallant fight—”
“A gallant fight—against venereal disease?”
“There you have it, Captain McKenzie, sir! Your new orders will be to head up the treatment and investigation of these devastating illnesses. There’s a special community being set up—not too terribly far from Richmond—where you’ll be able to treat and study a community of prostitutes—”
“Prostitutes!”
“Yes, sir, Captain McKenzie, sir, and you can’t begin to imagine the service you’ll be doing your fellow man!”
Wary—hell, yes, he should have been wary. But he’d never imagined anything like this.
He looked down, gripping his hands, controlling his temper. So he’d done exemplary work. His reward was a city of diseased prostitutes?
“Colonel Wager, sir, I must protest. I think that my work with the men here is far more important—”
“The surgeon general himself recommended you for this job, Captain, considering it be an honor to command such an intensive study. You are being given this command with the greatest faith and respect.”
“But the men with whom I’ve worked—”
“We need you, sir.”
“I’d rather thought I was needed here.”
Wager sat back. “You’re good at medicine, at surgery, McKenzie. But frankly, in the midst of battle, sometimes, sir, a butcher is as good as a surgeon. But you needn’t be too dismayed. We’re bringing more men into the ranks.”
“From where?”
“Some of them are coming up from your own state, Florida.”
Although he’d been with the Army of Northern Virginia for a long time, he felt a painful nostalgia for his home. “The Confed
“Not stripping it. Leaving it skeletal, perhaps. The major battles are being fought to the north, and that’s a simple fact.”
“But the coast of Florida lies unprotected except for her own few militia men and occasional Confederate troops—”
“I don’t make policy, Captain McKenzie. It’s no secret now that General Lee is desperate to wage this war on Northern soil, and so we’ll all move north. You won’t be needing to fret about your division’s men—your cousin is being commissioned into the regular service. Longstreet fought to keep you here, but the medical experts were convinced that you were needed, so we’ll be bringing Colonel McKenzie up to move with our forces.”
Brent just stared at him.
If that didn’t just beat all.
Julian, naturally, was going to be angry. He already felt that the state of Florida had been abused by the Confederacy. She’d been stripped of food, supplies, and men. For her loyalty to the cause, she’d been abandoned. Now more men, including him, were being pulled north.
Julian would take his place.
While he was sent to deal with prostitutes.
“Maybe,” he said hopefully, aware that he was offering up his cousin to the lions, but then, what the hell, Julian was going to be angry one way or the other, “my cousin should really be given the opportunity—and privilege—of commanding the study and care of the horrible outbreak of venereal disease. He’s an excellent man with disease—and prostitutes.”
“The orders have already come down, Captain McKenzie. I’m sure that both you and your cousin are excellent in treating disease—and prostitutes. We’re counting on you, Captain. You can’t begin to imagine how much. You’ll be receiving paperwork from the surgeon general within the next few days. You may choose a staff to bring with you, of course.”
Wager rose. Brent stood as well.
“I still must protest—”
“Indeed, do so, sir, if you wish. It’s your God-given right as a Southerner to exercise freedom of speech! But it’s also your duty as an officer in the Confederate States Army to serve your country where you’re most desperately needed.”
“I’m needed where there’s the greatest danger—”
“Good evening, sir. Godspeed you in all your efforts.”
Wager left the tent; Brent stared after him blankly for a long minute.
He fell rather than sat back in his chair. He lifted his hands, as if to heaven, and spoke aloud. “Blood and guts and thousands of battle-torn men just weren’t enough, eh? Prostitutes!” he said, shaking his head.
He allowed his forehead to crash down on the desk before him.
Prostitutes ...
Yes, by God, it was one hell of a war.
Decent. Nice. Dashing.
Riding behind Julian McKenzie, Rhiannon sniffed aloud. So much for Rachel’s opinion of the man. He had barely spoken to her; when he had done so, he had been brusque to the point of rudeness. When he looked at her, she felt a strange trembling inside, as if she were detestable. So much for I’ll hold you, I’ll keep you warm, I’ll get you through the night ...
Maybe not. He had gotten her through the night. But she wasn’t sure she felt so much better now. She remained so tired, as if her body had fought a battle even while she slept. The only difference today was that she ... knew.
She had been addicted. She fiercely denied that she had been trying to kill herself; all she’d wanted to kill was the pain. But she had played dangerously with her homegrown drugs, and this morning she knew full well that it had been wrong. She felt terrible.
And she felt better. She would actually have thanked him if he weren’t acting like such a horse’s ass!
He came to a dead halt; she reined in sharply behind him, Rachel reined in behind her. He sat very still, listening. She heard nothing but the breeze, the slightest rustling of leaves. The summer’s day was mercilessly hot, and she couldn’t begin to think of why he would stop ...
“Colonel?”
The word seemed to come from the sky, from the trees, from nowhere, from everywhere.
“Right, Digby, it’s me.”
“You alone, sir, except for the ladies?”
“That I am.”
A man suddenly jumped from the trees, landing right in front of them. He was young, slim, supple, tawny-haired with a quick grin. He smiled at Rhiannon, nodding as if he would tip a hat if he were wearing one. “Heard you were coming, sir, and heard about the ladies, of course.”
“I’d assumed somebody would be meeting me,” Julian said. Rhiannon looked at him, frowning, but as he glanced back at her, she understood. Julian’s men had returned before them to give the others fair warning that he was bringing a Yankee sympathizer into their camp.
The young man, Digby, whistled. Three other men appeared from the trees. One was older with white whiskers, the other two were middle-aged. They were all gaunt. Rhiannon bit her lip, remembering that she’d read that Florida was supplying the majority of the salt and meat to the Southern troops. It seemed the food was all leaving the state. At any rate, it didn’t seem that much of it was being consumed by Florida boys.
The whiskered man stepped forward, brandishing worn scarves that still seemed clean enough. “Ladies, my apologies. I’m Lieutenant George Smith, Florida militia, and I’m afraid you must be escorted from here on in.”
“Do you want us to dismount?” Rachel asked gravely. Rhiannon looked at her young charge, feeling a strange flash of anger. Rachel was enjoying herself, feeling as if she were involved in high espionage.
“Why, no, miss, that’s not necessary,” Digby said. “You can’t lead the horse blindfolded; I’ll be right up behind you anyway.”
“Wait a minute,” Rhiannon protested. “This really isn’t necessary. What if we swore that we’d never give away any information of the location—”
“We wouldn’t believe you for a minute,” Julian interrupted quietly, dismounting from his horse. He took one of the scarves from the lieutenant and came to her mount. His blue eyes touched hers with just an edge of fire. She realized he meant to leap up behind her.
“On my honor,” she said gratingly.
“Your honor?” Julian inquired softly.
“Ma’am, we sure like to go by honor, but in these days, well ...” Lieutenant Smith murmured.
She felt Julian’s hands on the rear of her saddle. She edged forward as he leapt easily behind her. “Close your eyes,” he warned sharply.
“It really isn’t necessary—”
“I’ve never felt it was more so.” She felt the scarf fall over her eyes. Julian tied it none too gently.
“You all right?” she heard Digby asking, and by Rachel’s quick assurance Rhiannon knew that Digby was seated behind her young ward. Rachel was just fine.
She didn’t think that she’d ever felt more resentful, nor had she ever imagined what it would be like to ride while blinded so. It was an unnerving feeling. Being blinded, she felt more, and she understood how those who were permanently blinded learned how to rely on their other senses, for she became painfully aware of her sense of touch and hearing. Every rustle of the wind seemed loud to her; each ray of the sun seemed to touch her with warmth. She could almost feel the direction of the rays that touched her. Indeed, the warmth was coming from the west. Twilight was coming. With it the relief of coolness that only night could bring. The breeze kept lifting, a dampness touched the air.
She could smell him. Breathe his scent. The soap with which he had bathed the other night. Something subtle, a scent which was entirely his, barely discernable, evocative, masculine, unique. Not real, she told herself. The horse was moving beneath her. She felt the clop of hooves. The gentle, soft, moist kiss of the air that was sure promise of rain. She could feel the darkness coming. Taste that moisture on the air. Hear every movement. Feel ...
Julian. His thighs against hers, his arms around her as he led their mount. The wall of his ch
And so easy?
She wished desperately that she could ride alone. The tremors she felt now had nothing to do with addiction and everything to do with the hard, angry man behind her who had held her through the night, yet seemed so contemptuous of her.
She moistened her lips, tried to speak with no sound, then found her voice and spoke softly. “Are we almost there?”
“Almost.”
“It seems as if we’ve been riding a very long time.”
“A little more than an hour.”
“It seems like more.”
“It should be more.”
“Because we could betray your camp. But there are endless trails here. Overgrown, bogged down, we couldn’t possibly tell anyone how to get here—”
“The Yanks know we’re near the river. We have to be. Any more information and they could find us. We’ve shifted here and there a few times, but moving a base camp with decent hospital facilities isn’t easy.”
“But if we’re almost there—”
“You’d give us away in a heartbeat, Rhiannon.” His voice was very cold, and still, somehow, his usage of her given name made the words personal as well. She felt his whisper then against her ear, and it seemed intimate. “You’ll just have to suffer along with me a bit longer, won’t you? But then, suffering is all relative to time and place and mood, isn’t it?”
“You can be very cruel.”
“You can be two-faced.”
“That’s not at all true.”
“For a witch with sight, you often choose to make yourself far more blind than that kerchief around your eyes could ever do.”