horse, laid him on a stretcher and carried him to a cot in the tent. Surrounded by agony and chaos from the daylong battle, he was ignored until morning.
Soaked in blood and sweat, Patrick survived the longest night of his life. His broken leg flopped this way and that when he moved it an inch and it lacerated him with pain. There was no chance to sleep, surrounded by the shrill sounds in the tent and from the yard, both filled with wounded. Some soldiers suffered in silent fortitude while others cried out or groaned pitifully. “Let me die!” one man shouted in agony. “Momma, Momma, Momma,” was repeated until a medic gagged the soldier. Nurses went from bed to bed offering shots of whiskey, but it wasn’t enough. Where are the doctors? Patrick fumed. He lay on his cot staring into the darkness, certain this was what living in Hell must be like. Helpless. Not a leg to stand on was the only humor that pierced his cocoon of suffering.
Sometime after dawn, Patrick was approached by a nurse, who said only, “The doctor is coming.” The field surgeon arrived soon after, triaging the wounded. Those with gunshot wounds to the abdomen or chest were left to die. A fractured hip was always fatal. With a fractured femur, Patrick’s odds of dying were three to one. If the bullet and wadding from the shot remained in the wound, it increased the infection risk. Amputation was the operation for all soldiers with this injury.
“I am dying of thirst and I hurt like hell. All I have had all night is a sip from a whiskey bottle,” Patrick complained while the doctor inspected his left leg, which bent out at an awkward angle.
The doctor ignored his complaint and stood up straight. “Captain, we will transport you to a hospital across the Rappahannock toward Warrentown to amputate your leg.”
“I don’t want it cut off,” Patrick roared. “I have a war to fight. I have a life to make.”
“It is your leg or your life, Captain. We have no treatment for the infection that usually develops.”
Patrick’s anger was impotent in his helpless condition. His leg was splinted and he was transported in a horse-drawn covered ambulance wagon designed to carry as many as ten men at a time. The opiate given him after boarding the ambulance was especially effective because he had lost so much blood. His mind was rambling. Damn, if my horse hadn’t reared up the ball would have hit my chest. I wonder if Jackson really was shot? I’m glad Katherine can’t see me helpless. Patrick fell into a drug-induced, fitful sleep.
A sudden halt of the ambulance threw Patrick forward, so his piercing yell announced his arrival at Warrentown. When he came to he was staring at the ceiling of a farmhouse-turned-hospital instead of the roof of the ambulance. A plump, middle-aged woman appeared and quickly looked over Patrick’s leg. “Here’s whiskey,” she said curtly as she held up a large amber bottle. She pulled out the cork stopper, brought the bottle to Patrick’s lips, and tilted it up. As soon as the biting alcohol entered his mouth, Patrick’s throat closed and he spewed it right back out, certain he was about to vomit. “Don’t be wasteful, Captain. We haven’t much to spare. Try again.” Patrick swallowed the next two mouthfuls, and before he could say a word she was gone. He lay back and gratefully let the whiskey soothe him.
Patrick was scared. He had never considered he might die of injury. Too tough, too lucky. But the field doctor said he might die. He had never associated the dead soldiers around him with his own death. That was their fault—he knew he was smarter and tougher than any rebel. But now, death filled his mind. He dwelled on his father’s death and the fear he would never see Katherine again. A night of constant pain, dehydration, blood loss, and whiskey gave him intermittent sleep and vivid dreams.
His whiskey-laced brain returned to his trip home six months ago, when his father was dying in January 1863.
Soaked in blood and sweat, Patrick survived the longest night of his life. His broken leg flopped this way and that when he moved it an inch and it lacerated him with pain. There was no chance to sleep, surrounded by the shrill sounds in the tent and from the yard, both filled with wounded. Some soldiers suffered in silent fortitude while others cried out or groaned pitifully. “Let me die!” one man shouted in agony. “Momma, Momma, Momma,” was repeated until a medic gagged the soldier. Nurses went from bed to bed offering shots of whiskey, but it wasn’t enough. Where are the doctors? Patrick fumed. He lay on his cot staring into the darkness, certain this was what living in Hell must be like. Helpless. Not a leg to stand on was the only humor that pierced his cocoon of suffering.
Sometime after dawn, Patrick was approached by a nurse, who said only, “The doctor is coming.” The field surgeon arrived soon after, triaging the wounded. Those with gunshot wounds to the abdomen or chest were left to die. A fractured hip was always fatal. With a fractured femur, Patrick’s odds of dying were three to one. If the bullet and wadding from the shot remained in the wound, it increased the infection risk. Amputation was the operation for all soldiers with this injury.
“I am dying of thirst and I hurt like hell. All I have had all night is a sip from a whiskey bottle,” Patrick complained while the doctor inspected his left leg, which bent out at an awkward angle.
The doctor ignored his complaint and stood up straight. “Captain, we will transport you to a hospital across the Rappahannock toward Warrentown to amputate your leg.”
“I don’t want it cut off,” Patrick roared. “I have a war to fight. I have a life to make.”
“It is your leg or your life, Captain. We have no treatment for the infection that usually develops.”
Patrick’s anger was impotent in his helpless condition. His leg was splinted and he was transported in a horse-drawn covered ambulance wagon designed to carry as many as ten men at a time. The opiate given him after boarding the ambulance was especially effective because he had lost so much blood. His mind was rambling. Damn, if my horse hadn’t reared up the ball would have hit my chest. I wonder if Jackson really was shot? I’m glad Katherine can’t see me helpless. Patrick fell into a drug-induced, fitful sleep.
A sudden halt of the ambulance threw Patrick forward, so his piercing yell announced his arrival at Warrentown. When he came to he was staring at the ceiling of a farmhouse-turned-hospital instead of the roof of the ambulance. A plump, middle-aged woman appeared and quickly looked over Patrick’s leg. “Here’s whiskey,” she said curtly as she held up a large amber bottle. She pulled out the cork stopper, brought the bottle to Patrick’s lips, and tilted it up. As soon as the biting alcohol entered his mouth, Patrick’s throat closed and he spewed it right back out, certain he was about to vomit. “Don’t be wasteful, Captain. We haven’t much to spare. Try again.” Patrick swallowed the next two mouthfuls, and before he could say a word she was gone. He lay back and gratefully let the whiskey soothe him.
Patrick was scared. He had never considered he might die of injury. Too tough, too lucky. But the field doctor said he might die. He had never associated the dead soldiers around him with his own death. That was their fault—he knew he was smarter and tougher than any rebel. But now, death filled his mind. He dwelled on his father’s death and the fear he would never see Katherine again. A night of constant pain, dehydration, blood loss, and whiskey gave him intermittent sleep and vivid dreams.
His whiskey-laced brain returned to his trip home six months ago, when his father was dying in January 1863.
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