Read Online Spake As a Dragon by Larry Edward Hunt - Free Book Online Page B

had
made a makeshift bandage trying to stop the foamy blood that flowed
profusely from Robert’s chest. They had managed to cover it with
his father’s handkerchief and tie his belt around the wound. This
slowed the bleeding but didn’t stop it. Foamy blood, the orderly
said indicated a lung had been punctured.
    From the field litter, Sergeant
Scarburg is shoved into the bed of a blood-soaked wagon. He is
piled on top of other wounded soldiers, some too badly injured to
offer any objection. The wagon’s grisly condition indicates the
wounded and dying soldiers aren’t the first to use this four-wheel
conveyance of death. The next hour or so he endures being bounced
and jostled on a muddy road more adept for a mountain goat than a
horse drawn wagon. He is beginning to believe that he will not
survive the wagon trip long enough to find medical help. When the
wagon ride ends, he is at a temporary Union hospital south of
Gettysburg. An open spot in the middle of the forest bounded on one
side by a railroad track. The chief surgeon is Dr. Jonathan
Letterman.
    The litter bearers place him on the
ground, outside a medical tent. A couple of doctors are using the
area for triage. Soldiers with a red rag tied around the arm are
given first priority. Those with white ones go next. Wounded men
with a black rag are not treated - they are going to die. No one
comes to check on him after his first initial evaluation; a black
cloth is tied around Sergeant Scarburg’s arm. Even if he had a red
or white rag he would be a very low priority. He was the enemy –
the Yankee doctors treat their soldiers first Confederates come
last, if at all.
    A couple of hours pass, Sergeant
Scarburg desperately wants a drink of water. “Help me please!” he
moans. His throat is parched. Mumbling, he tries to beg anyone
nearby for water. At last when he thinks he can last no longer he
hears what he thinks is an angel speak to him.
    Although not a heavenly angel, she no
doubt is an earthly one clothed as a nurse, who softly says to him,
“Soldier! Soldier can you hear me?” The nurse continues, “Can you
answer me?”
    Barely above a whisper he answers,
“Wa...wa...water!”
    The nurse could barely hear Sergeant
Scarburg, but she heard enough to understand he wanted a drink of
water. She retrieved a canteen, propped him up and let him drink
the cool water until it oozed out the corner of his mouth. Earlier
he thought she was an angel now he is sure she was heaven
sent.
    She removes the black rag, summons an
attendant and has Robert carried inside the surgeon’s tent and
places him on a bloody table. A pile of arms and legs almost waist
high is visible outside the rear of the tent. Opening Robert’s
chest the surgeon explained how fortunate the Sergeant is. “Fortunate? Fortunate?” Thought Sergeant Scarburg, “It’s
obvious this idiot has never had a ten inch piece of steel shoved
into his chest!” But, the doctor is right the bayonet only
nicked his lung and did not hit any other vital organs. The surgeon
did what limited care he could, sewed him back up, bandaged his
head and sent Robert into a large tent with other injured Rebels.
The doctor offered little hope that the Sergeant would survive.
Robert was now officially a prisoner of war and a dying one at
that.
    His angelic nurse constantly visited
him, wiped his brow and gave him water to drink. Occasionally she
would change his bandages and give him a tablespoon of laudanum to
ease the pain. Sometimes she would bring him a little milk boiled
with whiskey and sugar. It was glorious to Robert. Over the
following days, he began to improve, but his head still hurt badly.
The bleeding had stopped in both wounds; his breathing was labored
but adequate. He was conscious enough to speak with his
nurse.
    “ I want to tell you I
appreciate what you have done for me.”
    “ You’re welcome Sergeant,
but what is your name and regiment?”
    “ It’s funny – madam I know
I am a Reb, but for the