One of the cooks stepped forward with a small covered pot. "Sergeant Jackson, here is the broth you asked me to prepare. If there is anything any of us can do for the General, you will let us know?"
"Of course. We get some of this good beef broth in him and start building him back up, he will be right as rain soon enough. So keep the broth coming, please. Oh, and some scalded milk, if you can find it."
"We will find it. If the General needs it, we will find it."
Jocko slapped the man on the shoulder. "Good man. I will be sure to tell the General of your contribution."
Jocko walked out of the mess tent with a sandwich in one hand, and the pot of broth in the other. He stopped by his own tent and grabbed his bedroll, which he slung over his back. Walking back to Charlie’s tent to resume his vigil, he again turned to the God he had not talked to in years. Please, God. I have never asked you for anything for me, but let Charlie live. Please.
--*--
It was several hours before Elizabeth managed to clear the most urgent cases and join Whitman and Jocko in Charlie’s tent. Jocko was passed out in the corner. Whitman was hovering over the injured man, his coat off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, alternately sponging his forehead and neck with cool water and prying fluids into him, a spoonful at a time.
"Is he taking it?" Elizabeth placed a light finger in Charlie's neck to feel for the swallowing reflex.
"He is. He is even lucid occasionally, although only for a moment or two. But the fever is rising and I have not been able to do anything to stop it. And I do not like the way one of his bandages looks, but I waited until you got here to take a look at the wound."
"Then let us see to it." She sighed and pulled a campstool up next to Charlie's cot. She had barely any energy left and she did not want to waste what she did have in standing unnecessarily.
Whitman peeled back the bandage over Charlie thigh and buttock. The wound was ghastly. The injury itself was terrible. Charlie’s flank looked liked a piece of chopped meat. But infection had set in. It was swollen, an angry red with pockets of puss. The smell was awful.
Elizabeth swallowed hard against the smell, fighting furiously to keep from losing the contents of her stomach. "Oh, Lord. Get me a surgical tray. I am going to have to remove more of this infected area." She licked her lips and made a decision. "And prepare the amputation equipment. If I cannot get this cleaned up properly, we are going to take this leg."
Jocko had awakened while they were looking at Charlie’s injuries. "Dr. Walker. You cannot take his leg. That would be worse than death for him. I have heard that warm salt water will clean up infections. If we could get some, I could keep washing it."
"Jocko, I do not want to take this leg. But would you see our friend dead if we can do something to prevent it? Of course we will do everything we can first. While I tend to removing more of this infection, you go find your warm salt bath. But I am telling you now that if it does not work, I am taking this leg. I cannot let him die if there is another option."
"Yes, ma’am. ‘‘Tis just that Charlie is so…… he needs…… Oh, hell, you know what I mean." Jocko realized what he had just said to Dr. Walker and flushed with embarrassment. "Pardon my language, ma’am. I will go get some boiled water and salt."
"It is all right, Jocko, I understand. This is difficult on all of us. We will see our friend through."
Whitman returned with a complete surgical tray just as Jocko was leaving. Jocko looked at Whitman fiercely. "Do not let her take that leg if it can be prevented. He would kill himself, I think, if he lost it."
--*--
Monday, April 10, 1865
Elizabeth had trimmed away the dead flesh and drained the pockets of infection. This time, instead of trying to sew the wound closed, she left it open, to drain and so that it could be washed down regularly with the salt and boiled water Jocko had made. She also made a tonic of feverwort, chamomile, and willow bark to try and control the fever. But still the fever slowly climbed higher.
They stripped him naked and washed his whole body down in cool water, but the fever slowly gained ground. Charlie was unconscious and at times delirious. They were terrified that in his thrashing, he would tear open his stitches. The only thing that Jocko and Whitman had to help them was the fact that he was so weak from blood loss. They could restrain him easily.
They continued to work on the infections. The thigh wound began to heal, slowly losing the angry swelling. The gashes in his buttocks and shoulder were not so cooperative.
Jocko looked at Whitman that night and laughed –– a totally humorless laugh. "Well, at least she cannot amputate his arse."
--*--
Tuesday, April 11, 1865
The word had moved across the country like wild fire. Lee had surrendered. Tarent kept Rebecca advised of all the rumors that were filtering back from the front. There were rumors of heavy fighting prior to the surrender, and Sheridan’s name was attached to all of those rumors but no details were available. Rebecca had received Charlie’s last letter, written six days ago on the eve of what was clearly a four-day running battle. After that, she had heard nothing. Finally, she could not stand it. She asked Tarent to hitch Shannon to her little basket trap and, with Em beside her, drove into town.
She arrived at Major Byrnes’ office and stalked in, brushing past his junior officers and ignoring all of their efforts to be polite to their General’s wife and daughter. Most of the men in the office knew that Charlie was injured; but orders had come down –– very specific orders. Mrs. Redmond was not to be told anything without Dr. Walker or Colonel Polk’s permission.
"Major, is there any news of my husband today?"
Byrnes had been dreading this moment. He was perfectly aware the General’s life hung in the balance. But he had orders not to tell her and he would obey those orders. "Ma’am, I am unable to tell you anything. I have been informed that the whereabouts of the General is a matter of some sensitivity. You must know that even though the Army of Virginia has surrendered, we are still in a state of war and some things remain too sensitive to allow either dispatch or telegram communications."
Rebecca took a deep breath, picked Emily up from the floor and sat her squarely in the center of the Major's desk. "Tell her that. Tell her that the whereabouts of her Papa are too sensitive for us to know." She lifted a brow in challenge. "Go ahead. Tell her you do not know anything of her Papa, who she has cried for nearly every day for the last two months."
Byrnes looked at the child sitting on his desk, looking at him with guileless blue eyes. Em smiled shyly at the officer. "Where Papa, pwease?"
"I am sorry, little one, I honestly do not know exactly where your Papa is. But I will send a telegram to headquarters to find out."
"Major," Rebecca lifted Em into her arms. "I do not need to know all the details. I just need to know if my husband is alive or not. I have a dreadful feeling that he may not be. Please prove me wrong."
"Ma’am, I can say with some surety that when I received this mornings dispatches from the 13th, your husband was alive. Beyond that, I do not know."
Rebecca fought tears; some borne of fear, other from relief. At least Charlie was alive. "Thank you, Major. Thank you very much. When you get more information, I would be grateful."
"Ma’am, I swear, when I have information I can share with you, I will personally ride out to deliver it."
--*--
Thursday, April 13, 1865
All day Wednesday, Charlie held his own neither better nor worse. On Thursday, as time, infection, and fever took their toll, Charlie slowly faded. He was delirious all of the time, but too weak to do more than twitch and mumble. The infection in his side was tenacious. The wound continued to seep. While Jocko’s saltwater baths had helped the shoulder, they had not been sufficient to overcome the larger infection in his buttock.