The scenes on this field would have cured anybody of war.
– Union General William Tecumseh Sherman
Andrea ignored the unearthly scream of shells. She moved from wounded soldier to wounded soldier, trying to give aid and comfort to those who lay where they fell in the midst of the thunder of guns.
She was not unaware of the chaos or the dreadful suffering and agony around her. She was simply too exhausted and concentrating too much on her duties to take much notice of it.
The field on which she worked was a vast plain of wreckage, as if a great storm from a place worse than hell had swept through. Though shells occasionally exploded overhead or struck the ground beside her with dangerous violence, she would not leave the field. She refused to allow brave men to lie in hellish misery until such time as the two sides decided to end the day’s slaughter.
Despite the hot, penetrating rays of the sun, Andrea continued to work mechanically, moving from one soldier to the next under the blasting breath of lead, her mind too exhausted with lack of sleep and too fatigued by despair to take notice of the vast wasteland of mutilated humanity that surrounded her.
At times, when the shelling became vicious, she would lie on the ground and wait for the storm to blow over, rising again to work beneath the murky canopy of smoke above. In those moments of chaos and devastation, she strove to ignore as best she could the blood-soaked ground beneath, and pretended not to see the field deluged with misery, or hear the piteous cries of the dying.
Lifting her eyes briefly in an attempt to get her bearings through the thick haze of smoke, Andrea caught a glimpse of the seemingly endless sea of writhing humanity strewn around her. The beautiful rolling hills of Virginia were nothing like she had once known them. The paradise she had once considered beautiful was now a living hell. Andrea lowered her eyes again and moved on. She could help but one at a time. There was no use agonizing over it.
Kneeling by a man who lay just within a tree line, Andrea stared at the bloody path he had made by dragging himself there. She ripped open his pants leg and tried to stem the bleeding of the fearfully torn flesh. She knew it was somewhat futile. From what she knew of such injuries he would not have the limb for long—if he lived at all. Still, she was determined to do her best. Concentrating on the wound, she felt a hand grasp her wrist.
“Andrea?”
She blinked at the barely recognizable face staring up at her. The only identifiable features were the eyes—and they portrayed mortal agony. “Alex,” she whispered.
He stared at her unbelieving, blinking through sweat and blood, apparently trying to decide if she was an illusion or real.
Andrea put water on a cloth and wiped his brow, resisting the urge to lay her head upon his chest and weep. She had cried many tears since leaving Hawthorne, more than she thought a human being had within them. Now she wondered what kind of God it was that wished to torture her afresh. Why could He not let her go on with her life and forget?
“I must…” Hunter swallowed and licked his lips. “I mus…talk…to you.” He struggled to hold his eyes open, to stay conscious.
“Be still,” Andrea commanded, sweeping her eyes across the field. Although she could see none of his men, she knew they must be watching, waiting for the opportunity to extract their leader from this precarious place.
“I made…terrible mistake.” His eyes were eyes glazed with pain. His fevered, bloodshot gaze searched her face.
“I’m sure your men will forgive you.” Andrea poured water on his wound.
“No!” He grabbed her again violently. “Nothing to do…with…men!”
Out of the corner of her eye, Andrea saw a Union officer riding in her direction. It seemed only moments before the mounted officer was upon her.
“What are you doing here?” he bellowed. “Can’t you see that it’s dangerous?”
“I’m here to aid the wounded,” is all Andrea said.
“Madam, with the exception of the front line, you could not have found a more dangerous place to be.” He looked down at Hunter. “And it’s your duty to save our men before you start helping those on the other side!”
Andrea leaned forward to conceal Hunter from the man’s view as best she could. “I’m not here to treat men based on the color of their uniform.”
The officer looked like he was going to argue the point, but taking another glance at Hunter, and apparently seeing the poor condition of his leg, he simply shook his head. “At your own risk, ma’am. At your own risk.” Then he dug his spurs into his mount and rode away.
In those few short moments, Hunter seemed to turn somewhat delirious. Although he appeared to be trying to talk, he succeeded in doing little more than muttering incoherently. Still, his voice, his presence, affected Andrea, making her heart throb frantically as she wiped the clammy dew from his brow.
“Andrea…where are you?”
“I’m right here.” She tried to sound calm, while turning her attention back to his mangled leg.
“N-o-o!” His voice sounded agonized. He reached out to her again, grabbing frantically for her wrist, which he held with a strength she could not believe he possessed. “Where are you? Take me…there!”
Andrea looked at his wild, glassy eyes. Sweat ran in torrents down his face. His shirt was soaked.
“I’m working from a field hospital near Winchester,” she said, grasping his meaning. “I cannot take you there. They would make you a prisoner.”
“No matter. Take me there,” he said weakly. Do not…leave me, Andrea! Please!” It seemed to her he was almost sobbing. “I cannot…find you.”
Andrea removed his hand and looked down at him. His face was contorted in a blend of physical agony and emotional anguish. “Your men will get you out,” she assured him. “You are better off here than in a Union prison.”
Hunter whimpered and began talking in a hurried, rambling tone that was frantic and confused. Something was wrong, and it was far more tormenting to him than his injury.
Andrea looked again at his leg, an unrecognizable wreck of flesh, and then at his dead horse that lay some rods distant. She sat awestruck at the valor of the man who had faced such obvious superior firepower—no doubt in accordance with orders.
A drink of cool water revived Hunter somewhat, though he was still unable to articulate what he so desperately wanted her to understand. He seemed so distraught, rambling on to her about snow and bloody moons, that Andrea feared the injury affected his senses.
Dressing his leg as best she could on the field, she watched him open his eyes and search for her once more. “Don’t,” he commanded her with his tone and his look, “don’t. . .leave. . .me.”
Andrea looked away. She had to refuse him. She had no means to move him, and even if she did, she could not bring herself to convey him to a place of certain death. He was safer here.
A movement from the corner of her eye drew Andrea’s attention to within the canopy of trees. Shifting her gaze, she saw a single rider on horseback appear from behind a boulder within the dappled depths of the woods.
Soon she made out the ghostly figure of another on foot, and then another, crouching in the shadow of the trees. Their eyes and attention were focused solely on the man before her, making it clear she was delaying his rescue.
Leaning over him, she wiped again the moisture from his face. “Alex, your men are here. You are safe.”
“No.” He grabbed her arm. “Don’t leave! Take me!”
“It is better this way,” she whispered, wiping his brow one last time.
Then, disregarding her heavy heart and ignoring his anguished cries and pathetic appeals, she turned her back on him and walked away—though heaven knows it was the hardest thing she’d ever done.