Tending the Enemy

By Nilah Rodgers Turner

Following Texas’ entry into the Civil War, Matthew Miller, a childhood friend of Elizabeth Denton, is required by none other than the renowned General Robert E. Lee to carry supplies to Confederate troops fighting along the Mason-Dixon line.

Matt Miller is a veteran steamboat captain whose runs require treks along the Ohio River well into Pennsylvania where the Ohio runs through its namesake state and along the West Virginia-Pennsylvania western border before entering the Pittsburgh area. On the way back from one of these voyages, Miller is severely injured and is found in his disguised clothes of a Union Captain.

After being treated by Sarah Anders, the daughter of a medical doctor, Matt survives what could have been a mortal wound. Sarah had learned about medicine by accompanying her papa on his calls from a young age after her mother’s death. Sarah makes a trip to Matt’s boat and discovers he has clothes onboard from the Confederacy, and must be a Rebel in disguise. Her papa’s teachings about healing the sick present her with a problem—should she try to save this soldier of the South, or let him meet his fate?

This happens after her papa’s recent death on the battlefield while he tried to save others, making her decision more difficult.
She uses her papa’s lifelong teachings on healing and his discoveries of how to treat battle wounds to begin the healing process for Matt. His survival begins an arduous return to health and leaves him, and Sarah, with alternatives too hard for either to accept.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nilah Rodgers Turner
• Release date: Aug 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463550472

Nilah Rodgers Turner

Nilah Rodgers Turner’s maiden name is Nilah Blackwell, she attended first grade through graduation in Littlefield, Texas. Her first news writing job was for the then daily Levelland Sun News. After the paper sold she wrote hard news and feature stories for the Lamb County Leader News in Littlefield and feature stories for the Lubbock Avalanche Journal. She sold the first magazine article she wrote to a magazine and this article was included in a hard bound anthology of the best agricultural essays and poems published over 200 years by Progressive Farmer. Her story was included among many notables like Thomas Carlyle and George Washington. With this transfusion of printer’s ink, she joined a writers group and started attending writers conferences and adding to college hours. A Readers Digest subscriber, she read about a helicopter crash on the Pedernales River in Texas. The Readers Digest always included a short note saying they paid $2,500 for Dramas in Real Life. She drove to the area, wrote the article and mailed it. A few days later she got an acceptance. She didn’t know it then, but this was the heyday of freelancing. She wrote and got acceptances from Readers Digest, Good Housekeeping, and Ladies Home Journal. Her writing won first place first from the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, Distinguished Service Award from Special Olympics and top honors from the National Kidney Foundation. When her editor at Readers Digest phoned to tell her she was one of only two to sell Readers Digest ten full length stories in one year, the editor added: “and the other writer had a nervous breakdown.” Instead of rejoicing, she wondered if she faced a breakdown if she didn’t slow down. The next Digest included the other winner’s story. The freelance era ended after homes quit selling, and the stock market crashed. Magazines cut employees, and those who weren’t cut, wrote for the magazines. Seeing the end of freelancing, she got her brokers real estate license and opened her real estate office. Later, she bought and sold antiques, and this lead to decorating. She joined a garden club and the Native Plant Society and got her master gardener designation. When she decided not to renew her real estate license, she knew some day she would write novels. "Home to Hidden Springs" is the first. "Tending the Enemy" is available for Preorder and will be released 8-14-2018

Book preview

TENDING

the

ENEMY

Nilah Rodgers Turner

On the cover is Phoebe Pember

Phoebe Pember was a member of a prosperous and socially prominent family in Charleston, South Carolina. In 1862 she accepted a position as matron at Chimborazo Hospital outside Richmond, VA. Although Phoebe had no professional or medical training, she believed that caring for her husband through years of illness qualified her for hospital work in the largest military hospital in the world.

Ms. Pember supervised 150 wards and an estimated 15,000 persons during the Civil War. In 1995 her portrait appeared on the U. S. Postal Service stamp which commemorated important persons and events of the Civil War.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright © 2018 Nilah Rodgers Turner

All rights reserved.

CHAPTER ONE

UNION CAPTAIN INJURED

The early morning banging and kicking on Sarah Anders’ door woke her from the first deep sleep she’d had since being left utterly alone. The insistent racket sent a frigid tremor up her spine making her heart pound. Who and why would someone call before sunrise?

The last time Sarah experienced such fright, two Union soldiers brought her papa home–dead from this terrible war. Since then fear kept her nerves on tenterhooks, made her so jittery she couldn’t sleep.

She threw off her heavy quilts, grabbed her robe, and crammed her feet into her carpet slippers. Downstairs she peered through a slit in the curtain.

Trembling, she slid the bolt back and opened the door to a Union sergeant standing behind a two-wheeled cart. Under his windbreaker his wet clothes were molded to his skin, and he shivered from the cold.

The sergeant’s white knuckles gripped the cart holding an injured man with his upper torso covered with the sergeant’s winter coat. Sarah glanced at the injured man’s epaulets, stripes and collar bars on his tunic, and turned toward the sergeant.

I’m Sergeant Davis, the soldier said, nodding his head. Union Captain, he croaked after catching his breath, most likely captain of the steamboat where I rescued him. The sergeant pointed a trembling hand toward the east before his eyes returned to the cart.

Sarah followed Davis’ gaze. The captain’s hands dangled off the sides of the cart, and both legs hung lifeless. His trousers, shirt, shoes and socks were soaked. Sarah lifted the windbreaker covering the lower half of his body, pulled on a torn trouser leg and gasped. Blood seeped from a deep wound from his hip to his knee.

Is he dead? she asked, clutching her gown with both hands.

He’s alive, Davis said. Barely, he added through chattering teeth. Help me get him in out of the cold.

Speechless she bent, and they lifted the captain and brought him inside. I was on my way back to my unit when I saw a steamboat in the bend of the river about a mile from here. The sergeant pointed, then lifted the captain’s shoulders and motioned to Sarah to lower the captain to the floor, and shoved the door shut with his foot.

The paddles still turned, he said, even though a fallen tree hindered them. With ever step I took, I thought I’d fall in the water. He shivered. I hoisted myself up the side of the boat out of pure fright, crawled onto the deck shouting, Anybody on board? The engine and paddles stopped about then. Eerie it was. Reckon the boat ran out of steam. In the quiet someone cried, ‘Help! Help me! Somebody help me!’ Goose bumps covered my arms."

Sarah rubbed a hand across her prickling arms and nodded.

Reaching toward the injured man again, the sergeant said, His cries from the pilot house made ever’ hair on my body stand at attention. Scared me shitless. Sorry ma’am, ‘scuse my soldier talk. Briskly he rubbed his hands together."

Wasn’t no way I could help him without a rope and a way to get him to a doctor. I went to the nearest house, hoping to find someone to help lift and haul whoever moaned and cried out in pain.

The sergeant’s colorless lips squeezed out a sound like a wheel needing greased. He took a deep, shuddering breath and looked into the distance before adding, "if he was still alive when I got back. I needed a cart and some rope to lower and haul whoever screamed in agony. I found a rope long enough to tie around him and lower him, but I needed a rope that would reach to shore. The missus there said she had a long rope and a pushcart in her barn. Said she’d loaned her horse and buggy, and they wouldn’t be back until the next day, but I could take the rope and cart and get the injured man to Dr. Anders.

First house east of here, she said, pointing, "everbody knows where Dr. Anders lives.

By the time I got back, the only word he said was ‘salt’. Made no sense. Moving around to lift the captain, the soldier surveyed the neat interior. He pulled his waterproof windbreaker off, folded the wet portion inside and handed it to Sarah. Put my coat on the bed to keep it dry. Least I can do since I practically killed him lowering him from the pilot house down the side of the boat and joltin’ him unmercifully gettin’ him here.

Hurriedly, Sarah turned back the counterpane and quilts on the bed and spread a quilt under the sergeant’s windbreaker.

Sergeant Davis moved to the opposite side of the bed, put his hands under the captain’s shoulders, nodded to Sarah. Hold him under his lower hip and help me lift him onto the bed. On the count of three. Groaning from their effort they hoisted the man on to the bed.

Somehow, I got him to the lower deck. The sergeant cleared his throat. "I tied the short rope to a support post, tied the other end around him and hung onto him tight as a tick. Lowered both of us to the water, there wasn’t no way I could carry him across that log. I didn’t have no choice but drag him through the icy water.

Lord only knows how I got him up that incline. Fear grabbed me as I slung him over my shoulder like a sack of taters. The captain looked near dead, he apologized. Hope I didn’t do more harm than help. Being wet and all he’s near froze from this dratted cold weather. Now it’s up to the doc to save him.

Sarah removed the sergeant’s coat and handed it back to the him as he turned to leave. He hesitated, gave her a regretful look. Been on a short leave. Got to get back to my unit, if I don’t freeze before I get there. Fightin’s thick up ahead.

Sarah nodded, already removing the officer’s wet clothes. She straightened the man’s legs and pulled his soggy trousers away from the wound. When she had him positioned so she could see the damage, she said, The doctor isn’t here. There wasn’t an answer. She looked up to see a watery, bloody trail leading to the closed door.

The doctor went away to bind up Union wounds, she said in a strangled voice. Dr. Anders isn’t here. Two soldiers brought my papa home, like you brought this man. Desperation escalated her voice. Except my papa was dead. They stayed long enough to bury him, and then they were gone, she added in a strained voice, just like you.

Heavily, she sat down on the chair by the bed. Shoulders slumped, she stifled a cry. After a couple of minutes, she rose and stood over the injured captain, gazed at his wounds and squared her shoulders.

How can I help you? she asked. The doctor could have saved your life, but he’s dead and buried and I’m here alone. What can I do?"

She’d been alone since her father enlisted. Since his death, such emptiness overcame her, sorrow overwhelmed her, but she’d never felt so alone and helpless. She fought frustration. Would she have to dig a grave and bury this man without help?

Many times she’d competently helped her papa tend to patients he doctored. She panicked as what felt like a boulder blocked her breath. First, she must get the captain’s wet clothes off. She grabbed the scissors in her sewing basket and cut his left trouser leg from hem to waist, hesitated, and cut the other trouser leg, moved to the end of the bed and pulled off the upper portion of his trousers and dropped it in a puddle. With a lurch on the bottom half of his trousers, a battered harmonica clattered to the floor and gold and silver coins rolled drunkenly across the floor.

His wet coat and shirt would keep him chilled. She’d see if she could get these off without cutting them. She unbuttoned his coat and shirt, raised his head and held it in the crook of one arm, then the other as she worked his shirt and coat off and tugged the garments from beneath him. She hung his coat over the back of a chair, pulled her chair next to the bed, plopped down and stared at his deep jagged wound, her pulse pounding so hard she felt the veins in her neck expand with every beat.

She gaped at the wound. What should she do first? Fragments of his trousers were embedded in his raw flesh. She’d have to remove every thread to avoid infection.

What would her papa do first? He’d get the officer’s wet underpants off, add quilts to keep him warm, and put another log on the fire. She stared at the man lying on the bed in her papa’s study. He was tall, well over six feet. Taking his shirt and coat off she’d felt his muscular shoulders and forearms. Fine fair hairs covered his arms, chest and face. A thatch of light hair fell across his forehead. She raked his hair back from the puffy bruise above his right eye and felt around the wound with her forefinger.

No dent told her the swelling was outside. Good. She looked at his full torso, thinking he looked like Adonis, the Greek god in her mama’s book on the Roman Empire. As a child she’d often sneaked peeks at her mama’s nude etchings.

Looking at the prone, fine example of manhood before her, she compared him to Adonis as she stared at his naked body. She could almost hear her papa say: The human body is beautiful, a work of art, possessing strength we can’t comprehend.

This man’s body was fine in every sense. Thinking along these lines shocked her but took her mind off the life and death situation scaring her beyond reason. Without her papa’s knowledge and experience, the captain better possesses these strengths her papa spoke of.

Through the years of going with her papa as he called on the sick, she’d seen parts of the human body a child her age shouldn’t have seen. When only twelve, she helped him deliver a baby and experienced the miracle of life he spoke of.

Later she became a midwife and she’d delivered scores of babies. But she’d never seen an unclothed man lying prone on a bed, displaying his art. She blinked but didn’t avert her gaze as she inspected him from his head to his feet. Her eyes stopped midway, his image inscribed on her mind like a block print from her mama’s book of sculptures.

She looked him over again, checking his wound for threads she may have overlooked. Finding none, she covered the wound with fresh kitchen towels, pulled the linen sheet up past his shoulders, spread the quilts over him and tucked the cover around his shoulders to hold in his body heat.

Worry about treating such grave wounds made her teeth clatter, and she thought her bones would rattle if she didn’t clamp her arms against her ribs. Part of his chill came from her wet nightshirt and dressing gown from holding the captain’s wet head and shoulders while removing his coat and shirt.

She hadn’t changed clothes since getting out of bed. Going upstairs to dress, she took two stairs at a time.

Back in her papa’s study, her pulse raced as she checked the captain’s pulse. If the captain lived, she must save his life. She hurried to the fireplace, poked the embers and put two logs on the andirons.

In his room off the parlor, her papa kept his big desk, read before the fire, and when necessary, provided a bed for guests or patients. Good foresight, she thought. Checking the captain’s pulse, terrifying situations flashed through her mind. What if she did something that hastened his death? She paced the floor, went to the door and looked at her papa’s grave, and in a panicked voice shouted, Papa, what should I do?

Her nearest neighbors lived out of sight and earshot in this sparsely populated area of Pennsylvania where neighbors mostly kept to themselves. Neighboring dairy farmers and family farmsteads were home to those with surnames like Bauman, Hartman, Slough, and Zuckerman. In answer to the question she asked her dead papa, she could almost hear him say: Rely on your God-given sense.

She would clean the wound thoroughly. Lye soap would be too harsh; she wasn’t even sure if she should use her lavender soap. Whatever she used must be gentle, prevent further bleeding, yet clean the wound so he wouldn’t get gangrene.

The poor man must have lost several pints of blood. Last night’s cold probably kept him from bleeding to death. What could she use to clean the wound? If he developed gangrene or blood poisoning, she didn’t have the faintest idea how to treat either. Often, even doctors couldn’t save a person with such serious complications. What had her papa written about treating soldiers with gangrene?

He said treat the wound early and use acidic measures. She would see if there was anything acid in his medicine satchel, glad the soldiers brought her papa’s medical bag back with him. It should be filled with potions and drugs.

She opened her papa’s scratched and worn leather satchel, it’s faded gold lettering, proclaiming Dr. Amos Anders. Inside was his stethoscope for listening to lungs, hearts, and blood rushing through veins. There were two vials of herbs, some lancets and tweezers. But no bandages, no alcohol, no witch hazel, no medical potions of any kind, nothing acid or acidic.

Disappointed, she shook her head and lifted a bottle of aspirin powder and held it to the light. This minor aid for pain and fever was almost full. A fastidiously clean man, her papa always admonished, "Wash your hands before you eat. Use plenty of soap on your hands before and after you touch raw meat. Cleanse your hands often and thoroughly.

Sarah went to the kitchen, poured warm water from the kettle into the porcelain basin, pushed up her sleeves, lathered her hands and washed vigorously. What had her papa talked about to clean and heal? Warm water and salt. She’d used the last salt days before, but she looked through the kitchen cupboards hoping to find a salt cellar pushed back on a shelf. She felt along the back of every shelf finding nothing.

Vinegar. The doctor had used vinegar as a remedy, and there was a gallon of vinegar in the kitchen cabinet. She held it up to the light. A cloudy substance called mother grew in it. She dipped her index finger in and touched it to her tongue, grimaced from the acidity. She would use part of the vinegar on the soldier’s wounds, then make more vinegar by adding fruit juice to the mother and keeping it warm.

Vinegar would likely burn the captain when she applied it, but vinegar was better than cauterizing the wound. Once she’d watched her papa put a sharp kitchen knife over the eye of the stove and heat it until the blade glowed. Sent outside, she heard the man’s screams. She hoped applying the vinegar wouldn’t make the captain yell and curse.

She was reminded she needed to heat water. Last night she put kindling and split wood in the firebox. She pulled out a long splinter, hurried to the fireplace and held it until it blazed, carried it to the kitchen range, and held it until a tiny blaze caught as she fanned the fire with a kitchen towel. Heat from the range plus the fireplace would help keep the captain warm.

She filled the kettle, placed it on one eye of the range and strained a cup of vinegar into the water basin. Checking the kettle for warmth, she added warm water and soaked a soft cloth, turned up the wick on the bedside lamp, layered drying towels under the captain’s leg and swabbed his wound. Lifting the vinegar and water-soaked cloth she dabbed and squeezed, then used one of her papa’s medicine droppers to force the warm solution into every crevice. She pried his flesh back and flushed the wound, continued even when he moaned.

I mustn’t leave a thread in your open wound, she said, hoping he could hear. I’m sorry for the sting, she whispered. I’m doing everything I know to do.

Seeing the tightness of his jaw, the deep crease in his forehead, she spoke gently as she cleaned the deep wound -- so deep when she pried it open to flush with the solution, his hip bone was exposed. She took a deep breath and clasped a hand over her pounding heart.

The wound should be pulled together and sutured. But with what? All she had was embroidery needles and quilting thread which would never do. What if the wound didn’t heal and got infected?

This is the best I can do for now, she said knowing he couldn’t hear, but she continued talking. I’m doing everything I can to help you. I’m using everything in my power, she said, wrapping clean towels around his hip.

When he lapsed into a deep sleep, or unconsciousness, or went into shock, fear grabbed her. In every part of her being, her pulse beat out throbbing distress signals. She lifted his eyelids and checked for dilation. His pupils were large and fixed; her papa would say this was a sign of shock. She held the captain’s hands between hers. They were cold and clammy, another sign of shock. And he was restless, occasionally saying something that sounded like salt and medicine, making no sense.

The captain had three signs of shock she’d seen her papa check for. She removed the damp cloths, worked a clean sheet beneath him, pulled quilts around his shoulders, and put another log on the andirons. Raising his legs, she wedged pillows beneath him to get his head lower.

Faster than she’d ever tended to her chores, she milked her cow, fed the chickens and gathered eggs. After straining the milk, she cut off a slice of bread, smeared it with butter and ate standing beside the injured captain.

She would go into town and see what kind of medicine she could get from the apothecary. Walking would take an hour, maybe two. First, she had to get more warmth around the captain. Putting on her coat, cap and mittens she went outside searching for fist-sized rocks she could heat, wrap and place around him.

She lifted the hot rocks out of the oven, rolled them in tea towels, tucked quilts next to his body to keep him warm and nestled the rocks she’d covered with more tea towels outside the quilts hoping she would get back soon. By then, she hoped his color and breathing would improve. After checking the injured captain again, she buttoned her coat, tugged on her gloves and knitted cap and headed for the chemist to get medical supplies.

Instead of asking to charge what she needed to her papa’s account, perhaps she should take money to pay for the drugs. She’d spent all but a few cents of the money her papa left her for food. She pocketed a silver dollar that fell from the captain’s pockets. Closing and securing the door behind her, she walked briskly to the little village two miles away, her furious pace making her pant.

When she rounded the bend and saw the bell towers of the churches that propped up the town like bookends, her heartbeat accelerated. The apothecary shop was past the Presbyterian Church and cemetery at the far end.

She’d get some laudanum to ease the captain’s pain, some alcohol and tincture of anything to clean and disinfect his wound, sulfa powder to heal his deep wound—anything acidic. And more aspirin powder; everything she could remember the doctor using. She supposed the alchemist would have whiskey. Whiskey made a good disinfectant.

In the past, she’d accompanied her papa to the shop, but it had been years. If the alchemist recognized her or anyone asked questions, she’d say the supplies were for Doctor Anders.

Still panting from the long walk, she rested at the top of the stairs leading to the alchemist’s door and leaned against the wall to pump up her nerve. Resolved, she approached the door to the apothecary shop. A notice hanging on the doorknob declared:

CLOSED

Due to the war, all supplies have been

moved to the old Fort McIntosh site.

Fort McIntosh? Her heart plunged; her mind raced. Fort McIntosh was at least twenty miles away. Her papa had written about the scarce supply of medicine. Even if she walked that far, with hundreds of injured soldiers, they’d laugh in her face buying supplies for one officer.

Little communities in the area were too far away and too small to have what she needed. She leaned against the door for support, knocking the notice to the floor, her sigh verged on tears. After a minute, she retrieved the announcement, hung the string back over the knob and grasped the banister as she made her way down the stairs, dejected and wondering if every effort she made could save the captain’s life.

The sergeant said the boat was wedged in the bend about half a mile from her house, and the injured captain had muttered the word salt. She’d see if she could get onboard. Without medication, warm salt-water compresses and vinegar and water were the only measures she knew to treat his injuries.

After all her treatment, the captain’s injuries were so severe he could die. Frustrated tears she’d held in check since the sergeant brought the captain to her door now ran down her cheeks.

Walking away from the apothecary shop, she stared at the clock in the dome of the church and hurried ahead.

The trail home would take at least twenty minutes. She didn’t know how long it would take to pick her way down the steep cliff to the bend where the sergeant said he found the steamboat. But she had to have salt, lots of salt.

Wait. She had money. She could buy salt. A silver dollar should buy all the salt she could need and carry. Ten pounds would be plenty to lug on her long walk home. Later, if necessary, she would come back for more.

She made her way to the general store. Taking the silver dollar out of her pocket, she laid it on the counter, saying, Ten pounds of salt, please.

The shopkeeper looked at the silver dollar, stared at her with a look that could melt metal. Since the war started we practically keep salt under lock and key, he growled. Seems our enterprising northern blockade-runners are profiting from the salt shortage in the South. Salt jumped from sixty-five cents a sack to $7 or $8 for a hundred pounds soon after the war started. He leaned on the counter, raised his voice. Then salt climbed to sixty dollars for a hundred pounds. Now salt sells for a hundred dollars a sack. Is one sack enough?

"No