A Girl Called Samson (46)

I dared not ask for help. What if I was asked to remove my shirt or my chest was inadvertently brushed? I tore my sleeve free and wrung it out. It would serve as a bandage when it was dry.

I waited until I was alone by the fire and the rest of the men had retired for the night. I should have waited a little longer, but I was shaking with fatigue, and I needed the light. My arm throbbed, my soul ached, and my nerves were strung tight. I wanted to be done with it.

I threaded my needle, knotted the end, and then soaked my string in my rum, hoping it would provide some protection against the wound turning bad. It was my right arm, which would make it harder, but I could stitch with my left hand.

“It is naught but pain,” I whispered, but I was shaking. I threaded the needle through my flesh, making a single, wobbly stitch, and had to stop to breathe and quiet my stomach.

When I looked up, General Paterson was standing there, watching. My arm was exposed to his view. I could hardly hide it now.

“Shurtliff,” he greeted.

“General.”

He’d just returned from washing at the creek. His sleeves were rolled, his hair wet, and his clothes fresh. He walked to the hospital tent but returned immediately, a bottle of brandy and a bandage swinging from one hand. He turned a log onto its side and sat upon it, facing me.

“Why didn’t you let Lepien attend you?” he asked. “Or Dr. Thatcher?”

Dr. James Thatcher was stationed at the Point and attached to Colonel Jackson’s regiment, of which I was now part. But I’d known him before. He was from Plymouth County. I’d been in his home and brought him tea when he attended old Widow Thatcher, who happened to be his aunt. I hadn’t seen him since I was ten years old, but he’d lowered his eyebrows at me once in passing, like he thought he should know me, and the look had left me paralyzed for days. I didn’t want him anywhere near me.

“There were others who needed attention,” I said. “And I knew I could handle my own stitches.”

“I am handy with a needle,” he said. “I’ll help you.”

“As am I,” I answered, but I was trembling, and it had not gone unnoticed.

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he demanded. “I will do it.”

“I can do it myself, sir.”

“Quiet,” he said, firm. “Now drink this.” He handed me the bottle of brandy. It was half-full.

I obeyed, slugging down a few swallows, but I refused when he tried to make me drink more. I was more afraid of a loosened tongue than the pain of stitches.

“It does not agree with me,” I protested. “I will be sick.”

“It will hurt more without it.”

“Yes, sir. I suspect it will.”

He poured what was left in the bottle down my arm, and I barely flinched though it stung like holy fire.

“A tough one, aren’t you, Shurtliff?”

I set my hand on his shoulder, lifting it to his view, and surrendered the needle I’d threaded. He pinched the sides of the gash together with his right hand and began sewing with his left. He didn’t hesitate; he didn’t even warn me. He just went to work, drawing the needle and thread through my flesh, steady and sure.

The push and pull of the needle through my skin was the worst part, but I closed my eyes and let myself rest in the pain and pleasure of reprieve. I had only to endure, not execute, and my relief was even greater than my agony. I bore the ache of his ministrations without complaint.

“Jimmy was killed,” I whispered.

“Yes. I know.”

“He was only sixteen.”

“Too young. Just like you.”

I bit back my denial. Jimmy was not like me, but it didn’t matter. I looked down at the general’s hands, at the row of Xs marching down my arm.

“You were right, sir.”

He was almost done, and I was impressed by his handiwork. I could not have done better, and in all likelihood, I would have done considerably worse. If the wound didn’t fester, it would be better in no time.

“About what?” he answered.

“You are handy with a needle.”

He grunted.

“And you were right about me.”

He did not raise his gaze from my arm, but he was listening.

“I had no idea what I was talking about. No idea what I signed up for.”

“None of us do,” he said gently. “But you did very well today.”

“Jimmy Battles and Noble Sperin were my friends. John Beebe too, though he drove me crazy and liked to tease. They were my bunkmates, the men I knew best. And they’re all gone. All three of them died today.”

“Yes.”

He didn’t speak of all the others lost—I had no doubt he’d witnessed many over the years—or seek to fill the silence, and I strove for the same stoicism.

“What will happen next?” I asked, gritting my teeth to keep my lips from trembling. I wanted to know how I would endure the horrors to come, but he misunderstood.

“We will take them to the Point. They will be buried there.” He knotted the thread beneath the last stitch and used his knife to cut it close to my skin.

“Do you have to write to their families?”

“Yes. Those in my brigade. Hand me that bandage.” I did so, and he wound it around my arm and tied the ends securely.