Free The Better Angels of Our Nature by S. C. Gylanders

Illinois,” the officer introduced himself as he came close to the cot. “This is Lieutenant Bennett, one of my regimental commanders. He accompanied me to Colonel Buckland’s headquarters this evening and suddenly collapsed. How is he, Doctor?”
    “I’ll tell you when
I
know. In the meantime don’t get under my damn feet. Fetch a lantern,” the surgeon instructed Jesse, “a good one.” When Jesse returned, Cartwright told the officer, “If you get out of the way, the boy can bringer it closer.”
    Obediently the lieutenant colonel stood back and Jesse took his place beside Cartwright, who was examining the wound. “Throw it out,” he said of the foul-smelling dressing he had dropped into the bucket. “Flesh wound. No broken bone. See the entrance and exit wound?” he demanded of Jesse, who nodded. The wounds were but a couple of inches apart, both draining foul-smelling pus. The area was red, swollen, tender, and hot. No wonder the feverish lieutenant had collapsed. Cartwright spoke to the officer patiently awaiting his verdict. “It looks like the ball entered the arm and passed right through. This ain’t a fresh wound. How long has he been sick?”
    “He was wounded a week ago in a skirmish,” the lieutenant colonel said. “He didn’t see a surgeon. He had it dressed by a medical orderly. He told me the wound was healing.”
    “Well, he was lying or blind. I’d guess the orderly rinsed off the arm and wrapped a dressing around it. The ball may have carried a piece of his shirt into the wound, or some dirt or tree bark, if it ricocheted off a tree before hitting him.”
    “Will he lose the arm, Doctor?”
    “Not if I can help it.” This was said without the slightest trace of bombast. “I’ve seen much worse. You’d be surprised how much a wounded man can take, or how far he can drag himself when he has to—I’ve seen soldiers with half their faces blown away, arms and legs gone, drag themselves to the rear because they know if they stay where they are and wait for help they’ll bleed to death. Needs must when the devil drives, isn’t that what they say? Well, the devil is doing most the driving in this godforsaken world.”
    “This world is not godforsaken,” said Jesse quietly, almost to himself, soliciting a brief, sad smile from the lieutenant colonel.
    “Lantern, closer,” said Cartwright, giving the boy a shove with his elbow. “Lantern, closer” was his constant refrain.
    Jesse’s arm was aching but he did as he was told, using the light just once to sneak a furtive glance at the lieutenant colonel watching anxiously. If asked, he would have said the officer was, in all aspects of feature and physique and dress, the most beautiful man he had ever seen.
    Using the sponge and water Jacob held for him, Cartwright washed the wound, rinsing away the pus that had clung to it. He took a good look around the entrance wound, using a pair of forceps and a probe. The young man in the cot moved his head on the pillow and Jesse used his free hand to stroke the moist brow, speaking softly, reassuringly, to him.
    “Rest easy, sir, you’ll be feeling better very soon.”
    “Here, Private, let me hold the lantern, your arm is shaking with fatigue,” the officer offered, in his soft, well-modulated New England accent.
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “Hold it lower, damn you,” Cartwright ordered.
    If the lieutenant colonel felt offended at being cussed out by a mere captain, he did not show it, but obeyed in silence, bringing the lantern close to the wound.
    Meantime, the surgeon had taken a small pair of scissors and was snipping off the flap of black skin folded into the wound. “There’s no pain,” he said, feeling around the entrance hole with his index finger, “that was necrotic tissue,
dead
tissue. Okay, that’s clean.” He turned his attention to the jagged exit wound, the bigger of the two holes. From here, he snipped off more pieces of dead skin, before using his forceps to extract