Chapter Text
“Cordelia, please roll some more bandages. I have a feeling we will be needing them.”
“Yes, Father.”
Cordelia Jackson closed the medical text she had been asked to read again to do as her father, Oliver, asked her to do. She went to the medical supply room and started rolling lengths of relatively clean cloth into neat rolls. She looked at the full shelf and wondered why they needed more. In their small city of Gettysburg they rarely had need for a large supply of anything. The most she had seen since her father made her his doctor apprentice were farming injuries. They had been interesting, but they were few and far between. She rationalized that he must have seen something to necessitate an even larger supply of something they rarely used.
“You’re not being neat enough, Delia. You haven’t forgotten how a properly rolled bandage is to use, have you?”
“No, Father. I haven’t forgotten. I only wonder why we need more of something we rarely use? Did we not also receive an order of medications as well?”
“You do remember when the Confederates marched through town?”
A shiver ran down Cordelia’s spine.
“Yes, I remember it clearly. Why?”
“The Union cavalry is in town and I heard talk that the Confederates aren’t too far away. I just have a feeling that something is going to happen close and soon.”
Cordelia stopped rolling to face Oliver.
“How soon?”
The sound of rifle shots in the distance answered her.
“Sooner than I expected, but we will continue to be prepared.”
Oliver picked up a strip of material and started to form it into the perfect implement for covering an open wound. Cordelia’s hands started shaking. She tried to hide it. If she was ever going to be a doctor something hearing shots in the distance shouldn’t phase her, but her nerves wanted to get the best of her.
“Might they conscript you to help?”
“They might.”
“Will you?”
“I don’t see that I’ll have any other choice.”
“Won’t that be dangerous for you?”
“You will be cared for if something would happen to me.”
“I don’t care about being cared for if you would be injured or worse. I am too young to lose both of my parents.”
“Delia, nothing has happened other than shots in the distance. Don’t plan my funeral until such time that it becomes necessary, please.”
“You’re bad feelings usually mean something. I don’t like them.”
Oliver stopped Cordelia in the middle of rolling material to take her hands in his. He wiped a tear that had escaped and started rolling down her cheek.
“I only mean that something was going to happen here, in Gettysburg. I don’t think either of us is in any danger yet. The army, generally, doesn’t treat their doctors badly. Even if I would be pressed into helping, I don’t have the experience to treat battle wounds. I will be safe.”
“Promise?”
“I promise. Now, let’s stop the tears and concentrate on the task at hand so you can return to your studies. Battle or not, you will have a quiz tomorrow. Understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good.”
She was ready for the quiz, but she did not feel ready for a battle or anything that might take her father from her whether it might be for a few days or forever. Neither one was acceptable.
Guarding the luggage. Jeremiah Tate kicked a stone out of the path he had been assigned to walk to keep a weary eye out for anything out of the ordinary. He was wearing foot coverings that had once been boots. That was out of the ordinary for him. He hadn’t lived a pampered life before signing up to give his life for the cause, but shoes that protected his feet had always been available. Some of the men had gotten new boots, but his were still in a wearable state it had been determined. They were wearable, but they weren’t sufficient to do their job anymore.
“Ouch!”
Jeremiah flinched. He hadn’t paid attention to where he kicked the rock.
“Sorry, Richard. This is just frustrating.”
“Father didn’t raise us to shirk our duties.”
Jeremiah felt his ears burning.
“I’m not shirking anything. We are supposed to be guarding the luggage. That is what I am doing.”
“If I had been a Yankee spy, I could have slit your throat before you knew you were dying. That won’t help us at all.”
“I will be more attentive.”
“You do that.”
Jeremiah felt the growl of frustration growing in his throat, but he managed to swallow it down and keep it from causing him more trouble. It turned into a sigh as he started back on the path he had walked so many times that he could see the path he was making in the foliage.
Fighting with the 11th Mississippi had let him participate in beating the Yankees on more than one occasion. He had grown accustomed to the fighting. Being idle was not how he wanted to spend his time even if what they were doing was considered important. He wanted to be a part of the glorious Yankee defeating battle on their soil, to be the aggressor instead of the defender. He wanted to be doing anything else. Wearing down the thin sole on his sad excuse for shoes would not lead to battlefield glory.