The Sapphire Brooch by Katherine Logan (best novels to read to improve english .txt) π

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- Author: Katherine Logan
Read book online Β«The Sapphire Brooch by Katherine Logan (best novels to read to improve english .txt) πΒ». Author - Katherine Logan
Charlotte stopped each horse-drawn ambulance and asked the drivers if theyβd seen General Ramseur.
Blank, anguished stares met her inquiry. βDear God, he canβt be wounded. Are you sure?β they had asked.
The smell of bodily fluids and fear saturated the air. Dirt, grime, and blood covered the soldiers, crusting their hands, their faces, their shaggy beards, and unwashed hair. Ripped trousers and mismatched uniforms made it hard to tell which army they belonged to. Only their tight, pinched, demoralized faces revealed their loyalties. They were from the south and, on this day, the gains made earlier in battle had now been lost in utter defeat. This was no black and white moment captured by a still photographer, but a bold, red fragment of time indelibly etched in their weary hearts.
Custerβs cavalry would arrive any moment and capture more than a thousand men. If she were with the mortally wounded general, she might be allowed to stay with him. But where was he?
βHelp,β a soldier yelled. She turned to see a man leaning out of the back of yet another ambulance, waving. βHere. We need help.β
She wove her way through the retreating forces toward the wagon. βIβm searching for General Ramseur. Have you seen him?β
βHeβs here,β the soldier said. βHeβs been shot.β
Charlotte climbed into the back of the ambulance and knelt beside him. βGeneral, can you hear me?β She ripped open his jacket and blood-soaked shirt. βI need bandages.β
One of the soldiers pulled a white cloth from his haversack. βWill this do? Itβs the generalβs clean shirt.β It would have to. She used it to stanch the bleeding from the wound under his right ribs, hoping to reduce the hemorrhaging. She couldnβt do much about the blood collecting inside his chest, though. She found the second wound near the left side of the generalβs neck. Blood and air leaking from his bullet punctures were slowly collapsing the remaining functional lung tissues.
βI need a syringe and needle. Find one, now.β
βWhere?β the soldier who had given her the shirt asked.
βCheck the medical supply wagon.β Her tone of voice was so urgent the soldier immediately jumped from the rear of the ambulance and disappeared. He returned shortly with a metal syringe and bandages.
Using an unsanitized needle went against every standard of care she knew, but it wouldnβt matter. The general had a mortal wound and her intervention would not save him, but her care could lessen his discomfort during his final hours.
After verifying proper placement, she gently inserted the needle into Ramseurβs chest until she heard a small whoosh of air. She attached the syringe and pulled back on the plunger, relieving some of the pressure as she sucked off a mixture of fluid and air. His breathing eased a bit.
A Union officer came to the rear of the wagon, gun pointed. βEveryone out.β
Charlotte swallowed hard. She knew the cavalry would capture them all, but sheβd been so engrossed with tending to the general she hadnβt paid attention to what was happening outside the ambulanceβs canvas walls.
βI have a seriously injured patient. I canβt leave him,β she said.
He motioned with his revolver. βGet out.β
Charlotte asserted herself as the surgeon in charge. βWhere is General Custer?β She held the syringe firmly in her still hand. βTell him his friend Dod is mortally wounded, and I refuse to leave his side.β
Another cavalry officer joined the first. βWhatβs the problem here, soldier?β
βThe doctor said the wounded man is a friend of General Custer.β
Charlotte spoke again in a controlled voice which still retained an urgent appeal. She had to be the generalβs advocate. βGeneral Custer will want to know. They went to West Point together, and theyβre old friends. General Ramseur needs a bed, and I need supplies to treat him. Heβll die in the next few minutes if you donβt help us.β
βGet everyone else out. Guard the wagon. Iβll find the general.β
Moments later, the driver was turning the ambulance around. βClear the way.β
The ambulance moved slowly, bumping and jostling the general as it threaded a course through the once-crowded street now lined with surrendered Confederate troops. She didnβt have to ask where the wagon was going. She knew their destination and what awaited her patient.
A Union surgeon met the ambulance at Belle Grove Plantation and directed stretcher-bearers to carry the general inside the house. βGeneral Custer wants to know his condition.β
βHe was shot in the chest. The bullet tore through his chest cavity, likely injuring the lungs. Short of clamping off the injured blood vessels and removing damaged lung parenchyma, there isnβt much I can do here except continue to relieve the pressure when his breathing becomes labored again and make him as comfortable as possible.β
βWhat do you need?β the surgeon asked.
βClean bandages, soap, and water,β Charlotte said.
The stretcher-bearers carried the general down the hall and entered a room on the right, where they placed him on the bed. With modern surgical techniques and chest tubes, she might have been able to save him, but not in 1864.
She was sitting at the bedside, holding the generalβs hand, when a cavalry officer wearing tight olive-colored corduroy trousers appeared in the doorway. A wide-brimmed slouch hat covered his yellow hair. His long tawny mustache needed a trim. She recognized the tall, broad-shouldered, imposing man immediately.
βThank you for bringing him here, General,β she said.
Custer crossed the room, sat in a chair on the opposite side of the bed, and scrubbed his face with his hands, smearing smudges of dirt. A mixture of blood and mud covered his jacket. βIs there nothing you can do?β
βNot here. Not now,β she said with a solemn mix of sadness and regret.
How many times had she read the account of Ramseurβs death? Dozens. And it was happening exactly as it had been reported. Sheβd been doing living history demonstrations for years and now she was living history. God, how was it possible? Her fingers grazed the bump of the
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