Bloodlines, Chapter Two - Nine Months Later
Chapter One is here: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/918594.html#cutid1
TITLE: Bloodlines
AUTHOR: maddoggirl
PAIRING: H/W gen later on. None in this chapter.
RATING: PG-13 for battlefield carnage and some unshocking curses.
SUMMARY: Civil War AU. Even on opposite sides of a war, Fate has a way of bringing them together.
A/N: Thanks again to maineac, my extremely efficient beta, with whom the real genius lies, and also to all the lovely reviewers for their encouragement. Two points I’d like to make here: firstly, this was supposed to be a half-House POV, half-Wilson POV like the first chapter, but the House part overran and so I ditched Wilson’s. Maybe later on I’ll give Wilson a whole chapter, just to be fair. Secondly, in my original outline, they were supposed to meet in this chapter. But then I realised that my original outline sucked, so out it went. But, hand on heart, they’ll be together next chapter :D
Pittsburg Landing, Tennessee - April 6th, 1862
A heatless sun hovered above the thin band of woods that hedged two sides of the Union camp, beginning to brighten the pale grey sky. A cold chill whirled between the tents, tugging them gently from side to side. Soldiers shuffled back and forth to the woodland with short axes, bringing back armfuls of fuel and adding it to a growing pile next to a large fire being kindled. Several smaller fires had been established, and the smell of bacon frying over them drifted tantalisingly over the camp and roused more soldiers from their beds and out into the chill, damp air.
But frying bacon could not tempt Captain House out of his tent, where he lay wrapped in a dull grey blanket, moaning softly as drafts of cold air penetrated the thick wool and hit his bad leg. He shifted, trying to move his leg so that the other one would shelter it and bit his lip as he tried. The cold mornings always caused him great discomfort, and he had not yet learned to move in the way that would cause the least pain. Nine months ago, almost to the day, he had been an able-bodied soldier. Now he was simply a cripple, learning better every day how restricted his life would henceforth be.
It was hard going - he had known it would be hard going since he regained consciousness on an army operating table and stayed awake long enough to forbid the amputation the surgeons had wanted. They had reluctantly agreed, and had done the best they could, but it was still a mess. Every time he touched the pit of scars, House was reminded of how much better the job would have been done under his charge.He considered this now, as he lay dozing on his groundsheet.
“Foreman,” he muttered. There was no response. House’s eyes flickered open and came to rest on the cast aside blanket next to him, lately occupied by his orderly. He raised his head and listened as Foreman’s voice came to him through the tent.
“Good morning, Private Jakes.”
House turned his head and saw Foreman’s silhouette. The Negro orderly was squatting outside the front of the tent, shining his battered boots. Another voice came towards the tent, accompanied by approaching footsteps.
“How do, boy?” said Private Jakes, and House snorted softly at the condescension in his voice. Foreman replied sombrely.
“Very fine, thank you. What’s your trouble, Private?”
Before House could listen to Jakes’ reply, the Private coughed heavily and heaved an almighty sniff.
“I’ve been to the medical tent, but there’s no-one there. Is the Doc around anywhere?” he said in a voice gummy with mucus.
“In there,” Foreman said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Inside the tent, House lowered his head back onto the folded jacket which served as his pillow and closed his eyes, still listening to the conversation.
“Still? Ain’t he gonna be on sick call this morning?” asked Jakes.
“Captain House,” Foreman said, with great significance, “is not a well man.”
“I’ll say!” agreed Jakes, and both men laughed. House’s eyes opened again.
“Do you feel like a transfer to one of those Negro infantry units? How does that song go, Foreman?” he called, then began to sing lustily, “Though Sambo's black as the ace of spades, His fingers a trigger can pull, And his eye runs straight on the barrel sight, From under his thatch of wool.”
Foreman’s face, he imagined, was currently a tangled picture of anger and embarrassment. Satisfied, House buried his face into his jacket again.
“Have you a handkerchief?” Jakes asked Foreman thickly.
“Here.”
“Thankee.”
House slipped an arm inside the blanket and ground the heel of his hand into his thigh. The pain shot out from the knots and strains, and he pushed his face flat against the blanket and bit the cloth to keep from shouting out. When the worst had passed, he called out again.
“Where are you from, Jakes?”
“Sir? Finch Landing, Illinois, sir.”
“Small place?”
“Yes, sir. About fifty people I should think, sir.”
House smiled mirthlessly.
“You have the measles, Jakes. By tomorrow, you’ll have the rash. That’s what happens with you backwater boys - no exposure. Stay away from anyone else until it’s gone, or you could knock over the whole regiment. There’s nothing I can do, so go away,” he called, “It should last about three d…” the rest of the word was swallowed by a muffled cry of pain from the tent. Foreman raised an eyebrow, and called back with grudging concern.
“You all right?”
“Yes,” came the reply, tight and strained. Foreman over his shoulder sceptically, and then back at Jakes.
“There’s nothing to do, Private. Sorry.”
He waited stoically until Jakes was out of earshot before he opened his mouth to speak. But before he could get a word out, House spoke first.
“Foreman,” he said softly, but urgently.
Foreman turned on his haunches, and lifted a tentflap. House had his back to him, curled up as tight as his leg would allow, his shoulders shaking.
“The anodyne,” he hissed, and Foreman could tell that he was crying.
“All right,” he said, pretending not to notice.
House ground his teeth together and wiped furiously at his eyes, trying to divert his mind from the twisting agony of his leg. Behind him, he could hear Foreman clinking the laudanum bottle against the whiskey bottle as he poured a little of both into a tin cup. The orderly was so used to this routine that he could measure a half-ounce of laudanum and a shot of whiskey automatically.
“I’ll leave it here.”
House coughed throatily. “Bring me some coffee and a copy of Harper’s Weekly,”
Foreman crawled softly out of the tent, muttering something scathing.
His whole body shuddering, House rolled over and extended a shaking arm for the tin cup. Barely sitting upright, he lifted the beaker and drained it dry in one throat-withering gulp.
Three minutes later, he was able to stand. It was as he did so, his hand clutching the tentcloth over his head as he pulled himself upright, that Foreman’s head came through the tentflaps, his face damp and grave.
“Where’s my coffee?” House muttered, bending down to unfold his jacket and sling it over his shoulders.
“The rebs are attacking,” Foreman said, sounding surprised at House’s ignorance of this fact. When House listened, the gunshots in the distance clear, he realized how distracted he had been. He nodded brusquely.
“All right. Run down to Fredericks and see what he wants to do. When he’s told you, tell him we’re setting up…” he paused, gauging the direction and distance of the attacking fire, “…between the creek and the woods. Get my things from the med tent on your way back.”
Foreman nodded, and turned to hurry out. “And polish up that hacksaw - you’ll need it!” House called after him.
He took a heavy, uneven step forward and picked up his cane, which was leaning against the front wall of the tent. He then levered his feet into the tall boots by the doorway and strapped the sword which lay by them onto his left hip. His hands slowly buttoned his jacket, while his attention remained on the sounds around him.
The drummers had begun their frenzied rallying call, and hasty boots ran on all sides, weapons clanking and clicking into readiness. House stepped out into the cool, smoky air and surveyed the scene.
Panic had seized the camp by the neck. Officers hurriedly tried to organize men into their companies, while the cooking fires were hastily stamped out with loud sizzling and shootings of smoke. Horses whinnied in alarm at the sudden commotion, bucking and jerking away from the officers attempting to mount them.
Foreman was coming through the white mists, elbowing aside the thick mass of troops in his way. He had House’s leather satchel hanging heavily at his right side, and his own smaller pack at his left. House hailed him with a jerk of the head, and abruptly began walking as fast as he was able in the direction his orderly had just come from. He thought little of using his cane to drive away those unfortunates crossing his path, as Foreman jogged to reach him, his heavy load swinging awkwardly.
“House! Wait, damn it!”
“You can carry my things,” House shouted over his shoulder, with no reduction in pace, “I’m crippled.”
The two reached the medical tent, where they encountered Surgeon Dawkins directing a few orderlies and an assistant surgeon in the establishment of the medical tent.
“Captain House!” Dawkins shouted over the general din, “I’m arranging things here. You can take Foreman, Drake and Lund and establish a field post where you suggested.”
House looked Drake and Lund up and down as they crouched near Dawkins, unpacking a large case of dressings. Drake was dark and burly, Lund a tall young Swede with prolific sideburns.
“They’ll do, I guess. Get everything you can carry, and follow me. Foreman…” he held out his hand and Foreman slipped off the larger of the packs from his shoulder and handed it over. House slung it clumsily across his left shoulder and tried to get used to the weight. Normal practice was to have the sword on the left side and the pack on the right, but he found this unbearable.
The four men headed away from the camp, closer to the gunfire. As they came out of the thin strip of woodland, the enemy were visible on the horizon, and the medics were often overtaken by rushing groups of soldiers. At a patch near a muddy brook, where three large rocks stood, House halted.
“There,” he said, and pointed to the area behind the rocks. The guns were coming closer all the time as the two armies drew nearer to each other. The orderlies set about sorting their scanty supplies under the captain’s stern eyes.
The casualties began to arrive almost at once. The ambulances had not yet been organized, so any wounded men were forced to drag themselves back to the field post or face a wait of several hours on the battlefield. Stretched out behind the rocks were ever-increasing numbers of wounded, with the medics tending to them as fast as they were able. Ahead of them, beyond the brook, many small pitched skirmishes were taking place. From the start, House could see that they were losing. They had been caught off guard and were now paying the price.
The new recruits panicked, as House knew they would. A blur of blue would occasionally streak past him as he hunched over a casualty, heading for the woods and safety.
A new rebel attack brought a multitude of casualties, all crying and shouting for treatment. One soldier, propped by a comrade on either side, held his torn stomach together with bloodied hands and howled desperately.
“We can’t take all these!” Foreman shouted to his superior, as Drake and Lund tried to find a vacant patch of grass for the new arrivals.
“You’re right,” House agreed, fastening a dressing to a corporal’s bleeding leg. He got to his feet and threaded his way heavily through the sprawled hordes, towards a fleeing recruit.
The soldier, a young Irishman whom he knew to be called O’Caigne, had lost or discarded his hat, pack and rifle. He was now running, half-blinded with tears, for the woods which stood between battlefield and camp. House moved as quickly as he could to intercept him. O’Caigne glanced fleetingly as the surgeon appeared ahead of him, but ducked his head down again and kept running until a cane was thrust between his ankles, sending him tumbling to the ground. He rolled onto his back, spluttering and choking on a mouthful of dust.
“You,” House jabbed his cane at the young deserter, “come with me. You’re going to be a medic for the day.”
“No…no,” muttered O’Caigne, trying to sit up, “I’ve gotta…gotta get back to the camp, away from…”
House’s hand moved swiftly to the sword at his side, and he drew it out forcefully. Raising his arm slightly, he let the blade point at the soldier’s neck.
“Get up and follow me, or I will kill you.”
O’Caigne knew from the expression on the captain’s face that this was no joke or empty bluff. He shakily got to his feet and tottered after the surgeon.
When they got back to the field post, House returned his sword to its scabbard and put into O’Caigne’s arms a heap of dressings and tourniquets.
“Here’s what you do. That side…” the surgeon gestured to the left of the post, “is for the mortally wounded. Nothing for you there. The centre - that’s for serious wounds. Nothing there either. The right side is all yours. Minor injuries. Patch ‘em up, send ‘em back.”
And then he was gone, leaving his reluctant assistant to move gloomily to the area instructed and begin his new career.
The weary battle against a tide of injuries went on all day. By early afternoon, the ambulance had been established. After primary treatment, serious cases could be taken back to the camp, where Surgeon Dawkins and his assistants could see to them. For House and his orderlies were left minor wounds and those too close to death to be worth treatment. By one o’clock, one half of his post was flesh wounds and sprains, and the other half disfigured bodies and the constant sound of death rattles. On their knees, the medics moved from patient to patient, armed only with bandages and morphine.
They treated all, friend or foe. Former enemies sat together on the grass, chatting morosely and listening to the gunfire nearby.
At seven o’clock, as the sky began to grow dusky, news reached the field post that reinforcements had arrived. This news brought cheer to the wounded who were able to comprehend.
“That’s fine news, ain’t it, sir?” said an eighteen year-old farmer-turned-fighter, as House tried to remove a shard of shrapnel from his shoulder.
“Sit still,” House muttered, frowning in concentration. The forceps he held entered the wound and clasped the gleaming metal within. He yanked it out, provoking a shriek from his patient. Unsympathetically, House dropped the forceps and bound up the gash tightly. As his hands tied the final knot, he looked intently over his patient’s shoulder, then indicated the battlefield with a nod.
“The rebs. Getting together for a last push before bedtime.”
The patient squirmed, twisted his head to look, and then gulped.
“Looks like it.”
The groups of enemy soldiers had moved back, and were now forming a solid line. The gunfire had almost ceased, the only shots were from Union men firing after their foe.
“Wounded men!” House hailed, standing up straight, and looking over the outstretched troops, “You are probably about to be overrun by our hated foe. Lie still and hope that when you open your eyes, it’ll all be over.”
Foreman appeared at his right elbow, forehead wrinkled as he squinted ahead.
“There’s so many of them,” he said slowly, “But they won’t go for us. There’s an understanding that we’re out of bounds.”
“There was an understanding that states didn’t go to war against each other. Everything is variable, Foreman. Stay low and hope you’re right.”
The mass of grey suddenly lurched into a charge, bugles shrieking and the famous Rebel yell filling the air. Prayers came through the battle’s din, muttered fervently by the injured lying prone and helpless. House stayed standing, crouched a little, his fingers gripping his cane tightly and his mouth set firm.
The Union line of defense crumbled as he knew it had to, its soldiers fleeing in droves. The Confederates hurtled forward, frenzied cries and deafening rallies of gunshots going before them. Bodies tumbled down all around the field post, screams and bloody thuds ringing out with each round of gunfire.
The grey-clad enemy swarmed down the banks of the creeks, slipping in the mud and occasionally tumbling into the water. They waded across, rifles held high, and clambered up the other side.
Foreman saw their heads begin to appear, and began to mutter a prayer without realizing it, lying flat on the ground. He looked up at House, who still stood upright, apparently transfixed. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but was silenced by a clatter of rifle shots which filled the air around them with white smoke. Foreman began to choke, and raised himself onto his knees, trying to see through the impenetrable mists. More gunshots, confused screams, and footsteps all around him - so close that he felt running bodies brush on either side. The enemy were trampling through the post, crushing the wounded of both sides under their boots. A knee hit Foreman square in the jaw, knocking him onto his back and dazing him.
When he regained awareness, the mists were just beginning to clear The gunfire was now much reduced, and further away. Foreman lay on his back and listened to the soft groans becoming audiable from the ground all around him. Above the general cries, a voice came low and insistent.
“Foreman. Foreman…”
He knew the voice, and his eyes searched the thick white haze for its owner.
“Sir? Captain House?” he called, crawling slowly towards the direction he thought it came from. His hands moved carefully, dodging the bodies scattered thickly over the grass.
“Here…here…” House replied, guiding his orderly closer and closer toward him.
Foreman raised his head and saw House through the smoke, slumped against one of the rocks near the rear of the post, about ten feet away. Foreman scrambled to his feet, coughing, and sprinted the last few paces towards the stricken man.
House’s eyes were closed, his face wracked with pain. His hands were pressed firmly to his stomach, a dark patch spreading across the front of his jacket. He opened his eyes and looked up at Foreman. An expression was on his face that Foreman had never seen before. Fear.
“I think…” House mumbled, looking down at his bloodied palms, “I’ve been stabbed with a bayonet. I’ve lost a lot of blood…two pints, maybe. I won’t make it back unless you get someone right now.”
“I will. I’ll go and find someone. Just stay there,” Foreman instructed.
By the end of the sentence, House was unconscious.
TITLE: Bloodlines
AUTHOR: maddoggirl
PAIRING: H/W gen later on. None in this chapter.
RATING: PG-13 for battlefield carnage and some unshocking curses.
SUMMARY: Civil War AU. Even on opposite sides of a war, Fate has a way of bringing them together.
A/N: Thanks again to maineac, my extremely efficient beta, with whom the real genius lies, and also to all the lovely reviewers for their encouragement. Two points I’d like to make here: firstly, this was supposed to be a half-House POV, half-Wilson POV like the first chapter, but the House part overran and so I ditched Wilson’s. Maybe later on I’ll give Wilson a whole chapter, just to be fair. Secondly, in my original outline, they were supposed to meet in this chapter. But then I realised that my original outline sucked, so out it went. But, hand on heart, they’ll be together next chapter :D
Pittsburg Landing, Tennessee - April 6th, 1862
A heatless sun hovered above the thin band of woods that hedged two sides of the Union camp, beginning to brighten the pale grey sky. A cold chill whirled between the tents, tugging them gently from side to side. Soldiers shuffled back and forth to the woodland with short axes, bringing back armfuls of fuel and adding it to a growing pile next to a large fire being kindled. Several smaller fires had been established, and the smell of bacon frying over them drifted tantalisingly over the camp and roused more soldiers from their beds and out into the chill, damp air.
But frying bacon could not tempt Captain House out of his tent, where he lay wrapped in a dull grey blanket, moaning softly as drafts of cold air penetrated the thick wool and hit his bad leg. He shifted, trying to move his leg so that the other one would shelter it and bit his lip as he tried. The cold mornings always caused him great discomfort, and he had not yet learned to move in the way that would cause the least pain. Nine months ago, almost to the day, he had been an able-bodied soldier. Now he was simply a cripple, learning better every day how restricted his life would henceforth be.
It was hard going - he had known it would be hard going since he regained consciousness on an army operating table and stayed awake long enough to forbid the amputation the surgeons had wanted. They had reluctantly agreed, and had done the best they could, but it was still a mess. Every time he touched the pit of scars, House was reminded of how much better the job would have been done under his charge.He considered this now, as he lay dozing on his groundsheet.
“Foreman,” he muttered. There was no response. House’s eyes flickered open and came to rest on the cast aside blanket next to him, lately occupied by his orderly. He raised his head and listened as Foreman’s voice came to him through the tent.
“Good morning, Private Jakes.”
House turned his head and saw Foreman’s silhouette. The Negro orderly was squatting outside the front of the tent, shining his battered boots. Another voice came towards the tent, accompanied by approaching footsteps.
“How do, boy?” said Private Jakes, and House snorted softly at the condescension in his voice. Foreman replied sombrely.
“Very fine, thank you. What’s your trouble, Private?”
Before House could listen to Jakes’ reply, the Private coughed heavily and heaved an almighty sniff.
“I’ve been to the medical tent, but there’s no-one there. Is the Doc around anywhere?” he said in a voice gummy with mucus.
“In there,” Foreman said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Inside the tent, House lowered his head back onto the folded jacket which served as his pillow and closed his eyes, still listening to the conversation.
“Still? Ain’t he gonna be on sick call this morning?” asked Jakes.
“Captain House,” Foreman said, with great significance, “is not a well man.”
“I’ll say!” agreed Jakes, and both men laughed. House’s eyes opened again.
“Do you feel like a transfer to one of those Negro infantry units? How does that song go, Foreman?” he called, then began to sing lustily, “Though Sambo's black as the ace of spades, His fingers a trigger can pull, And his eye runs straight on the barrel sight, From under his thatch of wool.”
Foreman’s face, he imagined, was currently a tangled picture of anger and embarrassment. Satisfied, House buried his face into his jacket again.
“Have you a handkerchief?” Jakes asked Foreman thickly.
“Here.”
“Thankee.”
House slipped an arm inside the blanket and ground the heel of his hand into his thigh. The pain shot out from the knots and strains, and he pushed his face flat against the blanket and bit the cloth to keep from shouting out. When the worst had passed, he called out again.
“Where are you from, Jakes?”
“Sir? Finch Landing, Illinois, sir.”
“Small place?”
“Yes, sir. About fifty people I should think, sir.”
House smiled mirthlessly.
“You have the measles, Jakes. By tomorrow, you’ll have the rash. That’s what happens with you backwater boys - no exposure. Stay away from anyone else until it’s gone, or you could knock over the whole regiment. There’s nothing I can do, so go away,” he called, “It should last about three d…” the rest of the word was swallowed by a muffled cry of pain from the tent. Foreman raised an eyebrow, and called back with grudging concern.
“You all right?”
“Yes,” came the reply, tight and strained. Foreman over his shoulder sceptically, and then back at Jakes.
“There’s nothing to do, Private. Sorry.”
He waited stoically until Jakes was out of earshot before he opened his mouth to speak. But before he could get a word out, House spoke first.
“Foreman,” he said softly, but urgently.
Foreman turned on his haunches, and lifted a tentflap. House had his back to him, curled up as tight as his leg would allow, his shoulders shaking.
“The anodyne,” he hissed, and Foreman could tell that he was crying.
“All right,” he said, pretending not to notice.
House ground his teeth together and wiped furiously at his eyes, trying to divert his mind from the twisting agony of his leg. Behind him, he could hear Foreman clinking the laudanum bottle against the whiskey bottle as he poured a little of both into a tin cup. The orderly was so used to this routine that he could measure a half-ounce of laudanum and a shot of whiskey automatically.
“I’ll leave it here.”
House coughed throatily. “Bring me some coffee and a copy of Harper’s Weekly,”
Foreman crawled softly out of the tent, muttering something scathing.
His whole body shuddering, House rolled over and extended a shaking arm for the tin cup. Barely sitting upright, he lifted the beaker and drained it dry in one throat-withering gulp.
Three minutes later, he was able to stand. It was as he did so, his hand clutching the tentcloth over his head as he pulled himself upright, that Foreman’s head came through the tentflaps, his face damp and grave.
“Where’s my coffee?” House muttered, bending down to unfold his jacket and sling it over his shoulders.
“The rebs are attacking,” Foreman said, sounding surprised at House’s ignorance of this fact. When House listened, the gunshots in the distance clear, he realized how distracted he had been. He nodded brusquely.
“All right. Run down to Fredericks and see what he wants to do. When he’s told you, tell him we’re setting up…” he paused, gauging the direction and distance of the attacking fire, “…between the creek and the woods. Get my things from the med tent on your way back.”
Foreman nodded, and turned to hurry out. “And polish up that hacksaw - you’ll need it!” House called after him.
He took a heavy, uneven step forward and picked up his cane, which was leaning against the front wall of the tent. He then levered his feet into the tall boots by the doorway and strapped the sword which lay by them onto his left hip. His hands slowly buttoned his jacket, while his attention remained on the sounds around him.
The drummers had begun their frenzied rallying call, and hasty boots ran on all sides, weapons clanking and clicking into readiness. House stepped out into the cool, smoky air and surveyed the scene.
Panic had seized the camp by the neck. Officers hurriedly tried to organize men into their companies, while the cooking fires were hastily stamped out with loud sizzling and shootings of smoke. Horses whinnied in alarm at the sudden commotion, bucking and jerking away from the officers attempting to mount them.
Foreman was coming through the white mists, elbowing aside the thick mass of troops in his way. He had House’s leather satchel hanging heavily at his right side, and his own smaller pack at his left. House hailed him with a jerk of the head, and abruptly began walking as fast as he was able in the direction his orderly had just come from. He thought little of using his cane to drive away those unfortunates crossing his path, as Foreman jogged to reach him, his heavy load swinging awkwardly.
“House! Wait, damn it!”
“You can carry my things,” House shouted over his shoulder, with no reduction in pace, “I’m crippled.”
The two reached the medical tent, where they encountered Surgeon Dawkins directing a few orderlies and an assistant surgeon in the establishment of the medical tent.
“Captain House!” Dawkins shouted over the general din, “I’m arranging things here. You can take Foreman, Drake and Lund and establish a field post where you suggested.”
House looked Drake and Lund up and down as they crouched near Dawkins, unpacking a large case of dressings. Drake was dark and burly, Lund a tall young Swede with prolific sideburns.
“They’ll do, I guess. Get everything you can carry, and follow me. Foreman…” he held out his hand and Foreman slipped off the larger of the packs from his shoulder and handed it over. House slung it clumsily across his left shoulder and tried to get used to the weight. Normal practice was to have the sword on the left side and the pack on the right, but he found this unbearable.
The four men headed away from the camp, closer to the gunfire. As they came out of the thin strip of woodland, the enemy were visible on the horizon, and the medics were often overtaken by rushing groups of soldiers. At a patch near a muddy brook, where three large rocks stood, House halted.
“There,” he said, and pointed to the area behind the rocks. The guns were coming closer all the time as the two armies drew nearer to each other. The orderlies set about sorting their scanty supplies under the captain’s stern eyes.
The casualties began to arrive almost at once. The ambulances had not yet been organized, so any wounded men were forced to drag themselves back to the field post or face a wait of several hours on the battlefield. Stretched out behind the rocks were ever-increasing numbers of wounded, with the medics tending to them as fast as they were able. Ahead of them, beyond the brook, many small pitched skirmishes were taking place. From the start, House could see that they were losing. They had been caught off guard and were now paying the price.
The new recruits panicked, as House knew they would. A blur of blue would occasionally streak past him as he hunched over a casualty, heading for the woods and safety.
A new rebel attack brought a multitude of casualties, all crying and shouting for treatment. One soldier, propped by a comrade on either side, held his torn stomach together with bloodied hands and howled desperately.
“We can’t take all these!” Foreman shouted to his superior, as Drake and Lund tried to find a vacant patch of grass for the new arrivals.
“You’re right,” House agreed, fastening a dressing to a corporal’s bleeding leg. He got to his feet and threaded his way heavily through the sprawled hordes, towards a fleeing recruit.
The soldier, a young Irishman whom he knew to be called O’Caigne, had lost or discarded his hat, pack and rifle. He was now running, half-blinded with tears, for the woods which stood between battlefield and camp. House moved as quickly as he could to intercept him. O’Caigne glanced fleetingly as the surgeon appeared ahead of him, but ducked his head down again and kept running until a cane was thrust between his ankles, sending him tumbling to the ground. He rolled onto his back, spluttering and choking on a mouthful of dust.
“You,” House jabbed his cane at the young deserter, “come with me. You’re going to be a medic for the day.”
“No…no,” muttered O’Caigne, trying to sit up, “I’ve gotta…gotta get back to the camp, away from…”
House’s hand moved swiftly to the sword at his side, and he drew it out forcefully. Raising his arm slightly, he let the blade point at the soldier’s neck.
“Get up and follow me, or I will kill you.”
O’Caigne knew from the expression on the captain’s face that this was no joke or empty bluff. He shakily got to his feet and tottered after the surgeon.
When they got back to the field post, House returned his sword to its scabbard and put into O’Caigne’s arms a heap of dressings and tourniquets.
“Here’s what you do. That side…” the surgeon gestured to the left of the post, “is for the mortally wounded. Nothing for you there. The centre - that’s for serious wounds. Nothing there either. The right side is all yours. Minor injuries. Patch ‘em up, send ‘em back.”
And then he was gone, leaving his reluctant assistant to move gloomily to the area instructed and begin his new career.
The weary battle against a tide of injuries went on all day. By early afternoon, the ambulance had been established. After primary treatment, serious cases could be taken back to the camp, where Surgeon Dawkins and his assistants could see to them. For House and his orderlies were left minor wounds and those too close to death to be worth treatment. By one o’clock, one half of his post was flesh wounds and sprains, and the other half disfigured bodies and the constant sound of death rattles. On their knees, the medics moved from patient to patient, armed only with bandages and morphine.
They treated all, friend or foe. Former enemies sat together on the grass, chatting morosely and listening to the gunfire nearby.
At seven o’clock, as the sky began to grow dusky, news reached the field post that reinforcements had arrived. This news brought cheer to the wounded who were able to comprehend.
“That’s fine news, ain’t it, sir?” said an eighteen year-old farmer-turned-fighter, as House tried to remove a shard of shrapnel from his shoulder.
“Sit still,” House muttered, frowning in concentration. The forceps he held entered the wound and clasped the gleaming metal within. He yanked it out, provoking a shriek from his patient. Unsympathetically, House dropped the forceps and bound up the gash tightly. As his hands tied the final knot, he looked intently over his patient’s shoulder, then indicated the battlefield with a nod.
“The rebs. Getting together for a last push before bedtime.”
The patient squirmed, twisted his head to look, and then gulped.
“Looks like it.”
The groups of enemy soldiers had moved back, and were now forming a solid line. The gunfire had almost ceased, the only shots were from Union men firing after their foe.
“Wounded men!” House hailed, standing up straight, and looking over the outstretched troops, “You are probably about to be overrun by our hated foe. Lie still and hope that when you open your eyes, it’ll all be over.”
Foreman appeared at his right elbow, forehead wrinkled as he squinted ahead.
“There’s so many of them,” he said slowly, “But they won’t go for us. There’s an understanding that we’re out of bounds.”
“There was an understanding that states didn’t go to war against each other. Everything is variable, Foreman. Stay low and hope you’re right.”
The mass of grey suddenly lurched into a charge, bugles shrieking and the famous Rebel yell filling the air. Prayers came through the battle’s din, muttered fervently by the injured lying prone and helpless. House stayed standing, crouched a little, his fingers gripping his cane tightly and his mouth set firm.
The Union line of defense crumbled as he knew it had to, its soldiers fleeing in droves. The Confederates hurtled forward, frenzied cries and deafening rallies of gunshots going before them. Bodies tumbled down all around the field post, screams and bloody thuds ringing out with each round of gunfire.
The grey-clad enemy swarmed down the banks of the creeks, slipping in the mud and occasionally tumbling into the water. They waded across, rifles held high, and clambered up the other side.
Foreman saw their heads begin to appear, and began to mutter a prayer without realizing it, lying flat on the ground. He looked up at House, who still stood upright, apparently transfixed. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but was silenced by a clatter of rifle shots which filled the air around them with white smoke. Foreman began to choke, and raised himself onto his knees, trying to see through the impenetrable mists. More gunshots, confused screams, and footsteps all around him - so close that he felt running bodies brush on either side. The enemy were trampling through the post, crushing the wounded of both sides under their boots. A knee hit Foreman square in the jaw, knocking him onto his back and dazing him.
When he regained awareness, the mists were just beginning to clear The gunfire was now much reduced, and further away. Foreman lay on his back and listened to the soft groans becoming audiable from the ground all around him. Above the general cries, a voice came low and insistent.
“Foreman. Foreman…”
He knew the voice, and his eyes searched the thick white haze for its owner.
“Sir? Captain House?” he called, crawling slowly towards the direction he thought it came from. His hands moved carefully, dodging the bodies scattered thickly over the grass.
“Here…here…” House replied, guiding his orderly closer and closer toward him.
Foreman raised his head and saw House through the smoke, slumped against one of the rocks near the rear of the post, about ten feet away. Foreman scrambled to his feet, coughing, and sprinted the last few paces towards the stricken man.
House’s eyes were closed, his face wracked with pain. His hands were pressed firmly to his stomach, a dark patch spreading across the front of his jacket. He opened his eyes and looked up at Foreman. An expression was on his face that Foreman had never seen before. Fear.
“I think…” House mumbled, looking down at his bloodied palms, “I’ve been stabbed with a bayonet. I’ve lost a lot of blood…two pints, maybe. I won’t make it back unless you get someone right now.”
“I will. I’ll go and find someone. Just stay there,” Foreman instructed.
By the end of the sentence, House was unconscious.