September 2, 1862
Sister Ruth grabbed onto the edge of her seat as they went over a rut in the road. She looked back in the wagon bed to see how their new patient had fared the bump.
The man was near her own age. He might have been handsome in a rugged sort of way if not for the pale sheen of sweat and the pained expression he wore. He released only a slight groan in his relative unconsciousness. He'd taken a hit to the side on one of the battle days and was fighting a fevered infection. She said a prayer for him, praying he would hold onto life.
She and her uncle had come for the express purpose of picking up this soldier from the field hospital, having unfortunately gotten a recent vacancy at the farm. Thousands had been wounded on the southern side alone and she wished they could have taken more.
Her aunt and uncle had been simple farmers before the war started and were still, but now their home served as a private hospital because of the bigness of their hearts. Their farm, which was not too far outside the city of Manassas, was now flooded with soldiers.
They drove near the field, which only a couple days ago had been the site of what had to be the bloodiest battle of the Civil War so far. The smell of death was everywhere as bloated bodies littered the ground.
"Uncle Hiram, stop!" she cried suddenly.
She saw a hand sticking out from under a collapsed tent. She was sure she'd seen it twitch. The Union Army had retreated and the Confederate army had done come through, taking prisoners of war. This man had somehow been missed or they'd considered him not worth taking. If he'd been capable of leaving, he would have by now.
"What?" he asked, having listened to her, despite not knowing what they were stopping for.
She jumped down and went over, pulling the tent off of the injured man. His wounds were terrible to see. He'd taken cannon fire to his face, his neck, to his legs. He was unconscious, but he was alive.
His uniform was blue with the silver initials MS sewn on. He was medical staff and the tent had been a hospital tent. He'd come to save lives instead of take them, but it hadn't stopped him from being injured along with the soldiers who fought.
"Come help me put him in the wagon bed. There's room enough for 2 back there," she called out to her uncle.
"We don't have the time or resources to help the enemy," he said firmly. "Let's go."
"We can't just leave him. He'll die."
"What if when he wakes he decides to murder us all?"
"Look at his injuries. He's not going to be doing anything for a long time."
"We've got a houseful of soldiers, who'll kill him then. You want that on your conscience?"
"You can loan him some clothes. They won't know."
"You've an answer for everything, but what about not having any room? You know as well as I do that we're using all the floor space we have. There ain't a square inch of space in the house or barn that isn't being occupied."
"Yes, there is. My room." Her room was small with barely enough space in it for a bed, but it was a room. She'd have to sleep elsewhere, but it was a sacrifice she was willing to make.
"And where will you sleep?"
"In the loft in the barn. None of the soldiers are fit to climb up it."
"But, Ruth, think of the indecency. There are at least a dozen men sleeping in the barn. Your aunt will have a fit."
"I'm a 55-year-old virgin. I've kept my virtue intact this long and most of the boys are young enough to be my sons. They'll only be thinking motherly thoughts towards me." He started to interrupt, but she pressed on, "I can hang a quilt to protect my privacy, and if it makes you and Aunt Margie feel better, I'll even sleep with a gun."
He was considering it. She could tell by the way he stroked his short, white beard.
"Think about this. What are you going to say on Judgment Day when you have to give an accounting? I left him to die because his uniform wasn't gray?"
That did it. He sighed and joined her on the ground, pausing only to swipe at the sweat under his hat. "I hope I don't live to regret this. Imagine. Quartering a Yankee."