Here's my response to Courtney Miller-Callihan's prompt over at Agent Courtney. The winner receives a query critique and who knows, maybe representation, so why not?
Captain Amos Card's teeth bore pressure on a wooden stick when a blue-eyed nurse forced a saturated rag into his open abdomen. His pulse hammered his ears as sweat soaked through his brow, back, and the torso that fought pressure and pain strong enough to rip him in two. Damm Confederates! My body is no more together than our blessed country due to their treasonous ways.
"Miss Barton," a younger doctor addressed Card's nurse, "That soldier's not going to make it. Come, accompany us over yonder." He pointed. "A young private needs a splint."
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| Clara Barton |
The last thing he remembered was...
Captain Amos Card's teeth bore pressure on a wooden stick when a blue-eyed nurse forced a saturated rag into his open abdomen. His pulse hammered his ears as sweat soaked through his brow, back, and the torso that fought pressure and pain strong enough to rip him in two. Damm Confederates! My body is no more together than our blessed country due to their treasonous ways.
Not two-hundred yards away, canons boomed as the smell of death penetrated the Union camp site. Card watched trees rotate in a circular arc then jerk back to their original position only to resume dizzying circles. Gray spots blocked his blurry vision and once again he chomped on the sap sweetened stick.
"You're going to be peachy." The nurse kept her composure better than any he'd encountered from the Mexican War. As an elder soldier, he'd seen many army hospitals decked with sharpened tools and frantic medics tearing into the lost limbs of soldiers. With black braids secured behind her head, this nurse gave him a kindly expression as she replaced his chewed stick with a cup of strong whiskey.
Something unique surrounded this angel of the battlefield and shouted fame. He envisioned her saving multiple live, becoming a powerful suffragist, and even presiding over The American Red Cross. Through these hands, I shalt not die. Not here, nor from the gun of a rat-brained Confederate.
"Miss Barton," a younger doctor addressed Card's nurse, "That soldier's not going to make it. Come, accompany us over yonder." He pointed. "A young private needs a splint."
"No. This man's going to live, and I'll make sure of it. Get Mr. Jones to help you, I'm busy."
"There, there, captain. We'll get you sewed up. Do you have any young soldiers back home?" She cradled his head while trying to distract him from the pain of Labarraque's solution dripping over his exposed torso. His back lunged as his body arched upward and wood chipped off the teeth-riddled stick holding in his bitter shrieks. Thought's of Clara Barton fulfilled his last memories and brought him home.
Once again, I can't give up the chance to ask for a vote on the picket fence. If you like my story please, pretty please, push this button. Thanks!
