Page 9 of Healing Hazel

The sound of another train drew everyone’s attention. It seemed the railway had at last sent its representatives to sort out the mess.

Jim kept at his task, tending the injured, glad he didn’t have to worry about the paperwork and lost luggage and interrupted travel schedules. There would surely be legal action taken, and certainly the military would investigate, but none of it was his concern. He stopped and talked to the other medical personnel as they worked, offering advice when asked. The orderlies and nurses from the International Red Cross Hospital had less experience than Jim and Dr. Laurent—none on a battlefield—but they’d risen to the occasion splendidly. They’d had to, with the number of attacks by the Carlists these past weeks and the Spanish Army’s retaliation.

There were a few more wounds to sew, a few more bones to set, but for the most part, Jim’s work here was done. He needed to get the more seriously injured patients to the hospital, where Dr. Ruiz would be waiting. Some patients required surgery, and in that, time was essential. Dr. Laurent would make certain the others followed soon. Jim climbed into the first ambulance wagon and gave the order to depart.

Behind, in the covered part of the wagon, he could hear groans as the wooden wheels bumped over rocks, and the sounds of nurses and orderlies as they tried to speak comforting words to the patients.

The wagon traveled slowly over the miles to the hospital, climbing up rocky hills and rattling along uneven mountain roads. When they reached the former monastery that served as the Red Cross Hospital, the hour was well after dark. Jim went to his quarters. He washed his hands and splashed water onto his face and then changed into a clean white coat, knowing that, for him, the night was just beginning.

***

It was nearly dawn when the last burn was treated and the few surgeries had been performed. Luckily there were no amputations, for which Jim was grateful. The procedure reminded him too much of the Virginian battlefields, and those were memories best left alone.

The other ambulance had arrived just an hour after the first, and the hospital wards were so full that some beds were made up in the passageways. He thought it ridiculous that an entire chapel stood empty when the space could be put to better use, but padre de Leon, the priest assigned to the hospital, would not hear of it.

Throughout the night, Jim had kept an eye on the soldier with the head injury, but the man still hadn’t woken. At least his wound hadn’t become infected. Jim suspected there may be swelling in the brain, but he would reassess in a few hours.

The first rays of morning shone through the hospital windows as Jim made his final rounds. He’d sent most of the medical staff to bed hours earlier, but he was sure Dr. Laurent would still be attending to patients. Even though, at fifty, he was over twenty years Jim’s senior, the man seemed to possess endless energy, and his dedication to helping the sick was unmatched.

Jim left the West ward, closing the wooden door quietly behind him, and strode along a well-worn path across the grass of the cloister to the other ward. The early-morning breeze stirred the sheets, clothing, and bandages that hung in tidy rows on their lines at one end of the courtyard. When the Red Cross had sent Jim and Dr. Laurent to Navarre in search of a location for the hospital, the monastery’s garden was a primary factor in the decision. Of course, the proximity to the Carlist state and besieged cities with their endless fighting were the main considerations, as well as the large dormitories that could easily convert to hospital wards. But the open cloister, where patients could take in fresh air, safe from the bullets and cannon fire was priceless. The monastery was built like a square fortress surrounding the garden cloister. The rectangular chapel comprised one entire end of the building; long dormitories ran along each side; and kitchens, offices, and other necessary rooms took up the other end.

Jim took in one last breath of fresh air before entering the other ward. Once he was inside, he was struck with the familiar smells of sickness, blood, and medicine as he stepped along the rows of beds, reading charts and making examinations.

As he predicted, Dr. Laurent was at the far end, doing the same. When Jim reached him, he was speaking to the female patient with the fractured ankle.

A woman poured a glass of water and gave it to the patient. When she turned, Jim scowled as irritation tightened his muscles. It was the young lady from the train, Miss Thornton. It was a testament to how tired he was that he hadn’t recognized her dress immediately. It stood out in the hospital like a peacock among a flock of chickens.

“What are you doing here?” Jim’s voice came out sharper than he’d intended, probably due both to the fact that he hadn’t slept for more than twenty-four hours and to his being caught off guard once again.

Miss Thornton blinked. She looked down at the woman in the bed. “This is my traveling companion, Miss Westbrook, and I—”

“No visitors in the ward.” Jim pointed toward the door.

“But I am not visiting,” she said. “Miss Westbrook and I are traveling together, and so—”

“This is not a hotel, miss,” he said, cutting off her words. “We don’t offer accommodations for our patients’traveling companions.”

“I don’t expect you to, Dr. Jackson,” she said, her eyes tightening at the sarcasm in his voice. “I intend to earn my keep.”

“And how will you do that?” Jim folded his arms across his chest. The young woman didn’t look as if she’d done a day’s labor in her life. She certainly had no concept of the work required to keep a hospital running during an armed conflict. Perhaps she thought she would offer fashion advice to the wounded or plan a delightful picnic in the cloister.

“I thought I would tend to patients.” Miss Thornton looked at him and then down at her hands.

“Mademoiselle was very helpful at zhe scene of zhe attack,” Dr. Laurent offered. “And ever since, she has been assisting in zhe care of zhe wounded.”

“I appreciate that,” Jim said, finding it hard to infuse patience into his tone. “But in this hospital, ‘helpful’ simply isn’t enough.”

“She is a nurse.” The woman on the bed spoke up for the first time. Her words slurred with the pain medicine she’d taken. “Trained at the Florence Nightingale School in London.”

Jim turned to Miss Thornton. “A fully trained nurse? Why did you not mention this earlier?”

Miss Thornton glanced at the patient, then Dr. Laurent, then back to Jim before lowering her eyes. “I am partially trained,” she said, her cheeks taking on color. “I haven’t entirely completed the courses.”

That explained it. Jim shook his head. “It’s not going to work. I don’t have the time or the resources to train you. If you haven’t noticed, Miss Thornton, we’re in the middle of a war.”

“I know that, and—”

“The answer is no.” Jim was exhausted, and the last thing he wanted to do was argue with a person who thought this was all a delightful adventure. He’d seen the spectators at Bull Run, bringing their picnic blankets and luncheon to enjoy the battle. None of them had had the slightest idea what an actual war entailed, what price it would exact from their lives, their families, and their very souls. And this young lady was no different.

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