Once the shirtsleeve had fallen open, she was able to see that the flesh had been torn away, but the bullet did not appear to have penetrated the bone, or even the muscle very deeply. It was hard for her to know, as the hospital never saw wounds of that particular nature, and even when somewhat similar injuries did occur—one elderly lady had been accidentally pierced by a fireplace poker—the surgeon seldom if ever allowed a nurse to assist in any significant way.
“What do you think?” the lieutenant asked her. “Will I live to fight another day?”
Eleanor was not used to being spoken to in such a playful way, much less by a man to whom she was in such close proximity…and whose bloody arm was exposed. An arm that she, in fact, had been the one to expose.
Instead, she briskly turned to the bureau, removed a clean cotton rag and a bottle of carbolic acid, and began to daub at the wound. The blood had largely caked, and it came off in flakes, which she deposited in an enameled basin atop the bureau. As she did so, the wound was gradually more revealed to her, and she could see that the skin had been sufficiently broken that stitches would be required for it to knit properly together again.
“Yes,” she finally said, “you will live, but I hope not to fight again.” She fetched a fresh cloth. “You will need to see a proper surgeon, though.”
“Why?” He glanced down at his arm. “It doesn’t look so bad to me.”
“The wound will need to be closed, and that will require stitches—the sooner, the better.”
He smiled, and though she knew he was ducking his head to try to catch her eye, she kept her gaze averted.
“Is tonight too soon?” he said.
“As I’ve said, at this hour there is no doctor here.”
“I meant you, Miss…?”
“Ames,” she said. “Nurse Eleanor Ames.”
“Can’t you do it, Nurse Eleanor Ames?”
Eleanor was nonplussed. No one had ever suggested such a thing. A woman—even if she was a nurse—mending the bullet wound of a soldier, under no one’s aegis but her own? She felt her face turn as scarlet as his uniform.
Lieutenant Copley laughed. “It’s my arm, and if I believe you can do it, why shouldn’t you?”
She glanced up, into his face, and saw a great, gleaming smile, tousled blond hair, and a fine, pale moustache—the kind you might see on a young man determined to make himself look older.
“But I’m only a nurse, and not yet done with my probationary training.”
“Ever sewn a garment?”
“Many times. But this is—”
“And could you do any worse than the regiment’s surgeon, whose specialty is pulling teeth? At least, unlike our good Dr. Phillips, you’re not drunk.” He touched her hand and said, in a conspiratorial tone, “You’re not, are you?”
Despite herself, she had to smile. “No, I’m quite sober.”
“Then good. And we certainly don’t want the wound festering all night.” He yanked the sleeve free from his wrist and bunched it up at his shoulder. “Now, what do you say we begin?”
Eleanor was utterly torn between her certainty that she was violating her responsibilities and a desire, growing every second, to do something that, in her heart, she felt that she could do. Regardless of the surgeons’ routine dismissals, she had seen enough of their handiwork—often cursorily done—to know that she could match it. But what would Miss Nightingale say if such a gross breach of medical protocol ever came to light?
As if he’d read her mind, the lieutenant said, “No one will ever know.”
“A Lancer’s word is as good as his bond,” Rutherford called out from his chair, and Frenchie immediately gestured for him to lower his voice.
Sinclair waited expectantly, his arm bared, a half smile creasing his lips, and when Eleanor poured some water into the basin and began scrubbing her hands with a bar of lye soap, his smile broadened. He knew he had won.
Rutherford got up from his chair, withdrew a silver flask from under his pelisse, and held it out to Sinclair. When Eleanor saw it, she said, “We do have chloroform, and ether.” Which she was very hesitant about administering; this she had never done, and she feared the consequences of a misapplication.
But Rutherford said, “Pshaw! Brandy’s the thing. Enough of it, and I’ve seen men sleep through a leg being taken off.”
Sinclair took the flask, tipped it toward his benefactor, then took a healthy swig.
“Again,” Rutherford said.
Sinclair did as instructed.
“There you go,” Rutherford said, patting him on the shoulder and turning toward Eleanor. “The patient awaits.”