William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

also, or the few men from the army who were detailed off for medical duties.
    They had already turned the church into a hospital, and other buildings also, and seen their first casualties from earlier, brief engagements. The last of those who could be moved were being put into ambulances to be taken to Fair-Fax Station, seven miles away, and from there to Alexandria.
    A tall, slender woman with dark hair seemed to be in charge. There was a moment when she and Hester came face-to-face, having given conflicting orders on the storage of supplies.
    “And who are you, may I ask?” the woman said abruptly.
    “Hester Monk. I nursed in the Crimea, with Florence Nightingale. I thought I could be of help.…”
    The anger in the woman’s face melted away. “Thank you,” she said simply. “General MacDowell’s men have been scouting the battlefield all day. I think they will probably attack about dawn. They cannot all be here yet, but they will be by then, or soon after.”
    “That’s if they are to attack at first light,” Hester said quietly. “We had better get our rest so we have our strength to do what is necessary then.”
    “Do you think …” The woman stopped. There was a moment’s blank fear in her face as she realized the reality was only hours away. Then her courage reasserted itself and thedetermination was back. There was only the slightest tremor in her voice when she continued. “We cannot rest until we are certain we have done all we can. Our men will be marching through the night. How can they have confidence in us if they find us asleep?”
    “Post a watch,” Hester said simply. “Idealism has its place, and morale, but common sense is what will keep us going. We will need all our strength tomorrow, believe me. We will have to be working long after the battle itself is won or lost. For us that is only the beginning. Even the longest battle is very short, compared with the aftermath.”
    The woman hesitated.
    Merrit came into the room, her face white, her hair straggling out of its pins; she had tied it back with a torn kerchief. She looked dizzy with exhaustion.
    “We need rest,” Hester said. “Tired people make mistakes, and our errors could cost soldiers their lives. What’s your name?”
    “Emma.”
    “There’s nothing more we can do now. We have lint, adhesive plasters, bandages, brandy, canteens of water, and instruments to hand. Now we need the strength to use them, and a steady hand.”
    Emma conceded, and in weary gratitude they ate a little, drank from the water canteens, and settled in for what was left of the short night. Hester lay next to Merrit, and knew that she was not asleep. After a little while she heard her crying quietly. She did not touch her. Merrit needed to weep, and privacy was best. Hester hoped if anyone else were awake and heard her they would take it for fear and leave her to conquer it without the embarrassment of being noticed.
    Monk and Trace also heard word that battle was bound to commence on Sunday, the twenty-first of July, and that the last of the volunteers and supplies had gone out to Centreville and the other tiny settlements near Manassas Junction, ready to do all they could to help.
    They were in the street just outside the Willard Hotel. People were shouting. A man ran out of the foyer, waving his hat in the air. Two women clung to each other, sobbing.
    “Damnation!” Trace said vehemently. “Now there’s no chance of getting Breeland before the fighting. It’ll be the devil’s own job to find him. He could be wounded and taken back to one of the field hospitals, or even evacuated back here.”
    “There was never any chance of getting him before the battle,” Monk said realistically. “Chaos is our friend, not our enemy. And if he’s injured we’ll just have to leave him behind. If he’s killed, it hardly matters. Except it will be harder to blacken the name of a man who died fighting for his beliefs, whatever they were.”
    Trace stared at him. “You’re a pragmatic devil, aren’t you. Our nation is about to tear itself apart, and you can be as cold as one of your English summers.”
    Monk smiled at him, a wry baring of the teeth.
    “Better than this suffocation!” he retorted. “I’ll recover from a cold in the head faster than from malaria.”
    Trace sighed and smiled back, but his expression was shaky, too close to weeping.
    A man careered by on horseback, shouting something unintelligible, sending up a cloud of