The mid June sun was high in the sky, indicating the time was about noon. There were no clouds, only the bright blue hue of the crystal heavens and the piercing intensity of the ball of flaming gasses that illuminated each day.
I had just passed through New Market, Virginia, hoping to make Edinburg by night fall. I knew of a small Inn there that would provide me with lodging and a good meal, provided they were still in existence after the fighting that had recently occurred in the Valley.
Without warning, a shot was fired from somewhere among the trees just ahead and to my right. I cried out in pain as I fell from my horse, feeling the hot piercing lead enter my left shoulder.
I tried to pull myself behind a clump of trees for protection. The pain was intense, and the blood was pouring through the wound, causing a deep crimson stain upon my blouse and riding coat.
Almost immediately, two Confederate soldiers, not much older than their early teens, arrived by my side and ordered me not to move. They held their rifles at my chest, threatening to shoot if I did not obey.
“Why did you shoot me?” I asked, almost breathless and becoming more lightheaded. I felt as if I might faint at any moment.
“Jethro”, the older of the two lads began to say. “You done and gone shot yourself a woman.”
“Samuel, what am I gonna’ do now?”, the young soldier replied. “The Captain’s gonna’ kill me over this.”
“May I suggest that you bind up my wound to stop the bleeding first”, I suggested.
Samuel took from his haversack a small rag and immediately placed it over my wound, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. About this time, a seasoned Captain appeared on horseback. He stepped down and asked the young private what had occurred, and why did he fire upon me.
The private stood at attention, while explaining that I had come upon them unexpectedly and surprised him. He shot before he had thought to command my halt.
“Jethro, I should have you shot for this, and maybe I will”, the Captain sputtered. “But for now, retrieve her bags and see what you can find in there to tell us who she is and where she came from. Now git.”
Jethro raced across the path toward my horse, which was now standing near a small stream refreshing herself. He reached in the side bag and produced the satchel with my credentials and writing materials. He immediately returned these to the Captain.
In the meantime, the Captain spoke to me. “What is your name, Miss?”
“I am Elizabeth Fitzgerald, a War Correspondent with the New York Tribune”, I responded. “Captain, may we attend to my wound before I bleed to death?” I stated with annoyance.
“In a moment, Miss Fitzgerald”, he said matter-of-factly.
“Captain, here are her papers”, Jethro said as he handed the satchel to his commander.
“I see your papers are in order”, the Captain said after taking his time to review the information.
“Sam, take her horse and ride back to get the stretcher bearers”, the Captain shouted.
“Please don’t steal my horse from me”, I protested. “She is the only means I have of getting home.”
“Where is home?” the officer asked.
“Washington City”, I replied.
“Well, don’t worry about your horse. You are not going to see Mister Lincoln today”, he said with a hint of kindness and amusement in his voice.
In a few moments, Sam had returned with the stretcher bearers and they were placing me on its hard, canvas surface. I was jostled and dropped twice on the carry back to the Confederate Camp.
Upon arriving at camp, the stretcher bearers placed me on a table in the surgeon’s tent for an examination of my wound. The tent was full of injured soldiers from the battle of New Market that had taken place in mid May.
“All right, now let me have a look at this shoulder, Miss”, the surgeon was saying.
I thought I recognized the voice, when the surgeon suddenly stopped and looked deep into my eyes.
“Miss Fitzgerald, is it really you?”, the surgeon inquired.
“Yes, Doctor McGuire. It is indeed I”, I responded softly and with a sincere appreciation that he not only recognized me, but would also be attending to me.
“Miss Fitzgerald, I must open your blouse and examine the place where the bullet entered the chest. Do I have your permission?”
“Yes, Doctor. Do what you must”, I said. “I have full confidence in your abilities. And please, call me Liz, as all my closest friends do.”
Doctor McGuire began his examination as gently as possible. He removed the bandages and with a small probe, located the shell. I winced several times with the pain of his work, but remained as quiet as possible, not complaining, knowing he was doing his job in the best fashion possible.
“Liz”, he began. “The shell is still in your shoulder and will need to come out. I will give you some chloroform to make you sleep, so I can work without hurting you more than is necessary. May I proceed?”
“Yes, Doctor, do what you must”, I said.
The assistant placed a brass cone over my face and encouraged me to breathe deeply. The room began to swim, and I drifted off to horrendous dreams I can not now recall.
Some hours later, I was awake, resting on a hospital cot near the opening to the tent. Nightfall had occurred, and the sounds of the woods, with its chirping and grunting, were everywhere. In the distance, I could hear soldiers laughing, singing, and talking.
Doctor McGuire came to my side and sat by my bed.
“How are you feeling, Liz?”
“As if I have been kicked by a mule in my chest. Thank you for taking care of me.”
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