No amount of preparation could possibly have equipped Cordia Pike for what she saw as she neared the hospital outside of Wilson’s Creek. Though she had been warned by telegraph, and by Cal Markson, that this was not a pleasant place, until her eyes actually took in the sights, until her nose actually whiffed the stench, she could not have comprehended the horrors that were war and the catastrophic wake it left behind.
She had been surprised at the few number of Confederate troops there were patrolling the area. She assumed that was because most of them had fallen back to Springfield, which was still about ten miles ahead of them. One of the young men had come close enough to the wagon that she had asked him for directions to the hospital. He had simply pointed in a general direction. She thought it was possible that some of the wounded had been moved to other locations on the battlefield, so as she pulled up to an area lined with a few tents and a few scattered buildings, she wasn’t certain that she would find the answers to her questions somewhere amongst this rabble. Cordia was compelled to try, however, and she would keep searching until she found the information she was so desperately looking for.
It wasn’t as if there was truly a hitching post or a good place to stop the wagon. Frieda finally just pulled it over off of the road. They both hopped down, and Frieda tied the horses to a tree as Cordia’s eyes took in the scene. Men were lying around on the ground, those in the open tents on tables or cots. Some of them had white bandages stained red with blood on their heads, arms, or legs. Others were on makeshift crutches, trying to hobble around. In one of the larger tents, there was a man, whom she assumed must have been a doctor, giving directions to a few other men and even a couple of women. They each nodded and went on their way. The man leaned against the tent pole, wiping his head with the back of his hand wearily. The ground here was fairly torn up. She could see puddles of red water around the tents, which she knew must be blood. The stench was overpowering. Flies buzzed by in swarms. Frieda joined her and they walked slowly across the road. She could hear someone screaming now. She couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but it sounded much like, “Please don’t take my leg!” She was horrified at the thought of someone losing a limb, but then she realized, many of the men who were sitting around underneath the trees were missing arms or legs, one of them an eye. Then she saw one of the most dreadful things she could possibly ever imagine. Over beside one of the tents, there was a large pile of body parts stacked up on the ground. Arms, legs; the sight was revolting. Her stomach turned over, and for a second, she thought she was going to be sick.
Frieda must have felt the same way. “This is just dreadful,” she said. “I never imagined....” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t need to say anything else; Cordia knew exactly what she meant.
Cordia looked around for someone to ask for help, but she didn’t feel right asking any of the wounded. A few orderlies walked by, but they were carrying a litter, and it looked like there must be a corpse on it as there was a human form beneath the bloodied sheet. She wondered why they would bother with the sheet when other corpses littered the ground all around them, but this one they carried off out of sight, behind a building.
Finally, she saw a young man who looked like he was not too busy to help them. “Excuse me,” she said. He looked confused at first, as if he didn’t know why she would be speaking to him. “I’m sorry,” she said walking closer to him. “I was wondering if you could help us.”
He was chewing on a piece of straw, and while he had on a Confederate uniform, he also had a white apron tied around him, spattered with blood, which marked him as some sort of doctor or nurse, she assumed. When they were right up on him, he seemed to realize she was, in fact, talking to him. “Miss, nurses and volunteers are to report to Dr. Mitchell, in that tent over there. He’ll get y’all straightened out.”
The two women exchanged glances. “No, I’m sorry, let me explain,” Cordia said as politely as possible. “We’re not here to help....” How rude that must have sounded. She started over. “I mean, we’ve come a long way, trying to find out what has happened to some of the boys from our town....” She could tell by the look on his face he didn’t quite understand.
Luckily, Frieda was more direct. “Listen,” she started, “Do you know where we can find Lt. Jaris Adams, Confederate Army?” Cordia nudged her then, and she added, “Or Pvt. Will Tucker, Union Army? They’re supposed to be here, at the hospital.”
“Oh, I see,” the young man said, though neither woman was very sure that he did. Perhaps the long hours of attempting, and often failing, to save lives had left him a bit daft. “No, I don’t know those names. Let me see,” then he turned and yelled at another orderly who was happening by. “Roberts, hey Roberts, these women are looking for a Lt. Adams and a Pvt. Tucker. Do you know them?"
“Yes,” this man, Roberts, answered, much to Cordia’s relief. His face didn't reveal whether it was good or bad news, though.“I know where one of them is. Back in the outbuilding, behind the main house.” He was gesturing as if he expected the other man to lead them there. But Roberts seemed to know this other man a little too well. “Never mind,” he relented, walking over to them. “I’ll walk them down.”