Robert is conscious enough to hear his Confederate comrades running past him as they retreat. He tries to yell for help, but the words will not come out of his mouth. His fellow soldiers are running off and abandoning him. There is no hope for help. He is dying – and he is going to die alone.
However, help does arrive, in the form of two Yankee stretcher-bearers. The two litter bearers find Robert sitting against a large rock, unconscious. One grabs him by his arms and the other his legs, and places him on an improvised litter. It is no more than two poles and a blanket, but it serves the purpose. As soon as they lifted him up and began to move Robert is struck in the head by a bullet from a Yankee musket. It is a glancing shot that does not penetrate his skull.
His vision blurred by the bullet he cannot see the fellows that are bearing him from the field of battle. He doesn’t care who they are; if he doesn’t get help soon, he is going to bleed to death from the bayonet wound in his chest. He can see dozens and dozens of soldiers as his two saviors carry him through the woods to a medical wagon. He assumes they are Confederates.
Neither of the Union men notices the marks on the boulder as they move him to the litter. Robert has used his small pocketknife to scratch the letters, “2K168.” If the soldiers noticed the scratches, the letters would have made no sense to them. However, they are unquestionably important to Sergeant Scarburg. Robert still thinks his rescuers are Confederates. He can see them well enough now - they are dressed in blue; they are Yankees! Only hours earlier they were trying to kill each other now these blue-bellies are attempting to keep him alive.
Before being ordered to leave his father Matthew and Charles Babb, the volunteer hospital orderly, made a makeshift bandage trying to stop the foamy blood that flowed profusely from Robert’s chest. With Robert’s handkerchief, they managed to cover the puncture hole and securely tied his belt around his chest to hold the rag tightly against the wound. This slowed the bleeding considerably and almost completely stopped it. Foamy blood, the young Mr. Babb said, indicated the bayonet must have punctured Robert’s lung.
From the field litter, they shove Sergeant Scarburg into the bed of a blood-soaked wagon. His body is tossed, unceremoniously on top of the other wounded soldiers; some too severely injured to offer any objection. The wagon’s grisly condition indicates the current load of wounded and dying soldiers aren’t the first to use this four-wheel conveyance of death. The next hour or so he endures being bounced and jostled on a muddy road more adept for a mountain goat than a mule-drawn wagon. He is beginning to believe that he will not survive the wagon trip long enough to find medical help. When the wagon ride ends, he is at a temporary Union hospital south of Gettysburg. An open spot in the middle of the forest bounded on one side by a railroad track. The chief surgeon is Dr. Jonathan Letterman.
The litter bearers place him on the ground, outside the medical tent. A couple of doctors are using the area for triage. Soldiers with a red rag tied around their arms command first priority. Those with white ones go next. Wounded men with black rags do not receive treatment – they will not expend any medical supplies on them, they are left to just die. No one comes to check on him after his first initial evaluation; the reason is the black cloth tied around Sergeant Scarburg’s arm. Even if he had a red or white rag he would be a very low priority. He was the enemy – the Yankee doctors treat their soldiers first Confederates come last, if at all.
A couple of hours pass, Sergeant Scarburg desperately wants a drink of water. “Help me please!” he moans. His parched throat begs for a soothing drink. Mumbling, he tries to beg anyone nearby for water. At last when he thinks he can last no longer he hears what he thinks is an angel speak to him.
Although not a heavenly angel, she no doubt is an earthly one clothed as a nurse. Softly she speaks to him, “Soldier! Soldier can you hear me?” She continues, “Can you answer me?”
Scarcely above a whisper he answers, “Wa...wa...water!”
The nurse could hardly hear Sergeant Scarburg, but she heard enough to understand he wanted a drink of water. She found a gourd dipper and a bucket of water, propped him up and let him drink the cool water until it oozed out the corner of his mouth. Earlier he thought she was an angel now he is sure she was heaven sent.
She removes the black rag, summons an attendant and has Robert carried inside the surgeon’s tent and placed on a blood-soaked table. A pile of arms and legs almost waist high is visible outside the rear of the tent. Opening Robert’s chest the surgeon explained how lucky the Sergeant is. ‘Lucky? Lucky?’ thought Sergeant Scarburg, ‘it’s obvious this idiot has never had a ten inch piece of steel shoved into his chest!’ But, the doctor is right the bayonet only nicked his lung and did not hit any other vital organs. The surgeon did what limited care he could, sewed him back up, bandaged his head and sent Robert into a large tent with other injured Rebels. The doctor offered little hope that the Sergeant would survive. Robert was now officially a Rebel prisoner of war and a dying one at that.
His angelic nurse constantly visited him, wiped his brow and gave him water to drink. On more than one occasion she would change his bandages and give him a tablespoon of laudanum to ease the pain. Sometimes she would bring him a little milk boiled with whiskey and sugar. It was glorious to Robert. Over the following days, he began to improve, but his head still hurt terribly. The bleeding had stopped in both wounds; his breathing was labored but adequate. He was conscious enough to speak with his nurse.
“I want to tell you I appreciate what you have done for me.”
“You’re welcome. I can see by the stripes on your sleeve you are a Sergeant, but what is your name and regiment?”
“It’s strange – Madam I know I am a Reb, but for the life of me I cannot remember anything except being brought here; however, I want to thank you for being so kind. I will never be able to repay you for your saintly attentiveness. If I do not survive would you please get the word to my... my... I know I must have someone; however, right now I do not know who!”
“Sergeant you are not going to die! You have temporarily lost your memory due to your head wound, but I believe it will eventually return; however, you owe me no words of thanks. I believe God put each of us on Earth for a purpose. I think helping the injured and dying men on the battlefield is my purpose in life. I feel it as strongly as anything I have ever felt. Sergeant I am not looking for any thanks, seeing you improve in health is payment enough.
“You are my ‘Angel on the Battlefield’ Mrs.? Miss? I do not even know how to address you.”
“I’m sorry; it is Miss... Miss Barton... Miss Clara Barton.”
“Are you in the Army Miss Barton?”
“No Sergeant I am a volunteer nurse. As I said before this is something, I feel, God has instructed me to do.”
Robert notices she is wearing a plain white blouse buttoned to the neck. Over her heart is pinned a small scape of red cloth.
“May I ask the meaning of the red piece of linen attached to your blouse?”
“It identifies the few of us as volunteer medical attendants. It is easier for the doctors to find us when they need assistance.”
“May I make a suggestion? As a religious woman, Miss Barton I suggest you cut the red slip of fabric in to a red cross. That will still identify you as a volunteer, but the cross will be a badge signifying to everyone your belief that your duty to help the wounded is God inspired. Those of us injured are desperately in need of your Heavenly sent services.”
Clara gazed intently out into space thinking about his suggestion. “Hmmm, a red cross. That is an interesting idea Sergeant. I will have to give that some further thought. Oh, don’t worry your memory will return, I’m sure of it.”