Chapter 7. The Feverish Tent
Chapter 7. The Feverish Tent
It had been two days since the rain stopped, but the damp smell inside the medical tent refused to dissipate.
Cloth that had soaked up blood spread the stench again no matter how tightly it was bundled to one side.
The area where stretchers entered and exited was always slippery with mud and blood.
You could endure while the wound was being sewn, but that didn't stop the fever that followed.
Ruan Hesse had seen that far too many times.
The first patient of the morning was an archer whose shoulder had been stitched the previous day.
The suture line was intact, but his face was flushed.
His breathing was short, and his forehead was hot.
As Ruan checked his pulse, Sera asked from beside him.
"The wound looks fine, though."
"It's not the wound, it's the fever."
The archer let out a hollow laugh with his dry lips.
"It's just that I felt cold and then hot, that's all."
Instead of replying, Ruan pressed the edge of the wound.
Pus glistened between the red, swollen flesh.
A similar smell rose from the stretcher beside it.
The infantryman with a stitched thigh had suffered chills all night, and Adjutant Mathias, who had his abdomen sutured, had been drenched in cold sweat since dawn.
One case could be bad luck. Two could be an unlucky day.
But when three, four, five overlapped, that wasn't luck.
Ruan slowly surveyed the inside of the tent.
A pile of wet bandages was still stacked by the entrance.
An unboiled water barrel was being used in the same spot as the hand-washing basin.
Severely wounded patients just brought in and recovering patients who had finished suturing were lying mixed together in a single row,
And the orderlies, citing urgency, barely wiped their bloodstained hands before grabbing the next stretcher.
Fever came later than the wound.
That made it more persistent.
Ruan said briefly.
"Sera. Let's clear the tent."
Sera's eyes widened.
"Now?"
"Now."
"To what extent?"
"All of it."
At that, an orderly grinding herbs on the opposite side muttered with a dumbfounded face.
"With this many patients, what are you clearing?"
Ruan was already moving.
He pushed an empty crate near the entrance to widen the path.
Then he dragged one stretcher and moved it to the innermost area.
"Patients with fever go over there. New severe injuries come here. Those finished with suturing are moved to the outer tent."
Sera moved along and asked.
"But the outer tent leaks rain and is cold."
"Still, it's better than lying next to the smell of rot."
Bern Dalt was watching the scene from behind.
He was silent for a moment, then asked.
"What are you thinking?"
"If everyone lies together in one tent, fever starts circulating. It's not the wound that kills first, it's what follows."
Bern glanced once at Ruan's face, then at the feverish archer.
His answer was short.
"Keep going."
With that single word, Sera asked no more.
She immediately called two orderlies and had them move the pile of wet cloth first.
Ruan changed the position of the water barrels.
He separated the hand-washing basin from the water used for wound cleaning, and set aside a pot exclusively for boiled water.
Near the entrance, he made a space to temporarily set down bloodied stretchers, and in the inner area, he only laid patients who had just been sutured.
One orderly grumbled.
"If we separate everything like this, it'll be slower."
Ruan said without even turning around.
"Slow and alive. Fast and dead right now."
The words were neither sharp nor loud, but strangely hard to refute.
Sera didn't miss that opening and called out.
"You heard him. New arrivals go to the right. Fever patients to the left. Don't leave bloodied cloth inside. Boil it outside and bring it back."
Karen was leaning against one side of the tent, watching the scene.
Her body hadn't fully recovered yet, but her eyes were much sharper than the day before.
She had already seen that Ruan was someone who couldn't even wield a sword properly.
Yet now, that man was changing the entire flow inside the tent with just a few words and gestures.
He wasn't even raising his voice, but everyone was already moving according to the positions he had set.
Before noon, Ruan personally checked the sequence of washing hands twice.
Once before opening a wound, once after closing it.
When the orderlies showed signs of annoyance, he responded not with words but by showing them three feverish patients in turn.
Red swollen wounds, hot foreheads, dry lips, and trembling breaths.
It was faster than an explanation.
As Mathias tossed and turned in fever, Knight Edwin hurried over.
"Did his wound burst open again?"
Ruan shook his head.
"Not yet. But he can't stay here any longer."
"Why?"
"Fever spreads. Even recovering patients need to be separated."
Edwin looked momentarily confused.
For a noble knight, the battlefield is usually explained with swords and shields.
But the youngest military medic in front of him was saying that people live and die based on tent placement, water barrels, and hand-washing order.
It might have sounded bizarre.
But the moment he saw Mathias's cold sweat, Edwin didn't ask further.
"Is there anything you need?"
"Dry cloth. And a spot that gets sunlight."
Edwin immediately turned and called his guards.
A little later, two knights personally cleared an empty tent and gave it over for recovering patients.
Sera muttered quietly at the sight.
"A few days ago they said the medical unit was a slaughterhouse, and now they're even giving up a tent."
Instead of replying, Ruan checked Mathias's pulse again.
As the afternoon approached, the number of fever patients grew.
Ruan quickly recorded the order in which fevers appeared and the types of wounds.
Puncture wounds, incisions, burns, amputations.
He noted which wounds festered faster, who suffered chills first, and how much water each had drunk.
Beside Ruan, Sera kept herbs, boiled water, and wet cloth circulating without stop.
The orderlies grumbled at first, but once the sections were divided, they quickly realized that stretcher traffic was far less tangled.
Still, complaints remained.
As the sun began to set, a senior military medic entered the tent with a frown.
"Who changed the patient arrangement without authorization?"
Sera started to retort but stopped.
Ruan stood up first.
"I did."
The senior medic scanned the spot where the wet cloth pile had been moved outside and the separated stretchers.
"That's not something a junior medic should do."
"Fever is spreading."
"What tent on a battlefield doesn't have fever?"
"Still, mixing them makes them die faster."
The other snorted with displeasure.
"What, are you some kind of plague officer?"
Just then, Bern spoke up from behind.
"If you can even slow down the dying, that's what a medic is supposed to do."
The senior medic shut his mouth for a moment.
Bern shook one sleeve end and stepped closer.
"If you don't like it, go count the number of bastards dying in your own tent. I'm in charge here."
With that, there was no further quarrel.
The senior medic finally turned away with a scowl.
Sera smirked at his retreating back.
"Today, Bern gunuigwan-nim is the most refreshing."
Instead of replying, Bern pushed the boiled water barrel toward Ruan.
"Don't flap your mouth, wash your hands first."
Ruan silently washed his hands.
The water quickly turned murky, and the smell of blood soaked into the back of his hands didn't wash away easily.
Still, it was different from not washing at all.
He went back to the next patient.
By evening, the archer who had first developed a fever began to breathe a little more evenly.
The infantryman with the thigh wound also stopped shivering like he had in the morning.
Mathias still had a high fever, but his chills had decreased.
On the other hand, signs of fever appeared in two new patients who had seemed fine at first.
Ruan immediately pulled those two to the left section and replaced their wet cloth.
Karen watched for a while, then spoke in a low voice.
"You have a scarier face than a swordsman."
Ruan turned to look.
"Who?"
"You. When you tell them to wash hands."
Sera burst out laughing.
"Right. With that expression, even enemy soldiers would wash their hands first."
Ruan pretended not to hear and unwrapped the next bandage.
But Karen continued.
"I've watched you all day. You're terrible at cutting people, but not bad at moving them."
Ruan pressed the edge of the wound and replied calmly.
"Because if we don't move, they die."
At those short words, Karen added no more jokes.
She understood that orders here were not about face, but about survival.
Before night fell, Ruan had a small wooden board hung at the tent entrance.
New patients, fever patients, recovering patients.
The writing was crude, but the distinctions were clear.
Sera looked at it and asked.
"Will the soldiers remember all this?"
"If they don't remember, they'll have to keep memorizing it."
"Just today, your throat will be worn out."
"Better than dying."
Sera looked at Ruan for a moment after hearing that, then walked back to the pot where she was boiling bloodied cloth again.
Her hands never stopped.
Outside the tent, it quickly grew dark.
Stretchers actually came in more frequently as night fell.
But inside, it was less chaotic than in the morning.
Where to lay down, which water to use, who should wash their hands first—people were starting to find their places little by little.
It wasn't perfect yet.
Still, it was less broken.
Ruan placed a wet cloth on the forehead of the last fever patient, then caught his breath for a moment.
His fingertips were heavy and his back was stiff.
Yet the urgent anxiety that had persisted all day had faded slightly compared to the morning.
Sera muttered as she replaced the water barrel.
"After today's work, everyone will start another strange rumor."
"What rumor this time?"
"Not that the white-haired medic cures with a touch, but that if the white-haired medic makes you wash your hands, you won't die."
Ruan looked at Sera.
"It's not a rumor. It's a rule."
"To the soldiers, that'll sound even scarier."
Just then, the sound of two supply soldiers chattering drifted in from the tent entrance.
"Doesn't it seem like they're groaning less now that the fever guys are separated?"
"Right. If we do what that youngest says, maybe people really won't die as much."
Ruan pretended not to hear.
It had only been one day. The way to save people doesn't change in a single day.
But it was clear that if they didn't do this, people would die faster.
He washed his hands again by the water barrel.
The boiled water was hot, and the back of his hands turned bright red.
Still, only after washing thoroughly did he turn toward the next stretcher.
The fever inside the tent hadn't subsided yet.
The smell was still there.
More people would die in the future.
Still, from today, they could fight differently.
Not with swords or spears, but with water, cloth, and the order of hands.
Ruan took a short breath and said.
"Bring in the next patient. This time, wash your hands before entering."
At those words, the orderlies moved almost reflexively.
The pot lid opened, the water barrel was lifted, and the wet cloth went outside.
The night of the medical tent was beginning anew.