He rolled up his shirt sleeves, scrubbed his hands with carbolic soap and, taking a deep breath, applied the tourniquet. Then he picked up the first instrument—the curved amputation knife. The handle felt warm and familiar and he stilled his nerves, once more back in a blood-stained tent at the rear of the Confederate lines, the ground shaking beneath his feet at each cannon shot, the smell of blood, gore and powder mingling.

For a long moment, the breath stopped in his throat and he had to force his hand to become steady. A good field surgeon could amputate a limb in a few minutes and Caleb had been a good field surgeon.

Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you … The words of the song echoed in the back of his mind, calming him. He took a breath and set to work, his hands moving almost automatically with the skills he had long since locked away as belonging to a past he did not want to remember.

He had the damaged hand off with practised skill and, with the patient unconscious, had the luxury of allowing skin flaps to be sewn across the stump, making for a neater, more rounded finish.

As he straightened to look for a blanket to cover the patient, the two miners who had helped stood back, faces ashen, neither of them daring to look at the bloodied hand that had been wrapped in a cloth and put in the fire bucket.

For the first time, Caleb allowed himself to look at Adelaide. Like the miners, her face was pale, her lips no more than a slash, but her brown eyes met his without hesitation. She gave him a shaky smile and he let himself breathe again.

Only now did he venture to look at his own arms, red to the elbow with the man’s blood, which also spattered his clothes and face. He knew what was coming but he couldn’t show his weakness in front of the men. With as much calm as he could muster, he plunged his hands into a bucket of warm water and scrubbed at them with the carbolic soap as the water turned pink.

With a sharp order to Bowen to watch the patient, he walked to the door of the shed and out into the last of the daylight. Skirting behind the mine buildings he found a patch of bush away from sight and sound of the mine and was violently ill. He sat, shaking from head to toe, for as long as he dared allow himself, mindful he had a patient that needed him.

When he returned to the crib hut, Geordie was awake but groggy. Caleb checked the man’s pulse and breathing, relieved to find both were strong.

Leaning on the table, he looked down at the miner. ‘I had to take your hand, Geordie,’ he said.