Rules of Marriage, page 21
They hurriedly set up their portable hospital in the courtyard of a convent which had once been a self-sustaining religious community outside the secular village of Arinez. The convent, Rachel learned to her horror, had been sacked some weeks earlier by the French, who suspected the abbess of providing information to the enemy.
“The poor woman was brutally tortured,” Ferguson told her. “And several other nuns were abused in the most heinous ways.”
“Good heavens!” Rachel said. “Why? The French are mostly Catholics, too.”
Ferguson shrugged. “Apparently they see a huge difference between French Catholics and Spanish Catholics.”
Rachel shook her head in disbelief. “So the nuns are all gone?”
“No. There are a few still here. Most fled, though. Of those that remain, some offered to help when they realized we were turning their facility into a hospital.”
“How generous of them.”
“Downright Christian, I’d say,” Ferguson said.
The fighting went on all day, but those working with the wounded had no clear picture of how the battle progressed. Wounded soldiers were brought into the courtyard, where their injuries were quickly assessed. The lucky ones with flesh wounds were stitched back together and bandaged. Others had to wait until the beleaguered surgeons could get to them.
There were moans of pain now and then, but overall, the hospital was amazingly quiet. Rachel recalled how this had surprised her when she first came into a battlefield hospital. Stoicism in the face of pain was the normal circumstance, not the exception. She had witnessed more than once a man lying in apparent calm—with little or nothing to assuage the pain—as a surgeon removed his arm or leg.
She remembered one man in particular, a captain who was older than most men of equal rank. The captain had lain on the operating table totally alert as his arm, shattered at the elbow, was separated from the rest of him. He emitted a sharp intake of breath as the surgeon sawed trough the bone, but that was all. When it was over and the stump bandaged, he stood abruptly, but his loss of blood had made him faint. He leaned on a companion, but kept himself erect as he started to leave. Then he turned back.
“Oops! I almost forgot. Would you be so kind, Doc, as to remove my ring from that thing?” He pointed at the pile of severed limbs beside the table. “My wife would be most distraught if I lost that piece of jewelry. ’Twas her wedding present to me.”
Today’s wounded showed the same sort of endurance. Rachel wondered how the battle was really going. Isolated as they were in their own little pocket of frenzy, the surgeons and their helpers caught only snatches of information. Excited, often garbled comments from the wounded and their bearers allowed the medical team to catch glimpses of what was happening throughout the day.
“I never seen Frenchies turn tail and run like they was doing’.”
“We jus’ walked right acrost that bridge. Nary a shot.”
“Them heavy guns on the hill got us hard.”
“The bridges were intact and weakly defended. Such luck.”
“Such stupidity on Joseph’s part. Believe me, if Soult had been in charge, there would have been a different tale to tell!”
“Why was Soult not here?”
“I heard he was called—or sent—back to Paris.”
“That was a piece of luck for us—having the able Soult replaced by the incompetent Joseph. Wonder why Napoleon allowed it?”
“Cannon fire is noisy and frightening, but rifle fire is far more deadly.”
“At least we ain’t gonna be hungry this day, what with all them dead sheep.”
“Is it true? Did they get the colonel?”
Hurrying from patient to patient, Rachel heard this anxious question coming from one wounded Highlander to another as the newcomer was laid on the next pallet.
“Yes. He was a Highlander to the very end. Made us carry him up on a hill so’s he could watch the regiment’s action. His last words were ‘I trust to God that this will be a glorious day for England.’ ”
Rachel was touched by this account of a brave man’s death, but Lord! there were so many brave men maimed and dying this day!
In midafternoon, Ferguson took her by the shoulders and steered her into the cloistered garden attached to the chapel of the convent.
“You have been at this steadily for over five hours,” he told her as he gently pushed her to sit on a stone bench. “You need a rest. Here.” He handed her a piece of bread and some cheese.
She protested. “So have you, Mac, and the others, been here all day.”
“Men are tougher,” he said, sitting beside her.
“What a bouncer that is!” However, she gratefully accepted the food and a chance to sit, if even for a moment. “How is it going?” she asked.
“Still uncertain, I think, but it does seem Lord Wellington’s attacking from four or five different directions has unnerved the French, despite their tactical advantage and greater weaponry.”
She felt her brow wrinkling in confusion, but before she could formulate her question, Ferguson answered it.
“Apparently the French expected a single large frontal attack. By the time they realized their error, it was too late to change their own positions.”
The center of the battle—site of the fiercest, most desperate fighting—was the hill above the village of Arinez. Rachel knew that in the center of this fighting were the Connaught Rangers—Jake’s regiment. She had tried to keep herself so busy all day that she would be unable to dwell on this fact. Now, with a moment of rest, her worry flooded back to the forefront of her thoughts.
Ferguson rose. “I must go, but you stay here for at least another ten minutes.”
She did stay for another five minutes and finished her snack. Then she, too, rejoined the battle being waged in the hospital to save lives and limbs. It occurred to her that their job was a bit like cleaning up a mess after a destructive child. The actions of this child called war were deliberate and deadly—but just as likely to be mindlessly repeated.
These generalized thoughts were abruptly terminated with the arrival of a particular patient. Corporal Collins was brought in with a musket ball still lodged in his chest.
“Damn! It hurts!” he said as the bearers set him down. Then he caught sight of Rachel standing nearby. “S-sorry... Mrs. Brady.” His breathing was labored.
One of the bandsmen who had brought him in stood to face Rachel, his back to Collins. He gave his head a slight shake as though saying, “It’s no use.”
Rachel knelt beside the young man and opened his blood-soaked tunic to examine the wound. The bandsman was right. She schooled her expression before allowing her gaze to meet that of Corporal Collins.
“I ain’t . . . goin’ to make it ... am I?” he asked in some surprise.
“Nonsense. Of course you will,” she lied. “We merely have to do some patching here.”
“P-patching?” He coughed and red bubbles appeared on his lips. She wiped them away with the edge of her apron and called for an orderly to bring a basin with water and a cloth.
“Thirsty,” Collins whispered.
Rachel unscrewed the cap to the canteen of water she always carried on a shoulder strap when she worked with battlefield wounded. She held his head as he drank thirstily.
“W-will you ... write to m-my ... mother?” he asked.
Rachel took his hand in one of hers as she wiped the black residue of gunpowder and sweat from his face. “Of course I will.”
“Humphrey . . . has ‘er direction.” He coughed again. “Tell ’er ... tell her ... I won’t be able to ... pick the ... apples.... She should get ... Ned to—” He coughed again.
Rachel squeezed his hand and wiped his face again. She said softly, “Never mind, Pete. She knows.”
He turned his head toward her voice, but his eyes were already clouding over. “Mama? Is ... that you? It hurts ... Mama.”
“I know, darling.” Rachel could hardly contain her tears. She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.
He gripped her hand tighter. “Mama?” The word ended on a long, shuddering breath, and his hold on Rachel’s hand relaxed. He was gone.
“Good-bye, Pete,” she whispered, sliding her free hand across his eyes to close them. Now she allowed the tears as she continued to sit for a few minutes holding the limp hand of the boy who had been so full of laughing merriment just the day before. Finally, hearing someone call her name, she forced herself to rise and go about the grim business of fighting death on other fronts.
A very exhausted Major Forrester sought his own camp that evening. It was nearly nine when he did so, and he was struck by the relative quiet around him. The entire camp, not just his section of it, seemed somewhat deserted. Hastings, his arm in a sling, was there along with Travers. Fatigue showed in the faces of both the captain and the lieutenant. They were eating a meal put together by Henry and themselves.
Jake looked around, then asked, “Where is Ra—Mrs. Brady?”
“At the hospital,” Travers answered.
“Still?”
“Still.”
“If she is not back soon, Henry, you go and get her.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Jake went into his own tent and eyed his cot with longing. Not yet, old man, he told himself. Have to see she’s all right first. He splashed cold water on his face, wiped away a good deal of the grime, and rejoined his comrades.
He accepted the filled plate Henry offered him. “I take it supplies finally caught up with us.”
Hastings responded. “No. But it didn’t matter. There are so many dead sheep around, there is plenty of meat available. Your enterprising Henry managed to get some vegetables from some farmer, too.”
“What happened to you?” Jake pointed his fork at Hastings’ arm.
“Nothing serious. Ball just grazed me, really. Tore a hole in my tunic, though,” he said in disgust.
The three warriors then discussed the day’s events, each attempting thereby to have a clearer view of the overall picture. By midafternoon, the British allies had broken through the center of the French defense. Two hours later came the news that King Joseph had ordered a retreat of all his forces. This brought on a general panic among the townspeople and the French army’s followers. Both the retreating French soldiers and the pursuing allies were hampered by multitudes of civilians clogging the route—and then by their abandoned vehicles.
“I never saw anything like it!” Hastings noted. “There were hundreds of vehicles-peasant carts and fancy coaches and wagons and—you name it!”
“And all abandoned in short order,” Travers added. “With local Spanish and our own forces crawling through all that loot like bees on fallen fruit!”
“I hear the Peer is mad as hops,” Hastings said.
“He is.” Jake set aside his plate. “It appears Joseph did, indeed, get away—and with the greater part of his army intact, though they abandoned most of their heavy weapons. Wellington wanted to pursue them immediately. We might have captured their whole army.”
“Same old problem.” Hastings offered the now fed Jake a glass of brandy. “Once the British soldier smells the possibility of plunder and loot, all order is gone!”
“And such loot it is this time!” Travers said. “Joseph and his lot had stolen most of the treasures of Spain. Gold and silver—from churches as well as homes. And paintings! Cut them right out of their frames and rolled them up for easy transport.”
“Not to mention chests and boxes of jewelry and money,” Hastings added, “as well as expensive clothing.” He chuckled. “I saw one of our women disrobing right there on the road to put on a fancy ball gown! Right down to her very skimpy underthings, mind you! Don’t know how she’ll manage the long train on that gown when we resume the march later.”
“Oh, she’ll manage.” Jake sat silently for a few moments, sipping at the brandy and letting his exhaustion mellow. Then a small motion outside the range of their light caught his attention. Rachel came into view, accompanied by a bandsman. Ah, Jake felt, rather than consciously thought, he could relax now.
“Captain MacLachlan said I was to see Mrs. Brady back to her quarters,” announced the bandsman, who could not have been a day over fourteen. “The cap’n said to take ’er whether she wanted to go or not. So here she is.” The boy ended on a note of triumph.
“Thank you, son,” Jake said, setting down his glass and rising. He was alarmed by the degree of exhaustion in Rachel’s movements and the stricken look in her eyes.
“Oh, Jake!” She stumbled and he caught her in his arms. She clung to him as though seeking oneness with another human being and totally oblivious to their audience. “Oh, Jake.” Her voice caught. “He’s dead. I couldn’t save him.”
“Who? Who is dead, Rachel?” He tried to keep his voice calm and reassuring, despite his alarm at her breaking down like this.
“Pete. Corporal Collins.”
“Ah, God. No.” Jake felt a familiar wave of regret and anger at the loss of yet another good man. He held her even more tightly, sharing her grief. Finally, and reluctantly, he released her and guided her to the stool on which he had been sitting. He put the brandy glass in her hand. “Here. Drink this.”
She dutifully drank, then coughed. “It feels warm all the way down.”
“Yes. It’s supposed to.” He squatted in front of her and gestured for Henry to get her some food. When the plate was in her lap, she would have protested, but Jake ordered sternly, “Eat it.” Only when she had tentatively, then hungrily, devoured most of it, did he say, “Now, tell us about Collins.”
Her account of the young man’s death saddened them all. They shared an anecdote or two in the quiet way of the living in the face of death. Then they sat silently, each absorbed in particular memories.
“Henry,” Jake ordered at last. “Please go and find Humphrey and relay this news to him.”
Half an hour later Henry returned to say simply, “He took it real hard.”
“I thought he might,” Jake said.
By then Travers and Hastings had sought their beds and Jake had insisted that Rachel retire as well. He thought fleetingly of “sleep that knits up the ravaged sleeve of care” and then worried idly that he had not gotten that quotation quite right.
Rachel awoke the next morning feeling much as she had the night before—tired, sad, and despairing. She shut her eyes against the daylight and snuggled back into the covers, but it was no use. She was awake. Might as well face the day after all. At least it was not raining this morning. She emerged from her tent to find Henry packing things in order to move later on. She greeted him and helped herself to a breakfast of leftover stew and tea.
“The major has gone already?” she asked.
“Yes, madam. Seems Lord Wellington is still of a mind to pursue the French immediately.”
“Really?” She was somewhat surprised at this, given the general revelry and debauchery—the strange aftermath of battle—she had observed last night as she returned to camp.
“Lord Jacob said even if we don’t get the call to move out, we shall probably move into the city.”
“I see. I will be sure to leave my things in order when I go to the hospital.”
“Right. Thompkins and I will see to the move—with Juan’s help, of course.” Henry smiled at Juan, who had just come in from tending his goats. “One of us will come and escort you to our new quarters.”
On arriving at the hospital later, she found MacLachlan in a towering rage. She could hear his muffled shouts as soon as she came into the courtyard. Several other people stood in the courtyard, seemingly petrified as they listened.
“You stupid—blithering—incompetent—God-damned—idiot!” Mac was yelling. The language and tone were totally out of character for the big, gentle bear of a man. Mac was addressing someone inside the chapel, where quite a number of wounded lay on straw pallets.
“What on earth ... ?” Rachel questioned Lieutenant Ferguson.
“Brewster,” Ferguson said.
“The assistant surgeon?”
Ferguson nodded.
Mac’s voice came through again. “You get your gear and get your miserable person out of this hospital right now. If I ever catch you even near a wounded man again, I’ll see you flogged within an inch of your miserable, useless life.”
There was a muffled reply, unintelligible to those in the courtyard, to which Mac responded, “Well, we can damned well do without the likes of you.”
The chapel door banged open and Mac came storming out. His eyes ran quickly over those assembled before him. His gaze rested on Rachel, and he looked a bit chagrined.
“I am sorry you heard that, Mrs. Brady.”
She merely nodded and he went on.
“Brewster! No wonder the men call him ‘Butcher Brewster’! He killed a perfectly good man this morning. Just killed him. Right there on the operating table. No reason for him to die. Hell! Bloody hell! He might not even have had to lose that leg—but Brewster just loves chopping off limbs. Thinks he’s a damned woodcutter or something.” He paused. “Sorry, my language . . .”
“Never mind. I’m sure you have cause to be upset.” She knew Mac had probably not had more than two hours sleep the night before.
“Any first-year student could have performed that surgery without cutting into a major artery—and then he just allowed the man to bleed to death.”
“Good heavens!” she murmured.
Mac seemed incapable of cutting short his rant. “They require tailors, shoemakers, and carpenters to serve a proper apprenticeship in England, but anyone—anyone!—can hire on with the army as an assistant surgeon! I tell you, it’s downright criminal. Murder, it is.”
“It does not seem a very rational approach,” she agreed.
