Chapter Six

Chapter Six

No one seemed to know what to say; maybe what had happened was too big for words. I must be awfully naive, Jess thought when his mind began to work again. It's beyond me to think that a brother officer and an Englishman would do something so wicked.

Nell stood beside him, leaning against his shoulder and probably not even aware of it. Her face paled as she took in the emptiness around the marching hospital. "It was Bones, wasn't it?" she said at last, and her voice sounded unfamiliar in its shock. He nodded, unable to trust his own voice.

"I am so sorry," she said, then turned away from him and Sheffield. The shame in her voice lashed at his heart. As he watched, miserable, she moved closer to the road and stood there, apart from them, as the sky lightened.

When the sun had cleared the low mountains, he could see, strewn across the soggy road, remnants of clothing, some shards of crockery, and a few bare sticks that might have been furniture, all driven into the mud by gun carriages, wagons, marching men, and horses' hooves. He only had to wonder for a minute what it was, because Elinore started to sob. She raised her skirt as though she was going to plunge into the quagmire after the pitiful fragments. He started for her, but she stopped.

He stood there, stymied by his own indecisiveness. He did not know whether he should go to Elinore, or leave her alone at the road's edge. A great lot of good I have been doing her since our wedding, he thought as the Chief walked to the road and clasped an arm around his wife's shoulder.

"Clever of him, and so simple really," Sheffield said, his tone both bracing and conversational, perhaps to put Elinore at rest. "It couldn't have been hard, especially in the dark, to let each regiment think it was being followed by another that would escort us. Clever." The Chief kissed Elinore's forehead. "My dear, you knew his measure far better than the rest of us, didn't you? Well, good riddance to him is what I say."

Elinore sighed. To Jess's dismay, he could see nothing of the cheerful lady who served so faithfully in the marching hospital. He came closer to hear what she said against the chief surgeon's chest. "Do you think we Masons are going to be bad luck forever, Chief?"

He thought then that Dan O'Leary must have given him a push forward, but he couldn't be sure. He cursed his own shyness, but found his voice. "You're a Randall now, Elinore," he said when he got over his surprise at suddenly standing so close to his wife. "A Randall," he repeated.

The Chief stepped back and pointed Elinore in his direction. With so much encouragement, he had no qualms about taking her hand. "We Randalls have nothing but bonny luck. It's written on our crest, Elinore: ‘Luck follows love.' "

"There you are then, dearie," Sheffield said. He smiled at them both and then nodded to Daniel. "Come, lad! We'd better prepare our patients for travel." He nodded to Jess. "I'm appointing you to figure out how we're going to get out of here." He winked. "Since you have all that luck, Captain Randall, eh?"

If his chief had told him to sprout wings and fly to the lines of Torres Vedras, he could not have been more surprised. Anger followed: How dare he give me the impossible task, Hippocrates? Shame tread on anger's heels when he glanced down at the fear in his wife's eyes. Humility traipsed along behind them both, eyes cast down as always. He thought of everything he had promised when he swore Hippocrates' stupid oath. Nowhere did anything explain this situation, but the burden was his. So be it.

First things first; even Jenks and his labored breathing could wait for a moment. He draped his arm around Elinore's slight shoulders and stooped a little to whisper in her ear. "Elinore, I don't want you to doubt that I can do this," he whispered. "I can tell you not to worry, but I know you will. I insist, however, that you don't go into agonies about arriving at a solution by yourself. Let me do that now."

She seemed to understand what he meant. "What can I do to help?" she whispered back, after a moment's thought, her cheek still close to his, her lips near his ear this time.

Give her something to do. "Under my cot I have a cotton satchel like this leather one I carry my medicine in," he told her. "Get in my trunk and figure out what I should transfer to the satchel. We're all going to be traveling light."

She nodded and went into the sleeping tent, leaving him with the larger problem. He wanted to follow her, sit on his cot, and wait for Sheffield to take charge. He wanted to feel sorry for himself, but a larger thought intruded and would not leave. Obviously, he thinks I can make order out of this mess, he told himself. Perhaps I can.

Thoughtfully, he walked around the marching hospital, looking for a solution. Bones had left nothing behind that would be of any use, except the tent and all the cots inside. And that was it, pure and simple. "Well, now," he said out loud.

He was back in his tent in a moment. Elinore looked up in surprise. She held up one of his shirts. "These are all disgraceful," she scolded. "Didn't you ever go to a party in Lisbon? I know why I am shabby, but why are you so shabby?"

He had the grace to feel a twinge of embarrassment. "I'd really rather flop on my cot with a good book, Elinore," he told her. "Even in Lisbon. Oh, especially in Lisbon." He grinned at her. "And now you're regretting your marriage to such a boring man, I vow."

She said nothing, returning no answer beyond a blush. She looked so darling there with his shirts in her hands that he wanted to touch her in places anatomical and see if she reacted as his lecturer on partes della femina predicted. He did not doubt that he had the touch, which brought a blush to his own face.

Back to the problem, or rather, its solution. "Elinore, come with me now. I need an interpreter."

She asked no questions, but dropped the shirts on his cot and followed him from the tent. He told himself that he took her hand to hurry her along, but he knew he just wanted to feel that much of her.

It was a short walk through muddy streets to the alcalde's headquarters. He didn't know what it was constructed of, but the whole structure seemed to be peeling. A sharp rap on the door brought the alcalde himself, looking impatient and ready to be disagreeable, rather like a burdened relative who has been praying for his houseguests to leave, and feeling no patience for the stragglers remaining.

Before he had a chance to close the door on them, Jess greeted him in Spanish and asked to come inside. "We are allies,'' he reminded the Spaniard pointedly, and it gained them entrance, although not the offer of a seat or a glass of wine. Never mind; he didn't require niceties. He had explained the whole matter to Elinore on the walk. He looked at her, and she began at once.

She had a lovely accent, and Jess found himself doubly impressed. Who, he reasoned, would ever turn down such a sweet-faced lady?

It appeared to be a hard bargain. Elinore stated her case, and listened to the return flow from the alcalde. She inclined her head toward Jess. "He says he will give you a wagon for the tents and cots, but not a single horse. He says he has none to spare."

"He's a liar," Jess whispered back. "What good is a wagon without horses?"

She returned to the bargaining. Don't promise him too much, Jess thought. "He will not budge beyond a wagon," she said at last. " In fact, he wants to know what is stopping him from taking the whole lot after we leave? He reminds us that the French are just waiting behind the walls of Burgos for us to leave."

"Please tell the old wind satchel that we are still allies— in case he has forgotten—and that I promise to put a torch to the tent and the cots, rather than give them up."

She turned her charm upon the alcalde again, but even Jess could tell that the man had no other offer to make. Without bothering to wait for her translation, he told her to take the man's offer. "And tell him to bring the wagon to the marching hospital right away."

"We still don't have any horses, Captain," she reminded him when they left.

He tightened his grip on her fingers. "My dear, I am about to engage in real skullduggery. Please look away. It is probably too much to ask you to stop your ears. Harper!" he called as they neared the tent. "I want you now!"

I can't believe I am about to do this, he thought as the private threw back the tent flap and gave another of his patently slovenly salutes. "Harper, you are to find me two horses. I don't care how you do it. If you squirreled away any of the QM's money when I wasn't watching, use that. If your pockets are as to let as mine, just get me horses. Take Wilkie." He thought a moment. "In fact, you may exchange him for horses."

Harper laughed. "Who'd want'im? Sir, you told me I was never to do anything underhanded again," he reminded Jess virtuously.

"What a fool I was, Private," Jess replied. "Overlook it, please. Now, do it."

With a grin of absolute understanding, Harper sloped off. Jess took Elinore's hand again and went back to his tent. As she watched, he picked out the best shirt and trousers among his tatters, one book of surgery in Italian that he could not bear to part with, a pair of shoes, and his comb and toothbrush. He crammed them in the canvas satchel and picked up his overcoat.

"You will take your rosary," she said, putting it in the satchel.

"I am not much of a Catholic," he told her.

"You might want it," she said calmly. "And this bay rum."

"Oh, my dear, I don't need that," he said in protest.

"I like it."

Oh, you do? he asked himself. I had no idea. "Very well. I hate to disappoint the ladies."

The alcalde's men brought the wagon and immediately began to dismantle the tent. Jess could hardly hide his disappointment at the wagon, a miserable affair with wobbly wheels and only room for two stretchers. The axles and wheels were entirely of wood and looked drier than bones. (Oh, dreadful word.) Well, it will not be a silent retreat from Number Eight of the Peninsular Royal Medical Corps, he thought.

After some discussion, he and Dan lowered the stretcher bearing Jenks into the wagon bed. The second stretcher barely fit, and was occupied by three patients who had only room to sit up, rump to rump, and lean back against the rough wood. "Chief, can you squeeze yourself in the wagon bed, too?" he asked.

"I should probably walk and let Elinore ride," Sheffield protested, but he made no more objection when Jess insisted. Jess watched him climb carefully into the wagon, wondering to himself when the Chief got old. It must have been during the siege, he decided, only I was too busy to notice. Best he should ride.

There they sat as the sun rose higher. The alcalde's servants, who had always seemed so slow-moving when urged on any errand or effort during the siege, moved with startling speed. In a flash the tent was down, the ropes and pegs stowed in a canvas bag, and the cots folded. As they carried away the tent, other townspeople came out to point at the wagon and laugh out loud.

"We do seem to be lacking any form of locomotion," Sheffield commented, "but how nice to provide a moment of comic relief for our stalwart allies. Do you suppose Noah felt this way inside the ark before it started to rain?"

Jess felt his face grow hot. He wondered if Harper, with Wilkie in tow, had decided to find his own route to the Portuguese border, one that didn't involve the hindrance of the wounded. The Chief cleared his throat rather louder than was necessary, and Jess was just glancing his way when the guns went off.

Elinore shrieked and crowded herself close to him as the ground shook, and a mound of black smoke coming from the cemetery wreathed upward in the sky. After a startled pause, the villagers who had gathered ran away.

When the road was clear, Harper and Wilkie came riding over the small crest on horseback, Harper with black powder on his face and a grin. He waved to Jess. "Lord love us, I still think a diversion is the best medicine for what ails us, Captain. Lend me a hand now, sir."

Lend he did, asking no questions as he helped the soldiers hitch up the horses, one quite geriatric and the other taking mincing steps to show its dislike of the smoke and noise. It was a beautiful dun, with an elegant saddle, and it took vast exception to being yoked to a wagon. Elinore stood at the edge of the road, her eyes on the great mushroom of smoke, then hurried to his side as soon as he stepped back.

Harper moved faster than Jess had ever seen before. "Uh, are these animals soon to be missed?" Jesse asked finally. He tossed the reins up to Wilkie, who with a grimace and a grunt, had climbed into the wagon. In another moment they were underway.

Harper fell into step beside him. "Not sure, sir, but Wilkie and I thought it best to set off a little alarm. You know, something to clear the streets of riffraff."

Jess stopped then, and waited for Dan O'Leary to hand him his medical satchel. O'Leary shouldered his other bag and shook his head when Jess tried to take it. There was another explosion and then another. "My word, Harper!" Jess declared. "Did you always harbor a secret wish to be part of the artillery? I think even Sir Arthur would be impressed."

The private shook his head, his face serious. "That's the French, Captain. They must think we have a ruddy arsenal. D'ye think we could step out a little smarter now?"

It was a snail's pace. Jess had the oddest sensation of revisiting a childish nightmare of being eight feet tall and trying to move fast on meringue feet, but making no headway as a monster thundered behind. He expected at any moment to see Souham's famous hussars top the rise behind them and come pelting down, screaming that strange, warbling cry of theirs which never quite served to mask the zipping sound when saber came from scabbard. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder, mainly because Elinore was watching him with anxious eyes.

Conversation seemed the best idea. "Tell me, Harper," he began, keeping his voice as prosaic as possible. "I know I wasn't going to ask, but I am curious where these horses came from, especially that dun, who appears to have an exalted lineage."

Harper was a long time in answering. "Sir, let me say it this way; we had no idea how close the French were. I thought they'd stay inside the walls another day." He leaned closer. "And you know, sir? They're pretty sloppy when they think nobody British is around." He looked back at the pretty horse struggling against the yoke. "I think one of the Frogs is 'opping mad, don't you?"

Jess opened his mouth to say something, but shook his head instead. Elinore patted his arm. "Perhaps it's time for things to get better."

They didn't. Jenks died around two o'clock in the afternoon, worn out from trying to breathe, and the rains began again, further slowing their pace. As Sheffield took a final check of the dead man's pulse, Jess went through his usual list, remembering with excruciating detail every remedy he had ever attempted on Jenks, and asking himself if there were something more he could have done. When he could not think of one more treatment that would have made a difference, there was nothing to do but cover Jenks' face and keep going.

Elinore continued to earn his admiration. Despite the mud that tugged at her dress hem and the cold rain on her face, she burrowed deeper in her cloak, gripped his hand, and kept moving. He thought of the ladies his mother had trooped through the estate on his last visit to Scotland, all with incomes, bright faces, and accomplishments. He nudged his wife's shoulder. "Elinore, can you sketch?"

"No."

"Knot a fringe?"

"No!"

"Speak Italian?"

She smiled. "No. I think my Spanish is useful to you, however, considering that all you can say is hello, and how are the missus and children." She stopped in the road, and he stopped, too, mainly because he had no desire to turn loose of her. "See here, Captain, are you comparing me to ladies you have known?"

She's a bright one, Hippocrates, he thought, but we already knew that. "Yes, I am, Elinore, and you're coming out rather well."

To his dismay, her eyes filled with sudden tears. "One dress and a borrowed cloak, and you can say that?"

"I can say that. Do mind that puddle, Elinore. I'd hate for you to get your shoes muddy!"

He laughed and stepped out of the way when she took a swing at him with the cloth bag of bandages and plasters she carried. Yes, I can say that, he thought, feeling far too cheerful for someone who had just lost a patient, wasn't totally sure where he was, and who, for all he knew, was only a hill or two ahead of the French. Things are looking up, he told himself. Maybe it's time for the luck of the Randalls.

Bedraggled and sore-footed, they came to the village of Santos as the watery, poor excuse for a sun started to set. He knew that Elinore was flagging; not that she walked any slower, but that she stopped talking, as though needing all her energy to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. If only the rain would stop, he grumbled in silent frustration. The damp had wicked all the way up his wife's dress to her waist, and he knew she must be colder than all of them.

It was Santos, because he remembered that the steeple on the church had been toppled by one army or the other. While he did not recall a particularly friendly citizenry on the way up to Burgos in August, his experience told him that eventually the villagers would scrounge up food from somewhere, and a bed or two. He would have Elinore announce in Spanish that he was a surgeon, and promise a clinic before they left in the morning.

They must have just missed Vespers, which surprised Jess, because he thought his timepiece was accurate. He looked around. The village seemed almost deserted. With a chill, he noticed that as the wagon creaked by each house, lights went out within.

"I don't like this," he whispered to Elinore. "Walk closer to me."

"I suppose they are tired of feeding the British," she said.

Somehow—how he did not know, considering his open nature—he knew that was not the answer, not this night. "Chief, do you think we should avoid this town?" he asked.

Sheffield swore an oath from inside the wagon. "Jess, I think you must truly work harder to overcome your somewhat retiring disposition! What could be more harmless than two surgeons? Besides that, our patients here—remember them?—need a bed and some broth. Wilkie, stop our gallant steeds there in the plaza. Elinore, turn loose of that timid fellow of yours and announce to the citizens that the surgeons have arrived."

"Of course I will," Elinore replied. She released her tight grip on his arm. "The Chief doesn't mean to be a grouch," she told Jesse.

And I don't mean to be suspicious, he thought, even as he let her leave his side and walk closer to the wagon. He wanted to call her back, but he did not feel up to another outburst from the chief surgeon. Who, I must admit, Hippocrates, has been at this military doctoring business far longer than I have, he thought. Still, am I the only one noticing that candles and lamps are going out in the houses around us?

He looked around and his unease increased to see dark forms gathering on each narrow street they passed. No one spoke, and he hoped they chose not to follow. He looked at the wagon, wanting to say something. I am too timid, he thought. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the wagon stopped; they were in the plaza.

"It is awfully dark,'' he ventured as Sheffield, with Harper's assistance, clambered awkwardly down from the high-sided cart.

"It is November!'' Sheffield hissed, but in a low voice that made Jess wonder if the mood of the village was now on him, too. The Chief gestured for Elinore. "Come, my dear, lend me your arm. I am stiff with sitting." He glared at Jess. "Nell and I will bravely go find the alcalde and ask his assistance." He paused. "We would invite your husband, Nell, but he is too shy. He may tend to the wounded."

Experience told him that there was no reasoning with Sheffield when he was in a black mood. Instead, he nodded to Harper. "Private, I am in his black book. Give me a hand up into ..."

"No."

He stopped, startled. He made to say something stem for once, but Harper was not looking at him. The soldier stared over his shoulder into the center of the plaza.

"No, please," Harper said again, and there was no over-looking the pain and pleading in his voice, a far cry from his usual wheedling tone.

Jess turned around to see a flash. He winced and instinctively braced himself for the explosion, which reverberated in the square, surrounded as it was by buildings. His stomach dropped below his shoes when Elinore screamed. "Oh, God, no," he said, and ran toward his wife, who stood grasping the chief surgeon. He heard Harper shouting at him to wait, but he could not. Not until he was only a few feet from the two of them did he see the neatly drilled hole in the exact middle of Sheffield's forehead.

What happened next happened fast. Sheffield dropped first to his knees and then face down in the mud, dragging Elinore with him. Sobbing out loud and calling his name, she tried to turn him over as she struggled to rise into a sitting position.

He did not see the two men who came out of the plaza's gloom, probably because his eyes were still dazzled by the flash and report of the musket. They grabbed his arms as Elinore shrieked at them in Spanish, the sound of her terror utterly foreign to his ears. He looked down to feel the muzzle of a pistol jammed just above his belt.

He braced himself again, wishing simultaneously for a priest, and for more time, more time. His life did not flash before his eyes; he knew that the breath he drew next would be his last, and he would be as dead as Jenks in the wagon. He closed his eyes, dreading the flash more than the ball that he knew would eviscerate him.

Click. Another click. Elinore gasped, and then she was pleading with the men who held him, even as she crawled toward him. "I love you," he whispered, but she did not seem to hear him above her own voice. She was telling them he was a doctor, saying it over and over, first in Spanish, then English, then French, as if seeking, in her desperation, to find the common language of chaos.

No one seemed to listen. The pistol clicked once more against his belly, then the pressure on his stomach ceased as the weapon was withdrawn. He took an experimental breath, and then another. His eyes dull now, he watched as the pistol flashed back in a wicked swing. It came forward against his head, and he remembered no more.