Rules of Marriage Page 2

  Rachel drew in a silent, horrified breath. The “forlorn hope” were soldiers and officers who volunteered for such missions. Their hope of surviving was slim, but those who did were more or less guaranteed promotions.

  “. . . and all the while,” the colonel was saying in a ragged voice, “those infernal French were on the wall yelling obscenities and picking off our lads as though they were shooting targets at a fair.” He heaved a sigh. “But we made it. And at least with this rain, we will not have the worry of a musket starting a fire in the field and roasting the wounded before we can get to them.”

  Ferguson nodded. “If only the weather would also discourage the battlefield ghouls who manage to strip and rob the dead and wounded within minutes of their falling.”

  The colonel shrugged, then winced at the movement. “One of the hazards of war.”

  Rachel knew he spoke only the truth, but she still found her anger rising whenever she dealt with naked and near-naked wounded carried in from a battlefield. No, they were not all heroes, but everyone deserved to have basic human dignity respected.

  Now, picking her way around mud puddles, she observed increased activity as she neared the convent. The wounded, some crying out in pain, were transported in squeaking peasant carts. Some staggered in under their own power, or supported by fellow soldiers, their way impeded by both other wounded and the soggy weather. Her feet kept sliding, and she dreaded having to deal with injuries encrusted with mud as well as blood. At least she would be able to do something besides sit and wait and worry about Edwin.

  She recalled vividly MacLachlan’s initial skepticism when she had offered her services soon after she and her husband joined the regiment. It was not unusual for women accompanying the army to perform nursing duties, but most who did so were older and hardier-looking than she was.

  Captain MacLachlan, a large man with a smattering of gray in his red hair, had cast a doubting look at her rather petite frame. “What’s a pretty little lass like you want with hospital work? ” Despite his less than friendly demeanor, Rachel warmed to him, for there was something about him—besides his heavy Scottish accent and his being a doctor—that reminded her of her father.

  The “hospital” in that case had once served as a shed for shearing sheep and storing bales of wool. There was still a faint odor of lanolin mixed with the mostly unpleasant odors associated with a military medical station on the campaign trail. Some attempt had been made to fortify the large, open barn against the elements. Still, sunlight and wind made their way through chinks in the walls. Rachel remembered MacLachlan sitting at a small table he used as a desk in one corner of the room. He laid his pen down and stood to tower over her, his hands on his hips.

  Aware of not only his doubting scrutiny, but also the listening ears of others, Rachel had taken a deep breath and squared her shoulders before answering his question. “I want to be of some use, sir.”

  “I’d have no trouble makin’ use of that one!” a man in a nearby bed quipped. There was some general laughter.

  MacLachlan gave the fellow a quelling look. “In that case, maybe you are well enough to rejoin your regiment, O’Mara.”

  O’Mara lowered his eyes and muttered incoherently.

  “That’s what I thought,” MacLachlan said. He turned back to Rachel. “Now, what did you say your name is?”

  “Mrs. Brady. Rachel Brady. My husband is Sergeant Brady with the 51st.”

  “I see . . .”

  One of the men tending the wounded hurried forward. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

  “Mac. Could I have a word with you? ” the man asked.

  MacLachlan looked surprised at the interruption, but he excused himself to Rachel and stepped aside to confer with him. They spoke in low tones and both men glanced at Rachel from time to time. She heard MacLachlan exclaim, “You don’t say!”

  Finally, MacLachlan turned back to her. He gestured to his fellow medical officer. “Mrs. Brady, this is Lieutenant Ferguson. He’s one of our best surgeons.”

  “How do you do, sir?” She dipped her knees in a polite curtsy.

  “You were at Portsmouth when we brought back so many of those suffering the Walcheren fever,” Ferguson said.

  “Oh, yes. I thought you looked familiar.” Rachel was slightly embarrassed at not recognizing him immediately.

  “Ferguson says you work well with wounded—and that you aren’t squeamish,” MacLachlan said.

  “No, I am not.” She hoped she sounded confident.

  “He also tells me your father was Duncan Cameron. Is that true?”

  Rachel glanced at Ferguson in surprise. “Why, yes, it is.”

  “Cameron and I studied medicine together in Edinburgh. He was a good man—and a very capable doctor.” MacLachlan ran his fingers over his chin as though he were stroking a nonexistent beard. “So . . . patching up broken bodies runs in your blood, eh?”

  Warmed by his comments about her beloved papa, Rachel gave him a tentative smile. “One might put it that way. I believe I may be of some help to you, at any rate.”

  Over the next several weeks, she had gained the respect of the entire medical staff. Even Wellington ’s new chief medical officer, Dr. James McGrigor, heard of the woman who could work wonders.

  “Your methods are unorthodox, to say the least,” McGrigor observed during a tour of regimental hospitals, “but if you were a man, you’d make a fine doctor, my girl.”

  Rachel gave him an arch look. “And what has one’s gender to do with trying to heal a wound or an illness? ”

  She had just successfully treated a man who suffered a terrible burn from his shoulder to his wrist when he was caught between a horse and a hot artillery piece. The doctors and surgeons were all occupied with overwhelming numbers of far more seriously wounded at the time. She had spread a coating of honey on the burn and wrapped it tightly. A few days later, the burn was healing nicely and the man returned to his duties.

  “Where’d you learn that trick? ” MacLachlan asked later.

  “From a woman,” she replied, knowing she sounded a trifle smug. “Mrs. Addison. She lived in a cottage not far from my uncle’s inn. She taught me much about herbal cures and the like.”

  “A midwife?”

  “Among other things. Local folk came to her for all sorts of ailments. She would stitch them up, set broken bones, give them salves and potions. People and animals alike.”

  “That so?” He raised an eyebrow in mild interest.

  “Addy had a fierce respect for life—any living thing.” Addy had been the only person who truly cared about a scared young girl who had lost both parents and been shipped off to indifferent and uncaring relatives. Lost for a moment in warm memories of her friend and mentor, Rachel chuckled softly.

  Mac—he had been “Mac” since her second day—gave her an inquiring look.

  “Once a man accused Addy of being a witch. Swore she put a hex on his mule when it died.”

  “And . . . ?” Mac prompted. “I should think that a serious allegation in a country village.”

  “The villagers ran him out of the parish! Very possessive of their Addy, they were.”

  “Understandable. Some of those country remedies are quite effective—as you have just proved with young Hankins and his burn.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  She had beamed at his praise, for she received precious little praise or appreciation in other areas of her life. The acceptance and esteem of these medical men, especially Ferguson and MacLachlan, filled a need she had scarcely recognized before.

  The crack of a whip shattered her thoughts.

  “Look out, lady!” shouted the driver of a mule-drawn cart that seemed to be sliding erratically in a river of mud.

  Rachel jumped out of the way and was relieved to see the man regain control. She hurried on to the hospital.

  The dining hall and chapel of the convent had been turned into wards of the hospital. In the central courtyard separating thes
e and the nuns’ dormitory, the surgical tent—actually, it was merely a tarpaulin to fend off the rain—had been set up along with makeshift operating tables—doors set upon barrels. Rachel tried to avoid looking at the severed arms and legs flung haphazardly near those tables. The sight was not unfamiliar to her, but she still found it difficult to look upon with any degree of equanimity. However, she would no longer rush out to vomit repeatedly as she had the first time. Amputation was a drastic action, yet it was decidedly the most effective way of dealing with serious leg and arm wounds in a battlefield setting.

  Musicians, customarily assigned to transport wounded men to the hospital during battles, now brought their precious human cargo to the courtyard, where the men’s wounds were assessed as to urgency. Patients often had to wait, and they were generally in excruciating pain all the while. A gulp of brandy or whisky prior to surgery and a piece of wood to bite on were the only concessions to their agony.

  Rachel was part of the team assessing wounded as they came in this morning. As was her wont in dealing with maimed and injured men, she also offered comfort where she could—wiping this one’s brow, cleaning that one’s wounds in preparation for the surgeon, and providing water to the desperately thirsty. She had learned to carry a canteen of water with her constantly. Soldiers used their teeth to tear open the packets of shot and powder for reloading their muskets and rifles. Thus the mouths of the wounded often resembled black holes and the gunpowder made them inordinately thirsty.

  Distracted by a commotion at the entrance to the courtyard, she straightened from bending over yet another thirsty young man. Two men of an infantry regiment came in, carrying a third man in a blanket. Despite the urgency of their mission, it was apparent they were taking great care with their burden. She hurried over to them even as one of them began to call for help.

  “Hey! Doc! Over here!” A note of panic laced the voice of a young corporal whose uniform proclaimed him one of the famous Connaught Rangers.

  “The major’s been hurt bad,” explained the other—a sergeant in a like uniform—as they tenderly laid the wounded man on the cobbled pavement of the courtyard. Rachel knelt beside him and began to assess his injuries.

  Ferguson finished with his current patient, directed the bandsmen to take the man to the operating tent, then turned his attention to the new arrivals.

  “It . . . it looks bad,” she said to Ferguson. “He has lost a great deal of blood.”

  “Damned French saber got him right in the head,” the young corporal said. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”

  A gash above the wounded man’s left ear had bled profusely, but Rachel knew it was probably not the worst of his injuries. Nor was it.

  “He took a bayonet in the chest.” The sergeant was older and calmer. “And a musket ball in his upper leg there.”

  The injured man’s breath came in ragged spurts. Ferguson knelt beside him, unbuttoned his torn tunic, and examined him briefly. Looking over Ferguson’s shoulder, Rachel gasped as she perceived the extent of the man’s wounds. Ferguson took one look at the torn flesh and seeping blood and shook his head in resignation. “Sorry, fellas. He won’t make it through the day.”

  “He’s still alive! You gotta do something!” The corporal’s voice rose. “The major can’t die.”

  Ferguson gazed at the younger man with infinite sadness, and his voice was gentle. “I’m sure he was a good man, Corporal. But we’ve lost hundreds of good men this day. This one hasn’t a prayer of surviving—probably won’t last the hour even—and we simply have to deal with those who will.”

  The younger man looked as though he would explode with anger. The other simply looked down at the injured man with a bleak, resigned expression.

  Rachel was touched by the younger man’s dedication and devotion to his commander. Only a few officers elicited such a degree of respect among the men they led into harm’s way. She placed a hand on the young man’s arm and said softly, “We shall do what we can, Corporal.”

  “Don’t let ‘im die, ma’am. Please don’t let ’im die. Major Forrester took that bayonet for me.” The boy’s voice ended on a sob, and he turned away in embarrassment.

  The sergeant put his arm around the corporal’s shoulder. “Come on, Pete. Let’s go.” He turned to Rachel and Ferguson. “We’ll come back in a couple of hours.”

  Rachel looked down at the unconscious man. Beneath his pallor, his complexion was deeply tanned and sported a mass of freckles. His hair, matted with blood, was a chestnut color. He had a straight nose, a rather square jaw, and a solid, muscular build. She thought he was probably of medium height when he stood.

  “Such a shame,” she murmured, feeling tears in her eyes.

  “They all are.” Ferguson sounded grim.

  Silently, Rachel agreed, but there was something about this Major Forrester....

  An hour later, when there was a lull in the traffic of incoming wounded, Rachel thought to check on the infantry major. To her surprise, he was still alive. He remained unconscious and his breathing was still raggedly uneven, but she thought his pulse seemed a bit stronger. She went immediately for Mr. Ferguson.

  “The man’s a fighter, I’ll say that for him,” Ferguson said. “We may as well stitch up the head wound to keep him from reopening it.” He again examined the wound in the major’s chest. “This one will without a doubt kill him, though it may take longer than I thought at first. The wound itself will do it—or infection in it or in the leg, which he’d probably lose anyway.”

  Rachel gently cleaned the ragged edges of the flesh around the gash in his head and assisted Ferguson as he stitched the wound closed. The major’s hair was matted with blood and sweat, but she felt an inexplicable urge to touch it. Besides the metallic odor of blood and the smell of gunpowder in his clothing, she caught a whiff of sandalwood. His shaving soap, perhaps. The man groaned and tried to pull his head away, but he remained unconscious and Rachel, surprised at his innate strength, managed to hold his head firmly only with difficulty. Ferguson finished tying the last stitch, and she wrapped a bandage around the man’s head. As she tied the ends, Ferguson looked down and shook his head.

  “Have him moved to the dead room,” he said with a sigh of resignation and turned away to other duties.

  The dead room was a side chapel off the nave of the church attached to the convent. The hopeless cases were taken there to breathe out their last.

  The corporal and sergeant, accompanied by a third man, returned just in time to hear this last comment.

  “This here’s Henry—he’s the major’s batman,” the corporal explained, introducing a short, wiry fellow who appeared to be in his forties.

  “We are not taking Major Forrester into any death chamber,” Henry announced in what seemed a rather protective manner. He barely acknowledged her presence.

  “Does he have adequate quarters, then?” Rachel asked, observing that here was another person in whom the major had inspired extraordinary loyalty.

  Henry looked chagrined. “We . . . uh ... have a bivouac of sorts. We arrived after the siege had begun and officers’ quarters were already assigned.” His voice trailed off.

  “But you do have adequate protection from the elements, do you not?”

  Most wounded officers, after initial treatment by a surgeon, were then released into the care of their own servants. A major, she knew, would be entitled to have as many as seven servants accompany him. The quartermaster also reserved the best quarters for officers. However, something in Henry’s tone had given Rachel pause, and when he did not answer her question immediately, a shiver of apprehension assailed her. This patient would probably die in spite of any efforts to save him, but consigned to the general neglect of the so-called dead room, or forced to deal with inadequate shelter, he stood no chance at all of surviving.

  Rachel was vaguely aware that they had attracted the attention of two bandsmen who often helped with wounded, a Welshman named David and an Irishman named Kelly. She repeate
d her question to Henry. “Will he have adequate shelter?”

  Henry ran a forefinger around his apparently too tight collar. “Uh ... not really, ma’am. At least not until I can locate some—maybe in the city. The major’s tent was lost along with one of the mules on a mountain trail.” Henry looked utterly despairing, but his voice was firm and authoritative as he added, “However, I have no intention of seeing him carted into some dismal room to await an end that might not be inevitable.”

  “Hmm.” Rachel looked thoughtfully at the wounded man. She had no idea why this one’s plight affected her so, but it did. Perhaps it was young Pete’s devotion. Perhaps it was the whiff of sandalwood—her father had always smelled of sandalwood as well as his pipe tobacco. “Do any of you have any special skill at caring for someone in his condition?” she asked.

  Each admitted with some embarrassment that he did not.

  She heaved a sigh of regret for the wounded major. And, then to her utter astonishment, she heard herself saying, “Well, there is nothing else for it. You must bring him to my billet. We can care for him there. At least he will keep dry that way.”

  It would be crowded with another pallet on the dirt floor of that one-room hut. She had no idea how Clara and her husband would react to this addition to their household, but she was quite sure Brady would object. He usually took sharp exception to anything that disturbed his own comfort. Still, she could not just let the man die without doing all in her power to prevent such a turn.

  “You can set up your bivouacs near us and help tend him,” she said. The presence of strangers nearby might at least defer Brady’s more vocal complaints.

  This suggestion seemed to give the sergeant and the corporal a measure of hope.

  Henry, however, appeared to be having second thoughts. “But—but—doesn’t he need a doctor’s care?”

  “I will care for him—with your help, of course,” she replied.

  “You? ”Henry’s disbelief was clear. “With all due respect, madam, the major requires professional care.”