Journey to Victory, page 12
“She comes and goes,” Esther replied.
“How bad is she hurt?” Main asked.
“Two deep wounds in her thigh. I think one hit the bone. I cleaned and bandaged them. But like I told the boy, she needs a doctor.”
“No doctors hereabout?”
“None.”
“Then we’ll have to take her with us to one of the army doctors,” Michael decided aloud. “Where’s her horse?”
“In our barn, resting and eating,” John answered from the doorway. His voice was almost a challenge. There was a brief pause.
“I want to thank you, folks, for helping my son and Christiane, but we got to move quickly or be left behind and maybe taken prisoner.”
“I’ll get the horse for you,” John said.
“You may start her bleeding again if you move her,” Esther cautioned.
“We don’t have a choice,” Main said.
“Wrap her in a blanket and try to keep her as still as possible then,” the woman instructed them.
The two soldiers went outside and with the farmer’s help fashioned a makeshift travois and hitched it to the mare. “I hope it lasts till we get where we’re going,” Tom worried.
“It will have to,” Main said. Then they carefully bore Christiane out and tied her into the travois. They said their thanks again and were off down the lane.
When they reached the road, most of the army had passed. They fell in with the closest rank. The nearest officer rode over to question them. He was generous with his sympathy, but cautioned them to return to their own outfit, so they would not be thought missing.
The day went on. Christiane did not regain consciousness, but moaned over each bump and rut. Ben hovered beside her. Finally, after dark, the command decided that they had put enough distance between them and the enemy and the victorious army was allowed to rest.
But not the sergeant, Tom, or Ben. They moved up the line till they finally found their unit. Sergeant Main tried to send one of the other men to find a doctor, but Tom stopped him. “No, I been thinking. Most of the doctors don’t amount to much.” There was silent consent to this from the circle around him. “She needs a good doctor and good care.”
“Well, how do you expect to get them?” Main demanded unhappily. He was well aware of his debt to Christiane.
“I’m going to take her to the general,” Tom stated firmly.
“What?” The word echoed around Tom.
“Are you crazy, Tom? You can’t do that,” the sergeant blustered.
“I am taking her to the general.”
“But—”
“I am taking her to the general,” Tom repeated solidly. Silence answered his stubbornness. “Don’t you see?” he pursued. “It makes sense. The general and Lt. Colonel Laurens know Christiane. Remember how they sent the courier for her when we were still in New York? And when me and Jakob….” His voice faltered, then it went on. “When we re-enlisted, the general recognized Christiane and spoke real kind to her.”
“I see what you mean, Tom, but still I don’t know,” Main murmured. Another pause followed as the group ruminated over what had been said.
“I’m going to take her. I know the general is busy, but he can, at least, see that she gets a good doctor and decent care,” Tom said resolutely. His firmness seemed to sway the men. The Tom they knew was shy and usually easily swayed. If he was this certain, then he must be right.
Sergeant Main spoke for them. “All right, Tom. I’ll go with you.” Murmurs of assent joined his. So the two exhausted men and boy began to move forward again.
Chapter Seven
Slowly Christiane became aware of herself in the dim light around her. She was warm. At first it was enough just to feel the warmth. Then the fuzziness in her head cleared and she could see that she was lying on a pallet by a fire. She felt the pain then, a burning in her right thigh. She could hear the sound of a knife, chopping on a board. She willed herself to sit up, but she could manage only a slight quiver. She tried to speak, but a dry croaking was all that sounded.
“Emma, see if she’s awake,” a hearty voice commanded.
A large form loomed over Christiane. “She’s awake, Aunt.” An odd, muffled female voice labored to be heard.
Christiane blinked, trying to bring the form into focus.
“Well, get her a dipper of water, Emma. Do I have to tell you everything?”
The form neared and Christiane was able to bring into focus that it was a very overweight young woman. She jerked Christiane’s head up and spilled a dipper of water into and around her mouth. Christiane coughed.
“Don’t choke her!” The woman bustled over, looming suddenly above Christiane. “Go back to your dicing.” Then kneeling, she raised Christiane’s head gently and carefully put the dipper to Christiane’s lips. “I’m Mrs. Hardy. There now. Just sip the water. That’s it. We were wondering when you would come back to us.” The woman was large with a florid face and fly-away gray hair showing around her white cap.
“What happened?” Christiane managed to whisper.
“What? Don’t you remember?” The woman’s loud voice hurt Christiane’s ears. She closed her eyes and shook her head.
The woman’s words poured forth, “Well, they told us you was wounded by a Hessian deserter. And it wouldn’t be decent to put a woman in a hospital with all those men. Not proper at all. The general sent word himself that he wished you to be brought here to Jakob Arnold’s Tavern, the general’s headquarters in Morristown. And I agreed. I’m the cook here at Arnold’s. Have been for years.”
The voice beat against her, but Christiane clung to consciousness. I must know where I am. Where is Ben? And Tildy? Jakob?
“There was no other room for you in the Tavern, so I said bring her to my kitchen out behind the inn. Mr. Arnold agreed. Better you stay here in my kitchen than in a hospital—or in a tent on the Green. Imagine men and their families living out in tents, barns or just-made cabins in January. I never did think I’d live to see anything like this right here in Morristown.”
Christiane’s head swirled with all the words. Faces flickered in her mind and the memory of bone-deep cold and icy terror that drenched her all over again.
Mrs. Hardy raised her voice, giving more instructions. “Emma, put a piece of bread in a bowl and add some milk and sugar. We better get some food into her while we can.”
She deftly propped Christiane up with pillows. “Now, Emma, I want you to sit here and spoon this bread down her careful. I don’t want to find half of it on her chin and gown when I get back. The doctor said he wanted to see her as soon as she wakened.”
Christiane evaded the spoon and whispered, “Jakob?”
“Jakob?” Mrs. Hardy stopped and cocked her head. “That the name of the soldier that keeps stopping at the door to ask about her?” she asked Emma. Then to Christiane, “That your husband?”
Christiane nodded, her panic easing. Jakob wasn’t far then.
“Well, he’ll be back soon I reckon.” The woman hurried out the door.
Emma methodically and sullenly shoved the milk toast into Christiane’s mouth, spoonful by spoonful. At this close range Christiane was able to study Emma in spite of the dimness of the light. The most startling thing about the young woman was that the lower half of her face was covered by a thick veil. Christiane wondered why, but could not seem to think. Of course, she remembered now that she’d burned with fever. That probably explained it. Wearily she hoped Jakob would come back soon and explain everything.
Christiane closed her eyes briefly. The spoon stopped and Emma stood up. “More,” Christiane whispered. Emma sat down and once more the spoon scraped the bowl till it was empty. Then she left without a word and soon Christiane heard again the rhythmic meeting of a knife and board.
Several minutes later the energetic Mrs. Hardy swept into the kitchen with an elderly man in her wake. “She’s over here, Dr. Craik. Emma, did she finish the milk toast?”
“Yes ma’am.” The girl’s words, indistinct and raspy, were muffled by the thick veil.
“Did she want more?” the woman demanded.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Hardy,” Christiane said, though the effort of speaking loud enough to be heard drained her.
“Ma’am,” the doctor addressed Christiane formally, “I am glad to see that you have finally regained yourself.” He went down on one knee beside her pallet. “For two days you’ve slept.” Christiane shook her head slightly in denial.
“Yes, two days. But after your surgery—”
“Surgery?” Christiane whispered.
“She don’t remember what happened,” Mrs. Hardy said from her station on the other side of Christiane’s pallet.
“You were bayoneted twice in your right thigh. The bone was only grazed once, not fractured. I merely had to close the wounds and bleed you. Thanks to Mrs. Hardy’s excellent nursing, it seems that your condition is improving.”
Christiane forced herself to speak, make the effort necessary. “I am very grateful, to both of you.” She panted with the effort.
“Mrs. Hardy, if you would help me, I would like to examine the wounds.” The doctor folded back the blankets which covered her.
Christiane was certain that the two were being as careful as they could be, but each touch and movement caused her searing pain. Tears welled in her eyes and she bit her lower lip to keep from crying out.
“So sorry,” the doctor murmured soothingly. Finally the inspection and fresh bandaging were done, but they had left Christiane trembling and slightly nauseated.
“Jakob?” Christiane asked, pleading for him.
“Her husband—she wants to see him,” Mrs. Hardy explained.
“Oh, yes, yes,” the doctor said distractedly. He turned away abruptly. “I shall see you on the morrow.” He left, closing the door behind him against the rush of cold air.
“He didn’t even guess, did he, Emma?” Mrs. Hardy chuckled. Emma replied with a kind of pleased grunt. “Pay no mind to his soft soap, he thinks it’s all his doctoring that saved you,” the woman confided cheerfully to Christiane. “But Emma and me, we poulticed your leg and got the poison out. Your leg would have gone septic if not for those poultices. My grandma give me the receipt for them herself.” Mrs. Hardy chuckled again. “He did the stitchin’, but we did the doctorin’.”
Christiane tried to smile her appreciation, but almost immediately she began to doze as her exhaustion overtook her again.
Finally the long January afternoon was spent and the supper dishes were being washed. Christiane, though still in pain, was fed and warm.
A knock came at the door. Christiane’s heart leapt. Oh, please let it be Jakob. The veiled and ponderous Emma answered the door and then a man was beside her. Even before he reached her in the dimness, she knew it was not Jakob.
“Christiane,” Tom said softly. “I’m so glad to see you awake. We were so worried.”
Christiane voiced the only reason she could think for Jakob’s not coming. “Tom, is Jakob on sentry duty?”
Tom ignored her question. “The Mains left this morning. Tildy was still ailing and the sergeant wanted to get her to better quarters for the winter. They hated to leave you, and his enlistment was not really up yet, but they had to get back to Boston.” Tom continued nervously, “And, Christiane, I hope you don’t mind, but I let them take Nancy. Tildy couldn’t walk, you know. And you two being such friends…”
“Jakob?”
A terrible silence met her query.
“Is Jakob hurt?”
A more terrible silence ensued.
“Oh, Christiane,” Tom managed to say and then tears overtook him. He lowered his face to hide them.
And then she knew. She closed her eyes and an icy sensation began to spread through her body. Finally after several minutes, Tom was able to speak again. “Oh, Christiane,” he said wretchedly.
“When?” she whispered.
“He fell at Princeton. The day you went after little Ben.” Tom wiped his tears on the back of his sleeve.
“How?”
“He didn’t suffer, Christiane.”
“How?”
“A bullet in the head. He never knew any pain. He was gone before I could get to him.”
On the hearth a log broke and shattered in the flames.
“Don’t worry, Christiane. I’ll look after you now. I brought you to the general so you would get good care.”
To Christiane he sounded like a child comforting his mother. Nothing could ever make everything right again. The icy feeling paralyzed her. She lay still, feigning sleep. At last he bent over her and placed a gentle touch on her forehead. She wanted to shy away but remained frozen.
“She’s widowed then?” Mrs. Hardy asked softly.
“Yes.” Tom audibly choked back his own grief.
“That’s not good. She’s been asking for him all day.”
Tom nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. Good night.” He let in cold air as he went.
Mrs. Hardy stood over Christiane. Christiane remained silent with her eyes closed till the woman moved away. Then tears slid silently down the sides of her face. I am lost. Jakob, my Jakob.
***
In the days that followed, the icy sensation stayed with Christiane. In the past she had lost loved ones, but always before she had witnessed their going. Jakob’s death retained a feeling of unreality. Sometimes as she rested, she glanced up at the door and she would imagine it opening. Then Jakob would walk in and smile down at her. The vision—at first—was comforting and then crushing. Jakob would never come to her again.
Finally the evening came when the doctor was ready to take off the bandages. The supper dishes were done. The wind moaned bleakly outside. Christiane sat up and watched. She still did not remember the savage attack that had caused this calamity, but there was the evidence, two red welts on her right thigh. After pronouncing her healed, the doctor received his thanks and left.
“Christiane, we have a surprise for you. Don’t we, Emma?” The usual muffled voice agreed and Mrs. Hardy continued, “Get out the hair mixture first.”
Mrs. Hardy turned to Christiane. “We decided to give you a real bath this evening. We couldn’t do it before because of your leg, and you being so all in. But now we’re really going to do you up.”
Christiane forced herself to smile and tried to look cheerful. The two women bustled around her, getting out a large wooden tub and buckets. Mrs. Hardy stood behind Christiane and brushed a loathsome black mixture lavishly into Christiane’s tangled and matted hair. Christiane gasped and the woman chuckled, “Smell’s sure strong, ain’t it? But it’ll do the job. Don’t cotton to having lice in my kitchen, but we couldn’t do nothing till you mended.”
The mixture oozed and dripped from Christiane’s scalp, which tingled almost painfully. Christiane hoped silently that the mixture would take the lice, but leave her hair. Then Mrs. Hardy wrapped an old linen cloth around Christiane’s head several times, tying it on securely. “Latch the door, Emma. We don’t want any sudden drafts.” She then went over and tested the water with her hand. “This water ain’t warm enough. She might take a chill.”
“Sorry,” Emma muttered through her veil, but she did not sound as though she meant it. It took several minutes to heat enough water to bring the tub water up to the correct temperature. Emma was sent out to draw two more buckets from the well. Then it took time to warm up the kitchen again. At last Christiane was helped into the warm bath. Mrs. Hardy beamed and hustled Emma over to the table to leave Christiane in privacy. Letting out a sigh of pleasure, Christiane let her limbs stretch as much as she could in the small tub. The bath soothed the chronic ache that remained in her thigh muscles from her wound and it seemed to melt away the sheets of ice that had encased her since she came to this kitchen. Memories of her childhood baths fluttered through her mind and the dark walls around her reminded her of last winter with Sarah Rumsveld and the baths she had taken in Sarah’s rough, old tub. And she remembered her bath at the fort in Canada and the lavender soap Captain Eastham had given her. The face of her son came to her. Jean Claude. He was nearer now, in the same colony, but still she could not go to him. Their separation was no longer a sharp pain, but remained a dull grieving that never left her.
Slowly she began to rasp her skin with a long-handled brush and strong soap. After lifting off the head wrapping, she began to work at her hair. The task took time and effort to work out all the original tangles and Mrs. Hardy’s hair mixture, but finally the dregs of the mixture were floating around her in the tub.
“Christiane, we have a vinegar rinse for your hair, so it will shine nice.” The cold, pungent liquid was dumped on her head. Christiane sputtered and pushed her hair back from her face. Then the two women helped Christiane to stand, so they could douse her several times with the tepid rinse water. Afterwards they quickly dried her, so that the cold hovering just away from the fire would not bring on the chills.
Christiane sat contentedly on her pallet in a fresh gown, reveling in the feeling of being clean once more. Then Emma stood beside her and began to rake her head with a large comb. Before she could help herself, Christiane yelped in pained surprise.
“Emma! Easy. Don’t be so clumsy!” Mrs. Hardy scolded.
Christiane reached up and took the comb from the girl’s hand. “Thank you, Emma. But I’d like to comb it myself,” she said and smiled gratefully. Emma reached down to Christiane’s shoulder. Christiane anticipated a friendly pat and jumped at the pinch that came instead. She sat, stunned, holding the comb in mid air.
“Well, I reckon it be time to turn in. Emma, bank the fire before going to bed. And good night to you, Christiane,” Mrs. Hardy said.
“Good night,” Christiane replied mechanically. “And thank you again for the bath.”
“Think naught of it. Besides, tomorrow you’ll start to work for your keep. Night!” Mrs. Hardy was out the door to go to her room in the main part of the house. Emma finished the fire and went wordlessly to her little room which appeared to be a former a pantry. Christiane sat on her pallet, staring into the embers, combing her hair. For the first time in many weeks, she wondered what the morrow would bring.
