by Betty Bolte
Nothing like a distrustful audience. She carefully washed the wound with the warm water, but her ministrations still caused Benjamin to moan and grunt with each dab and swipe of the cloth. When she'd finished, Trent motioned for her to move away. Biting her lip so as to not say the retort threatening to rush from her mouth, she retreated several steps.
"I'm going to bleed you, Benjamin." Trent retrieved his measured bowl and scalpel from his ever-present black bag. "But this should be the last time. Then I'm going to give you a purge to help balance your humors. If you're temperature is not better by tomorrow, we'll need to reconsider amputation before the sickness spreads."
Amy gasped beside her. Samantha put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed hard. Amy had not been privy to the earlier discussion related to the drastic measure. Despite Trent's eagerness, Samantha had made Benjamin a promise. He would not lose his arm. Would not.
Benjamin shook his head vehemently. "No. You won't cut my arm off." He aimed determined eyes at Samantha. "Don't let him."
"I promise." Samantha nodded and then addressed Trent. "You must respect your patient's request, doctor."
"Why won't you acknowledge the wisdom of the procedure?" Trent glared at her and then glanced at Benjamin, his expression softening at the determination evident in his patient's eyes.
"I'd rather die." Benjamin's resolve pushed through tense lips. "Upon my word, do not cut off my arm."
"Ben..." Amy's voice trailed off, a tear sliding down her cheek. She sniffed and turned away.
Samantha glanced between the two men, saw a silent exchange pass from determined to accepting. She folded her arms and stared at the doctor. "Trent, you made a promise to Benjamin."
"Against my better judgment." Trent fingered the handle of the scalpel as he considered Benjamin's words. "Very well, my friend, as you wish. I won't resort to amputation unless you permit me to do so. But will you allow me to bleed you?"
"Last time?" Benjamin waited for Trent's response.
"If it doesn't work, I'll consult with my father to determine another course of action. One that doesn't involve salves and ointments."
"You said you'd consult with me." Samantha dropped her hands to her sides and stepped closer to the bed. "Unlike the fools in North Carolina, I have an idea for employing a simple sweating technique I picked up from a Cherokee medicine man. I think—"
"You cannot seriously expect me to agree to use anything savages on the frontier use." Trent gaped at her with arched brows. Slowly, he shook his head and then turned back to Benjamin. "What do you think?"
Benjamin considered each of them and settled back. He drew in a long breath and pushed up his sleeve. "Anything to try to make me better. I ache all over."
"I've witnessed the technique I'm considering work many times." Samantha grabbed hold of Trent's arm as he searched for the necessary implement in his bag. That was a big mistake. She let go just as quickly and drew in a steadying breath. "Trust me on this."
Trent glanced over his shoulder at her with a serious expression. "If my hospital existed, we wouldn't be having this argument as only trained doctors would have a say in the patient's treatment."
"Remind me to never step foot in such a place." Samantha surveyed Benjamin's condition, her practiced eye noting fine details. Eyes squinting slightly against the brightness of the light flooding the room. Tiny lines radiating from his drawn mouth, indicating the level of pain he endured. Fingers gripping the quilt draped over his prone form. After all she'd witnessed of the supposedly better ways of doctors, she'd stick to the old ways, thank you very much. "I'd not hand over control of my care to a stranger."
While Trent prepared to reopen the incisions, Samantha checked Benjamin's temperature with a hand on his forehead. Poor thing really did have a fever. Not enough to really alarm her, but worrisome. Everyone had to ward off a temperature now and again. It was the ones that persisted that concerned more than those which came and went. She snatched up the tea pot and hurried to the common room where she quickly brewed a fresh pot.
As she carried the tea pot into the bedroom, Benjamin cried out and then collapsed onto the mattress. She bit her lip to stifle a grin. Apparently he'd still not become accustomed to seeing his own blood. She quickly set the items on the table and then turned to inspect her patient.
Trent continued making the incisions wide enough to drain into the bowl beneath Benjamin's limp arm. She pressed a hand to Benjamin's forehead. He lay still, unmoving, not reacting to her touch. "I do believe he has swooned yet again."
"He'll come round in time." Trent inserted the tip of the scalpel and sliced steadily across Benjamin's skin. "Miss Amy, would you be so kind as to open the windows? The fresh air seems to help revive him."
"Certainly." A look of relief on her face, Amy turned away from the sight of the oozing blood running down Benjamin's arm into the bowl, and hurried to open the windows.
"While he's relaxed, I'll reapply the salve." After receiving Trent's reluctant permission, Samantha slathered on more of the reddish ointment, covering the infected area in a thick layer. With good fortune, the concoction would yield the hoped for results within the next few days. If the fever didn't break in that time, then she'd use Little Running Bear's method. It would do no harm and may even benefit Benjamin.
"Miss Samantha, I believe we should discontinue the application of odiferous ointments given the lack of progress our patient is making." Trent wiped the blade on a clean corner of the bloody cloth in his hand, then wrapped it in another cloth and stowed it in his bag. "Don't you agree?"
"I believe you should speak to George Manning, the lawyer in charge of transferring loyalist property into patriot hands." Damn the man. His constant lack of faith in her methods irked her to the bone. She rubbed her hands clean and tucked the rag into her bag before addressing Trent. "Then you'll have your hospital and may do as you wish. In the meantime, we stick to our plan."
He grabbed her arms and pulled her close, eyes flashing, jaw set as he gently shook her. "Face facts, Samantha. Your ways have been disproven. Your mysterious combinations of plants and spices and manure do not heal so much as delay healing."
She gasped from the impact of his words, the fierceness of his expression, the grip on her arms, and the electric pulses shimmying through her at his touch. Coherent thought fled with the cool breeze drifting across her too warm cheeks. She desperately moistened dry lips and swallowed. What was the matter with her? Trent wanted to take away everything she'd worked for, and she behaved like some wanton maid. Gramercy. Mentally shaking herself, she straightened her spine and then drew a calming breath.
"Release me." Samantha attempted to step back, increase the distance between them. "Now." She waited for him to let her go, but he held firm.
"You must agree he's not improving using this course of action." He examined her expression with serious eyes. "Do you not?"
She shook her head, lifting her chin. Hoping he'd let go so she could more readily focus on the topic at hand. "The gangrenous tissue has healed."
He frowned. "Yet the fever remains, the skin is not mending." He gently shook her again, freezing her in place with his intensity. "We must change direction of the treatment in order to save his life. Such is common sense when one method fails to produce the intended results."
"Then why do you cling to the hope that bleeding him will help when it has not? We should consider following Little Running Bear's technique. I know it will help." She detected a steely resolve in his posture, understood his meaning. He implied another approach which they'd already discussed and dismissed. No. Not amputation. "You must adhere to our patient's wishes. You promised him. Now promise me."
He clenched his jaw, his usually friendly eyes hard and serious. "You cannot dictate to me how I should treat my patient."
"No, but our patient can." She indicated his hands grasping her arms. Met his eyes again. "You're hurting me."
His grip relaxed but didn't release. His expression changed
from determined to something softer, more intimate. "My apologies for your discomfort."
"Promise me you'll adhere to his wishes." And let go of me, before the desire to taste your lips proves too great. She chewed her lower lip to keep herself from following her wayward musings. Honestly, she must wrestle her errant thoughts back to ladylike channels.
He studied her for an extended moment, then nodded once. "Very well, I shall promise. But you must promise me something in exchange."
"Seeing as you have me held captive, I doubt I can refuse. What is your demand?"
"If there is no improvement in his condition over the next fortnight, I shall take full command of his treatment. Agreed?"
His suggestion that he could better treat the man made her bristle. Then she relaxed after some consideration. She had nothing to lose given her treatment would prevail in less time than a fortnight. She smiled at him and his grip tightened. "Agreed. Now will you release me?"
Amy sauntered back to stand at the foot of the bed, amusement on her face. "Honestly, Trent, the poor woman shouldn't have to endure being handled roughly as well as tongue lashed."
Trent opened his hands as though he realized he still held her arms and stepped back. "My apologies for abusing you in such a manner, Miss Samantha." He inclined his head in a brief nod. "I'm afraid I could not help myself as we held such an intense conversation."
"Forgiven."
"I do not believe Benjamin should be left alone, as weak as he is." Amy folded her hands before her skirts. "I've decided I shall stay with Benjamin until he's well."
"I had hoped you'd come to that conclusion. Thank you." Samantha rubbed her arms where Trent had held fast only moments before, relieving the tingling his touch left behind.
It was Trent's turn to gasp as he realized what Amy intimated with her decision. "Miss Amy, a young woman such as yourself should not even consider staying with a single man, no matter how ill he might be. It simply is not proper. You should have a chaperone at a minimum."
"How quaint. He's my betrothed and thus my responsibility." Amy chuckled as she laid a hand on Trent's rigid arm. "Do not fret. I shall request assistance from my mother and Evelyn when needed. Mayhap Emily will pop in to assist from time to time, as wedding plans and renovations allow."
"As you wish." Trent shook his head, a rueful smile flickering on his lips. "You ladies appear to have things well in hand."
"Yes, we do." Samantha slipped the wrapped pot into her medicine bag. "Benjamin is in excellent hands."
* * *
"Go with you?" Samantha sat back against the hard chair, gaping at her father as if he'd lost his sense. The surreal conversation over a late lunch with her parents the next afternoon quaked every semblance of stability within her. "Where would we go?"
"Canada. I hear it's beautiful and remains faithful to the King." Her father poked his three-tined fork into the fried pastry stuffed with lamb kidneys and onions on his plate. A pile of fresh greens drizzled with olive oil waited alongside. "We'd be welcome there."
Leave her patients and friends? Charles Town? South Carolina? America? Her very being rebelled at the prospect. "Nay, I cannot."
"Be sensible, child." Her mother sliced into the delicate pastry and then fixed her sad eyes upon Samantha. "You have no future here. Come with us, keep the family together."
"I cannot bear the thought of leaving the country I love, to remain under the thumb of King George. Surely you don't have to evacuate along with the British." Tears closed her throat. Her parents calmly discussed fleeing town, having no idea the depth of pain slicing through her at the thought of abandoning the house, the extensive library in the parlor, and most of all the beautiful garden. Her home. She'd fight for it with every breath in her body. "There must be a way."
"I feared you'd say as much. I cannot leave without ensuring your safety and shelter. I hate it has come to this point, as I fear it means I may never see my only child again." Aaron placed a bite into his mouth and chewed, silently studying her for several moments. "That is why I've made the necessary arrangements."
Samantha had made her specialty, little fried birds, at her parents' request. She'd happily agreed to make them not realizing the meal may well be her parents' last one in Charles Town.
"What do you mean?" She contemplated her own little bird and elected to eat the greens instead. Her appetite had flown away yet again.
"The moment we leave, they will confiscate all of my property. Every piece of land, building and warehouse, and all they contain. You won't be able to stay here when they do." He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "I hate to leave you behind, especially when I have no idea what may happen. But I know you, my darling daughter. Given your anticipated desire to remain in town, I have arranged for my partner to house you until you find a better situation. He has already begun searching for a fitting husband for you."
With each word from his mouth, her spirits sank and her determination deepened. "Thank you, Father, but your partner's assistance will not be necessary." So casual, so accepting of the circumstances. She couldn't tolerate his belief that she needed a husband to survive. She'd find her own way if they had so little care for her future. She'd forge her own path forward. "I shall fight for my home. Please thank your partner for his proffered generosity but I shall not need it."
Her father huffed and shook his head. "You will not win, daughter. The law is on their side, not ours, nor yours."
"I must try. You must see why I am compelled to attempt to retain my home. If you'll excuse me." She folded her napkin and rose to her feet.
"Where are you going?" Her father dropped his fork with a clank onto his plate.
She turned and regarded him, counting to five before trusting herself to respond. "To see Mr. Manning and find out what I must do to keep our home."
Aaron stood and placed both hands on the table. "We shall leave shortly. Do not tarry should you wish to kiss your mother good-bye."
"Please, Samantha, come with us." Tears stood in her mother's eyes. "We don't want you to stay here and face the uncertain future of this poor country. Nor the wrath of the fools who think they've won something grand by defeating our king." She brushed away the tears leaking down her cheeks. "What will become of you?"
Samantha looked at Cynthia and then Aaron. "I love you both, but I sincerely believe in the future of America and of Charles Town. Leaving my home and country is entirely out of the question. I shall return posthaste after speaking with Mr. Manning. Please, do not leave before my return."
Draping her heavy shawl about her shoulders, she hurried from the house and strode down Queen toward King. All along the street, burned out hulls of houses stood as silent testimony of the conflagration of 1778. With the end of the war in sight, hope for rebuilding the town swept through Samantha as she strode past house after house. She turned onto King and walked on for several minutes before marveling at the increased activity in the beef market on the corner of King and Broad. The poor statue of William Pitt, which faced east on Broad, looking straight at the Exchange at the bottom of the street, still had no right arm thanks to the shelling by the British over the past years. She continued on her way, aware of the distance she had to traverse and the time slipping away when her parents would board their waiting wagon. They'd probably find some ship to carry them north along the Atlantic coast and into Canada. The trip would surely take months. Months during which she would rarely if ever receive a letter or message from them while they located a place to settle. She would have no way of knowing if they even survived the passage on the ship. The immensity of the choice her parents had made overwhelmed her. The hot prickle of tears smarted her eyes.
She absently greeted folks as they strolled by, her thoughts in turmoil. Her home and garden meant more to her than she could adequately commit to words. The recently planted snakeroot would not reach useful size and maturity for years. The lush rosemary bush took five years to reach its current dimensions. So many necessary plants both for medi
cinal and victual purposes resided within the elaborate garden. How would she continue her practice without access to the very tools of her trade?
Stalking up the front walk to the imposing brick house on King, she rapped on the door. "Hurry up," she muttered, aware of the curiosity of several passersby.
The door swung open and George Manning himself greeted her. His height and breadth coupled with agreeable features made her feel safe in his presence. Although he had not resided in town for very long, he and his wife merged with the other residents with surprising speed and ease. Hope swelled in her chest as she smiled at him.
"Miss McAlester, what a pleasant surprise. Come in." He ushered her inside with a swoop of a hand.
"Thank you." She took several steps into the softly lit interior.
Clutching her shawl to bolster her confidence, she noted the gleaming stone floors and whitewashed walls. Oil portraits of finely attired men with their hunting dogs hung on the far wall. A pianoforte stood in the center of the parlor to their left. The opulence of the Manning home reminded her of the vast gap in status between her father and the man closing the door behind her. Not that her parents wanted for much, her father's dealings having provided well for them even during the lean years. But compared to George Manning's status, her father's ventures did not measure up. What was she doing in this luxurious place? The laws were clear. She had no chance. She had no choice.
Swallowing the dismay rising in her throat, she turned to face the handsome lawyer. "My father prepares to abandon his property and leave me homeless. More to the point, my midwife and healing practice relies upon the garden behind the house. I cannot survive without my plants. Please, sir. I beg of you. Do not take my home from me."
His happy smile sobered. "My sorrow for your situation is boundless, but I fear my hands are tied in this matter. The governor has declared by the Act of Confiscation that all loyalist properties are to be secured and returned to patriotic hands as quickly as possible."