Abbeyford Remembered

by Margaret Dickinson

  “Corporal Trent.” The firmness was now more in evidence. “You will, whilst you are my patient, do what is best for your recovery.” Then her tone softened. “For the present – concentrate on your own health – I will do what I can to help you in – the other matter.”

  Then she was gone, moving amongst the other patients, giving a drink to one, covering another and holding the hand of a dying man.

  Jamie lay back. The pain was back in his arm with a vengeance but now he didn’t care. Now he had something to live for – he had to find Carrie again!

  Now there was a future for them together.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Carrie demanded of her captor when finally the door of the cabin opened and Major Richmond entered.

  “I should have thought that was quite clear, Carrie my love,” he drawled. “ I have no intention of allowing you to escape from me again. As soon as we get to my quarters, I shall arrange for the chaplain to marry us!”

  “Never, never!” Carrie screamed at him.

  “Oh, I think you will agree, my dear,” he said menacingly, moving closer to her. He reached out and pulled her towards him, pressing his mouth upon hers. Carrie struggled, but his arms were strong about her, his body trapping her against the wooden wall of the cabin. She fought and clawed her way free until they stood back from each other panting, the one from exertion the other from frustrated passion.

  “You will agree to marry me,” he gasped, his eyes dark with hunger for her.

  Carrie shook her head. “No – I’d rather die first!”

  His laugh was humourless. “You probably will do, my dear, if you refuse my protection.” He moved closer again. “ Not all our soldiers are weak and ill. Whilst they may not enjoy the best of health or conditions, they are strong and lusty.” He paused a moment to let his words sink in. “A beautiful young woman alone amongst a herd of men who have not held a woman for months …”

  “You are despicable,” Carrie spat at him, but the Major only laughed.

  Carrie remained a prisoner in his cabin for the five days the voyage took. Not that she wanted for anything. Food was plentiful and even fresh clothing was provided – a velvet gown and a black velvet cloak. But his outward show of generosity only confirmed for Carrie the thought that he had planned all this so carefully in advance.

  The ship docked at Balaclava and Carrie found herself conducted to a house not far from the dock area, and there the Major left her.

  At once Carrie tried to escape, but immediately found that not only had the so-called housekeeper – a slattern of a woman, dirty and fat – been instructed to keep watch on her, but two soldiers had been posted outside the door.

  Carrie sat in the room and tried to compose her emotions, tried to remain calm and rational, to plan her escape sensibly. But every moment that passed brought her nearer to the time the Major would return with the army chaplain. She could not bribe the woman and the two soldiers, for she had no money.

  She heard footsteps on the stairs and felt her flesh creep as she knew he was returning. Major Richmond was alone but in a vile temper. He banged the door behind him.

  “There’s not a chaplain to be found. All up near the front line, performing their admirable duties,” he said sarcastically. Carrie breathed a sigh of relief and some of that relief must have shown on her face, for Major Richmond pointed his finger at her. “ Don’t look so pleased with yourself, madam. I’m not finished yet!” He stepped towards her and grasped her shoulders. “But what need have we of a parson, my lovely. I’ve waited long enough to taste your sweetness for myself. You’ve taunted me long enough, held me at arm’s length when your husband was alive to protect you. Escaped me after he died. But now there’s no one here – no one to help you. Not even your precious James Trent!”

  He felt her go rigid beneath his grasp, her eyes widen, her lips part. “ Jamie – you know where he is?”

  His anger grew. He shook her fiercely. “ Why can’t it be me? Why, at the very mention of his name, do you look like that?” He was almost weeping with frustration. Then he flung her from him so that she fell to the floor whilst he stood over her. “Yes – I know where he is. He was shot in the arm. Badly wounded.” He leant over her, menacing, gleeful. “Fatally wounded. He’s dead, your hero, your beloved. Dead, do you hear me?” His voice rose to a high pitch. He raised his hand to strike her, but his words, his venomous anger galvanised her into action. With the inborn tenacity for survival, she sprang to her feet and flung herself at him, her fists and feet flailing. Surprised by her sudden retaliation, he fell backwards, but Carrie did not wait to see what happened, for she wrenched open the door and fled. Down the stairs, out of the house, she began to run wildly without thought for direction or purpose. She must just escape from him.

  The two soldiers had relaxed their vigil now that Major Richmond had returned. In fact they were in the housekeeper’s kitchen, flirting with the woman and drinking.

  Carrie ran on. Fortunately, her flight was in the right direction and within moments she saw ahead of her the mast of the ship she had so recently left still anchored near the dock. She glanced fearfully behind her, but there was no one in pursuit. Not yet.

  Her heart was pounding, her breathing laboured, but on she ran, her legs weak and shaking. As she neared the landing-stage she saw that more wounded were being carried aboard the ship. Thankfully she threaded her way amongst them, glancing behind her every now and then. She reached the gangway and was obliged to pause whilst the stretcher-bearers carried their sick and wounded on board. She waited, panting heavily, almost sick with fear. She began to climb aboard and was halfway up the gangway when she saw Major Richmond running towards the landing-stage, followed by the two soldiers.

  “Oh, please let me pass. I am a nurse. Please let me reach the Captain.”

  “ ’Ere, who are you pushing?” snapped one stretcher-bearer. At that moment the burly figure of the Captain of the ship appeared at the top of the gangway.

  “Let her through,” he bellowed. “ She’s one of Miss Nightingale’s nurses.” Then he pointed to the running men below, to the Major and his two followers. “And stop those men coming aboard!”

  Five or six of his own crew plunged down the gangplank and with bloodcurdling yells they rushed towards the Major and his men. She saw Jeremy Richmond stop and hesitate. Then he glanced up at Carrie, who had now reached the top of the gangway and was standing close beside the burly, protective figure of the Captain.

  He shook his fist but once, and then, as the sailors drew nearer, both he and the two soldiers turned and ran.

  Relief flooded through Carrie so that her legs gave way. She felt the strong arm of the Captain about her waist, but it was only offered as a comfort, a support.

  “Let me help you, ma’am,” he said politely.

  “Oh, Captain, how can I ever thank you? You don’t know how much you’ve helped me.”

  “I think I do, ma’am,” the big man said quietly.

  “You – you do?” Carrie was surprised. As the Captain led her below to the comfort of the cabin she had so recently vacated, though this time no longer any man’s prisoner, he explained. “I watched you, ma’am, all that first day, tending they poor fellows, the wounded soldiers I have to bring by the thousand.” He shook his head. “Ma’am, it fair breaks my heart to see it and I’m given no help to tend them, no help at all. I was right glad to see you come aboard, ma’am. Then I thought it strange that the Major ordered them put ashore in the dark of night, but I made no argument, seein’ as how it was gettin’ them to hospital the quicker. Then, when they was all ashore, he starts chafin’ me to go about and start back for the Crimea. Well,” he shrugged his huge shoulders, “I had no reason to linger, and the conditions bein’ right, I did as he bid. It wasn’t until we was a day at sea that I learnt you was still aboard. I swear that’s the truth, ma’am. I had no part in his plan.”

  “I believe you, Captain,” Carrie said softly. His actions a few moments ag
o had told her this fact.

  “I thought there’d been a genuine mistake, that you’d fallen asleep after all the long hours you’d worked. You deserved some rest, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so, ma’am.”

  Carrie smiled.

  “I said to him, ‘Shall I put back to Scutari, Major, and take the young lady ashore?’ ‘No, my man, you will not,’ ses he in that haughty way of his. ‘ There’s been no mistake, I assure you’. Well, I didn’t know what to think. An’ then a member of my crew said the cabin door was locked, an’ I didn’t know whether you’d locked it against intruders or what was goin’ on. Then when we docked at Balaclava and he hustled you ashore, I could see you wasn’t goin’ willingly, so as soon as I saw you runnin’ towards the ship just now, I knew you needed my help real bad.”

  “Captain, I can’t thank you enough!”

  “Well, ma’am, it’ll be a week or more till we can sail back to Scutari. I have me orders – not,” he bent forward in a confidential whisper, “that I always agrees with them, but there it is. I’m not allowed to sail till I have a shipload of wounded and sick, so I can’t see but that you’ll have to stay aboard. But I’ll see you come to no harm, ma’am, I promise you that. You and that there Miss Nightingale are doin’ a fine job, and you have my admiration.”

  “Thank you, Captain. I shall be only too glad to stay on board. In the meantime, until we sail, I shall do whatever I can to help the wounded.”

  The Captain, bearded and burly, patted her shoulder with his huge hand in a fatherly gesture. “Good, good, and I will do what I can to obtain some medical supplies for you, if you promise not to ask how I obtained them!” He tapped the side of his nose and winked broadly.

  Carrie laughed. “Oh, I promise you that, Captain.”

  The big man laughed heartily and left the cabin. Carrie sank on to the couch, listening to his laughter still resounding as he returned on deck. It was only then that the full realisation of Major Richmond’s words hit her.

  “Jamie Trent is dead!”

  With a deep moan, Carrie flung herself face downwards on the couch and gave way to an uncharacteristic storm of weeping.

  The emotional storm passed but left her feeling exhausted and drained. She bathed her face and went on deck resolved to bury her own misery in hard work helping the wounded. But her whole world had disintegrated with the Major’s words. ‘Jamie Trent is dead’. Her very reason for living was gone. The thought of finding him again one day had kept her going through all the sorrow of parting, through the long years of a loveless marriage. And now, when she had followed him half way round the world, to find that he was dead was almost more than she could bear.

  But her fighting instincts, her will to survive, would not let her give in, even yet. Instead she threw herself into her work, scarcely noticing whether she ate, or washed, or slept, whether it was day or night. She was only aware of the dull ache in her own heart and of the men in her care. Still she managed to smile, to comfort, to bathe and bandage, whilst all the time her heart was breaking.

  On the day following his conversation with Miss Nightingale, the surgeon chopped off Jamie’s left arm and with it all his hopes for a future with Carrie.

  Physically he recovered, but emotionally he was plunged once more into the bottomless pit of despair. For a time he lived in a crazy half-world somewhere between dreams of past happiness and the nightmare of the present. At last the only thought left in his now fully conscious mind was the torment of the decision he must make.

  He opened his eyes to find Miss Nightingale bending over him. “Are you feeling a little stronger, Corporal Trent?”

  His sigh was long and deep, almost as if he wished it could be his last breath. His voice was hoarse and expressionless. “ Miss Nightingale, I no longer wish to see Mrs Foster. In fact, I’d be obliged to you – should she return here – if you …” he paused hardly able to force the final disastrous words through his unwilling lips. “ If you – could keep my presence here from her.”

  Miss Nightingale was thoughtful for a moment. “I understand the reason for your decision, but I think you are wrong. However,” she straightened up, “that is not my concern. I may tell you that, should Mrs Foster return here, I shall be obliged to send her home to England – in the interests of discipline. So – she will not be on these wards again.”

  Jamie closed his eyes. It was the right decision. She would be better with her Major – a whole man. He was sure it was the right decision.

  But, oh, how it finally shattered his already broken spirit!

  Chapter Ten

  London offered little hospitality for its wounded heroes. The meagre temporary pension Jamie was granted of sixpence per day could not buy lodgings, food and clothing – and it could be stopped at any time! Day after day he trudged the streets but no one wanted to employ a one-armed war casualty. At night he joined the tramps and vagrants along the Embankment and was embittered to see many of his companions were old soldiers.

  But what shocked him even more was that they were not the only homeless. There were whole families, women and children huddled together in almost every available corner on the Embankment and in every recess across London Bridge!

  Unable to sleep for the cold and the bitter misery in his heart, he stared at the dark shadows of the Thames. Beneath its cold waters he could seek oblivion. But then the remembered picture of his own grandfather dangling purple-faced, eyes and tongue bulging, from the stable rafters made him turn away from such a course with a shudder of revulsion. Suicide was not the answer.

  Abbeyford! The name crept unbidden into his mind and memories stirred. That was were he belonged. The Manor was still his. At least it would be a shelter of sorts. Restlessly he moved his cramped and frozen feet.

  Abbeyford! The place called him, set him yearning to be among the familiar fields and lanes. And there he could relive memories of the time shared with Carrie.

  His mutilated body and his tattered emotions sought the only haven of happiness he had ever known.

  Abbeyford! He would go back to Abbeyford.

  As the train pulled away from Abbeyford Halt and the smoke drifted away, Jamie Trent looked about him. Grimly, he saw how the railway line tore through the very heart of the valley, an ugly scar across the green fields and quiet country lanes. His eyes, somewhat reluctantly, were drawn towards the Manor House. From this distance it looked surprisingly unaltered.

  Without realising he had consciously moved, he found himself walking along the platform, through the white-painted gate – already hanging off its hinges – and down towards the village.

  Two women passed him, staring at him and then whispering together as they went on. A man was limping towards him, his left leg swinging stiffly at each step so that he moved along with a rolling gait. He stopped a few feet in front of Jamie and stared at him. Jamie continued walking.

  “Why, ’tis Master Jamie!” The man’s face was altered in an instant from lines of fatigue by the grin which stretched his mouth. “Eh, Master Jamie! I’m glad to see you – we thought you was dead.”

  His glance fell upon the empty sleeve of Jamie’s coat, and the grin faded. He gave a quick nod towards it. “You’ve bin hurt bad, I see. I’m sorry, Master Jamie.”

  “Thank you, Joby,” Jamie said quietly. He had recognised Joby Greenfield at once, though the limp was something new. In turn, Jamie nodded towards Joby’s left leg. “You too?”

  “Aw, that’s a legacy from that there fight we ’ad years back wi’ t’railway navvies.”

  “How – how are things here now, Joby?”

  Joby Greenfield shrugged with the philosophical acceptance of a man born to expect hardship. “ Could be worse. A lot of the villagers have gone. Moved to towns to find work in t’factories.” He paused, seeming to want to ask a question and yet not knowing quite how to phrase it. “You – you back for good, Master Jamie?”

  Jamie’s smile was a little thin, his eyes still mirroring the heavy weight of sadness in
his heart. “I expect so, Joby. I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  He moved on again with a casual word of farewell. “ Be seeing you again, Joby.”

  Jamie did not look back and so did not see the grin widening upon Joby’s face as he watched him walk up the village street and take the lane towards the Manor House.

  “Good to have you back, Master Jamie,” he called after him, and Jamie waved his one hand in acknowledgement without turning round.

  “Aye,” Joby Greenfield murmured to himself. “ You’m home now, m’lad, an’ I reckon you’ll be stayin’ when you find out who’s up at t’Manor!”

  Jamie paused, his hand on the sagging gate-post leading into the stableyard from the lane. The gate was off its hinges, lying in the grass a few feet away. His eyes roamed over the stableyard, at the weeds pushing their way up between the cobblestones; the buildings, the timber rotting and some of the brickwork beginning to crumble. Slowly he moved across the yard and, avoiding the back entrance, he walked round the side of the house to the terrace.

  The long windows stood open to the sunshine, the floor-length curtains billowed softly in the light breeze. Jamie stepped over the threshold and stopped in surprise.

  The room was freshly decorated – the old chairs and sofas had been dust-beaten to a respectable condition. The carpet – worn and faded – had at least been scrubbed to cleanliness and the oak floor shone with polishing that must have taken a week!

  Someone lived here. In his home!

  He moved across the room and opened the door into the hall. It was still dimly lit, but no longer dismal. There was not a cobweb nor a dirty footprint to be seen.

  Jamie sniffed. Was it possible? Baking bread? The smell drew him towards the kitchens. Now he could hear a woman humming softly to herself and the sounds of dough being slapped and kneaded. Quietly, he pushed open the door.

  She was standing at the bare, scrubbed table, her hands busy with the dough, her slim body enveloped in a huge white apron. A white scarf tied back her black, curling hair and a smudge of flour lay upon her cheek.