“Oh, Curtis!” She forced herself to smile. “Why, I heard you’d been wounded, so I just up and came to nurse you. I’ll have you out of this place in no time!”
His eyes seemed to be all there was to him—all eyes and skin and bones. But then he smiled, and it broke her heart to see, for it made him look younger, childlike—and she could not speak for the tightness that gripped her throat.
“Sister—I’m—glad you came.” His voice fell, and his eyelids dropped. “I—didn’t want to—go out—by myself ...”
He closed his eyes and his head lolled. Charity shot a look of fear at Nathan, but he shook his head. “Just fell asleep. He does that a lot. Maybe he’ll eat a few bites when he wakes up again.” He added, “I’ll go give some of this to my friend over there while you sit with him.”
Charity sat in the dim hut beside her brother for a long time. Nathan came back after a time, looked down, then left, leaving the soup with her. “Stay as long as you like; I’ll take you home whenever you want.”
As she continued the vigil, holding the thin hand, memories swept through her—mostly about the days when Curtis was a small boy. They had been very close, and now she was afraid. If she had been a woman of prayer, she would have prayed, but that part of her life had been perfunctory—a few memorized forms that meant nothing in this place of pain and darkness and death. Fear was not something lurking outside—it was a sharp blade slicing away at her deep down inside.
Her thoughts flew back and forth as she tried to think—but the fear that had paralyzed her since she had walked into the hospital seemed to have destroyed her power to think. She longed for her father or for her grandmother to be there. Always she had depended on them, and now they were far away. She was the only one who could help Curtis.
Finally she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up with a start to see Winslow standing over her. He spoke quietly. “Charity—would you like to get Curtis out of this place?”
A sudden hope seized her, and she exclaimed with a wild urgency, “Oh, yes!”
“I’ve been praying on it,” he replied slowly, his face still in the flickering lamplight. “And I think the Lord has told me that we better take Curtis home. I’ll go get your buggy and tell Julie to fix up a place for him.”
“Thank you!” was all she could say, and when he left, she let her hot tears fall on Curtis’s thin hand. She moved her lips in a whisper. “Oh, God! Don’t let him die!”
CHAPTER TWO
DEATH AT VALLEY FORGE
Snowflakes large as shillings fell out of the sky—not drifting down gently but plummeting to the frozen earth. Charity had to stop frequently and clear her lashes, because the heavy flakes froze instantly as they touched her face. For the last week, since she had arrived at Valley Forge, she had made a daily journey from the Winslow hut to the hospital, taking food to several of Nathan’s friends. He had been sent on some sort of military mission, and when Julie had started to put on her thin coat to make the trip, Charity had quickly insisted on taking her place.
“I hate to have you out in this weather, Charity,” Julie had protested.
“Me? Why, I’m used to it, Julie,” Charity had laughed as she slipped into her fur coat. “The last trip we made on The Gallant Lady, a snowstorm caught us. Father stayed at the wheel so long he froze his feet, and I almost did the same. I’m an old salt—and tough as boot leather!”
“But it’s—”
“Julie, I want you to lie down and rest until I get back. Come on, now—let me cover you up.” She practically forced her onto the low bed strung with rawhide, pulled a heap of ragged quilts over her, then impulsively leaned over and kissed her. “You’ve done so much for Curtis—and for me. Don’t refuse me this one little thing!” Then she had darted over to pull the covers up on Curtis before leaving the hut.
The visits to the hospital had been difficult, for she hated the stench and squalor of the place. She had to carry the food past those who were starving, and the hollow eyes that followed her made her ache. They were dying, most of them, she realized, and they cried out silently for her to stop and talk. Some were young, not over fourteen, and they cried out for their mothers in their delirium. Charity forced herself to smile, spending most of the time that Curtis lay unconscious trying to bring some hope to the sick and wounded.
She made her way through the curtain of falling snow, muttering through stiff lips, “Worse than a fog off the Banks!” Finally she stumbled up to the hospital and entered. Dr. Williams looked up from where he was bending over one of the men, and rose instantly to come to her. “Glad you came, Charity,” he nodded, his face grim. “Billy’s bad—maybe you can stay with him a little.”
“Is he... going to die, Dr. Williams?”
She had not liked the physician at first, thinking him surly and uncaring, but she had soon discovered that his gruff manner was a facade, that he hurt for the men under his care. She had discovered this on her third visit when he had drawn her to one side, saying harshly, “Wish you’d say a word to Sills—boy needs a little comfort.”
“Which one is he?”
“Over there by the window. He’s only fifteen—” She saw the look of pain surface in his face involuntarily. “Just the age of my own boy.” Then the curtain dropped, and he went on, his lips tight. “Lost a leg last month, and it’s gone to gangrene. Won’t last long—but I expect he’d like a little word from a woman.”
Billy Sills was a towheaded boy from Virginia, emaciated and bright-eyed with fever. He had been pathetically grateful when Charity had stopped and offered him a little of the thin stew, but it had been her presence rather than the food that had cheered him. She led him to talk, and soon she knew his family by name. His favorite sister was Melissa, “Missy”—and he used that name for Charity, saying, “You look a heap like her, you do.”
Dr. Williams went on quietly. “We made a little place for him over by the corner,” motioning to where a tattered blanket was tacked up. He hesitated, shook his head, then added, “Don’t expect he’ll know you. Been in a coma since this morning.”
“I—I’ll sit with him for a while.” Charity worked her way around the room, making the food go as far as possible, speaking with a tight smile to the patients, then went to Billy with a mug of tepid water. Lifting the blanket, she sat down on the floor using her coat for a pad, and leaned closer to see the boy’s face. The feeble yellow rays of a lantern barely enabled her to make out his features. His lips were drawn back and his eyes were fluttering, revealing a glimpse of the whites as they rolled up in his skull. His chest was rising and falling erratically, and the rasping sound of his breathing struck against her nerves. Desperately she wanted to run away, but she forced herself to mop his clammy brow with a bit of cloth from her pocket.
Her touch seemed to arouse him, for he rolled his head weakly from side to side. Then his eyes slowly opened and focused on her as she bent over him. He licked his dry lips, and his voice was a croak as he whispered, “Missy—that you?”
“Yes, Billy. It’s Missy.”
“Aw—I’m glad—you got here...”
She reached down, lifted his head, and put the water to his lips. He took a few quick swallows, then pulled his head back and looked up into Charity’s eyes. “Missy—I ain’t—gonna—make it.”
“Billy...!”
“Good you came—though. Hate to die—Missy!”
Tears scalded her eyes and she set the cup down and reached out to embrace his emaciated form, holding him to her breast. “Billy—Billy!” she moaned, but could say no more, for her body was shaken by uncontrollable sobs. She held him like a baby, rocking back and forth and calling his name for a long time; then he pulled back and a spasm racked his body—a violent shudder that shook him until his teeth rattled.
“Missy!” he cried out, pulling at her weakly. “Don’t let me die, sister! I—I’m afraid!” He gave a great wrenching cough, and when it passed, he asked, “Missy—you reckon—you could say—a prayer?” His e
yes were enormous in the golden light of the lantern, and his lips trembled as he whispered, “I—I never got—religion, did I? Mother—she tried to—to talk about God—but I never did—”
Then his whole body arched and he began to kick the floor, his bare heel drumming in a horrible pattern. The blanket flew back, and Dr. Williams entered hastily, but even as he reached out, Billy took a deep breath, held it for a brief moment, and then his body went limp, the rattling cough raking against Charity’s nerves.
“He’s gone,” the doctor said. He took the thin hands, folded them over the boy’s chest, and dropped the blanket over the worn face. He pulled Charity to her feet and led her out of the space. She almost stumbled over a sleeping man, but Dr. Williams caught her with a surprising strength and helped her to the only open space in the room—a small cubicle where he kept his meager supplies and slept when he could on a cot made of saplings and rawhide. She was so blinded by tears she could see nothing, but suddenly felt Dr. Williams jerk to an abrupt halt. “Why, General Washington—I didn’t know you were here.”
Charity brushed the tears from her eyes and looked up to see two men standing in the open space. One was a thin man wearing a blue uniform greatcoat with black facing and silk scarf; the other, a very large man, over six feet. Charity looked at him with startled interest.
The general had a large nose, gray eyes, and deep pockmarks on his long face. He had very large hands, she saw, giving an impression of tremendous strength, though his eyes and voice betrayed a great weariness.
“How many, Doctor?”
“Well, not as bad as it might be—but we just this moment lost Billy.”
“Billy Sills?” The gray eyes fell, and the big man stood there silently. Finally he raised his head, and Charity saw the pain etched across his face. “He was from my state. I know his parents, Colonel Hamilton. They are fine people.”
This, she gathered, was Alexander Hamilton, the general’s most trusted aide. “It’s hard, Your Excellency.” His voice was sharp and clipped, but he seemed almost boyish with violet eyes and lashes long and thick like a girl’s. “It never gets easy, does it?”
Dr. Williams interjected, “This is Miss Charity Alden, Your Excellency. She came to see her brother—but she’s been a great source of encouragement to all the men.”
“We are in your debt, Miss Alden,” the general returned, his gray eyes weighing her. As he took her hand in his, hers seemed lost in the massive grip. For a moment she felt the power of the man; then he released her hand, saying, “I hope your brother is doing well?”
“Not very well, sir.” She bit her lip and added, “One of your Virginia men has taken us in—Nathan Winslow.”
“That’s Adam’s son, isn’t it?” Hamilton asked.
“Yes. I had to send Adam on a mission.” Turning to Charity, Washington nodded, “Miss Alden, I pray that our merciful God will spare your brother. And we are grateful for your kindness to our poor men. Let me help you.”
She put her arms into the coat he held for her, then said as she turned to go, “I’m—sorry about Billy.”
“I’m sorry, too—for all of them.”
She left the hospital quickly, and as she made her way back to the cabin, she wondered why the boy’s death had affected her so deeply. The presence of Washington had taken the pain away momentarily, but now it swept back as the whining wind that purled around the evergreens and sent scuds of new snow everywhere reminded her of his cries.
What if Curtis should die like Billy?
The question came again and again, and by the time she got to the hut, she was so filled with fear for him that she did not even feel the cold.
Julie was sitting beside Curtis as she entered, and looking up she said, “He’s been asking for you, Charity. See if you can get him to take a little broth.”
“Why, sure I can, can’t I, Curtis?” she asked with a forced heartiness. Taking the cup from Julie, she sat down and began to cajole him into swallowing a little of the broth. “I could always make you eat, couldn’t I? Remember when you had measles, and I took care of you?”
A faint smile touched his pale lips. “I remember. Gave you the measles, didn’t I?” he answered weakly.
“You sure did! Take another swallow—that’s good! Now another....”
He ate a little of the broth, then lay back wearily while she fussed over him. He had developed an alarming cough which would, on occasion, seize him in a frightful manner. It was as if a giant hand suddenly closed on him, shaking him from side to side and racking him until his breath was spent. It was getting worse, more frequent, and after a bout that made Charity want to cry out at his agony, he fell into a drugged and unhealthy sleep.
The two women did what they could, then sat down and talked as the stub of a candle sputtered in its own tallow. Charity was too exhausted by the death of Billy Sills and the tension over Curtis to say much, but Julie’s voice had a soothing effect. Charity put her head back, closed her eyes, and listened as the young woman spoke of things other than disease and death.
Often the two had sat into the night, and Charity had listened as Julie told her of her meeting and marriage with Nathan. The story was so incredible that at first she had suspected the young woman was one of the most creative liars she’d ever met, but others in the camp had confirmed the story.
Julie had fled her home after her father’s death to escape the rapacious attentions of her uncle. In desperation, she had disguised herself as a man, and Nathan had saved her from freezing to death on a wharf in Boston. Through a strange set of circumstances, she had joined the Continental Army as an aide to Colonel Henry Knox. Nathan, his attention occupied by a young woman he was courting, had never suspected her secret. He and his cousin, Paul Winslow, were engaged in such fierce competition for Abigail Howland that Nathan was blind to all else. Soon after Julie’s secret finally got out, Nathan was made painfully aware of Abigail’s deceit.
“I caught him as he was dropped, Charity,” Julie had laughed as she recounted the story. “He was easy pickings.”
But this, Charity discovered, was not true. The love of Nathan for Julie—and hers for him—was of a storybook quality, and the warmth in Julie’s eyes when she spoke of her young husband spoke volumes.
Now as they sat there in the cold room, the hoarse breathing of Curtis was very loud in the quietness. Julie finally stopped speaking, and for a long time there was no other sound. In the dim light Charity saw that Julie’s lips were moving, and she knew the girl was praying; it was something Charity had noted and been troubled about. Now the death of the boy was a fresh wound in her spirit, and she finally began to speak, telling her friend how it had been. She ended by saying, “It was so—hard! So awful, Julie!” Then she plunged in and added, “Julie—he said he didn’t know God. Do you think he’s in...?”
Julie sat there for what seemed a long time; then she began to speak. At first it seemed to Charity the young woman had not heard what Charity had asked, for she said nothing about Billy or his death. She talked about God, about His love for man—and most of all she spoke of Jesus Christ and how He died on a cross to save all men. Her voice went on and Charity sat there listening. Finally Julie picked up her worn black Bible from the table by her side and, leaning over close to catch the feeble rays of the candle, read slowly: “This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus died to save sinners, of whom I am chief.”
Then she looked up, the tears shining in her eyes in the yellow light. “Charity, never question the love of God! No matter what you see in this world, remember that God sent His only Son, and Jesus died a terrible death on a cross. He died because He loves us all—you—and me—and Billy—and Curtis.”
Charity swallowed, fighting back the sobs that rose to her throat. “But what about Billy?”
“I don’t know, Charity,” she answered quietly. “I do know that he will meet a loving God—and I never lose hope.”
“I wanted to help Billy—bu
t I couldn’t!”
“I know, Charity.” Julie put her hand on Charity’s. “I think if you want to be able to help others—like Curtis and Billy—you’ve got to find your own peace with the Lord. Would you like that?”
Somehow the thought frightened Charity, and she said quickly, “Oh, I couldn’t!” And she begged in a faltering voice, “Won’t you help him, Julie? Please!”
The silence ran on and Charity saw that the other girl was praying. Finally Julie looked up and smiled. “Of course I will, Charity.”
****
Three days later Curtis died. During those three days Charity was helpless. She took care of her brother’s physical needs, but the presence of death was over the hut. Nathan came back, and he would sit for long hours beside Curtis, often with Julie by his side.
Julie would read the Bible aloud as she sat beside the dying boy, and once she said, “Maybe he doesn’t understand it, Charity, but the scripture says, ‘The entrance of thy word giveth light.’ ”
From time to time Curtis would rouse, always a little weaker, but he seemed to live on the prayers of the couple who was always there. He would hold on to Charity’s hand, speaking of their early days, but he grew restless, his eyes searching for something, and only when Julie or Nathan would come and sit beside him would he relax.
On the day before he died, Julie was reading from the Gospel of John, late in the afternoon. Charity sat on the floor, her head leaning against the cot, and she heard the words:
And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up: that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through him might be saved.
“Does that mean me?” Curtis’s voice interrupted the reading, and when Charity lifted her head, she saw that he had pulled himself up and was staring at Julie with a strange hope in his eyes. “Can I be saved, Julie?”
The Saintly Buccaneer Page 2