by Anne Groß
Private O’Brian was another person who needed to be brained. Elise was still shocked by what had happened that morning. The vision of the young mother getting tossed overboard played over and over in her mind. The fact that O’Brian hadn’t been punished astonished her. It was as though the result justified the action.
George Russell, having spent three weeks swinging in a hammock in the storage closet, had made it clear that it was his intention to spread a blanket on the warm sand for his bed. All of the army’s medical officers were clustered in one area of the beach, which was quickly becoming a kind of make-shift hospital, and she was being encouraged to join them. But the master-servant relationship that was unfolding was more than Elise could bear. If she’d been given work to match her ability that might have changed her mind. There were certainly plenty of interesting cases turning up—patients with stomach complaints, strange fevers, heat stroke, and brawl-inflicted open wounds and broken noses. But no one asked a glorified laundress for input. Her own company respected her more than the doctors, and spreading her blanket with them sounded more fun than being at the beck and call of the doctors who thought they were better than her.
The situation gave her insight as to why Richard was having a hard time getting along with everyone. Although Richard wasn’t as well educated, she was surprised to realize that he and Russell were in nearly the same social class. Both were business owners without two coins to rub together. Earlier that morning, Elise had watched the surgeon carefully count out money for his breakfast in quiet agony over whether or not he could spare the expense of purchasing half a melon, dripping with sweet nectar. And Russell himself wasn’t entirely comfortable amongst his own peers. He clung to the older surgeons for social recognition and approval, and in return they treated him like a cute puppy, petting him for any creative suggestions he came up with, and rewarding him with information when he faltered. He was, Elise realized with a shock, using his tour of war to leverage his civilian career.
One good thing about stirring laundry, Elise decided, was that it was an excellent way to observe things without being, yourself, observed. No one noticed a lone woman poking boiling laundry with a stick. She slipped into the background and tried to learn the limits of the surgeons’ medical knowledge as she listened to their conversations. She watched the movements of the officers outside of the makeshift hospital to discover what plans were being hatched. Men were organized into task forces, scouts, lookouts. Caravans of supplies were gathered. Inspections of goods and men were constant. No one bothered to organize the women.
What Elise wanted most was another ship, one that would take her to Boston, or Virginia. Even better would be a French ship that might take her to Louisiana. She tried to remember something she’d learned in high school about the Louisiana Purchase and came up empty. Also empty, was the horizon of French ships, and if Bill and Gerry were correct, there’d be nothing for days but the English fleet that brought them.
Shouts and loud squealing turned Elise’s attention down the beach. A small crowd of thirty men were gleefully chasing a terrified pig in the surf, splashing water on each other and falling headlong into the sand with knives and bayonets brandished for slaughter. Elise’s eyes narrowed, trying to decide which one of the murderous idiots would be carried away by the undertow, and which would be impaled by his own weapon. She couldn’t blame them. She’d happily risk impalement herself if it meant she could take her wool dress off and leap through the surf.
The pig ran out of the ocean and up the beach, past a strange, tall man who stood apart from the rest of the army in demeanor and dress. He held a long staff against his shoulder on which he’d hung strings of beads, tiny cooking pots, wooden spoons, and colorful scarves. He was a walking gift shop of goodies. Elise stopped stirring when she noticed the wide brimmed straw hats that were blowing behind him like kites, caught up by the Atlantic breeze and tied tight to the staff by neck straps. Then she noticed the man himself. His shirt was open nearly to his navel, revealing a torso of stretched sinew and skin over ribs that stuck out like a washboard. Around his neck he wore one of the scarves he was selling, a red and black plaid that offset the dark brown waves of his hair. His pale trousers were barely held up with a long piece of rope that also served to attach bulging pouches to his waist. Elise dropped her stirring stick, mumbled an excuse to the other women, and walked over to him.
His golden eyes followed as she approached, flicking up and down, assessing. He shifted his staff to his other shoulder, puffed out his chest, and flicked his long hair.
“I’d like to see your hats,” Elise said.
His smile was slow to grow, revealing a tiny set of gray front teeth embedded deep into red gums. Elise pointed at the hats and he stabbed his staff deep into the sand next to her and made a two handed flourish of invitation. He was surprisingly graceful, almost making up for his dreadful mouth.
“Do you speak English?” Elise asked as she untied a hat from the pole.
He shook his head and said something in what she assumed was Portuguese.
“Nope. That doesn’t work either. Habla Español?”
The man’s smile disappeared and he spat in the sand. “Oh. Well, that answers that, I guess.” Elise had hoped to use some of the Spanish she’d picked up in Tucson, but was unsure if her barrio slang would work. She chose another hat to try on. “What do you think?” His golden eyes sparked and he grinned his approval. It really was too bad about his teeth. Elise reached into her apron pocket and pulled out her offering.
The change in his attitude was instantaneous. He snatched the hat from her hand and began to retie it to his staff. “No, wait. You don’t know what you’re doing.” When he didn’t respond, she said it in Spanish in desperation.
“My hats are worth at least two of these coins.”
“So you do speak Spanish.”
“Bah.”
“You’re looking at a six-pence piece. In England, I could get three of those hats for one of those.”
He flipped the brass disk in his hand as he thought, his expression unchanging. Then he pulled a hat with an inadequate brim down. “Try this one.”
Elise shook her head. “No, it’s the other hat I want.” Reluctantly, she pulled another coin out of her pocket, but the man curled his lip and sniffed. “I could get ten hats for what I’m offering you,” she said.
“I am not as stupid as you think. What’s in your pouch? Perhaps we can still negotiate.”
“This?” Elise was so used to carrying the kit bag that Mrs. Southill had given her that she usually forgot she had it. She opened it up to show the man, certain none of it would interest him. He pawed through it and pulled out a spool of silk thread and a silver needle. “No, wait! I’m going to need that!”
“I foresee that you’ll have this replaced for free.” He handed her the hat. “I’ll keep your ‘six-pence’ too.”
“Shit,” grumbled Elise, feeling cheated. She placed the hat on her head and was rewarded with another gummy grin.
Russell marched past her through the sand, suddenly catching her attention. He was headed towards Major Letchfeld, who was barely visible over the tall beach grass where a rutted cart path curled towards town. Lady Letchfeld’s fashionable bonnet bobbed along next to him. “Major!” cried the surgeon. “A word, if you please.” Despite Russell’s quick steps, his ever present shadow, Mr. Jenkins, kept up at a slow amble—his legs a third as long as his employer’s.
Elise left the preening trader to follow discretely behind the duo. There was something about Russell’s urgency that gave her the impression she shouldn’t miss the conversation.
“Your service,” Russell made a hurried, anxious bow to Lady Letchfeld. “How do you do, sir?”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Russell. Fine, fine. What is it?”
“I don’t mean to trouble you, so I’ll get straight to the point: I’ve no method for transporting my equipment.” Russell stared at Elise for a moment, thrown off by her presence as she sk
idded to a stop nearby, kicking up sand. “Mrs. Ferrington? Might I be of service?”
“Nope.” Elise looked Lady Letchfeld up and down. The pretty woman blushed, suspecting the reason for Elise’s insolence.
“I, uh, yes well,” Russell said uncomfortably, feeling the chill. “I’m glad you’re here. As you can see, Major, I’m already one assistant short and have been forced to accept Mrs. Ferrington as an aide. I cannot ask her to march with a pack laden with surgical equipment, nor can I or Mr. Jenkins here be expected to carry all our equipment on our own backs like the infantrymen do. There’s simply too much. It would be quite impossible.”
“My dear sir,” said Major Letchfeld in surprise. “We all have been affected by the lack of foresight by those planning this war. You, just as I, must find your own methods for transporting the items you will need. It is not for me to supply you.”
“Who must I see for a cart?”
“If you’d like a cart, go into town like everyone else, and procure yourself one.”
“You misunderstand. I’ve been into town. There are no carts. There are no mules.”
“Well then, I’m not sure what it is that I can do to help. Is this not the commissariat’s duty? I cannot give you something that does not exist,” the major said. “Since this is your first venture on campaign, you should know that on foreign soil, we all do without the conveniences of our beloved England. We must all make sacrifices.”
Russell sucked in a breath and looked pointedly at Lady Letchfeld’s luggage. “Yes, I see that sacrifices are inevitable. When I report to General Wellesley, I’ll be sure to compliment the ability of your lady to remain as elegant as she was in England, as well as explain your theory of sacrifice. I’m sure he’d be very interested to hear your opinion on the matter of ‘making do.’”
“General Wellesley?” Major Letchfeld sputtered. “Why on Earth would you report to Arthur Wellesley? Here,” he pulled a small coin purse from his waistcoat, not willing to take a risk on Russell’s bluff. “This should help convince a local to give you two sturdy beasts. And I give you leave to find another man within the ranks to help with your burdens.”
With all the slavering words of gratitude that the surgeon poured on, the major and his wife were properly washed back into amicable moods, allowing the surgeon to exit semi-gracefully. He motioned for Elise to follow. “Walk with me,” he ordered. Mr. Jenkins fell in behind them as they headed back down the beach. “Tell me what you know of Thomas MacEwan. He was once in the employ of your husband, was he not?”
“Thomas? What do you want to know?”
“I’ve a mind to acquire him as another medical assistant. I spoke with him earlier today. Is he trustworthy?”
“Yeah, he’s solid.”
“Solid?”
“Um. . .trustworthy.”
Without slowing his stride, Doctor Russell turned to Jenkins. “Find Private MacEwan and bring him to me. Mrs. Ferrington, I’m sending you back to the Valiant—it’s being made over into a hospital and will remain anchored offshore until the army returns. You’ll be much safer there. Quite a few men have picked up a fever, and more nurses will soon be needed.”
“Needed to do what?” Elise’s eyes narrowed.
“Swab brows, empty commodes. Whatever it is that you women do: make patients comfortable.”
“Commodes? Seriously? I could have been changing bedpans at the Quiet Woman. I’m an ER nurse, not a chambermaid.”
“You’ll do as I say, madam.” The young surgeon squared his shoulders. His look of determination matched the one etched on Elise’s face.
“You’re crazy if you put my talents to dumping bedpans.”
“You’ve had multiple opportunities to show me your worth, and from what I can tell, your self-assessment exceeds your true abilities.”
“I’m not getting back on that ship. I’m staying with my husband and that’s final.”
“I’ve already spoken with your husband. He was quite amenable to the idea of your returning to sea.”
Elise’s jaw dropped. Damn that Lady Letchfeld. “We’ll just see about that,” Elise sputtered.
She stepped off the path and attempted to withdraw with a dignified huff, but the burning and shifting sand under her bare feet made her waddle and hop, which wasn’t the exit she’d hoped for.
It took awhile to finally find where her company had set up their camp, since the men had abandoned their blankets in the sand near the edge of the beach to continue with their duties. It was Mrs. Gillihan’s presence that tipped Elise off that she’d found the right encampment. She was sitting on an enormous log of driftwood and tending a pot full of mysterious ingredients. “Watch your skirts,” she said in warning as Elise walked near the campfire.
“There you are!” Richard called out as he stepped from behind a tuft of tall beach grass.
“We need to talk,” Elise said, still mad about the disloyalty he’d shown in trying to send her back to the ship.
“Not now.” He dropped an armload of firewood near Mrs. Gillihan and started pulling white shirts and stockings out of his pack and piling them in Elise’s arms. A sour and musky scent rose from his garments like steam from a tea kettle, mingling with the sweet smell of wood smoke and ocean breezes. “You’ll have to hurry. The other women are already down at the river. You can’t miss them. I’m sure they’ll not fault you for being late, working for the surgeon and all.”
Blinking back tears, Elise pulled Richard’s clothes against her chest and slumped away, defeated. Laundry. Again.
The laundry party down by the Mondego River was the first time any of the women could get away from their husbands, and they took advantage with gossip and swift trade in goods and services. Elise volunteered to look after some of the children and took five of them wading into the river. In return, two mothers did her laundry for her. By the end of the day she was bathed and refreshed, and had an armload of wet linens. Back at the campsite, she spread them out over the tall grass to dry.
Mrs. Gillihan was throwing some of the fruit she’d purchased into the pot to boil with freshly butchered pork, creating a sweet stew whose scent drew the men back from town with full canteens of liquor. It had been a long day, and everyone was exhausted. The beach was dotted with campfires, each individual company keeping to their own, and each company’s handful of women stirring pots in the center of a ring of blankets. The fires were fed to lovely heights as the sun began to set and the Atlantic wind turned cool.
The hollow thumping of a drum announced Bill Stanton’s return. He grinned at Elise. “That’s a natty hat, Mrs. Ferrington,” he said.
Elise had been glad to have it down by the river. The children, scrubbed free from filth, if not lice, came out of the water pink with fresh sunburns, but she’d escaped with nothing more than a refreshed tan on her arms, thanks to her hat’s wide brim.
“You get on with you, hobbledehoy,” clucked Mrs. Gillihan at Bill. “Leave Mrs. Ferrington be.”
“Elise!” Richard came tripping through the sand towards her. Everyone seemed to be returning at the same time. “Have you a clean shirt for me? Damn your eyes! It’s still wet!”
“Of course it is! I just washed it, didn’t I?” She watched as Richard started flapping a linen shirt over the fire. He was swatted away by Mrs. Gillihan, who guarded the pot of stew with narrowed, steely eyes. “Mr. Ferrington, what shall we sing tonight?” Bill asked with a roll of his drum. “Bring out your fiddle.”
“Not tonight, lad. I’ve been invited into town to play for the officers.” Word of Richard and his fiddle was spreading throughout the officer classes. One old colonel took particular interest. He kept his troops meticulously sharp in dress and demeanor, and Richard’s handsome face and thick blond hair played right into his idea of fashion. The colonel was weighing the possibility of having a violinist play during troop advancement, believing a violin would add a certain je ne sais quoi that a drummer alone couldn’t manage. Now Richard was pawing through his t
hings to find the right clothes to wear to present himself in town, ever hopeful of being raised above the rabble. “Where’s my waistcoat?”
“It’s in there somewhere.” Elise quickly walked away, suddenly anxious to be nowhere near her husband. “I’m going to get some more firewood.”
Behind her, she heard Bill shout for Cox to take up his pipe and blow. The resultant laughter faded and was replaced by a joyful tin whistle as Cox did as he was told. Elise allowed herself a look back and saw Bill’s silhouette against the fire. He held his drum sideways in the crook of his arm and skillfully rolled one drumstick over its head, creating a sound like thunder.
“My BUTTONS!” Richard’s bellow was heard clearly over the music. “Which one of you heathens stole the buttons off my waistcoat?” Elise resumed her walk, jangling in her apron pocket a couple brass discs she’d flattened between two rocks.
Thomas slumped across the beach towards the camp, exhausted. His knees felt leaden, too heavy to lift his feet. Even though the day was cooling as the sun began its descent behind the ocean, he still felt its heat radiating through the leather soles of his shoes. Sand was a new experience for him. He was unused to the very ground shifting under his feet and working its way through his shoes and stockings to irritate the skin between his toes.
It’d been a long day of irritations and back-breaking work. It was hard to believe it had only been that morning since he’d caught Mrs. Collins in his arms. He was still shocked that the only outcome had been cracking the back of his head. O’Brian was lucky he’d been too busy to deal with him. Each time he thought of the man’s idiotic grin peering over the side of the ship, his knuckles would heat and his hands would curl into fists. O’Brian would get what was coming to him. He’d make sure of that.