Swept Through Time - Time Travel Romance Box Set

by Tamara Gill

O’Neill smiled. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll post a guard around your house so you need not worry about your family or your property while you are assisting us. Most of the injured are still on the field where they fell, though I have a few of my less badly hurt with me. Major O’Dell will organize detachments of soldiers to help you. Tell him your needs and he will make the arrangements.”

  Sean stepped forward. “If you’ll come with me, Doctor?”

  Brewster nodded curtly to O’Neill and followed Sean away from the command center. “We’ll need water, and lots of it. Between this heat and cleansing wounds...” He shook his head. “Bandages. My wife will have to sacrifice some of her bed linens I suppose. Transportation of some kind—”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know if Grandpa Bailey stopped somewhere in the area just before the Canadians flowed through, would you?” Jacqui asked.

  Apparently noticing her for the first time, Brewster stared at her with that suspicious, frowning gaze. “Well now, boy. Would you happen to be young Jack?”

  Sean laughed. “Your fame is spreading, Jack.”

  “I am, Doctor Brewster. Do you know Grandpa Bailey?”

  “Jim Bailey wouldn’t take too kindly to your calling him grandpa, young fellow.”

  Jacqui grinned. “I know. He grumps at me every time I do it.”

  “But that doesn’t stop you?”

  “Nope.”

  Brewster’s mouth twitched with amusement. “A lad after my own heart.” After a moment he added, “Jim Bailey’s rig is in my barn and he and Sara are with my wife.”

  “He’ll let us use his wagon to help the wounded,” Jacqui said confidently.

  Sean said curtly, “He may not have a choice if his is the only wagon in the area.”

  “Sean!” Jaclyn considered adding a pithy critique on how to influence people, but she figured a shocked expression and an indignant tone of voice was about as far as she should go at this point.

  Brewster looked from one to the other of them and raised his brows. “O’Dell might be right, Jack. We’ll have to use whatever we have to help the wounded. If it means twisting a few arms, well, so be it.”

  They settled down to organizing the details after that, two men who clearly knew what they were doing. Brewster listened to Sean’s description of the battlefield and his estimate of the number and condition of wounded, then announced how many teams he would need. Sean would organize the men, while Brewster gathered supplies and Jacqui helped Grandpa Bailey with the wagon.

  As they were winding up the meeting, Brewster glanced at the clear blue sky. “We need to act quickly, O’Dell. The morning is already hot and it will only get hotter as it nears midday. The heat will add to the agonies the wounded are suffering.”

  “I agree, Doctor.”

  Brewster nodded. “We’ll meet in a half-an-hour then?”

  “Make it fifteen minutes, Doctor. As you say, we should begin as soon as possible.”

  Brewster nodded. “Good man. Come along, Jack. Jim Bailey isn’t going to like what we have planned for him.”

  ***

  Sean took off his hat as he strode into the Smuggler’s Hole. With few windows to let in light the building was dark after the blazing brightness of the sunny day. As Sean’s eyes adjusted he saw O’Neill, Starr, Canty and Haggerty sitting together, huddled over a round table, obviously in deep discussion. A tankard sat in front of each of them.

  He stopped, hesitating. He’d come to report that the succoring of the wounded and the burial detail were both well in hand. He wanted to make that report then go back to working with Brewster. He didn’t want to be dragged into yet another planning session.

  The reason was simple. He wasn’t ready to acknowledge what he’d known yesterday—that the Fenian cause would never take root in this prosperous region. He was also aware that the men of the Fenian army were losing heart. While the Fenian soldiers believed they were fighting British regulars, they had been cheered by their victory. Since stopping in and around the little town of Ridgeway they had learned that the column they faced that day had been composed solely of volunteers.

  That put a different twist on the way the battle had gone. Instead of winning a hard fought victory against professional troops whose prowess was legendary, they had nearly been overcome by a determined group of militia. If the militia were that dedicated, that steady under fire, then what would regulars be like? And if the Fenian army was required to fight the militia again, would the Canadian Volunteers add righteous fury to their cool detachment under fire as they sought revenge for their losses?

  Sean had heard snatches of conversations and he’d seen men drifting away, using the excuse of foraging on nearby farms to make a quick escape from their involvement in a losing cause. He had a great deal of sympathy for those men who were abandoning the Fenian army. He did not want to die in a useless battle for a cause that could never be won. Nor did he want to be captured and hung as a traitor to Great Britain, for he was still a British subject for all that he’d spent the last five years in the service of the United States.

  He had come to report on the status of the wounded. He was not here to tell John O’Neill that his army was disintegrating around him or to decide on the strategy they should use. He was loyal to the Fenian cause. He would not desert as the other men were doing, but he could not in good conscience be party to a strategy that resulted in a deeper penetration of this British colony.

  And so his steps were slow as he crossed the room to the table with O’Neill and the others.

  The Colonel looked up as he neared and nodded. “O’Dell. Join us if you would.”

  Sean put his hat on the table and drew out a chair. All his movements felt weighted, as if his body was expressing the dread that was in his mind.

  O’Neill waved to the barman, then waited until a tankard was placed in front of Sean before he continued, “We were discussing our strategy. Your information on the status of the wounded will be welcomed.”

  Sean drank deeply. The ale slid smoothly down his throat. “We have eight dead and a dozen more wounded. Brewster has been aiding the most grievously injured first, no matter which side they fought on. Quite a number of the Canadians who fell were only suffering from the heat and the forced march. Our men have been providing water to those unfortunates and have been finding shade for them. He estimates he will have seen all those who need his attention by mid-afternoon.” Sean paused, drank again, then added, “We will have prisoners, Colonel. What do you want me to do with them?”

  O’Neill looked out small window beside the table, one of the few the Smuggler’s Hole boasted of. “A good question, Major. We will have to bring them with us, I suppose. Those who are too badly wounded to be able to keep up will remain here.”

  “Very good, sir.” Sean pushed back his chair and reached for his hat.

  “Wait, Major.”

  Slowly, Sean put his hat back on the table. “I am at your disposal, Colonel,” he said. There was irony in his tone. O’Neill ignored it.

  “Gentlemen, here is the situation as I see it. We won the field today, but at considerable effort against troops who fought with great discipline and determination. Our victory was complete. I do not foresee that division continuing to be a danger to us again. However, we still have not made contact with the troops we know were in Chippewa yesterday. That contingent will have moved out by now. Major Canty, do you have any information on their location?”

  “No exact information, Colonel. I do know that a cavalry unit, the Governor General’s Body Guard, was sent from Toronto this morning. They should be joining the British column sometime today.”

  “Cavalry,” Haggerty said. “Real cavalry?”

  “Militia cavalry,” Starr said. There was a sneer in his voice.

  Sean said quietly, “That was militia we fought today.”

  “I wouldn’t discount the Governor General’s Body Guard,” Canty said. “Even if they are knock-kneed cowards, they still provide Peacocke with a mo
bile arm.”

  O’Neill looked down at the map spread out on the table. “So we have a fresh division, complete with cavalry, prepared to do battle with us and we have no firm idea where they are.” He pointed to Ridgeway on the map. “We are here, at a crossroads. We can go west, to Port Colborne, and force the Canadians into another engagement. Or we turn east and return to Fort Erie.”

  His words sat heavily in the silence that followed. Several glasses were raised as if the beverage inside was needed to wash down the unpleasant possibility of returning to where they began. Finally Starr thumped his tankard on the scarred tabletop and said, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! We won the damned battle. Why do you want to retreat?”

  “Fort Erie is a defensible position which we control. Furthermore, the reinforcements I am expecting will be able to cross from Buffalo and easily join up with us there.” O’Neill stopped and looked at the men around the table. His hands curled around his tankard, holding it tight. “We need those reinforcements. We have been losing men steadily since we landed. We’ll lose more as a result of the battle today.”

  Starr was having none of this. “I say we take the offensive and head west. We’ve already had the Canadians on the run. It would be an easy matter to make them run farther and faster.”

  “I agree with Colonel Starr,” Haggerty said. “If we take the road to Fort Erie we lose the initiative. I say we march to Port Colborne.”

  “You forget, gentlemen, that there is another, unbloodied, column somewhere in the countryside. What happens when the division at Port Colborne learns that we’re marching on the town?” Canty leaned forward in his chair, his body tense. “We cut the telegraph in Fort Erie, but the telegraph in Port Colborne is still working. The first thing they will do is alert their headquarters that they are under attack. Reinforcements will be called up. The next thing they will do is send out a messenger to the British colonel, Peacocke, asking him to get to Port Colborne on the double.” Canty steepled his fingers together. “And he’ll come, gentlemen, never fear it. He can march down this road to this little town and turn west just as we did. We’d be caught between the Canadian force and the British one, with a hostile population at our backs and no reinforcements of our own. It would be a disaster. I say we return to Fort Erie. That way, if the worst comes to pass we can at least return home easily.”

  Starr’s eyes flashed with anger. “Why should we listen to you, Canty? You’re nothing but a damned spy.”

  “I am a patriot, Colonel Starr. Remember that, if you please,” Canty said mildly enough, but his expression was hard.

  “That’s enough! I asked for opinions. I want to hear from each of you before I make my decision. Major O’Dell, you have been amongst the men, working with the wounded. What is your suggestion? West or east?”

  Sean fiddled with his tankard. He’d been a junior officer in one of the most ruthless, successful armies in history. He’d marched with Sherman through Georgia, been part of the burning of Atlanta, seen the Confederacy crumble under the lash of a single-minded commander. It was possible to use the momentum of their victory to take them to Port Colborne, and maybe beyond. But was he prepared to see the people of this province crushed as the Confederates had been?

  “We won the battle this morning, but not without casualties. We also now have prisoners. If we followed the militia to Port Colborne we would have to send our injured and the prisoners to Fort Erie, with a detachment to care for or guard them. That would mean splitting our forces, making us vulnerable. I say we return to Fort Erie.”

  “So I have two who want to ride the momentum and take the offensive and two who counsel caution.” O’Neill paused. He looked at each of his officers in turn. “All of your arguments have merit, but I must, regretfully, chose caution. When the wounded have been seen to and the heat of the day is over, we go east, back to Fort Erie. That will be all, gentlemen.”

  ***

  Tending to the wounded on the battlefield was probably the most hideous task Jaclyn had ever undertaken. She wasn’t a nurse or a doctor and had never aspired to be one. The sight of the bloody wounds made her nauseous and brought back the horrific memory of Hugh MacLeod dying as she spoke to him. Before today she’d never considered herself to be a squeamish person. Capable and resilient was how she preferred to describe herself. Evidently this adventure was exposing aspects of her personality she had never plumbed before.

  She was helping Doc Brewster when they came across a young man in the red coat of the Thirteenth. He was conscious, sitting up and leaning against a tree. His eyes were glazed, his breathing short. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his cheek. He had cradled his right arm in his lap and was holding it by the elbow. His hand hung useless, a red pulpy mass that made Jacqui’s stomach roll.

  “Unfasten his uniform at the neck, Jack, and take off his stock, then give this young lad some water.”

  Jacqui did as she was told while Brewster gently loosened the volunteer’s hard grip on his elbow so he could examine the injury. “Well, young fellow, how did this happen?”

  The soldier’s words came out in a gasp as if he had little strength to expend on something so trivial as conversation. “My captain had just...” He stopped, sucking in air as Brewster moved his arm. “He told us we were to retreat. I put up my hand to...” This time he groaned as Brewster gently settled the injured limb again. “Salute. One of the Fenian balls hit me I guess. My captain said I was lucky. It could have been my head, I suppose.”

  Jacqui tipped a water bottle to his lips and he drank greedily.

  “Well, young fellow, there’s not much I can do here. We’ll have to get you to a proper surgery to fix you up. All I can do right now is bandage your hand to control the bleeding. I’ll be as gentle as I can, but this is likely to hurt. Jack, hold his shoulders steady, there’s a good lad.”

  Whether Brewster was gentle or not, Jaclyn couldn’t tell. As he began his work, the young man’s body stiffened, then he cried out in pain, before he slumped in Jacqui’s arms, unconscious. Her stomach did another nauseating flip-flop.

  Brewster looked at the unconscious figure and shook his head. “Poor devil. The bullet destroyed the fine bones. He’ll lose his hand for sure. Could have been worse, I suppose. It could have cut one of the major arteries and made him bleed to death.” He took one last, critical look at the soldier, shook his head again, then said, “Lay him flat, Jack, then come on. We’ll move on to the next.”

  Jacqui stared at Brewster. She knew he had done what he could, that he had others to treat and that time was short, but some part of her rebelled at the dispassionate distance he placed between himself and his patients. “That’s it? You’re leaving him here?”

  “No. I’ll send Fenian stretcher bearers to take him back to Ridgeway where I can make him more comfortable.”

  “What if he dies before then?”

  Brewster glanced down at the inert form. The volunteer’s injured arm was across his chest, the white bandage already stained as red as his jacket. The doctor looked back at Jacqui with that all-seeing stare of his. “If I thought he was going to die, I’d amputate here, but he’s better off having it done where it’s clean.”

  Jacqui dragged her gaze away from the doctor’s and looked down at the volunteer. He was young, too young to lose his hand in a useless battle, too young to perhaps die from an inability to treat his wound in a timely manner. Brewster began to talk again, but she couldn’t make out his words. There was a roaring in her ears and her stomach rebelled violently. She put her hand to her mouth and bolted.

  As she retched onto the warm black earth, she became aware of male voices talking behind her. Brewster and the Fenians who were coming to cart away the poor bastard who’d just given part of himself for the good of his nation in a campaign that didn’t have to happen. Behind her closed eyes the volunteer’s face morphed into Hugh MacLeod’s. She choked back a sob. Damn it, it wasn’t fair!

  The touch of a hand on her shoulder made her jump.
She turned her head to find Sean crouching beside her. Beneath the shadow of his hat she could see concern in his wonderful blue eyes. He handed her a cloth, one of Mrs. Brewster’s hastily made bandages. This one looked as if it had once been part of a worn linen tablecloth.

  She wiped her mouth, sniffed, then blew her nose. “Brewster’s going to chop off his hand, Sean.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  Sean was silent. There was no answer to Jacqui’s statement, no response that could make the necessity go away.

  She choked back a sob and rubbed her eyes.

  “I need you to work with the detachment that’s bringing water to the Canadians, Jaclyn. They are a starchy lot. They won’t take aid from their enemies.”

  “You’re giving me a sop because you think I can’t handle the tough stuff.”

  Sean hesitated, evidently figuring out what she meant. Then he ran his knuckles down her cheek in a tender gesture. “What if I am? Does it matter? You’ll be helping out where it’s needed. Let my men give Brewster the support he needs.”

  Jacqui drew a great, shuddering breath. “This isn’t at all what I expected. Okay, Sean, I’ll take you up on your offer.”

  From then on she worked with four young Fenians, lugging buckets of water across the battlefield and offering it to the Volunteers. Most were suffering from mild sunstroke or heat prostration because their uniforms were thick, warm wool and they were carrying heavy packs on a day that was as hot as mid-summer. The Volunteers complained about the Fenians helping her, but they did take the water Jacqui offered. As she worked with the despondent Canadians she did her best to cheer them up, but she could not escape the deep sense of failure each suffered from at being defeated and captured by the hated invader.

  When most of the injured had been helped, Sean sent her back to Ridgeway for a meal. Though Mrs. Brewster supplied her with bread, cheese and an apple, Jacqui ate reluctantly. After the carnage of the battlefield, she wasn’t particularly hungry, but breakfast had been Sean’s loaf of bread hours ago and she didn’t know where dinner was coming from, so she had little choice. The doctor’s wife chattered gently as she ate, talking about nonsensical things, never touching on the battle or the carnage that had ensued, and somehow that helped. By the time she had finished, Jacqui was ready to continue on.