by Angela Couch
“And when he heals? Then what are we supposed to do with him?”
“I don’t know.” She was tired of death.
Joseph groaned. “Why us? Why did we have to find him? Why couldn’t he have died on his own that first night?”
The British officer lay silent on the cot, as though he had finally fallen into a real sleep.
Rachel could only imagine what he’d endured, and yet he hung so stubbornly to life. “Perhaps he has something worth living for.”
“Like what? Crushing Continental rebels?”
“Maybe he has a family back in England. People he cares for.” Perhaps he was a father with a half-dozen offspring dependent on him. And a wife. Rachel withdrew. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not him. Perhaps it’s the Lord who wants him alive.”
Joseph shook his head, wiping his hands down his face. “Why ever would He want that?”
“To try our patience?” Rachel almost chuckled, but it caught in her throat. “It’s working well enough.”
Joseph’s gaze fell steady on the man, and he released a long breath. “We should burn his clothes—any evidence of who he is. I’ll bury his boots in the morning.”
A twinge of a smile tugged at her mouth though she didn’t feel it any deeper. “On the other side of the clearing near the slough?”
Joseph turned his focus on his dinner. He ran the spoon along the inner circumference of the bowl. “Let’s just say I’m not over the urge to bury something there.” His words lingered in the air.
She stood and moved to fetch the salve from where it landed. She would apply it immediately. Anything to keep her hands busy and her thoughts still.
5
Letting the Bible fall back to her lap, Rachel closed it. The first time in almost a week she’d picked it up to study, but she might as well have left it sitting beside her bed. Nothing diminished the numbness that continued to expand within her.
Resting her head on the back of her mother’s rocking chair, Rachel found some comfort in the swaying motion. Only four days the British officer had been lying there, hanging on to life. It seemed longer since the night they’d brought him home…and Pa was killed. A lifetime ago.
Rachel set aside the book and stood, omitting her prayer at the end of her study. She simply wasn’t in the mood for pouring her heart out to the Lord. Besides, He didn’t seem to be listening to her. Else why would He have let Pa die like that? Hadn’t He heard her prayers all that day? She hadn’t stopped until she’d found Joseph. Not ready to confront her thoughts about God, Rachel crossed the room. She placed a hand on her patient’s forehead. The fever had dropped again, ever so slightly. It was a step in the right direction.
“I suppose we should redress that wound of yours,” Rachel said out loud, despite the fact the man was incapable of responding—or hearing, for that matter. “You sit tight, and I’ll have everything ready in a minute.” She released a mirthless chuckle. “Or lay there, if that be more comfortable.”
As she gathered clean rags and put the kettle over the fire, Rachel continued the one-sided conversation with the unconscious man. “You know,” she stated after several minutes, “you definitely seem a better listener than most men around here. Better than Joseph, for sure.”
A sharp knock cracked against the door.
Before she had a moment to react, Daniel erupted into the cabin. His eyes scanned the room before his gaze came to rest on the British officer’s sleeping form.
“Isn’t it customary to wait for someone to answer?” Rachel snapped, her heart leaping to her throat. Why hadn’t they thought to move the cot back into the bedroom? “If you want Joseph, he’s probably in the east field. I was about to join him.”
“You know I didn’t come to see him.” Daniel crossed the floor. “Who is this man supposed to be? It’s strange you didn’t mention him earlier.”
“Should we have?” Rachel masked her fear with annoyance. “As for who he is, I don’t know his name. He was wounded at Oriskany, and we brought him back with us. He’s been unconscious since.” No lies. “Honestly, Daniel, everyone has enough of their own problems—especially right now—why should we burden you, or anyone?” She brought her hands to her hips, and raised her chin a degree. Hopefully, he wouldn’t hear how loud the pounding in her chest was becoming. “Why are you really here, Daniel?”
A slight smile lightened his brown eyes as he studied her. “You sure are pretty when you get upset like this.”
Heat rushed into her cheeks, and she reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Daniel’s smile faded as quickly as it had come. “I can’t allow you to carry on so foolishly, Rachel. What are you and Joseph thinking, bringing a Redcoat into your home like this?”
“Wha—”
“Fannie overheard you and Joseph talking. She’s been beside herself with worry. Understand, I promised I’d not breathe a word to anyone, but you know how I feel about you.” Uncertainty flashed across his face and he rushed on. “And your brother. Tell me the truth. Is this man a British soldier?”
“No,” Joseph answered from the open doorway. “What would we be doing with one of those?” His droll smile was taut. “The mere thought is lunacy.”
“On that point, I agree. But then, who is this?”
“Hopefully not what you say or—”
“Stop it, Joseph.” Rachel calmed her voice as she waved toward the British officer. “He is recovering. We can’t hide it forever if he lives, and then what good will lying do? We can trust Daniel.”
“Rachel,” Joseph warned, his voice edged. He held her gaze for several moments, challenging.
She refused to back down this time. They needed an ally.
Joseph was the first to glance away. “Fine.”
Rachel took a breath and turned back to Daniel. “Fannie was correct. He is British.”
“Then what is he doing here? Why would you bring him into your own home? Are you both crazy?”
“Please listen. The night the British and Tories pulled back, I went looking for Pa and Joseph. When I found Joseph, we heard a man crying out for help. Then we stumbled upon him. It would have been wrong to kill him or leave him to such a miserable end out there.” Rachel lifted her shoulders an inch. “So we brought him home, thinking he would die and we could simply bury him. No one would know the better. The only snag is that he wants to live, and, as of this morning, I would guess he has a chance.”
“Rachel…” Daniel glanced at the man in question and then returned his searching gaze to her. “I don’t understand why you couldn’t have left him there to rot, for your own sakes.”
“How could we when the Bible clearly teaches us to do good to our enemies? Sure there are wars, and we’ll fight and die, but must we forget Christian love and compassion?” The words came with a fervency Rachel didn’t expect, and she twisted her hands in her apron.
“I love my family and that’s why I risked my life fighting Redcoats. That was why your pa gave his life.”
Her ribs pinched as they constricted. Everything was such a mess. Still, could she have done differently? Could she step back as Joseph had suggested time and time again, and let the man die? “I know what my pa died for. But the fighting is over.”
“I think I understand what you are trying to say. But, Rachel, the war’s still far from over.” His voice rose with conviction as he continued. “We don’t know how long before they’re back. I mean, there’s battles raging all over New England.”
“I know, but I can’t help but take pity on this man. He has no protection save us. What would you have us do? Put him out of his misery?”
A laugh broke from Joseph’s chest. He had closed the door, but continued to linger near it.
Daniel took Rachel’s arm. “You know I would do anything to help you, and so I give you and Joseph this advice: Let’s take him as a prisoner to Fort Schuyler and turn him over to Colonel Gansevoort. We can claim we found him. We could even change him back into a
British uniform. Nobody would ever be the wiser.”
Rachel shook her head. “He’s barely starting to improve. If you take him all the way to Fort Schuyler, just the traveling will kill him. And even if he did survive the journey, the care given a prisoner would be next to nothing if they even remembered to feed him. No.” She folded her arms. After all the time she’d dedicated to the man’s life, she wouldn’t see it thrown away. “I won’t let him go. Not until he’s recovered enough to survive.”
“Never mind we don’t know if the siege has been lifted from the fort yet.” Joseph blew out his breath. “I’m afraid the only immediate way to resolve this is to shoot him as Rachel just suggested. Put him out of his misery. That was always my favorite option.”
Despite the hint of sarcasm, Rachel’s stomach knotted. How close he had already come to that. “Joseph, you couldn’t. That would be cold-blooded murder now.”
Daniel threw his arms up and then winced as he brought the bandaged one back to his side. “Rachel, you keep forgetting this is war. Your pa was killed by one of this soldier’s comrades. Most likely we even know someone who was killed by this one. You owe him nothing. He deserves nothing.”
“He deserves a chance at life. My pa did, and we all do. I won’t let anyone take that from him while he can’t help himself. You can’t haul him out of here until he can support himself.”
Daniel squared off to her, his broad shoulders settling back. “And then we may do with him as we see fit?”
“Yes, short of murder. You may turn him over to the army as a prisoner.” Rachel held his gaze with her own, sealing the contract.
Daniel glanced to Joseph who shrugged. They seemed equally weary of this fight. “I guess that will be the plan then,” Daniel said. “We’ll be as cautious as possible to keep this from getting out. Fannie and I will be safe with it. You just be careful with that Redcoat here. I’d definitely never trust one under my roof, even if he was half dead.”
Rachel smoothed her apron to keep her hands from taking Daniel by the shoulders and shaking some compassion into him. She didn’t want to hurt his injured arm. “Then it’s a good thing he’s not in your care.”
“Only a good thing for him.”
The two men left the cabin.
Their conversation had tied Rachel’s stomach into knots and fortified her need to keep this man alive. “Lord, I can’t help but ask Thee for this man’s life. He doesn’t deserve to die no more than anyone, I don’t think.” Rachel gritted her teeth, but she couldn’t hold the images from her nightmares at bay. “Nobody deserves to die like the men in that ravine...and my pa.”
She took the kettle from the fire and returned to the gathered cloths needed for cleaning and redressing the wound. Rachel held her breath as she pulled back the quilt and removed the bandages to reveal the side of the man’s hip. The cream colored cloth was soaked red, yellow, and green from the salve and the poison it had drawn from the broken flesh. The smell was strong, but not as putrid as yesterday. He stirred, moaning as she set a clean bandage over the wound.
“Hush. You’re actually starting to heal now. Praise the Lord Fannie brought this salve. I don’t think you could beat this infection without it.” She pulled the blanket into place and tidied the mess she’d created. About to turn away, Rachel stole a glance to the British officer’s face.
Two eyes, green as young pine needles, studied her every move.
6
He could not remove his gaze from the girl, much more youthful than he had thought, seeing her for the first time in daylight—though his vision was anything but clear. Or perhaps his vision was clear and his brain remained hazy. Either way, she was the only reason sufficient to endure the piercing throb the light inflicted.
After gaping for a moment or two, she leaned forward and laid her warm wrist across his forehead. “Glory be. The fever’s broke.”
“Where…” His voice rasped, forcing him to cough. If he had not known better, he would have suspected someone of feeding him sand.
“Somewhere safe.” Uncertainty flickered in the girl’s expression, as though she did not fully believe her own words. “I’ll get you some water.” She hurried to a rudely crafted table at the far side of the small room where a tin pitcher sat, poured some water, and then moved back to his side. “Here, drink this.” She lifted his head and pressed the cup to his sore lips.
The tepid liquid eased its way down. Relaxing, he let the moisture sooth his raw throat.
A single word rose from his shadowed thoughts. He coughed in an attempt to clear his voice. “Rachel.” The name rang in his own ears, stark—naked, as it were, in its simplicity. Intimate.
She released his head back to the pillow and drew back. “Yes. My name is Rachel Garnet. I’ve been looking after you since the…since you were hurt.”
How long had he been laying helpless? What was the cause of his injuries?
“And you? What’s your name?”
My name…he searched the recesses of his mind, fully expecting to find it there. Instead the spike already extending between his temples gave a mighty twist. He waited until the pain subsided before acknowledging the panic. He tried to move.
She planted a hand on his chest, holding him down.
His lack of strength did not allow a struggle.
“Stay still.”
“What happened?” Questions bombarded but were greeted by a lack of answers inside his brain. “Why…?” But he was helpless against the wave of blackness washing her from his view.
~*~
Rachel pulled away from the British officer as he sagged into the pillow, unconscious. The alarm that had risen in those green irises at the questioning of his identity gave her pause. Could he honestly not remember? Was it a momentary lapse due to his weakened condition, or had the blow to his head caused more lasting damage?
The slamming of the barn door drew Rachel to the window.
Joseph swung onto Hunter’s back and spurred him toward the road.
She threw open the door. “Joseph! Where are you going?” Her voice went unheeded.
Daniel left shortly after their conversation. Could Joseph have had something more to say to him?
Moving to the fireplace, Rachel stoked the fire enough to boil the bone remaining from their supper. A hearty broth would be in order when her patient woke again, to build his strength as he healed.
She poured water into the pot and swung it over the flames. Her neck ached from the building tension. Joseph never rode off without telling her, and yet there was no sign of his return when she walked to the garden for some vegetables to add to the broth. Back in the cabin, she washed the small potatoes and took up a knife.
“Is there more water?” The deep tones resonated across the room.
Startled by the intensity of the man’s eyes, Rachel cleared her throat, setting the knife aside. “There’s some broth you can try.” It had been boiling for a while now.
His gaze followed her.
She turned toward the cast iron pot. His piercing stare traced her every move. He was a British officer, and she was far from a Loyalist. What if he knew—had overheard them talking? He’d already been aware of her name. Rachel glanced to the oak chest where Joseph had hidden the pistol. She mentally shook her head. The man could barely remain conscious, never mind pose a threat.
After propping his head up with a wild goose down pillow, Rachel dragged a chair to his side.
He reached for the spoon, but his hand shook and he put it back to his chest. He chuckled, his brow crinkling as one corner of his mouth twitched. “It does not look that difficult.” The tones of England touched each syllable.
“It’s fine.” Her lips pressed together as she steadied her own hands. “That’s why I’m here.” With care she spooned some of the steaming broth into his mouth and waited for him to swallow.
They continued this way until he shook his head, silently informing her that he’d had his fill.
“How are you feeling?”
Rachel touched her wrist to his forehead.
“I was about to ask you that same question.” A small dimple appeared high on one of his cheeks. “How am I feeling?”
“You...” Rachel raised an eyebrow at his attempt at humor. “Your fever hasn’t returned, but you’re still a little warm. Now perhaps you’ll answer my question.”
“To be honest, I am not sure—other than the constant stabbing pain down my leg and the throbbing in my head. I have no recollection of anything that has happened, or the extent of my injuries, hence it is difficult to understand what I feel.”
“You don’t remember anything?”
“Only several peculiar dreams, but I would have great difficulty explaining them, since they are all I know.”
“What about your name?”
He gave a soft groan. “I have been lying here trying to remember exactly that. Unfortunately, it also remains elusive. Can you not tell me?”
“I don’t know your name.”
His brow furrowed. “How is that possible? May I inquire how I came to be in your care?”
Rachel sat back in the chair, her hands clasping the bowl. “You’re certain you don’t remember anything at all?”
“Not a thing. It is as though everything before I woke is obscured behind a dense fog. At least for my mind, that is.” Something seemed to occur to him, and he reached up to gingerly touch the cloth binding his head. “Have I struck my head on something?”
“As far as I know you must have hit it against a stone when you fell.”
The man closed his eyes for several moments, a pained expression distorting his features. “This head of mine fails to do me any good whatsoever. Could you please tell everything you know about me? What exactly occurred?”
It was easier to organize her thoughts without looking at him. She stared down at the bowl. “You’re from England—a soldier…an officer.” Even as the words were formed, they felt strange on her lips. “There was a battle not far from here and you were wounded. Your leg was. That was four days ago.”