Gregory, Lisa

by Bonds of Love

  So the three of them watched over him in turns all through the day. When night came, Katherine insisted that the doctor get some sleep, and she and Peljo continued the vigil. Matthew alternately shivered with chills and fought his blankets as too hot. His temperature remained high and his face flushed; he sweated profusely beneath the heavy covers, but his fever would not break. He moaned and mumbled a great deal, often calling out names, the most frequent and clearest of which was “Charity.” Often he thrashed about in the throes of some delirious nightmare, and Katherine or Peljo, sometimes both, had to hold him down to keep him in the bed and with his covers pulled up. They bathed his burning face in cool water, and now and then Peljo held him down while Katherine forced soup or tea down his throat to keep up his strength.

  Katherine stayed glued to his side, feeling somehow that she could make him well through sheer strength of will. She struggled with him, bathed him, forcefed him, sat by him until her back felt as if it would break in two. She couldn’t eat, though she forced down a few reluctant mouthfuls at the doctor’s insistence. It was so important that he get well that she felt she couldn’t spare any of her concentration for any other task. Had she stopped to consider, she would have wondered why it was so important that he get well. But she was far too concerned with what she was doing to stop to ask herself questions. Instead she watched him like a hawk and recited a litany of jumbled prayers, some addressed to God and others to Matthew.

  His fever rose and with it his agitation. His voice was louder now, more tortured. “I hate the sight of him!” his voice rang out and then dropped to a moan, “Oh, Selina, I’m sick, so sick.” Another time, he laughed and said, “The captain’ll have our hides for this. Run away.” Once he rasped, “Not Shel. Not Shelby. Oh, Davie, why not me?” And constantly he called for Charity, plaintively, like a child.

  Trying to soothe him, Katherine would take his hand and say, “Here I am, Matthew. Charity’s here with you.”

  Who was this Charity? A long-lost love? His mistress? Maybe a dead wife?

  “Peljo, who is Charity?” she asked.

  “Don’t know, miss, never heard him mention the name.”

  Katherine looked at him shrewdly. “You wouldn’t tell me if you knew, would you?”

  He grinned and shrugged. “That would depend on who she was.”

  “Franny, you dunce!” Hampton exclaimed sharply.

  Peljo gestured toward the restless figure. “Now that one I know. Miss Fran is his sister.”

  “He doesn’t seem to think much of her,” Katherine said dryly. “Well, who’s Selina?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Shelby?”

  “The captain’s brother. So is Davie. Mister David’s a blockade runner, but Mister Shelby was in the cavalry. Killed at Antietam.”

  “How awful.” Katherine felt a little flash of pain for Matthew.

  “Better him than Mister Davie; he’s the captain’s favorite. Younger than him, always tagging him around.”

  Katherine suddenly realized that she could ease her curiosity somewhat through this little man.

  “Have you known Captain Hampton long?” she queried politely, hiding her eagerness.

  “Aye, since he was thirteen, ma’am. Rascal ran away and joined my ship as cabin boy. Course, I knew he was a planter, even though he used another name—you could tell by the way he talked and didn’t take kindly to orders. I sort of looked out for him, pulled him out of scrapes and the like. ‘Cause I liked the look of him—game as hell (begging your pardon, miss). He’d take on any and everything.” One bright little black eye winked at her. “Kind of like you, ma’am.”

  “Like me? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Why, you’re a real scrapper, too, Miss Kate. Never mind the odds—you just start swinging. Got him into trouble, too. But I saw to it that he made it back to Charleston. Course, the old captain took his cane to him, but he was so grateful to me for seeing Mister Matt got home safe that he gave me a job on one of his ships. And once he started sailing in earnest, I been following the lad ever since.”

  “Who is this captain you talk about?”

  “The old captain? That’s our captain’s grandfather. Old Randall Hampton. He’s a tough old coot, and crazier’n hell (begging your pardon) about Matt.”

  “I see. He—he owns a shipping line?”

  “You bet he does. Biggest one in Charleston, with an office in New Orleans, and New York, too, before the war.”

  “He owns Jackton Shipping?”

  “You’re a canny one, miss. That’s him, all right. His partner was Arthur Jackson. So Jackson and Hampton—Jackton. But he bought old Jackson out.”

  “And Matthew sailed for Jackton?”

  “From the time he was seventeen—when he was chucked out of William and Mary.”

  “He was expelled from college?”

  Peljo beamed with pride. “And he got kicked out of The Citadel, too.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Pranks. He was always getting drunk, sneaking out at night, playing jokes. That was at The Citadel. At William and Mary, it was something to do with a woman—anyway, he got into a duel with another student.”

  “Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Katherine said with severity.

  “Then his family let him sail, which was what he wanted anyway.”

  “And you’ve been with him since then?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Has he always been like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Hard, cruel, dangerous—”

  “He has his moments,” Peljo admitted. “But there’s not another I’d rather sail under. Not even Raphael Semmes himself.”

  Katherine smiled. “You’re loyalty personified, Peljo.”

  He looked at her intently. “Well, it’s not exactly hatred you’ve been showing toward him today.”

  “I would do the same for any ill person,” she sniffed.

  “Would you now? Well, no doubt you’ll snap my head off for saying so, but I think you have a little fondness for the captain.”

  “I think you are a little touched in the head.”

  “And I’ll tell you the truth, Miss Kate, though he would snap my head off for it, I’ve never seen his interest so captured by any other girl.”

  Katherine simply raised her eyebrows in cool disbelief.

  Hampton did not improve; in fact, his fever worsened. They had difficulty keeping the heavy coverings on his thrashing form. His skin was like fire. Peljo held him still and Katherine forced a spoonful of medicine into his mouth. That set him off cursing violently. Peljo retired to curl up on the floor and sleep. Katherine sat down on the edge of the bed and began her struggle to keep him quiet and covered.

  He looked straight at her and said fiercely, “You’re a heartless bitch, Susan. Why Shelby, of all people?”

  “Be quiet now,” Katherine said soothingly. “Be still and get some rest.”

  Hampton flung back his covers and started to rise. Firmly she pushed him back down and pulled up the blankets. Leaning down, she hissed in his face, “You listen here, Matthew Hampton. You are going to get better. Do you hear me? Damn it, I won’t let you die. I won’t let you. I am going to get even with you, and I will not let you thwart me by dying. So shut up and be still.”

  He glared at her and fell to cursing again. He began to toss and turn so much that she knelt on the bed and held him down by pushing against his chest with both hands, leaning all her weight into him. Finally, however, he roughly flung her aside, sending her hurtling off the bed and onto the floor. Frantically she awakened Peljo and the two of them managed to restrain him.

  It seemed hours to Katherine that she had held this position, firmly holding down his ankles while Peljo pinned his torso and arms to the mattress. Her back ached dreadfully and her fingers and arms were beginning to cramp. Suddenly she realized that she was no longer straining against resisting muscles. He was limp. She let go of his legs; he didn’t move. She looked
up at his face; it had gone slack, dead.

  “Oh, my God!” she cried and thrust past Peljo to touch a trembling hand to his still face.

  His cheek was wet, clammy, and much, much cooler. She simply stared at him, her mind not comprehending, feeling his breath against her wrist. He was not dead, she realized.

  “Oh, Peljo,” she gasped. “It’s broken. His fever has broken!” She burst into tears.

  Hampton slipped into a shallow but quiet sleep, and Peljo, cheered by the change in him, left to return to his quarters. Katherine picked up Hampton’s watch, which lay on his desk. Four-fifteen in the morning. Sighing, she tried to settle herself comfortably in the chair; it was next to impossible. Everything about her ached, and she wanted desperately to lie down beside him and sleep, but she was afraid of disturbing his rest.

  A couple of hours later, a soft knock at the door aroused her. She was surprised to find that she had actually fallen asleep. The visitor was the doctor, who looked at Hampton, took his temperature, and declared himself satisfied with his progress. He administered another dose of medicine, advised Katherine to get some rest, and left. Soon her breakfast arrived and she devoured it, suddenly realizing how little she had eaten the day before.

  “Katherine?” It was Hampton’s voice, weak almost beyond recognition, and she turned to look at him.

  He looked tired, his face strangely gray. There was still a feverish glint to his eyes, and his expression was bewildered.

  “Shhh. Don’t talk.” She walked over to him and felt his forehead; he was still too warm. “You caught a fever and you have been delirious for a while. But Dr. Rackingham’s taking care of you, and you’ll be all right. You need to eat. Let me feed you something.”

  She held his head up with her hand and made him sip some tea, then fed him toast softened in tea and an orange which she fed him slowly, section by section. About halfway through the orange, he slid back into sleep. His breath was more even and regular and his sleep seemed deeper this time, so she risked lying down beside him to sleep.

  When he awakened several hours later, she was able to feed him a whole bowl of soup, as well as an orange and a cup of coffee. He was still weak and confused, and she had to explain again to him that he had been ill. However, his fever continued to drop, and he fell into a sound sleep. The doctor was cheered and declared Hampton a very strong individual and Katherine a competent nurse.

  “Some of the men have taken sick, also,” he told her. “I’m surprised they aren’t all so, being out in that weather, and with their constitutions weakened by prison.”

  Katherine’s heart leaped with happiness remembering that she had given them those meals; surely that had helped keep them from being too weak. She said only, “He seems deeply asleep. Would you like for me to come help you?”

  “No, I can manage. However, I do recommend that you get outside for a little while, take a turn or two around the deck. And then get some more rest. We don’t want you coming down sick, too.”

  She followed his advice. It was refreshing to get outside again, even though it was cold and drizzly. Ensign Fortner joined her to inquire about Hampton and reassure her that they would reach London safely. His breezy manner had not deserted him, but it was strained. Katherine soon left him to rejoin Hampton.

  “Hello, Katherine,” he said as she stepped in the door.

  “Captain,” she said, inclining her head. “How do you feel?”

  “Hungry,” he said, a ghost of his old smile touching his face.

  “Good. You must be better. I’ll go get you something.”

  She came back from her raid on the kitchen with a number of small dishes to tempt his appetite. It didn’t need much tempting; he gulped the food down rapidly, finally stopping only because he was too weak to chew anymore.

  “I feel ridiculous,” he said, his voice stronger than before. “Like jelly.”

  “Fever drains you, weakens you,” she said. “You still have some, you know.”

  “Peljo tells me you hung over my sickbed like a ministering angel,” he said.

  “Peljo?”

  “He came in to see me while you were out strolling. He admires you excessively.”

  “Well, he was with you quite as much as I.”

  “Ah, yes, but Peljo doesn’t profess to hate me.”

  “I am not in the habit of allowing someone to die just because I have a great deal of personal dislike for them. You were in a serious way—delirious, coughing. It might have turned into pneumonia. I intend to help Dr. Rackingham with the other men as soon as you are well enough to be left alone for awhile.”

  “Tell me, don’t you find sainthood a bit taxing sometimes?”

  “How can you be so infuriating even when you’re sick? I suggest you shut your mouth and go to sleep.”

  “I am sorry. You have the damnedest effect on me. I meant to thank you, not get in another argument.”

  “There is no need to thank me,” she said shortly. “I would have done the same for anyone.”

  He grimaced and turned his face away from her. Soon she could hear his breathing slow and deepen. She sat down wearily in a chair. Suddenly everything seemed so drab and hopeless, and she wanted to cry. The tension of the past days, the euphoria of today when he passed out of danger—all to come down to this anticlimax of their sniping at each other. It wasn’t that she had expected anything to change. It was just that during the storm and his illness, she had somehow had a different relationship with him: complete trust during the storm and then a sense of jointly fighting against something while he was sick. It was unsettling to suddenly be thrust back into their usual roles. For a few days they had been allies; now they were enemies again. It jarred, like sitting down too hard. Sighing, she rested her head on the table, pillowing it with her arm. Before she knew it, she had drifted asleep.

  Hampton proved to be a poor patient. He disliked being in bed and wanted to be up and working; it frustrated him to be too weak to do so. Moreover, by the next morning, his fever was gone and his mind clear, and he was bored with lying in bed staring at the ceiling. His irritability was increased by the fact that he felt rather guilty that Katherine had repaid him in opposite coin, being kind and devoted even though he was often harsh with her. It indicated, perhaps, that she had more feeling for him than she would admit, but even that did not offset the bitter feeling that he was in the wrong. It did not improve his humor any, either.

  Though Katherine tried to resume her old silent attitude, she found that she could not, out of sheer self-defense. It added so greatly to his boredom and irritation that he became much more upset than he should; he was almost impossible to keep down and quiet. Besides, it was difficult to return to precisely the former status. So she unbent some and began to converse with him.

  “Who is Charity?” she asked casually, bending her head over the shirt she was mending.

  “What?” His voice was bemused.

  “You called her often while you were delirious.”

  His eyes began to twinkle. “My dear Katherine, do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Well, you needn’t worry. Charity is my childhood nurse. You know, fed and dressed me, nursed me when I was sick, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “What else did I say?”

  “A great deal, but very little of it was understandable—which is probably just as well. You spoke of someone named Selina and kept talking to her about coffee.”

  “Caffy—it’s a person.” His face suddenly looked older and more tired. “Selina’s his mother. They’re slaves, too.”

  Katherine snipped off her thread, maintaining a disapproving silence. Finally she relented enough to say, “And you mentioned someone named Susan.”

  He grimaced. “My brother Shelby’s wife. I must have been having nightmares.”

  She repressed a grin. “Then you talked about the captain, too, and David and Franny.”

  “My
brother and sister. The captain’s my grandfather.”

  “Peljo told me he owned Jackton Shipping. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t seem particularly interested in me or my family.”

  “Tell me about them now.”

  He shot her a puzzled glance. “Why all this sudden interest?”

  “I should think it would be obvious. I’m trying to pacify you.”

  He chuckled wearily. “You are incurably blunt, aren’t you? Well, I shall tell you. My grandfather is Randall Hampton; he was wealthy, but only a merchant. Not landed aristocracy. It caused a minor stir in society when my grandmother married him. She, you see, was a Rutledge. They had three daughters and one son, my father, Shelby, Sr. He was more Rutledge than Hampton. The ultimate sin, to my father, is to do something that is not genteel.”

  A laugh escaped her lips. “The same with my aunts. ‘But, Katherine, that just isn’t proper,’ ” she mimicked.

  “Well, the worst thing in my father’s life was that he didn’t own a plantation. He practically grew up on the Rutledge plantation, but he wanted one of his own. So he married Mary Anne Soames, who was the sole heir to her father’s rice plantation.”

  “Oh, surely that’s not why he married her.”

  “Oh, she is a very proper wife. Pretty in a fluttery sort of way. Silly and feminine; would never dream of doing anything out of the ordinary. Never questions Father about his gentlemanly pursuits. My sister Frances is just like her—stupid, vain, and vapid.”

  “No wonder you think I’m so spoiled and strong-willed. Not all women are like feather pillows, you know.”

  He smiled. “I’ve learned that. But very few of them are like brick walls, either.”