by Sarah Winn
The driver looked at his partner, who must have nodded, for the man pulled a rust-stained knife from the sheath on his belt and reached over to cut the cord that bound the top of the sack. The covering fell away to reveal a squatting, shaking, wide-eyed Toby. Tear-tracks ran down his filthy cheeks. He blinked as though the sudden sunlight hurt his eyes. The driver grabbed the boy’s upper arm and pulled him to his feet and then toward him.
The sack tangled around Toby’s feet and the boy staggered. It took all of Gerald’s self-control not to rush to help, but he knew the next few seconds would be critical in the outcome of this situation. The driver managed to keep Toby from falling and pulled him over to his side, then he put the point of his knife against Toby’s throat.
“Good God!” Mr. Coyler cried. “Don’t hurt him. I have the money. You can have it.” He lifted the bag and held it up toward the horseman.
The man laughed. “You ain’t so high and mighty now, are ya?”
Gerald moved first. He hooked Phantom’s reins through the fingers of his wooden hand, grabbed the small bag from Coyler and used his knees to urge Phantom toward the horseman.
“That’s close enough,” the man called and shifted his weapon so that it was pointed directly at Gerald. The large bore of the barrel told Gerald the gun was a hunting weapon, undoubtedly filled with loose shot, some of which would hit him, no matter what kind of marksman the horseman might be. A light tap with his right knee stopped Phantom.
The man sneered at him. “Now this is how it’s going to be. You toss that little bag into the back of the wagon,” he dipped his head toward the vehicle. “Then we’re going to ride off, and the boy goes with us. “
“No!” Mr. Coyler cried out.
“Shut up, old man! You got no more say in this.” Blake looked directly at Gerald. “When we’re far enough away, that I’m sure nobody’s following us, I’ll let him go.”
A great calmness came over Gerald. He had felt it before—in the Crimea—on the battlefield when he had accepted the fact that nothing mattered except doing what had to be done in the next few moments. “Where will you release him?” he asked.
“Well, I can’t tell you that, now can I?” The horseman laughed, a high-pitched laugh that did not go with his deep voice. “But if you behave yourself now, I’ll leave him at some inn with instructions to send word to you. How’s that sound?”
Gerald had a strong feeling that the malicious bastard was lying—he would do no such thing. If Gerald was going to save Toby, he had to do it now. With his left knee, he nudged Phantom into taking a few steps toward the wagon. With an exaggerated motion, he threw the bag into the bed of the wagon, leaning forward so that his coat would fall open and he could smoothly reach in and grab the butt of the Colt. He brought it out with only one thought—the man with the knife must die.
As soon as that villain’s forehead exploded, Gerald swung the gun toward the horseman. The shotgun and the Colt fired almost simultaneous. Gerald felt like he’d been hit by a swarm of angry bees. The Colt slipped out of his hand. His opponent fell from his horse. The wagon horse panicked and started running up the road, the wagon bouncing behind it. A wide-eyed Toby fell to his knees and grabbed the side of the wagon, holding on with all his strength.
Gerald grabbed his reins with his real hand and started after the wagon. As long as the dray horse stayed in the middle of the road, Toby should be all right. But without a driver the horse would stray from side to side, and if a wheel hit the edge of a ditch the wagon might flip over. He had to get to the horse and pull it to a stop before that happened, but something was wrong with Phantom. The horse was trying to run but he didn’t have his usual smooth gait. Some to the shot must have hit him.
Leaning over the horse’s neck, Gerald called, “Come on, boy, just a little more.” They gained on the wagon, but not enough. Gerald could see Toby’s wide, frightened eyes looking over the side, watching him, counting on him. When he was almost up with the wagon, he shouted, “Get ready to grab me, Toby.”
He guided Phantom near the side of the rattling, wagon. He had to get as close as possible without running afoul of the spinning wheels. Praying the wagon horse would not swerve, he guided Phantom beside the frightened boy, gripped the horse’s reins in his teeth and reached for the boy. Thankfully Toby raised his arms up and around Gerald’s neck as Gerald snagged the boy with his one arm and pulled him up against his body. Then Gerald leaned back and lessened the pressure of his knees, letting the gallant Phantom slow his gait and finally stop. Gerald dropped the reins from between his teeth and the horse lowered his head and breathed heavily. The wagon bounced on down the road: The lifeless body of the driver was still wedged between the front of the wagon and its seat.
As Gerald sat trying to still his pounding heart, Toby said, in a cracking voice, “I knew you would get me, Papa.”
Papa!
Yes, this boy was his in every way that counted. Gerald kept his arm tightly wrapped around his son. He knew he should dismount and see to Phantom’s injuries, but somehow, he didn’t have the strength. Horse’s hooves pounded on the road. Help was coming.
Soon he heard Mr. Sam say, “I got the boy, Captain. Let him go.”
Releasing his grip on Toby seemed to drain Gerald of his last bit of strength. He would have toppled from his horse if strong hands had not grabbed him and gently brought him to the ground. As he was tugged and pulled and lifted, disembodied voices swirled around him.
“Get him in the buggy.”
“Watch that leather arm. The shot nearly blew it in two.”
“Probably saved his life.”
“Can you drive the buggy, Mr. Coyler, so I can lead the horse?”
“Of course, put the boy in the middle.”
“Jim, you go into Hemsley. Tell the constable what’s happened and send a doctor to the Captain’s house.”
“If that crazy wagon horse keeps running, town folks will come to me.”
As Jim started after the wagon, Mr. Coyler yelled, “And get that bag of money!”
Once Gerald felt Toby’s warm body pressed against his, he sprawled back in the buggy and let himself drift away from the pain.
* * * *
After the men left, Ellen and Mrs. Coyler waited in the front parlor. Constantly reassuring each other that everything would be all right soon became unbearable, so Ellen retrieved her sewing basket and a stack of Toby’s clothing that needed mending to keep her hands occupied. Mrs. Coyler eagerly volunteered to help, and both women buried their heads over their stitching.
Occasionally, Mr. Moore strolled through the house checking doors and windows. Each time, Ellen reminded him to let them know if the men returned by the way of the back lane.
When the clock in the entry hall struck one o’clock, Ellen threw down her sewing and began to pace from window to window hoping to catch sight of the men returning.
“They’ll be home soon, dear. Everything will be all right. You’ll see,” Mrs. Coyler said for, what seemed to Ellen, like the hundredth time.
The longer they waited, the more convinced Ellen became that something had gone wrong, that Toby or Gerald or both of them had been injured. Poor Gerald had come through so many hardships and now—because of her and Toby—he might have to pay the ultimate price for his debt to Philip. That thought sent shivers down her spine. She felt as if this was all her fault. If only she had been stronger and faced the Coylers, and explained things to them, they might have understood. They seemed like reasonable people. At least Mrs. Coyer did.
But Ellen had been so frightened that she had run away and begged a stranger for help. She would never forgive herself if something terrible happened to Gerald. He was such a good man—honest and true. He deserved so much more than she had given him.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway and Alice called, “They’re coming, ma’am. Up the back lane.”
Ellen jumped to her feet and raced for the back of the house, leaving Mrs. Coyler still seated in the parlo
r. She passed Alice in the hallway, cut through the laundry room, and went out the door that led to the yard between the two wings of the house. The buggy was just pulling to a stop. Mr. Moore was waiting for it. Gerald and Mr. Coyler were seated in the buggy—Toby wedged between them.
Ellen gave a cry of joy when she saw her son. He was dirty and had obviously been crying. Blood was on one side of his face, but in blotches not streams. She reached out to him. He reached back, and she caught him in her arms and pulled him out of the buggy. “My darling boy! Are you hurt?”
As Toby’s arms tightened around her neck, he said, “Not me—Papa Gerald.”
Ellen looked at Gerald more closely. He was slumped against the buggy in a curiously relaxed pose. Then she saw his artificial arm, carefully tucked in beside him. Its cotton wool stuffing spewing out of a gaping hole, and beyond the arm were small tears in his clothing, with wet splotches around them. Blood!
“What happened to Gerald?” she cried.
“The bad man shot my papa,” Toby said in a tear-laden voice.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Mr. Coyler said. “The leather arm took the brunt of it.”
Ellen grew dizzy. It became hard for her to draw a deep breath. Thankfully, Mrs. Coyler stepped forward to take Toby, even as she looked across at her husband and asked, “Are you all right, Silas?”
“Yes,” he said. “Osborne put himself between me and the gun.”
Oh, my God is there no end to the sacrifices this man would make for Philip’s family? Ellen stepped over to Gerald. He blinked at her, but she didn’t know if he actually saw her.
Mr. Samuels came striding around the corner of the house. Evidently, he had stopped to leave his horse at the stable. He placed an arm around Ellen’s shoulder and gently moved her out of the way, so he and Mr. Moore could move closer to Gerald. Mr. Coyler stayed in the buggy and helped support the upper part of Gerald’s body as the other men turned him and pulled him out of the buggy, feet first.
“Can walk.” Gerald mumbled, but the men paid him no mind. Mr. Moore got between Gerald’s thighs and wrapped an arm around each one, and Mr. Samuels caught him under the arms, and they started toward the house.
Ellen came out of her stupor and raced ahead of them. “It will take too long to get him up the stairs. Go to the front of the house. We’ll put him in his aunt’s bedroom,” she called, as she ran from the back of the house and down the hallway leading to Aunt Rachel’s bedroom. When she reached the bed, she grabbed the corner of the embroidered coverlet, dragged it out of the way, and dumped it on the floor.
The men carried Gerald into the room and sat him on the side of the bed. Mr. Moore said, “We need to get that arm off.”
“I know how to do that,” Ellen said, but she continued to stand on the far side of the bed and watch helplessly, as the men struggled to strip Gerald’s jacket and shirt away from his left arm and that side of his body. They left the sleeves on the damaged artificial arm until the straps had been unbuckled and then they pulled everything away at one time.
Ellen cried out when she saw the bloody holes that peppered Gerald’s side.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Mr. Samuels said. “These are just shot wounds, not bullets. I could probably dig ’em out with my pocket knife, but we’ve already sent for the doctor, so we might as well let him do it. You got something to put under the Captain, so the bed won’t get bloody?”
Ellen roused herself from her stupor and ran to the washstand, knowing towels were still stored there. When several of the cloths had been spread where Gerald’s right side would lie, Sam and Tully worked together to turn Gerald so he could stretch out on his back. As he did, Gerald issued a great sigh.
Ellen feared it was his last breath and flung herself onto the bed and across his chest calling, “Gerald! Gerald!” She felt a hand touch her shoulder and looked around to see Gerald’s opened eyes looking at her curiously. “What’s wrong? I brought Toby home.”
She lifted herself off his chest and tried to blink away her tears. “Yes, you did. You said you would, and you did. You always keep your word.”
Gerald looked past her and said, “Sam, go see to Phantom. I think he got hit by some of the shot, too.”
“Don’t worry, Captain, I left him with Tully. He’s been tending horses longer than I have.”
Mrs. Moore bustled through the doorway, carrying a large pitcher with steam floating up from it. “I brought hot water, so Mr. Gerald can be cleaned up before the doctor gets here.”
A surge of possessiveness flowed through Ellen, and she climbed off the bed, prepared to do battle. “I’ll do it,” she said.
Mrs. Moore looked at her as though measuring her mettle and then nodded. “As you should. You’re his wife.”
The men finished undressing Gerald, and covered the lower half of his body with a sheet, before stepping back to let the women take over. Mrs. Moore had poured water into the wash basin and brought it over to the bedside table. Ellen wrung out a wash cloth and began to lightly bathe Gerald’s face and neck. When she reached the right side of his chest, where blood had dried around shot wounds, her hands began to shake. Mrs. Moore took the cloth from Ellen’s hands and rinsed it out. “Why don’t you let me finish up?’
Ellen willingly moved aside, grateful for Mrs. Moore’s interference. As the older woman stroked and patted the area, some of the wounds began to seep fresh blood. “Get a hand towel to put over these until the doctor gets here, will you, dear?”
Ellen leapt to obey, but when she returned to the bedside and let the towel fall open, she realized she had picked up one of the hand towels that Aunt Rachel had meticulously decorated with embroidered flowers and crocheted lace. “Oh! I’ll get another.”
“No need,” Mrs. Moore said and took the towel from her and gently spread it over Gerald’s wounds. As Ellen watched the cook’s concern for Gerald overshadow her reverence for her former employer’s handiwork, she realized Mrs. Moore loved him—too!
Too? Did Ellen love Gerald, too? Of course, she did. Why had it taken her so long to realize it? He was a good man. There could be no greater proof of his goodness than the fact that he had married a woman he didn’t love because of the debt he owed her dead husband. She was sorry he’d sacrificed so much to do that, but now, as she stared down at his pale face, she vowed to do all in her power to make his life easier in the future.
She distantly heard the front door knocker and then Mr. Coyler’s voice as he ushered the doctor into the bedroom. She and Mrs. Moore both stepped back from the bedside to make room for him. Ellen moved down to the foot of the bed so could watch the doctor’s examination. She regretted that decision as he removed the blood-stained towel, and began to lightly probe the wounds on either side of the band of unblemished skin that clearly showed where the artificial arm had been.
When Gerald moaned, Ellen had to grip the footboard to steady herself against the wave of dizziness that swept over her.
“This doesn’t look too bad,” the doctor said. “If I can have a glass of water, I’ll give him something for the pain.”
Mrs. Moore fetched the water, and the doctor gave Gerald a dose of laudanum, while Ellen continued to stare at the man she loved and had almost killed. Then the doctor took a leather bundle from his black bag and unrolled it to reveal a wicked-looking assortment of knives and picks and tweezers. Ellen felt her knees growing weak. As if from a distance, she heard Mr. Samuels say, “Why don’t you wait outside, Missus. This won’t take long.”
She really wanted to leave, but felt she should stay, but when she looked at Gerald he managed a small smile and said, “Check on Toby, sweetheart.”
“Yes, I should do that.” She hurried from the room as the doctor leaned over Gerald and began to probe at one of his wounds. She felt guilty for being such a coward, but was afraid she would do something stupid if she stayed—like faint.
She went to the front parlor, expecting people to be waiting there for news of Gerald. The only
person she found was Mr. Coyler, sitting in the parlor and nursing a cup of tea. Seeing her, he sat the cup aside and stood. “How’s the Captain doing?”
“Ah—the doctor is digging the shot out now. I really couldn’t watch that.”
Mr. Coyler nodded.
“Where’s Toby?”
“Bess and the maid took him upstairs to clean him up. They’ll bring him down as soon as they’re through.”
Ellen couldn’t stand the idea of sitting down and waiting while she knew what Gerald was going through, so she said, “I’ll run up and see if they found Toby’s clothes.”
Mr. Coyler nodded as if that were a sensible idea, and Ellen ran out into the hallway and up the stairs. The puddles of water on the floor of the bathing room, told Ellen the bath was completed, so she rushed down to Toby’s room. There she found the two women hovering around the towel-covered body of her son who was curled into a ball on the floor.
“What’s the matter,” Ellen called as she ran to Toby and stooped down beside him.
He looked up at her with teary eyes. “Is Papa Gerald dead?”
“No, certainly not. The doctor is with him. He’ll make Gerald all better. What on earth gave you such idea?” Ellen reassured her son and herself.
“His arm came all to pieces!”
She gathered him up, pulling his body against hers. “Oh, sweetheart, that was his artificial arm. Damage to it didn’t hurt him, in fact, it protected him. It kept most of the pellets from going into his body.”
Toby sighed. “And the bad men won’t come back?”
“Certainly not. You’re safe now. Your Papa Gerald made sure of that.”
“I had blood on me from one of the bad men.”
“Well, aren’t you glad that your grandmother and Alice helped you wash it off?”
He frowned up at the two women that were hovering over them. “Uh-huh.”
“Well, did you thank them?”
He leaned forward and whispered into her ear, “I don’t want them to put my clothes on.”
Ellen nodded, although she thought it strange that he would suddenly be shy of the two women who had just bathed him. “I will help you finish dressing.”