“That’s the spirit, sir. Nothing like a bit of anger to get the blood up.”
Clementine saw him exhale a deep breath as she imagined him coming to terms with the logic in Rory’s words. Stirling’s foot lay inert but his face told Clementine that he was at least trying. When she pressed a blunt pin to his leg, he could not feel it. When she applied a vibrating tuning fork to his skin, he felt nothing below the waist.
From what she had heard so far, she knew that the power to move or perceive sensations were things over which both the conscious and subconscious mind had some control. So next, she tested the things where this was not the case. Despite the lifelessness of his legs the reflexes reacted, as they should. Also, the tone of his limbs felt normal.
It felt strange to touch him again. Stirling did not react. His face was the same passive tapestry it had been since his arrival in Constantinople with the exception of the time he snapped at Clementine. Rory watched on in silence. The concern written on his face was difficult to miss.
When Clementine had nearly finished the examination, she asked him to try one more time. Stirling had laughed at her. Seeing an emotion, no matter how poisonous, was better than the passivity he constantly displayed. It showed that some things could still affect him. It was then she was certain that the man she loved would walk again. His affliction was self-created. Knowing this made her angry.
How dare he luxuriate in self-pity! Men were dying out there. Her colleagues and she worked day in and day out to ensure that everyone was well cared for. What did he do? Nothing but wallow in defeatism. Rory had been there and Royce was still there. They had not succumbed to this.
“Get up,” she snapped.
Her sudden change of mood startled Stirling. Rory looked at her with a questioning gaze on his face.
“You are a Major in the Eleventh Hussars and not some idle deadbeat on the streets of London. Now, come on, show me what an English soldier can do!” Clementine had placed her hands on her hips to make her point.
“I know what you are trying to do,” he sneered.
“Do you really? I frankly don’t care what you know. All I want is for you to stop playing about. You have no physical injuries. Your problem is purely psychological. In other words, you created it in your mind.”
“What would you know about that anyway? You were not there…it was hell.” Stirling eyes glazed over again.
“No, I was not there, but he was.” Clementine pointed at Rory. “He rode with you and saw the same horrors. You saved his life. Where is that man, Stirling? Where is the man I fell in love with? Where is the brave hussar who saved this man’s life? Where is the man who saw his commanding officer in the midst of danger and acted? Show him to us, Stirling.”
She could see the conflict play in his mind. His lips shuddered and curled into a sneer. Clementine could not tell whether it was out of fear, pain or newly birthed determination. Maybe, he was just thinking up another verbal outburst to hurl at her.
Her gaze slipped to his hands. His knuckles were white with the tension. He held on to the armrests on his wheelchair, gripping with angry fingers. “I can’t do it,” he hissed. I will never walk again.”
“Spoken like a man who has already given up. That is not what I saw in your eyes when you proposed to me, Stirling. You believed the world was yours that day – that I was yours. I am, Stirling. I love you. Now, be strong for me, for you…for us.”
Stirling pressed his lips together. What she had said was right. It had been too long now. He had been stuck in limbo between wanting to die and only partially wanting to live. Seeing his beautiful fiancé was reason enough to want to live. He had done his bit for his country. There were even rumours that he would receive the Victoria Cross for saving Bennett’s and Cardigan’s lives – it was a great honour that only a few men ever attained.
Even if he could never walk again, the pleasure of handing back the white feathers to his father and brothers would be worth it. He looked his fiancé in the eyes. Their greyness lured him in with silvery intent. She was a sight for sore eyes – her exquisite golden hair, her cordate face and that cute pixy’s nose – it was as if he saw her for the first time – it was like the day of his friend Royce’s wedding when they had met for the first time.
He loved this woman with all of his heart. He would be damned if he ever let her get away and least of all would he let himself be the reason for it. It angered him that he had let her see him like this. He had been a snivelling wreak, suffering from one of the most despicable sentiments: self-indulgence of the worst kind.
Stirling still gripped the handles on the chair. He pressed down, forcing his body up with all of his strength. He looked into her eyes, drawing in the strength from her hopeful gaze. With one last heave and a bellow of triumph, Stirling stood.
“Would ye believe it? The man is on his feet. Well done, sir. Nothing like a bonnie lass to get the spirit up. Ye could’ve been a little quicker on the uptake though,” said Rory with a huge smile on his face.
Clementine had to stifle a giggle of glee. She would not let him off the hook so soon. “Major, try and take a few steps toward me.”
He grinned at her crookedly. “Major, is it? What happed to calling me by my given name?”
“That is a privilege that comes with merit. Now, come along – take a few steps.”
Clementine watched him lock his knees tightly. She knew that walking with straight legs would only come to him with great difficulty. “Come on,” she said encouragingly. “Only a few steps on your toes – that’s all we need for today.”
With great effort, he managed a few short tippy-toe steps. Rory caught him before he fell. He placed Stirling back on the wheelchair. Clementine waited for him to regain his strength.
“Now, attempt to stand with your arms folded.”
After several tries, he managed it. Stirling, and to a lesser extent Clementine, had no way of knowing that she had tested the same muscle groups in several different ways. Each time they had behaved differently. The same muscle that wouldn’t allow him to move his leg when he lay down had allowed him to rise from a seated position in a chair.
“I know you are suffering, Stirling. I don’t want to detract from that. But your difficulty moving is not from a physical wound. I believe your partial leg paralysis is caused by a psychological disorder. You are still in shock. Somehow, you believe that by not moving, you are safer.”
“Just because I have no visible injuries, you assume I’m mad. That’s what doctors say when they don’t know what’s wrong.”
Clementine feared that his obduracy of old was back. She had to say something lest she lose him again. “I do know what’s wrong. I’m trying to tell you what’s wrong.”
“But it feels so real, it can’t be nothing because there are no cuts or amputations.” Stirling slumped in the chair.
“It feels real because it is real. Your paralysis is not imagined but that does not necessarily mean that it is primarily a physical disorder.”
Stirling frowned. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“That you will walk again. Nothing on your person indicates to you not being able to achieve that. I am confident.”
“Well, listen to the lass. Your woman is telling ye that all will be well again,” chimed Rory.
“I just don’t feel confident yet.”
“Of course, you don’t. You survived one of the worst ordeals practically unscathed. I believe you feel that you don’t deserve that – but you are wrong, Stirling – you do deserve it – to live – to be happy – to be married.”
“How sure are you?”
“That you will still be married?”
Stirling chuckled. Clementine could have jumped with glee. It was the first time he showed any kind of happiness.
“How sure are you?”
“One hundred per cent sure, darling. I will marry you no matter what. And more importantly, you will be standing by the altar when I walk down the aisle.”
“We have to keep working at it, every day until you have full use of your legs.” When Clementine saw him nod, she felt relief wash over her. Maybe from now on they would be okay.
Clementine walked happily with a spring in her gait from the small room she shared with Sally to the dormitory where the patients slept. It was early in the morning and the sun just barely scratched the horizon outside. It was still dark within the large building as she made her way down the sparsely lit hallways.
She was excited about the breakthrough with Stirling the day before. After their session, she and Rory had escorted him to the mess hall where they had shared some tea and cake. This was another of Florence’s additions to the hospital. To keep up morale, she had introduced the taking of tea.
For the first time, they had had a more in-depth conversation. Stirling had told her in his own words about what he had experienced since their parting at Portsmouth. The more she had heard, the more she had understood why he suffered so much.
She had come to discover that her fiancé was a far more sensitive man than he led on to be. It had plagued him to see so many of his comrades die of sickness and ultimately in the unfortunate charge. He had lost hope. And in that belief, he had even thought that he would never see her again.
When Clementine had reached out to take his hand, he had not pulled away. Stirling had acted differently than to what she might have expected. He had said he loved her and that he was sorry for his harsh treatment of her. He had been lost, afraid to lose anybody else to the inexorable roll of fate’s dice.
They had spoken of England and where they would go for their honeymoon when the war was over. After a bit of talking, they had decided on France, culminating with a trip to Italy. Just thinking about that had strengthened their bond until they were almost as tied as before the hostilities.
The only dark prospect that still hung over them was what would happen to Royce. He was still out there somewhere. Together with Rory they had prayed for him. Rory had also promised to keep an eye out for him when he returned to the brigade.
As night had come, news had reached Clementine that a ship had docked en route for home. Florence had said that the captain had orders to convey some of the wounded men back to England. Florence was still preparing the list of patients she deemed too far gone for active duty.
Clementine both hoped and worried that Stirling might be one of the chosen men. No matter how much she wished for him to be safe, she couldn’t help feeling sad at the prospect of being parted from him so soon after getting him back. She wondered whether she would drop all of her responsibilities and go back with him. It would be so sweet to be back in London and far away from all the death and strife.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she chirped as she entered the dorm where Stirling slept. She happily walked up to his cot. “What? Where is the man who sleeps here?” she asked no one in particular. “Where is Major Whitt Whittaker?” She could hear the hysteria in her voice.
“That gentleman left at the crack of dawn, he did. Some lads from a ship heading for home came round. They had orders to remove those men who would not return to the Crimea,” said a soldier.
Clementine recognized him as Simons. He was an affable lad from Wales with a wound to the leg. “Where is it docked – the ship?”
Simons shrugged. “I don’t know, Miss Sunshine. But they’ll be long gone by now.”
“What’s going on?” asked Rory, walking in.
“They took him,” stuttered Clementine.
“Who – oh – I see. They took the Major.” Rory thought a moment. “It’s for the best, Clementine.”
“They never let me say good bye to him. How…why did no one tell me.”
“Because I gave the express order not to do so,” said Florence, stepping into the dormitory. She had a stern expression on her face.
“Why?”
“Long partings are not for now. We have much to do, nurse Delaney.”
Florence rarely called her by that title nowadays, but when she did, there was no room for discussion. “I, I…” Clementine was too sad to say anymore.
“Your fiancé will be better off when he gets back home. And you will be able to better focus on your tasks here. There are many more men who need our help. Now, no more shilly-shallying. Our day has begun and we have spent enough time idling about.”
Clementine wanted nothing more than to scream. Stirling was gone again. There had been no farewell kiss, no chance to send word to her sister or parents. When she realized that she was stuck in the Ottoman Empire for God only knew how long, grief threatened to overcome her. She felt lost and alone. When would she see him again?
What worried her most was whether Stirling would be able to stay on a positive course after his incredible breakthrough the day before. He had come so far. Rory had been a great help but Clementine knew that it was because of his love for her that he had seen hope again.
“Remember when I told you that loving was difficult?”
Clementine nodded. “Yes, Florence. I know.” And it was. It felt nigh impossible to love when obstacles were constantly being thrown in her path. Stirling had come back to her only to be ripped away again.
“You will prevail, Clementine. I left word with the captain of the vessel to inform your betrothed that you are well, but could not see him off because you were away on some errand for me.” Florence chuckled. “You worked wonders on the man.”
Clementine frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“He put up quite the fight. It took two large sailors to pry him away from his cot. Major Whitt Whittaker appears to have miraculously regained the use of his legs.” She winked. “Now, that wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain nurse’s perseverance, would it?”
Clementine smiled wanly. “We had a bit of a moment yesterday.” She indicated with her head to Rory. “He took a few steps unaided.”
“I gathered that. Excellent work, Clementine. And now there are more men who need your skill. Come on.” With those words, Florence floated out of the room, giving orders for the nurses to start with the first cleaning of the hospital. Before she disappeared into the hall, she turned. “I put your fiancé on the list of men bound for home because I didn’t want him returned to the Crimea. Major Whitt Whittaker has done enough for queen and country; wouldn’t you agree?”
Clementine nodded. “Yes, Florence.”
“Good. He will have time to fully convalesce, and in time, when you are returned to him, you will be married. Being far away from here ensures that.
Florence was right as usual. That didn’t make it any easier. Clementine steeled her emotions lest her grief overwhelm her. All that remained was for her to dive into her duties once more. The man she loved was on his way home to safety. Or at least that is what she thought.
Chapter 30
“Hard tack and align her with the wind,” shouted the captain of the HMS Renown. “Close the gun ports on the lower decks. We’re in for a beating, lads.”
On cue, the fast ship with the square-rigged masts pulled into the wind. The wooden frame shuddered as another wave hit the starboard side of the vessel. A storm was in the making. Mediterranean tempests in the winter could be of the vilest kind. In times past, they had destroyed thousands of ships with their anger.
Stirling held on to the wooden bulwark of the frigate. It was one of the older vessels in the British navy. She suffered heavily in the squall that pounded her with devilish intent. The twenty-eight-gun vessel had had an illustrious career. She had been a part of Lord Nelson’s fleet during the Battle of Trafalgar. However, age and heritage would provide no advantage this day.
The Captain had told Stirling during supper the night before that this voyage was supposed to be her final one. The Royal Navy gradually replaced all sailing ships classed as frigates with new ones prop
elled by steam power. First, there were the paddle steamers, and now, there were even more advanced ones, which more closely resembled the traditional sailing frigate. They had steam engines and screw propellers.
“Bear down,” yelled the Captain, telling the sailor behind the ship’s wheel to take the vessel out of the wind lest she succumb to its irascible force.
Concerned, Stirling watched the burly man pull on the handles, spinning the wheel so hard to starboard on the barrel that he could not see the spokes. “Rudder a full, Captain.”
“Good, lad. Now bring her up amidships.”
The man steering repeated the entire process in the other direction until the ship aligned with the wind once more. This action reduced the pounding of the waves to its hull. However, the respite was brief. As if the squall knew what the captain had intended, the battering came from another direction. Like a formable mass, the storm hurled its wrath in adaptation of the ship’s new course.
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