by Ron Carter
He’s hurt!
The knowledge was certain.
In the bedroom Brigitte paused in her reading at the sound of the chair skidding.
“Caleb, keep the children here.” A moment later she stopped in the archway to the parlor, struck by the image of her mother standing rigid, white-faced, staring out the front window in the twilight of the room.
“Mother?” she said quietly.
Margaret did not turn as she spoke. “He’s hurt.”
A look of puzzlement crossed Brigitte’s face. “Father? How do you know?”
“I saw it.”
For a moment Brigitte did not understand, and then realization struck and she stood rooted. For a time it seemed the room was charged, and then Brigitte sat down at the table and Margaret sat down beside her, and neither woman spoke. Finally Brigitte stood and lighted the lamps and drew the shades, and silently walked back to be with the children.
Margaret sat in the silence, face drawn, until she was startled by the sound of footsteps in the hallway and Brigitte appeared with the children.
“Shall I get them ready for prayer and bed?”
Margaret stood and said, “Yes, I’m coming,” when the sounds of a running horse came from the street, and then they heard the front gate slam open and a moment later the fearful pounding at the front door. Margaret ran and threw up the latch and jerked the door open, and Tom stood framed in the light holding John on his feet, head slumped forward.
Margaret gasped and stiffened and blurted one word. “Alive?”
“Alive!” Tom exclaimed and did not wait for a reply or permission to enter the home. He walked John past Margaret, into the bedroom wing, and settled him sitting onto his bed, then laid him on his stomach while Margaret straightened his legs and Brigitte removed his moccasins, battered and caked with dried mud. Tom looked at John’s back, and Margaret saw the shirt sodden with blood from his shoulder to his belt. She clapped both hands over her mouth to stifle her anguished cry, and Brigitte backed up a step and said nothing. Behind Margaret, Adam and Priscilla began to sob quietly, aware that something tragic had happened but unsure what it was. Caleb swallowed and stood silently behind the children.
Tom turned to Brigitte. “Get the doctor.” Brigitte spun on her heel to leave.
“No,” Margaret exclaimed. “You shouldn’t be in the streets tonight.”
Brigitte didn’t hesitate. “I’m going,” she replied and ran from the room.
Margaret squared her shoulders and reached to touch John’s throat and felt the slow, weak pulse. “When did it happen?” she asked Tom.
“About an hour ago.”
“I saw it,” she said quietly.
Tom gaped, stunned, until he saw her eyes.
She spoke to Caleb. “Put kindling in the firebox and bring the teakettle the minute it steams. Hurry!”
Margaret disappeared for a minute, and returned with her large sewing scissors, a stack of bedsheets, alcohol, and soap. With her jaw set like granite she cut John’s clothes from him and rolled them into a ball and dropped the bundle to the floor.
“Help me,” she said, and Tom rolled John while Margaret tucked fresh sheets under him. She leaned over and carefully studied the pucker of the purple wound and the black blood that had clotted and the fresh, bright blood that was beginning to show. “Did it go on through?”
Tom shook his head and Margaret’s shoulders slumped. Caleb ran into the room, and Margaret took the large teakettle and poured steaming water into the china bowl on the nightstand and soaked and wrung out a large washcloth, soaped it, and began to clean away the blood. While she worked, Tom gently touched John’s cheek.
“Can you hear me?”
There was no reply and Tom repeated it. “Can you hear me?”
Slowly John’s eyes opened, and he tried to focus. He knew it was Tom, and he formed the words, “Where are we?”
“You’re home in your bed. Margaret’s here.”
John turned and tried to look up, and Margaret dropped to her knees beside him and laid her hand on the side of his head. “I’m here.”
He worked his tongue and swallowed. “How long have I been here?”
“Ten minutes.”
He started to speak again and he coughed and tried once more, and Margaret leaned forward to press her cheek against his. “Don’t talk. We have to wash you. Brigitte’s gone to get Walter.”
John slowly asked, “Tom, did it go on through?”
Tom hesitated. “No.”
John closed his eyes, and Margaret fought back tears and rinsed the washcloth and continued washing. Minutes passed while she cleaned his face and hands, then his body. She soaked the washcloth with alcohol and wiped him and folded clean linen and packed the wound and covered him carefully with sheets.
Then she turned to Caleb. “Take the children into the parlor and read to them.”
Caleb took the children by the shoulders and herded them from the room, and Adam began to whine as Caleb walked him down the hall.
Margaret suddenly stopped and stared at Tom, panic in her eyes. “Where’s Matthew?”
“Lexington. Billy Weems got hurt. Matthew stayed with him.”
Margaret pressed her fingers against her mouth for a moment. “Matthew’s not hurt?”
“No, ma’am. It was Billy.”
She released held breath and her shoulders settled. “Did anyone tell his mother?”
“Not me. I came here.”
“Someone has to go tell Dorothy.”
“Will you be all right here for a while, ma’am?”
“Hurry,” Margaret said, and Tom walked out into the night.
Margaret turned back to John and for a moment stood working her hands together, indecisive, wondering what she should do next, and there was nothing, so she got a comb and carefully combed his hair and tied it back. Then she drew a chair close to the bed and reached to hold his hand, and his fingers tightened on her hand. She watched the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing. She touched his face and forehead and they were warm.
Fever. Where’s Brigitte? Where’s Walter? Where’s Tom? He’s had time to tell Dorothy and be back. Brigitte should have been back ten minutes ago. The British have her. I should never have let her go into the streets tonight. They have her.
Margaret jumped as Caleb’s voice called, “Mama, Prissy won’t stop crying.”
Margaret rose and hurried to the parlor, feet apart, her voice high, firm. “Your father’s been hurt. You children get ready for bed this minute, and we’ll have prayer and you’re to get into bed and stay there.”
“Is Papa going to die?” Prissy wailed.
“You are not to worry about that,” Margaret exclaimed. “You get ready for bed. I will take care of your father.”
Caleb marched the children to their bedrooms, and Margaret returned to John’s side and again laid the back of her hand against his face and forehead.
She flinched at the sound of the front door bursting open, and Brigitte came pounding into the bedroom with Doctor Walter Soderquist behind, his black satchel in hand. He was panting, his clothing rumpled, his hair awry, and his shirt showing stains of working with wounded. He came directly to the bedside.
“Move, Margaret,” he said, and reached for John’s wrist. He closed his eyes for thirty seconds while he counted and felt the strength of the pulse. He drew the sheet down and pulled the packing from the bullet hole, and Margaret saw the muscles in his jaw make small ridges when he looked at the location and size of the bullet hole. He looked carefully at the blood on the packing, and said nothing, and repacked the wound with fresh sheeting. He laid his hand on John’s forehead, then the side of his face, then on both sides of the wound.
He looked at Margaret. “Did it go on through?”
She shook her head, and he sucked air and for a moment his eyes closed.
“Has he had anything to eat or drink?”
“Not since he got home.”
“When was
that?”
“An hour ago. Maybe less.”
“How did he get here?”
“Tom Sievers.”
The front door rattled, and a moment later Tom strode into the room and stood at the end of the bed, staring at the doctor, waiting.
“When was he hit?” Walter asked him.
“Maybe two hours ago.”
“Has he talked since?”
“Yes. He talked after he got here.”
Doctor Walter Soderquist settled onto the chair beside the bed and folded his hands in his lap, and slowly his head bowed and he sat for long moments with his eyes closed. Then he raised them to Margaret and Tom, and they saw the sadness and the anger.
“The bullet’s punctured his right lung, and it’s somewhere in there now. I can probe for it, but I might do more damage than good. I can operate, but I don’t know where the bullet is, and if I don’t find it quickly, chances are strong he wouldn’t survive. I can leave it where it is and hope the damage to the lung isn’t so bad he will die, but I fear for the worst. Those are the choices we have. For now I think we better wait and see.”
“How bad do you think it is?” Margaret asked firmly.
Walter’s eyes would not meet hers for a moment; then he stared at her steadily. “Bad. The blood on the packing I took off was bright red. He’s bleeding into that lung now.”
Margaret raised her chin. “How much time does he have?”
“No way to tell. I expect he will rally sometime soon, and he’ll talk and look like he’s going to recover. After that either he’ll begin to recover or we’ll lose him. No way to tell.”
“I’ll need time to think about what to do. Can we come get you later?”
“I’ll be at home waiting.”
“Is there anything we should do now?”
“Try to get him to drink a little water. Keep cold packs on his head and around that wound to fight fever.”
“Thank you, Walter. Thank you. We’ll come when we’ve decided.”
“Let me know if he rallies,” Walter said, then studied John for a long moment, and turned and walked from the room.
Margaret turned to Brigitte. “Get Caleb and the children and bring them here. We’ll kneel around the bed for evening prayers. Hurry.”
Brigitte started from the room and suddenly turned, eyes frantic. “Matthew! Where’s Matthew?”
“At Lexington. Billy was hurt and Matthew stayed with him. He’ll be home soon.”
Brigitte returned with the children, and they silently knelt around the bed, Adam and Priscilla on either side of Margaret, pressed against her, and Margaret offered the prayer.
“Now, off to bed with you,” she said, and the children walked from the room, pausing at the door for a moment to look back before they padded softly up the hall into their bedrooms. Brigitte tucked them in and read them a story, then returned to Margaret to sit quietly in a corner. Margaret sat on the chair next to the bed and touched John’s face and forehead again.
“He’s hot.”
Tom said, “I’ll fetch fresh water.” He went out the back door to the well, and returned with cold water in a kitchen kettle. Margaret soaked and wrung out a large pack and spread it over John’s back, then a smaller one and laid it on the side of his head, while Tom watched. She finished with John and looked at Tom, face streaked with sweat, dirty from gun smoke, clothing a shambles, bloodied from carrying John.
“If you’d like, you can go into the kitchen and wash. Brigitte can bring you some of John’s clothes.”
“That would be good, ma’am.”
Twenty minutes later Tom softly walked back into the bedroom and sat down quietly in the corner, washed, hair combed and tied back, in a clean shirt.
Margaret soaked the packs in cold water and again laid them on John’s back and side, and touched his face. His breathing remained slow and shallow. Her chin trembled for a moment, and she cleared her throat and turned to Tom. “Tell me about Billy.”
“A musket ball hit him in the side, up by the Lexington Green. A soldier bayonetted him. We carried him to Jonas Parker’s home and left him with a doctor and the Parker family.”
“Will he die?”
Tom’s forehead wrinkled for a moment. “I don’t think so. He was awake and talking.”
“Is Matthew all right?”
“He wasn’t hurt.”
“I don’t mean shot. I mean is he all right inside?”
Tom’s eyes dropped for a moment while he weighed his words. “I think so. Too much of life caught up with him in too little time. But I think he got through it. He had a good look about him when we left him. He’s sturdy. A good son.”
“Did you see Dorothy Weems?”
“Yes.”
“Is she all right?”
“She cried, but then she took hold and she’ll be all right.”
“Oh!” Margaret exclaimed. “I didn’t think! You must be hungry.” She turned to Brigitte. “Can you get something for Tom?”
“Ma’am, that’s nice, but I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t.”
Brigitte settled back into her chair and folded her arms as women do when they must sit quietly and silently bear grief.
Talk slowly dwindled, and Brigitte nodded off. Tom brought fresh water twice while Margaret sat in the yellow lamplight, face set, drawn, and he changed the cold packs. At twenty minutes past one o’clock a.m. there was a gentle rap at the front door, and Tom rose and answered. A moment later he returned and ushered Joseph Warren into the room.
Warren looked at Margaret, then John, and removed his hat and stood still with it in his hand. “I heard he was hurt. I had to come see. May I look?”
Margaret stood and gave Warren space, and he knelt beside the bed and tenderly felt John’s face, and pulled the damp sheets down to look at the cold pack on his back. His chin trembled and he worked his jaw and swallowed and wiped at his eyes, and then rose.
“I shouldn’t stay. I had to come. Our Boston militia told me what he and Tom did today. Led us all the way. One of the best men I know.” His voice broke, and he waited until he had control. “Margaret, if there’s anything I can say or do, promise you’ll come to me.”
Margaret nodded. “I will.”
Warren stood with his hat in his hands for a moment, wanting to say more, knowing he should go, and finally he turned and walked from the room. Tom followed him while Margaret sat back down on the chair beside John. Tom latched the door behind Warren and returned to the bedroom.
At three-thirty Tom brought fresh cold water and Margaret continued changing the cold packs, and they once more settled down to their vigil. At five-fifteen, with the gray of early dawn filtering into the streets, Tom started at the sound of the front door opening, and he strode into the parlor.
“Matthew!”
Matthew stopped in his tracks. “What’s wrong? Where’s Father?”
Tom faced him. “He’s in his bed. He’s been shot.”
Matthew’s eyes closed and his head rolled back for a moment. “Is he alive?” He started for the bedroom, Tom following.
“Yes.”
Margaret met him at the door, and she threw her arms about him and clung to him with all her strength. She buried her face in his chest, and he folded her inside his long arms. She shook with sobs for long minutes while Matthew looked past her at his father, lying on his stomach in the light of the two lamps, breathing shallow and rapid. He stroked Margaret’s hair and waited until the trembling and the sobbing slowed before he spoke. “Where was he hit?”
“In the lung. Right lung.”
“Has Walter been here?”
“Yes.”
“Is it bad?”
Margaret looked him in the eyes. “Yes. It is.”
Matthew gently pushed past Margaret and dropped to both knees beside the bed, and felt his father’s face and forehead. He raised the cold packs, and his face clouded at the sight of the purple hole in his father’s back and the fresh froth of blood. He looked at Br
igitte and said nothing, and he stood.
“I better bring Walter.”
“Not yet. We’re supposed to wait for some sign of change.”
Matthew shook his head. “I better get him. The change may come too late.”
He turned and started for the door, and Tom gently took his arm.
“I’ll bring Walter. You stay here.”
Tom left the room, and Matthew moved a chair to the bedside and sat down beside Margaret to wait.
At five minutes past six o’clock Tom followed Doctor Soderquist into the bedroom, and Matthew and Margaret moved away from the bed. He sat down on one of the chairs and set his satchel on the floor and grasped John’s hand and closed his eyes while he counted thirty slow heartbeats. Then he felt John’s face and head, and pulled the wet bedsheet down and lifted the cold pack. He looked at the bright blood and rinsed it and wrung it out and settled it back in place.
He spoke while he looked at John. “I thought he would rally before now, but he didn’t.” He pursed his lips and hated what he had to say. “It’s worse than I thought. An operation would kill him. The bullet has to stay in.”
Margaret’s voice was steady. “Will he die?”
Walter drew and released a great sigh. “The truth? I think so.” Only then did he raise his eyes to Margaret.
She stared back into his eyes for a moment, then looked away. She clamped her mouth closed as she battled tears, then cleared her throat and spoke firmly once again. “Thank you. Someone will come for you when we need you again.”
Walter rose and picked up his black bag and started for the door, and his house slippers made slapping noises on the polished hardwood floor. He stopped at the archway and turned back.
“Margaret, I don’t know a better man than John. I don’t know what to say. I wish I could . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Thank you for coming.”
Walter studied his black bag for a moment, then turned and shuffled out into the night, while Matthew and Margaret again sat beside the bed and Tom stood silently in a corner, watching.