Dazed, he gasped for breath clutching his forearm. His moist eyes had become dilated, and pain contorted his chalk-white face. Blood spurted out between his fingers. His clothes were wet with it, as were Elliot's, and he tore his belt from his trousers and fashioned it into a tourniquet, cinching it tight around his biceps.
Ely continued to shriek and prance rattling the tack, his wild mane flying as he bobbed his head from side to side, and Colin slid his wounded arm around the vicar and snapped the reins setting the horse in motion. Then cradling Elliot's inert body close, he thundered a command and drove the crazed animal hard at a gallop through the cold needles of rain to the Cross, the ragged ribbons of the wounded trap's roof waving like pennants in the wind.
The gelding charged over the highway snorting and prancing, his anxious whinnies carried on the wind, and when the trap careened into the drive at the back of the vicarage, he reared again all but upsetting it. Having heard Colin's frantic cries and the animal's shrieks over the clamor of the storm well in advance of their arrival, Ted raced down the porch steps into the blinding rain before the wheels had stopped rolling.
"Uncle Colin! Oh, my God, sir, what's happened?” he cried, dodging the horse's flying hoofs.
"Help me, Ted,” Colin pleaded. “Son, you've got to help me here.” He tossed him the reins. “Take care, but see if you can hold him steady, lad. I . . . I don't know what's ailing this miserable beast! I've never seen him act like this before. We've got to get your father inside and fetch Howard."
"Oh, sir,” cried Ted, “you're badly hurt. And . . . what's happened to Father?"
The horse shied again distracting him before Colin could answer, and Ted pulled hard on the reins and harness while Colin climbed down. Close scrutiny revealed the cause of Ely's frenzy and the boy shouted, “There, sir. Look there, under his harness—brambles!"
"Ahhh, sweet Jesus,” moaned Colin. Working them free with a quick right hand, he flung them high into the wind.
With the sharp thorns removed, the horse snorted, shivered, and pranced to a halt bobbing his lathered head.
"Help me, lad,” said Colin, “I . . . I don't think I can lift your father on my own."
The boy tossed the reins over the porch railing and sprang to his aid. Between them, they carried the vicar inside past the shrieking housekeeper and up to his chamber, where they laid him in his bed.
"Oh, my God, sir, where is he wounded?” begged Ted, ripping his father's blood-soaked cassock away.
"He's not. The blood's all mine,” said Colin to the boy's horrified gasp. “Go quickly, Ted. Don't waste a second. Fetch Howard . . . and have him bring some of that blasted medicine your father takes. It . . . it's his heart, son. For God's sake, hurry!"
With a wild cry on his lips, the boy ran out, all but throwing Rina down, as she waddled to the bedside out of breath from her hasty climb up the steep staircase.
"What can I do, sir?” she whined.
"There's naught to be done save keep him comfortable until the doctor's come,” he said. “Is there any more of his medicine in the house?"
"No, sir. Oh, Mister Colin, what are we goin’ ta do?” she lamented, wringing her hands.
"It's all right,” Colin panted, “but you've got to collect yourself. You're going to need all your wits about you here, Rina."
"Yes, sir,” she murmured, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron.
She moved closer examining Colin's arm and gasped again. “Oh, Mister Colin, God help me, ‘tis serious, this. The blood is pourin’ outa’ you!"
Wincing, Colin jerked the belt tighter around his biceps. “Howard will tend it,” he murmured.
"I'll fetch a basin at once,” she shrilled, “and a cloth for his head. Oh, sir, I never seen him look like this! There's no color in him, is he goin’ ta’ be all right?"
"Of course he is! He's got to be, Rina. Christ!"
Whimpering, she ran through the door, her skirts dusting the wainscoting alongside it, and Colin sank down on the edge of the bed beside the vicar.
With his right hand, he loosened Elliot's collar, opened his blouse, and laid his ear over the lame heart murmuring a broken rhythm beneath his breast, grateful for any sound coming from it then. “Ahhhh, Elliot, you can't leave me,” he whispered, staring toward the vicar's still face. He was soaked through, and Colin struggled with his blouse until he'd stripped it away. He managed to remove his shoes and trousers as well, then laid a quilt over him and sank back down beside him again, grown dizzy and weak from the labor and blood loss.
Smoothing the vicar's wet hair back from his brow, he noticed for the first time that, but for a wavy shock of pure chestnut in front, nearly all of it had turned gray. Anxiously he searched the shadow stains hugging his sunken eyes for some sign of life, but there was none, and he dropped his head low attempting to pray.
Minutes later, Rina appeared, a basin trembling in her hands. After laying a cloth across Elliot's forehead, she turned her attention to Colin. Deft at her chore, she tore his tattered sleeve away, bathed his arm, and bound it in linen towels.
"I know ‘tis hurtin’ you somethin’ terrible, sir,” she said, “but you need ta hold it upright as best you can. It'll bleed less.” She glanced back toward the vicar. He still hadn't moved and her teary eyed frown deepened. “Should we try the smellin’ salts, do you think, sir?” she worried.
"I don't know, Rina, we'd best not take chances. Let's wait and see what Howard has to say. He should be here soon now."
Together they waited, their eyes trained upon the vicar, so pale and still beneath the quilt. Scarcely breathing, he didn't stir, and but for the feeble vibration of his heartbeat against Colin's hand from time to time as he monitored it for reassurance, they would have sworn that Elliot was dead.
Though it seemed like an eternity, scarcely an hour passed before Ted returned with the doctor. Anxious, the boy bolted ahead into the room and ran to his father's bedside. “How is he, sir?” he pleaded toward Colin's strained face, but he didn't give him a chance to answer. Instead, he gasped. “Oh, sir! Oh, my God! You must lie down! Look at you! Oh, Uncle Colin!"
"I'm all right, lad. Have you brought Howard?"
"He's coming up now, sir. Please tell me?"
"There’ no change, son, but he'll be all right. You mustn't worry. You'd best wait outside, Ted."
Howard burst through the door. “Christ,” he barked. “All right, out, young Marshall.” He turned to Rina. “Take Chapin along. I'll tend him directly elsewhere."
"You'll tend me right here once you've tended him,” Colin interrupted. “There's to be no argument. I'm not going to leave him."
The doctor sighed in annoyance. “All right, Mrs. Banks,” he said, “fetch a basin of boiling water. I shall have to sterilize my instruments to tend Chapin's wound."
Rina and Ted slipped into the corridor closing the door after them, and Howard went to Elliot's side. “What happened, Chapin?” he said, lowering his stethoscope to Elliot's breast.
"He had a seizure in his trap as he was leaving the house this morning,” Colin explained, wincing as he shifted position. “Must have come on him before he could down his medicine. ‘Twas spilled over the floorboards where he'd dropped it. I gave him what was left in the vial. It wasn't enough. My God, he has to come ‘round, he has to!"
"Ummmmm,” grunted the doctor, listening to the feeble heartbeat again. “This happened at Cragmoor you say?"
Colin nodded. “Is he going to be all right?"
Howard sighed again. “I don't know,” he regretted. “This is no ‘twinge'. It's serious."
Opening a fresh vial, he supported the vicar in his arms and forced some of its contents through his lips. Easing him down again, he took a syringe from his satchel, filled it, and injected the fluid into Elliot's arm.
"What are you giving him?” said Colin.
"A stimulant. It's new. Let's hope it's in time."
"You've got to save him, Howard. You've got to!"
/> "Why?” spat the doctor. “So you can do it all over again? Look here, Chapin, I warned you that this was to come. If he dies, it's you who've killed him."
"Now you listen to me, you pompous ass,” snarled Colin. “Just who the devil do you think you are? You weren't called here to pontificate. Just do your job."
Howard nodded toward his arm. “What was the brawl over this time, eh?"
Colin glowered. “You miserable pigheaded bastard!” he spat. “You can count yourself lucky that I've got this here. If I didn't I'd give you the pasting you're courting—old man or no. That trap was out of control. There were brambles under Ely's harness and Elliot had come down inside the carriage. I had to tackle the goddamned thing in order to stop it, and the wheel all but tore my bloody arm off!"
"Where's your coat? That might have spared you this. What were you doing out in this flaw without it?"
"It wasn't storming when I left the house. Christ, what's the difference? The damage is done. Just see if you can fix it."
The doctor glared from under knit brows and sighed through his nose. “Why don't you just say you were too damned drunk to know you were out half dressed in a cyclone? Christ, give it here!"
Howard moved to his side, pulled off the blood soaked towels, and examined the wound beneath. “Ummmm,” he growled, probing the damage, “you've nicked an artery; nasty gash. You've lost a good deal of blood, too, by the look of you."
Colin jerked his arm away. “Later,” he snapped, “after you've tended Elliot."
"All we can do here now for Elliot is wait,” said the doctor. “Get up from there. Go over to the settle and lie down, Chapin."
Colin got to his feet and groaned, swaying in the doctor's arm. “Just as I thought,” barked Howard, “we'll lose you, like as not, before we lose him if that isn't tended at once. I wouldn't give a bloody damn, either, but for the fact he'd go under again if it happens. Lie down, goddamn you,” he ordered, easing him onto the settle.
Colin groaned, falling back against the cold, hard, wood.
Rummaging through his satchel, the doctor unearthed a medicine bottle and spoon. He poured the liquid and offered it.
"What's that?” snapped Colin.
"Laudanum. Unless you'd rather pass out from the pain? You're close to that right now, I'll wager. Open up, Chapin, we haven't got Harris here to knock you out this time."
* * * *
But Colin did pass out, the laudanum notwithstanding, and lay still on the settle that was too small to accommodate him while the doctor worked to repair the torn arm.
Darkness had fallen before he regained consciousness. The moaning of the wind was the first sound he heard, mingled with the moans coming from his own dry throat. It was an anxious awakening through a blurry haze of candle shine, and the fuzzy image of Howard standing beside the vicar's bed. He vaulted erect and vertigo set his head reeling. Groaning, he clutched it and shut his dilated eyes.
"Here,” said the doctor's cold voice from behind an arm thrust forward, “take it, Chapin."
Colin blinked as a snifter came into focus, and he groped toward it and took a rough swallow. “Has he come round?” he panted.
"No,” the doctor regretted.
"What time is it?"
Howard consulted his pocket watch. “Half past ten,” he said.
Colin's heart leaped. Fear for Elliot, and terror over Jean alone in the house with Malcolm riveted him, and he moaned again draining the glass.
Looking down he saw that his arm had been carefully bandaged. It was held firmly in a sling made of linen towels about his stiff neck. “Thank you,” he said, wincing, for his whole body throbbed like a pulse beat and the slightest movement was excruciating.
The doctor grunted reading his expression. “It's serious, that,” he said, pointing. “You ought to be packed off to hospital for a few days, but I don't expect you'll listen to me."
"I . . . I can't go to hospital,” murmured Colin. “Is there any more brandy about?"
The doctor scowled. “Give it here,” he grumbled. Snatching the glass, he stomped to the nightstand, refilled the snifter from the bottle Rina had set there, and handed it back to him. “You've lost more blood than you can spare,” he said, “and I've stitched you back together, but if you open that up again..."
Colin downed another rough swallow and nodded. “You've made your point. I'll be careful. Is there nothing more to be done for Elliot?"
"I've done all I can. I'm not liking this, he should have come ‘round by now."
"Ahhhh, Christ, I can't lose him!” moaned Colin.
"We haven't lost him yet, but if he doesn't come ‘round soon here...” He shook his head. “He should go to hospital, too, but I wouldn't dare attempt to move him—not in this flaw. It's a miracle the jouncing he took in the trap hasn't killed him as it is."
Colin staggered to his feet. Swaying, he moaned and stumbled past the doctor to the bed, where he sank down beside Elliot again. But the vicar's pale, still face hadn't changed, except that it seemed paler now in the candlelight. Teased by a cruel draft, the candle flames writhed this way and that throwing shadows, and the lamp on the dressing chest flickered, its smoking wick, extended to give more light, spreading an acrid odor in the damp air.
Outside conditions were just as grim. Tempestuous gusts slammed full-bent against the vicarage rattling the windowpanes and moaning in the eaves, while hail assaulted the tile roof making a deafening din. The storm was worsening. Soon the road would be impassable. Beside himself, torn between two loyalties, Colin gripped the vicar's arm and searched his still face. “Elliot, please!” he begged.
"Chapin, you oughtn't be sitting there,” growled Howard. “You ought to be abed yourself. There is nothing you can do for him here now."
"I will not leave him, Howard,” Colin mouthed, his tone absolute, “not ‘til he comes ‘round and I know he's going to be all right."
"Mary?” said a feeble voice through lips that scarcely moved.
Colin's head snapped toward the sound, and the doctor sprang forward. Hovering over the bed, Howard groped the vicar's wrist for a pulse.
Elliot moaned. “Mary? Don't go . . ."
"Ahhhh, Jesus,” murmured Colin.
The vicar hadn't opened his eyes, nor had he moved, and the doctor leaned closer listening with his stethoscope again.
Another groan creased the silence.
"Elliot, listen to me. It's Colin! Don't leave me—not now! Elliot, please . . ."
"Tired,” murmured the vicar, “so tired."
"I know,” choked Colin, “but please, for me?"
The vicar groaned again and after a moment his eyelids trembled apart. “Colin,” he breathed, “Colin, is that you?"
Colin nodded, unable to answer for the constriction in his throat.
"What happened?"
"It's all right, Elliot, you're going to be all right,” said Colin, seeking reassurance from Howard's stern face.
"Uhhh,” groaned the vicar. “I . . . I remember! The trap!” He gasped. “Ely! Something's wrong with him, Colin. He was wild. I . . . I couldn't hold him."
"It's all right, don't talk, Elliot, just rest."
"No, something's wrong with that horse I tell you. He's never behaved like that before."
"He's all right now, he's been seen to."
"Tired . . . so tired . . . bad one. Blast! Came on me so . . . suddenly."
"I know, but it's over now and you're going to be all right—don't talk anymore."
Straining for a clearer look, the vicar's eyes focused on the sling and bandages leaking blood over Colin's forearm. “Colin, you're hurt,” he realized. He tried to raise himself and failed.
"Here,” barked the doctor, thrusting the vial forward. “Have another swallow, Elliot."
The vicar refused it. “It's all right, George. ‘Tisn't my heart . . . stiff as a board . . . all over. My God!"
"I shouldn't wonder, what with the thrashing you took in that damned trap,” snapped
Colin. “For the love of God, will you lie still?"
"What happened to you?” Elliot insisted.
Colin hesitated, casting a sidelong glance toward Howard.
"George?” the vicar prompted.
Howard growled. “Chapin here tangled with that trap of yours so it seems,” he said gruffly. “He stopped the damned thing and gouged his arm on the wheel in the process. He'll live."
The vicar groaned.
"All right,” barked the doctor, “out, Chapin! Go on back home and go to bed. Ha! Alone! Young Ted can drive you ‘round."
"When I'm sure he's sound,” snapped Colin.
"Shouldn't he stay here, George?” said Elliot.
"Ohhhhh, no,” brayed the doctor, “I'm not allowing that!"
Elliot opened his mouth to protest, but the doctor's intractable eyes changed his mind. “All right then, Colin, please . . . just do as he says. That's bad there, you aren't fooling me. Don't make me worry over you. It's pouring down with rain. Take my slicker and go home before the storm gets any worse."
After a moment Colin sighed and struggled to his feet.
"My God,” murmured Elliot, watching him wrestle with the pain. “Colin . . . thank you."
The doctor yanked the vicker's slicker from the wardrobe and tossed it over Colin's shoulders carelessly. He scarcely noticed. “Christ,” he said, “don't thank me yet. Just wait ‘til you see what I've done to your trap. That was bloody near it, Elliot—for the pair of us. Now you mind him!"
The vicar nodded, but his worried stare turned Colin's eyes away. Squaring his posture, he adjusted the slicker and lumbered toward the door. “Howard, I want a word with you before I leave,” he said.
The doctor nodded. “You lie still, Elliot,” he barked. “I'll be back directly and I'm staying the night. Somebody's got to make you behave."
Colin turned back from the doorway. “I'll be ‘round first thing in the morning, Elliot,” he promised. “Please, do as he says."
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