Helping Uncle Philip to his feet, Lizzie gasped again. One of Daniel Taylor’s friends wielded a gun. Uncle Philip gripped Lizzie’s shoulders and prevented her from moving.
“Daniel, stop this madness,” Joshua pleaded. “Tell him to put the gun away.”
“A man with a gun does what he pleases.” The man spoke before Daniel could say anything.
“Just let the soldiers pass,” Joshua said.
The man pivoted and pointed the gun at Joshua. Lizzie stifled a scream.
“Nobody will get hurt who doesn’t deserve to get hurt,” the man said. “You decide which side you’re on, once and for all.”
Lizzie held her breath, not knowing what Joshua would do or say. He said nothing. He did nothing.
In the scuffle that came next, it was hard to tell who did what. All Lizzie knew was that the man with the musket was pounced on by several of his cohorts. Apparently others in the gang had the good sense to know that their friend should not be trusted with a loaded musket. Lizzie saw the tip of the muzzle arching upward when it went off.
“Joshua!” But it was not Joshua who dropped to the cobblestone. It was one of the British soldiers, shot through the shoulder.
Uncle Philip released Lizzie and rushed past her to the fallen soldier. “Let me help,” he called out. “I’m a doctor.”
“We know who you are,” sneered one of the men. “We heard the tailor was fitting you for a redcoat all your own.”
Uncle Philip put his ear to the soldier’s chest. “This man is badly wounded, but he’s alive. Let me help him.”
“Leave him be,” said the man who had fired the musket. “Nature will finish my interrupted work.”
“Have you gone mad?” said one of the others. “Take your musket and get out of here before the authorities arrive.” Two others scurried away, taking with them the man who had shot the soldier.
“Joshua! Lizzie! Help me.” Putting his hand behind the soldier’s back, Uncle Philip propped up the wounded redcoat. The soldier’s head rolled from side to side like a loose ball.
“Daniel,” Joshua pleaded, “stop this insanity.”
Daniel’s face had gone white. He put his hands up. “It is out of my hands now. You decide for yourself what you are going to do.”
Where she found the courage, Lizzie did not know. But she knew that she had to respond to her uncle’s pleas for help. She squatted in the street with Uncle Philip and tried to lift the unconscious soldier to his feet. Blood flowed from his wound onto her dress and hands.
“We have to get him to the clinic,” Uncle Philip said, “away from these brutes.”
“They’ll never let us in,” Lizzie said.
“Only a redcoat would help another redcoat!” a voice shouted. “You had better think carefully about your next step, Wallace.”
“Ignore them, Lizzie,” Uncle Philip said. “Start walking. Look straight at the clinic door, nothing else.”
Lizzie nodded, squelching the sob that welled up in her throat.
“Clear the way!” Joshua shouted. He started pushing his way through the gang.
Uncle Philip grunted. “I know he’s heavy, Lizzie, but go as quickly as you can.”
A spray of stones splattered Lizzie’s face.
“Girls can be redcoats, too, you know.”
The angry words stung almost as much as the stones themselves.
“The clinic door, Lizzie,” came Uncle Philip’s steady voice. “Nothing else.”
CHAPTER 7
The Wounded Soldier
Lizzie lurched across the threshold, catching herself just in time to keep from stumbling. Her thin shoulders bore the weight of the unconscious soldier. His lanky form was draped haphazardly between Lizzie and Uncle Philip. Her knees nearly buckled with every step, and her stomach churned violently.
Uncle Philip tugged her through the doorway and pointed at a cot along one wall. The mob was at their heels, screaming disapproval.
“Lobsterback!” “Traitor!”
“Even doctors have to pay taxes!”
Lizzie craned her neck for a glance at the men outside. Instead, she saw the back of Joshua’s head as he crashed the wooden door shut behind them.
“Secure the latch!” Uncle Philip shouted. “And get away from the window. Now!”
Joshua obediently pulled down the latch and stepped toward the center of the room, but he turned his head to look out the window.
“We need your help, Joshua,” Uncle Philip said sharply. “Pay attention in here, please.”
“What do you want us to do?” Lizzie asked, certain that she could bear the soldier’s weight no longer.
“Joshua, help me lay him on the cot,” Uncle Philip directed, taking the weight of the soldier from Lizzie. “Lizzie, get a bucket of water. You’ll find some clean rags in the cupboard.”
Lizzie surrendered her responsibility for the soldier to Joshua and turned toward the cupboards on the facing wall. Her lungs burst with the realization that she had not taken a deep breath in a long while. She gulped some new air and forced herself to move toward the cupboard. Uncle Philip’s voice sounded distant, somewhere beyond the pounding of her own heart. Bleary with sweat and tears she had not known she was shedding, Lizzie’s eyes refused to focus. She wiped her eyes with the back of her grimy hands and only then saw that her sleeve was drenched with the soldier’s blood.
“Quickly, Lizzie,” Uncle Philip urged as he straightened the soldier’s form on the cot.
Lizzie blinked her eyes into focus, yanked open the cupboard door, and grabbed an armful of clean rags. The water barrel stood in the corner. She nervously filled a bucket and carried it to Uncle Philip.
“Good.” Uncle Philip had unfastened the red jacket, the symbol hated by so many Bostonians, and was trying to pull the man’s shirt away from his chest. Blood matted the white cotton cloth, causing the cloth to stick to the soldier’s skin. “Joshua, stoke the fire. I don’t want him to get cold.”
Joshua started to protest. “But it’s warm in—”
“Do as I say!” Uncle Philip cut him off, and Joshua picked up the iron to stir up the coals Uncle Philip always kept ready for service. “There is wood in the back room. Get what you need.”
Joshua scurried into action, knowing better than to argue further.
“We’ll have to expose the wound, Lizzie. I’ll need a knife. There is one on the sideboard. We’ll have to cut through his shirt and jacket to get at the wound in his shoulder.”
Lizzie handed her uncle the knife and grimaced as he first slit the cloth of the man’s jacket, then the shirt. Gently he pried the blood-soaked garment away from the skin. Lizzie clenched her stomach as she watched Uncle Philip work. The hole in the soldier’s shoulder gaped up at her, still spurting dark purple liquid. Her hand moved to her mouth to stifle a scream.
“Stay with me, Lizzie,” Uncle Philip said, his voice more gentle than before. “I need your help.”
She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “What do you need?” She grasped the back of a chair to keep from quaking. Her voice sounded braver than she felt.
“A wet cloth. Lots of water.”
Lizzie dipped a rag in the bucket and handed it, still dripping, to Uncle Philip. In a few seconds, Uncle Philip had the area cleansed. Still the blood came.
“Should I get Aunt Johanna?” Lizzie asked hopefully. She knew her aunt was experienced at assisting Uncle Philip in emergency situations, as well as in the routine care of patients.
“There’s no time. He’s bleeding too much. Besides, you would never get out the door. Lizzie, you can do this. I know you can.”
“I’m trying, Uncle Philip. It’s just … the blood.” “You’re doing fine. Just follow my instructions.” Lizzie nodded.
“Put your hand here,” Uncle Philip said, pointing to the wound. He laid a fresh cloth over it and guided Lizzie’s hand. “Now press down, and keep pressure on the wound.”
A clatter of wood behind her made Lizzie jump
.
“Keep pressing,” came Uncle Philip’s steady voice.
Lizzie threw a frightened glance toward the window. But the sound had come from Joshua returning from the back room with an armload of wood.
“How is he?” Joshua asked, arranging three logs on the fire and stirring up the coals once again. The dry wood immediately began to crackle. Bright flames spurted upward and threw shadows on the walls. Lizzie pressed harder.
Uncle Philip sighed. “He’ll be all right if we can get the bleeding to stop. But he’s still unconscious.”
“Why?”
“Probably from the pain. We have to keep him warm.” Uncle Philip unfolded a wool blanket on the end of the cot and spread it over the soldier’s legs.
Joshua drew closer and studied the patient’s face. Knotted light brown hair framed his pale face. “He’s so young,” Joshua said softly, thoughtfully.
“Just a boy,” Uncle Philip agreed. “Hardly more than sixteen, I’d say.”
“Two years older than I am,” Joshua murmured, his eyes wide with the realization of his coming manhood.
“Did you see his boots?” Lizzie asked. “I could see newspaper wrapped around his feet showing right through the bottom of one of them, and the other is not much better. He probably hasn’t been to the cobbler in two years.”
“Keep pressing, Lizzie,” Uncle Philip said as he felt for the young man’s pulse. “A lot of the British soldiers are in the same condition. That’s part of why Parliament has ordered the stamp tax—to provide for the soldiers on duty in the colonies.”
“But, Uncle Philip,” Joshua started, “there must be another way. Taxing us when we have no part in Parliament’s decisions simply is not fair.”
“But we do receive protection from the Crown.” “Why can’t we pay the soldiers ourselves, like we always have?” Joshua persisted in his argument.
Uncle Philip shook his head. “There are no easy answers. But sending boys like this—or you—into dangerous situations is not fair either.”
Joshua had no response. He knew his uncle was right. Lizzie tried to imagine Joshua across the ocean, thousands of miles away from his home, following orders whether he agreed with them or not. Then she imagined how their parents would feel—how the soldier’s parents must be feeling right at that moment—not knowing the fate of their son.
Outside, the mob throbbed against the clinic walls. Lizzie could hear their rocks striking the door. Uncle Philip casually glanced out the window, but Lizzie saw his concern. Joshua, too, studied his uncle’s expression. Lizzie reached for a fresh rag and eyed her brother.
“Do you wish you were out there with them, Joshua?” Joshua’s eyes met hers briefly and then shifted away. “Don’t be foolish.”
“This could have been you!” Lizzie cried. “You could be lying in the street with no one to take care of you. Boston is dangerous enough these days. You’re getting mixed up with Sam Adams, and that will only make things worse.”
“You worry too much,” Joshua replied.
Lizzie glared at him.
Uncle Philip checked on the wound. Lizzie looked down at her hands, covered in blood, and remembered the injury her uncle had taken in the fracas. “Uncle Philip, is your head all right?”
He touched his forehead, which was swollen and blue. “I will confess that I have a blinding headache, but I am certain it will subside in a few minutes.”
“I felt so helpless when I saw that board aimed at your head. I don’t know what I would have done if you had been hurt badly.”
Uncle Philip smiled at her. “You would have done what you are doing now—taking care of the wounded.”
Lizzie shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t have known what to do without your help.”
“You’re doing a wonderful job, Lizzie.”
His words made her calmer. Then she saw a face in the window, and her heart lurched. “Won’t they ever stop?” she cried.
“Philip Wallace!” came the voice from outside, muffled by the glass. “You’ll have to answer for giving refuge to a lobsterback.” A spray of pebbles tinkled against the pane.
“Pay them no mind, Lizzie,” her uncle said, wiping his own face with a cool cloth.
“But they might break the door down.”
Philip shook his head. “If they were going to do that, they would have done it by now.” He stepped over to the window. “Most of them have dispersed. The ones who are left are just agitating to make a name for themselves.”
“The Sons of Liberty, no doubt!” Lizzie said scornfully.
“The Sons of Liberty are not agitators,” Joshua said in defense of the friendships he had formed during the summer months. “They want to do what’s best for the colonies.”
“Rioting in the streets is good for the colonies?” Lizzie gave voice to her skepticism.
“Now stay calm, you two,” Uncle Philip warned. “We don’t need a civil war in the family as well as out in the streets.”
A moan brought them all back to the reason they were in the clinic together. The soldier moved his head stiffly from side to side, and his eyes fluttered open.
Uncle Philip put a hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. “I think the bleeding has stopped.” He tried to nudge her away, but she was frozen in her spot. Her green eyes locked onto the gaze of the clear gray eyes of the soldier, and she saw in him the same fear that was in her own heart.
“It’s all right, son,” Uncle Philip said, gently prying Lizzie’s hand off the soldier’s chest. “I’m a doctor. I want to help you.”
The young man moaned once again.
“I’m sure you are in a great deal of pain,” Uncle Philip said, “and I will do what I can to make you comfortable. You’ll have to stay for a few days until your wound is sufficiently healed.”
The soldier’s eyes followed Uncle Philip’s movements as he examined him more fully.
“I’ll arrange everything with your captain,” Uncle Philip said. “Do you think you could manage to sit up a bit so we can take off your shirt and coat?”
The young man slowly turned his head toward his wound and spoke for the first time. “You cut my coat.”
“We had to,” Uncle Philip said calmly. “It was the only way to get to the wound and stop the bleeding.”
“You cut my coat,” the soldier repeated, his voice cracking. “It’s my only coat.”
“I’m sorry about that, truly I am, but surely you can understand the need.”
The soldier turned his eyes away. “You cut my coat,” he said again, softly, with defeat in his voice.
“Lizzie,” Uncle Philip said quietly, motioning for her to help strip off the mutilated clothing. Gently, he supported the young man from the back, while Lizzie slowly worked the shirt and jacket off. She saw the soldier’s thin chest and the bumps his ribs made. When did he last have a good meal? she wondered. Even in the midst of a boycott, her family managed to eat. None of them were as thin as this soldier.
Joshua moved restlessly back and forth across the room, stirring the fire and checking the window. Uncle Philip and Lizzie did not speak as they finished cleaning the grime off the soldier and bandaging his wound. The soldier grimaced in pain, but he did not moan again. When the job was done, he breathed heavily and fell asleep once more.
Lizzie joined Joshua at the window. Only two boys remained outside, and they were simply amusing themselves kicking rocks. Joshua turned once again toward the soldier.
“He’s so young,” Joshua said. “So young.”
CHAPTER 8
Aunt Johanna’s Visit
Lizzie jumped out of her chair. Her book slid down the folds of her skirts to the floor. Sudden pounding on the front door had broken into her afternoon reading on a hot August day. She had been looking for an excuse to put aside the reading her mother had assigned her, but she had hoped for a more pleasant interruption.
“Coming!” she called out. She clutched her skirts and ran as quickly as she could across the front room toward the door
.
At the same time, she heard her mother’s footsteps rushing from the kitchen and Joshua thundering down the stairs. The pounding continued—this time even more insistently. The three of them converged on the front door, competing to be the one to pull it open and reveal the source of the ruckus.
“Aunt Johanna!” Lizzie said, shocked when the door was finally open.
“Johanna, get inside this instant,” Constance Murray grabbed her sister-in-law by the forearm and pulled her into the house. Before closing the door again, she scanned the street outside the house. Looking over her mother’s shoulder, Lizzie could see nothing.
With Aunt Johanna was young Charity, who looked confused but secure in her mother’s arms. She smiled at Lizzie and curled her fingers in a wave.
“Aunt Johanna, what’s happened?” Lizzie questioned. “You look as white as a ghost.”
Before answering, Aunt Johanna set her young daughter down securely on the floor and straightened her dress. “Charity, run upstairs and look for Emmett, please. It’s playtime.”
“Playtime!” squealed Charity. And before anyone said another word, she was gone.
Aunt Johanna let out a heavy sigh and smoothed her frazzled hair.
“Come in the kitchen, Johanna, and I’ll fix you some tea,” Mama said. She nodded at her daughter. “Lizzie, get the cups out.”
“Yes, Mama.” Lizzie obeyed her mother with her hands, but her ears, eyes, and mind were all fixed on her aunt.
Mama stoked the fire under the pot to boil the water. Aunt Johanna sank into a chair. Joshua glanced out the window.
“Now tell us what happened,” Mama said.
“I’m so sorry to barge in on you in such a rude manner,” Aunt Johanna said. “I suddenly felt that I must get off the street, and yours was the nearest house of someone I could trust.”
“But what happened?” Joshua pressed his aunt.
“Yes, Aunt Johanna,” Lizzie said. “Something must have happened to make you feel that way.”
“I’m almost embarrassed to say that nothing exactly happened. At least not yet. It’s just that the street gangs make me so nervous. I especially hate to go out when I have Charity with me, but Philip was too busy at the clinic to watch her, and I couldn’t avoid going out any longer.”
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