Carla Kelly Page 6

  Jenks was asleep and breathing more steadily than he had since Bones’ harsh visit the day before, so Jess remained in the tent opening. He had seen retreats enough to not fear now when the regiment seemed to untangle itself from a thousand knots and pull out. He waved at the brother officers he was acquainted with, nodding at their words of “See you behind the lines, Surgeon!” and calling back comments of his own.

  The road was quiet then for a time, and then the next regiment moved up, to bivouac under the trees nearer the river. He knew they could remain there a few hours, or all night, to be followed by another regiment, and then it would be the marching hospital’s turn to move out under the protection of the division’s last regiment.

  “Where is she?”

  He wondered if he had been dozing on his feet, a skill learned early at the University of Milan. Major Bones stood beside him. He must have been dozing, because the man had obviously dismounted from the horse that was practically chewing on Jess’s sleeve. He pulled his arm away. “Who?” he asked, and felt instantly stupid.

  “Bertie Mason’s daughter, you clunch,” Bones said, biting off each word. “My batman went to help her pack, and she bolted like a hare, he told me. I can’t imagine why she would be here, either, but I can’t find her anywhere else.”

  “She said your batman snatched away her belongings and frightened her.”

  Bones muttered an oath, turned away, and mounted his horse, crowding it forward until Jess was forced to step back. “You are a puny little man,” he said. “A woman would be crazy to look to you for protection.”

  “People do unusual things when they are desperate,” he said quietly.

  Bones grinned at that. “I’ll agree,” he said. “You should have seen Bertie Mason an hour ago, scurrying around trying to borrow money off everyone he knows! The trouble is, everyone knows Bertie too well. Now he has given up the notion of looking for money and hared himself away in the sutler’s tent for gin. It’s an ugly sight.”

  “Bones, you are a bully,” Jess said.

  He waited for the horse to knock him flat, but the major only laughed. “I certainly am, Captain Puke Basin.” He leaned over in the saddle until Jess could smell the reek of gin on him, too. “I get what I want, which is more than you ever will.”

  Dan called to him from inside the tent, and he turned away. “I’ll find her, Captain,” Bones called. “Just give me a week with her, and she’ll be a happy woman. She’ll crawl after me begging for more, something you could never hope for, eh?”

  Jess shuddered. I’ve seen what men like you do to helpless women, especially if they are poor and have no protection. I wonder that the Spanish call men like you allies, after you and your like take a village in all the ways you can imagine.

  Jenks must have heard the major’s voice, because he was hyperventilating again. It took all of Jess’s patience with the bellows, and a greater dose of laudanum than he cared to give to calm the soldier this time. “I would really rather use our hospital funds to find a Sicilian willing to pull Major Bones’ liver and lights out through his rectum,” he murmured to Dan. Sorry, Hippocrates, but once in a while I would like to do some harm.

  He knew that Bones must be watching the hospital tent, even though he could not see him. He hoped that Nell and Sheffield would not return from their search for a chaplain. To his relief, an hour later a boy from the village came into the tent. Dan noticed him and gestured him forward.

  With a terrified glance at the men on the cots, he ran into the tent, threw a message down in front of Jess, and ran out again. “Do you suppose he has heard rumors about how bad hospital food is?” Dan joked. “I wish I knew enough Spanish to tell him that we haven’t lost more than ten or twelve muddy little boys in a day or two!”

  The message was written in Latin on Sheffield’s receipt pad. Jess wondered if the chief surgeon was enjoying the intrigue of the whole affair. He had to admire Sheffield’s flair, and feel not a little proud that the man knew he could write Jess in Latin. Safe from enemy hands, he thought. He read it, then looked at Dan. “You’re in charge for a few minutes. I’m to take my medical satchel and leave as though intent upon an errand of mercy to Marching Hospital Number Three. Wish I had a wedding ring for Nell.” And I wish I were taller, and braver, and certainly better-looking.

  He ran back to his tent and grabbed his satchel, pausing before his mirror to run his fingers through his hair and wish he had taken the time earlier to shave. At least he was wearing one of his better shirts. Well, I have all my hair, he thought, and he took another look. My teeth are mine. I can only hope that she won’t mind being married to someone who looks so…so earnest. There wasn’t another word for his expression that he could think of. Perhaps it was better than diligent or dutiful, he told himself as he shouldered his satchel and set out.

  He knew Bones was watching. He stopped in the road, then turned back and summoned the stretcher bearers. Now I’ll just have to find someone to load on this for the return trip, he thought.

  Tent already folded and packed, the wounded on wagons, Number Three was ready to pull out. He didn’t bother to look over his shoulder for Bones, but went directly to Colonel Ipswich, a surgeon he had respected for years. “Sir?” he asked. “Can you direct me to Major Sheffield?”

  “I’ll do better than that,” the surgeon said, and indicated the dead tent, where the able-bodied were even now loosening the tent pegs. “There are some of us who heard about your proposal, Captain, and have put a wager on whether you will overcome your charming shyness enough to say yes.”

  Jess laughed. “I am surprised you are not offering condolences that Bertie Mason will be my father-in-law.”

  The other surgeon winked. “As to that, rumor has it that Captain Randall is well juiced enough to keep Bertie in the style he would like to become accustomed to.” He came closer. “I hear it is your present poverty, and everyone else’s, which seems to be bringing about this wedding, eh? I say you’re carrying a good deed too far. Won’t your parents be chagrined to learn that their promising son married a woman practically standing in her shimmy? Lord, my parents would die of shock.”

  He was about to reply—what he wasn’t sure—when he saw Nell Mason, her face white, in the shadow of the dead tent, listening to their conversation. As he watched in horror, she swallowed a couple times, as though trying to keep her composure, then looked at Colonel Ipswich. “It only has to be to the Portuguese border, Colonel Ipswich,” she said. “That’s as far as anyone’s charity needs to extend.” Jess could hardly bear the hurt in her eyes as she stared at him. “Obviously I was not blessed with parents as fastidious as yours. You’re free to change your mind.”

  He didn’t know what to say; couldn’t think of anything to ameliorate either Ipswich’s remarks, or whatever Nell was imagining about him. “I wouldn’t dream of changing my mind,” he said. He winced a little at how firm the words came out. Were they directed more to her or to Ipswich? He wasn’t sure himself. He only knew how much he loved Nell Mason, and, at the moment, how little she would believe that if he told her. Not that he could, not a man as shy as he. Not with Colonel Ipswich—how could he ever have thought him a good man?—hanging on every word. “Just let me do this.” He came closer to her, concerned that she could look so pale. “Please, Nell. There simply isn’t any other way that we can think of to offer you protection from Bones.”

  She was about to reply, when Major Sheffield came to the door of the dead tent and gestured to them. “I think we had better hurry this, Jess.” He lowered his voice. “The chaplain is in a hurry to leave, and this tent has to come down.”

  Without thinking, he took Nell’s hand and pulled her into the tent with him. She offered no resistance, and his heart rose a little. He looked around, grateful that the bodies had already been removed.

  With a small feeling of relief, he recognized the chaplain, a man who had sat with him now and then through two years of shocking days of battle and long nights in the Penins
ula. Jess liked him because he was calm, and never engaged in theological debate, unlike some of his brethren who considered Jesse Randall an especially tempting target. “Mr. Faircloth,” he said, and held out his hand. “A special occasion, eh?”

  “It is, indeed,” Faircloth replied matter-of-factly, as though he spoke from the comforts of a parish sitting room in the country. “Nice to have a pleasant occasion.” He looked at Nell. “Are you sure you will have this one, Miss Mason?” he asked not unkindly. “I believe he is famous in this army for being the shyest man in Picton’s Division.”

  “I will have this man,” she replied quietly, and Jess felt his heart stir.

  “Mr. Faircloth, you know I am not a Protestant,” he began.

  “Nor are you a particularly good Catholic, if memory serves me,” the chaplain said, a smile taking what sting there was out of his words. “We will overlook that detail in the interests of expediency. Here now lad, get yourself over to this side of the future Mrs. Randall. Bear her up, if you will. She looks a little frightened.” He smiled. “As to that I am not sure which of you looks more frightened! Hang on to each other now. Since I have your attention, I always like to give a few words of advice.” His smile broadened, even as the rear of the tent dropped with a whoosh and Nell moved closer. “I’m certain you will not remember it, but perhaps Major Sheffield here will remind you later.”

  And so they were married. For all that the service was in English, and much shorter than weddings of his own faith, Jess Randall knew he would recall little of the contents, beyond his own quiet “yes,” and Nell’s, hers even quieter. He held his breath for the few seconds that she paused, then let it out with a rush when she agreed.

  He had no ring, so shook his head when Mr. Faircloth came to that portion of the ceremony. “It will have to wait for Portugal,” he said.

  “Not necessarily.”

  His chief surgeon came forward. He fumbled at the thin chain about his neck, pulling it out from his shirtfront, after loosening his neckcloth. “After all these years,” he began, his voice unsteady, “I have finally found an excellent use for this little thing.”

  Sheffield removed the ring that Jess knew had never been off his neck in the years he had known the chief surgeon. Sheffield had made few references to the wife who had not survived beyond the first year of his duty in India with the much younger, untried Wellington. “Oh, sir,” he began, but Sheffield silenced him with a look. Tears filled his eyes as his chief, with steady fingers, extracted the ring from the chain.

  “What say you, Millie?” Sheffield asked softly. “Did I find a good enough cause?” He smiled and handed the ring to Jess. “Put it on her finger, lad. When she wore it, Millie wasn’t any older than Nell is now. It might even fit. They are much the same size.” He turned to Nell, who was sobbing in good earnest. “Oh, hush now, my dear. You might even look back on this as a happy occasion.”

  Jess took the ring that his superior held out to him, willing his hand to be as rock steady. Without another word, he slid the ring onto Nell’s finger. Quickly he kissed her cheek and then nodded to Sheffield. “I think it almost fits.”

  The older man kissed Nell, too. He took her hand, and touched the ring as she sniffed back more tears. “We’ll wind a little string around the back. Jess can have it altered when you get to Lisbon.”

  The chaplain seemed to be having a problem with his nose that required his face be engulfed in a large handkerchief. “Drat this pollen,” he murmured.

  Jess didn’t think it was the time or the place to mention that the weed and grass season was long over in north Spain. “I could give you something for that, except that my medicines are all packed, Mr. Faircloth.”

  The chaplain blew his nose again more briskly, then shook his head. “It will pass.” He cleared his throat and consulted his well-worn book again. “Oh, my stars, I have not concluded.” He looked over his shoulder, where soldiers were rolling back the tent. “A little quiet back there, please!” When the men stopped working, and after a battery of light artillery passed, he took both of their hands in his. “Now I pronounce you husband and wife for the period of your mortal lives.”

  He said some more, but heavy artillery was passing. Unsure of himself again, and feeling more shy than a roomful of shy people, he merely watched as the chaplain signed his name to the marriage lines, and then held out the paper to Major Ipswich for a witness signature. It went next to Sheffield, who signed his name with a flourish.

  “That will do,” Sheffield said. He gave Nell another kiss, then turned and left the tent without another word.

  The chaplain waved the paper for a moment until the ink dried, then handed it to Nell. “Put it in a safe place,” he admonished. He kissed her cheek, too. “Cheer up, lass! This might be the best thing that ever happened to both of you!”

  He turned then to whisk the cross and altar cloth off the packing crate, open it, and stow them inside, along with his prayer book. In another moment he had stripped off his stole and chasuble, folded them with an efficiency that told Jess he had been a long time with the army, and arranged them in their appointed places.

  Jess came closer. “You’re sure that was entirely legal?” he asked, his voice low.

  The chaplain beamed at him. “Oh, you Catholics! Just because we are not awash in incense, dizzy with Latin, and weary with hours and hours on our feet doesn’t mean it won’t take!”

  “Well, I…” Jess came closer. “I know there were no banns, and there is no special license.”

  “Hush, lad,” the chaplain said. “There are certain expediencies available to members of the clergy engaged in the pursuit of war.”

  “Oh?” Jess asked. He didn’t mean it to sound skeptical.

  “Ye of little faith,” Faircloth scolded. “I think it’s good for forty or fifty years at least.” He winked at Jess. “After that, I’m not sure. Good luck to you both.” He turned to Nell. “My dear, make sure he does what you say.” He shook Jess’s hand. “This may be the smartest single act you ever committed.” Faircloth gave him a push toward Nell. “Give her a better kiss than that beggarly peck, Captain. She’ll think you’re not serious.”

  Jess was serious. He was equally aware that to express himself in words was impossible. Even if, in his supreme shyness, he stammered out his love for her, considering the speed of the wedding, he knew she would not believe him. But there she was, her cheeks wiped clean of tears, but her beautiful eyes still brimming with emotion. He had stood close to her before, but not this close. He couldn’t trust himself to say anything, but he put his arms around her and kissed her.

  He didn’t know what he expected. He knew his own distrust of strong emotion in front of others, something trained into him at Milan, and through years of war and his own shyness. None of it mattered right then as he enjoyed the softness of her lips, and the small sighing sound that escaped her lips as her arms went around him.

  He wished the moment could have lasted longer, but Nell leaped away from him in surprise when the side of the dead tent came down with a rush of canvas. The chaplain uttered a most unclerical expression heard commonly enough in the army, but probably not in a typical Anglican parish. “You soldiers have no sense of aesthetics!” the man exclaimed, which only brought laughter from the laborers.

  Jess took Nell’s hand then and led her from the tent. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say, but the matter was taken from him by a shout for help from the direction of the quartermaster’s compound. He only stood still a moment in surprise as Colonel Mumford, quartermaster general of Picton’s Division, waved to him frantically. “I say, Randall! Hurry over here! We have a bit of a problem! Oh, do hurry! I think I shall faint!”

  Hippocrates, I will wager that you never had to deal with a man milliner like our dear quartermaster, he thought. He tugged Nell along with him toward the quartermaster, who stood wringing his pudgy hands. His face was alarmingly red, but Jess had heard from Sheffield of the enormous quantity of brandy the
QM always seemed to have in stock, even when no other officer could find a bottle. Drunkards are devotedly to be ignored, he thought, even though his training took over and he ran toward the man.

  What lay before them in front of the quartermaster made Nell gasp, and Jess to recoil briefly, before he went down on his knees beside the prostrate man lying on his side. The soldier’s hands were clutched around a knife in his stomach. Jess carefully moved him onto his back, then sat back on his heels in amazement as he stared at Private Wilkie, he who had gone missing earlier in the day.

  As the quartermaster moaned, turned away, and threw himself into a folding chair, the private opened his eyes and gave a long, slow wink. While the QM fanned himself vigorously with one of his numerous order books, Wilkie whispered to Jess, “Sir, me and Harper have solved your money problem. If you can get me to Number Eight before the QM takes a good look, we’ll solve your problem.”

  Why is none of this registering, Jess thought as he stared at Wilkie, surprisingly cheerful, despite a knife deep in his gut. Gingerly he pulled back the private’s blood-drenched shirt. Wilkie’s hand clutched the blade. He groaned out loud, which set the quartermaster to uttering anxious twitterings of his own. Jess leaned closer over the wound. “Private, you need to let go of that blade.”

  Jess’s eyes widened in surprise as Wilkie chuckled. “It was Harper’s idea, and wasn’t it a good one?”

  “What on earth…”

  Wilkie moved his hand away, and Jess stared at the blade, which, from all appearances, had been carefully inserted into the mouth of the little fistula that formed Wilkie’s amazing wound. “Cow’s blood, sir,” the private said, his voice low in a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re slaughtering’m out back for the retreat.”

  “What have you done?” Jess asked in a fierce whisper of his own, even as the quartermaster began to whimper and call for smelling salts.