Chapter 17

Night Shift

Before Dr. Mabbs had retreated to his office to engross himself in writing order lists, filling in forms and file cards, noting statistical numbers and whatnot annoying administrative bunkum the Confederate Army found necessary, the last patient on whom he had checked had been the nameless soldier with the Yankee accent.

Mabbs had examined the leg wound one more time, finding it healing satisfyingly. Most physicians would have taken the easy way and simply amputated a leg injured so badly. A Minie ball had destroyed a lot of tissue, shredded muscle, torn the iliotibial band, and finally lodged in the femur. By some miracle it had not completely shattered the bone, yet it had done considerable damage. The soldier must have been exposed to the elements for at least half a day and a full night—sufficient enough time to develop an infection caused by particles of clothing or other dirt the bullet had carried.

But Bernadette had pled with him not to remove the limb, and both Bernadette’s obvious conviction that he would be able to pull the man through and his own professional pride had made him pick up the challenge and try the almost impossible. And so, having stabilised the patient first, he’d worked on saving as many lives as possible first and then, late at night, come back and performed a little miracle.

He’d done it to prove to himself that after two years of serving in the slaughterhouses referred to as field hospitals he was still a surgeon worth the title, that he still could heal a patient opposed to just keep him alive. And to earn himself another of Bernadette’s admiring glances. Perhaps the latter had even been the superior motive.

Of course, when the nurse’s appreciative gazes had shifted their direction, when she had started to bestow those looks upon the patient rather than on the doctor, Mabbs had questioned the wisdom of his actions. At one point he’d almost been ready for just allowing the ever-rekindling infection to run its destructive ways. But he couldn’t. He loathed the ailing soldier with a passion, but the man still was a patient, and therefore the doctor’s charge. Dr. Mabbs had not sworn the Hippocratic Oath to violate it at the first possibility and gain personal advantage from that. And that Yankee wasn’t worth compromising his honour over anyway.

He had done everything in his power to fight the infection, to heal bone and tissue, and to restore as much of the patient’s mobility as possible. There would, however, remain an ugly scar where he had had to remove larger quantities of inflamed flesh that would not just grow back, a garbled mess of welts and protrusions; and the man wouldn’t have full use of his leg for a long time. He would, in a way, have to learn how to walk properly again and how to live with a constant pain—and that would take a very long time.

Looking down on yet another military form on which he had to meticulously file each ounce of medicine he’d administered over the last week, the doctor sighed. He had given the Yankee a generous dose of laudanum stirred into a small glass of water tonight.

“Drink up,” he’d said as he’d handed the soldier the concoction. “It’ll take away all traces of pain. You’ll sleep like a baby.”

Bernadette, who’d assisted him, had looked up in alarm, but he’d turned away abruptly, to check upon the patient on the next bed, whom he’d thought to have heard moaning. He’d soon found that the man had been perfectly well, and applied his attention back to the Yankee, who apparently had drunk his medicine already, for the glass in his hand had been empty.

He had redressed the wound, making sure the bandage would not slip out of position even if the patient passed a restless night despite the sleeping drug. He’d instructed the nurse to leave some additional dressings on the bedside table, just in case the patient needed them while he, the doctor, would be unavailable, buried in paperwork and not to be disturbed by trifles; and then he had left the room, heading straight to his office.

He stared at the form on the desk before him, briefly wondering if the Yankee was on his way out already. He dismissed the thought as soon as it entered his mind. For all he knew, the patient lay in his bed, drugged into a sound sleep. He’d taken every precaution to keep the man where he was until he, now sufficiently healed, would be transferred to prison the next day. He’d done everything anyone could have expected him to do.

He drummed his fingers on the desk’s dark wood. He was not helping a soon-to-be prisoner escape. He wasn’t.

As a rule, Dr. Mabbs did not drink alcohol while he was working. He needed both his wits and his hands working skilfully and precisely—neither he nor his patients could afford any clumsiness, be it of his fingers or his brain. Yet at times, after a particularly strenuous day, he indulged himself in a sip of whiskey when his work was done. For those occasions he kept an earthen jug of old Kentucky bourbon in his desk.

Stopping the drumming of his fingers, Mabbs leaned down and produced the jug from the depths of the bottommost drawer. A thimble full will do, he thought. Just a tiny drop to calm my nerves.

He found a small tumbler, only a little bigger than a thimble, and poured a stingy amount of the golden liquid into it so that the bottom was marginally covered. Swirling the drink in the glass a few times and inhaling the luxurious fume, Dr. Mabbs found himself unable to raise the glass to his mouth.

He knew there were surgeons who wouldn’t hesitate. He had seen them, in the field hospitals, and some even here, where things were supposed to be more regulated: doctors who drank to dull their senses, to block out the smell of blood and death, the moans and cries of ailing, dying men, the memory of their own restrictions, their failures. Men who got so accustomed to the daily inebriation, they drank till the pot was dry, and still needed more. More and more, to numb their anxiety.

He wasn’t one of those men.

He poured the whiskey back into the jug, his hands calm and steady, without spilling a single drop and replaced the bottle into his desk.

No, he wasn’t one of those men. He was a man of honour. A man who knew right from wrong. A man who did his duty.

And he had not helped a prisoner escape.

Dr. Mabbs picked up his pencil and finally started to fill in the form about the ‘distribution and administration of sedative and anaesthetic drugs,’ making sure he recorded the abundantly measured dose of laudanum he’d used on the unnamed patient in room four to drug him into oblivion.

No, he certainly had not helped anyone to escape.

***

Bernadette Lemont had been a nurse ever since the first weeks of the war they all thought wouldn’t last long. Being a woman on whom the fine ladies who came to read and talk to patients but never soiled their hands with gore and pus looked down, she still was the one for whom the patients cried in the dark of night when their pain became too big and their dreams unbearable. Now she stood hidden in the shadows next to the window at the end of the first floor corridor staring into the night, contemplating her own delusions.

She wasn’t crying. There was no use in crying: it would change nothing. It was better to accept her fate right now—after all, she’d made her own bed, hadn’t she? Her mistake had been to fall in love; but who would fault her for that? Perhaps she had to be faulted for indulging herself in unrealistic dreams, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret that. It had been good while it had lasted, good and right and wonderful; and now it was over and done with, she had to move on—and never get lost again in fanciful dreams.

It was as easy as that, and as hard as that.

Bernadette tried to peer through the night, to get one last glance at what she could never have had, but Adam’s lone figure had been swallowed by the darkness already.

He had insisted on leaving without her help. “It’s better that way,” he’d said. “If I get caught, it’ll be only me.”

“But you’re still in pain, and clumsy. You’ll need help getting out of here unnoticed.”

“If I can’t even get out of the hospital on my own, how am I supposed to make it to Gettysburg?”

Of course, he’d been right. But still…she’d been reluctant to leave him right then. She’d known she would never see him again, and she couldn’t tear herself from him. Alas, it had to be. The more they tarried and prolonged Adam’s departure, the smaller his lead on possible pursuers would become.

She’d handed him a bundle of civilian clothes: the same camel-coloured pants as before and a matching, non-chequered shirt.

“I’m glad your choice of pattern is a bit more unobtrusive this time,” he’d said and arched an eyebrow.

She’d chuckled silently, and declared, “Well, I thought we’d better not attract attention with our gay apparel, should we?”

It had felt almost like being back to their comfortable companionship, but Adam’s next words had reminded her that there wasn’t a ‘we’ anymore, only a ‘he’ and a ‘she.’

“I’m going to be conspicuous enough, no matter what I wear. I’ll have to stay hidden as much as I can. At least until I’m sure I’ve reached Federal territory.”

She still wondered how he would be able to tell where he was, but he’d seemed confident enough that he’d find his way.

As she’d discreetly wiped away the small pool of clear liquid on the ground where they’d emptied the laudanum while Dr. Mabbs had busied himself with the other patient, Adam had changed into the new set of clothes. She’d been pleased to see that he’d moved much more smoothly than before, that even putting on the pants hadn’t troubled him too much.

She’d given Adam a rough sketch of the hospital’s ground and of Charlottesville’s main streets and buildings, a kind of treasure map—only that the cross on it marked the place where a horse was waiting for Adam, not a buried treasure. But then again, that horse certainly was a treasure much more precious to Adam right then than any strongbox filled with gold and gemstones.

She wished she could have gone with him and guided him through the dark. It was pitch black outside, a moonless night; and it certainly wasn’t as if a star shone down to lead Adam where the horse stood. He could easily get lost or pass by without noticing. The horse was crucial for Adam’s escape; without it he would never be able to put enough distance between himself and the pursuit that would begin come morning. She’d described the way he’d have to go three times and insisted that he’d repeated her instructions. He’d obeyed, smiling, and then assured her he’d be all right.

“I’ll only have to make it outta here without being corned by that lovely doctor again. Are you sure he’s not lurking in a dark corner somewhere?”

“He won’t be a problem, Adam. He—” And then she’d nearly let it all out. A part of her had screamed to confess it all, to beg him to take her with him. But another part of her, a much bigger, much more rational part, had kept her mouth shut and her face impassive and had let her say, “He will be occupied for a long time. He’s nothing if not thorough with his paperwork.”

Bernadette looked out of the window one last time. She knew there would be nothing to see, Lord, there hopefully was nothing to see—Adam had left the hospital hours ago and should be miles away already—but somehow she imagined that her heart would be able to go out, pierce darkness and space and reach Adam, making him see that she’d never stopped loving him, that she never wanted to hurt him, and that—that it would be all right. That he would be all right, and she…and even Dr. Mabbs.

There had been so many things she would have liked to tell him as they’d said their good-byes, things that had had to be left unsaid, and things that should have been said but couldn’t cross her lips.

“Stay safe,” had been all she’d been able to say, nothing else.

And Adam had whispered, “Thank you for my life,” and breathed a chaste kiss on her cheek.

She sighed, smiling to herself, and finally, sending out a small prayer for Adam, turned away from the window to go and check on her patients. She made her round through the silent hospital, opened every door, looked into every room to find everything as it was supposed to be. The lump of blankets on Adam’s bed would have fooled her into thinking it was occupied by a peacefully sleeping man if she hadn’t known it better. There was no need to inquire more closely.

Outside, the church bell tolled five times. Her shift was almost over. She smoothed her apron, adjusted her nurse hat, tugged a lose strand of hair behind her ear and knocked at Dr. Mabbs’s office door.

At his “come in” she entered the room.

Dr. Mabbs looked up. “Is everything in order, nur—Bernadette?”

“Yes, sir. Everything is quiet. No…particular occurrences.”

“Very well.” He put his pencil down and gazed at her for a moment, then nodded a few times. “Very well indeed.”

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“No. You may go home now.” He harrumphed. “And when off duty, if you’re so inclined you might want to call me Robert.”

All she could do was croak, “I’ll do that, si—Robert” and, stunned, watch how his face lit up in a true and genuine smile after that.

***

Tiredness made Adam shiver. He’d spent hours in the saddle already, and even though riding had seemed familiar to him from the moment he’d mounted the horse, being up and about for such a long time took everything he had—which wasn’t much. After weeks of recovery his body had only just begun to build up strength. He still was thin as a rake, he still tired quickly, and he found himself shaking like a leaf after the smallest exertion.

If he hadn’t already known that, the walk from the hospital to the outskirts of the town would have proved it to him. Despite the chilly night he had been sweating heavily and struggling for breath as he’d reached the small stable where Bernadette had left the saddled horse for him. The fatigue had overshadowed even the spasms in his leg. In fact, walking had turned out to be painful but bearable. Just as earlier that day, it had seemed that the longer he walked—the more practise he allowed his leg—the steadier it became. How much of his stability had to be accounted to his cane, though, had showed when he’d tried to mount the horse.

Until that point, their plan had worked out perfectly. There had been a tense last conversation with Bernadette—too short to appropriately express his gratitude, yet too long to avoid awkwardness. Then, after Bernadette had left, he’d waited a few moments giving her time to get herself busy in another room. He’d taken the conveniently provided spare bandages with him, and his little note book, that was all. Bernadette had assured him she’d put everything he would need in the horse’s saddle bags: food mostly, a hunting knife and a blanket. She’d never owned a gun, and thought it would look too suspicious if she bought one, so he would have to go without. He’d left the letter for Bernadette on his pillow. There was nothing in it that could associate her with his escape, only a declaration of his feelings towards her—words he hoped would give her mind a little peace. It was the least he could do.

As he’d placed the letter, he’d been flashed with the memory of another letter, a bundle of letters, actually, in his hand, and he’d heard his own voice saying, “I wrote these in case of—” Then the letter were snatched out of his hand. He’d seen the hand ripping the letters from him: long slender fingers, delicately manicured yet marred with tiny ink spots—ink spots, again!—and heard her again, the British lady, who spat “I don’t need your blasted letters, I need you!”

It had been the same voice—Lord, why hadn’t he made the connection before?—it had been the same voice he’d heard in his dreams, the voice that had called for his help.

There hadn’t been the time to write it down, but he wouldn’t forget it anyway. Not again. It had accompanied him on the whole way, never left him. He’d heard it all the time, over and over again, that desperate “I need you!”, “I need you!”, “I need you!”

He hadn’t encountered anyone, not on his way through the sleeping building, not on the hospital grounds, not on the road to Charlottesville. It had been almost surreal to walk in the moonless night. While he’d seen only what was in close proximity, had distinguished first trees and bushes, then a few houses and fences only as dark silhouettes, and had felt the way under his feet more than he’d actually seen it, he’d still known exactly where to take a turn, where to walk straight ahead, where to duck and be particularly silent—Bernadette’s accounts had been precise and accurate. He’d found the shabby stable with no problems at all.

And then he’d had to get on the horse. Keeping most of his weight on his good leg, he’d secured the cane to the saddle. That had been the easy part. But the short moment he had had to put full weight on his bad leg to get his left foot into the stirrup he’d felt a sharp pain radiate through almost the entire limb. Uttering a suppressed groan, he’d clung to the saddle to keep himself upright while the irritated horse had leapt forward and then made some nervous side steps.

“Whoa, boy,” Adam had cooed. “You gotta be a little patient with me, I guess.”

He’d scratched the horse behind its ears, and after a while it had calmed down enough to eventually stand still. Adam had gritted his teeth and tried again, this time prepared for the pain, and succeeded. Until that point he hadn’t given it any consideration how accomplished a rider he might be, but as soon as he’d sat on the horse, he’d felt at home. Moving in harmony with the animal had seemed completely natural, as if he’d done it all his life. Well, apparently not a sailor after all, he’d thought wryly.

The horse stumbled. Adam’s eyes flew open. Instinctively reaching for the saddle horn, he stabilised his seat, found his centre again and prevented himself from falling. He’d nodded off. It clearly was time to take a rest. But had he put enough miles between Charlottesville and himself already?

He estimated he’d done around 30 miles by then, more than half the way to Culpeper. He had stayed on the straight road leading north-northeast, as Bernadette had advised him. Not that there’d been another way to go: with almost no light he couldn’t ride safely through the completely dark forests. The road had met the Rivanna River twice and then a few smaller streams. As Bernadette had predicted, the rivers were narrow at the junctions and not very deep, and Adam had easily found fords to cross.

The real challenge would come later, 120 miles further ahead, in the form of the Potomac River. Rumours said the Union Army had built a pontoon bridge somewhere near Berlin only weeks ago, and Adam hoped fervently that it hadn’t been dismantled already.

And that his horse would play along. It seemed to be a reliable horse, well-ridden and already accustoming itself to its new master, and it had trusted him to guide them safely through the streams. But a pontoon bridge was something else entirely. How the horse would take to a moving surface, Adam couldn’t imagine. Perhaps it would trust him enough by then to at least be led over the bridge, but if worst came to the worst, he’d have to leave the animal behind and make the last sixty miles on foot.

Even the thought of that made his leg cramp. Not that riding itself was very comfortable on his leg, but it certainly was easier than walking. Walking sixty miles wasn’t really an option. He’d have to get his horse over that floating bridge, no matter what it would take.

Perhaps you better cross that bridge once you’ve reached it, he thought wryly and chuckled to himself. He should be able to arrive there in four or five days, maybe even earlier, depending on how good the terrain was. That was the crux, really. Using the road would get him quicker to where he wanted to be but he’d be in danger of being spotted; riding through the woods was safer but the uneven ground would slow down his progress considerably.

He spurred the horse back into an easy trot. Better make the most of the last minutes before sunrise. He would retreat into the woods then, find a hideaway to rest and eat, and then carry on. For now he needed to make as many miles as possible before anyone noticed his escape and alerted the military. If he was lucky, that wouldn’t happen until reveille, and no one would expect he had a horse. Then the search would start late and be limited to the immediate vicinity of the hospital, to a perimeter of a few miles only. By the time they realised he had means of transportation and send out wanted telegrams to other towns, he might already be relatively safe in Maryland. If Maryland, being a border state, was safe for him at all.

If he was not lucky, the Home Guard had already been alerted and was chasing him this very minute.

He couldn’t help but look over his shoulder. There was still no one on the road, but the fact that he could actually see that there was no one told him he’d stayed long enough out in the open. The horse didn’t take well to being turned towards the uninvitingly dark woods, though. Flattening its ears and whinnying pitifully it fought Adam every step.

Finally he brought the horse to a stop, giving it time to calm down. He tried the cooing words that had done the trick when he’d had problems mounting. He didn’t know whether it was the soothing words or the fact that the sun slowly rose in the west, but the horse’s nervousness subsided eventually.

Taking a deep breath he gently nudged the horse forward into the shrubbery, when he heard a shot and a cry from behind him: “Hold it right there!”

He didn’t think twice. Digging his heels into the horse’s sides he forced it into a fast trot. Tired as both the animal and he were they wouldn’t stand a chance on the open road, so he went straight into the woods.

The forest was thick, and Adam was thankful for every single ray of early morning sunlight that made it through bushes and the closely growing trees. As if the horse felt that they were chased by predators it no longer resisted him. Passing so closely to tree trunks Adam’s boots almost scraped them, jumping over small bushes, turning at almost impossible angles, the horse followed Adam’s guidance perfectly. The ground was broken, full of holes and loose stones, and no sane man would urge his horse on like Adam did, but it was his only chance to escape capture. He stood in the stirrups, ignoring the pain that flared up in his leg, trying to balance out the horse’s uneven gait. He didn’t see much of the path, but even if he could see it he wouldn’t be able to dodge most of the irregularities—there just wasn’t enough space to avoid them.

He brushed past shrubs, ripped his pants on briars and more than once had to duck his head to avoid low branches. On and on he went, with his heart racing and his ears ringing; never daring to slow down and listen to hear if he still was followed, never even looking back for fear that his shifting weight might prompt the horse into a fatal misstep.

In the end, it didn’t take a glance backwards. Whether from one slipping branch on the ground too many, one grass-covered hole too deep, or one patch of soil too slippery, Adam felt the horse stumble and going over its ankle; he heard the telltale snap of breaking bones. Freeing his feet from the stirrups as the horse collapsed under him, he pushed himself off it with his hands on the withers, and somehow managed to avoid getting trapped under the heavy animal as it hit the ground hard.

He crawled into the nearest bushes, tried to get up and run but to no avail. He found he couldn’t move, couldn’t make his body work. Could only lie and listen to his frantic heartbeat, to the horse’s pained panicky thrashing, and to the eerie quiet beyond that.

__________
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark…
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Paul Revere’s Ride

***