Abbeyford Remembered

by Margaret Dickinson

  “I don’t think …”

  The Major made as if to turn away, shrugging his shoulders, “Then there is no more to be said.”

  Carrie glanced back at the men lying on the deck. Then she felt the first drop of rain upon her cheek. In desperation she turned back to him. “Very well, then,” she said resignedly, trying to ignore the triumph which leapt into his eyes.

  Below decks, in his cabin, the Major had evidently anticipated her acceptance of his invitation, for the meal on the table was the nearest to a banquet which Carrie had seen since leaving England.

  “How do you come to have all this,” she gasped, “when the men out there are starving?”

  “I told you I had power at my fingertips. Pray be seated, my dear.”

  “No,” she said sharply, “ I couldn’t, not when …”

  “My dear Carrie, this small meal would be as nothing to the number of men out there.”

  She whirled to face him. “How can you sit here gorging yourself, knowing your men are wounded, sick and starving?”

  “There’s no point in getting emotional about the situation. The officers in command must keep themselves fit and well, as must you, their nurse. Now, be sensible and eat.”

  “No,” Carrie replied defiantly.

  Major Richmond gave an exaggerated sigh. “ Still as stubborn, I see. Still determined to play the heroine as you were in that campful of cholera-ridden natives.”

  “What are you going to do about those men on deck?”

  “Absolutely nothing, my dear.” Major Richmond seated himself at the table and spread his napkin across his knee. “If you will not join me, then there is nothing further to discuss.”

  For a moment Carrie stood irresolute, staring at him in disbelief. She had recognised him for a hard, ruthless man who would do anything to get his own way, but she had not thought that even he would stoop as low as this – to neglect his soldiers’ well-being, to use them as pawns to blackmail her into submission! His passion for her – for it could not be called love – must be far greater than she had imagined. He had carried out his threat to follow her from India, to follow her wherever she went in the world. ‘You will not escape me’, he had promised, and now that promise – or, rather, threat – had been fulfilled. As she watched him begin to eat, her loathing for him overflowed. Then she remembered the men on deck, the encroaching darkness, the threatening storm.

  Reluctantly she sat down opposite him. He grinned at her. “ It’s really very good, my dear, do try some.”

  Sick with revulsion she picked at the food upon her plate, merely to satisfy this man’s whim. She must get him to do something for those men up there.

  “Major Richmond, please …”

  “Ah, now that is more the tone of voice I like to hear from you.” He reached out and touched her cheek. Though she cringed inwardly, Carrie clenched her teeth and restrained herself from slapping his hand away.

  “Please – will you do something for those men?”

  “Ah, yes, the men.” He raised his voice. “Sergeant.”

  The cabin door flew open. There was a stamping of feet as the man came to attention with a sharp “Sir!”

  “Arrange for the wounded on deck to be taken ashore. See what covering or shelter you can afford for those waiting.”

  “Y-yes, sir,” the man’s surprise was evident. “Right away, sir.”

  The door closed behind him.

  “You see,” Major Richmond said smilingly, “what it means to have power? I usually get my own way in the end, you know.”

  Not in everything, thought Carrie determinedly.

  “Do have some wine, my dear, I’m sure you’ll find it to your liking.”

  Major Richmond seemed determined to savour every mouthful of his meal and every sip of his wine. The minutes lengthened into hours and Carrie, weary, not only from this day’s work, but from the weeks of hard, grinding labour, found her limbs grow heavy and her eyes drowsy from the warmth of the cabin, the headiness of the wine, the comfort of the chair.

  She was unaware of the Major lifting her on to a couch, of him covering her with a blanket and then stealthily leaving the cabin.

  When Carrie awoke, at first she did not realise where she was. It was so blissfully comfortable, so warm, so restful. Her aching body luxuriated in the soothing softness of the couch. She became aware of a gentle rocking motion and as wakefulness came, she looked about her. The remains of the Major’s dinner still lay on the table, though light streamed in through the porthole. Bright light! Daylight!

  Carrie was fully awake in a moment. She must have slept the night through. She sat up and swung her legs to the floor and stood up. Smoothing her crumpled dress and ruffled hair, she went to the door of the cabin. Twisting the knob she found she could not open the door. It was locked!

  Stunned for a moment she could not think properly. Then she became aware that the ship’s motion was far greater than the previous day when they had been at anchor.

  She went to the porthole.

  They were moving. The ship was out at sea, the shore a speck in the distance.

  “Oh, no, no,” Carrie cried and covered her face with her hands. How could she have been so foolish?

  He had planned this. From the beginning, from the moment he had sent that letter to Miss Nightingale – perhaps even long before that for all she knew – he had planned this abduction.

  Anger flooded through her. What of the wounded? Then she remembered. He had given the order last evening for the wounded to be ferried ashore. No doubt this had gone on all night whilst she slept in a locked cabin, and now with the morning they were out into the Black Sea.

  “Jamie, oh, Jamie. I need you so much!” She closed her eyes.

  During the previous day she had had little time to ask her usual question of the men on board and whilst she had attended to many she had not seen all of them. Ellen had descended to the lower decks to tend the men below.

  The situation held more irony than Carrie knew.

  At the moment when she awoke to find herself a virtual prisoner aboard the ship and sailing back across the Black Sea towards the Crimea, the wounded were being carried up the steep slope to the Barrack Hospital. Amongst them was a soldier with his arm badly smashed by a musket ball. Like his companions he was more dead than alive, dirty, half-starved, unshaven and cold.

  His name was Corporal James Trent!

  Chapter Nine

  James Trent lay on sacking on the floor of the Barrack Hospital. He was slipping towards death. His eyes were closed against the sight of his companions and their suffering, but he could not shut out the sound of their moans, or the shrill cries as they were carried towards the small room where the doctors now operated instead of on the floor of the ward in full view of all the patients.

  Perhaps he would lose his arm. Not that he really cared. How he had survived until now he didn’t know – but it could not be for much longer. He was luckier than the many who had lain in that place before him, for now – slowly but surely – Miss Nightingale’s influence was beginning to take effect. The floors were clean, the beds reasonably so. There was clean clothing and food.

  Jamie Trent had a chance of survival – if he had the will to take it.

  He was by no means a coward, but it was so like the time in Abbeyford – what was it now, thirteen years ago, or more? There had been nothing left worth fighting for, not after he had lost Carrie, after he had watched her ride away from him for ever, as another man’s wife. How he had loved her wild, gypsy beauty, her bright violet eyes, her black, flying hair. He had loved her strength, her passionate nature – even her jealousy when she had spied on him talking to Francesca. How angry she had been. And then that anger had turned to love in a moment and they had become as one.

  Jamie smiled faintly as he remembered and the pain lessened a little. His memories of her were still so vivid. She was part of him. He would never be free of his love for her.

  How many times during the
years since had he gone over and over the events in his mind and wished his own actions so very different. If only – he had not ridden away in a moment of senseless, wild anger, ignoring Carrie’s desperate cries. If only – he had not entrusted his letter to her brother. If only – he hadn’t galloped like a mad thing on a pointless journey to the lawyers in Manchester. If only – if only – if only …

  Someone was bending over him, shaking his arm gently, trying to arouse him. “Sir! Sir! Corporal Trent. It’s me – Boy. Don’t you remember?” No one knew Boy’s real name. Not even he knew it, for he had been an orphan living on the streets of London until at the earliest possible moment he had taken the Queen’s shilling and joined Her Majesty’s army.

  He was a wiry little fellow, unaccountably cheerful and willing. The name officially given him was ‘John Smith’ but he had become known as ‘Boy’ to men and officers alike.

  Jamie was drifting, slipping into a world of memories, dreaming of Carrie and he did not want to be aroused back to the pain and suffering. He just wanted to drift away … away … But the voice was insistent, it would not let him go.

  “Sir – I’ve got some’at to tell you. Do wake up, sir. Please!”

  The pain was throbbing in his arm again, the noises of those nearby were pressing upon him once more. Jamie sighed and grimaced, shifted his sore and aching back a little and opened his eyes. “ Hello, Boy,” he said flatly. “You here too?”

  “Aye, bin here abit, I ’ave. Gettin’ better, I am now, sir, thanks to these nurses. Eh, that’s what I want to tell you, sir.”

  Jamie’s eyes were beginning to close again. “ Sir!” The tone was reproachful. “ Do listen, sir. I reckon it’s important.”

  “Go on, then,” Jamie said resignedly, his eyes still shut. “ I’m listening.”

  “Well, sir, you know when you had that bout of cholera, an’ I helped look after you, you was on about a girl called Carrie.”

  “Mmmm?”

  “Well, she’s here,” Boy said triumphantly. “She’s one of Miss Nightingale’s nurses!”

  Jamie’s eyes flew open in an instant. “Here? She can’t be – she … Boy – are you sure?”

  Boy nodded gleefully. “She was asking about you. She’s been asking everybody who’s come here nearly – so I’ve heard – an’ it was me who knew you.” He was so proud to be involved.

  “Where is she?”

  Boy’s face fell a little. “That’s the only trouble. Since you’ve been here these last three days, I ain’t seen her. I’ve been burstin’ to tell ’er, and I can’t find ’er nowhere. An’ you’ve bin lyin’ here half dead since you come.” He sniffed in a matter-of-fact manner. “I was afraid you was goin’ to snuff it ’afore I could tell you.”

  Die! Oh, hell! Jamie thought, not now! I’ll not die now. Only moments before he’d been close to it, allowing himself to slip over the edge into blissful oblivion. But not now, not any more if Carrie were here. If she was somewhere close again, if he could just see her!

  His hand reached out and clasped Boy’s arm, trying to raise himself up. “Boy – who d’you say is in charge of the nurses?”

  “Miss Nightingale.”

  “I must see her.”

  “She comes round at night – goes all over the hospital, carrying one of those Turkish lamp things. It’s dusk now. She’ll be along soon.”

  Jamie sank back again. “ You’re sure Carrie’s here? She’s not gone away again?”

  “I dunno. I can’t find anyone who seems to know.” He paused. “Except Ellen. When I asked her she wouldn’t seem to answer me proper. Looked upset, I thought … Oh God,” he glanced down at Jamie the words spilling out before he thought to check them. “ I hope she ain’t ill. Some of the nurses get cholera.”

  Jamie groaned aloud, whilst Boy watched him, biting his lips anxiously. He stayed with Jamie, squatting on the floor beside him, watching the long corridor for the pale, flickering light which would herald Miss Nightingale’s approach.

  “She’s here – she’s coming!” Again he was shaking Jamie into wakefulness.

  “What? Who? Carrie?” Jamie tried to pull himself up.

  “No. Miss Nightingale.” Boy began to scramble up.

  “Miss Nightingale – Miss Nightingale,” he said in a loud whisper. “Please, ma’am, would you step over here a moment. Corporal Trent wants to speak with you urgent.”

  Jamie saw the tall woman stop, hold her lamp high and look across in his direction. The light moved nearer and she was standing beside him.

  “How may I help you?” Her voice was soft and reassuring, yet firm and confident.

  “I’ll get you a camp-stool.” Boy fetched one and returned to place it beside where Jamie lay. Miss Nightingale set her lamp upon the floor and sat down. “Well?”

  “Ma’am, have you a Carrie Smithson – no – no, wait a minute – a Mrs Carrie Foster here as one of your nurses?”

  There was a moment’s pause, but Miss Nightingale’s face showed no change of expression. “May I ask why you want to know?”

  For a moment Jamie closed his eyes, unable to answer. Why, she asked. If only she knew!”

  “You must understand, Corporal Trent,” her voice was gentle yet there was authority there. “ That I must exert a strict discipline over my nurses, and …”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I appreciate that, ma’am,” he assured her hastily, “and I can promise you I do not in any way wish to cause you any trouble or embarrassment, only – I – beg you – let me see her – just let me speak to her.”

  He was silent, the words would not come. He could not explain to this quiet, composed woman all the craving in his heart which had been locked away there for thirteen lonely years. Would she – could she even – understand? Did she know what it was to love? Had she ever loved and lost, and then been given the chance of finding her beloved again?

  Boy, hovering near, was bending forward, whispering to her. “He loved her, ma’am, a long while back – only they was parted, I reckon. He won’t say much, but – if you could help him, ma’am, I reckon she’s all he’s got to live for – if you sees what I mean.”

  Her gaze was upon Jamie’s gaunt face, accentuated by the pale lamplight. “ She is one of my nurses – yes,” Miss Nightingale said slowly, “but I’m afraid she’s not here at present.”

  “Why? Is she ill?” Jamie asked, afraid of the answer.

  “I – trust not. I was asked to send a nurse aboard the ship you arrived on whilst it lay at anchor off Scutari. I sent Mrs Foster and a young girl, Ellen, with her.” Miss Nightingale sighed. “ Ellen returned with the wounded when they were brought ashore – but not Mrs Foster.”

  “What happened to her? Did the girl say nothing?”

  “I have questioned Ellen closely and it seems there was a major on board – she didn’t know his name, though I’ve since learnt from the soldiers his name was Richmond – the same man who wrote the letter to me asking me for my help. Evidently he had met Mrs Foster in India.”

  “India?” Jamie’s surprise was evident.

  “She had been in India with her husband – did you not know?”

  “I – knew she was married,” his eyes were filled with pain, “ but not where they had gone.”

  “Her husband was killed in India. Didn’t you know that either?”

  “No. No, I didn’t.”

  There was a pause whilst Jamie took in this information and all its implications. He raised his worried eyes again to Miss Nightingale’s calm face. “ But what can have happened on board the ship? Who was this – this Major Richmond?”

  There was bleak misery in his eyes, which Miss Nightingale could not fail to see even in the dim, fitful light. Had he found Carrie only to lose her again?

  “If it’s any comfort to you,” she said gently. “Mrs Foster did not seem at all pleased to see the Major – in fact, Ellen says she seemed afraid of him.”

  “Carrie – afraid?” Jamie almost smiled at the thought of his w
ild gypsy love being afraid of anyone. But that had been thirteen long years ago. He knew nothing of her life since with her husband, in a strange land. His expression was haunted.

  “Ellen last saw her arguing with this Major about shelter for the wounded from an approaching storm.”

  Jamie nodded. “ Yes – I remember. It rained like hell when we were being brought ashore. I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he apologised swiftly, “army life has robbed me of my manners.”

  Miss Nightingale nodded slightly and said, “ Corporal Trent, you do wish to know everything I know?”

  “Why, yes, of course. There’s – more?”

  She sighed. “ Yes. And it may be distasteful to you to hear it. Ellen heard the Major refuse to discuss helping the wounded unless Mrs Foster went below with him.”

  “And?” His face was dark now with anguish.

  She lifted her shoulders fractionally, almost sadly. “She went.”

  He groaned, unable to stop the sound escaping from his lips.

  After a few moments Jamie said quietly. “ They began taking us ashore and even tried to rig up some improvised shelter for those waiting on deck. Whatever happened, she evidently succeeded in persuading the Major to help the wounded.” There was bitter sarcasm in his tone as his imagination played cruel tricks on him, forcing him to picture her in the unknown Major’s arms in exchange for the well-being of the wounded.

  “Has the ship sailed back to the Crimea yet?”

  “Yes, it left as soon as all the wounded had been put ashore.”

  “To think she was on that boat – and I didn’t even know,” he murmured. “ If only …”

  “I’m sorry – truly,” Miss Nightingale said with compassion.

  Then, as if filled with a new purpose, Jamie said, “ My arm? How bad is my injury?”

  “The doctor thinks it may have to be amputated. Tomorrow he …”

  “No. Leave it. I will not be operated on. It’ll heal. It’ll have to. I’ll be out of here. I must go in search of her. I won’t lose her a second time!”