by Gwen Bristow
“I’ll get a surgeon,” Celia said. She spoke vehemently, to hide from herself as well as from Amos the fact that she did not know where she was going to get one. “He can’t lie here in the street,” she went on briskly. “Bring him in—not this gate, it’s not wide enough, I’ll open the gate to the driveway.”
Snatching the keys from her pocket she ran past the house to the carriage drive on the other side. She heard a shrill grating sound—in her confusion she could not tell whether it was the whine of a shell or the screak of her key in the lock—but anyway she got the gate open and Amos dragged in the cart.
He brought it to the edge of the back porch. Vivian’s bedroom was on the first floor, next to her boudoir, but when Celia said she would make up the bed in there for Jimmy, Amos shook his head.
“Miss Celia, excuse me ma’am, I don’t believe that’ll do. I could tote him, I’m right stout, but I’m scared to move him that far. He’s not bleeding much now, but if it really got started again—”
“I see.” Celia looked at the blood oozing out of Jimmy’s wound. With a shudder, she pulled off the kerchief around her neck. “Here, Amos, tie this around his leg, and maybe you can make the blood stop.”
While Amos obeyed, she ran to find Marietta. With frantic haste they pulled the mattress off Vivian’s bed and dragged it to the back porch. Standing each on one side of the cart they held it as steady as they could while Amos lifted Jimmy and let him slip gently down to the mattress. The pain of movement roused him; Celia heard him groan faintly, and murmur something about water. Marietta went for a cup. Celia dropped on her knees by the mattress and put her hand on Jimmy’s forehead. The skin was dry and blazing hot. Jimmy’s eyes opened. She was about to bend and kiss him when a stern dark hand closed on her wrist and Amos spoke with dreadful urgency. “Miss Celia, that surgeon.”
Celia sprang to her feet. Of course, this was no time to be a sentimental fool. While Marietta brought the cup of water and Amos lifted Jimmy’s head, helping him to swallow, Celia glanced toward the gate that led into Godfrey’s back yard. Godfrey knew everybody.
“I’ll be right back,” she said to Amos.
She ran across the yard and through the gateway. The guns seemed louder, the shells closer, or maybe it was only her imagination. Godfrey’s back door, like all doors these days, was locked. Celia pounded with her fists, shouting his name.
After what seemed an endless time—though it was really only a minute or two—a startled Negro woman’s voice demanded,
“Who’s that? What you want?”
“It’s me!” Celia cried. “Celia Garth. I want Mr. Godfrey Bernard—open the door!”
With exasperating slowness, a key turned and the door swung open. In the doorway stood a fat colored woman with gilt rings in her ears and a blue kerchief on her head. “What’s the matter, honey? You scared?”
“I want Mr. Bernard. I need a surgeon. Captain Rand has been hurt—Captain Jimmy Rand—”
“Oh Lawsy mussy!” The woman threw her apron over her head and rocked back and forth, wailing. Two other colored women came up the stairs from the cellar where they had taken refuge, shrilly demanding a share in the new trouble. Celia caught the arm of the nearest one in a savage grip.
“Oh hush, can’t you?” she exclaimed. “Where is Mr. Bernard?”
“He’s not home, honey.”
“Where is he?”
They didn’t know. He was all over town these days. Was Mr. Jimmy bad hurt?
Farther down the hall a door burst open and a man’s voice demanded, “What’s going on? Don’t you know I’ve got work to do?”
Celia cried out in relief. The man was Darren, holding a ledger in one hand and in the other a quill that was just dropping a blot on his shirt. Not long ago a blot on Darren’s shirt would have been a calamity, now he hardly noticed it. He gave Celia a tired smile.
“Sorry, I didn’t know it was you. But Godfrey’s feeding half the army and I have to keep these records for the quartermaster.”
“Mr. Jimmy done been hurt!” cried the fat woman, eager to be first with the bad news. The other women burst out wailing again. A shell whistled close and they all ducked.
“Can I speak to you, Darren?” Celia begged.
“Come in here.” He showed her into the room where he had been working. Papers lay helterskelter over tables and chairs, and account-books were stacked on the floor. Darren set down his ledger and quill. “What’s this about Jimmy?”
She told him as fast as she could. “Please get a surgeon, Darren! Please, before—” She could not add “—before he bleeds to death.” The words stuck in her throat.
But Darren understood. With his ink-stained hand he pushed back his hair. His face, usually so merry, was grim as he said, “Every surgeon in town is on the lines, worked half to death.” He stood thinking, while Celia twisted her hands in a torture of suspense. “Maybe—” Darren said slowly, “maybe—taking out a bullet isn’t such a job, you know. Painful, but—” He smiled suddenly. “I’ve got an idea. You go on back to Jimmy.”
“Oh Darren! God bless you.” She seized his inky hand and kissed it. “Hurry!”
The day was hot and grew hotter. Jimmy lay on the mattress on the back porch. Amos had managed to stop the bleeding but they were in terror lest it start again. Already Jimmy had lost so much blood that he was weak as a baby. Celia could only hope that this was blurring his consciousness of the pain. She sat on the floor by him, waving a fan to blow away flies, while Amos brought water from the well and gave him frequent drinks, for Jimmy was burning up with thirst. Celia brought some rice, but though he tried, Jimmy could swallow only a few grains. Remembering the trays Vivian had sent up to Darren at Sea Garden, Celia told Marietta to cut a slice of the spiced beef and make some broth. “He can eat it this afternoon,” she said, “after the surgeon has been here and he feels easier. Meat makes blood.”
Marietta went to the kitchen. Amos held up Jimmy’s head to give him more water. Jimmy’s head dropped back on the mattress, close to where Celia’s hand was resting. He turned his head and his lips touched her wrist. She bent to kiss him, and felt his skin fiery under her lips.
“Oh God,” she prayed silently, “please!”
She heard a mosquito whang past her ear. Good heavens, one more torment—wouldn’t this heat-wave ever blow over? She moved the fan harder, to keep the mosquitoes away from Jimmy.
Maybe she should have tried to find Miles. If he knew Jimmy was wounded he might be able to do something. But Amos said Miles was on duty somewhere along the Neck, while Jimmy had been at the south end of town. That was why Amos had brought him here, it was so close.
Oh God in heaven, please send that surgeon!
The shells rang through the sweltering air. But there were not very many of them, as if the men on the lines were too hot to do much real fighting. Celia sent Amos to look at St. Michael’s clock. Not yet one. They had been waiting less than an hour.
She told Amos to go to the kitchen and have Marietta give him something to eat. While he had his dinner Celia stayed where she was. Jimmy lay with his eyes nearly shut, his breathing shallow and slow. He hardly moved except when a wince of pain went over his face. Under the sunburn his skin had a greenish cast. Celia looked at the palm of her own hand, healthy pink, and hated herself for it.
And then—oh blessed sound!—under the roar of guns she heard the bang of the driveway gate, and Darren’s voice shouting,
“Celia! Here we are!”
Dropping her fan, Celia sprang up and ran down the back steps and around the house to meet him. “Yes, Darren! You’ve brought the—”
She stopped in dismay. For with Darren was no surgeon, but the little monkeyfaced French hairdresser, Hugo.
Hugo was all dressed up in his powdered wig and spanking-fresh clothes, as if he had come to do Vivian’s hair, and he held the leather bag in which he was used to carrying his pomades and curling-tongs. As he saw Celia he gave a snappy little bow like a danci
ng-master.
“It is an honor to be of assistance, miss,” he purred. “And where is the poor brave gentleman?”
Celia could have burst into tears, but she managed to answer, “On the back porch.”
“I will see him,” announced Hugo, and he went prancing off. Darren caught Celia’s elbow, and bent his head to speak in a low voice.
“He can do it, Celia. Hugo wasn’t always a fancy hairdresser. He used to be a plain barber-surgeon.”
“Come on then!” she cried. “He’ll need things—hot water, bandages—”
“Wait,” said Darren, and while she burned with impatience he pressed a coin into her hand. Celia started as she recognized a gold Spanish doubloon. These were handled only by the richest West Indian traders; a gold doubloon would have fed an ordinary man for a month.
“Darren! Where on earth—”
“Borrowed two of these from Godfrey. Just took ’em, I know where he keeps everything. Tell Jimmy to pay them back when he gets well—I’d be glad to, only I don’t expect ever to have that much money all at once.” Darren chuckled shrewdly as he explained, “Hugo didn’t want to come outdoors while the guns were going. But he changed his mind when I offered him one doubloon on the spot and promised him another when the job was done. So when he’s finished, give him that.”
“Aren’t you going to stay?” she asked in alarm.
“Can’t,” said Darren. He spoke seriously. “I’ve got to get these reports to the quartermaster. There’d be trouble if they knew I’d left my work even this long. Now good-by, and good luck.”
He hurried off. Celia went around to the back porch. Hugo, bending over the pallet where Jimmy lay, had turned back the sheet and was examining the wound. As he heard her footsteps he looked up.
“Ah, Miss Garth. You have servants here?”
“Yes, two. I’ll bring them—in the meantime can I help you any?”
She tried not to look at Jimmy. She did not want to see that blood-caked gash and think about what horrible things Hugo was going to do to him.
“You can take my coat, if you please,” said Hugo, “and my cravat—” he took them off as he spoke and gave them to her—“and my wig, and may I ask you most particularly to put them in a place that is not dusty? Especially the wig, it is fresh-cleaned and powdered.”
“Yes, yes,” she said. Her hands shook with impatience. Hugo was quite bald, she noticed. His head looked like a round brown onion.
“And if you will be kind enough to bring me some large towels to protect my garments, and a basin of hot water. Have you bandages?”
“We’ll tear up a sheet,” said Celia, wondering why she had not had sense enough to do this before. “I’ll be right back.”
She rushed into Vivian’s boudoir and threw his coat and wig across the damask upholstery of the long chair. In the bedroom there was a cabinet holding sheets and towels. Celia caught up an armful, and on the porch again she flung them to Hugo before running out to the kitchen to tell Amos and Marietta he was here.
Marietta had dropped into a chair by the kitchen table and was crying. As long as she had been around Celia and Jimmy, Marietta had managed to keep up a show of courage, but now with Amos she had let herself go, and was sobbing from fright and weariness and sheer nerves. Amos stood by her, patting her shoulder and trying to give her comfort. Under other circumstances Celia would have let her alone to have her cry out, but now she had no concern for anybody but Jimmy. She crossed the room and took Marietta’s arm.
“Please stop crying! Mr. Hugo is here and he needs—Amos, make her stop crying!”
“Mr. Hugo?” Amos repeated in astonishment. “What’s he—”
“He’s going to take out the bullet,” Celia said shortly. To Amos’ gasp of shock she burst out. “Maybe he’ll do it with a pair of curling-tongs! But he’s all we’ve got. Now you bring some hot water and tell Marietta she’s got to tear up a sheet for bandages. And hurry!”
By this time Marietta was standing up, dabbing at her eyes. “There’s water in the pot, Amos,” she said shakily. “Miss Celia, I’ll come with you.”
On the porch, Hugo had tied one towel around his neck like a bib and had laid another over his knees. With careful fingers he felt around the wound. Jimmy shuddered with pain and a groan came through his clenched teeth. Marietta hid her face.
“I can’t look, Miss Celia!”
“Then don’t look,” Celia snapped. She could not look either; she was quaking from head to foot and she had to speak roughly lest her voice break. She snatched up one of Vivian’s sheets and shook out the folds. “Here. Tear this into strips. About two inches wide—is that right, Mr. Hugo?”
A shell crashed somewhere near them, and the porch trembled. Hugo trembled too, but recovered himself and said he would need a pair of scissors to cut the cloth away from the wound. While Celia brought the scissors from her workbasket Marietta sat down on the back steps and began tearing up the sheet. Celia knelt by Jimmy and put her hand into his. He managed to turn his head and smile at her, trying to say something. She put her ear close to his lips.
“It’s—not so tragic,” Jimmy murmured. “Lots of men—have had it done. If I yell—sorry. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she whispered back.
Behind her she heard Amos’ footsteps as he came from the kitchen, bringing a basin and a bucket of hot water. He filled the basin, and Hugo said,
“Miss, if you please?”
His English had just enough of a French accent to spice the scandal he brought to the boudoirs. Celia raised her head. Hugo was holding out the fan she had been using before.
“You will kindly sit here on the floor by the basin,” said Hugo, “and hold this fan. You will keep the fan moving so that no flies or mosquitoes will disturb me.”
Celia took the fan and began to wave. She thought, “The United States is fighting a revolution and so I have to sit fanning this little fop.” But she could see the reason for it. A mosquito-stab might make Hugo start, and jerk his hand, and tear the wound—she shuddered, and tried to control her nerves so as to wave the fan in long slow strokes that would send a steady breeze. Hugo spoke to Amos.
Celia tried not to hear what he was saying. But she could not help hearing. He was telling Amos to put his knee on Jimmy’s chest and hold Jimmy’s body above and below the wound to prevent any starts of pain while Hugo was probing for the bullet. When Amos was in position Hugo reached into his case and took out a small block of wood. He spoke to Jimmy.
“Captain Rand, sir, you will clamp your teeth on this. Then you will not by accident bite your tongue.”
Still waving the fan, Celia looked down. She looked at the steaming water in the basin. She heard the guns thundering, and the sheet tearing in Marietta’s hands, and the chirp of a bird that had hopped up on the porch. She saw Hugo’s hands dipping a cloth into the hot water, and then some instruments—she was not seeing very clearly, but one of them looked like a razor and another like a big pair of tweezers. Maybe it really was a pair of curling-tongs. She heard the scissors snipping; she heard the heavy breathing of Amos close by her, and she was reminded that he loved Jimmy too and his part of the task was not easy, and she felt less alone. She wondered how many men were having surgeons dig into their living bodies for bullets right this minute, and she thought she could not possibly have stood this if she had not known it was being done to a lot of redcoats too and it hurt them as much as it hurt Jimmy.
She heard noises coming out of Jimmy’s throat. Not screams. Choking lumps of sound, wrenched out by crazy blind agony. Celia began to pray.
She asked God why He let things like this happen. She asked Him to give her strength to keep the fan moving. She begged Him to punish the British. She heard Jimmy’s gasps of pain, and pleaded, “Oh Lord in heaven, let Hugo find the bullet soon!”
She saw a line of blood trickle across the mattress and stain her skirt. A drop of sweat rolled off her cheekbone and fell into the basin with a clink. Hug
o cried, “Voila! I’ve got it!”
Celia let the fan slip out of her hand. She brought the bandages, and she went to the edge of the porch to throw out the bloody water in the basin; and there was Amos, bless his heart, ready to rinse the basin and fill it again. There was sweat of tension on his dark face too, and they exchanged a glance of sympathy for each other.
At last the job was done. The gash in Jimmy’s leg was bound up, and he lay in limp exhaustion. Celia looked at the bloodstains on the mattress, and her skirt, and the towels, and she thought of all he had lost before and wondered that he had any blood left in him.
Hugo was washing his hands. Celia drew a clean sheet over Jimmy, and gave Marietta the fan to keep flies away. She got to her feet again, with difficulty, for she had been so rigid that her knees were stiff. Hugo untied the towel around his neck and stood up too.
He was as dapper as if he had been crimping a lady’s hair, his little monkey face beaming with satisfaction at a piece of work well done. Smiling at Celia, he asked, “You will be so kind, miss, as to show me where you put my coat and wig?”
She led him into the house. When he had put on his cravat and his coat, and adjusted his wig before Vivian’s looking-glass, Celia put her hand into her pocket and took out the gold doubloon.
“This is for you, Mr. Hugo,” she said. “Thank you for your kindness.”
Hugo took the doubloon daintily between his thumb and forefinger, turned it to catch the light, and put it affectionately into his purse. One foot back of him, he made a bow as if he were starting a minuet. He kissed her hand. “It was a pleasure to be of service, dear lady.”
He picked up his leather bag, turned toward the door, and winced as he heard the zing of a shell. For a moment he stood looking up, as though he could see the shells through the ceiling, and listened nervously. But as he did not hear another zing close by, he strutted off, his coattails flapping behind him.
