by Laura Locke
The snow had begun just before Christmas Day, and the Westchester's were comfortable and warm in their cheery house as bread and plum pudding awaited the duck that was their holiday dinner. Ira’s parents had joined them, and as they sat to dine, Sylvia quietly set a goblet from the good china before Ira and their guests. She followed with a bottle of wine and while Ira wanted to object at the extravagance, he kept his peace, for it was the birth of their savior, Jesus Christ.
“I would like to propose a toast,” Sylvia began, her dark eyes warm and glowing as she raised her glass. The others followed suit and Sylvia announced in a small voice, “This time next year, there will be a new little one at our table.”
Ira nearly dropped his glass, so unprepared was he but his mother hugged Sylvia and his father shook his hand. It turned out to be a joyous meal and the next morning, two covered plates were sent to Aunt Margaret and Mrs. Claire, a bottle of wine and a gooseberry pie in the bottom of the basket.
Thus, life was about to renew itself. Sylvia began sewing a layette and taking out the seams of her dresses to accommodate the baby’s girth. She visited with the midwife who examined her and then sat Sylvia and Ira down.
“I believe there is more than one child,” she announced. “I can hear two heartbeats and Sylvia’s size is more than one baby should be this early on.
Ira’s eyebrows rose as he considered their good luck. Two children doubled his chances at having a son, or God forbid, two at once.
The village was all a twitter with the news, and soon the pub was filled with animated gossip, wagers as to the sex of the twins and the date on which they would be born. Ira set about making two cradles and Sylvia made a second set of layette clothing matching the first.
As Spring grew warmer, Sylvia found it more and more difficult to get about. The men were kept from the news at this point—this was women’s business. There was a great deal of consultation going on between Sylvia, her mother and the midwife. At one point, a second midwife was brought in from a nearby village. Nothing was said, and on a warm night in July, Sylvia began her pains. Both midwives were called, and Ira was shooed off to his workshop to wait out the night.
He pretended not to notice, but there was no way he could ignore his wife’s screams from the small, white-washed cottage. From time to time he peered through the barn door to see the lamps all had been collected and were burning in the bedroom window. The village was on alert, and a couple of Ira’s better friends stopped in to keep him company.
Sylvia’s lie-in was taking far longer than expected. Ira was comparing her labor to that of a mare, having no better reference with which to judge. Twice he’d decided to go into the cottage and see first-hand what was going on, but Aunt Margaret had come in the night and she forbade him to enter. He began to worry, and his hammer upon the anvil was louder than normal.
About the time the sun reached its zenith on the second day, the screams from the cottage stopped. It was as if the air had been sucked from all around them. With a heavy heart, Ira went to the cottage, knocked on the door and Aunt Margaret came to open it. Without a word, she beckoned him inside with a crook of her finger. Ira was overly-wrought, certain he would find Sylvia bloodied and dead upon their marriage bed.
Instead, Ira found his wife clean and smiling, lying back against the pillows with not one, but three babies about her. He felt his jaw drop as he slowly walked toward the bed.
“You have a son and two fine daughters, Ira Wellchester,” Sylvia announced, her face beaming. It was years before Ira outgrew the telling of this story as he collapsed onto the floor in a dead faint.
Ira wiped his brow and watched from inside the barn door long enough to admire the picture his wife and family made. Sylvia, her skirts tied up in the front to allow her to kneel among the rows where she was planting tomatoes and beans tended the triplets. Her head wrapped in a makeshift turban to keep it clean, she called to one or other of the children from time to time, urging them to watch what she was doing or to stop doing whatever was getting them into trouble. They were three now, and their individual personalities were beginning to emerge, like it or not.
Johanna had come first and like it or not, she displayed the stronger personality and solid dependability that came with being an eldest child. All three toddlers had resplendent coppery curls and eyes of an unusual topaz color that seemed to almost glow. They were blooming with good health beneath Sylvia’s mothering skills and she kept them well-outfitted in matching fabrics. That will have to change, Ira thought to himself. A boy has no business dressing like a girl.
Richard had come next, and unlike his sisters who were more timid in nature, he challenged the world and bore the scars well. Ira was proud of his boisterous son who might inside one evening carry a frog and the next, a particularly sharp rock which he had bound to a stick as a spear. Richard, or as they called him, Richie, would follow in his father’s footsteps and was already made to sit on a stool in the corner to watch his father work.
Melody was Sylvia all over again. Her sweet nature and tidy ways would make her a fine wife. She had already begun making small dolls with a needle and rags she found about the place.
After the triplet’s difficult birth, the midwife advised that Sylvia not have any more children. While Ira was disappointed, the mischievous trio soon had them both racing about to keep up, and the idea of more children was the last thing they contemplated.
Life was very good for Ira and his family. It would not always be so, however, no matter how well he prepared. Their trials were yet to come.
Chapter 3
It was Johanna’s eighteenth summer, and while her siblings shared her birthday, she had always claimed it as hers singularly. It seemed natural that, as the eldest, and most studious of the three, she should prevail.
“I’m the one who should get preferential treatment,” protested Richard. “I’m the boy.”
Ira would nod, but say, “Not until you’ve reached your majority, young man. Until then, it is I who will determine what goes on in this family.”
“But it’s not fair.”
“And what in life is fair?” Ira was very good at closing arguments.
This particular morning, the puddles outside the cottage were evidence of a fierce storm that had swept over the moors and collided with the foothills. Blocked in and with energy yet to spare, it had raged for the better part of the day before it spent itself and settled into a steady rain over Tymington.
As could have been predicted, it still rained a fine mist as Johanna was spotted headed for the woods, a thick woolen shawl over her coppery head. Her complexion was clear and yet tanned, a socially unacceptable exposure for a woman, but Johanna was not one to be held by the social rules. Sylvia often chided her about her many hours spent wandering through the fields and woodlands, hunting for plants and exploring Nature’s bounty, but Johanna was willful. People who knew her well agreed it was best to simply let her continue on her way, unobstructed.
When she was a young child, while wandering she had one day happened upon a shepherd’s hut, set back between two outcroppings of rock. The shepherds had taken cover there over the years when caught in a sudden storm. Sometimes, they stored foodstuffs and water there, eliminating the need to carry it upon their back. This particular hut had long been abandoned as her father kept no sheep and no one had trespassed upon their land to let their animals graze. Therefore, Johanna claimed it as her own.
Over the years, the hut played various roles. It provided shelter when Johanna was wandering and caught in bad weather. It had become her fortress when once chased by a swarm of bees she had the innocence to stir. She brought tiny treasures and hid them there; bits of cloth, unusual stones, and bunches of flowers and herbs which helped the mossy, mildewed scent. Once she had brought a kitten, lame and bleeding from having caught its paw in some sharp, unforgiving device. She had fed it and wrapped the injured paw in the bits of cloth she kept there. It had healed, and one day it was gone. She misse
d the kitten but rejoiced in having helped it.
She named the hut Shepherd’s Nest and told no one about it, most especially her siblings. They would undoubtedly follow her and try to take it for their own. She did not even tell her precious father, for he would say it was unseemly for a young girl to have such a hideaway in the dangerous woods and most likely tear it to the ground. No, indeed, Shepherd’s Nest was hers, and hers alone.
It was there she was now headed. The cottage had been stuffy and noisy during the prolonged storm and she longed for cool, clean air and the absence of human interaction. As she walked, she kept her eyes on the path, hoping to spot some small find which she might rescue and take with her. Her father would be greatly angry if he knew that piece by piece, Johanna had been smuggling discarded pieces of iron from his barn. She was fashioning a fireplace, with which to keep warm. It was a rudimentary affair; nothing more than layers of flat iron burrowed into a shallow hole she’d dug with a rock. She was now trying to figure how to make a chimney and decided that with fieldstones and a bit of clay as mortar, she could slowly build one that opened through the thatched roof.
So, now she had another commodity to gather – firewood. She’d made a neat pile of small limbs or old trees that had disintegrated from insect attacks or simply age. She had laid an oiled tarp over these to keep them dry. She had yet to try her fireplace, but looked forward to just such an opportunity.
Johanna hoped to sleep all night in her Shepherd’s Nest and had, over the years, gathered stout branches and bound them together into a sort of pallet. Feed sacks filled with sweet hay formed a mattress, and she’d sewn quilts from fabric pieces discarded by her mother in her shop. All in all, her tiny abode had become habitable and not at all that uncomfortable.
Chapter 4
Johanna was nearly to Shepherd’s Nest when she came around a wide curve in the path and spotted a horse immediately, idly grazing on the damp grasses. From her vantage, it appeared to be a fine animal, outfitted in a high-quality bridle, saddle and reins. She froze, concerned that the rider might be watching her from the bushes and quickly calculated whether it would be faster to run for home, or for Shepherd’s Nest. Curiosity won.
Pushing back the hood of her cape so as to broaden her surveillance perimeter, Johanna slowly walked toward the steed, alert for the sound of a footstep or cracking stick that could indicate someone coming toward her.
Johanna swallowed hard, for although she gave the impression of being fearless, she realized she was not quite as brave as she would like to think. She was a female and alone in the woods. That, alone, was highly improper. She should not venture into the forest without having a male escort.
She approached the horse, and it did not spook, making her feel as if the owner must be nearby. The closer she got, the more she could see into the tall grasses where the horse grazed. That was when she caught a glimpse of something red. Johanna froze, not certain whether she should investigate or quickly get away. She took a deep breath and moved forward. The red became a pant leg and the pant leg became a uniform. It was a soldier from His Majesty’s Army and he was lying either unconscious or dead in the grass, guarded by his steed. Coming closer yet, she looked for movement of his chest or the twitch of an eyelid, fearing either outcome.
With caution, she decided to approach from the far side of the horse. This put something of a barrier between herself and the man on the ground. The horse continued to contentedly eat although she could see his nostrils flare slightly as she approached. She knew that a horse in His Majesty’s service would be trained not to neigh or give away his master by making noise. Well-trained horses were highly valued for this reason. She had seen enough of them pass through her father’s smithy to recognize the quality of an animal.
She ventured closer yet, studying the man on the ground. That was when she noticed the widening pool of blood next to him and the stain that led beneath him to his chest. He was lying, chest down with his head turned toward hers. Confused and uncertain, she decided it was her Christian duty to investigate and to help the man.
“Hello?” she ventured timidly. There was no discernible movement from the man on the ground. She crept closer, this time watching the horse for a reaction. A soldier and his horse are very close companions, and the horse will often anticipate the soldier’s reaction. The horse continued to munch grass quietly, much as if the soldier were asleep.
Johanna reached to touch the man, holding her skirts against herself and out of the way. Gingerly poking his back, he didn’t move, and his eyes stayed closed. She looked around to see if anyone else was visible. Surely he was not entirely alone? Nothing about him seemed disturbed. It was as if the man and the horse had been dropped from the sky to land at her feet!
Bunching her skirts back even more, Johanna put her hand on his shoulder to see if she could turn him over. He was heavy, and she had to kneel beside him for leverage. His eyes suddenly opened and a vise-like hand had seized her wrist!
Johanna screamed and fought to pull her arm back, but even in his weakened state, he was far stronger than she. The man looked at her, blinking for focus. “Help me,” was all he said before he went limp again.
Chapter 5
Johanna fell backward as his grasp released her and now the horse was staring at her, as well. He had turned enough to see that the blood was coming from beneath his jacket, pouring through a hole in its fabric and soaking it heavily. She knew he wouldn’t last long if he continued to lose blood at that pace. She had never subscribed to the idea of leeching; considering it barbarous and counterproductive. She looked around for something to stem the flow of blood. She hadn’t seen blood on his back and therefore reasoned that if he’d been shot, the lead was still inside.
She could not take him home – not to her father’s house. The scandal would have been tremendous, but more importantly, if he was a deserter and the King’s troops were pursuing him, she and her family would be considered traitors for having sheltered him. No, there was nothing to be done for it. If he were to have any chance at all, he would have to go to Shepherd’s Nest. In that way, she only put herself at risk. At least she had a few supplies there with which she might be able to help him. Her conscience would not let her abandon him out in the open, no matter what he might have done.
But how to get him there? He was far too heavy for her to carry, even though Shepherd’s Nest was only a few dozen steps away. She stood and ran for it, bringing back some strips of leather which she used to bind together a very rough sled of smallish limbs. This she tried to position beneath his chest as that was where his injury was the greatest. She lashed the sled to the horse saddle and slowly led the animal toward the Nest. Once there, she first filled a bucket with water from the stream and rinsed him as clean as she could. It took some maneuvering, but eventually she managed to drag him inside the hut. The horse, she secured to a tree some distance from the hut. Should it whinny, a passerby would not immediately spot Shepherd’s Nest.
Johanna rolled the soldier’s body onto the edge of her makeshift pallet and then rolled him back and forth until he seemed comfortable. She covered him with her quilt and could see his lips were beginning to turn blue, despite a heat upon his forehead. Without a doubt, he was growing feverish. Drawing upon what she’d witnessed when her mother attended her brother and sister and what she’d heard, she knew she must sweat it out of him.
She went outside long enough to retrieve some wood from beneath the tarp and carried it inside. Now is as good of a time as ever to see if the fireplace works, she told herself and set about striking a rock against a piece of flint into a nest of dried leaves. The flame caught, and she fed it slowly, burning life into it. It wasn’t long before she’d managed an honest to goodness fire on her hearth and the chimney acted just as hoped. She rejoiced, and for more than one reason.
She drew back the quilt and knew she had to remove his jacket. She paused, looking for any way possible to avoid doing this. She couldn’t run for help as she’
d be caught and her reputation ruined. There was also the very real possibility that the soldier would be cast out and perhaps die. She didn’t dare tell her mother or father as they would hardly stand for her endangering herself to help him. There was nothing to do, but to do herself the best she could and then to pray mightily to the Lord, God for His help. She reasoned that God might have sent the soldier her way for that very reason.
Encouraged, Johanna retrieved the precious knife she kept in Shepherd’s Nest and carefully began to unbutton his jacket with her fingers, keeping the knife at arm’s length in case he awakened again. He showed no signs of doing so, however, so she quickly finished unbuttoning the jacket and spread the shirt beneath it wide with a slice of her knife. Then she was able to see the wound.
It was clearly not a bullet wound, for the flesh was torn and ragged. A bullet would have left a cleaner entry. It mattered not; she would have to take a chance. She moved to the basket where she kept the scraps of cloth purloined from her mother’s sewing room. These she carefully folded and pressed against the wound. They instantly soaked up blood and were rendered worthless. She knew what she had to do.
Thanking God for her knowledge of sewing, she moved back to another basket and retrieved white sewing thread and a needle. With quick, but neat and tight stitches, she pulled together the flaps of skin from the wound and almost instantly, the flow of blood ceased. Cringing, she knew what had to come next. She had watched her father do it before when working on a horse’s blistered fetlock.
She placed the tip of the knife into the fire, turning it about until it glowed. Then quickly, while the soldier was still unconscious, she laid the blade against the edges of the wound, cauterizing the flesh so it would heal hopefully without turning gangrenous. Johanna worked from memory, having no real idea of what she was doing. She’d tried her hand at injured animals before. Some had survived, others had not. She hoped this man was strong—he would need it.
