“I’ll carry the gin,” Mrs. Ulery volunteered and hurried to help the old man.
Margaret picked up the bellows and built up the fire. She found it difficult to understand why the earl, her wealthy grandfather, should stay at such a run-down inn. Yet he must have been an exceedingly kind man if he took the time to play draughts with Bert.
Bert and Mrs. Ulery soon returned, along with Finney. The kidney pie turned out to be surprisingly tasty, and while Margaret and Finney had tea, Mrs. Ulery and Bert had gin. Bert talked about the earl as he played draughts with Mrs. Ulery.
“’E was a ’andsome man, even as ’e aged, and ’e liked to explain politics and laws and such. ’e told me what a lucky man I was as I ’ad near seven children, though some of ’em died, but I got me grandchildren, too. One day ’e comes in ’e tells me ’e has grandchildren. Never see a man both sad and ’ ‘appy at the same time.”
Margaret’s lips quivered, but she held back her tears. After she and Agnes had learned of their grandfather, they wrote letters to him—but not all the letters arrived due to the war. The ones they received from the earl were stiff and formal, making it difficult to know what kind of a man he was. After meeting Bert, she concluded that a man who took the time to play draughts in the evening with an aged innkeeper must be more than kind.
Bert trounced Mrs. Ulery in the game, but she didn’t mind a bit for she’d had a goodly portion of gin.
The ancient innkeeper led them upstairs to a small but surprisingly neat room.
“Me granddaughter comes in everyday to make the pies and clean this room. The earl used to give ’er ribbons and lace and such trinkets when she was younger. On the occasion of ’er wedding, ’e gave ’er a gift. Can you imagine that? Well, ’e liked ’er kidney pies, ’e did.”
Margaret and Mrs. Ulery shared the bed. The moment Mrs. Ulery’s head hit the pillow, she went off to dreamland.
Margaret did not sleep for hours. She thought about Derrick. She thought about her grandfather. She thought about everyone at home and prayed for all of them. She also wondered if she possessed enough endurance to bounce around in the coach for another day.
She had worried all during the trip on the Prosperity whether she would ever reach Broadcraft Hall. Now it appeared possible. Not tomorrow, of course, but the following day. Soon.
She finally fell asleep dreaming of walking through grand halls and staring into the portraits of her ancestors. However, as she peered at one portrait on the wall, it began to change into Derrick. He looked sad, terribly sad. She reached out to touch him—and he was gone, like a wisp of smoke or fog chased by the wind.
She woke up to a gloomy day with rain streaming down the panes of glass while salty tears dampened her cheeks. She wiped them away. Though Derrick had been arrogant and condescending, they had shared some special moments—and one tender kiss.
She rose and searched for the note in her pocket with his address. She should call upon him in London on her return trip home. She shouldn’t have dismissed him as coldly as she had, even if his genteel manner toward her increased a hundredfold when he learned she was no ordinary farmer’s daughter.
He judged her based on who her grandfather had been—not on her own merit. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
A knock came at the door.
“We’ve got to be on the road soon,” Finney called.
“We’ll get ready,” she replied, but she groaned inwardly. Another day in the coach—and the roads would undoubtedly be worse with the rain.
She woke Mrs. Ulery. The older woman insisted on doing as much as possible to dress herself.
“My arm is getting better. The doctor told me to use it and strengthen it.” Her insistence meant the process took twice as long.
The most cheerful event of the morning was the breakfast Bert’s granddaughter set out before them. The veritable feast consisted of eggs, kippers, and leftover kidney pie. Margaret thought she would burst as she left the table.
Bert’s watery eyes grew more sorrowful as they made their leave. “I’ll miss the old earl. ’E nearly bested me in draughts a few times. Ye come back soon. I don’t know ’ow much longer I’ll be ’ere.”
Margaret promised to offer prayers for his health.
They stepped out into the rain, walked through the mud, and entered the coach.
“We should take the mattress with us to soften the bouncing on the road,” Mrs. Ulery commented.
“Why do some people enjoy traveling?” Margaret wondered.
“Perhaps they have sinned a great deal and feel the need of punishment,” Mrs. Ulery stated with a sour expression.
Margaret lips twitched with amusement as she tried not to laugh. “Do you suppose we’ll be more saintly after another day of being jostled about?”
“I’ll never be a saint,” the older woman sighed.
* * *
The rain did not let up. The coach went slower. They stopped mid-morning at another inn to rest the horses. Finney wore a grim expression and announced that they had to leave behind one of the horses.
“Why?” Margaret asked.
“He’s gone lame,” the coachman replied before he walked back out to the stable.
An icy chill went through her, and though she fought to calm her fears, panic edged in.
“He’ll be charging us more for the trip,” Mrs. Ulery whispered.
Margaret counted the bank notes in her reticule. She had no idea whether it was enough.
By the time they climbed into the coach once more, the rain had turned to a light drizzle. Of course, the road was still a muddy, rut-filled quagmire.
As evening neared, the skies cleared, but Finney warned them they would stop at a different inn than the one the solicitor recommended.
“The mud and the loss of one of the horses slowed us down.” His tight lips barely moved. His dismal expression matched his drenched coat and his muck-encrusted boots. Poor Finney had suffered the storm’s fury while Margaret and the widow merely bounced around inside the coach. No wonder the earl hired Finney. The man’s dedication and stoic sense of duty went beyond what most people expected.
Margaret reassured the miserable-looking coachman she did not mind where they stayed. She might miss meeting someone else who had known and loved her grandfather but, under the circumstances, there was no other choice. Their progress had been slow due to the rain, the mud, and the lame horse. On the return trip, she vowed she would stay at the other recommended inn.
Surprisingly, she dozed off for a while inside the coach until a loud blast of gunfire woke her. They stopped so suddenly she slid off the seat and landed on the floor. Her bottom hit the floor first and she did not suffer much damage other than another bruise. Fortunately, Mrs. Ulery did not land on top of her.
“Stand and deliver!” came the shout from outside the door.
“Highwaymen,” whispered Mrs. Ulery. “Hide the bank notes in your corset.”
Still dazed and groggy, Margaret reached for her reticule, which had fallen to the side, but before she had time to effect Mrs. Ulery’s order, the door to the coach opened and a man dressed in an outfit Anthony would love pointed two loaded pistols at her.
“Well, well, ladies!” He smiled. “Such somber attire only sets off your beauty. Come, come my dears and step outside. You’ll be pleased to note the rain has left us. You’ll not be inconvenienced much if you do exactly as you’re told.”
Margaret’s blood ran cold and her hands shook, but Mrs. Ulery leaned over as if to help her get up from the floor. In one swift movement, she grabbed the reticule and stuffed it into the sling on her arm.
Margaret prayed the thief hadn’t noticed Mrs. Ulery’s sleight of hand.
“Hurry, dear ladies, for my patience wears thin rather quickly,” the robber growled.
“We’re hurrying as fast as possible,” Mrs. Ulery grumbled. “Can’t you see my poor lady landed on the floor?”
My poor lady? Margaret shot a quizzical glance
at Mrs. Ulery.
“My lady is it?” the exquisitely dressed robber stated in a smooth tone. “What a pleasure.” But he did not bow, he kept the pistols trained on them.
A second thief with a pistol urged Finney to help the women alight from the coach.
When Margaret stepped out, she gasped. She watched as the highwayman’s assistant rummaged through the trunks and threw their possessions onto the muddy ground.
“Stop!” she cried. “You’ll find nothing of value in our luggage.”
“Not so, milady,” the highwayman laughed. “One of you has a fondness for whiskey.”
His cohort held up six bottles of Mrs. Ulery’s favorite drink.
“That’s for medicinal purposes.” The older woman glowered. “I broke my arm and I need the whiskey for the pain.”
“I’ve a few pains myself.” The highwayman crowed. “Now empty your pockets.” He waved his pistols. His cohort stood before her with a large bag.
Margaret put her hand inside her pocket and touched the note with Derrick’s address.
She remembered his strong voice. I am going to blast a hole in your head. Her throat ached. He had protected her once, but he was not with her now. She must do what the thieves asked, though she would not give them Derrick’s address.
She took out her comb, a fine one of tortoise shell, which Aunt Sally had given her before she left. Her fingers trembled as she dropped it in the robber’s sack. Next came her scissors, thimble, and small knife. She tossed in her coins as well. With shaky hands and tears misting in her eyes, she drew out the book of Phillip Freneau’s verse, which Frances had given to her.
“Do you need this?” she asked, biting back a sob.
The thief with the sack snatched it out of her hand and opened it. “It’s a book of poetry,” he told his comrade.
“Ah ha! I enjoy soft verse on a quiet evening,” the highwayman opined. “Tuck it in my pocket.”
The thief did as the highwayman asked.
Margaret clenched her teeth together and refused to show any other sign of emotion. It would not help matters.
Mrs. Ulery was next. She tossed in a watch, several coins, her thimble, and scissors.
“I’ve a strand of pearls, too,” she claimed. “But it’s in my right pocket and I can’t reach it since my arm is in this sling.
Margaret peered at the woman in confusion. Mrs. Ulery had never said anything about a strand of pearls.
The thief with the sack put his hand into Mrs. Ulery’s pocket. In a matter of seconds, everything changed.
Mrs. Ulery thumped the thief soundly with the wooden splint on her arm. He fell, insensate on the ground. Before his pistol hit the ground, Finney snatched it and shot the highwayman, who returned fire with his two pistols before he collapsed as blood spurted from his chest.
Margaret screamed in horror. Finney slid to the ground with a grievous wound in his lower leg.
Mrs. Ulery ripped off part of her petticoat to staunch the bleeding on Finney’s leg. “Help me get him into the coach. I’ll drive to the next town. Press hard upon the gash with the cloth.”
Margaret nodded and the two of them helped the coachman inside. He wasn’t unconscious, but his lower leg bled badly, with the musket ball lodged deep within.
Mrs. Ulery picked up the robber’s sack and tossed it into the coach. She carefully wrapped the whiskey bottles in a quilted petticoat and stored them inside as well. Pulling the reticule out of her sling, she returned it to Margaret.
“We must leave the trunks. I don’t want to be here when the thief I clobbered wakes up. Hold tight. I’m going to drive like the devil is at my heels.” The widow eased the gloves from Finney’s hands and pulled them on.
“Your arm is in a sling.”
“The doctor suggested I begin using it for my regular chores.”
“Did you ever drive a coach?” Margaret asked.
“I’ve done a great many things in my time. Driving a coach is one of my favorite pastimes.”
She shut the door and, within moments, the horses galloped off, pulling the coach along the bumpy, muddy road with such speed it nearly tipped over several times.
Margaret could do nothing to help the suffering man except prevent the loss of blood and offer him the whiskey. She opened one of the bottles and helped him drink it.
“In the next town…Great Leighs,” he groaned, “…the barber…my brother.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Derrick set out early in the morning to call upon John Hunter at his large house in Leicester Square. He carried a letter of introduction from Benjamin Rush. With his heart beating in his throat, he knocked at the door and was ushered into the home of the renowned surgeon.
John Hunter appeared delighted to meet him and promptly gave him a tour of his collection, which he said contained close to fourteen thousand preparations of over five hundred species of plants and animals. He had turned this incredible accumulation into a teaching museum.
Derrick was overwhelmed. When they took a break for lunch, Dr. Hunter explained his theory about life.
“The dead body has all the properties of a live body,” he lectured.
Derrick listened as the man talked of blood containing a vitality of its own, what he described as the ‘fire’ element. He claimed an interplay existed between the blood and the body.
Derrick’s mind wandered as he thought of Margaret and her aversion to bloodletting. Hunter’s theories appeared to validate Margaret’s strong belief.
As evening settled in, Derrick finally asked about sepsis and the esteemed surgeon’s views on the complication which caused death in many cases after amputations.
“Those wounded in battle should be allowed a period of stabilization before even considering amputation,” Hunter stated. “I firmly oppose dilation and bullet retrieval. Why remove the musket ball if it is doing no harm?”
“Is there an ointment or other medicinal mixture capable of eliminating the possibility of sepsis?”
The kindly man shook his head, and Derrick’s heart sank. He asked about the paper written by Sir John Pringle, Experiments Upon Septic and Antiseptic Substances. The doctor had it in his collection and loaned it to him.
“Remarkable man, Pringle, his experiments demonstrated the long-held assumption of alkaline substances inducing putrefaction was wrong. He showed they actually resisted it. More work needs to be done, of course,” the great surgeon said. “Have you heard about my findings on phlebitis?”
The evening wore on. Derrick was instructed to report to a ward at St. George’s Hospital the following day.
By the time he returned to his room, he was exhausted. Still, he began to read Sir Pringle’s paper, but as his eyes soon grew exceedingly weary, he thought he would close them for a moment.
Therein lay his error…
He stood on the battlefield with the dead and dying about him. Some screamed for assistance, but he could not help all of them. Many would die within minutes of grievous wounds, and it pained him simply to look upon them.
He searched for Julian, but he could not find him. Somewhere on the bloody field, he knew his brother’s body lay. He turned over corpse after corpse, and still did not find the one soul he longed to see. He reached the top of a small rise and looked back. Below him, each of the corpses he had turned over now looked like Julian—bearing the same features as his brother. Though they all had different wounds, their hair and facial features were identical to Julian’s own.
His heart began to pound.
One of the bodies was Julian, but it was impossible to tell which one. He dragged one body next to another. He lined them up, row upon row. Some had legs blown apart, some had lost arms, some had holes blasted through their chests, but everyone had the face of the brother he loved.
It could not be, but it appeared so.
It grew dark, yet he kept at his grisly work though he could barely see anything, for there was no moon and he did not have so much as a small candle to guide him.
Fear wound through him. He must bring his brother’s body home to his mother and father. He could not bring all the bodies back.
Suddenly, a light shone on him and he looked up. It was Margaret, with her golden hair and silver eyes.
“Help me,” he entreated.
Her cold silver eyes bore into him. “I am not a milkmaid.” She turned around and walked away, taking all the light with her.
He sat in the dark among the corpses and cried.
He awoke with a start the next morning, realizing he had fallen asleep at the small desk in the room. Yet the horror and misery of the dream stayed with him. What did it mean?
For the rest of the day, he trailed along after Dr. Hunter and his other students, visited patients, and listened to a long lecture on phlebitis, which Hunter classified into three types.
Afterward, he and several others went to a local pub for dinner. He heard some of the whispers about Dr. Hunter’s manner of collecting bodies to dissect. Only last year, the surgeon had obtained the body of a huge man, one called a giant. The man had insisted upon a burial at sea, but Hunter purchased the corpse. Derrick viewed it at the doctor’s house in Leicester Square.
When he returned to his room in the evening, he was wearier than the night before. He feared delving into Sir Pringle’s paper again, for his horrible dream had begun as he read it the previous night.
Lonely and miserable, he reminded himself of the reason he had traveled all the way across the ocean. He had vowed to find a cure for sepsis. It was for Julian. Undoubtedly, that’s why he had seen all those corpses in his dreams. Those were all the poor souls who had died of sepsis—as Julian had. He must save people from the dreadful scourge.
He read again the note Margaret had left for him in Gulliver’s Travels. He hoped her head injury would not bother her anymore. He closed his eyes and tried to remember everything about her. He fell asleep and dreamed of being on the Prosperity with Margaret.
The following day, he proceeded to follow in Dr. Hunter’s wake again as the surgeon visited his patients. In the afternoon, Derrick watched the doctor perform a tracheotomy. The man’s knowledge of anatomy and the lightning fast speed with which he operated amazed everyone.
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