Vintage Love (224 page)

She came around and moaned, “Please!”

It was useless, he was astride of her, pressing his sweaty body on her! About to take her! And then the unexpected! He was unable to fulfill his act of rape! Her fierce battling had robbed him of his ability to perform. Rage clouded his face and he got up from the bed cursing!

Joy sprang from the bed and started for the door. But he caught her by the arm and whirling her around began to pummel her with his fist.

She stumbled, sobbing, “No!
No!
” Trying to protect her lovely face.

“You won’t be so pretty when I’m through with you,” he gloated, striking her again. This time on the cheek.

She fell back against a chair and lay on the floor. She dragged herself up a little with him gloating above her. If only she had something to defend herself! A weapon of any sort! He moved closer and savagely kicked her in the ribs.

She cried out in pain and scrambled away. At the same time she came against his sword in its scabbard, resting on a small table. She grasped the sword and drawing it from its sheath held it in front of her.

They stood there, battered opponents, the naked woman and the naked man. Sanger ordered her, “Drop that sword or I swear I’ll kill you!”

“Stay back!” she quavered, the sword pointed at him. Her head was reeling and she knew that at any instant she might collapse. Then he would have her!

He chose not to listen to her warning. He plunged at her and she manipulated the sword so that he impaled himself on it. The weapon entered his rib cage for several inches, and he uttered a gurgling sound. His eyes popped alarmingly and he fell onto the floor with blood spurting from the wound. Soon he was stretched out with a pool of the sticky, red liquid surrounding him.

She stared at him with glazed eyes. She stood there in a kind of trance. She did not hear the clamoring at the door or it being battered down. The room spun around her and she slid onto the floor.

Joy regained consciousness in her own bed with a grim Florence Nightingale seated by her. She could see the weary lines of her superior’s thin face by the glow of the candlelight.

Memory and horror crowded her mind. She raised herself on an elbow to lament, “I’ve disgraced the corps.”

“Do not say that,” the veteran nurse said, pressing her down on the pillow. “You must not upset yourself, You have been through an ordeal.”

“The Colonel?” she asked, suddenly aware of the pain in her own body.

“Dead,” the older woman said.

“I murdered him!” she moaned.

“It was clearly self-defense,” Florence Nightingale said angrily. “He lured you there and beat you so brutally you’ve been unconscious for almost three days.”

Joy murmured brokenly, “The disgrace!”

“I hope there will be little talk,” the veteran nurse told her. “Colonel Sanger had a foul reputation. Everyone has heard stories of his philandering with any of the officers’ wives who were loose enough to engage in that sport with him. Shaming their husbands who were away at the battle front. When you were found in his room, the conclusions were fairly obvious. He tried to rape you, there was a struggle, and you accidentally killed him.”

“I meant that sword to go through him.”

“We’ll say nothing of your intentions,” her superior told her. “A hasty Court Martial was held the morning after you were found in his quarters. Perhaps I should call it a Board of Inquiry. The men who sat on the board were officers who knew him only too well. They weighed the facts and without your testimony found your defending yourself. So you have been absolved of the murder.”

She stared at the thin, sympathetic face of the older woman, “You can’t mean I’ve been declared innocent of the crime?”

“You have. The nursing service will not suffer from the unhappy incident. Colonel Sanger’s relatives will be informed he met his death through accident, and the report will omit the details.”

“I don’t deserve such consideration!”

“You most certainly do,” Florence Nightingale told her. “Now you must rest and get well as soon as possible. I cannot spare you long.”

Joy recovered slowly. It was several days before she could leave her bed and then she walked unsteadily. Her body was a mass of bruises. When she looked at herself in the mirror she was horrified by the ugly blue bruises on her face. She was not a pretty sight.

By the end of another week she had improved. Florence Nightingale called on her regularly, and kept her posted on all the latest developments. The good news was that the officer who replaced Colonel Sanger was far more cooperative. He even managed to locate needed supplies and beds for the hospitals. Joy began to believe that the villain in the London War Office had been a figment of the wicked Colonel’s imagination.

But there was much bad news. The war was a continuous disaster for the English. Florence Nightingale said angrily, “Lord Raglan is stupid! Lord Lucan incompetent, and Lord Cardigan a little of both! And these are our leaders! The commanders of the expedition!”

“Why doesn’t the War Office replace them?”

“They have too many friends in high places. Heaven help the poor men under them! Enough have already been slaughtered. Lord Cardigan is commanding the war from his yacht in Balaclava Bay!”

She said, “I’ve only had one letter from Colin. He said very little.”

“What is there to say?”

Joy sighed. “I wish he were here and safe. I so want to tell him about the Sanger affair before he hears about it from anyone else.”

“Don’t worry yourself on that score,” the veteran nurse said. “He’ll understand.”

“I hope so. I’m so frightened for his safety.”

“Worry will do no good.”

“I know. But I can’t help it.”

“I’m sure he would be at your side if it were possible,” the veteran nurse said. “But that is impossible now. Not an officer or man can be spared from the battle lines.”

“He mustn’t be killed,” she prayed. “He mustn’t!”

Florence Nightingale sighed. “I can see that it is time for you to return to work. You’re only doing yourself harm alone here speculating on too many things.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I want to begin nursing again.”

The older woman looked grave. “I’m going to send you directly to the scene of battle. I have a new girl assisting me. I can manage with her. I’m setting up a large field hospital and you are the ideal one to head the new unit.”

“Let me!” she begged.

So the following day she left the comparative safety of Scutari for the battle lines. A small company of nurses and several doctors accompanied her. They were to journey to a tent hospital near the latest battlefront, and look after the wounded at closer range. Then the worst cases would be moved back to the main hospital.

A storm had come up but their departure could not be delayed. Florence Nightingale came to see the forlorn party on their way. A shawl covered her head as the wind and rain lashed against her. She and Joy spoke in parting, but the sheer wildness of the wind made intelligible conversation impossible.

As head of the Field Hospital, Joy rode in a wagon with a young Captain Morgan. He was boyish looking for a doctor, but already had proven himself an excellent surgeon. They sat huddled beside the driver of the first wagon. The covering gave them some protection from the heavy rain and wind.

She turned to ask the black-bearded Captain Morgan, “Do you know exactly where we’re going?”

“No,” he said. “I only know a battle is planned and we are to be near the action.”

Joy said, “Captain Hill my fiancé is somewhere out there. I hope I may be able to get in touch with him.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. The battle may have already begun,” the young surgeon said. “We’re bound to be busy.”

“I know,” she agreed and became silent.

They finally arrived at the camp site as day ended. But she was not able to make out much about their surroundings. The tent to which she was assigned with one of the younger nurses, named Jane Ellman, flapped and admitted the rain, wind, and filth from the outside.

She shook her head in dismay, “How can we sleep in this?”

Pert Jane with auburn hair groaned, “I think I could sleep standing up!” And she threw herself onto the spread out blankets, and closed her eyes.

Then Captain Morgan came and told her, “The General wishes to speak with you.”

“Very well,” she said, following him and leaving the sleeping Jane behind.

Captain Morgan took her by the arm and guided her through the darkness, stepping warily amid the filth and mud. At last they reached a stable. She had never seen anything like it.

Captain Morgan murmured, “General Stackhouse has his headquarters at the rear.”

Officers of the escort knelt before the embers of a small fire. Along the wall were many horses shivering with cold and whinnying their complaints! Hussars, in their long cloaks, stood staring gloomily at the rain. There were soldiers of a dozen regiments crowded about the place seeking warmth. They lit their pipes for small comfort and sat close together for body warmth. The wind continued to blow savagely, there was a hole in the roof through which rain dripped steadily.

“This way,” Captain Morgan said.

They went to the rear where some lanterns were hanging, and at a make-shift table they found General Stackhouse — a tall, white-haired man, and a half dozen younger officers standing near him.

General Stackhouse nodded brusquely to her. “You are Lady Canby-Layton from the Florence Nightingale unit at Scutari?”

“Yes,” she said. “We are a party of a dozen nurses and two doctors.”

“Not enough,” the General said. “But you will be a help. The field hospital is in a tent almost a mile from here. You cannot reach it tonight. So you and your company will billet here in the hope the storm will ease by morning.”

“Very well,” she said.

General Stackhouse stared at her with grim, deep-set eyes. He said, “I have been told that Miss Nightingale and her nurses are a dedicated lot.”

“I think you may say that,” she said.

The General nodded in the glow of the lantern on the plank table before him. “That had better be true, my lady,” he said. “Because when the battle begins tomorrow you will find yourself in a Hell on earth!”

Joy slept little that night. The wind and rain continued to lash the tent which she shared with Nurse Jane Ellman. The younger woman had sank in the sleep of the thoroughly exhausted, but this was not so in Joy’s case. She was too concerned about the battle scheduled to begin in full force in the morning.

Much of her concern was for Captain Colin Hill, who was somewhere out there with his regiment. She had heard so little from him, and the news filtering back from the battle front had been bad. Tomorrow’s battle might change the turn of events, it might also cost her the life of the man she loved! At least she would be in a front line hospital tent doing what little she could.

A light drizzle continued as dawn came. When she awoke she was aware of the distant rumble of the great cannon, and the occasional quivering of the ground. The battle was already underway! The forlorn little band of nurses and doctors had a hasty breakfast. Then with Captain Morgan in charge, they mounted the wagons once more for the final lap of their journey.

As they were driven along the muddy road in the drizzle she asked Captain Morgan, “How long will it take us to reach the hospital?”

The young man grimaced. “With luck a half-hour. But we may find ourselves dodging enemy shells as we get nearer the front. That could delay us.”

The drizzle cleared as they neared the bustle of the encampment. Joy was amazed at the clutter of tents, horses, and troops scattered over a vast area. Each section seemed to have a leader, and be engaged in some phase of battle preparations. Units were marched off to join a formation somewhere out of sight, where the front line must be.

She said to Captain Morgan, “At least the sun will shine.”

“Could be all the worse for us,” the young Captain advised her. “The drizzle probably gave us some cover.”

The noise of battle was nearer, and occasionally bursts of smoke and glowing fire could be seen on the horizon. There was an air of frantic motion about the camp, loud commands from mounted officers, nervous neighing of the majestic cavalry horses, and the thud of the marching feet of the foot soldiers.

They reached the hospital tent, and found it a miniature replica of their wards and operating rooms in Scutari. The surgeon in charge, Major Patstone, came to greet her with his shirt-sleeves rolled up and dried flecks of blood on his arms. He was a middle-aged man, with a bald head and gray, mutton chop whiskers.

“Thank God, you’re here, my lady,” he said. “We have grave need of you and your group. And the need will grow as the battle wears on.”

“We are ready, Major,” she said, removing her cloak.

From then on she had little time to think. She was kept continually busy supervising the arrival of the wounded on stretchers, and then assisting with surgery when one of the nurses collapsed from the ordeal.

It was a veritable inferno! The great wave of moaning, torn men kept arriving on stretchers and on foot. The news from the battle front was grim. It appeared the stalwart British force, which had ridden to battle so splendidly in their crimson jackets, were now mostly dead on the battlefield. This flood of wounded represented the survivors. In a sense they were fortunate ones — though many of them would die in the hospital tent.

In a brief moment when there was a temporary lull, Captain Morgan came anxiously to advise her, “Our supplies of morphine are almost exhausted. What are we to do?”

She said, “Try Major Patstone or one of his aides. Surely they have a stock.”

“I’ll try,” the young man worried. “But I’ve already spoken to one of his men and received no help.”

“I’m going back to surgery,” she said, pushing back a wisp of blonde hair from her perspiring and grimy face. “I’ll speak to him myself.”

She did, and another small supply of morphine was sent to the second tent where surgery was also done.

Joy was lost to everything but working with the grim Major Patstone. As the surgeon and his assistant took care of one case after another, she acted as nursing assistant, ready with instruments, clamps, and other needed items. She took a moment to stand by the entrance of the tent after a difficult abdominal repair, and so saw the stretcher bearers bringing in the next patient. She gasped as she saw it was Colin!