We all assumed that the man would die during the night.
Indeed, when they found him on the field of battle, it was thought that he was already dead; impaled through his belly upon a bayonet, with a terrible wound at his throat as well. They pulled him off the bayonet, and as they dropped him on the blood-soaked earth, he groaned. The stretcher bearers were summoned, and he was brought to the hospital camp, where the surgeon examined him briefly and shook his head, before turning away to other wounded soldiers, who had a stronger spark of life.
"Make him comfortable. We'll be burying him tomorrow," he muttered to me, as he passed.
I was only seventeen, but I had been preparing the bodies of Redcoats for decent Christian burial for almost two years. I had seen many take their last breath; just as I had seen my parents take their last, after the attack by the militia, those two years past.
Our village had been torched, punishment for remaining loyal to England, revenge for similar massacres visited on rebel communities by the Redcoats. Had it not been for a wayward hog, I would have shared their fate. I returned from the woods, driving the beast before me, to find the flames engulfing my home. My parents and young sister lay in the barnyard.
Father had been bayoneted, and his life blood spread all around him, as his final breath bubbled in his chest. Mother was nearby, one side of her face a bloody pulp where they had beaten her, perhaps with a musket stock. There was a brief flicker of recognition, and she managed to say, "Margaret?" before the light died from her eyes.
I stood up and looked around, searching for Margaret. The churned mud by the stone water trough showed the boot prints of several men around my sister, and her torn and disheveled clothing was caked with mud and blood. I can never forgive them for what they did to her before they killed her. She was only twelve.
The Reverend from the neighboring community found me, shaking and crying, as I held her battered body. I had not heard the sound of his cart approaching. He had seen the smoke rising over the hills, and he had known what he would find, even before he drove his horse along the main street, between the scorched buildings and mutilated corpses. A few other townsfolk, chance survivors like me, stumbled in the wreckage, paying no heed to the Reverend's questions, and offer of help.
Finally he helped me into the cart, and turned for home. On the edge of town, we found a small boy, perhaps two years old, sitting silently beside his mother's body. His face was dusty, and streaked with tears. I recognized him as George Stephens. His widowed mother had lived in a little cottage on the edge of town. She was probably one of the first to die. How little George escaped, we never knew. But the Reverend lifted him, unresisting, from beside his mother, and put him into my arms. I held him tight as we drove away from my childhood home.
They were kind to us. It was a much stricter household than the one I was raised in, but I fell in with their ways, grateful for the comfort they gave, and the home they provided. They were elderly and childless, and the Reverend's wife welcomed George as her own. Being older, it was more difficult for me to accept them as parents, but I was grateful for their care, and behaved as dutifully as any daughter, working in the house and the church, although what I had seen that terrible day seemed to have shattered my faith. When the Reverend suggested, kindly, that I might find comfort in tending injured and dying British soldiers, I agreed.
So now I was preparing a nameless British soldier – a dragoon officer, by his uniform – for death. I hoped it would be quick and easy. For the rest of the day, I gave an eye to him, as I tended other injured, and helped to lay out the dead. Each time I went to his side, I expected to find that he was dead. But he continued to breathe, raggedly, shallowly, but enough to keep him alive.
Night fell, and the camp became quiet, save for an occasional moan from the injured. I continued with my duties, but at last there was a pause, and I returned to the side of the wounded officer, still lying with those considered too badly hurt to warrant much treatment. There were very few of them now, most having succumbed to their injuries. But still this man lived, and it seemed to my eyes that his breathing was easier. I had become accustomed over the previous two years to the inevitability of death. But somehow, I thought that this man would live.
I had time, now, to tend to him, without taking care away from others with a better chance. I fetched a bowl of water and a cloth, and wiped the dirt and blood from his face, then carefully washed the wound at his throat. It was cleaner than the one in his belly, made by a knife, or bayonet, perhaps. Although his breath whistled slightly, it did not sound badly obstructed. I slid my hand under his neck, feeling a wound at the back, somewhat to the side. Whatever had pierced his throat seemed to have missed his spine.
The man's skin was cold to my touch. Despite my conviction that he would live, I knew that the surgeon was still too busy to give attention to the unconscious man. I sighed, then rose from beside him, and fetched a blanket. Providing him with a little warmth was all I could do. I covered him up, and brushed his dark hair back from his face, making him tidy. That done, I felt compelled to return to my duties. Whether he lived or died, now, was in the hands of fate.
Towards dawn, I returned to check on him. There was a thin film of perspiration on his face, but when I slid my hand beneath the blanket and touched his arm, he was cold and clammy. I frowned, but before I could move, his eyes opened. For a moment he stared upwards, at the sky, scattered with stars, above. Then his gaze traveled slowly towards me. He tried to turn his head, but a faint sound of agony came from him, as the movement disturbed the throat wound. His breath came fast and ragged for a few minutes, but gradually slowed, becoming even once more. Without turning his head, he looked at me. His gaze was intense, blue eyes boring into mine.
"You are safe," I told him. His eyebrows drew together, his expression was confused. I wondered how much he remembered of the previous day. "The battle was lost," I told him. "But they allowed us to gather our dead and wounded."
His eyes narrowed, an expression of fury contorting his features, but after a moment or two, he sighed, and his eyes closed. For a few minutes lay still, and seemed to be concentrating on breathing. Then he opened his mouth a little, and the tip of his tongue brushed his dry, cracked lips. I rose and went to fetch a clean cloth and a cup of water, and as I returned I saw that he was watching me. His gaze fixed on the cup in my hand, and I was sure that I had read that tiny gesture correctly.
I moistened the cloth, and squeezed it gently against his lips, so that a few drops of water reached his mouth. He licked the drops then looked at me intently. I repeated the action several times, letting him drink as much as I dared. But when the surgeon came to see how the man fared, he said, "That's enough for now." Once more I saw anger in the wounded man's eyes; he was someone accustomed to getting his own way, I surmised.
I went to put away the cup and cloth, and when I returned, the surgeon was examining the ugly stab wound in the man's belly. It was jagged, and contaminated with dirt and debris. After a few minutes, he looked up at me. "Fetch the attendants, have them move him to the surgical tent," he instructed. I nodded, and hurried off with the message. It was a good sign; the surgeon now believed that the man had enough chance of surviving to warrant treating the wound.
The surgeon requested my assistance; I had been present at surgeries before, and had schooled myself to assist calmly, without recoiling at what I saw. Over the past two years, I had gained some skills and knowledge, and understood that my role would be to prepare the patient, and hand the surgeon the tools he needed. While the surgeon washed his hands in a shallow bowl, I took a length of linen sheet, and folded it several times. Then, as the attendants took up their places, holding the dragoon's legs and arms, I held the pad of cloth to the man's lips. He met my gaze for a moment, and a look of grim determination settled on his face. He opened his mouth and let me place the cloth between his teeth, biting down on it, and then stared up at the canvas tent above him, as the surgeon took up his tools.