Page 7 of The Ones Left Behind
When she returned, Matthias had gone into crisis. Hornsby was trying to cover him with ice, but Matthias was thrashing violently about the bed, the sheets tangled about his limbs. He was drenched with sweat, yet also in the grip of bone-shattering chills.
“We must get some willow bark into him!” Kitty said with urgency as she hastened to help.
“I’ll do my best to hold him for you, Mrs. Gordon, but you see what it is.”
Kitty leaned down to Matthias’s ear. “Matthias, ’tis Kitty. You must help us. Please take the medicine.” Pleading probably did little good, but anything was worth trying. It was their last chance.
Hornsby held Matthias as best he was able, and Kitty poured the saline draught slowly into her old playmate’s mouth; some Matthias was able to swallow and much dribbled down his chin. Then they untangled him from his sheets and worked to hold ice on him as best they could.
“What else can we do?” Hornsby asked, desperation lacing his voice.
Kitty shook her head. “Keep this up as long as we must.”
“This is not the time!” Mrs. Harlow’s voice sounded shrilly just before the door burst open.
“Let me see him!”
“Master Henry!” Mrs. Harlow scolded, coming into the room right behind the newcomer.
Kitty was so upset she could not even look up at Matthias’ brother. She kept her head down and tried to compose herself before speaking.
“He is going to die, isn’t he? I could not believe it without seeing it.”
“He is very ill, sir,” Hornsby answered.
Without another word, Henry left in the same whirl in which he had entered.
CHAPTER3
Matthias awoke and he did not know where he was. If he did not know better, he would think he had been ill with a fever. Besides feeling like he’d been trampled by a horse, he’d also felt he was walking through the fires of hell. At times, he had had the strangest dreams, as though he were on a battlefield or in the field hospital, perhaps even on a boat and then in a carriage. Now, however, he felt as though he were at home in his own bed. He struggled to open his eyes; his lids were heavy. The dark green canopy was there, just as he had suspected. The smells were familiar so he could not say precisely what they were—the Close had its own scent—like home. The sounds were that of the country, with the birds chirping as though the world was as it ought to be. But he knew better. Yes, he was home, but how did he come to be there?
He closed his eyes tight as a flood of memories washed over him. He had been shot in the leg but had managed to reach the sawbones. He attempted to move his leg and felt pain, but did that mean it was still there? He was afraid to look. Like all soldiers, he had heard story after story of the mysterious phantom pain where limbs hurt even after they had been amputated.
The time between then and now was a blur. He remembered the bullet being extracted and glimpses of Tobin and Philip, Luke and James. Where was Colin?
He remembered his vow properly to take care of Kitty. It seemed strange that he should think of her in this moment, but she had been his last thought before he had been wounded, had she not? Peter would have been very disappointed to know Matthias had not looked after her properly.Pietas et honos.
She had been his responsibility, not Peter’s, but Peter had done the honourable thing before Matthias had, and now he had failed her yet again. She had denied it at Philip’s wedding, when Matthias had asked how she was, if she needed anything, but he was the one who knew her best and he had allowed her pride to win.
Regret overwhelmed him.
Supposing he was a cripple? Somehow, in his heart, he knew he was not the same but God had decided to let him live, for whatever reason. He was not certain if he had the strength of character to do so with good grace. After a moment, he opened his eyes to see the truth of his fears. He felt as though a new chapter in his life was beginning, but reflected dolefully it was doubtless one of the ones in the middle that tended to lead somewhere else in the story. Those were never his favourite. While he enjoyed meeting the characters in the beginning, he sometimes flipped to the pages at the end to discover what happened to them. He been told many times it was a grievous flaw in his character. Perhaps he was to be taught a lesson: that the story was the journey. It occurred to him that having studied law, perhaps all the dry reading had ruined him for reading simply for pleasure. He suspected he was about to discover all about journeys.
He threw back his coverlet and attempted to sit up, quickly discovering that he was as weak as a new-born calf and likely as awkward. Pain seared through his leg and he dared to look down. It was still attached. Thank God. At least, he thought he was grateful. He should probably reserve judgement until he attempted to use it. He pulled back his fresh nightshirt, noting how remarkably clean he was. No doubt his batman, Hornsby, had come with him, the stubborn fool.
His leg was covered in a dressing from hip to knee. Nonetheless, he needed to see the damage despite the searing pain when he tried to lift his knee in order to unwind the linen strips. He gritted his teeth but was forced to lie back from his exertions, a cold sweat creeping over his brow. How long had he been ill, that he was so debilitated? Had they defeated Bonaparte on that fateful day? Something in his vague memories told him they had. Was the assurance from whispered conversations? It mattered not. At least this action had been for a purpose. Flashes of the battle and the carnage came vividly to his recollection. So much blood; so much death. The sounds were as loud and the smells as pungent as if he were there. He prayed it had not been in vain.
He leaned forward again, determined to see the remnants of the day upon his body. It was strange; a wound to be sure, but it was as though he were looking at someone else’s leg.
He touched the oddly puckered skin, which was mildly warm although his leg felt little sensation.
The feeling, or lack thereof, was enough to raise the bile in his throat. Turning away, he resolved to get out of the bed.
Shifting to the edge nearly exhausted him. He had not survived this long only to fail now. He slid down to put weight on his feet, lifting himself from the bed at the same time. The injured leg collapsed beneath him and he was not in time to catch himself. As he toppled to the floor, his body made a resounding thump. The pain that shot through his leg indicated it might be broken, but how would he know?
The chamber door burst open and Hornsby looked first at the bed and then the floor with alarm. “My lord! Why did you try to get out of bed?” he admonished.
“It is good to see you, too, Hornsby. I wanted to see how damaged my leg was. Is it broken?”
