Page 215 of Feathers in the Wind
‘Then go, go now. You must get over the wall.’
‘The wall?’
‘Your wall... your garden wall. That first day...’ he grimaced as he tried to move his leg. ‘Not much time. Go!’
‘Not without you.’ Even as I spoke, I tugged at his right arm and placed it across my shoulder.
Despite his protests, and with a supreme effort, I got him standing. I held out my other hand. ‘Christian, come with me.’
The little boy took my hand, and we made a strange procession, staggering through the woods to the lane, still the narrow little dirt track down which I had ridden only a few hours earlier.
We reached the wall to what would become my garden without encountering another person. It was too high for me to manage alone. Bracing himself against the stonework, Nat cupped his hands and lifted me so I sat astride the wall. He lifted Christian up to me and I put out my hand.
‘You’re coming too,’ I said.
He shook his head, grimacing in pain as he took his weight on his injured leg. ‘Jessie, I can’t...’
‘Yes, you can. If you stay here you are going to die. I’m not sure how, probably blood loss or gangrene or something horrible. You must come with me, Nat.’
He looked up at me and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. With an effort that must have taken every last bit of his strength, he hauled himself to the top of wall. With my hand firmly bunched in his collar and one arm around Christian, the three of us tumbled into the garden, ruining what was left of my dahlias.
For a long moment I lay winded in the garden bed with Nat’s dead weight on top of me. Christian had crawled a short distance away and sat on the grass, his horsey in one hand, wailing as if his heart would break.
As I looked toward the cottage, Alan flung open the kitchen door and stood framed in the doorway. I carefully pushed Nat off me and he rolled onto his back with a groan.
I sat up and, gathered the child into my arms. ‘It’s all right, Christian,’ I told him. ‘We’re home now. We’re safe.’
And my choking sobs joined Christian’s howls.
Alan just stared and I could hardly blame him. His sister, the calm professional, always in control of the situation couldn’t move. I sat amid the broken dahlias, in a sea of damp skirts, my sneaker clad feet sticking straight out and a crying child clasped in my arms.
For the first time in my life I had to leave it to Alan to sort out the mess.
Alan recovered from his shock and ran across the grass toward us. He looked down at me. ‘Jess, are you hurt?’
I managed to choke out ‘Nat...’
Alan bent over and felt for Nat’s pulse. He glanced up at me, a thousand questions in his expression. Questions that would have to wait.
‘He’s alive but we’ve got to get him to hospital, Jess,’ Alan said.
‘Not dressed like this.’ My wits had begun to return. ‘Get him to the cottage, Alan, and we’ll see how bad it is.’
Between the two of us, we managed to half carry, half drag the semi-conscious man to the cottage. Christian trailed after us. He looked almost as pale as his father and his breathing sounded ragged, but at this moment the little boy’s plight was less urgent than his father’s.
I sat the child on the sofa, wrapped in a knee rug, from where he watched us with large, round eyes, his thumb in his mouth, as we laid Nat on the hearth. In the harsh glare of the electric light, I saw with a sinking heart that beneath the stubble on his face Nat was ashen.
‘Whisky?’ Alan suggested unhelpfully.
‘You can pour me one,’ I said.
‘And me,’ Nat said, his eyes fluttering open.
Alan pulled off Nat’s boots provoking what I took to be seventeenth century profanities. I found a pair of scissors and cut away the heavy woolen cloth of his breeches.
The musket ball appeared to be lodged in his thigh, but in the absence of a scan, I had no idea how much damage had been done or exactly where the ball had lodged. I pulled the cloth from my coffee table, folded it into a pad and laid it over the wound, which had begun to bleed again with my probing.
‘Press on that,’ I ordered my brother. Alan complied and Nat swore again.
