Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

“You’re right, MacKay. He’s awake and breathing. I wouldn’t’ve given a farthing for his chances.”

“I’ll fetch the doctor and the major.”

“Don’t go bothering Dr. Wilder. Major Jenkin will do.”

“He’s tryin’ to tell us somethin’.”

Marc heard a voice somewhat like his own say, “I’m co-ode.”

“It’s okay, Lieutenant. I’ll fetch ye another blanket.”

“You’ll do no such thing, Mr. MacKay. Do you want all these other wretches crying out for one?”

The next time Marc opened his eyes, Owen Jenkin, quartermaster of the 24th and his loyal friend, was seated beside him and smiling as if he could do nothing else. Marc felt tears hot upon his cold cheeks. The major reached over and pulled a fresh-smelling blanket up to his chin.

“Don’t expend your energy trying to talk, lad. You’re going to need it all for putting some flesh and muscle back on your bones-now that you’ve decided to live.”

Marc shaped a question with his lips, cracked and dry though they were.

“Well, you may think you’re in one of Hell’s vestibules when you get a chance to look around you,” Jenkin said, “but this is what passes for a military hospital in Montreal these days. We’ve been practically suffering a siege for two weeks, but things’ve quieted down now.”

Marc’s puzzlement must have shown.

“There’s a lot you’ll want to know, and I’ll do my best to fill you in. It’s hard to know where to start, but I’ll begin with you and go from there. In a day or so you’ll be peppering me with questions and correcting my Welsh grammar!” He took a few moments to laugh, which was only a slight exaggeration of his smile. “You were shot in the leg down in St. Denis late on December 1. Ogletree figures you passed out from shock. They carried you back into the village after making sure the habitant you shot dead was the only armed Frenchie in the house or on the property. But the surgeon had been called out to a place on the other side of town, and by the time he got to you, you’d lost a ton of blood. He told me he had to tie up some cord or other in your upper leg, then cauterize the wound. He told Captain Riddell that if you survived the shock of the blood-loss, you’d be healthy as a cart-horse, though you’d have a slight limp on the left side.”

Someone groaned from the nearby shadows.

“Poor bugger.” Jenkin sighed. “He’s praying to die. And that’s what everyone thought you’d be doing-dying, that is. They put you on the ambulance-wagon and left you there, thinking you’d never last the trip to Sorel. But you were still breathing when they got there, so they kept you at the barracks for three days, waiting for you to stop. When nothing changed, the doc had you put on a steamer with half a dozen of the hopelessly wounded and three dead. Again, he was surprised to find you alive that same evening in Montreal. There’ve been so many casualties, military and civilian, here in the past two weeks that the health officials decided to set up this temporary hospital in an old immigrant holding-shed down here near the wharf. It used to be a warehouse for fur traders: you can smell the musk, among the other stink.”

Marc moved his lips with an urgent question.

“It’s December 17. You’ve been unconscious for sixteen days.”

The major leaned down and, with his handkerchief, wiped Marc’s cheeks dry. Then he wetted a corner of it in a bowl of water at his feet and dabbed at Marc’s parched lips. “I engaged young Davey MacKay, the attendant with the brogue, to keep a close watch on you. This place is a mecca for thieves and mischief-makers, though your uniform and accoutrements are safe in a trunk in the officers’ quarters of the Royal Regiment. As soon as you can be moved safely, we’ll have you taken up there for rehabilitation.”

A young woman flitted past Major Jenkin and out of Marc’s vision.

“That’s one of the nurse-attendants. You’ll get used to them scooting about here, emptying the pans and slops, scrubbing the human messes off the floor, and trying to avoid the foghorn bellow of Head Nurse Cartwright. All the female help here are French: they work for a shilling a week and all the bad food they can stomach.”

As if on cue, the foghorn boomed from some distance: “Pyette! Take that pail outside, now! Vite! Vite!”

Marc uttered his first pure word: “Beth.”

Major Jenkin smiled reassuringly. “There’s so much to tell you about Beth and all that’s happened, but she’s fine, fine. Meanwhile, you’ve managed to sleep through two rebellions!”

Which one of these topics the major was about to choose went unresolved, for the patient was once more asleep.

Marc’s head was propped up on a greasy pillow, and Davey MacKay was spooning a surprisingly tasty soup into his mouth.

“This ain’t the gruel they give to the poor souls on the other side of the room. The major has yer food sent down from the Royal’s mess. He’s been attached to them until the fuss dies down and all the froggies are back in the pond. The rest o’ yer fellas have gone back to Toronto, where they shoulda stayed in the first place.”

Marc nodded towards the shadows and prone silhouettes on the far, windowless side of the cavernous room.

“You’re the only officer here, sir. Them fellas’re just foot-soldiers who got in the way of a rebel bullet. Since nobody here expects them to live, it’d be a shame to waste good food on them.”

Ravenous, and with little shame, Marc ate.

“Here comes the major. I’ll leave ya to him.”

Owen Jenkin settled in beside Marc, and took out his tinder-box, pipe, and tobacco pouch. Cautioning Marc not to attempt to speak, he picked up where he had left off yesterday. Or was it an hour ago? Marc had no idea.

“There’s no tactful way to say this, Marc, so I won’t try. Beth and her aunt are now in Bedford Valley, Pennsylvania. Don’t fret yourself: they’re both in good health and reasonable spirits, considering what happened. To make a long story short, Catherine felt she could no longer safely live in Toronto, so Beth-well, you know how her loyalties work-arranged to accompany her to where they both have relatives in Bedford, way down in the south part of the state. They got there about a week ago, and I’ve received two letters from her, even though the mails, and most everything else, is in turmoil and chaos. You’ll be able to read them for yourself in a day or two. But the ladies are looking to set up a business for the aunt-they smuggled out a fair amount of specie, it seems. Beth will stay there until Catherine is on her feet, perhaps only a few weeks if all goes well. She learned about your wound just before she left, and I’ve written her in Bedford to let her know the wonderful news of your recovery. My guess is that you’ll each arrive back in Toronto about the same week, in time to tie the knot.”

The major beamed, while Marc tried to absorb what he was hearing and suppress the dozen questions he couldn’t yet speak aloud.

“Now I see Davey heading this way with a bowl of hot water and a razor. Even Beth wouldn’t recognize you with that Viking’s bush!”

Once clean-shaven, scrubbed raw, and settled on fresh sheets, Marc dozed and half woke, dreamed hazily, and tried to interpret the eccentric sights and sounds that coloured his waking moments. Beth appeared to him in both venues: in her bridal dress and veil, smiling and beckoning, and floating by in her drab nurse’s clothes like an earth-bound but loving angel. He called out to her in English, then in French, but she merely smiled beatifically and moved on.

“Mr. Edwards, I would be grateful if you didn’t try to speak to the hired help and interfere with their duties. What’s more, they’re expressly forbidden to use that lingo of theirs above a whisper in this hallowed place.”