CHAPTER XXX
TOM COWARD'S PATIENT
The place where young Lieutenant Gordon was lying was in the rear of the barn which belonged to the parsonage of the "new church." After the bullet had hit him, he had managed to crawl to that secluded place, but the sounds of the battle, which was still being waged in the vicinity, were not long heard by the wounded officer, for he had soon become unconscious, and the roar of the cannon and the shouts of the men were all unheeded and unheard.
"Is he dead?" said Nathan in a low voice, as he looked down upon the unconscious man.
"No! no!" replied Tom hastily; "or at least he wasn't a minute ago. No, he's still alive," he added after a hurried examination. "We must carry him away from this place."
"I see no place for thy friend. These sons of Belial are not likely to permit thee to depart unnoticed."
Friend Nathan was trembling, and his face betrayed his alarm. And there was much to frighten him. Clouds of smoke could be seen not far away, and the loud shouts of men and the reports of their guns could be distinctly heard. The struggle near the meeting-house was one of the most severe in all the battle, and the danger of which the frightened Nathan spoke was not unreal. But Tom's fears had departed now, and although he never fully understood the cause of the change in his feelings, the sight of his suffering friend and his determination to aid him had banished all thoughts concerning his own personal safety.
At a distance of a half mile, Tom could see a little farmhouse, and he hastily decided that the young lieutenant must be carried there. The building was on the border of the plain and on the side opposite to the place where the struggle was going on.
There would be danger in the attempt to carry him across the field, but thinking only of his friend, Tom said hastily, "We must carry him to that farmhouse yonder, Nathan. I don't know who lives there, but whoever does won't refuse to receive a wounded man, I know. You take hold of his feet, and I'll lift the head and shoulders, and we'll get him there somehow. Come, Nathan, we mustn't delay a minute."
"Have it thine own way, Friend Thomas," replied Nathan, as he stooped and grasped the legs of the wounded officer.
Tom gently lifted the head of the young lieutenant at the same time, and carefully across the field the two men began to move with their burden. Their progress necessarily was slow, and the lad's fears were not allayed by the evident alarm of his companion. Nathan repeatedly glanced behind him, and several times Tom was compelled to speak sharply to recall the frightened man to their present task. The shouts and reports of the guns were increasing, and Tom's strongest desire was to avoid attracting the attention of any of the combatants.
They had safely passed beyond the orchard, and he was just beginning to hope that their efforts would be successful, when suddenly Nathan's hat was lifted from his head and the sound of a whistling musket-ball was heard as it passed above them.
For a moment, the startled Nathan looked down at his hat, and as he perceived the hole in it which the bullet had made, he instantly dropped his burden, and turning sharply about, started in a swift run across the field.
"Come back, Nathan! Come back! Don't leave me here!" pleaded Tom; but Nathan did not heed the call.
His pace was a marvelous one for a man of his years, and as he bent low over the ground, as if to avoid other bullets which might be coming toward him, and sped swiftly forward, under other circumstances Tom might have felt inclined to laugh at the ludicrous sight the fleeing man of peace presented. But as it was he felt much more inclined to cry than to laugh, and, as he realized his own helplessness, he knew not what to do. If he had been alone he might have followed Nathan and gained a place of safety, but, as he glanced down upon the suffering man, who now lay stretched upon the ground, his whole soul rebelled against the thought of deserting his friend in a time like that.
What could he do? The desperate lad looked about him hoping to discover some one whom he might summon to his aid. In the distance he could see the bands of struggling soldiers, and their shouts and shots could be clearly heard. But they were all intent upon their own contest, and there was no one who would hear or heed him if he should call.
He could not abandon his friend—that much at least was certain; and at last he determined to do his utmost to carry the helpless, wounded man himself. Placing his arms beneath the shoulders of the unconscious lieutenant, and striving to rest the head against his own body, he started slowly on, dragging the man with him. His progress was necessarily slow, and he was compelled to stop frequently, both for his own sake and that of his friend. Still, on and on he persistently made his way. The intense heat of the day, his constant fear that life would depart from the body he was dragging forward, the sound of the battle behind him, all combined to increase his troubles; but not for a moment did he think of abandoning his efforts for his friend.
Proceeding slowly, stopping at frequent intervals and then resuming his efforts, he steadily drew nearer to the farmhouse he had perceived in the distance. How much time had been consumed he could not determine. The minutes seemed like hours to the struggling lad. His own danger was all forgotten for the time, and the one purpose in his mind was to carry Lieutenant Gordon to some place of safety, where it should be possible to do something for the relief of the desperately wounded man.
At last, only one more lot remained to be crossed, and with renewed hope Tom was about to lift his burden, which he had dropped for one of his brief rests, when he suddenly discovered a man running toward him. Startled and alarmed by the sight he quickly perceived that the approaching man was Friend Nathan, who, hatless and with a dripping face, was soon by his side.
"Thou hast put me to shame, Friend Thomas," said Nathan soberly. "Thou art a better man than I, as well as a braver. I know not why it was, but when my hat was lifted from my head, and I perceived that hole the bullet had made, I lost my self-control. My teaching has been that of peace and I am poorly prepared for the contests of war. I will give thee no cause to complain now."
"Take hold, then," said Tom quickly. "We must get the lieutenant out of this heat, or there'll be no hope for him."
Nathan eagerly responded, and tenderly lifting the wounded man they proceeded across the lot.
When they halted for their first rest, Nathan said, "I have a word to say to thee, Friend Thomas. What did Washington say to thee when he heard thy demand for a recompense for the beast I let thee have?"
"Say? He didn't say anything, because I didn't say anything to him. You don't suppose he hadn't anything more to do than to talk with a boy like me about your old, broken-winded razor-back, do you? I don't even know what has become of the beast. I know I'm glad I don't have to ride it any more."
"'Tis well, Friend Thomas," replied Nathan, although Tom thought he discovered a trace of disappointment in the expression upon his face. "'Tis well, and I would not have it otherwise. I have been humiliated by my weakness in deserting thee, a mere lad, at such a time as this. I would like also to restore to you the half-joe you paid me for my beast." And as Nathan spoke, he drew the coin from his pocket and held it forth for Tom to take.
"I don't want your money," said the lad quickly. "Take hold of the lieutenant again, and this time we'll not stop before we come to the house."
Once more they tenderly took up their burden, and slowly advancing, soon approached the house. In the doorway a man and a young woman, evidently his daughter, were standing, watching the movements of the approaching men with a curiosity which the noise of the battle in the distance could not entirely dispel.
Tom's heart was lighter when he recognized the man as Jonathan Cook and the young woman as his daughter Mary.
"We've brought this man here," said Tom quickly, "to find a resting-place for him. It's Lieutenant Gordon, and he's terribly wounded. Will you let us put him in one of your beds?"
"We will that," said Mr. Cook. "We've got one poor fellow here now, and will do all we can for another, too. Take him right in here," he added, leading the way to a bedroom adjoining the living-room on the ground floor.
Tom and Nathan eagerly followed him, and in a brief time had placed the suffering man on the high bed. Although the lad was almost exhausted by his efforts, with Nathan's aid he soon removed the clothing of the young officer, and then Mary came and bathed his bleeding face, and with many expressions of sympathy listened to the story the weary boy had to tell.
"I don't suppose it's been wise or safe for us to stay here," said Mary, "but we just couldn't leave the old place until we had to. We've been keeping watch all day long, and if the redcoats come this way we shall have to go. It's been a good thing we've stayed, though, for Captain Nealey is upstairs and he's almost as badly wounded as this poor man is. Oh, it's horrible, horrible!"
But intense as Mary's feelings were, they did not prevent her from bestowing a very tender care upon the unconscious young lieutenant, and as soon as Tom was satisfied that his friend was receiving better nursing than he could give, the lad went out of the room.
He discovered Nathan bathing his face and hands near the water-barrel, which stood beneath the corner of the eaves, and after he had followed his example, he began to be sensible of his own feeling of exhaustion.
"Now, Friend Thomas, thee must lie down and get some sleep," said Nathan. "I will assist Mary in her care of thy friend, and I insist that my words he obeyed. The heavy task has been thine, and my own cowardice has added to thy burdens, so that now it is thy turn to rest."
The tired lad was easily persuaded, and after again going into the room in which the unconscious lieutenant was lying, he followed Mr. Cook up the stairs to a room above, and soon threw himself heavily upon the bed and fell into a deep sleep.
It was dark when he awoke, and at first it was almost impossible for him to recall the events of the day. They soon returned, however, and hastily arising, he made his way down the stairs and entered the living-room, where he discovered Nathan seated in one of the large wooden chairs. The moonlight came in through the open windows, and as Nathan perceived the lad, he said,—
"And did sleep come to thee, Friend Thomas?"
"Yes. I'm rested now. How's the lieutenant?"
"There has been no change. Mary comes every hour and bathes his face in cool water from the well, but he does not open his eyes."
"Is the battle ended? I don't hear any guns."
"I know not. Since sunset all has been quiet, and it is now midnight."
"I'll watch now, and you go upstairs and get some sleep."
"Nay. I ought not to rest after my cowardice."
"Never mind that. You will do all the more if you rest awhile now."
Nathan was soon persuaded, and Tom took his place as watch. He could hear the troubled breathing of the suffering man, but it was the only sound to be heard. Outside the house all was silent, and as the slow hours passed, the only break which came was the occasional visit of Mary to bathe the face of the sufferer.
At daybreak, Mr. Cook brought the news of the retreat of the British, and great was the rejoicing in the old farmhouse when it was learned that at least the Americans had not suffered defeat in the battle of the preceding day.
Lieutenant Gordon was still living, although no signs of improvement in his condition could be discovered. Tom speedily decided that, as he was not enrolled in the army, there was nothing to prevent him from remaining and caring for his friend. Nathan also declared that he would return to his aid as soon as he had gone home and explained to Rachel the necessity for a further absence, and the lad did not protest, for he thought he understood the motive which prompted the action.
During the day, Mr. Cook brought the reports of the battle, the hundred prisoners taken, the number of the dead and wounded, and the measures which were being taken in the scattered farmhouses and the old Court-House for the care of the sufferers.
Tom did not leave the house. His one thought now was of his wounded friend, and all that loving hearts and gentle hands could do was bestowed upon the suffering soldier, who as yet had not shown that he was aware of what was going on about him.
The long day passed and the dreary night followed, but still Tom and Mary cared for the sufferer. Captain Nealey was said to be improving rapidly, but no change as yet had come in the condition of the young lieutenant.
It was the morning of the second day, and in the early light Tom had gone out to the water-barrel again to bathe his face and hands. His heart was heavy, for apparently Lieutenant Gordon was worse, and all the efforts of the lad and Mary had produced no improvement in his condition.
As Tom started to enter the house he halted upon the doorstep and looked up the road. A heavy farm wagon drawn by two horses was approaching, and as it came nearer the lad suddenly started as he thought he recognized the team. Surely those were Benzeor Osburn's horses. A moment later his suspicions were confirmed, and he knew that the lumbering wagon was his foster-father's.