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.