Abbeyford Remembered (19 page)

Men lay on the open deck, mostly with no bedding, not even a covering blanket. Their clothes were unrecognisable as the British uniform, so torn and tattered and filthy were they. Some had open wounds with no kind of dressing, others with dressings so dirty that they undoubtedly did more harm than good to the wound they covered.

“Good day, Mrs Foster.” A voice spoke close behind her.

Carrie gasped and her whole being stiffened. Slowly she turned and looked up at the man standing behind her, a smile of satisfaction upon his face.

“Captain Richmond!” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

“
Major
Richmond, ma'am, at your service.” He bowed mockingly. “I had hoped my letter might bring you. I guessed that amongst Miss Nightingale's motley band …” he glanced meaningly at poor Ellen, “that you would stand out as a jewel amongst the rest.”

“You – knew I was there?”

“Oh, yes,” Major Richmond replied with confidence. “I have followed your every move, my dear, since you left India – in such haste!” His eyes glittered dangerously. Carrie swallowed the fear that rose in her throat. He has not forgiven me for escaping from him, she thought.

“But how – how do you come to be here – in the Crimea?”

Major Richmond tapped the side of his nose. “It pays to have relatives in high office, especially when one wants a transfer in a hurry.” He laughed. “And I managed a promotion out of it too – though it cost me a pretty penny, I can tell you. Still …” His hand reached out and caressed the sleeve of her dress. “ It was worth it for sight of you again. You see,” his soft tone was full of menace. “I told you you could not escape me.”

Carrie felt a shudder run through her as she shrank from his touch, but she would not let this man know the fear he brought to her heart. Defiantly, she tossed her head. “ You will excuse me, Major, we have work to do aboard this ship.”

“Of course, ma'am.” He bowed again. “I will not detain you –
now
!”

He turned on his heel and walked swiftly away, passing through the lines of wounded men lying on the deck without even glancing down at them. Carrie stared after him. Ruthless as ever, she thought, and shivered again. It became even more imperative that she should find Jamie, for he was her only protection against Major Jeremy Richmond.

“Who is 'ee, Mrs Foster?” Ellen whispered. “How do you know him?”

“I had the misfortune to meet him in India,” murmured Carrie wryly. “ I had hoped never to meet with him again, but it seems … Come,” she said, shaking herself, “we have work to do.”

The following hours were taken up with the task of trying to make as many of the wounded and sick as comfortable as possible. Men with cholera and dysentery lay alongside those with wounds, so that very soon the wounded men had not only the pain of their injury to suffer, but the sickness too. They had lain on the bare decks, so that their backs were red raw. They were cold, filthy and starving.

“This is intolerable!” Carrie muttered angrily, straightening her aching back. She looked about her and then glanced towards the setting sun. Dark clouds were gathering with the threat of rain. It was obvious the men on deck would have no shelter.

“Where is Major Richmond?” she demanded of one of the crew.

The man shrugged uncaringly. “ 'Ow should I know,” then he grinned, showing blackened teeth. “ But if you'm lookin' for a man, darlin', I'll …”

Carrie turned away, disgust upon her face. She glanced towards the bridge and her eyes met the gaze of the man she was obliged, out of necessity, to seek. She crossed the deck towards him, stopping now and then to help one of the injured. Major Richmond descended from the bridge and came towards her.

“Ah, your work finished for the day, my dear? Then will you come below to my cabin …?”

“Major Richmond, this work will
never
be finished,” she began angrily. “Is there no shelter for these men? Look,” she gestured towards the darkening sky. “ It's going to rain soon. What are you going to do about it?”

“Ma'am, I am a man with power at my fingertips, but even my influence does not extend to the elements!”

“Don't treat me like a fool, Major,” she snapped.

“Never that, ma'am, I assure you,” he said sarcastically. “If you will permit me to give you a little refreshment after your labours,” he held out his hand to her, “then we will discuss the matter.”

“I don't think …”

The Major made as if to turn away, shrugging his shoulders, “Then there is no more to be said.”

Carrie glanced back at the men lying on the deck. Then she felt the first drop of rain upon her cheek. In desperation she turned back to him. “Very well, then,” she said resignedly, trying to ignore the triumph which leapt into his eyes.

Below decks, in his cabin, the Major had evidently anticipated her acceptance of his invitation, for the meal on the table was the nearest to a banquet which Carrie had seen since leaving England.

“How do you come to have all this,” she gasped, “when the men out there are starving?”

“I told you I had power at my fingertips. Pray be seated, my dear.”

“No,” she said sharply, “ I couldn't, not when …”

“My dear Carrie, this small meal would be as nothing to the number of men out there.”

She whirled to face him. “How can you sit here gorging yourself, knowing your men are wounded, sick and starving?”

“There's no point in getting emotional about the situation. The officers in command must keep themselves fit and well, as must you, their nurse. Now, be sensible and eat.”

“No,” Carrie replied defiantly.

Major Richmond gave an exaggerated sigh. “ Still as stubborn, I see. Still determined to play the heroine as you were in that campful of cholera-ridden natives.”

“What are you going to do about those men on deck?”

“Absolutely nothing, my dear.” Major Richmond seated himself at the table and spread his napkin across his knee. “If you will not join me, then there is nothing further to discuss.”

For a moment Carrie stood irresolute, staring at him in disbelief. She had recognised him for a hard, ruthless man who would do anything to get his own way, but she had not thought that even he would stoop as low as this – to neglect his soldiers' well-being, to use them as pawns to blackmail her into submission! His passion for her – for it could not be called love – must be far greater than she had imagined. He had carried out his threat to follow her from India, to follow her wherever she went in the world. ‘You will not escape me', he had promised, and now that promise – or, rather, threat – had been fulfilled. As she watched him begin to eat, her loathing for him overflowed. Then she remembered the men on deck, the encroaching darkness, the threatening storm.

Reluctantly she sat down opposite him. He grinned at her. “ It's really very good, my dear, do try some.”

Sick with revulsion she picked at the food upon her plate, merely to satisfy this man's whim. She must get him to do something for those men up there.

“Major Richmond, please …”

“Ah, now that is more the tone of voice I like to hear from you.” He reached out and touched her cheek. Though she cringed inwardly, Carrie clenched her teeth and restrained herself from slapping his hand away.

“Please – will you do something for those men?”

“Ah, yes, the men.” He raised his voice. “Sergeant.”

The cabin door flew open. There was a stamping of feet as the man came to attention with a sharp “Sir!”

“Arrange for the wounded on deck to be taken ashore. See what covering or shelter you can afford for those waiting.”

“Y-yes, sir,” the man's surprise was evident. “Right away, sir.”

The door closed behind him.

“You see,” Major Richmond said smilingly, “what it means to have power? I usually get my own way in the end, you know.”

Not in everything, thought Carrie determinedly.

“Do have some wine, my dear, I'm sure you'll find it to your liking.”

Major Richmond seemed determined to savour every mouthful of his meal and every sip of his wine. The minutes lengthened into hours and Carrie, weary, not only from this day's work, but from the weeks of hard, grinding labour, found her limbs grow heavy and her eyes drowsy from the warmth of the cabin, the headiness of the wine, the comfort of the chair.

She was unaware of the Major lifting her on to a couch, of him covering her with a blanket and then stealthily leaving the cabin.

When Carrie awoke, at first she did not realise where she was. It was so blissfully comfortable, so warm, so restful. Her aching body luxuriated in the soothing softness of the couch. She became aware of a gentle rocking motion and as wakefulness came, she looked about her. The remains of the Major's dinner still lay on the table, though light streamed in through the porthole. Bright light! Daylight!

Carrie was fully awake in a moment. She must have slept the night through. She sat up and swung her legs to the floor and stood up. Smoothing her crumpled dress and ruffled hair, she went to the door of the cabin. Twisting the knob she found she could not open the door. It was locked!

Stunned for a moment she could not think properly. Then she became aware that the ship's motion was far greater than the previous day when they had been at anchor.

She went to the porthole.

They were moving. The ship was out at sea, the shore a speck in the distance.

“Oh, no, no,” Carrie cried and covered her face with her hands. How could she have been so foolish?

He had planned this. From the beginning, from the moment he had sent that letter to Miss Nightingale – perhaps even long before that for all she knew – he had planned this abduction.

Anger flooded through her. What of the wounded? Then she remembered. He had given the order last evening for the wounded to be ferried ashore. No doubt this had gone on all night whilst she slept in a locked cabin, and now with the morning they were out into the Black Sea.

“Jamie, oh, Jamie. I need you so much!” She closed her eyes.

During the previous day she had had little time to ask her usual question of the men on board and whilst she had attended to many she had not seen all of them. Ellen had descended to the lower decks to tend the men below.

The situation held more irony than Carrie knew.

At the moment when she awoke to find herself a virtual prisoner aboard the ship and sailing back across the Black Sea towards the Crimea, the wounded were being carried up the steep slope to the Barrack Hospital. Amongst them was a soldier with his arm badly smashed by a musket ball. Like his companions he was more dead than alive, dirty, half-starved, unshaven and cold.

His name was Corporal James Trent!

James Trent lay on sacking on the floor of the Barrack
Hospital. He was slipping towards death. His eyes were closed against the
sight of his companions and their suffering, but he could not shut out the
sound of their moans, or the shrill cries as they were carried towards the
small room where the doctors now operated instead of on the floor of the
ward in full view of all the patients.

Perhaps he would lose his arm. Not that he really cared. How he had
survived until now he didn’t know – but it could not be for much longer.
He was luckier than the many who had lain in that place before him, for
now – slowly but surely – Miss Nightingale’s influence was beginning to
take effect. The floors were clean, the beds reasonably so. There was
clean clothing and food.

Jamie Trent had a chance of survival – if he had the will to take it.

He was by no means a coward, but it was so like the time in Abbeyford –
what was it now, thirteen years ago, or more? There had been nothing left
worth fighting for, not after he had lost Carrie, after he had watched her
ride away from him for ever, as another man’s wife. How he had loved her
wild, gypsy beauty, her bright violet eyes, her black, flying hair. He had
loved her strength, her passionate nature – even her jealousy when she had
spied on him talking to Francesca. How angry she had been. And then that
anger had turned to love in a moment and they had become as one.

Jamie smiled faintly as he remembered and the pain lessened a little. His
memories of her were still so vivid. She was part of him. He would never
be free of his love for her.

How many times during the years since had he gone over and over the
events in his mind and wished his own actions so very different. If only –
he had not ridden away in a moment of senseless, wild anger, ignoring
Carrie’s desperate cries. If only – he had not entrusted his letter to her
brother. If only – he hadn’t galloped like a mad thing on a pointless
journey to the lawyers in Manchester. If only – if only – if only …

Someone was bending over him, shaking his arm gently, trying to arouse
him. “Sir! Sir! Corporal Trent. It’s me – Boy. Don’t you remember?” No one
knew Boy’s real name. Not even he knew it, for he had been an orphan
living on the streets of London until at the earliest possible moment he
had taken the Queen’s shilling and joined Her Majesty’s army.

He was a wiry little fellow, unaccountably cheerful and willing. The name
officially given him was ‘John Smith’ but he had become known as ‘Boy’ to
men and officers alike.

Jamie was drifting, slipping into a world of memories, dreaming of Carrie
and he did not want to be aroused back to the pain and suffering. He just
wanted to drift away … away … But the voice was insistent, it would not
let him go.

“Sir – I’ve got some’at to tell you. Do wake up, sir.
Please
!”

The pain was throbbing in his arm again, the noises of those nearby were
pressing upon him once more. Jamie sighed and grimaced, shifted his sore
and aching back a little and opened his eyes. “ Hello, Boy,” he said
flatly. “You here too?”