Dream Weaver (16 page)

Christian shook his head. "I beg leave to disagree. I can recall many times when the Indian has been more than a match for the British army. And 'tis the settlers who must suffer the consequences of British mismanagement."

Richard half-rose from his chair, then sank back down. "Are you saying the British government doesn't know how to handle these savages? I believe, sir, that statement borders on treason."

"No treason intended, sir," Christian stated. "I'm a loyal British subject. I'm saying only it wouldn't hurt for the British government to be understanding and broad-minded in respect to the Indians. Look at the situation from their viewpoint, learn from the French--"

"The French!"

"Aye, just so. The French know how to handle the Indians, something the British apparently haven't learned yet. Might I suggest that you don't wait for a problem to arise. Rather work to prevent any problems."

"Sir, are you lecturing me on my duty as a soldier?" His face grim, Richard clenched his hands on the armrests of his chair. "I'm telling you, the British government has enough military might to handle these savages. We don't have to understand them."

Gwen threw a frantic glance from one man to the other. "Let's all hope the question of British military might is never put to the test. Lieutenant, I can't remember if you told me where you're from.
London
, maybe?"

"
Surrey
," Richard replied, his face still creased with irritation. "My family owns an extensive estate there." He released his hold on the armrests and eased back in his chair. "But you've been to
London
?" she asked. "I've heard it's a real fun--uh, a pleasant city." Definitely. Harrods, the theaters, jazz clubs. She directed a wistful look in Richard's direction. "I should so love to see
London
some time." She'd spent two weeks there last summer, having flown round-trip on a 747.

"Indeed, I've been to
London
many times," Richard answered. "And much of it is pleasant, the better parts of the city, that is. I should like to show you
London
one day. I vow there is much to see and do--dances and routs, the parks,
Vauxhall
Gardens
."

Gwen clapped her hands. "Sounds great! Maybe someday I'll be able to go there, providing you take me to all these places, lieutenant."

"Madam, that would give me the greatest pleasure."

Assuming a mask of casual indifference, Christian studied the officer and decided he might bear observation. He studied Gwen out of the corner of his eye, resolved to pay her more attention, even if he still couldn't figure her out.

A thought flashed through his mind. Might she be using Richard's courtship for ulterior purposes? Gleaning military information from the lieutenant? If so, how was she getting this information to the French?

Yes, indeed, he'd pay her more attention.

Chapter Nine

"My nose, Dr. Norgard! He cut off my nose!"

While Simon Fletcher squirmed in a chair, Christian bent over to examine the fellow's bloody nose, grateful for the sunlight that streamed through the open door. Placing a restraining hand on the farmer's shoulder, he gently sponged his face with soap and warm water.

Simon looked up, an expression of hopeless misery on his face as Christian pondered this medical dilemma. Much of Simon's nose remained, and his breathing didn't appear to be affected. So whatever Christian did would be solely for cosmetic reasons. Who'd want to go through life with a truncated nose?

"How did this happen?" Christian asked as he straightened up, playing for time.

"Got into a fight with Isaac Beam, the son of a bitch! All I did was give 'im a little push, and before I knew it, he whipped his knife out and cut off my nose."

Surely these settlers had better things to do than get into fights. Apparently Isaac Beam's back was improved, Christian thought, trying to find a happy note in this situation. He sighed.

 
"Very well. You may not believe this, but 'tis not as bad as you may think. And I can do something about it, but I'll need your cooperation. First thing--"

 
Simon sprang from his chair. "What are you gonna do, doctor?"

"I'm going to give you a new nose. It may not look exactly the same as your old one, but 'twill be a damn sight better than what you have now." He leaned back against the slab table and folded his arms across his chest. "Let me explain the procedure to you. I'll take a bit of skin from your arm and make a new nose from that. You won't feel a thing," he said hurriedly, "because I'll give you something to put you to sleep."

"A hit on the head?" the farmer asked with a fearful look as he gingerly returned to his seat. His face had gone white.

"Nay. I have a decoction called an anesthetic. It will put you to sleep so you won't feel any pain. You'll wake up after the surgery is completed." Christian hoped he'd injected enough confidence in his voice. God help him! He'd never done this surgery, had seen it performed only once. He'd read about it in his medical textbooks, of course, and knew every step of the procedure.

He washed his hands with hot water and lye soap, aware few doctors took that precaution of cleanliness. He'd read of fastidious Arab doctors in centuries past who'd practiced cleanliness, and with medically worthwhile results. At least, it had kept the rate of infection down.

The farmer threw him a suspicious look. "I'm gonna bleed a lot, ain't I?"

"Not excessively, and rest assured, I'll sew up your skin when I'm done." He took Simon's arm. "Here, let me help you get settled."

"Don't know if I wanna do this," Simon mumbled, drawing back.

Filled with countless anxieties, Christian released him. "Very well, then, you may go home." He gestured toward his open door. "Go on, no hard feelings."

Simon sighed heavily, raising his hand to his mutilated nose. "No, you got it right, doctor. I need a new nose," he said in a trembling voice.

Christian patted him on the shoulder. "You made the correct decision, Simon. We shall proceed." He indicated the table. "Lie down here. 'Tis the best place for the operation."

He set a wooden box with metal hinges on the chair and retrieved a jar and sponge from the box--a soporific sponge, the ancients had called it. Too bad the procedure had disappeared with antiquity, for precious few doctors used anesthetics in these times, most unfortunately

for their patients.

His mind returning to the task, he kept up a steady stream of conversation as he kept a level gaze on Simon. "I've made a decoction of opium, henbane, and mandragora bark. 'Twill put you to sleep, so you don't feel any pain." Christian dipped the sponge into the decoction. "Now I'm going to hold this to your nose, and I want you to breathe in deeply." Christian held the sponge to the man's nose, counting to himself. Within seconds, Simon fell asleep, his head lolling to the side.

After he poured vinegar over the instruments and set them on the chair, Christian selected a sharp knife and began to cut a piece of skin from Simon's arm. Minutes later, he completed that step of the procedure, then closed the cut on the man's arm, using flax thread and a curved needle. With adhesive plaster, he attached the skin to the nose and bandaged it firmly to hold the skin in place.

Tomorrow, he'd check Simon's nose to convince himself the transplanted skin had attached itself properly to the nose. Blowing out a long breath, Christian moved away from the table and sank onto the bottom step. He buried his face in his hands, knees jerking, his stomach churning. Staring at nothing, he sat there for the longest time, clasping and unclasping his hands while he waited for his exhaustion to pass, for his heartbeat to return to normal.

Countless minutes went by, and images of Gwen gradually replaced his anxieties. Only thinking about her made him feel so much better.

* * *

"Now, children, let's sing the alphabet song I taught you." Gwen led the singing, "A-B-C-D-E-F-G," happy to see she'd made some progress with her twelve students by the second day of school. The older children seemed eager to learn, but it was a big job to keep the attention of the fidgety younger ones. What was she doing here, conducting a class or managing a day-care center? Two of the children were under five, escorted to school by their older siblings. She figured their mothers wanted to get the kids off their hands, and that was okay by her, but she had to use all her tricks to keep them quiet and attentive.

A few days before starting the class, she and Rebecca had cleaned out an empty cabin on the Chamberlain property, first sweeping it out and checking for snakes. Now, flower-printed muslin curtains brightened the room, and woven straw mats Rebecca had made gave the kids comfortable seats. With hornbooks, primers, and games she remembered, Gwen thought she'd managed the children rather well so far. At least there hadn't been any fights or discipline problems, unlike her former high school classes. Why, she might even get used to teaching these boys and girls.

"Hey, that's good," Gwen said after they finished singing. "I think you've all mastered the alphabet. So how about a game now?" Smiles, oohs, and ahs greeted her suggestion. "You like that idea? Okay, here goes. Who can give me a word that starts with an A? Remember to raise your hand," she said quickly, "so everyone doesn't speak at the same time."

"Yes, Jimmy?" she said as a hand shot up.

"Aunt," the ten-year old volunteered.

"You mean the little insect that crawls on the ground and eats your food?"

"Nay, Miss Emrys," he said with a befuddled look, "I have an Aunt Edith in
Bedford
."

"Oh! That kind of aunt. Very good, Jimmy." She brushed her hand across her perspiring forehead, wishing the room had air conditioning. It seemed as hot as an oven in the little cabin, but since Rebecca had warned her that snakes might slip inside, she kept the door closed.

"Now B," she prompted.

Her mind drifted while the boys and girls raised their hands, her thoughts focused on the upcoming Saturday night ball at
Fort
Pitt
...music, dancing, red-coated soldiers hungry for feminine companionship. If only Christian could attend...

* * *

"Shall I give you a tour of the fort?" Richard Shelbourne asked Gwen as they stood outside the commandant's brick house. They'd left the confines of Captain Ecuyer's dwelling to get a breath of fresh air on this humid, sizzling night. The summer sun still beamed brightly enough to expose every stone and brick of the fort and all the buildings that encircled the vast parade ground. "That is, if you want to have a tour?" he said, good-looking in his grenadier's uniform.

"Yeah, sure, uh, I mean yes, thank you." Gwen tucked her arm through his. "I find this quite fascinating, really." And weird, she wanted to add as that eerie I've-been-here-in-the-past feeling sent goose bumps traveling along her arms. To think she had to save Christian's life here! The screams of the wounded echoed in her ears, the vivid image of blood a painful reminder of the dangers she must face. She took a deep breath, determined she would not show her fear in front of Richard. She would not spoil his evening or hers. Lifting the hem of her silk gown, she strolled with Richard as he pointed to the earth embankments and the high brick walls. Soldiers, their muskets clasped in their hands, patrolled from the earthen parapets.

"We won't tour the whole fort, since it covers seventeen acres," Richard said. "'Tis much bigger than the French fort that stood near here." He made a wide sweep of his arm. "The fort has a bastion at each of its five sides."

"A pentagon," Gwen said, her gaze covering the grounds of
Fort
Pitt
.

"Aye, you have the right of it." He frowned. "How'd you know that word--pentagon?"

"I...I must have heard it somewhere. Maybe Mr. Chamberlain mentioned it."

"Could be." He gave her an indulgent smile. "Mayhap I'm boring you."

"Hey, I'm taking all this in."

"You are what?"

"Uh, I mean I find this all quite informative." Anyway, she'd keep a picture of the fort in her mind, to remember every detail. Who could tell? This information might be a true lifesaver when the Indian troubles started. She gazed around her, gray shadows now draping across the grounds and buildings. "Look, it's beginning to get dark, so shall we go back inside . . .?”

Within the commandant's house, beeswax candles blazed from the brass chandelier, revealing the other guests as they laughed and talked between dances. Thankful Rebecca had taught her the minuet and a few other old-fashioned dances, Gwen tapped her feet to the music. As sets formed for a quadrille, she threw Richard a hopeful look.