Antietam Assassins by Michael Kilian

Author:Michael Kilian
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Head of Zeus Ltd

Seventeen

Harry opened his eyes to a fuzzy, starry night sky. It seemed improbable that such a peaceful vision should be there. He was surely imagining it, dreaming it. Or perhaps he was capable of neither mental function, or any mental function. Perhaps something far more profound had happened to him—the most profound something there could be.

That notion was swiftly contradicted. He began to feel the pain. A bayonet driven through the top of his head could not have produced more. He was paralyzed by it, and yet driven to move. He found himself writhing, and tried to stop that, failing. He heard himself moaning, fearing that whimpering and crying would be next.

Then he felt the soft hand on his cheek, and the pain began to diminish. It was not an illusion. The hand, the delicate fingers, were very real. He realized his head was resting on something soft—and very real as well.

“Where am I?” he asked. He could barely hear his voice.

“You are safe. Do not discontent yourself.”

He recognized the voice. All was well. All would always be well. “I fear I could not discontent myself any more than I already am.”

“Then be still, Harry. Be still.”

He did the opposite, raising his head perhaps half an inch and then letting it fall back again in retreat from the agony. Rather than try again, he slowly, slowly turned his head to the left, discovered his neck hurt as well.

Someone had taken his spectacles, but he could make out a house and, nearer, a barn, their walls flickering with the reflected light of numerous campfires. Exerting himself further, he turned still more, discovering he was in a veritable sea of wounded men, lying on litters or blankets or the bare ground. Some were writhing as he had been. Others lay perfectly still.

It was difficult turning back again, but he managed it, knowing there was reward.

“Lean close so that I may look upon your face, Caitlin,” he asked.

She did so. Were it Louise, he might be graced with a smile, but Caitlin only gazed at him intently, her warm eyes full of tender concern.

“Is the wound mortal?” he asked.

His friend and chess-playing partner, Army Surgeon Lt. Col. Phineas Gregg, had told him that easily half of all battle wounds were fatal, with the death rate increasing if they involved amputation.

Yet amputations seemed to be all that field surgeons ever did.

At all events, they had not amputated his head.

Caitlin had been hesitating. “You are conscious now,” she said. “That is encouraging.”

“You are encouraging,” he said. She was stroking his cheek. Of a sudden she ceased, and placed her hand on his brow.

“The surgeon said the bone is intact,” she said.

“The bone?”

“Your skull. The bullet cut across the side of your head and you bled a great deal, but there was no fracture. I’m afraid there is great swelling. The flesh is thick with evil humours.”

He wanted to touch the place in question, but decided against it. Her remark sounded so medieval—as he supposed one must expect of the English, especially those of theatrical bent.

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