Jo Ann Brown by The Dutiful Daughter

Author:The Dutiful Daughter
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Charles woke from a dream that vanished as soon as he opened his eyes. He did not remember the details, only that it had been filled with the horrors he had witnessed during battle. He had thought he had put those terrible nightmares behind him. He had not had one since his arrival at Meriweather Hall.

Now one had stalked him through his sleep, leaving him drenched with sweat.

He tried to relax. What had brought it on? His conversation with Herriott? That must have triggered the dream.

But he had escaped it. All he needed to do was roll over and go to sleep.

He tried to turn over. He could not move. Not to the left. Not to the right. He was pinned down.

By what?

Shifting his arms or legs even an inch was impossible. He was restrained from neck to his toes. Panic crept out of the darkest recesses of his soul.

Where was he?

In France? Maybe the war was still setting the Continent aflame.

Had the French captured him?

His men! Where were they? Had they escaped, or were they prisoners, too?

Sickness boiled up from his gut. Maybe he was not a captive. Maybe he had been shot and was paralyzed. He gagged, struggling not to vomit up his own fear as he thought of Jones. The man, who had served as one of his sergeants, had been shot in the back and afterward could not move anything below his chin.

Charles swallowed hard, fighting the sour taste of bile. He had seen Jones only once after he had been taken from the field on a bloodstained litter. After the battle—Charles could not remember which one—he had found the hospital tent where Jones had been taken.

When he entered the filthy tent, the sharp smell of alcohol and blood burned his nose. The screams of the injured rang in his ears. Medics shouted to each other as they held down a thrashing man and sawed off his arm in an effort to save the soldier’s life. Most of those efforts were futile. The men died in agony from blood loss or infection anyhow.

Under his boots, the mud was mixed with blood and gore. Charles paid it no attention. He could not remember the last time his boots had been shined. The leather was creased from hours of holding a position while he fought the enemy.

A hand reached out and grasped his coat. He looked down at a man whose eyes were hidden beneath a cloth tied around his head. His face was half gone, and Charles had to look away. The man tried to talk to him, but no human sounds came out. With a cry of his own, Charles pulled away from the wounded man.

His throat tightened. He could not breathe. He wanted to escape from these nightmare creatures who once had been healthy soldiers, eager to serve their king and keep their country safe from the Corsican monster who ruled France. But he had come to comfort Jones.

Where was he?

He heard his name called.

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