At Some Disputed Barricade_ A Novel - Anne Perry [11]
Cavan did not look up from his work of stitching. “We can’t go yet, Miss Reavley,” he said steadily. “If I leave this man, he’ll die. So will the others who have just been operated on. The journey under fire will tear their sutures open. Tell the men to stand fast. Then come back and help me. I’m afraid my orderly is dead.”
It was only then that Judith noticed the body on the floor. When she had turned to go outside five minutes ago he had been assisting Cavan. The bullets that had torn through the canvas had struck him in the chest.
“Be quick,” Cavan added. “I need you back here. I can’t keep on much longer without help.”
“Yes, sir.” She swiveled and went out, almost bumping into a lance corporal with a heavily bandaged leg. He was kneeling against a packing case firing round after round at the raiding party. One moment they were visible through the drifting rain only by the flicker of their rifle fire, then suddenly the wind gusted and they could see them clearly, more than a dozen of them pressing forward.
“Captain Cavan says to stand fast,” she said loudly. “Tell the ambulance drivers we’ve got to fight.”
He looked at her incredulously, his face slack with disbelief.
“You heard me, Corporal,” she replied. “We’ve got wounded men to defend.”
He swore under his breath, but he did not argue. “You’ll ’ave ter tell ’em yerself, miss. Oi can’t move. Oi don’t mean Oi won’t. Oi can’t!”
“Sorry,” she apologized, and bending low again she scrambled over to Wil and repeated Cavan’s order to him.
“Stand fast?” he repeated incredulously. “You English!” He aimed the rifle again. “Remember the Alamo!” he shouted, and fired. In the distance someone fell.
She gave him a pat on the shoulder and went back to the tent to help Cavan. She knew enough about field surgery to pass him the implements he asked for, even though she could not keep her hands steady. When she tried to thread the needle for him it was hopeless.
“Hold this,” he ordered, indicating the surgical clamp in his hand buried deep in the abdominal wound.
She took it and it slipped off the flesh, blood spurting up hot, catching her across the face. She had never been more ashamed of her inadequacy.
Cavan took the clamp from her and grasped the flesh again.
“Swab it,” he commanded.
She prayed under her breath and cursed herself. She tried to still her breathing, control her muscles. She must not be so stupid, so ineffectual. This was a man’s life she was holding. Her fingers steadied at last. She mopped up the blood, then threaded the needle and passed it to him.
He glanced upward and met her eyes. His look was warm for an instant, then he took the needle. She reached for the clamp.
The gunfire started again, louder and more rapid than before, volley after volley. It sounded as if it was just outside the tent flap. Cavan did not hesitate in his slow, steady work. “Keep swabbing,” he told her. “I need to see what I’m doing.”
A spray of bullets shredded the tent wall and the anesthetist collapsed silently, buckling to his knees, then sliding forward, his back scarlet. Through the ragged tear stepped a German soldier, rifle pointing at Cavan. Behind him were two more, their weapons pointing at Judith also.
“Stop!” the leader said clearly in almost unaccented English.
“If I do, he’ll bleed to death,” Cavan replied without looking up, his hands still working. “Swab, please, Miss Reavley.”
Imagining the bullets crashing into her, bringing instant white-hot death, Judith obeyed, soaking up the blood within the wound.
“Stop!” the German repeated, speaking to Cavan, not Judith.
“I have two more men to operate on,” Cavan replied. “Then we will withdraw.”
There was more rifle fire outside. Someone cried out. The German turned away.
Cavan went on stitching. He was almost finished. The bleeding was contained.
The German looked back. “Now you stop.”
The tent flap opened and one of the wounded men stood there.