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La Belle Christiane

2011 copyright by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

BOOK TWO

Chapter Nine, Scene 3

Two weeks later at midnight after yet another disastrous defeat this time at Germantown, Christiane stood just outside the General’s tent, clutching a shawl. She knew that they would change position again as soon as the officers who were meeting inside decided what their next move should be. Shivering, she waited to supervise the midnight supper she had ordered for them.

A tall soldier came out of the darkness into the dim firelight. “Christiane?”

Recognition of the voice shocked her. Glancing around to see if he were alone, she replied, “Yes, Michael, it is I. What do you want?”

He stopped right in front of her and turned his hat nervously in his hands. “Christiane, it’s Tom.”

“Tom?” Fear clamped around her throat.

“He’s bad–real bad.”

“He’s wounded?” she asked, her voice shaking, revealing the impact of these words.

“He…the doctor says–”

“What?” She pressed a hand over her heart, to feel it racing. Tom, the only other survivor of Rumsveld. She quailed at what might be coming.

“The doctor says Tom probably won’t last the night. He lost most of his left leg and he was wounded in the stomach. He’s asking for you.”

Christiane felt sick. Tom belonged on his farm in the wilderness, not in a war. She wanted to shut her eyes, make this all go away.

Two soldiers arrived with covered trays.

Christiane drew up her reserves. “Take it in right away, Sergeant, please tell the General I am going to one of the hospitals.” Then inexplicabely ready, she turned to Michael, “Let’s go.”

They hurried over the uneven ground in the almost complete blackness. The moon was only a thin fingernail, surrounded by a wispy veil. Where were the stars hiding? Michael helped Christiane over rough farm fences and caught her as she stumbled over the half-harvested fields. Finally they reached the “hospital,” a large cattle barn. They could hear the moans, cries and smell the stale sweat of the dying men and their blood. She quailed inwardly. No, no. But she didn’t withdraw her hand from Michael’s.

Entering, Michael led her up a rough ladder to the loft. The barn was almost as dark as the night outside. Tom lay quietly there on a scattered pile of hay. When Christiane knelt beside him and groped for his hand, he opened his eyes drowsily.

“The surgeon gave him some laudanum to ease the pain. He is still a little sleepy,” Michael explained.

“Christiane,” Tom whispered. “Are you real?”

“Yes, Tom, I’m here with you,” Christiane squeezed his hand and leaned forward. She could barely see his face.

“I knew you’d come, Christiane. I knew you’d come,” he repeated weakly.

She pressed her palm on his hot forehead. “I’m here now. It will be right, Tom,” she said soothingly.

“It won’t be, Christiane. The doc thought I didn’t know, but I know I won’t make it through the night.”

She knew he spoke the truth, but she had to deny it, must. “Don’t say that please.”

“It ain’t no good, Christiane. I know. My leg is too broke up to be any good to me anymore and the doc wouldn’t even amputate. He just give me laudanum. That means it ain’t even worth the trouble to cut. I seen enough. I know.”

His logic was irrefutable. There was a long silence. Then with sinking dread, Christiane asked, “Is there anything I can do?”

“Just stay with me, Christiane. You’re the only one from home, from Rumsveld….”

Unable to speak, she replied by squeezing his dry, fever-hot hand. How could they speak of the ones they’d lost? Of Sarah? Of Jakob?

The remainder of that hellish night Michael hovered in the background, intruding only when bringing Christiane fresh water for Tom’s thirst. His laudanum wore off and there was no more to be had. As Tom’s suffering worsened, Christiane tried to distract him with memories in spite of the pain they caused her, but finally he asked her to stop. He was too weak to concentrate on her voice. Finally blood frothed on his lips.

“Christiane,” he gasped, clinging to her hands. “It’s Jakob! He’s….” His eyes opened very wide and then he loosened his grasp and was still. Christiane felt for a pulse and found none. She reached up and gently closed his eyes.

“Oh, Tom,” she breathed.

The tears started then, a flood of them that flowed down her face and wet her dress. Gently Michael put his arm around her. She looked up and saw his tears, too. It was impossible to talk as she let herself be led down the ladder and out of the barn. She was surprised to see that the endless night was over, but the dawn wrapped gray and lifeless around her. Michael led her to a stand of trees nearby. A woman stood up.

“Tildy!” Christiane cried and ran to her. Tildy opened her arms and they clung to each other. Several minutes before passed before they could bear to break their embrace.

Too soon Christiane was standing by the trench Michael and a few others had dug for Tom. A chaplain appeared and from his little black book he read the appropriate service swiftly and moved onto the next grave. Christiane did not spare herself and though Tildy gently tugged at her arm, she stayed and watched till the last shovelful was thrown and Michael knelt to pound the hand-fashioned cross at the grave’s head.  I’m the only one left who remembers now. A cool wind of loss whistled through her. I’m the only one. When all was complete, she let herself be led away.

As she passed through the field, now a cemetery, she tried not to count the graves being dug. The smells and sights of death suffocated her and were grotesquely familiar. Then it snapped into focus. She was at Rumsveld again the morning after the massacre. The scalped, half-burned bodies were all around her.

Here near one of these battle graves a woman moaned, “He can’t be dead. He can’t. No. No.” This seemed to echo in Christiane’s head. Only in her mind it was transformed to “I can’t be alive. No. No.” Her knees buckled and she fell forward, unconscious.”

How will this affect Christiane, do you think?

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