But John was not there. John was not racing to greet me, calling my name, arms outspread.
I turned back to Sylvanus, who still remained on his old horse, reins in hand, looking down at me in sympathy.
“Don’t be afraid, Deborah,” the reverend said gently. “You will not be mistreated here.” It was what he’d promised before, all those years ago. And he’d been right.
“Where is the general?” I asked.
“He is not here. He promised to stay to the end.”
“But I am his aide. I am his . . . wife. I cannot leave him.”
“Then you must go back. You must continue to battle.”
“I will only bring him shame,” I mourned, doubtful. Weak. “Maybe it is better this way.”
He shook his head. “It is not better. Only easier. But you are a warrior.”
“I am a woman,” I argued.
“You are both,” he said, but I had already turned back, tumbling from the warm sunlight into the dark tunnel of the space between. My skirts tangled around my legs, and pages, like those torn from a book, floated up in the murky green that was suddenly all around me. I was not in the fields of Middleborough. I was in the harbor. I was drowning in the harbor with Dorothy May Bradford, and she was crying for her son. For her John. Cold which has no description slowed my thoughts and stole my breath, yet I did not fight. I simply waited, letting myself be drawn downward, lungs screaming, light winnowing, unable to free myself.
I’m so sorry, John. Those were the words in my head, though the voice was not my own. I added mine to it, succumbing to my fate. Dorothy May and I were connected after all.
“I’m so sorry, John. Forgive me. Forgive me.”
I woke, heart thundering, my body stiff and sore, unable to move, but I was no longer in heaven or the harbor, though the room I was in could have been hell. A woman moved from berth to berth, and I tried to cry out to her but couldn’t summon any sound or even lift my head. The paralysis was the worst part, the sense that I was detached from myself, that my body wasn’t my body, that I was living another life or even dying someone else’s death.
A moment later she stood over me, tsking.
“So young. So pretty. Poor boy,” she murmured, and the r on her “poor” rolled endearingly. She ran a hand over my eyes, as if to close them, and I willed them open again. My lids fluttered and she screamed.
“Good heavens! You’re still alive.”
When I woke again, my uniform was gone and I was clean. The bedding beneath me was white and the sheet atop me was crisp. I still had no strength in my limbs and barely a thought in my head, but someone was beside me, and when I willed my head to turn, I saw two doctors in deep conversation. One of them was Dr. Thatcher.
“The soldier was brought in a few days ago,” the unknown man said. “He collapsed on the street. No one knew who he was beyond the uniform.”
“His name is Shurtliff. He’s one of ours,” Dr. Thatcher said. His voice moved over me, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open. “Is he going to die, Dr. Binney?”
“I’ve thought he was dead a number of times. But . . . he . . .” The doctor seemed to struggle over the word and gave into it reluctantly. “He is holding on. I don’t know how. He’s a strong one, to be sure.”
“What else can be done?”
“At this point . . . the soldier either lives or he dies. Only time and rest will tell. But sir . . . I must tell you what I’ve discovered. For . . . her sake.”
I moaned, wanting to protest, but no sound escaped my lips. Tears leaked from my eyes and dripped down my cheeks, but I couldn’t raise a hand to wipe them. I prayed for death or, even better, annihilation.
“Private Shurtliff is a woman, Thatcher. She wore a garment to bind her breasts, and it looks to me like she sustained a fairly serious wound in her thigh at some point. She has a terrible scar. Someone removed a bullet, but not with any skill. It wouldn’t surprise me if she dug it out herself. I don’t know how she’s gotten this far without discovery, but she’s clearly gone to great lengths to keep the secret.”
Silence filled the room, and I thought perhaps they had gone, or I had gone, that Robert Shurtliff had truly died, and I was dreaming. But then Thatcher spoke somewhere else, as if he paced.
“I d-don’t believe it,” he sputtered.
“I examined her myself, Thatcher. It is as I say. The nurse who found her in the morgue brought it to my attention. I had her moved here, to this room, to give her some privacy.”