Marjorie Farrel (5 page)

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When Simon awoke hours later, he could not, at first, remember where he was. Slowly he oriented himself: he was lying on what felt like a dirt floor, on a folded blanket that smelled of horse. He could hear groaning around him, but not much else. He saw nothing. The pounding in his head had lessened, and he pulled himself up on one elbow. He felt stronger and wanted to get up and walk, to ease the stiffness in his legs and back. He also needed to relieve himself.

“Is there anyone there?” he said softly, for some reason afraid to raise his voice in the void that surrounded him. He sensed someone stirring next to him. Simon turned toward the sound. “Hallo, are you awake?”

“I am now,” answered a cultured, rather annoyed voice. “What do you want?”

“What time is it? Where is the doctor?”

“I don’t normally carry a watch into battle,” said an amused voice. “But about ten minutes ago I heard a cock, and it seems to be getting lighter, so I would guess close to five. The doctor collapsed about an hour ago, after being up for two nights straight.”

“I need the privy. Could I impose upon you to take me?”

“Said doctor relieved me of the better part of my left leg, as you can plainly see, and I haven’t had time to come up with a false one, Captain. You look well enough to get there on your own. From what I understand, we are just using the back of the barn.”

Simon had flinched at the man’s words. “No, I can’t see that your leg is off. I can’t see at all. I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice trailed off.

“Oh, God, what a comedy. Here am I, able to see every bloody body in the bloody place, and here you are, all right and tight, sound of limb, and you can’t see a bloody thing. And for that,” he muttered under his breath, “you may count yourself lucky.”

The man reached out his arm and gripped Simon’s shoulder, squeezing it in sympathy. “What is your name, Captain?”

“Simon Ballance.”

“Mine is Peter Carstares. Lieutenant. How were you blinded? I would never have known it from your eyes.”

“I was beaten by a rifle butt. The doctor last night said that the damage seems to be internal. But I am not permanently blind,” said Simon hastily. “He said sight can return when the head injuries heal.”

“You are quite lucky, then.”

Simon was growing more uncomfortable. “Is there no one around who could take me out?”

“The staff is all asleep, and I doubt the Second Coming would wake them. The rest of us are drugged or, like me, incapable. We are too far from the door for me to guide you by voice. You’ll have to wait until someone wakes up.”

“And if they don’t soon?”

“You’ll mess yourself, as we all have done.”

Simon had never felt so helpless. His head had begun to ache again, and he felt alone in a void with only a disembodied voice next to him. He remembered there was a wall behind him. He turned and groped for it, and pulling himself up to face it, he fumbled with his breeches. He urinated, he hoped, against the wall. He felt around for his blanket and lay down, only to feel it get warm and wet as the stream ran from the wall across the floor. He was humiliated, and tears slipped from the corner of his eyes as he stretched out, trying to ignore the dampness under his head. Eventually he fell into a troubled sleep.

The next few days slid together into one hazy wakening from laudanum-induced nightmares of the battlefield to the real nightmare of groans and screams, and the smell of blood and vomit and piss and excrement. When there was a lull, orderlies did attempt to maintain cleanliness. Simon was led outside a few times, but more often than not, he and the rest of the men lay in soiled clothes and bedding. He was dirty and smelly and thirsty, and maintained his sanity by repeating to himself that it would not last, and by talking to Peter.

They talked about their homes, Simon describing the Sussex Downs and Peter waxing eloquent about the Yorkshire moors. Peter was the eldest son of a gentleman with a small estate. He had been stationed in London, so he and Simon had mutual acquaintances. Peter kept up an amused commentary on their situation and described the layout of the barn for Simon. This he found helpful when the orderlies had the chance to guide him outside, since they were constantly forgetting he couldn’t see, and he found himself tripping over legs and banging his shoulders on the door. No one could have guessed it from his demeanor, but he was terrified. He felt, with every step, that he was about to fall from a great height. He returned to his filthy blanket gratefully, for it, at least, was known.

There were moments, however, when Peter would groan in his sleep, and Simon would be pulled out of his own hell. One night Simon woke to a choking sound next to him. He groped for Peter.

“Are you all right?”

The choking sound stopped, but Simon was too worried to let it go.

“What can I do, Peter?”

“What can anyone do?” whispered Peter. “Dammit, I am not a vain man, but what woman would look at me now? I may as well sit at the side of the road and beg.”

Simon, convinced that at least his own incapacity was temporary, was more sympathetic to Peter’s state than his own.

“And it hurts,” Peter sobbed suddenly. “I can feel the rest of my leg, but it’s not there.”

Simon lifted Peter’s head onto his knee and smoothed back his hair, softly and rhythmically, as though he were a child. There was nothing to say, nothing to do but offer the small comfort that he could. They both fell asleep, Simon propped against the wall, arms around Peter.

When Peter awoke, he blushed at the memory of the night before, but realized that he felt better for having let out some of his fears. And at least I can see, he thought. He wondered what Simon would be able to salvage of a normal life. As Simon stirred, Peter slid himself down into his own blanket, embarrassed by their moments of intimacy, and pretended to sleep.

The next morning, Simon was shaken awake by an orderly. “Wake up, Captain, you’re to be on your way home today. All those who can walk are being sent into the city in two hours. I’ll take you to the pump to clean up.”

“What about Lieutenant Carstares?”

“Nah, he’s not well enough yet. He’ll go into Brussels with you, but stay there until he’s strong enough to get about on crutches. Come on, then.”

Simon washed as thoroughly as he could, although it seemed rather pointless, since he would have to put on his filthy uniform again. Perhaps in Brussels there would be clean clothes. At the thought of clean clothes and warm water and soap, some of his depression lifted. There was a world outside this fetid barn, and although he couldn’t see, he was going home. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to until now.

This time the traveling was easier. He and Peter were transported in a wagon filled with clean straw. The men were smelly, but awake, and for the most part, not in pain. Peter said, “There’s four of us. You, no sight, me no leg, Smith missing an arm. And another, I don’t recognize, shot through the lung. What a sight we are, but at least we’re out of there.”

The hospital in Brussels, though makeshift, was paradise compared to the farm. There were, of course, too many wounded and too few doctors, but many ladies had remained and volunteered as nurses. There were real beds, there was soap and water, and clean blankets. First there was a general stripping. Filthy clothes were burned and the men given clean pants and shirts. Odd sizes, of course, collected from everyone in the city. But clean.

Simon had no idea what he looked like. Probably ridiculous, he thought, since the sleeves of his rough cotton shirt hung down over his hands. His pants, on the other hand, were made for a smaller man and barely reached his ankles. He didn’t care.

Peter was taken to a different room, so Simon was without his running commentary. He spent the first day being scrubbed and deloused, and it wasn’t until the next morning that he was approached by any of the medical personnel. He was lying on a pallet, having insisted that he did not want to take a bed from the more seriously wounded, when he heard voices. One, speaking heavily accented English, came closer.

“And what is wrong with this man, Sergeant?”

“He is blind, Doctor.”

“What is your name, Captain?”

“Simon Ballance.”

“Ah, a French-sounding name.”

Simon smiled. “There is a Norman ancestor somewhere, but it is well and truly a British name.”

“How were you injured, Captain?”

“A rifle butt. All I can remember is the first blow to the side of my head.”

“Stand up, sir.”

Simon rose and the doctor offered him his arm. “Come, I wish to examine you myself,” he said, and led Simon into the adjoining room and sat him down in a chair.

“Can you see anything, Captain?”

“Nothing yet, but my headaches are becoming less frequent, and the doctor at the field hospital assured me that in cases like mine, sight could return at any time.”

“Hmm. Yes, that can happen, but very rarely. Did the doctor explain the reason for your blindness?”

“He seemed to think that the force of the blow led to internal damage.”

“I have some knowledge of this kind of injury myself, although I am not an oculist. We do not know much about the eyes, but it is speculated that damage to the nerves can cause permanent blindness even if the eyes themselves are unharmed. If the nerve is severely affected, it will not recover. You have headaches, then?”

“Yes, and I still do, although they are not as severe.”

“And you still do not see light or shape?”

“No.” Simon hated to admit this, as though he were giving the doctor information to use against him.

“My opinion is that if the nerve were going to recover, it would have begun to do so. I may be wrong, of course, but I think the force of the blows was enough to do permanent damage. I will not offer you false hope: I believe your blindness to be irreversible.”

“I cannot accept that,” said Simon, clenching his hands on the side of the chair.

“I understand,” the doctor said gently. “But the sooner you can accept it, the sooner you can begin your adjustment.”

“When can I go home?” Simon asked. “I feel it wrong that I am taking up space when those more seriously wounded are still lying out in those filthy field hospitals.”

“There is a ship leaving in two days. I suggest you begin to move about a bit, to restore some strength in your legs.”

“Has my household been notified?”

“Yes. We dispatched the names of this group yesterday, so there should be someone to meet you at Dover. Is there anything else I can do for you, Captain?”

“I would like to visit a friend before I leave. Where is Lieutenant Carstares? Can someone take me to see him?”

“I will make sure of it.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Simon stood up and reached his hand in the direction of the voice. “I would appreciate it if you would take me back now.”

The next morning he was approached by an orderly.

“Captain Ballance?”

“Yes.”

“The doctor asked me to take you upstairs to visit your friend.”

Simon’s face lit up, and he took the orderly’s arm. He was led to a large room with pallets and makeshift beds lining the walls.

“Simon!” Peter’s voice was warm and welcoming. “My, we are elegant this morning, Captain,” he teased. “You will be setting a new style when you return to London. An interesting combination: homespun and black superfine.”

Simon turned toward Peter’s voice and said, “I’d venture a guess you look no more stylish than I do.”

“You are right,” Peter admitted. “They dressed me in black velvet knee breeches. Sliced up the side over my bad leg, of course, so we both look rather like scarecrows. It is good to see you.”

Simon cleared his throat, which had suddenly grown tight.

“I’ve only come to say good-bye, Peter. I leave for Dover today.”

“Don’t say it, Simon. I promise that as soon as I’m hobbling about, I will come to London. We will go out drinking and bore people to death with our war stories.”

Simon reached out and Peter grasped his hand. “I will miss you, Lieutenant,” Simon whispered.

The orderly led him back to his room, where he sat and waited to go home.

The trip from Brussels was crowded and tedious. Simon felt his frustration and anger building. Not to see meant more than helplessness. It meant a sort of starvation. No sights to take one’s mind off the crowded traveling conditions. No view of fields and trees on which to rest one’s gaze. Just hours and hours of darkness. He found himself beginning to listen more carefully. When they passed through towns or stopped to change horses, to alleviate his boredom he would try to identify at least one activity going on around him.

The boat trip was easier. Simon had always been a good sailor, and he had himself led up to the rail, and stood there a long while, breathing in the clean scent of salt air, letting it cleanse him of the smells of battle.

When they reached Dover, he began to panic. Who of his household would be coming to meet him? Had they been told of his injury? With the crowds, how would they find him, since he could not see them?

The pier was a confusion of sounds. As they walked down the gangway, Simon could hear voices from the shore.

“There he is, Jimmy, there’s your dad!” And although civilians were supposed to wait, he could hear them rushing up. One—a woman, he could tell by the rustling of her skirt—pushed by him to reach her husband. He could hear them behind him, the man and the woman, crying and laughing at the same time.

The sergeant who had Simon’s arm asked, “Who should I be looking for, Captain?”

“I think that my secretary will be here. He is a young man, tall, with black hair. My valet may be with him: short, stocky, balding.”

The sergeant looked at Simon in surprise. A secretary and a valet? This unassuming young man? It was obvious that Simon was well-bred, but he had never pushed himself forward or complained the whole trip.

He saw two men fitting Simon’s description separate from the crowd. They were waving slowly at first, and then frantically, to get Simon’s attention. As the sergeant steered him in their direction, he heard them call out, “Over here, your grace. He seems fine, Martin, why doesn’t he look at us?”