There was not even any clean water to wash them with. He held his toes to the fire, listening as they sizzled and popped from the heat. But it did not hurt. His feet went numb some time ago.
With the sounds of Schoville getting sick in the background, Patrick stared down at his glowing feet and wanted to weep. He wanted to run back to England, back to a land of doctors, and water closets, and warm tea before bed. He was not cut out to be the hero. Linley deserved a better champion. She deserved a brave man. A strong man. A man who could fight for her when she needed it.
But he did love her, and love had been known to make giants out of even the smallest men. And right then, Patrick felt very small, indeed.
***
Schoville could hardly move. Patrick took turns carrying Linley a few paces, setting her down, and then going back for him. It was a one-step-forward-two-steps-back sort of bargain, but at least they were getting somewhere.
That morning, Patrick had not been able to fit back into his boots, so he cut up and cannibalized them for their sturdy soles, and tied them to his feet with a ripped up shirt. It was the best he could do given the circumstances, and even though he probably risked a horde of infections, the rigged-up footwear seemed to keep his feet dryer.
As Patrick dragged Schoville through the tall, wet grass, the man somehow found the strength to fight him. “Just leave me,” he moaned. “Put me down and let me die.”
“Not today,” Patrick said, dropping him at Linley’s side. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“If I was a horse, you would shoot me.”
He picked up Linley and walked away, calling over his shoulder, “If you were a horse, I’d eat you.”
A few minutes later, Patrick limped back.
This time, Schoville did not fight him. “I’ve soiled myself.”
“It’s all right,” Patrick said, grabbing him under his arms.
They inched on. It was grueling work, hauling two invalids through an inhospitable environment. If he wasn’t shooing flies out of Linley’s nostrils, Patrick was talking Schoville out of grabbing the pistol from his pack and putting it to his head.
“Did you know that the sixth Earl of Wolferlow got both his legs blown off at Waterloo?” Patrick asked. “The Prince Regent felt so sorry for him that he created him the Marquess of Kyre.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“We Wolfords have had rather rum luck, all things considered,” he explained. “But even without his legs, the original Lord Kyre went on to live a very full life. So you see, even in the blackest of situations, we must press on.”
“That’s a terrible story,” Schoville said. “I don’t feel motivated in the least.”
As he walked, Patrick flushed out a covey of swamp partridge from the high, green grass. He sat Schoville down and went back for Linley. Thunder grumbled in the distance, and before long, rain fell like a wet blanket across the forest. The trees sagged under the weight of the storm. Their branches groaned. The grass whipped at the legs of Patrick’s trousers, and mud mingled with blood inside his makeshift shoes.
It rained so hard he could barely see. Linley shivered in his arms, and he pressed her limp, wet body against his chest. A few steps ahead, Schoville lay in the thick, orange mud with his mouth wide open, gulping down rainwater.
“Shall I carry her on?” Patrick asked. “And leave you here to rest for a bit?”
Schoville nodded.
Patrick walked further through the trees, and the grass, and the thickets. At least the rain would keep the flies down. And thank God the three of them would not go thirsty that night. They could fill their canteens, and maybe even gather enough water to wash with.
He tried to stay positive. Keep his mind off of his feet.
The mud became very thick in some spots, turning into wading pools rather than puddles. Patrick was careful to dodge these as best he could. If he went knee deep in one, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to pull himself out. So he churned through the more solid, more stable earth and left the pools for the mosquitoes.
God knows they were as big as bullets out there. If his foot-rot didn’t take him, Patrick was certain malaria would.
He stopped, looking around for somewhere safe to place Linley. If he did not go back soon, Schoville might be washed away. But he was reluctant to leave her there on the ground. It was just too wet to take any chances. Perhaps, just this once, Schoville might find the strength to walk a bit.
“Schoville!” he called. No answer came, so he called again. “Schoville!”
Patrick waited, and again no answer.
“Schoville, can you hear me?”
This time there was an answer, but it was not from Schoville.
Patrick swore it sounded human. He could not quite place it, but he knew no animal made sounds like that. “Hello?”