Before the Scarlet Dawn

16





Eliza walked an anxious quarter mile with Fiona hastening beside her. Not once had her steps slowed as she hurried down the path shaded by ancient trees. She scolded herself for not thinking to fetch her mare and follow after Addison. He hollered up the road, galloping back at breakneck speed. Rounding the bend, he jerked on the reins, and the horse halted abruptly.

“Not far . . . I found him . . .” Addison steadied the horse as it turned in a circle. “He was thrown from the saddle. Alive, thank the Lord.”

Eliza’s heart pounded. “Is he badly hurt?”

“Yes. He’s hurt all right.”

Her mind whirled with fear. “I must go to him. Give me a landmark—something to go by.”

“He’s under the sycamore, the one with the markings of the Shawnee, about a quarter mile down the road.”

“Hurry and fetch a litter, Addison. There is no time to lose.”

With his face set like flint, Addison urged the horse into motion with a swift kick of his heels. Eliza hurried, gathered her skirts to her knees, and, once she was a distance down the road, her eyes searched intently for the sycamore. Somewhere within those dim and fearsome shadows, upon the tall grass alongside the dusty way, lay her beloved.

The long trill of a cicada signaled the coming heat of the day. Eliza wiped the sweat off her forehead with her sleeve and rushed on. Fiona lagged behind. Just beyond a crop of willows stood the old tree, and upon sight of it, Eliza’s heart grew in her throat, and she ran toward it.

Hayward lay with one arm beneath him, his head cradled in the crook of the other. His hair was matted with blood above his left ear. A scarlet trail of it curved down his neck and stained his stark white neckcloth.

Eliza fell to her knees beside him. Eyes closed, he made no response to the trembling sound of her voice. With deft fingers she felt his warm skin and the pulse that passed through his body. Tears fell from her eyes, and she swiped them away with the back of her hand.

“He makes no sound,” she said to Fiona. “Oh, he is badly injured.” She tore the hem of her chemise, the cotton cloth giving way easily to the strength of her hands. Wrapping the cloth carefully around his head, she spoke softly. She tore another and handed it to Fiona. Down the bank to the river Fiona hurried, then returned with the cloth soaked with water. Eliza touched Hayward’s lips with it, and ran it gently over his face, hoping to revive him. A moment later his eyes slowly opened, and he moaned.

Eliza stroked his forehead. “Lie still, my love.”

“Eliza . . .” He grimaced in pain and strove to move.

“You have had a fall and must not move.”

“Horse . . . I . . .” His eyes closed again. The reality that his injury could mean his life coursed through her, as if an icy hand had grabbed hold of her and tapped frozen fingers over her skin.

“Do not take him from me, Lord. Be with him now, and show me what to do.” She kissed Hayward’s face as her tears dropped onto his hair.





Clouds gathered over the Potomac and made their way to River Run, up the hillsides and across the fields. The threat of a thunderstorm hung in the air, and all the birds had stilled by the time they carried Hayward to the door. He had not woken, nor had he stirred the whole time they hurried with him upon the litter, down the road and over the path to the house. Every fiber in Eliza trembled. Her hands turned white as she gripped the handles of the litter, her eyes not leaving his face, not for a moment.

She gave instructions to her servants as they lifted Hayward with great care from the litter onto the bed. “Open the windows wider, Fiona. We must allow as much fresh air in as possible . . . Bring me the quilt in the chest so I may cover him with it. Addison, do not stand there. You must ride like the wind and bring a doctor.”

A quick nod, and Addison hurried out the door. She listened to his hurried footsteps run down the stairs and then Omega galloping off. A breeze filled with the scent of rain passed through the windows.

Eliza ran her hands along her husband’s arms. No broken bones. But when she touched his thigh, a moan raked his throat. He tried to rise, and she moved him back.

“What should we do, dear girl?” Fiona threw her hand across her mouth and stifled a sob. “Poor Mr. Hayward.”

“We need water.”

She gazed at him, her vision blurred by tears. Tucking the quilt close to his body, Eliza whispered all would be well. God would see to it.

From the pitcher, Fiona filled the blue porcelain bowl on the washstand and brought it to the bedside. Eliza dipped a cloth into the water, wrung it out, and touched Hayward’s brow. Blood seeped through the cloth that pressed against his wound.

Her hand trembled. “He bleeds so.”

“Head wounds always do, my girl. Do not be troubled.”

“How can I not be? He is gravely hurt. Pray for him, Fiona. God cannot take him from me.” She turned to the woman who always comforted her in times of crisis. “He would not do that, would God, Fiona? Not now. Not when he has shown me he loves me, and that, well, I have not told you, not even Hayward, that I carry his child.”

Fiona’s brows shot up. “You are with child? And you helped carry your husband on that litter. I do say, Eliza, I sometimes wonder . . .”

“If I have any common sense in my head?”

Fiona shook hers from side to side. “Oh, ’tis there. But I wonder if you use it. You cannot do tasks like that when you are carrying a babe. Never mind all the reasons why. ’Tis only common sense.”

Sighing, Eliza reached over and touched Fiona’s hand. “You worry a great deal over me. I’ll be more careful. But for now, turn your mind to my husband.”

“Here, let me do that.” Fiona took the cloth from Eliza’s hand. “You sit beside the bed and hold his hand.” And so Eliza obeyed Fiona’s wisdom and sank into the chair. The breeze flowed through the window and brushed over her face, cool and comforting.

“Eliza . . .” Hayward turned his head to see her. His gaze fell on her face, but it seemed as though he did not see her.

She pressed his hand to her cheek. He wet his lips with his tongue. “Snake . . . Omega.” He then drifted off.

Eliza looked over at Fiona. “A snake frightened the horse. It must have reared and thrown him off.”

Hayward moaned. Eliza untied Hayward’s neckcloth and slipped it away from his throat, loosened his shirt, and laid her hand on his chest to feel the beat of his heart.

“I must set my heart to prayer.” Drawing in a deep breath, she closed her eyes and prayed as she had never prayed before.

Fiona lit a candle, for the room had grown dark with the thickening sky. She drew beside Eliza, knelt next to her, and folded her hands. “And Jesus saith unto him,” she quoted, “I will come and heal him.”





Two hours passed with no sign of Addison or the doctor. Eliza stayed at her husband’s bedside. He lay so still that at times terror seized her, and she would lean close to hear his breathing, in agony, not knowing whether he were still with her.

By the time the clock on the mantelpiece chimed another hour, a pair of horses galloped down the lane and halted at the door. Footsteps climbed the stairs, and Fiona hurried to open the door and go out into the hall. She returned, tugging a black-clad man by his sleeve. He brushed her off, smoothed his waistcoat, and set his bag on the foot of the bed.

Placing the back of his hand on Hayward’s brow, he paused, his brown eyes attentive to the task. He lifted Hayward’s wrist and timed his pulse with his pocket watch.

“There is no fever, Mrs. Morgan. But your husband may have suffered a concussion. You must keep him still, you understand.” She nodded and kept her eyes intent upon the doctor’s face. From it she could read more than he might want to tell her. He went on examining Hayward’s wound. “You must keep this clean. Change the bandage every day.”

He checked each of Hayward’s limbs, examining his obviously injured leg last. Hayward cried out. “A small fracture of the femur,” said the doctor, looking alarmed. “This is most serious. Again, he must be kept still. Otherwise, the bone may be bent for life. Fortunate for him, it was not a compound fracture. I will place a splint.”

He looked over the rim of his spectacles. “You must keep a close eye on it. We do not want gangrene setting in. He could lose his leg if it does . . . and possibly his life.”

Gangrene. Lose his leg. Possibly his life! His words sent a shock wave though her.

“As for the concussion, let us pray he wakes soon. It would be wise for you to consider what will happen if he does not.”

Fighting back tears, a lump swelled in Eliza’s throat and she looked worriedly into her husband’s face. His head rested against the pillow. His hair fell over his neck. Such love she bore for him that she begged God to spare his life at any cost to her.

The doctor touched Eliza on the shoulder. “He should be kept quiet and cool.”

“Yes.”

“If he comes around, you may feed him apples boiled in milk if he is hungry.”

“May I give him tea, sir?”

“If he wants it. He will need to stay in bed for several weeks. It is not necessary, however, that he should lie all that time upon his back. After the second week, have your manservant gently raise him up.”

“May we seat him near the window? It is shaded in the late afternoon, and the breeze from the river is refreshing.”

“Yes, that would greatly revive him. Your husband is not to exert himself in any way. It could delay healing.”

She recalled that, when she was fifteen, a poor farmer, one of the members of her father’s flock, had fallen from the pitch of his roof while making repairs. For days, he lingered in and out of consciousness, until at last he died. She remembered the lost stares of his eight children, and how his wife had wept to the point of exhaustion. Nothing her father said or did could console the distraught woman.

After the doctor left, Eliza fell on her knees at Hayward’s bedside and grasped his hand. She put her lips to his fingers and kissed them. She prayed until she could no longer keep her eyes open, drifting to sleep near him, believing that the Father of all comfort heard her pleas.

It was not until the next evening when darkness came that Hayward opened his eyes and looked over at her. A candle set on the bedside table bathed his face in amber light, while the gibbous moon paled the room.

“Eliza . . .” he spoke her name in a sigh.

She drew closer.

“You should be here . . . beside me.”

She kissed his lips. “Only if you promise to be still, my love.”

“I have nowhere to go . . . for now.”

“Yes, only for now.” She told him what had happened, and what the fall had done to him. Tomorrow, she decided, she would tell him about their child.

Softly she climbed into bed, faced him, and eased her arm across his chest. Long into the night, she listened to his breathing, felt the beat of his heart against the palm of her hand. Finally, when the clock on the mantle tapped out two in the morning, she drifted off to sleep with the breeze flowing through the window upon them both.