Nearing my destination, I clasped my handkerchief over my nose to filter the stench of smoke. I could do nothing, however, to close out the shouts and cries of anguish from the militia and the servants who tended to the garrison. I managed to scramble aside as a piece of timber smashed to the ground near me. At the gate I met our Idiot-General Sheaffe on his horse, flanked by the leader of the militia, Major Allan. In the distance, through the haze, I could see Mr. John Beverley Robinson and the Reverend Mr. Strachan pottering about through the chaos.
“Welcome, Miss Powell,” Sheaffe shouted, as his steed wheeled round and round, evidently terrified by the stones smashing thick as hail, some of the large ones sinking deep into the earth. “I did not expect to see a member of the gentle sex here, but your presence will undoubtedly be welcome. Dr. Baldwin will be happy to have your assistance. You are just in time to wish me Godspeed.”
“You are leaving us in this mess?” No doubt, I—“a member of the gentle sex”—should not have made this indignant remark.
“I will not oppose the invasion,” he replied. “We are outnumbered. I have done my part in giving orders for the destruction of the powder magazine. The Yankees shall not gain control of our explosives and in the process of their destruction, I have even been able to kill one of their commanders.”
I looked around at the bodies that lay everywhere, and at that moment, one hundred yards from us, I saw a horse blown to bits under its rider.
I could not hold back my anger. “You have also killed dozens of our own men, sir!”
The general turned his shoulder to me and spoke to Major Allan. “I’m off to Kingston with the regulars. Surrender the militia and the town.”
With this comment, he began poking into his pocket, from which he finally extracted that infernal musical snuffbox that Mama had described to me. I could not hear the tune over the noise on the garrison field, but I did hear the man’s snort, sneeze, and snuffle. Then he shouted to his regiments to fall in, and in a moment, our Idiot-General was gone.
“What am I do, Miss Powell?” Major Allan asked me, wringing his hands in distress. “The men of the militia are poorly trained. There is no way we can defend this town, even with the help of those Indians who are down at the waterfront. I suppose I shall have to surrender the town, as Sheaffe commanded.”
I had nothing to say. I stood there, helpless to aid the man, hopeless in my mind as I looked around me at the charred, broken trees and the skeletons of burned bunkhouses, and inhaled the stink of smoke and blood. Then, as I breathed in the stench of the corpses lying in the garrison field, a random thought came to me.
“We must bury the dead, Major Allan, and help the doctor administer aid to the wounded.” I moved forward. Mr. Robinson and Mr. Strachan were now nearby, seemingly interested to hear what I had just said.
“Dear Miss Powell,” Mr. Robinson said, clasping my hand to his chest and leaning in close, “you are an angel come from Heaven. Search out Dr. Baldwin who is over by that bunkhouse and help him, if you please. Major Allan and his men will begin to dig the graves. Mr. Strachan and I must row out to the ships in the harbour and try to negotiate some sort of truce with General Dearborn, the American’s version of Jehovah.”
“Tell the good doctor that he may use St. James as a hospital,” Mr. Strachan said to me. “When I return from negotiations with Dearborn, I shall see that there are volunteers from the congregation to assist in the care of the wounded.” He mopped a river of sweat from his face. “You will have a difficult task, Miss Powell. The Lord’s blessings upon you.”
“I shall do what I can, sir,” I said. Then he and Mr. Robinson ran off in the direction of the harbour. I had never felt so alone. But I pushed myself forward into the mess that lay before me.
In another moment or two, I found Dr. Baldwin. He was quite a young man, new to the town, and much more knowledgeable about medicine than my brother Grant who, of course, was nowhere to be seen. He seemed to appear only when he was not wanted or needed.
“Let us do what we can for the living,” the doctor said to me.
So while Major Allan and his men began to prepare graves for the dead, Dr. Baldwin and I moved across the field to the first wounded man. His screams sliced through my brain. “Oh my God, my God! Stop this pain! I don’t want to live!”
Dr. Baldwin paused to sharpen his bloody knife on a whetstone. “What can I do but convert a bad wound to a simple one,” he said. “Be prepared, Miss Powell, for the worst. I must cut off an arm, a leg, or two arms and two legs, in order to save a life. You must be strong if you are to help me. There seems to be no one else around brave enough to assist me in this ghastly endeavour.”
A few yards away I saw a member of the militia pushing Lieutenant Stretton towards town in a wheelbarrow. I had last seen him long ago at the Gores’ party where he had come to my aid when Papa berated me about my remarks on the oysters. He had talked so fondly of his painting, and now he was only a bloody trunk surmounted by a head and a brain that still functioned.
He saw me and I went towards him. He began to bang his head back and forth against the barrow. I had no idea how to comfort him. All I could do was to take off my cloak, roll it up, and place it behind his neck. He who had derived such pleasure from his art would never again paint.
I rejoined Dr. Baldwin. Hours passed. The day was warm, and the flies and mosquitoes came from the swamp in clouds, depositing their eggs in the open wounds. Maggots crawled through stinking flesh.
Thirty-five limbs had been severed and dumped into a cart. The small supply of laudanum soon gave out. I found a barrel of rye whisky near one of the broken buildings, and I poured it down bloody throats.
Then I saw Dr. Baldwin staring at the mangled head of a young corporal. He paused an instant in thought, then took from his bag a hammer and a spike.
“Good God,” I said, “surely you cannot—”
“Back off or help me, Miss Powell! I can’t waste time!”
So I held the corporal’s head while the doctor whacked the spike into it with his demon hammer. Bang—bang—bang, and the boy’s howls tore my own brain asunder.
“‘Tis the only way to relieve the pressure of a head injury,” Dr. Baldwin said. His hands were steady, but there were tears on his cheeks.
A few people drifted into the garrison from town, too late to be of use. Night fell as we tended to the last of the wounded. The doctor had just cut off the man’s leg below the knee, and I threw the bloody remnant onto the cart, trying to shield his wife from the sight. She rocked back and forth beside her husband, moaning, “Look upon my poor man! Never, never must there be another war!” While Dr. Baldwin packed up his bag, I knelt beside her and held her hand.
Before the doctor and I could leave, it was necessary to dispose of the carts of severed limbs. The stench was horrible. We tried to direct the burial of these parts in as discreet a manner as possible, for the garrison field was now filled with townspeople who had come to gawk.
At last, my companion turned to me. “Go home now, Miss Powell. All of the saints in Heaven could not have done for me what you have accomplished this day.” He pulled me towards him and wrapped me in his arms.
I headed towards the gate that separated the garrison from the town and began the trek back home. I could scarcely propel myself forward, so tired was I. I tripped over a stone and fell forward. I lay there, I don’t know how long, unable to rise, wishing for a moment that I too could die.
Then a pair of strong arms hoisted me to my feet. In the gloom of early evening, I could scarcely see who had come to my aid. Then I heard his voice. “Miss Powell, I have my horse here. Let me lift you onto its back, and I shall get you back home safely.”
John Beverley Robinson. Halleluiah. I pressed myself against his body and his arms shielded me from the horrors of the night. He lifted his left leg into the stirrup, threw his right leg over the back of his steed, and reached down and pulled me up. I slouched against him, revelling in the security of his head against mine and his warm breath pouring into my ear.
I remember nothing more about that ride, except for the moment when Mama opened the door of our house and Mr. Robinson pushed me into her arms. “God speed,” were his final words.