Eight

“I claim the honor of the next dance,” Sam called after Judith.

She flashed a smile at him in agreement and followed Piers to the end of a line of ten couples. Wilson stood at the head of the line with Deborah Wembly, one of the fiddler’s daughters.

Sam’s foot started tapping when the music for the Virginia reel started. Piers and Deborah advanced four steps toward each other from their opposite ends of the lines, and then retreated. Judith and Wilson did the same. They continued with more advances and retreats, a do-si-do and a corkscrew that turned each man and woman in line to face the next. By the end, Wilson and Deborah walked under arched hands to the end of the line behind Judith and Piers. The steps repeated until at last they came to the head of the line.

Piers danced well, and the couple finished with a flourish. He held on to Judith’s hand after the music ended.

“I have the honor of the next dance.” Sam was thankful for the excuse to interrupt the moment between Judith and Piers.

Sam’s rival scowled but relinquished Judith’s hand. “May I have the third set?”

Judith looked from one man to the other, uncertain. “I will sit that one out. Maybe later.”

Piers bowed and moved away.

Wembly called for the next dance, and this time they joined the middle of the line. Judith’s feet tapped as the head and foot couples went through the formal steps. During the corkscrew, Sam caught sight of Judith swooping and swirling, all sunshine and gaiety. All too soon, the dance ended, and they went for a drink of water.

Piers arrived and claimed Judith for the fourth dance. Disappointed, Sam watched them take their places.

“There are other young women who would appreciate a turn.” Mama appeared at his elbow.

“It is too late for this set, and I am dancing with Judith in the next.”

Mama opened her mouth.

“After that, perhaps.” She was right. Until he had Eli’s permission to court Judith, he should not give her exclusive attention.

After today, he hoped Eli might change his mind.

❧

The day seemed to last forever. Sam danced with three or four young ladies, but he managed to snag the last dance with Judith. Like the foxes portrayed in the reel, they darted in and out of cover, hiding and escaping, laughing and gasping.

The sun began its slow descent into night when the fiddler at last called an end to the festivities. Before the man set down his instrument, Piers made his way to Judith’s side.

“May I escort you home since your father has left?” Piers’s smile made Sam want to strike him, so confident he seemed of her answer.

Judith looked from Piers to Sam and colored. “There is no need for you to trouble yourself, Piers. Sam promised Father he would see me safely home this evening.”

Piers’s face turned as red as the flag. “I will see you in the morning, then, when I bring fresh whale oil.” He backed away.

Sam tucked Judith’s arm around his elbow and set out in the direction of the lighthouse. He loved the ocean on nights like this, when a light breeze provided relief from the midsummer heat and the surf made a soft whoosh against the rocks. They strolled, pausing now and again to look out at the ocean, calm as a mirror in the moonlight, not wanting the day to end. He remained quiet, allowing the peace of the day to speak for him. He began to hum.

“That’s a spirited tune,” Judith said. “I don’t believe I’ve heard it before. Are there any words?”

“It’s a song that became popular during the war. About the defense of Fort McHenry in Baltimore.” He sang the first lines. “ ‘O! say can you see by the dawn’s early light/What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming.’ ”

“It is certainly stirring music.”

Sam laughed. “I understand it was originally a British drinking song. Francis Scott Key wrote the words while he was imprisoned on a British gunship during the bombardment of the fort. After his release, someone else set the poem to music. It’s hard to sing in places, though.” He sang the chorus, his voice breaking when he reached “land of the free!”

“That’s beautiful.” He could see the tears in her eyes. “Do you know any more of the song?”

“The only other verse I know well is the last verse.” Sam sang it for her.

“ ‘Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just.’ I love that line. Teach me the chorus. Please.” She sang, her voice soaring through the chorus in a lilting soprano. “ ‘Oh, say does that. . .’ ”

They sang the chorus together three or four times, their voices breaking the stillness of the night, ringing out over the land and ocean. “ ‘And the home of the brave!’ ”

As their voices rose with the final phrase, the lamps lit in the lighthouse and beamed on them. Judith lifted her face, all poetry and softness and joy. Sam took her hand and turned her to face him. With the smallest of movements, he bent forward and claimed her lips with a kiss.

❧

Judith looked across the expanse to the Hathaway cottage. Had a month already passed since the Fourth of July? She recalled every moment of that perfect day. The parade of veterans, the respect Father had shown to Sam—the kiss. She put her hand to her lips as if to seal in the touch of Sam’s mouth to hers.

In recent days, Piers had redoubled his efforts to woo her. Every day he brought her wildflowers or little trinkets he thought she might like. She appreciated the sweet gestures but wished she could return his feelings. Why did her traitorous heart only feel truly at home when she escaped to the Hathaways’ for a cooking lesson? Why did her heart sing when she heard Sam read Milton’s poetry with such beauty and expression?

After the veterans’ parade on Independence Day, most of Capernaum accepted Sam’s worth. Only Father continued to belittle him, perhaps fueled by his fondness for Piers. At least his barbs held less animosity than formerly.

Today she would visit Mary for another cooking lesson, this time a dish to tempt Father’s sweet tooth. Yesterday they had picked enough raspberries for a crumble.

At least Judith no longer needed to worry about berry juice staining her everyday dress. Mary had helped her fashion an apron. With her improved sewing skills, Judith had taken on a special surprise for Father, a quilt the colors of summer berries. Once cold weather settled in, he suffered from aching bones.

When she reached the door to the Hathaways’, Sam looked up at her from his office desk and smiled a greeting. Then he dipped his quill back into an ink bottle and added to his notes. Judith hurried into the kitchen.

Mary had already set out a few ingredients. Over and over again, she amazed Judith with how many different dishes she could prepare from the same ingredients. This time, they had butter, flour, sugar, salt, and a bowl of berries.

Judith tied her apron behind her back. “Where do we start?”

“First, we need to crush the raspberries. By the time you get home tonight, your father may think you have injured your hands—they will be all red.” Mary smiled. “But then you will give him a dish of crumble and cream, and he will forgive me.”

If only raspberries had been in season when Mary began my lessons. Judith found blending the butter with sugar and flour until it resembled small pebbles a lot easier than kneading bread dough. But bread was the stuff of life, whereas berry crumble. . .that was food fit for a king.

They were about to put the crumble in the oven when a knock came at the door. Stefan Vanderkamp, Piers’s father, waited on the step.

“The doctor. We have had an accident.” His hands were red, covered with real blood. “They are coming from the boats.”

Sam appeared at the door. “What happened? How many are injured?”

“A hook ripped through his chest.” Stefan could hardly speak.

Is it Piers? Judith’s heart skipped. She looked at Mary.

“It will not harm the crumble to wait,” the older woman said. “Let’s see if we can help.” They rinsed their hands, stained red indeed with berry juice, and joined Sam in the surgery.

Judith watched Sam arrange his instruments on a tray. She recognized many of them by now. Lancets were used to bleed a patient. He set aside the dental instruments; broken teeth would be the least of the injured seamen’s problems. He added tourniquets and frowned at the gathered lint needed for dressing wounds. Then he pulled out one last instrument: a saw.

Judith gulped. She prayed amputation would not be necessary. O Lord, please let Piers be all right.

“Mama, do you have any material we can use for dressings, if I run out?”

Mary nodded her head. “Judith and I will tear up some of the cotton we set aside for the quilt. How much do you need?”

“Wait until we see the extent of the injuries. You might want to heat up the iron.”

Iron. Judith shivered. Heat cauterized wounds. She prayed again it would not come to that.

Stefan returned, carrying a man of much the same size and build of Piers. Judith’s heart stopped beating. Then she saw Piers following behind, far behind, blood streaming down his face, leaning on the shoulder of his younger brother.

Judith slumped with relief, grasping the edge of the kitchen table for support.

❧

Judith’s near faint registered with Sam, and then his attention riveted on the injured man—Stefan’s oldest son, Piers’s brother Martin.

A hole the size of a lobster’s claw hollowed out Martin’s back, sparing his heart by a few precious inches. No tourniquet or surgical saw could help a wound like that. Sam indicated that they should lay Martin face down. He prayed, then set to work.

First he placed his ear against Martin’s back, not as reliable as the chest for checking the heartbeat, but he dared not risk turning the patient over. Martin’s heart continued its normal rhythm, a little more blood leaking out with each beat. His breathing was another matter. He groaned in pain with each intake.

“Will he live?” Stefan asked in obvious distress.

Sam had no assurances to give. “I will do what I can. And you can do your part.”

“Anything.”

“Pray.” He steered Stefan to a chair while he continued his examination.

Sam studied the mangled body of the seaman. He must clean the wound to stem the bleeding, but before he did that, he wanted to ease his breathing. “Laudanum.”

Judith offered him the bottle. “I thought you might need it.” She had regained her composure and had anticipated the medicine he would request. She looked at Martin, her face drawn. “Piers is also injured.”

Sam glanced at the man who hoped to marry Judith. A flap of skin had fallen open above his eye.

“I can wait.” Piers waved away the assessment. “Take care of my brother.”

“Lie down,” Sam told Piers. “Judith, place a clean dressing on that injury until I can tend to him.” Not only would the action help Piers, but also it would keep her busy while he worked on Martin. While Judith was otherwise occupied, he debrided the wound, tied off a couple of small blood vessels, and packed it with a poultice of quinine bark.

“Doctor?” Martin roused briefly. He felt for Sam’s hand. “Tell my wife that I love her.”

“No last words. You’re going to be fine.” Sam would not voice his doubts to the patient. Martin’s will to live might determine the outcome of the night. Sam listened to his breathing again—no noticeable improvement. If he was not doing better by eventide, Sam would have to bleed him a bit.

“Will he live?” Stefan’s voice held the begging tone Sam had heard from so many, from husbands worried over their wives in childbirth to mothers watching children with ague. He ached for some assurance to give them.

“It’s in God’s hands. Martin will rest while I take care of Piers.”

Judith stroked Piers’s hands, looking as gentle and concerned as his mother ever had, and jealousy surged up within Sam. He reminded himself of his oath—“first, do no harm”—and prayed for God to rid him of the ugly attitude. Then he saw Piers’s frightened expression, a mirror of Sam’s own fright whenever he entered a boat, and his heart softened. He knew he would do his best for this man.

“Are you in pain?” Sam asked first.

“Only on the temple.” Piers touched his wound.

“No other injuries?”

Piers shook his head.

Sam lifted the dressing. The cut itself wasn’t serious. One inch long and a half inch across, it looked worse than it was. As always, infection was the deadliest enemy. He would clean it and stitch the skin, then pray for the best.

“I need to stitch it up. Do you want laudanum before I start?”

Piers curled his lip. “That’s not necessary.”

I expected that answer. “Very well.” Sam reached beneath his cabinet for a bottle of whiskey he kept there. If Piers would not drink a painkiller, Sam could at least deaden the site of the wound. He soaked a cloth with the spirits and pressed it to the cut.

Piers’s facial muscles contorted with pain, but he didn’t speak. Judith stroked back his hair.

After a few minutes, Sam threaded a needle, then paused. “Judith, please hold Piers’s head still.”

“I’m not a baby. I won’t squirm.” Piers protested.

“It is a natural reaction when you feel the metal against your flesh.” Sam forced himself to smile. “Besides, how often do you get to have a beautiful woman hold your head in her hands?”

Judith placed her hands—red from the berry crumble—on either side of Piers’s head. She kept them steady and gentle in circumstances that would frighten many men. Sam prayed he would remain as steady, and he pierced the left side of the cut with the needle.

Piers’s eyes widened, but otherwise he didn’t move. He tightened his lips in a straight line, as straight and thin as the tiny stitches Sam used to close up the wound. He worked in silence, determined to do his best work. In the end, a right angle of neat black stitches held the flap of skin in place. He wound a dressing around Piers’s head. “Change the bandage every day,” Sam warned his patient. “Other than that, you are free to go.”

“I will stay with Martin.”

Sam nodded.

“Sam?” Mama called from the door. “I have prepared some beef broth for you. You must be tired.” She carried a tray. “I brought some in for you too, Mr. Vanderkamp. I know you want to stay by your son’s side.”

“I’ll get some for Piers as well.” Judith rose from the seat she had taken by his side. “Then I’d best be gone home. Father will want to know what has happened.”

Sam looked out the window, surprised to see that the sun had passed its zenith and the noon hour had long since ended. Hunger he had not realized made its presence known. He placed a hand on Stefan’s shoulder. “I have done all I can for now. Call me if there is any change.”

After Judith brought a bowl of broth to Piers, Sam walked her to the door. “You were a wonderful help today.”

She looked pained. “I wish I could do more. How dreadful.”

“Piers will be fine.”

“But Martin?”

Sam shrugged, unwilling to commit himself. “I will do what I can.”

“Father and I will pray.” She carried a bowl, aromatic with cooked berries, under her arm.

Sam watched her departure and wondered at the degree of concern she showed for Piers. Perhaps the accident had forged the attachment her father longed for between them. Sam gritted his teeth.

Mama set the table with the promised broth, as well as bread and butter. He ate with good appetite and prepared to return to the surgery. Their daily Bible reading would wait.

“Not before you taste Judith’s berry crumble.” Mama pushed him back into his chair and placed a bowl covered with cream in front of him. “I have a suggestion.”

“What is it?”

“Rest. You will be up throughout the evening with Martin.”

Sam chuckled. “Do you know how many sleepless nights I passed during the war?”

“No one needs your services at this moment. Rest while you can, so your wits will be sharp tonight.”

Sam considered her suggestion. “Half an hour. No more.” He climbed the stairs and fell into instant slumber.

❧

All the way home, Judith debated whether or not to wake Father to tell him the news of the accident. The Vanderkamps were like part of their family. But a good two hours remained before he needed to arise for his night’s work.

She needn’t have worried. When she arrived at the lighthouse, she heard her father upstairs, whistling in the lantern room. He sounded so happy. This news would break his heart. She placed the crumble in the warming pan.

“Judith? Is that you?”

She forced a smile on her face and prayed to God for strength.

“Yes, Father. I am coming.”

Father met her on the landing. “Isn’t that Vanderkamp’s dog by the Hathaways’ cottage?”

“Oh, Father.” Judith’s eyes filled with tears. “Something awful has happened.”

“What is it?”

She shook her head and pointed down the stairs. “Let me tell you about it while I fix you some supper.” She kept her tears in check while she spoke of the slip of the fishing gear, the way it tore through Piers’s skin and then impacted Martin in the back. “He looked so awful. I don’t see how he’ll live.”

“I’m going over.”

“No, Father,” Judith protested. “He’s too weak.”

“But the doctor will be able to fix him, won’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Judith acknowledged. “Sam seemed uncertain. I promised we would pray.”

Father looked as though he had aged ten years in the few minutes since he heard the news. “And Piers?”

“Sam stitched up the wound. There may be a scar, but otherwise, he is fine. He is concerned about Martin.”

“Then pray we must.” Father pushed aside the plate of sandwiches she had prepared and knelt on the hard floor by the fireplace. Judith joined him. Nothing less seemed appropriate. “Almighty God and heavenly Father, Thou who madest earth and sea and everything therein, we come before Thee today, bringing our petitions. . . .”

Father’s wordy prayers, which often lulled Judith into a somnolent state, lifted her up today. With every phrase, her spirit cried, “So be it, Lord!” When at last he said “amen,” an hour had passed.

The evening dragged by. First she thought of Sam, of his sure hands as he tended to the injured. Then she thought of Piers and the way her heart cried when she saw his injury.

Perhaps Father was right all along. Perhaps she held more feelings for Piers than she had realized.