When Hope is Gone

Chapter 5

        “Well, that was a bunch of codswallop,” Wilson began as soon as he and John were out of earshot of the girls.

            John gave a loud, “harrumph” and kept on walking.

            “So,” Wilson swirled his walking stick, a nod to fashion rather than a necessity, “you do have a small heart under all of that mess.”

            John stopped and leaned on his cane, gesturing angrily with his free hand. “What did you want me to do? Tell her that her husband cried when he realized he was dying? He was just a boy! They all cry and they all die.”

            Wilson stopped and stared at his friend.

            John glared back and then finally sighed after a long minute. “I would not expect you to understand, Wilson. You’ve spent your career in a hospital.”

            “I’ve seen plenty of young men die, John.” Wilson countered.

            “Not like this. Nothing is like this. The shipboards screamed as loud as the men while cannons exploded overhead. You are surrounded; surrounded by bodies and blood, so much blood. It was in my skin, the blood. Soon you get used to it,” he laughed sadly, “get used to the sound and the blood so much so that when it is clean and quiet is when you fear the most.”

            A look entered John’s eyes that shook Wilson to his core and, for once, wiped the insouciant smile off of his face.

            He placed a hand on John’s arm, “You are in England now, on shore.”

            John shook his head. “I know,” he growled, more angry with himself than Wilson for his lack of control. “That is why I must start rounds with you at the hospital. I cannot take the quiet anymore. I must do something.”

            “Of course,” the smile was back, “you will start on Monday. The board approved you because of your exemplary service in the field.”

            John made a rude noise. “Even though I am lame.”

            “Well, that was a consideration.”

            This was met by yet another rude noise.

***

            Several weeks later, Callie sighed deeply and sat back on the settee in her sitting room. She looked down at her sewing loop and rolled her eyes at how the stitches started out nicely then slowly became small lumps of silk. With another sigh, she began to pull them out.

            Callie was bored; there was no other word for it. Bored out of her mind.

            Before she married, Callie was the only daughter of a country squire. She filled her days with sick visits to village shut-ins and the poor families, she belonged to the local sewing circle, and was invited to all of the local social events. After marriage, Michael bought them this house in town because he longed to make something of himself, away from his parents. He was a second son and so inherited nothing associated with his father’s title and he liked it that way. The only thing he did allow was the purchase of a commission in the Royal Navy. He thought it would allow him to separate himself from the title, and Callie guessed, it did. He was considered a hero now.

            She sighed again and threw away her sewing. Nothing seemed to be the same anymore. Before this house had held such promise and now it seemed empty. Her husband’s magnetic presence would no longer fill the halls.