Eleven years later, Northern Spain, The Battle of Corunna

“Medwyn, where’s Miss Skelly?” Dr. Dunbar shouted over the roar of the French cannonade.

“Over there, Uncle John,” Medwyn shouted back as she continued to cut away the sleeve of a 95^th Rifleman’s coat, exposing the wound he had sustained in his upper left arm. Years ago, she’d stopped referring to him as ‘Dr. Dunbar’. She’d come to accept and be grateful for her place in the Dunbar household.

The soldier laying on his back, watched Medwyn’s hands intently. “Yer pretty good at this, being ye only got six fingers.”

Medwyn smiled at him.

“Was you born that way?” the soldier asked.

Medwyn didn’t usually tolerate questions about her deformed left hand but if it kept the man’s mind off the hole in his arm she’d put up with it. “A cart ran over my hand when I was seven.”

“Geez, bet that hurt like the devil,” the solder grimaced as Medwyn continued to probe his wound looking for bone splinters and the damage the bullet had done to his muscles.

Dr. John Dunbar came up behind her. “What’s this?’

“Bullet wound,” Medwyn said.

“Is the ball in there?”

“No, it’s a through and through,” she said.

“Then bandage him up. No time for anything else, Med.”

“But—”

“No buts! Do what I say. We’re under orders to evacuate,” her uncle said.

“Don’t you mean embark?” Medwyn said.

He snorted. “Should never have sent you to that Sisterhood school.”

“Now you sound like, Teddy,” Medwyn said.

“Whatever you call it, missy, we’re leaving. General Moore’s mortally wounded and the fleet’s in the harbor.”

“Shouldn’t we go to him?” Medwyn asked.

“No, there’s nothing to be done for the general now. We’ve got our orders.” He walked quickly away.

In no time at all she and her companion, Miss Skelly, had rounded up and loaded all the wounded they could into the broken-down hay-wagon she and Skelly were approaching.

“Give me your hand, lass,” Sergeant Murphy, the wagon driver leaned down.

Medwyn had her arm wrapped about the waist of a soldier who’d lost an eye and half his face and neck were burned. “Here ya’ go, Corporal. Give the man your hand.”

Sergeant Murphy rolled his eyes at her.

“Don’t look at me that way, Murphy. Skelly and I have got four good legs between us and our eyes are workin’ just fine.”

Skelly tightened her shawl around herself as she snorted.

“Aw, all right, but your Uncle’s gonna ha’ my head for this,” Murphy was a big man with a big voice. He grabbed the hand of the injured corporal and pulled him up onto the seat beside him. “Are we all full, then?”

“Couldn’t squeeze another one in if my life depended on it,” Medwyn said.

“It just might, ye dafty lass,” Murphy said.

“Get going, then. Skelly and I’ll be walking right beside you all the way to the harbor.”

Murphy snapped the reins and the old plow horse he had hitched to his wagon started moving.

The air was thick with billowing grey smoke from the cannons, the stench of the dead and dying, and fear. Her shoulders ached. Medwyn raised her left arm, and buried her nose and mouth in her sleeve.

“I am not going to miss the stink of death,” Skelly said as she laid her shawl over her nose and mouth.

“Where are we goin’?” one young wounded soldier asked from inside the wagon.

“Home,” another voice answered.

“Thank the Lord,” the first soldier replied.

Indeed.

By the time their wagon reached the waterfront, the docks were a madhouse. The sounds of gunfire were getting closer. When their wagon pulled to a halt. Her uncle came rushing up to her. “What the hell? Murphy why are my niece and Miss Skelly walking?” Uncle John bellowed over the chaos.

“Because she wanted to fit one more soldier on board,” Medwyn replied.

Dr. Dunbar threw his hands in the air and stomped away.

Sergeant Murphy, Medwyn, and Miss Skelly started helping the injured men down. The air was so thick with smoke she couldn’t see how many warships were off-shore waiting to ferry them to safety.

Longboats were coming and going at a furious pace.

“Go on. Pick her up, lad,” a man said from behind Medwyn. In the next moment, large, strong hands had spun her about and she was lifted up and tossed over someone’s shoulder like a sack of turnips.

“Put me down!” Medwyn shouted.

The men on the docks, standing nearby, started to chuckle.

“Don’t listen to her,” her uncle ordered.

“Uncle John, what do you think you’re doing?” Medwyn said.

“Getting you and Skelly to safety,” Uncle John waved his arm down the dock. “There’s a boat waiting for you.”

“Stop!” Medwyn struck the back of the man carrying her. “Uncle, what about my men?”

“Don’t fash yerself,” Sergeant Murphy said. “Yer uncle and I’ll make sure they all get on them ships.”

“You’d better!” Medwyn shook her fist.