Read Online Harvest of War by Hilary Green - Free Book Online Page B

from the wagon, Leo caught snatches of their conversation. ‘Wasted journey . . . mortally wounded . . . had to leave him . . . overrun by the enemy . . . too late anyway . . .’
    She slid down to the ground and as she did so the pain in her stomach returned with a violence that convulsed her. ‘What are you saying?’ she gasped. ‘Where is Colonel Malkovic?’
    The officer turned and she saw the shock on his face as he recognized her. For a moment he seemed unable to speak, then he blurted out: ‘There was nothing we could do. I’m sorry. The colonel is dead.’
    Leo stared at him and said the first thing that came into her head: ‘He can’t be! I’m carrying his child.’ Then the pain came again and she doubled over with a choking cry.
    Leseaux gripped her shoulders. ‘
Mon dieu!
Is it the child? Are you in labour?’
    She gazed into his face helplessly. She had nursed men in all sorts of conditions but her knowledge of the process of childbirth was almost non-existent. ‘I don’t know . . . I . . .’ Then another spasm of pain swept through her.
    After that her comprehension of what was happening around her was cloudy. All her attention was turned inwards, to the extraordinary activity of her own muscles, which were following their own predetermined programme independent of her will. She was dimly aware of being half-led, half-carried into the house; of being laid on a bed while Patty pulled off her boots and stockings; of hands touching and pressing in ways she had never experienced before and of being examined with an intimacy that would have horrified her a day earlier. None of it mattered. Only the pain was real – and the pain went on and grew to a climax and then faded and then returned again, stronger than ever.
    Time grew meaningless. Oil lamps and candles were lit around her. Then she must have slept, or lost consciousness for a while, because she opened her eyes to the pale light of a winter dawn. Patty was leaning over her, sponging her face and murmuring words of encouragement, and from time to time Leseaux appeared and examined her. The pain grew to a climax again and voices urged her to ‘Push! Push hard now!’ She bore down as hard as she could but nothing happened. She could hear voices, too far away to distinguish what they said but she recognized the tone. It was the tone doctors and nurses used when a patient was in a critical condition. She made out the words ‘weak’ and ‘exhausted’.
    Then Leseaux appeared again in her line of vision. ‘Leo, you are having a difficult labour and the child may be in distress. We have to help you, but first I am going to give you chloroform. Soon the pain will be over.’
    The pad was laid over her nose and mouth and she briefly smelt the familiar scent of chloroform. Then came the merciful descent into oblivion.
    She was being moved. There was still pain, but of a different sort. She could feel the sway and jolting of the ox-cart. Two thoughts surfaced in her brain. Sasha was dead – and she had given birth to his child. Or had she?
    â€˜My baby?’ she croaked through parched lips. ‘Where is my baby?’
    Patty lifted her head and held a cup to her lips. ‘Don’t worry. Your baby’s fine. Just fine.’
    Leo sank back. The drink must have contained a sedative, for she lost consciousness again.
    The next time she opened her eyes it was evening and she was in bed in a room she recognized as a side ward in the hospital at Bitola. Nausea welled up in her throat, and she rolled on to her side and was sick. When the spasm had passed she heard voices outside and called out, her voice hoarse and feeble. Patty came in.
    â€˜I’m sorry. I’ve been . . .’
    â€˜Don’t worry about it. I’ll soon have that cleared up.’ Patty sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. ‘Welcome back. You had us worried for a while,