The Tinsmith Read Online Free PDF Page A

straight upward, like a regimental flag. Focusing on it, Anson could almost conjure up the whiff and tang of ripe apples, almost summon up those two bucolic autumns of his youth when he’d taken his medical certificate, not far distant, in Pennsylvania. Such a long time ago . . . another world . . . 
    Stepping suddenly into a hole, he stumbled and fell to one knee. This set off another violent fit of coughing that he could not quell. Terrified, he listened to his coughs echo through the stillness like musketry.
    But nothing moved or sounded in response. Cautiously, Anson stood and then limped the remaining yards to the tree. As he leaned against the trunk, breathing in rasps, he heard something a little way to his right—a breathing almost as laboured as his own and, in between each breath, the sound of an object being dragged. Pressed hard to the trunk, one hand clasped to his mouth, Anson peered into the grey-black air. Seconds passed. Then a strange shape emerged, the figure of a huge, deformed man dragging a smaller body, its feet bumping over the earth, its head indistinguishable—it might have been a headless corpse.
    As Anson stared, poised to defend himself somehow, or to run if necessary, the giant figure stopped almost directly beside him. Slowly he turned his head. Anson stepped back. It was as if the head of the corpse had been propped on the giant’s shoulder. With the two heads now pointed in his direction, Anson suddenly felt his muscles relax. Then he had another surprise—the giant’s slightly bulbous eyes, his clear brow and full mouth, the large scrape on his cheek, were all familiar. This giant was in fact the tall, young soldier from the morning before, the one who had brought so many wounded into the aid station.
    â€œLet me take the other man, soldier.” Anson moved around him to where the dragged figure lay motionless on the ground.
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    The voice was calm, even-tenored—it occurred to Anson that he had not heard the soldier speak before. But then, the din of battle did not leave much opportunity for conversation. Now the pre-dawn stillness carved attention around each word.
    â€œThe hospital’s back there.” Anson pointed. “But I should just look at these men before we start.” He bent to the figure on the ground. The uniform was shredded, the bare head small. Blood caked the eyes and bridge of the nose. He was little more than a boy. And he was dead. Probably had been dead for hours. When the tall soldier placed the other man on the ground, the limp body emitted a low groan. At least this one isn’t a corpse, Anson thought, and with a finger he gently probed the gunshot wound in the neck. It might be only a flesh wound, but the loss of blood could be dangerous. This man was middle-aged, stocky, rough-bearded. Anson figured he must be as heavy as an anvil.
    â€œWhat’s your name, private?”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œYour name?”
    The tall soldier blinked slowly, then said, “John.”
    â€œJohn? What’s the rest of it?”
    Before the soldier could answer, a voice called sharply, “Don’t move!”
    Anson turned and saw two soldiers—likely pickets—aiming their muskets at them.
    â€œIt’s all right. I’m a surgeon. We’re taking this wounded man to the hospital.” Anson indicated the body lying at the tall soldier’s feet.
    The pickets stepped closer. After staring at Anson’s bloody smock, they nodded in unison and withdrew quietly into the last darkness.
    â€œJust the one man, sir?”
    Anson sighed. “The other’s dead. A burial party will take care of him. Was he a comrade of yours?”
    â€œNo. But I reckoned he’d make it.”
    The darkness lifted rapidly. A pink tinge appeared on the horizon of low hills. Anson knew it was foolish to remain in the open. He ordered the tall soldier to take up the