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Back Plough the Furrow
Chapters (53)
  1. Cover
  2. Title page
  3. Dedication page
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-one
  25. Twenty-two
  26. Twenty-three
  27. Twenty-four
  28. Twenty-five
  29. Twenty-six
  30. Twenty-seven
  31. Twenty-eight
  32. Twenty-nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-one
  35. Thirty-two
  36. Thirty-three
  37. Thirty-four
  38. Thirty-five
  39. Thirty-six
  40. Thirty-seven
  41. Thirty-eight
  42. Thirty-nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty-one
  45. Forty-two
  46. Forty-three
  47. Forty-four
  48. Sow the Seed
  49. Reap the Harvest
  50. About the Author
  51. ALSO BY MARGARET DICKINSON
  52. Acknowledgements
  53. Copyright page

It was growing dusk by the time they came to the village. A huge building loomed up before them; impressive, but bleak and dismal. Miraculously, it was still standing, comparatively unscathed. ‘That must be the hospital they told us about,’ the squire said. ‘I’m sure this must be the one where – where Rodney died. That’s why I’ve come here. I thought he might be buried close by.’

‘I never knew where Matthew was,’ she murmured and added in the secrecy of her own thoughts, or Jonathan. ‘They – ’ she began and then corrected herself swiftly. ‘He – Matthew – was in the same regiment as your son, Squire.’ And so, she thought, was Jonathan. ‘Do – do you think they might have records of any sort about what happened to people or . . . ?’

The squire was looking at her. ‘Do you really think there’s a chance that Matthew’s still alive?’

Esther drew breath – it was the closest she had come to having to tell the squire a deliberate lie. Fixing her mind, for the moment, on her husband and not on Jonathan, she answered, ‘It – it was only – presumed.’

‘Well,’ the squire said slowly, ‘I understand there are still some of our men here.’

‘Still here?’ Esther repeated, sudden hope flaring in her breast. ‘In this hospital, you mean? Why? Why haven’t they been sent home?’

The squire shrugged. ‘Several reasons, I suppose. Some may be too ill to travel yet. Maybe – maybe they don’t know who some of them are, if their identification papers were lost. I’ve heard of that happening.’

‘Really?’ Esther gazed up at the square, grey building. It looked more like a prison than a hospital. It was a gruesome place. There was such a mixture of feelings within her, a sudden dread of what she might find.

They were made welcome by a nursing sister at the hospital. She displayed surprise, though not displeasure, at their coming and bustled about making ready a narrow bed for Esther in her own quarters. Embarrassed, she said, ‘I’m afraid all I can offer you gentlemen will be a bed in a ward.’

‘Don’t mention it, dear lady. Are you sure you can spare us that? I mean, are you sure we won’t be taking up a bed you need for patients? I wouldn’t want to do that.’