If those bees attack my uncle one more time, the old keeper will be dragged away in chains for treason, my cousin whispered as we stood on the portico of Elmwood Manor.
Dr. Finch’s words, “no time to waste,” echoed my own desperate urgency. The General had less time than I thought.
“We must return to Elmwood immediately,” I told him, already scanning the depot for a returning supply wagon. “His official medical file is kept in the field surgeon’s tent. If Julian has forged documents, they will be there.”
Dr. Finch nodded, securing my vial and his notebook back into his satchel. “Agreed. This pattern needs to be broken. And quickly.”
We managed to hitch a ride on a returning empty provision wagon, jostling back towards Elmwood Manor as dusk began to settle over the Virginia hills. The journey was tense, the silence punctuated by the creak of the wagon and the distant rumble of artillery practice.
We slipped into the manor grounds under the cover of twilight, avoiding the few patrolling guards. The air around the apiary still smelled faintly of sulfur, a mournful reminder of Ebenezer’s loss.
The field surgeon’s tent, a canvas structure at the edge of the estate grounds, was usually guarded. But tonight, a single, young provost stood, looking bored, his rifle resting loosely in his hands.
“I need to check General Montgomery’s chart,” I told him, adopting my most authoritative nursing voice. “Dr. Finch here is a consultant from Alexandria.”
The guard glanced at Finch’s uniform, then at me. He seemed hesitant, but ultimately waved us through. We entered the tent, the thick canvas muffling the outside world.
Inside, the medical files were neatly stacked on a wooden table. A single lantern cast flickering shadows.
Dr. Finch went straight to work, his movements precise. He quickly located General Silas Montgomery’s official medical file.
His fingers flipped through the pages. His brow furrowed. “Here it is,” he murmured. “The civil affidavit for cardiac dropsy.”
He held up a sheet of paper. It detailed General Silas’s symptoms, attributing them to heart failure. At the bottom, a signature was scrawled.
“This is it,” I said, a glimmer of hope. “The document Julian used to gain control.”
Dr. Finch’s eyes narrowed. He traced the signature with his finger. “Curious. This affidavit claims to be signed by Dr. Thaddeus Thorne.”
He paused, a grim smile on his face. “Dr. Thorne, if I recall correctly, died at Fredericksburg six months ago. Before this document was supposedly drafted.”
My blood ran cold. “A forged signature!”
“Precisely,” Dr. Finch confirmed, his voice low. “And what’s more, this document lacks the required Surgeon General’s stamp for official military medical findings. It’s a civilian filing, designed to avoid military scrutiny.”
He reached for his own notebook, pulling out a small glass plate and a piece of charcoal to begin copying the fraudulent document. “This is concrete proof, Nurse. Proof of medical fraud and intent.”
Just as he finished the last stroke, the tent flap flew open.
Major Pryce stood framed in the opening, flanked by two armed provost guards. His face was a mask of cold fury.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” he bellowed. “This area is under quarantine! Guards, lock them inside! No one enters or leaves until further notice!”
The tent ropes scraped as the guards pulled the flaps shut and secured them with heavy locks from the outside. The lantern light flickered, plunging us into a sudden, suffocating darkness.
We were trapped.
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