Tuesday, November 23rd
Supplies: Good
Morale: High
Even as a doctor, where it is an important component of my job, I was never fond of record keeping. Though in a time like this, I suppose somebody needs to keep note of what happens, and since nobody else is going to rise to the task, it falls to me.
The siege started with the near assassination of Andrew Hopkins, our substitute Captain. Previous Captain, Daniel Rhodes, stepped down earlier this morning. His whereabouts are currently unknown. And so it begins with fire and blaze, and one can predict that this effort will end not with a bang, but with a whimper. It's not that Captain Hopkins' cannot properly lead, though his inexperience leads me to have doubts, but the savagery of the enemy that will be our downfall. The abandonment of conciliatory approaches is a clear sign of merciless tendencies, and we show everything except compliance with their wishes. Our will to fight is strong, but theirs is stronger, and likewise, their power and resources and everything, truthfully. Should this fort fall, it will go down with the spilling of blood and without a single remembrance. Forgive my pessimistic outlook on the outcome of our efforts, but I prefer to look at the world through untinted glasses. When one's expectations are low, it's difficult to be disappointed.
Wednesday, November 24th
Supplies: Good
Morale: High
Rations have been rather generous. Should this siege take a turn for the worse, we may find ourselves starving. I confronted the Captain about this and relayed my concerns, but he didn't seem bothered by the possibility of failure. In fact, he seemed overly confident that everything would go according to plan. No bumps, no hiccups, nothing. Now, I am unsure whether Captain Hopkins is simply naive or stupidly ignorant. The reality of war is that nothing ever goes exactly to plan. I store half of my rations in a cabinet, awaiting the day our surplus of food runs dry.
Thursday, November 25th
Supplies: Good
Morale: High
Keith Foster, I am told, has been placed in charge of nighttime security. He was the sharp eyed archer who prevented Captain Hopkins' death during negotiations with the enemy and has received much praise for his actions. I'm sure we can sleep soundly knowing he's keeping watch, but then again we wouldn't require a guard if we were certain that the enemy would play kindly.
Monday, November 29th
Supplies: Low
Morale: High
Today we would be freed from the siege, greeted with remarks for our bravery, saved by our fellow troops as they fought off the enemy. We were supposed to anyway. As I stated before, nothing ever goes to plan.
Today, what we were met with instead was a message from the opposing leader: Colonel Gregory McCoy. He wished to meet with Captain Hopkins again, and Hopkins, remembering his last meeting with the Colonel, politely declined. Hopkins quickly changed his mind when he heard Colonel McCoy's response to that. The enemy had Howard Jackson, our messenger, held hostage. That spurred quite the alarm and panic within our own forces, and Captain Hopkins was forced to comply with Colonel McCoy's request to meet. It was intended to be a one on one meeting, but many of us watched the exchange from the rampart above.
They brought Jackson before the Captain. It was clear he was tortured. His ribs protruded from beneath his skin. Purple welts covered his body. One eye was swollen shut. The only thing Captain Hopkins had said was, and I quote, "How long?" How long, as in, how long had Jackson been in the enemy's hands? And the Colonel replied, much to everyone's horror, "Six days."
Six days meant the message requesting for reinforcements hadn't been delivered. Six days we had spent waiting for something that wasn't coming.
Colonel McCoy demanded the surrender of the fort. Again, Hopkins refused. They executed Jackson using two archers this time. Foster couldn't kill two men at once. Much to our relief, Captain Hopkins was returned safely to us. Much to our disappointment, we were doomed. Although, the Captain suggested otherwise. Philip Ellison, who, may I remind you, is just shy of fourteen, is our back up plan. The Captain is certain that Ellison will get the message to the Northern border, and we would just have to stick it out until then. The Captain, at times, is too optimistic, but he gives the troops hope. A false hope.
Tuesday, November 30th
Supplies: Low
Morale: High
We're running low on firewood, and I fear the first snowfall. November winds are cold and blustery, but December gusts bring with them flurries of ice with sharp, biting teeth. When the fire dies, we will go right along with it.
Wednesday, December 1st
Supplies: Low
Morale: High
We've turned to the horses for food, and rations have been reduced to half the original portions. While I am pleased Captain Hopkins is finally taking charge, had we cut down earlier, we wouldn't be facing this problem so soon. What we are given now is barely enough to sustain one person, and once the cold front hits, the troops will be susceptible to illness.
Friday, December 3rd
Supplies: Low
Morale: Wavering
I write this in the early morning of the fourth before the sun has rose. Yesterday evening was quite distressing and I found it difficult to pen my thoughts.
It might have been eleven o'clock that night, maybe earlier, maybe later, but I was ready to retire for the day. The troops, especially the younger ones, always find ways to scrape their knees or cut their arms. Medical supplies are equally as important as foodstuffs, but are not as easily rationed. Some bleed more than others. As I was preparing for bed, one of the troops, I wish I could remember his name, burst through the door, crying for a medic.
"Foster's been shot," he said.
Keith Foster is a valuable asset at this fort. An excellent archer and proficient second in command, we would suffer if we lost him.
I followed the soldier to the bailey, arriving on the scene. Captain Hopkins had Foster's arm draped over his shoulder and appeared more distressed than the person who had actually been shot. An arrow protruded from Foster's right shoulder. It had driven through most of his shoulder, but hadn't gone deep enough where I could break the shaft. I'd have to pull the head back out through his shoulder.
As curious as I was, learning what went down in the moments prior would have to wait until a later time. I needed to save Foster. We tackled the arrow first, and upon removing the vile thing, I realized I had stupidly forgotten to bring bandages. Thus we had to improvise. I instructed Hopkins to help Foster out of his uniform and rip it into strips. We'd use it as a makeshift bandage to staunch the bleeding for now. Hopkins, much to my surprise, stripped out of his own uniform, but before he could tear it, Foster stopped him, saying, "That's not only your uniform."
I helped Foster back to my office. It was in the doorway when he suddenly collapsed, and I realized that his injuries were much graver than I had assumed them to be. I ripped off his uniform, exposed a gash running across his chest. Unbeknownst to me, Foster had lost a lot of blood en route. Maybe too much blood. I had to act fast. I propped Foster against the wall and rushed to the medical cabinet, digging around for gauze and salves. Foster had said something. I hadn't caught it, but in the moment following, he—
"Are you writing about me?"
Sanford glanced up to where Foster was sitting up in bed. "You're supposed to be resting," Sanford replied.
"I am."
"Allow me to reiterate. You're supposed to be sleeping."
"What man could possibly sleep after he's nearly met death?"
"A man who wants to recover quickly, that's who. Shut up, and go to sleep."
"You seem quite irked this morning, Sanford."
"That's Doctor Sanford to you."
"Oh, my apologies, Doctor."
Sanford sighed and set his quill back upon the parchment of his journal with the intention to continue writing.
"Has anyone informed you of how it happened?" Foster asked.
"Your injury?" Sanford said without missing a beat. Expecting Foster to kill the conversation right there and then was wishful thinking. "No." He set down the quill, crossing his legs. "And since you don't appear to be resting anytime soon, do tell."
Foster shifted, the bed springs squeaking under his weight. "They climbed the walls, entered the rampart from opposite sides of the fort. Couldn't see them. Caught my shoulder first." He winced at the memory and Sanford felt a small pang of pity for him. Soldiers gave so much for their kingdom. "I retaliated with my own arrow," Foster continued, "but was blissfully unaware of his comrade behind me. He brought his sword down. I blocked with my bow. It snapped in half, and his blade dragged down my chest. Taking the two halves of my bow, I swung them into the side of his head. Bastard fell from the rapport and out of the fort, although I lost my balance and fell off myself a second later. Karma, I guess."
"It's more than probable that it was shock. Not karma." Sanford stretched out his arms with a long exhale. "You know, Hopkins seemed quite worried about you," he said casually.
"Did he?"
"He looked more concerned than you were. You're fortunate to have such a friend." Sanford picked his quill back up again and continued writing. The minutes ticked by and Sanford could feel the night's tolls start to weigh on him. His eyelids grew heavy and his handwriting bordered sloppiness, letters slurring together.
Foster took note of this. "You should finish writing after getting some rest, Doctor," he said. "I'm sure today has been stressful for you."
"And what will you do?"
"I...will also get some rest."
"Good." Sanford stood up from his desk and moved to the door leading to his quarters. He hesitated before entering. "Oh, and Foster?"
"Yes?"
"I'm glad you're still with us."
Foster smiled. "That's all because of one excellent doctor. Thank you."
Sanford sighed. "All in a day's work."