Comes a Time for Burning (19 page)

“You’ll save him?”

Thomas took a few seconds to ponder how he might maneuver around that.

“Eleanor, you must help me. You must tell me what happened so I know what to do.” He stroked her forehead as if she were a child. For the first time, he noticed how exquisitely porcelain her skin was. She dug her face even harder into her arms. “Help us, Eleanor.” He glanced up at Captain Beaumont. “Your men?”

“Gone back to the ship. I sent ’em packing.”

“Before that ship moves an inch,” Thomas said, “your entire crew must be examined to make sure they are free of the contagion.”

“All right. You just tell me what to do.”

“Help me with her,” Thomas instructed. He felt some compliancy in Eleanor’s arms, and she arose like an ancient woman, her legs shaking. She leaned against Thomas, and he could feel her pulse pounding. For the first time, she seemed to actually
see
Ben Sitzberger as he really was—a withered corpse, teeth bared in death, eyes without any trace of passion or fear or life.

“I’m sorry, Eleanor.”

She buried her face in her hands and crumpled backward into his arms, turning as she did so to dig her face into his coat.

“He’s dead, Dr. Parks.”

“Yes.”

She tipped her head back, flooded eyes searching his face.

“There are so many others who need our help, Eleanor.” He looked at her face, a canvas of conflicting emotions, and wondered what bacilli were running rampant in her system. That unromantic thought wasn’t what Eleanor was searching for, apparently. As if reading his mind, she thumped a sharp little fist into his chest, coming dangerously close to the tender scar over his mended ribs.

“He’s
dead
, Dr. Parks.” She turned away. Trying to square her shoulders, she nevertheless stumbled as she marched out of the timber, still talking to herself. Stepping quickly, Thomas caught up with her, taking her by the elbow.

“Eleanor, you must help me with this. I need you to come back to the clinic. I don’t want you riding back alone.”

Her shoulders slumped in submission.

“At least ride in company with the ambulances. Back at the clinic, Miss Auerbach will guide you.” He lowered his voice and squeezed her shoulders. “Mr. Schmidt and I will take care of Ben.”

She nodded mutely, and he walked her back to the ambulance, keeping the team of horses between them and the terrible image of the shacks. He beckoned Howard Deaton.

“She will ride beside the ambulance,” he said. “That’s her horse, I think.” The black mare grazed fifty yards away, her reins dragging between her front feet.

“Will Hardy want a culture?” Deaton asked, and Thomas looked at him in surprise, impressed.

“Indeed he will.” He ushered the girl toward Deaton. “And thanks. Take good care of this young lady.”

As he trudged back to where Sitzberger’s corpse lay, Schmidt and Captain Beaumont looked at Thomas as if he had all the answers. “I’ve told the men that the tent must be burned. The bodies as well.”

He saw Schmidt turn and gaze across the clearing, and then toward the timber, as if gauging the distance of tree from flame. “It has to be done,” Thomas said. “For the dead, there are only two choices. The bodies can be burned along with the tent, or they can be buried with thorough sterilization with corrosive sublimate. I recommend the former, since there is less contact, even casual, with the living.”

“Some of the men aren’t going to like that,” Schmidt said.

“I don’t care what they like,” Thomas said abruptly. “We
can’t
care,” he added to soften his tone. “I’ve spoken with your man Farley, and he has made his reservations clear. But this is no time for ceremony. I don’t know if he can be made to understand that, but you have seen how fast the cholera can progress through a camp.”

“Indeed I have. And the camp is not all that worries me, Doctor. The children at school? They’re tested now?”

“They arrived at the clinic with Mr. Whitman just as I left to come out here. I trust that Dr. Hardy has made quick work of the process.”

“Then let’s do the same,” Schmidt said.

“Two more to be found,” Thomas said suddenly. “Huckla and his friend. Delaney, I think it is.”

“He’ll be found,” Schmidt said. “To the clinic?”

“Yes.”

“Are we going to have to put the torch to this entire valley?”

Thomas hesitated. “I don’t know. I don’t understand the path of the contagion’s spread. But I’ve been told that the men regularly gather in the dining hall for evening recreation. The gambling is what attracted the sailors. If the cholera spread from the soiled bedding, from the poor sanitation, then yes…it could involve the whole camp. What is the dining hall’s water supply?”

“A roof cistern, but many take water from the creek, of course. It’s clear, most of the time, especially higher up.”

“But do they bother going ‘higher up’ for the casual drink? I saw the baths that they’ve excavated right in the middle of the community…I intend to culture those. I would not be surprised at what we find.”

“You cannot test everyone or everything,” Schmidt said.

“No, I can’t. But I can speak with the men and explain to them what they must do to save themselves. Vigilance is sometimes worth more than anything else.” And once again, the young physician felt the familiar twang of inexperience raising its ugly head, since he did not know for certain that vigilance was worth
anything
with this disease.

Chapter Twenty-three

Thomas re-entered the rough tent-shack nearest the stream and looked at the cot that had been Sitzberger’s. A carved tree limb had been nailed to the wall, with an irregular scrap of flat slabwood nailed to it. Folded upon it were three shirts and two pairs of trousers, along with three pairs of long johns. Five pairs of socks, none of them particularly clean, rested under the cot, next to a single pair of boots.

The fetid cot painted the awful picture of a terminal cholera patient. In retrospect, Thomas was surprised that the young man had been able to sit a mule for the ride into town with Huckla. The disease obviously struck with unrelenting rapidity—it was conceivable that when the decision to ride into town before the day’s work truly began, Sitzberger had felt well enough to accompany his friend. Perhaps he had spent the night in Port McKinney, with the fair Lucy Levine—herself on borrowed time. Thomas could not imagine the young man, sick as he might be, actually asking a doctor for help. That didn’t appear to be part of the code of the timber.

Thomas skidded a small sea-chest to one side and opened the hasp. Inside he found a well-thumbed Bible, a clean shirt and trousers that Sitzberger might well have worn when visiting Lucy Levine—or Eleanor Stephens, or both—three dime novels, and a large Colt revolver still in its cardboard box. Tucked in the corner of the chest was a bulky package, loosely wrapped in butcher’s paper, the string tied in a clumsy bow, along with a collection of several dozen letters, tied together with a bit of ribbon.

Thomas hefted the letters and turned one them toward the light. The heavily canceled postage stamps were British, and the handwriting was obviously feminine, a full, flowing script. He stared in fascination. The return address announced the Convent St. James, Burdwan, Bengal, India. Fanning out the letters, he searched through the postmarks until he came to the most recent, postmarked in late December, 1891. The handwriting was angular, even shaky, as if penned by someone too elderly to hold the pen steady.

Feeling like an intruder, Thomas slid the single page missive from its envelope.

The letter was signed by Sister St. Denis, the Mother Superior of the Convent St. James.

Heart racing, he stood with the pack of letters, holding them as if they might themselves be the most lethal of poisons. “Other effects,” he whispered, scanning the trunk. Unless the aging Mother Superior had mailed off a Colt revolver from India, there didn’t appear to be much of interest. He bent down and retrieved the bundle and unwrapped it. Inside was a simple black garment, what appeared to be a nun’s habit.

“Why ever…” Thomas whispered. He tried to imagine Sister St. Denis mourning over a favorite associate, a woman who had only her deeds and precious little else to mark her passage through the world. Maybe it made sense to the Mother Superior to send the habit back home to the remaining family, little realizing that she was sending something else as well.

“Mr. Tate?” He held up the packet of letters and the package containing the habit. “I’m sure you gentlemen will arrange to do with the men’s possessions as you will, but I must take these. They will be at the clinic, should someone ask.” He started toward the gelding that now grazed behind the second ambulance, but stopped. “And Mr. Tate? The cabin and its contents…and the two men…
must
be burned immediately. I’ve spoken with Mr. Schmidt, and he agrees. This clearing is large, there is little wind, so there is little danger to the surrounding timber. Will you take care of that?”

“I’ll do it,” Jake Tate said, but Thomas saw him glance toward William Farley. “We got someone here in camp who can say a few words,” he added, but Farley didn’t look mollified.

It’s the three in the ambulances who need the words
, Thomas thought, but kept the thought to himself. “Thank you. And remember what I said about washing your hands thoroughly. More often than not. When you’re finished, I want to see you at the clinic.” At Tate’s apprehensive expression, Thomas added, “It will take but a moment. All the men who have been helping us here today. I need to see them all.”

An hour later, the two ambulances rolled under the clinic’s portico in Port McKinney. Pulled off to one side was Coroner Ted Winchell’s black hearse, and Thomas dismounted quickly as Winchell trudged over to him.

“Well, this ain’t no fun,” Winchell observed. Townsfolk would grow used to seeing his black hearse. Winchell, dressed in a flannel shirt and laborer’s trousers, made no effort to look his role—no black frock coat, no black top hat, no dour saturnine expression.

“What did the autopsy show you?”

“Autopsy?”

“Doc Hardy said that you wanted to do an autopsy on Flora Snyder before we tend to her.”

“I haven’t had a chance. And I don’t think I
will
have the chance, Ted. I should, I know. I am derelict if I don’t. But…” and he shrugged hopelessly. “You’ll go ahead and take her? As you can see, we have an outbreak at the Dutch camp.”

“Well, shit,” Winchell said succinctly. “How many?”

“We have three with us now. We left two at the camp for cremation. I fear there will be many more.” He took a deep breath, watching as Howard Deaton ushered Eleanor Stephens into the clinic. “We work in haste,” Thomas said ruefully. “It is so important to our understanding of the disease, but the time…” He shook his head in frustration. “We should take time to do a post on the two at camp, but…”

“I’d offer to help, but hell,
I
sure as hell don’t know enough.”

“And I don’t want you out there, Ted.” A pitiful cry issued from the front ambulance, bringing Bertha Auerbach from the clinic, along with Lucius Hardy. The physician looked quizzically at Thomas, who held up a finger. “A moment,” Thomas called. “Please. Give me a moment.” He turned back to the coroner. “I’ve never seen the case, but I can imagine that were I to do a post mortem on a man who died of thirst in the Sahara, I’d find much the same condition. Cholera manages the dehydration with considerably more rapidity, sadly enough.”

“Some seem effected less than others,” Winchell observed. “Marcus Snyder seems to be doin’ all right.”

“Some do, I’ve read. And now I believe it. Some might
wallow
in the contagion and never take ill. Some may never take ill, but carry the disease to others.” He held up his hands helplessly. “There is no understanding it. All we know for a certainty is that the disease is unbelievably rapid in its genesis.”

“Got some nervous folks in town, Doc.”

“As well they might be,” Thomas said. “There is no such thing as too much prophylaxis. I have sent detailed list to Mr. Garrison of what steps each family might take. I hope his publication is prompt, and widely read.”

Winchell coughed a little chuckle. “You’re really asking for a miracle now, Doc. I should go ahead and take the Snyder woman’s remains?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“If you would find George Aldrich? He is down at the Clarissa, the last I knew. We need to find every person who might be ill. It’s as simple as that. They must come to the clinic, and we will do what we can.”

“I’ll use the white rig,” Winchell said. “As soon as Howard’s free, him and me will take Mrs. Snyder. Someone taking care of the family matters?”

“I think so.”

One by one, the sick were transferred from the ambulances to the first floor men’s ward. In the flurry of urgent activity, Thomas noticed that Eleanor Stephens had left.

Chapter Twenty-four

Thomas closed the door of his office, sank into the chair, and opened his journal to the page he had reserved for the cholera outbreak. The names of the dead were followed by the date and time of their passing—Dick Bonner, Benjamin Sitzberger, Flora Snyder, and now Herb Bonner, who had survived the ambulance ride down off the bluff, the transfer into the clinic, and the first session of enteroclysis before gasping for breath through blue lips and then expiring.

Marcus Snyder had taken to sitting on the edge of his ward bed, hands clasped between his knees, too sick to stand without assistance. With sad, hollow eyes, Snyder watched the ministrations to the prostrate loggers, unable to help or even offer encouragement.

He had been too ill to accompany his wife’s body when Ted Winchell and Howard Deaton had carried the pathetically light wicker casket from the clinic. Flora Snyder’s remains would go to the Port McKinney cemetery up behind the Congregational Church, buried without delay and a thorough blanket of lime to keep any contagion at bay should ground water seep beyond the grave.

If the practice of either cremation or immediate burial offended some of the tough loggers, Thomas reflected, it was sure to offend the more tender spirits in the village…no doubt he’d hear from Pastor Patterson at some completely inconvenient time. Let that be, he thought. If the pastor wanted to conduct graveside services, fine. A c
overed graveside
. But to allow a coffin bearing cholera inside a crowded church bordered on stupidity.

Thomas turned the page and added another note under the remarkable entry for Sonny Malone, who still rested by himself in the small room at the rear of the ward, oblivious to what was transpiring around him. Malone’s system concentrated on one shallow breath at a time as his damaged brain tried to defend itself from the seepage of blood within his skull.

Closing the journal, he entered the tiny laboratory and checked the gas incubator. Inside, the bottom shelf was full of glass culture dishes, and Thomas was quite sure that their technique could be called into question. With a finite supply of the glassware, Dr. Hardy had divided each smooth culture surface into quadrants, one patient to a quadrant, the name printed in red wax on the lid. Fifteen cultures from the school now brewed, along with Gwendolyn and Tilly Snyder’s, and now twelve from the Clarissa. Two cultures had come from the India letters, and two that contained tiny snippets from what appeared to be the nun’s habit—an odd farewell memento send to a brother in the United States. The final cultures had been drawn from Eleanor Stephens and the rest of the nursing staff—and one each from the two physicians.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Thomas had said as he saw his own name printed on top of the glassware.

“A sentiment shared, I’m sure,” the other physician had replied.

Still skeptical that such a possibility was possible, Thomas had searched through the textbooks for hints, but had found only the one—the cryptic and unexplained comment in Dr. Fellow’s
Theory and Practice of Medicine: “(Cholera) has been communicated through the medium of the mails.”
If Dr. Fellow’s report was accurate, this would be amazing confirmation.

A matter of hours will tell the tale
, Thomas thought.

“You’re musing,” Lucius Hardy said behind him, and Thomas turned. Hardy’s pleasant face was marked by dark shadows under each eye, his lively step now heavy and plodding.

“And you need rest. Let me suggest that you retire upstairs for the remainder of the day, sir.”

“In due time. By the way, while you were occupied, I…” He twisted to look past the physician at another figure who appeared in the doorway.

“Ah, my God…Miss Stephens,” Thomas blurted. The Seth Thomas said that it was nearly five in the afternoon. Eleanor Stephens had walked off hours before, and wandered who knows where, spreading who knows what. She had changed her ruined clothes and now wore pristine white. The girl was really quite attractive in a wan sort of way, her hair nearly raven black, but her skin so pale and flawless that even a single fetching freckle would appear out of place. She was dressed in the whites of a nurse, perhaps the very dress she had been wearing when she left the clinic in tears the first time. Her hands were clasped at her narrow waist.

“Pardon, sir. I did not mean to intrude, but the door was open, and with both of you here…”

“What may we do for you, young lady?” Thomas kept his tone neutral. He knew not what to think with this girl, and the quiet reservation in the eyes gave little hint. Somehow, at least to outward appearances, she had now managed to pull herself together, and seeing her dress and manner, his first assumption was that Eleanor Stephens was seeking employment once again, or bringing yet another complaint from her step-father. Perhaps Patterson had been standing down below, on the corner of Gamble and Angeles Streets, and had seen Ted Winchell’s hearse leave the Clinic’s portico, headed out to the cemetery.

“My mother is ill, sir. I have come to ask if you might…”

“She is with you?” Thomas interrupted, rising quickly. “Have you taken her to the ward?”

“No. She is home. My step-father will not allow…he does not want her to be brought here.”

“Where is Pastor Patterson now?”

“He is at the church, sir. They are planning evening services for those afflicted, and for those who have…passed.” Thomas saw moisture in the corners of the girl’s eyes.

“And you say that the Pastor knows your mother to be ill?”

“Yes. And that my sister and I tend her.”

“Tell me how your mother is suffering,” he demanded, glancing at Dr. Hardy, who had remained silent but attentive.

“She…” and her face flushed.

“You must tell me, Eleanor,” Thomas said kindly, but his mounting impatience gave the words an edge. “You know perfectly well what we face here—and at the Clarissa, and out at the camp. We must know what we face. We must have a culture.”

“She has pain,” and Miss Stephens touched her stomach. “Such pain as is unbearable.”

“Diarrhea? Vomiting?”

“Yes. Most distressing and fearsome,” the girl said, and she raised her hand and placed the back of it to her forehead most theatrically. “Just as you have here. I fear for her.”

“I’ll go to the home with her,” Hardy said immediately, but Thomas shook his head.

“No, let me. This may require some discussion with the good pastor, and I’m the one who should do that.”

“With a club,” Hardy said, and Thomas glanced at the girl. She hadn’t reacted to the insult…perhaps she agreed.

“Her bedding is clean? The room is immaculate? Her toilet attended to?” The flush shot up Miss Stephens fine cheeks like flame. How could this wilting damsel be the same girl who had huddled a corpse just hours before, bedded down on the damp duff of the forest?

“I have instructed my sisters in what must be done.”

“Your sisters? How many of you are there?” Thomas knew that at one time or another, Gert James had told him who was who. That was one of his housekeeper’s hobbies, it seemed.

“I have two sisters and a brother,” Miss Stephens said.

“Younger, I assume?” Thomas walked toward the door without waiting for an answer, beckoning the girl to follow. In the dispensary, he quickly assembled a small kit, including a sterile rubber tubing from the clave, and a spare bulb. It had been that very procedure, he remembered, that had driven the blush from Miss Stephen’s face and sent her from the room before a dead faint sent her to the floor.

Thomas paused for a moment, looking at his inventory.

“Syringes,” Hardy prompted. “And you accuse
me
of being weary, old man.”

Thomas added three freshly claved hypodermics to his kit. “All right. Lead on, Miss Stephens. And by the way…” He turned back to Hardy. “I left Jake Tate at the logging camp. He is a most resourceful young man. But I would expect there to be more cases from there. And now, with this, who knows.” He smiled sympathetically at the older physician. “I was told that someone saw smoke over the trees, coming from the Dutch camp. We may yet stop this thing.”