Comes a Time for Burning (24 page)

“And thank God for that.”

“Yep. Schmidt’s up there right now, too. He’s fixin’ to move the men maybe today. He’s going to burn the camp to the ground. Took care of the two shacks yesterday after you left.”

“Would that had been done before,” Thomas said. But before
when
, he thought ruefully. He saw Horace leading one of the teams out of the barn. “Not a moment to lose now, Jake. If any of the others are beginning to feel the first signs—vomiting, the running shits, pain in head or gut—they must come here immediately.”

“Might have a houseful,” Tate remarked.

“We already have that,” Thomas replied.

Jake pinched out the butt of his cigarette. A tightly knit, powerful man, Jake looked haggard. He forced a grin. “I’m going to be a popular guy, pushin’ all that dope.”

“If they hurt, give the injection. It quiets the gut. And waste no time coming back.”

Tate nodded and strode back toward the barn where the ambulances waited.

Thomas returned to the clinic, catching Hardy for just long enough to inform him about what was coming. “The beds may be pushed together,” he said. “There are more frames and mattresses in storage behind, where we keep the linens and blankets.” And then he grabbed his medical bag and headed out into the pre-dawn to find the constable and the coroner.

Chapter Twenty-nine

The gelding enjoyed his stall, since it was dark, quiet, and well-tended with food, while the night was so often wet, slippery of foot, and filled with all manner of odd sights, sounds, and smells. When Thomas swung open the stall door, the big horse stood quietly, his rump backed into one corner.

Still saddled and bridled, the animal took a deep breath as Thomas tugged at the cinch.

“Stop that.” The young man slapped the back of his hand against the sleek flank. Quickly lashing the medical bag, Thomas mounted in the barn, and then urged Fats out into the pre-dawn darkness.

Mist sifted against his face, but it was too early to forecast the day. Constable Aldrich was already up, his suspenders hanging off his shoulders. His affable greeting turned to resignation as he listened to the urgent request.

“You fetch Winchell, then,” Aldrich said. “We’ll meet at the church.”

Winchell was well into his day as well, stacking a load of select spruce planking in the shed behind his mortuary.

“You’ll need your rig,” Thomas said, and when he explained to Winchell where they were going, the undertaker shook his head in disbelief.

“He’s off his nut.” Winchell let his comment go at that. Thomas waited while he rigged the ambulance, and the two of them set out through the back ways to Angeles Street, paralleling the inlet. A quarter mile ahead, the church stood tall and dark, the slender steeple outlined against the sky, the first spot in Port McKinney to see the sun on those rare dawns when the gold burst over the inlet. Thomas saw no light in the church itself, although the dawn could play tricks.

“I saw that they started cleaning the back wall of the Clarissa,” Winchell called across to Thomas. The physician urged his mount closer to the hearse.

“And more than that,” he replied. “Schmidt’s pump is working, then?”

“After a fashion. A dozen times the pressure would be helpful, but we do with what we have.” The church loomed, and Thomas could imagine it packed with towns folks, all hugging and weeping, spreading contagion.

“How does the pastor handle funerals?” Thomas asked Winchell just as they started up the last grade. “You know him better than I. What will he intend with his wife?” When Alvi’s father had died, the ceremony had been a simple graveside service…without Roland Patterson officiating.

“Well, now.” Winchell relaxed the reins and allowed his team to pull without interference. “I don’t know what he plans now. In normal times, when he puts on his full funeral performance, he wants the customer right up front, ahead of the front row of pews. Even if it’s just a simple box.” He waved a hand toward the church. “That’s what most folks around here can afford. Nothing fancy. It works for me, since I do a good business with that. Once in a while, somebody gets all cushy and orders a proper casket from the city, but generally it’s the spruce box. Or fir. Sometimes cedar. That smells pretty good.” He grimaced. “Sometimes that’s important. The pastor puts the casket right at the head of the aisle. Then he can command the view from the pulpit.” He leaned toward Thomas, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial, gruff whisper. “Nobody gets to God without going through him.”

Thomas glanced at the undertaker, always surprised by Ted Winchell’s blunt manner of speech. Winchell saw the reaction. “Yep, I’m a bloody heathen,” he said. “But you don’t need to spread
that
around. Patterson puts up with me. You get a job nobody else wants, what can they say, right?”

He pulled the horses to a halt in front of the Patterson’s house. The constable stood by the front gate, waiting. Lamps blazed inside, and as they approached, Thomas had seen a shadow pass in front of the window. The constable reached out and grasped the gelding’s bridle.

“You sure that Dr. Hardy doesn’t want to sign out a complaint?” Aldrich sounded almost hopeful.

“No. I can’t say I’d be as generous.” Thomas unlatched the gate, and it opened on well-oiled and properly adjusted hinges. A figure appeared in the doorway, and Thomas saw that it was Gert James. She wore black, with one of her starched white aprons—and even in the poor light, Thomas could see that the apron was splotched dark.

“You shouldn’t come in, gentlemen,” Gert said when they were close enough to hear her hoarse whisper. She held out a hand toward Winchell and Aldrich. “The little ones are ill, and I fear for the Pastor himself. But he’s in a fury. If he catches sight of you, constable…”

Aldrich settled his rump against the short porch railing and dug his pipe out of his pocket. “If he takes a swing at anybody, he goes to jail, Gerti. And that’s that.”

“He won’t strike me.” Thomas sounded more certain than he was. “Wait for me.”

Gert reached out a hand for Thomas as he passed through the door, then thought better of it, and clasped her hands together at her waist. “The children need to be at the clinic,” she said. “He won’t let them go.”

Thomas stopped short. “Good God, Gert, why ever not? What kind of madness is this?”

“He has his reasons.”

“Do you know them? The reasons?” Even as he spoke, he opened his medical bag and handed her a brown bottle of carbolic acid and another of alcohol. “Clean your hands, Gert. They must be disinfected often.”

She accepted the bottles. “The pastor and Dr. Haines did not see eye to eye,” she whispered. “Nor with Alvi, either. But that’s a grudge that should be long gone.” Gert lowered her voice even more, and Thomas had to watch her lips to catch what she said. “His first wife, you see.”

“Patterson’s first wife?”

She nodded, but before she had time to answer, Roland Patterson appeared from a back room, a stout cane in his hand. The cane was not intended as a weapon, Thomas could see. Patterson did not stride with his usual iron-backed posture, but sidled into the room, moving as if he’d aged half a century. One hand was thrust into his trousers at the gut. His eyes were bright, and locked on Thomas.

“What do you want?”

“The children are ill. Will you let me tend them? They should be taken to the clinic immediately.”

“My wife has died,” Patterson said, his voice surprisingly soft. “A good, strong woman.” He pushed himself up a bit, keeping most of his weight braced by the cane. “She died within a day after you began your barbaric treatment.”

“Barbaric?”

“Those are my words, young man. Your intrusions, your narcotics, your potions…”

“You consider modern medicine
barbaric?”

“I do. And you took Elaine. You took her after I expressly forbade it.”

“Elaine came to the clinic of her own free will, Mr. Patterson.”

“She
has
no free will, young man. She is but fourteen.”

“Mr. Patterson, if you remain in this house, it is more than likely that you will all die.” He took a breath, and the odor came to him, making his skin crawl. “Is that what you want? Gert says that the two little ones are ill. And it’s obvious that you are suffering, sir. There is no way of knowing how many of your congregation have been infected by the cholera. When it strikes, few are spared. You’ve witnessed that yourself.”

“And I say again—it is ridiculous to think that this is
cholera
, the scourge of the filthy, the Godless…”

“This is nonsense,” Thomas interrupted, and he turned toward Gert. “Where are the children?”

“This is
my
house, and this is
my
family. I will
not
have a man who lives in sin telling
me
what I must do!” Patterson roared, a show of his former strength. He thumped the cane hard on the floor, but didn’t lift it to threaten Thomas.

“I neither know nor care about what you imply,” Thomas said. “But I
do
know that human ignorance opens the way for such plagues as the cholera. If you had half a wit, you would understand that. Now, you struck my associate.” Thomas stepped closer to Patterson. He could see the darkness under the eyes, the weariness that sapped the pastor’s strong physique. The once neatly pressed clothing hung wrinkled and rank. “That’s all the striking you will do. Threaten me, and Constable Aldrich will arrest you. He awaits outside. Three things must happen, sir, and
will
happen. You have your wife’s corpse.” The harsh word jolted Patterson. “That must be buried immediately. The sick must go to the clinic for proper treatment, and this house cleaned from top to bottom, purged of the contagion. No one must be allowed back inside for at least two weeks. And the church as well. The church shall be quarantined…cleaned from top to bottom, and locked for two weeks.”

“You compare my home and my church to the rude streets of Calcutta? And you think to
lock
the house of God?” Patterson gasped.

“That’s exactly what I think.”

“The Lord has been my
life,”
Patterson cried. “You think I am to turn my back on the very place where…” He didn’t finish, but glared at Thomas. “My children are recovering, thanks be to God. The good Miss James has come to offer her assistance.” He held up both hands, palms toward himself as if inspecting his fingers. “I shall fashion a final resting place for my wife with these hands. Thomas heard a grunt outside from Ted Winchell, who along with the constable was certainly listening to the exchange. “And then she will have a proper service in
her
church, and be prepared to meet the Lord.”

“She’s already there, sir. And you’re more ill than you know.”

“Don’t you dare preach to me,” Patterson said. “There is such a swelling of gratitude for the gift of health to my children that it actually brings some upset. It is nothing and will soon pass.”

“May I look in on them?”

“They rest now, after a troubling night. To disturb them is the sort of foolishness at which you are apparently so adept.”

For a moment, Thomas was too angry to reply. “Gert, are the children resting comfortably?”
Comfort
was not a word easily associated with the cholera.

“I am afraid for them,” she whispered.

“The Lord will assuage your fears,” Patterson said, and coughed loudly.

“When was the last time either took nourishment or fluids?”

“I have been here since three,” Gert said. “They have managed nothing since then. I cannot speak for the time earlier.”

“Sir,” Thomas said, “This disease is an issue of very public health. A single case puts the entire community at risk. I must insist. I will examine the children, with your leave or not.” He hefted the massive medical bag, so heavy that a single swipe with it would flatten Roland Patterson.

“If only to satisfy you, a single look. And then you will leave the house.”

Gert had moved toward the hallway, and when Thomas looked at her, she shook her head in despair. For a moment he wondered what sort of comforting message someone with the common sense of Gert James found in Roland Patterson’s sermons.

“Where are they?”

Patterson extended a hand, and Thomas followed him from the vestibule. In the parlor, the sheeted form of Patterson’s wife lay on a long table, the linen covering drawn so flawlessly, so neatly, that he assumed that had been Gert’s first task that night. He cringed, thinking of the risk to her. They passed down a short hallway, and Patterson stopped at the first doorway, turned the knob, and held it open. In the dark, it was impossible to make out who might be inside.

“A lantern, if you please?”

It was Gert who appeared behind him with a coal oil lantern, its wick turned high. Thomas took it and entered the bedroom. A tiny girl lay curled on one narrow bed, obviously sleeping. Though the small bed was tidy and clean, Thomas could smell the cholera’s foul presence. The child’s breathing was quick and shallow. Thomas looked at her sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, and pallid skin. Touching the back of his hand to her cold cheek, he turned to Patterson.

“When were the first symptoms?”

“I told you…she sleeps easily now. With the morrow, she will be well.”

Thomas sighed and pushed himself erect. “Do you care for this child, sir?”

“You have no right to ask that. I care for my children as for life itself.”

For a moment, Thomas simply stood and gazed at the man. “You
care
for them? Then tell me when the first symptoms were.”

“Perhaps sometime yesterday.”

“Perhaps.” Across the room, another child lay in bed, flat on his back, head turned toward the wall. Thomas raised the lantern and groaned. Hoping that he was wrong, he placed a finger to the side of the child’s neck. “Gert?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“This child is dead.” He turned to look at the older woman. “Was he dead when you arrived earlier this morning?”

“Just, I think.” She let out an odd little groan. “The dear, dear little boy.”

“My God. So fast?”

“Todd was not a hale and hearty little soul,” Gert whispered. “His heart was frail. More than once, Dr. Haines suggested…”

“I do not care what a man who has given his soul to the needle and the bottle suggests,” Patterson spat. “And the child is not
dead.”

“And what do you call it, sir? When the heart stops and the brain ceases to function and the cold blood settles to the lowest points of the body?” He could see that his words stung, but he couldn’t stop. “And when decay begins the process of taking the body back to dust? Just what do you call
that
, sir?”

Patterson tried to bleat something, his eyes tortured, but Thomas had stopped listening to him. “Gert, where is Eleanor? Have you been able to speak with her?”

“Across the hall, Doctor.”

“She is ill?”

“In a manner.” She touched her own temple.

“Show me.”

Following close behind, he entered a small room and saw a figure sitting by the window. It was Eleanor, wrapped in a shawl that was pulled tightly around her shoulders. Thomas knelt beside her. The back of her free hand, listless on her lap, was cool. He reached up and laid two fingers to her neck. The pulse was listless.

“Eleanor?” The girl didn’t respond. She sat much as she had in the timber, beside Ben Sitzberger’s body. “Eleanor, it’s Doctor Parks.”

She ignored him, lost somewhere over the spread of the inlet outside her window.