Her Healing Ways (10 page)

 

The cold rain had soaked Lon in a moment.

Struck by lightning, a nearby tall pine exploded, flinging branches, pine needles and flaming sparks over them. Mercy ducked as Lon threw his arm around her shoulders to protect her.

When they reached the men with the stretcher, one
of them shouted into Lon's ear, but Lon couldn't hear the words over the thunder. Then another two men came out carrying a man by the shoulders and feet. Mercy waved the men toward the mining shack. Lon continued into the mine. Maybe he hadn't delayed too long, maybe he had come at the right time to help support the injured as they staggered out.

Thunder continued, blasting overhead like an artillery barrage. The sound battered him physically, shook him until his teeth rattled. Then an explosion like a cannon shell threw him to the mud.

Panic. He yelled, his voice vanishing into the maelstrom. Rocks cascaded down the slopes around them. Some bounced high, barreling into the valley where he lay facedown. He covered his head with his arms. Squeezed his eyes shut. And prayed.

At last the earth ceased vibrating. He opened his eyes and sucked in air. He was alive. He hadn't been snatched up in the whirlwind. Pushing up with both hands, he got to his feet. He staggered and caught himself.

The storm was already past them, moving east. Yet the flashing lightning still illuminated the surroundings. And thunder boomed so close, too close.

When he looked to the mine, he gasped, shock rippling through him. An avalanche of rocks had fallen, blocking the entrance.
Dear God, help.

He glanced around for Mercy. Was she out of harm's way? He saw an oil lamp shining dimly
through the mine shack window, illuminating her silhouette. She was safe.

Soon he was surrounded by the few men left and several women. He couldn't tell if it was rain or tears streaming down their faces. They all looked to him, beseeching him to tell them what to do.

The urge to turn tail and run hit him like a blast of buckshot. But one glance at their faces and he was powerless to desert them. “Form lines!” he shouted against the receding yet still roaring thunder. “Like bucket brigades! Start moving out rock! If it's too big to lift, roll it!”

He ran forward and they followed. He hefted a large rock and then started it down the line. Two more lines formed. The horror of what had just happened twisted inside him like the tightening of a screw. The rescuers had been swallowed up by the avalanche, along with Digger, the mine manager.

Even as the work began, he despaired. There weren't enough rescuers. Too many had been swallowed by the mine. How many would they find still alive?

The rocks cut his soft gambler palms, gouged his knuckles. If only there were more hands. Then he saw movement by the light of the retreating storm. Suddenly, another line formed beside his. Who was it?

Then he saw—the Chinese had come to help. The men formed another line and began moving rock away from the blocked entrance. He didn't know why they'd come to help. But he was humbly
grateful. Choked up, he couldn't utter even a word of welcome.

The rock brigades worked steady and determined for hours. The storm finally moved beyond their valley, no doubt still spreading destruction eastward. Lon's arms and back ached. The black night wrapped around them. Drenched, Lon shivered in the cold. He gasped for air.

Occasionally a man would grunt; a woman would moan. Someone was praying aloud—the Twenty-third Psalm. The phrase “the valley of the shadow of death” repeated in his mind.
Lord, bring the sunrise. Let some live.

 

Mercy had never passed a more terrifying night. First the cave-in, then the storm, terrifying in its destruction. Rampaging thunder. Lightning exploding and flaming about. Then rocks pouring down, shattering, crashing, smothering.

In the mining shack, she stood, looking out the one small window into the murky gray of predawn and an early mist. Her arms were folded as if holding back a well of shock and distress. Was Lon still out there working? She didn't know and couldn't leave her patients to find out.

A moan sounded behind her. She turned to one of her two patients lying on the earthen floor and took his pulse. She hadn't been able to do much for either of them. She had managed to clean the area around their gashes and stop the bleeding.
But if they had sustained internal injuries, there was nothing she could do.

A knock sounded on the door. Indigo rose from the floor and opened it. The pastor of the church where Mercy had been speaking just hours before peered in.

“We haven't spoken directly, but I'm Pastor Stephen Willis. My wife and I have prepared the church for the injured.”

“Thank You, Jesus,” Indigo murmured. Mercy repeated the words silently.

“The wagon is all ready to take the injured there,” he said.

Mercy looked at her two patients, who took up almost all the floor space. Only these two had been brought out of the mine before the storm and avalanche. How many remained trapped? How many remained alive? Tears clogged her throat.

Indigo must have sensed this. She responded for Mercy, “We just have these two so far, Pastor. I'll help you carry them to the wagon.”

Mercy wished she could give in to the tears that crouched just behind her eyes. However, she knew intuitively that any show of emotion on her part would weaken her reputation as a physician. Male doctors showed little emotion—she must do the same or be dismissed as just an emotional female.

She sighed and put her bonnet on again. She prayed for the men still trapped in the mine as she went out into the chill, damp fog that misted her face.
She glanced at the lines of people ferrying rock away from the mine entrance. Ma Bailey had somehow got a fire started in spite of the heavy soaking they'd received. She was giving mugs of steaming coffee to tired workers.

Then the fog lifted; Mercy halted. She looked more closely toward one line passing rock away from the avalanche. The Chinese men were working along with the Americans. Praise for God flowed through her. How touching that these unwanted strangers in this land were willing to help in this time of disaster. And she hadn't imagined Lon arriving, or the feel of his arm protecting her. A few times last night she'd doubted her memory. Lon was still there, directing the rescue. He had come late, but he had come.

Mercy hurried to Lon. He broke away from the brigade and took her hands in his. “Mercy, where are you taking the injured?”

She felt the roughness of his hands. “Pastor Willis has opened his church as a hospital.” She wished she had time to treat his lacerated hands.

“The progress is slow.” He wiped his grimy, damp forehead with his sleeve. Once again, Lon's flashy gambler clothing clashed with the man and his actions in a crisis.
Thee may try to make thyself and everyone else believe thee wants to live as a gambler, Lon Mackey. Thee will never make me believe it.

“How are thee faring?” she asked, leaning close to catch his low voice.

He squeezed her hands in reply. Someone called to him. “Take care,” he said as he rushed off.

“And thee!” she called after him, missing his touch immediately. A spark of warmth flared within—hope.

 

Lon glanced over his shoulder, watching Mercy and Indigo mounting a buckboard. A man with a clerical collar was helping them up. He wished he could call her back. Her presence always lent strength. But another woman already sat in the wagon bed, obviously to help Mercy. Two pairs of feet protruded from the end of the wagon bed. They must be taking the two victims of the cave-in to town. Were they being taken for treatment or burial?

Death. Death was their real enemy, their constant adversary, always ready to suck out their breath and put them in the ground.

A shout sounded. Lon turned.

“We're through!” one of the miners yelled.

Lon hurried to the hole they had finally cleared through the rock barrier. “Let's be careful. We need to widen this opening and get a rescuer who will fit through it.”

One of the Chinese waved and bowed. “I can go through.” Lon blinked away deep emotion that was trying to surface. These immigrants were barely deemed human by many of the miners they were offering to save. Their willingness to help was humbling.

“Thanks,” Lon said, returning the bow.

The Chinese man said, “I Chen Park. Woman doctor bring my baby.”

Lon nodded. “Dr. Mercy Gabriel is a good doctor.”
A good woman. Too good for this bunch.

“Yes.” Chen Park said. “Dr. Mercy. Good.”

Lon noticed that everyone else had fallen silent, watching this exchange.

“Thank God Dr. Gabriel came to town when she did,” said Ellen Dunfield. “If she hadn't, many of us would already be in the grave.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the wagons where the children were still sleeping. Then she sank to the ground, exhausted from hours of nonstop labor.

“Is this hole big enough?” the miner closest to the opening asked.

“Big enough for me.” Chen Park hurried forward and accepted a lantern. “I go in.”

The other miners called out encouragement, “Good man! God bless!”

The man ducked low and entered the hole.

Lon could only hope that this brave man would be able to reach someone alive—and stay alive himself.

T
he watery morning sun had finally burned away the fog. Lon passed another rock down the line. His back felt broken; his arm muscles trembled. He was so exhausted he could have sunk to the ground and fallen instantly into a deep sleep. But each labored breath reminded him that men trapped inside might have little chance to go on breathing if the rescuers didn't work faster—if they didn't reach them in time. The old feelings that had plagued him before each battle—the cramping in his stomach, the tautness in his neck—flared to life. He would have no ease until all were accounted for—living and dead.

The Chinese men were taking turns going into the hole, carrying or rolling out large rocks to make room for the injured to pass through. But the progress only inched forward. Lon fought his impatience.

Then Chen Park returned, grinning. “I see men. Touch men.”

“It must be the rescue party,” Lon said, gasping, his breathing shallow and his pulse suddenly racing. “They rushed in and were caught by the avalanche.”

“Three—” he held up three fingers “—under rocks.” He shook his head. “Not breathe. Four still breathe but sleep.” The news horrified but invigorated the men and women still moving rock. Close, so close. Lon and the rest who were still able to work began frantically widening the hole.

Lon passed rock after rock, straining with their weight. His whole body ached and he often found his eyes shutting. But he was used to pushing himself beyond the limits of his strength. The women who had worked all night staggered away to care for their waking children.

Panting and wheezing, some of the older men fell where they stood in line. Younger men carried them near the fire and covered them with blankets. Everyone's willingness to work until they dropped stoked a flame in Lon's heart.
We'll save some. God help us.

Chen Park came out backward, gasping, obviously laboring hard. He was pulling a man. Lon hurried forward to help along with the other workers. He could see Digger Hobson's red hair. Hands grabbed Digger and helped carry him out. An incredible rush of energy charged Lon. He saw it reflected in the grinning faces around him. They had broken through. Finally.

“Chen Park,” Lon said, “well done. Thanks.”

The man bowed low. “Hole big enough for bigger men to go in.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Hole bigger inside.”

Then Lon noticed Digger's right foot. His boot looked crushed. Chen Park nodded. “Foot under rock. Bad.”

Lon squeezed Chen's shoulder. “You did your best. You need to rest. You men have been carrying the brunt since early morning. Rest.”

Chen nodded and motioned toward his fellows. “We go home. Eat. Come back.”

“Thanks,” Lon said again, his voice low and gravelly. He didn't want them to stop, yet they were only flesh and blood.

The Chinese men walked away, stretching their backs and rotating their tired shoulders. The women and children waved and called out their thanks.

Pastor Willis, who had been waiting for survivors, drove the wagon close to the mine. Lon turned his attention to another survivor who had just been brought out. It was that young Métis he'd played poker with and later met at Mercy's, the one who was sweet on Indigo. He was still unconscious.

Men helped Pastor Willis load both injured miners into the wagon, and he drove away. Then more men were carried out, but they were dead. The rescuers covered them with wool blankets as women knelt beside them and mourned.

Let down after the brief elation, Lon turned away. The cries of the women shredded his heart.
At least
during the war, I didn't have to hear the widows mourning.
But he'd had to write letters to them, telling them of their husbands' last days and how they had died. He rubbed his chest over his heart, trying to banish the physical pain these memories always caused him. Here and now, however, he had not given the order sending these men into the mine. This had not happened under his command.

He stood very still, drawing up, hauling up all his reserves of strength. They had one more barrier to break through to reach the men who'd been trapped in the original cave-in. Once again, every eye had turned toward him, asking for direction, encouragement. Why was everyone here depending on him? He had no answer. But then he was depending on Dr. Mercy to save as many survivors as she could. Yet he knew that even she couldn't save everyone, either.

 

At the church hospital, Mercy looked with dismay at Digger Hobson. He had just regained consciousness and was writhing with what must be unbearable pain.

A long, rectangular table had been brought from the saloon and set up where the pulpit usually stood. Mercy directed the men to carry Digger and lay him on it. She must perform surgery on him as soon as possible. His foot was crushed and might soon become gangrenous, which could kill this good man.

Mercy looked around and saw that they had carried
in another patient. As soon as she heard Indigo's outcry, she knew it must be Pierre. She hurried to Indigo and lifted Pierre's wrist. “His pulse is slow but steady,” she said. But she didn't like the look of his bruised and bloodied head. Mercy ran her hands over him, checking for other injuries. His right arm was broken.

She looked to Indigo, feeling the sting of her daughter's pain as her own. “He is not in immediate danger. We must treat Digger Hobson first.”

Her lips trembling, Indigo looked into Mercy's eyes and said quietly, bravely, “I'll prepare for surgery.”

Mercy squeezed Indigo's shoulder and then went to prepare herself for this ordeal. Dread opened inside her, sucking away her composure. She hated what she must do. She had assisted in so many amputations during the war that she'd already known how to perform one before she started medical school. But that didn't lessen her loathing of them.

Soon, she stood wearing a clean, white apron. She looked down at her gleaming surgical instruments, which Indigo had laid out for her on spotless cotton. Mercy took up the scalpel. Indigo was administering ether from a sponge and Digger had just become unconscious. The familiar rush of energy and clarity sharpened her mind and bolstered her will to do this thing.

About halfway through the operation, someone came into the church and demanded, “What's going on here?” Heavy footsteps hurried up behind Mercy. The same voice challenged her, “Good grief,
woman, what are you thinking? You can't do an amputation!”

Mercy didn't, couldn't pause in her surgery. “I'm very sorry, but I must ask thee to step away. I am at a very delicate part of the operation and cannot allow any distractions.” From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed an older man.

“You stop that right now. I'll take over. I'm a qualified physician. No nurse is up to this kind of surgery.”

“I, too, am a qualified physician,” Mercy said, keeping her main focus on the operation.

He grabbed her arm.

Wild outrage shot through Mercy. Digger's life hung in the balance. “Get this man off me!” she called out. “He's keeping me from my work! Digger could die!”

A number of women hurried over. “Let go of Dr. Mercy. She's right in the middle—”

Hot words boiled out of the man, and he did not release Mercy's arm.

So Mercy did something she had never done before. She kicked the man's shin as hard as she could and swung her hip at him, knocking him off balance. Releasing his grip, he fell, shouting a curse.

Hot anger bubbling, Mercy continued suturing. She heard the door open and Ellen's voice.

Pastor Willis hurried over and helped the man up, but guided him away from Mercy. “Who are you, sir?”

“I am Dr. Gideon Drinkwater. I practice medicine in Boise. The sheriff got a telegraph about the mine cave-in and I came to treat the injured. What do you mean by letting a woman perform surgery?”

“Dr. Gabriel is a qualified physician—”

“She's lying,” the man objected. “There is no such thing as a qualified female doctor. No medical college admits them.”

“I've seen her diploma from the Female College of Medicine in Pennsylvania. She helped end our recent cholera epidemic. And by the way,” Pastor Willis added in a stern tone, “we telegraphed Boise for help with the cholera, but no doctor came that time.”

Mercy had forgotten that. She wondered what excuse this doctor would use for not coming to help then.

“There is no cure for cholera,” the doctor grumbled. “I thought my efforts would be wasted here.”

“Well, thanks be to God, our Dr. Gabriel didn't take that attitude,” Pastor Willis said. “We only lost some seventy souls when we might have lost nearly half our population.”

“That is neither here nor there,” Dr. Drinkwater said, sounding cross. “You can't let a woman practice medicine here. I won't stand for it.”

Mercy tried to ignore her irritation, tried to block out the man's blustering words. Her hands needed to remain steady.

“Why do you have to stand for anything?” Ellen's
clear voice rang out. “Dr. Mercy is taking care of things. You're not needed here.”

Not needed? Mercy realized that she must intervene. She steadied herself, dampening her buzzing exasperation with the man. “Thank thee for thy support, Ellen, but this is only the first wave of survivors. We don't know how many patients will be needing medical help. Dr. Drinkwater, why doesn't thee observe me and see if I am equal to the task?”

“I will do nothing of the sort,” he snapped. “I will not lower myself to work alongside a female who is posing as a physician. Either this woman goes, or I go.”

“Well, go then,” Ellen said. “We know what Dr. Mercy can do. We don't know how good a doctor you are.”

Dr. Drinkwater sputtered and marched out.

Troubled, Mercy concentrated on doing the rest of the operation without being distracted. She sent a prayer for wisdom heavenward and went on with her intricate work.

Having two doctors would certainly increase the injured miners' chances for survival. If she stood down and let this doctor have his way, they'd be down to one doctor again. Both of them were needed. Would prejudice against her cost lives?

When Mercy had finished the surgery and washed up, she walked outside. Weariness had invaded her very flesh. Her back ached; her feet were wooden from standing so long while operating. And now she
must contend with the same old hostility. How could she convince this doctor that they needed to work together?

After the storm, the air was cool and clear, the wind gentle. Nearby, under an oak tree whose leaves were turning bronze, the doctor and the pastor were sitting on chairs, talking. Now she saw that the doctor must be in his later middle years with a pronounced paunch, the Boise doctor had salt-and-pepper hair and an ill-natured expression. Mercy prayed silently as she approached the two. “Now I am free to talk.”

Both men stood until she sank down on a third chair. Then Dr. Drinkwater snapped, “Did the poor man survive your butchery then?”

Mercy looked him in the eye. “I assisted in thousands of amputations while nursing during the war.”

“I'll probably have to fix what you have botched.”

Mercy merely stared at the man. Indeed, she was too tired to argue. Crows cawed in the distance. The sound mimicked the doctor's tone and voice. Ellen joined the threesome.

Finally, taking a deep breath, Mercy looked once again into the doctor's hostile gaze. “Gideon Drinkwater, I am a free woman and a qualified physician.”

Drinkwater cut in, speaking to Pastor Willis. “I won't practice medicine here if—”

“Neither of us knows how many injured there may be,” Mercy interrupted. “If thee goes, I will continue
trying to save as many lives as I can. But I believe that there will be more injured than
one
doctor can successfully treat alone. Will thee let men die because thee disapproves of me?”

“Let's have no more time-wasting discussion,” Ellen said, attempting to soothe tempers. “We need two doctors and we now have two hospitals. The church at the other end of town is ready for you, Dr. Drinkwater. You won't even need to see Dr. Gabriel.”

“Excellent!” Pastor Willis beamed at her. “Just the solution we need. Thank you, Mrs. Dunfield. I'll walk the doctor to the church.” The pastor turned to the obviously aggravated man. “Let's be going then. We don't have time to waste.”

Gideon Drinkwater rose and gave Mercy a scathing look. “This is not over, madam.” He turned and marched away.

“Good riddance,” Ellen whispered when the men were out of hearing distance.

Mercy just sank back farther in her chair. She believed Gideon Drinkwater's threat. He would do what he could to make matters even harder for her than they were. But she wouldn't think about that now. “Ellen, how are things at the mine?”

“They're working their way through the rock that sealed off the original cave-in. They're making good…progress.” Ellen's voice broke on the final word.

Mercy gripped the woman's hand. “I am praying that thy good husband will be restored to thee.”

Ellen nodded, holding back her tears.

 

After dark, Lon shuffled as quietly as possible into the dimly lit church hospital where he'd been told Mercy was treating patients. The smell of carbolic acid hung in the air. The work at the mine was done. All around him, people had rejoiced that every miner, living or dead, had been found and brought out. For him, there was no joy and no going back to the saloon tonight to celebrate. The cave-in, the storm and the avalanche had sucked him dry. He should have just gone back to his cot in the saloon and picked up the thread of his normal life there, continuing with his plan to leave Idaho Bend behind.

But, try as he might, he had been unable to stop himself from seeking out Mercy. Before he could speak her name, she was there in front of him. Her flaxen hair glimmered in the low candle and lamplight.