Читать книгу October skies - Alex Scarrow - Страница 20

23 September, 1856

Preston emerged onto the track where Mr Zimmerman stared anxiously down at the tangled wreckage below, holding his sobbing wife in his arms and rocking her gently.

Mr Zimmerman looked up at him. ‘William . . . is she . . . ?’

Preston, breathless from the exertion of pulling himself up the steep slope, ignored the father and looked around at the gathered faces. He spotted Ben.

‘Mr Lambert?’

Ben nodded.

‘Your trail captain, Keats, says you have some medical knowledge.’

‘What? Just a little. I was training as a doctor before I . . .’

‘Come with me, now.’

‘Let me get my bag.’

‘Quickly, please.’

Preston led the way back down, a treacherous descent made more difficult by an inch of snow rendering every foothold slippery and unreliable. Near the bottom, as the rush of the stream grew louder, they passed the oxen, wrapped around the base of a stout Ponderosa pine like some many-legged, many-headed beast. To Ben’s surprise, amidst the mass of tan hide, one or two of them were still alive, struggling and bellowing pathetically.

They climbed down further, until Ben could see the tangled remains of the wagon, and the curious sight of modest undergarments and Sunday-best clothing dangling from the higher branches of several trees nearby, as if hung out to dry.

Lower down he could see Keats squatting over something near the stream. Preston stopped and turned round to face him. Ben could see tears in the man’s normally stern eyes.

‘I think young Johanna will not live . . .’ He struggled to clear the emotion from his voice. ‘She’s down there.’

Preston led him to the floor of the gulch, strewn with boulders, shards of shattered and twisted timber and scattered personal belongings. The small, ice-cold brook energetically splashed and gurgled around them, carrying away with it the lighter things; letters, poems, dried flowers, keepsakes and mementoes sailed away downstream.

‘This way,’ said Preston again, leading him over to where Keats squatted, powder snow gathering on the floppy brim of his tan hat. To his credit, the grizzled old guide had managed to manoeuvre his scarred and pockmarked old face into something that resembled a tender smile for the poor child.

Ben looked down to see him stroking the ghostly white face of a young girl, stretched out across a wet boulder and bathed in the freezing cold water of the stream. Across her narrow waist lay a large section of the wagon’s trap. The heavy wooden frame had crushed her, cutting her almost completely in half.

‘My God,’ Ben whispered and Preston shot him an angry glance.

‘If you cannot help her, at least let her think you can,’ he hissed at him.

He nodded and then knelt down beside her. ‘Johanna, is it?’

She looked up at him, her blue lips quivering from the cold. ‘I . . . I know you. Y-you’re an outsider.’

Ben nodded and smiled. ‘That’s right, my name’s Benjamin. I’m a . . . a doctor. I’m going to have a little look at you. See what we can do.’

She smiled up at Preston. ‘G-God a-always p-provides.’

Preston stooped down and held her hand. ‘Yes, he does, Johanna, my love. God saw to it that Dr Lambert was to travel with us.’

‘Where is m-my m-momma and p-papa?’ she whispered, through flickering, trembling lips that were turning blue.

‘Your mother is fine. She leapt free and is safe at the top.’

She sighed with relief and turned to look at Preston. ‘M-momma t-tried to get me . . . d-didn’t she?’

‘Yes, she did. Because you’re special to us, Johanna.’

Ben looked across at Preston; it was a tender thing to say.

She smiled faintly, shivering as she did so. ‘I’m h-happy my m-momma is s-safe.’

Preston nodded. ‘She’s fine, just fine.’

Ben fumbled for her pulse; it was weak and fading. ‘Johanna,’ he said, ‘we’re going to get you out of here, then I’ll tend to you shortly, up at the top of the hill.’ It was a shameless lie to comfort her last few moments. He looked down at her separated body. The shattered timber had cut through her like a serrated blade, not a clean bisection but an untidy tangle of shredded organs, muscle tissue, skin and fragmented bone . . . messy.

‘Yes, we’ll have you out of here very soon. But first, let me give you something. You’ll feel better.’

Ben reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of laudanum.

‘What is that?’ asked Preston.

‘An opiate. It will help her . . .’ Ben’s words faded to nothing. He uncorked the bottle. ‘It’ll make it easier.’ He lifted the girl’s head and poured a modest amount through her quivering lips. Almost immediately the trembling began to ease.

‘There, there,’ cooed Ben softly, stroking her face, ‘there’s a good girl. You’re going to be fine.’

The young girl nodded dreamily, reassured by the soothing tone of his voice and the soft touch of his hand. She was slipping away now, mercifully, very quickly with the hint of a smile on her purple lips.

Ben glanced across at Keats, seeing, to his surprise, tears tumbling from narrowed eyes, and down his craggy cheeks into his beard. The guide chewed on his lip silently as Preston uttered a quiet prayer.

Looking back down at Johanna, Ben could see she had slipped away.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, ‘there was nothing I could do.’

Keats nodded. ‘Nothin’ no one could do.’

Preston turned to them both. ‘I’d like a moment alone with her, if you please.’

Ben put the glass bottle carefully back in his bag and stood up. Together he and Keats made their way across the stream and a few yards up the steep hill.

‘She must have been only eight or nine years old,’ whispered Ben. ‘Poor girl.’

‘Yup,’ Keats replied, his gravel-voice still thick with emotion. ‘And these stupid sons-of-bitches will consider it God’s will . . . just you see.’

Ben nodded.

They stood in silence awhile and watched as Preston knelt down and kissed the child.

‘What you saw there, Lambert,’ said Keats, ‘was the elephant.’

He knew what the guide meant, and that was exactly how it felt; as if some huge malevolent entity had grown tired of watching from afar and decided to announce its presence.

‘All of us seen the elephant today, Lambert . . . all of us. And that ain’t no good.’