Читать книгу The Doctor's Mission - Debbie Kaufman - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Mary’s new boots had rubbed an angry blister on her right foot. The second day on the trail and her old boots were a fond memory whose faults she’d forgotten. She should’ve taken care to break the new ones in better before this trek. If the caravan didn’t stop for a midday break soon, she would be forced to ask for one. The risk of infection from an untreated blister in this humidity was high. Memories of field amputations flooded her brain, and she shuddered.

“Are you getting sick?” William asked, right at her back.

Mary almost jumped out of her own skin to stand beside herself. How did he do that? She could have sworn he was several places back. She would never get used to the noise of the jungle animals, the way it covered the most mundane sounds.

“I’m as healthy as the proverbial horse. Why do you ask?”

“You were shivering. While you may have had malaria as a child, you must know it frequently recurs. Often with no real warning.”

He, the pastor, was lecturing her, the physician, on malaria? “While I may not remember much from my personal experience, I’m perfectly aware of the disease and its ongoing nature. Medical school, even for females, was not a social experience.”

The short laugh from behind her was edged with bitterness. “You don’t know malaria until you have actually seen its devastation in this land.”

The intensity of his answer held her unruly tongue for her. Who had he lost to bring such pain to his voice? He probably wouldn’t appreciate her asking.

William edged past her while she answered. “Rest assured, I am not experiencing any symptoms of the disease.”

His back to her, he lengthened his strides to move ahead. “Speaking of rest, we will be stopping for a thirty-minute period shortly. Be prepared to march again after we’ve eaten.”

“Thank goodness,” she murmured. She didn’t want to start limping and be subject to more of a lecture. Both their tempers had been edging toward a real fandango.

It was bad enough the gunshot last night had affected her. The constant barrages at Argonne initially hardened her. But since her brother Jeremy’s death, she heard every shot in a new way. She would have been useless for frontline hospitals if the Armistice hadn’t come. She’d covered up her reaction last night, but she didn’t need to give this reluctant missionary guide another chance to look down on her and see weakness.

A long half-hour later, the caravan halted. Lunch was a quick and quiet repast of cold rice, absent monkey meat. No William in sight either, giving her time to tend her blister.

Sitting on a fallen tree at the edge of the path with Clara, Mary unfastened her panniers, the leg coverings she still wore for protection from mosquito bites, and unlaced her left boot, carefully removing her sock. An angry red swelling on the outside of her small toe brought a hissed intake from Clara.

“That’s not good.”

Mary forced a smile in Clara’s direction. “I know. Do you think you can get me my small pack?”

Clara returned, pack in hand. “It doesn’t look infected.”

Mary agreed. She used gauze and canteen water to clean the blister and applied a small plaster for protection. Mindful of the imminent call to move, she reached for her discarded sock.

“Uh, Mary?” Clara tipped her head to indicate Pastor Mayweather’s approach.

She tried to stuff her foot in the sock, but didn’t succeed before the pastor got an eyeful of her exposed bandage.

“Is there a problem?” His deep rumble easily crossed the short distance between them.

“No, no problem at all.” Mary pulled the sock snug and reached for her boot.

In one swift movement, William snatched the boot from her hand and squatted in front of her, concern across his face. “Take off the sock.”

“No. I have a small blister and I’ve taken care of it. I’m not going to waste my plasters to satisfy your curiosity.” She stretched her hand out for her boot.

“Blisters in the jungle are serious. Any open wound is.”

If only she could get to her feet. He obviously meant well, but she still had an urge to knock him off his know-it-all hobby horse. “Medical school managed to cover both malaria and minor scrapes in my training.”

“Too bad your training didn’t extend to proper footwear. Those shiny new boots will probably rub both of your feet raw before we reach Nynabo.” William stood, forcing her to crane her neck to look up. He held out her boot. “You need to take the hammock chair. Let your foot heal.”

Mary laced her boot and Clara handed over her pannier, looking amused over the whole exchange. Mary joined the hooks and stood. She was so close that she could easily breathe in his earthy scent. “I’m perfectly capable of walking.” Even to her, the irritation in her voice sounded petulant.

The corner of his mouth turned up and he inclined his head. “Obviously. Otherwise you wouldn’t have a blister.”

He made no move to step back and put a more polite distance between them, causing her an awareness of his nearness she hadn’t expected. She stared up into eyes that turned serious.

“Please, Dr. O’Hara. I would appreciate it if you would take my advice on this matter. Even if I do know more of the Bible than medicine.” He stepped aside and motioned to her hammock-chair bearers.

Mary’s first thought was to refuse. His eyebrows knitted in concern as he waited for her decision. His plea seemed genuine without any hint of an order behind it. She took a couple of steps and decided the hammock chair it would be.

The smile that lit the faces of her bearers surprised her. “Carry Mammy Doctor? Yes. Yes.”

Their enthusiasm was such that it occurred to her she might have offended them by refusing their services before. Only the depth of her ignorance of the pidgin they spoke kept her from inquiring further.

When the call came to move on, two eager men bore the poles on their heads, and Mary climbed into the canvas conveyance. She was soon fast asleep from the rhythmic sway and the sound of drums in the distance, tattooing out a deep bass beat.

A sudden stop broke her rest and Mary woke, embarrassed at having slept while others labored to carry her.

“Pastor, Pastor.” Cries from the front of the caravan, all of which had come to a screeching halt, reached Mary’s ears. She sat up and glanced around. Through an opening in the canopy, she could see the tropical sun hanging low in the sky. She must have slept for hours.

A few feet behind her, Clara was standing near her chair, taking advantage of the opportunity to stretch. Mary did the same. William pushed his way back from several spots forward. When he came level with her, she asked, “What’s going on?”

He ignored her and gave instructions to her bearers in a staccato native dialect. The narrowing of his eyes, the tightness around his mouth, both coupled with the insistent tone to her bearers, needed no translation. Her stomach tightened.

He started to walk off once he finished talking, but Mary grabbed his arm. “I asked you what is wrong?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself about. Just wait here and follow any instructions your bearers give you.” He pulled his arm from her grasp and moved away.

“I am not a child to be either coddled or ignored, Pastor Mayweather.”

“No,” he tossed back with barely a glance. “But you are under my care and I’m telling you to wait here.”

Mary stood in the interminable heat, sweat pouring down her back. Nearby porters failed to rest in their usual sprawl. Her bearers flanked her closely. Mary yearned for the vocabulary to explain the social decorum of space in her culture.

She was keen to walk forward and see what was happening. Trouble was she didn’t know what she’d be walking into.

Clara moved up and joined Mary. “Do you think there are hostile natives up there?”

“If there are hostiles, I fail to see how they could possibly win out over our acerbic pastor.”

Clara’s barking laugh echoed off the canopy above and set birds to scattering.

With nothing left but waiting, Mary turned her attention to the porters nearest her, all of whom shifted nervously. Those who carried rifles with their packs now had them slung through the crook of their arms, pointing down. Words in dialect tumbled back from the front of the caravan and the overall agitation level around her rose. She felt her mouth go dry as the porter in front of her slid the bolt on his rifle to chamber a round.

“Did you see that?” Mary asked Clara.

Clara inclined her head. “The one with the rifle?”

“He’s getting ready for something. Whatever message just passed through the ranks has them all on edge.”

Clara said, “I’m not sure whether to wish I understood the language or not at this point.”

“After the last year, I think we both understand enough of men with their guns to translate anyway.”

“More than enough. What do we do if shooting starts?”

If shooting started, could Mary trust herself not to panic like she did when Hannabo unexpectedly shot dinner? It was only one rifle shot that affected her last time. How would she fare if they ended up embattled with guns firing all around? “I assume the men guarding us so closely will know what to do if the time comes. It’s Pastor Mayweather that worries me. He’s up in the thick of whatever is going on.”

“Do the natives in the bush even use guns? Some of our men carry spears.”

“I don’t really know. Our indoctrination session back in France said the missionaries before Pastor Mayweather were the first of any whites that far into the jungle interior. How would they have even gotten rifles?” Curiosity was replaced by a shiver of apprehension running down her spine. Rifles or spears, either were deadly in an enemy’s hands.

An eternity passed in silence while they waited. Mary’s nerves frayed. Maybe William was right. She didn’t belong here. Not if she turned into one of those vapid women she despised every time a rifle was used.

Then she thought of his pinched lips and creased brow when he had lectured her before they left Newaka. She’d had a hard time taking him seriously when the wind kept blowing his unruly brown hair into his eyes.

Mary’s thoughts exploded with the crack of a single rifle shot. Porters grabbed Clara’s arms, hauling her off into the bush for cover. Mary resisted the ones who tried to grab her and stood rooted to the spot. Who was shot? Was William injured?

Her bearers reached again for her arms and pulled. “Is someone shot? Please, I’m a doctor, I must help.”

The younger man shook his head vigorously saying, “No savvy. Nana Pastor say Mammy Doctor must be protected.” His pressure on her arm increased.

Part of her longed to give in and seek cover in the surrounding jungle. The tree sheltering Clara looked so appealing. Her oath as a doctor won out.

She pulled her arm free and took advantage of her small stature to duck around him, striding quickly. The excited chattering and his at-heel position confirmed he hadn’t given up his quest to stop her. Fortunately she kept her immediate supplies in the pack she carried. She doubted she could have convinced any of these men to get it for her.

Ignoring the dread weighing down her stomach, Mary forged ahead. If William was injured, or even another man, she had to help, not cower in fear.

Sheer shock at her charge forward paralyzed the remaining porters still on the trail. A heavy sigh behind her told her that her shadow was still attached. She passed several more armed men, some with spears, before the jungle fell back and opened. She scented the wood smoke before she saw the tendrils reaching upward. Smoke escaped at random intervals throughout the yellow undulations of dried grass roofs.

They had arrived at a village. If the rifle shot was any indication, an unfriendly one.

Looking down the hill to the spot where the path widened at the village edge, Mary saw William. Hannabo was on one side and another porter, Jabo maybe, stood on the other. She stopped where she was to take in the scene. No one lay on the ground or clutched a wound. Who or what had been shot?

All of her dramatic worries and it was just a serious discussion with a group of natives. No one was at war here.

All of them were deferring to the one native in a worn black bowler hat and bright red loincloth standing with his arms folded across his chest, a chest hung with some type of decorative necklace. Must be the chief.

Whoever he was, she knew the moment he became aware of her. He put out a bony finger and pointed. Was he pointing at her? All conversation ceased.

William turned to see what Bowler Hat was pointing to, and if there had been any doubt in her mind she was the object of attention, the glare from William removed it.

Bowler Hat began to speak. Mary wasn’t close enough to hear anything. By the frequency of gestures, there was a debate or perhaps a trade. She knew that trading was one way a missionary made inroads into a tribe’s favor.

The conversation ended abruptly. Bowler Hat’s arms were back in place across his chest. William and Hannabo turned and headed toward the caravan. Hannabo looked on stolidly, but William’s face morphed from blank and emotionless to raw fury.

When he drew near, his voice came out as a low hiss. “I told you to stay put. Turn around and follow behind me.”

“I beg your pardon. I…”

“If you don’t want to be that old man’s newest wife, you’ll do as I say and you’ll do it right now.”