Читать книгу Her Healing Ways - Lyn Cote, Lyn Cote - Страница 8

Idaho Territory, September 1868

High on the board seat, Mercy Gabriel sat beside the wagon master on the lead Conestoga. The line of the supply train slowed, pulling into the mining town Idaho Bend. Panicky-looking people ran toward it with bags and valises in hand. What was happening here? Like a cold, wet finger, alarm slid up Mercy’s spine.

She reached down and urged her adopted daughter Indigo up onto the seat beside her, away from the onrushing people. Though almost sixteen now, Indigo shrank against Mercy, her darker face tight with concern. “Don’t worry,” Mercy whispered as confidently as she could.

She looked down at a forceful man who had pushed his way to the front. He was without a coat, his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his colorfully embroidered vest buttoned askew. From the flamboyant vest, she guessed he must be a gambler. What would he want with them?

With one sweeping glance, he quelled the people shoving each other to get closer to the wagons. A commanding gambler. In her opinion, an unusual combination.

“Are there any medical supplies on this train?” he asked in a calm tone at odds with the mood of the people crowding around. “Two days ago, we telegraphed to Boise, asking for a doctor to come. But no one has. We’ve got cholera.”

The dreaded word drenched the brave, brawny wagoners; they visibly shrank back from the man. It set off the crowd clamoring again.

Mercy’s pulse raced. No, not cholera. Yet she hesitated only a second before revealing the truth about herself. Until this moment, she’d just been another traveler, not an object of mirth, puzzlement or derision. She braced herself for the inevitable reactions and rose. “I am a qualified physician.”

Startled, the frantic crowd stopped pushing. As usual, every head swiveled, every face gawked at her.

“You?” the gambler challenged. “You’re a woman.”

Mercy swallowed a number of sardonic responses to this silly comment. She said, “I am a recent graduate of the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania. I also worked alongside Clara Barton as a nurse throughout the Civil War.”

“You nursed in the war?” The gambler studied her, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Yes.” Leaning forward, she held out her gloved hand. “I am Dr. Mercy Gabriel. And this is my assistant, Nurse Indigo.”

He hesitated only a moment. Then, reaching up, he grasped her hand for a firm, brief handshake. “Beggars can’t be choosers. I’m Lon Mackey. Will you come and help us?”

She wondered fleetingly why a gambler was taking charge here. She would have expected a mayor or—

Renewed commotion from the crowd, almost a mob now, grabbed her attention. People were trying to climb aboard the supply wagons. “Get us out of this town!” one of them shouted.

No, that would be disastrous! “Stop them,” Mercy ordered, flinging up a hand. “No one from this town should be allowed to leave. They could infect everyone on the supply train and spread the disease to other towns.”

At this, the wagoners rose and shouted, “Keep back! Quarantine! Quarantine!”

This only spurred the people of the mining town to try harder.

The head wagoner put out an arm, keeping Mercy and Indigo from getting down. “Wagoners, use your whips!”

The drivers raised their whips and snapped them expertly toward the mob. Mercy was horrified. Still muttering mutinously, the crowd fell back until safely out of range. Mercy swallowed her fear, her heart jumping.

“We will unload the shipment of supplies,” the wagon master barked, “then we’re leaving for the next town right away. And we’re not taking on any new passengers.”

People looked ready to make another charge toward the train, their expressions frantic, desperate.

“Thee must not give in to fear,” Mercy declared. “There is hope. I am a qualified physician and my nurse is also trained.” A silent Mercy stood very straight, knowing that her petite height of just over five feet didn’t add much to her presence.

“You have nothing to fear, Dr. Gabriel,” Lon Mackey announced, pulling a pistol from his vest. “I came to see if anyone could send us assistance. I didn’t expect a doctor to be on the supply train. Please come. Lives are at stake.”

Mercy moved to descend from the high buckboard. The wagon master let her go, shaking his head. Again he raised his whip as if ready to defend her. Barely able to breathe, Mercy descended, with Indigo in her wake. She addressed Lon Mackey. “I have medical supplies with me. Someone will need to get my trunk from the wagon.”

“Get her trunk!” Lon ordered. “We need help. Thirteen people have already died in only three days.”

The wagon master roared names, and another two wagoners got down and started to unload Mercy’s trunk, one cracking his whip to keep people back. The sullen mob still appeared ready to rush the wagons.

“No new passengers! Now back off or I start shooting!” The wagon master waved his pistol at the people about to surge forward. The sight of the gun caused a collective gasp. The mob fell back.

A wagoner pulled Mercy’s bright red trunk, which was on casters, to her and Indigo. He touched the wide brim of his leather hat. “Good luck, ma’am.”

Lon Mackey, also brandishing his pistol, led Mercy and Indigo through the crowd.

Indigo hovered closer to Mercy. They both knew what damage a bullet could do to flesh. And how a crowd could turn hostile. Mercy held tight to her slipping composure. Father, no violence, please.

Mercy called out a thanks and farewell to the gruff yet kind wagoners who had been their traveling companions for the past ten days on their way to Boise.

Lon Mackey led Mercy into the charcoal-gray twilight. She drew in the cool mountain air, praying for strength. The crowd milled around them, following, grumbling loudly, angrily.

Mercy tried to ignore them. She understood their fear but knew she must not get caught up in it. “Lon Mackey, has the town set up an infirmary?”

“We have concentrated the sick in the saloon. It was where the cholera started and it’s the biggest building in town.”

Mercy touched Lon’s shoulder. “Cholera can snatch away life within a day. I’ll do my best, as will my nurse-assistant. But people are going to die even after treatment. Cholera is a swift, mortal disease.”

“That’s why we got to get out of town, lady,” one of the people in the surrounding crowd complained.

She looked at them. “Go to thy homes. If there has been anyone sick in thy house, open all the doors and windows and begin scrubbing everything—clothing, walls, floors, ceilings. Everything! Scrub with water as hot as thee can stand to use and with enough lye soap mixed into it to make thy eyes water. Use a scrub brush, not a cloth. That’s thy only defense.”

The crowd gawked at her.

“Now! Go!” Mercy waved her hands at them as if shooing away children. Several in the crowd turned and began to leave. The rest stared at her as if unable to move. “If thee acts quickly, thee and thy families may not succumb!”

This finally moved the people. They began running in several directions.

Lon Mackey started walking faster, waving for Indigo and Mercy to follow him. Mercy didn’t complain about the brisk pace he set, but she had trouble keeping up. She forced herself on. People were dying.

The sun was sliding below the horizon of tall green mountains. How many evenings like this had she been faced with? People were dying. And she must help them. It was her calling and her privilege.

The gaudy front of the saloon loomed above the street, sticky with mud. Mercy and Indigo followed Lon Mackey inside, where another man was lighting the hanging oil lamps. Mercy gazed around and assessed the situation. Perhaps twenty people lay on blankets spread over the floor and the bar. Most were alone, but some were being ministered to by others, probably relatives.

Many of the patients’ faces were bluish, the sign that cholera had already accomplished its pitiless, deadly work. The gorge rose in Mercy’s throat. Father, let my knowledge—as flimsy as it is—save some lives. Help me.

Mercy took off her bonnet. “Good evening!” she announced in a loud, firm voice, though her stomach quivered like jelly. “I am Dr. Mercy Gabriel. I am a graduate of the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania. I nursed with Clara Barton throughout the war. I am here to see if I can save any of the sick. Now first—”

As she expected—dreaded—hoped to avoid, a sudden cacophony of voices roared in the previously quiet room.

“A woman doctor!”

“No!”

“Is this a joke?”

Mercy had heard this so many times before that it was hard not to shout back. A sudden wave of fatigue rolled over her. She resisted the urge to slump against the wall. As was common on most wagon trains she and Indigo had walked most of the ten days from the nearest railhead. She’d been looking forward to a hotel bed tonight. And now she must face the ridiculous but inevitable objections to her profession. The urge to stamp her foot at them nearly overwhelmed her good sense.

She endeavored to ignore the squawking about how she couldn’t be a doctor. Who could trust a female doctor, they asked, and was that the best the gambler could do?

“Quiet.” Lon Mackey’s solid, male voice cut through the squabbling voices. He did not yell, he merely made himself heard over everyone else. The people fell silent. “What should we do to help you, Dr. Gabriel?”

In this chaotic and fearful room, Lon Mackey had asserted control. He was an impressive man. Mercy wondered what made him so commanding. She decided it wasn’t his physical appearance as much as his natural self-assurance.

Mercy cleared her throat and raised her voice. There was no use sugarcoating the truth and doing so could only give false hope. “I am very sorry to say that those who have been sick for over twenty-four hours are without much hope. I need those cases to be moved to the far side of the room so that I can devote my energies to saving those who still have a chance to survive.”

Again, the babble broke out.

Lon Mackey silenced all with a glance and the lifting of one hand. “We don’t have time to argue. You wanted help, I got a doctor—”

“But a woman—” someone objected.

He kept talking right over the objection. “The mayor’s dead and no one else knew what to do. I went and got you a doctor, something I thought impossible.” He propped his hands on his hips, looking dangerous to any opposition. “If Dr. Gabriel nursed in the war, she knows more than we do about taking care of sick people. If you don’t want her to nurse your folks, then take them home. Anyone who stays will do what they’re told by this lady doctor. Do you all understand that?”

Mercy was surprised to see the opposition to her melt away, even though Lon Mackey’s pistol was back in his vest. She looked to the man again. She’d been distracted by his gambler’s flashy vest. Now she noted that the shirt under it was of the finest quality, though smudged and wrinkled. Lon Mackey had once bought only the best.

He wasn’t in his first youth, but he was also by no means near middle-aged. His face was rugged from the sun and perhaps the war—he had that look about him, the look of a soldier. And from just the little of him she’d seen in action, he was most probably an officer. He was used to giving orders and he expected to be obeyed. And he is a man who cares about others.

Mercy raised her voice and repeated, “I will set up my medical supplies near the bar. If thee isn’t nursing a friend or loved one, I need thee to get buckets of hot water and begin swabbing down the floor area between patients.

“And get the word out that anyone who has any stomach cramps or nausea must come here immediately for treatment. If patients come in at the start of symptoms, I have a better chance of saving their lives. Now please, let’s get busy. The cholera won’t stop until we force it out.”

The people stared at her.

She opened her mouth to urge them, but Lon Mackey barked, “Get moving! Now!”

And everyone began moving.

Lon mobilized the shifting of the patients and the scrubbing. And, according to the female doctor’s instructions, a large pot was set up outside the swinging doors of the saloon to boil water for the cleaning.

He shook his head. A female doctor. What next? A tiny female physician who looked as if she should be dressed in ruffles and lace. He’d noted her Quaker speech and the plain gray bonnet and dress. Not your usual woman, by any means. And who was the young, pretty, Negro girl with skin the color of caramel? The doctor had said she was a trained nurse. How had that happened?

“Lon Mackey?”

He heard the Quaker woman calling his name and hurried to her. “What can I do for you, miss?”

“I want thee to ask someone to undertake a particular job. It has to be someone who is able to write, ask intelligent questions and think. I would do it myself, but I am about to begin saline infusions for these patients.”

“What do you need done?”

“In order to end this outbreak, I need to know its source.”

“Isn’t it from the air?” Lon asked.

She smiled, looking pained. “I know the common wisdom is that this disease comes from the air. But I have done a great deal of study on cholera, and I believe that it comes from contaminated water or food. So I need to know the water source of each patient, alive or dead—if they shared some common food, if there was any group gathering where people might have drunk or ingested the same things. You said that the cholera appeared here in this saloon first. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” He eyed her. Contaminated water? If there had been time, he would have liked to ask her about her research. But with people in agony and dying, there was no time for a long, scientific discussion. He rubbed the back of his neck and then rotated his head, trying to loosen the tight muscles.

“Was the person first taken with cholera living on these premises or just here to socialize?” she asked.

He grinned at her use of the ladylike word socialize. Most people would have used carouse or sin for stepping inside a saloon. This dainty woman continued to surprise him.

“It was the blacksmith. Comes in about twice a week for a beer or two. I think McCall was his name.”

She nodded. “Has anyone at his home fallen ill?”

“Yes, his whole family is dead.”

Her mouth tightened into a hard line. “That might indicate that his well was the culprit, but since the cholera seems to be more widespread…” She paused. “I need someone to question every patient about their water and food sources over the past week. And about any connection they might have had with the first victim.” A loud, agonizing moan interrupted her.

“Will thee find someone,” she continued, “to do that and write down the information so that I can go over it? This disease will continue to kill until we find its source and purify it. I assure you that the cholera epidemics that swept New York State in the 1830s were ended by cleaning up contaminated water sources.”

He nodded. “I’ll do it myself.” From his inner vest pocket, he drew a small navy-blue notebook he always carried with him.

“I thank thee. Now I must begin the saline draughts. Indigo will try to make those suffering more comfortable.” She turned to the bar behind her and lifted what he recognized as a syringe. He’d seen them in the war. The thought made him turn away in haste. I will not think of syringes, men bleeding, men silent and cold…

Several times during the long day, he glanced toward the bar and saw the woman kneeling and administering the saline solution by syringe to patient after patient. The hours passed slowly and painfully. How much good could salt water do? The girl, Indigo, was working her way through the seriously ill, speaking quietly, calming the distraught relatives.

He drew a long breath. He no longer prayed—the war had blasted any faith he’d had—but his spirit longed to be able to pray for divine help. Two more people died and were carried out, plunging them all into deeper gloom. He kept one eye on the mood of the fearful and excitable people in the saloon. A mob could form so easily. And now they had a target for blame. He wondered if the female doctor had thought of that.

Would this woman, armed with only saline injections and cleanliness, be able to save any lives? And if she didn’t, what would the reaction be?

Much later that night, candles flickered in the dim, chilly room. When darkness had crept up outside the windows, voices had become subdued. Lon saw that for the first time in hours the Quaker was sitting down near the doors, sipping coffee and eating something. He walked up to her, drawn by the sight of her, the picture of serenity in the center of the cruel storm. Fatigue penetrated every part of his body. A few days ago he had been well-rested, well-fed and smiling. Then disaster had struck. That was how life treated them all. Until it sucked the breath from them and let them return to dust.

As he approached, she looked up and smiled. “Please wash thy hands in the clean water by the door, and I’ll get thee a cup of fresh coffee.”

Her smile washed away his gloom, making him do the impossible—he felt his mouth curving upward. She walked outside to where a fire had been burning all day to heat the boiled water for the cleaning and hand-washing. A large kettle of coffee had been kept brewing there, too. If he’d had any strength left, he would have objected. She wasn’t here to wait on him. But it was easier to follow her orders and accept her kind offer. He washed his hands in the basin and then sank onto a wooden chair.

The Quaker walked with calm assurance through the swinging saloon doors as if she were a regular visitor of the place, as if they weren’t surrounded by sick and dying people. She handed him a steaming cup of hot black coffee and a big ginger cookie. “I brought these cookies with me, so I know they are safe to eat.”

It had been a long time since anyone had served him coffee without expecting to be paid. And the cookies reminded him of home, his long-gone home.

He pictured the broad front lawn. And then around the back, he imagined himself walking into the large kitchen where the white-aproned cook, Mary, was busy rolling out dough. But Mary had died while he was away at war, a sad twist. He shrugged his uncharacteristic nostalgia off, looking to the Quaker.

She sat across from him, sipping her coffee and nibbling an identical cookie. He gazed around him, smelling the harsh but clean odor of lye soap, which overpowered the less pleasant odors caused by the disease.

“You’re lucky to have a maid who can also nurse the sick,” he said. Ever since the unlikely pair had entered the saloon, the riddle of who the young black girl was had danced at the edge of his thoughts.

“Indigo is not my maid. She is my adopted daughter. I met her in the South during the war. She was only about seven at the time, an orphaned slave. Now she is nearly a woman and, as I said, a trained nurse.”

He stared at her, blowing over his hot coffee to cool it. He’d never heard of a white person adopting a black child. He knew, of course, that Quakers had been at the forefront of abolitionism, far ahead of popular opinion. What did he think of this unusual adoption?

He shouldn’t be surprised. Just like him, Dr. Mercy Gabriel obviously didn’t live her life guided by what others might think. A woman who had nursed in the war. He recalled those few brave women who tirelessly nursed fallen soldiers, both blue and gray. As he sipped more bracing hot coffee, he studied this courageous woman’s face. The resolve hardened within him. I won’t let any harm come to you, ma’am.

“Will thee tell me if thee has found any connection between the first victim and the others?” she asked.

Glad for the distraction from his contemplation of her, Lon pulled the notebook out of his pocket and flipped through the pages. “The first victim, McCall, had just butchered and sold a few of his hogs to others in town. But some people who have died were not connected with this hog butchering or sale.”

She nodded, still chewing the cookie. She daintily sipped her coffee and then said, “Once a contagion starts, others can be infected by coming into contact with those who have fallen ill.”

“Are you certain it isn’t due to an ill air blowing through town?” His large round cookie was sweet, spicy and chewy. He rested his head against the back of the chair.

She inhaled deeply. “Over a decade ago, Dr. John Snow in London did a study of the water supplies of victims of cholera in a poor district in London. The doctor was able to connect all the original cases to a pump in one neighborhood.”

If Lon hadn’t been so tired, he would have shown shock at this calm recitation of scientific information. This woman was interested in epidemics in London? Few men hereabouts would have been. He studied her more closely.

Her petite form had misled him initially, but she was no bit of fluff. Despite death hovering in the room with them, her face was composed. She had taken off her bonnet to reveal pale, flaxen hair skimmed back into a tight bun, though some of the strands had managed to work themselves free. Her eyes—now, they stopped him. So blue—as blue as a perfect summer sky. Clear. Intelligent. Fearless.

He recalled her tireless work over the past hours, her calm orders and take-charge manner. Some men might resent it. He might have resented it once. But not here. Not now. Not in the face of such a wanton loss of lives. This woman might just be able to save people. Maybe even him.

“Do you think you’re having any success here?” he asked in a lowered voice.

She looked momentarily worried. “I am doing my best, but my best will not save everyone who is stricken.”

The swinging doors crashed open. A man holding a rifle burst into the saloon. “She’s dying! I need the doctor!”