by Jane Peart
But the relative calm with which most people were taking the epidemic was soon altered when the number of deaths became known. First there had been two, then five, suddenly thirteen deaths were reported from the disease. Word spread quickly, rumors of rampant infection followed, and panic came in its wake. Riverbend was swept with a full-scale epidemic.
This change of attitude was further brought to the public concern when Ad printed a letter to the editor from Blaine in boldface type, outlined in black on the front page of the Monitor with an editorial admonition to the Town Council to take appropriate action for the protection of the community's health.
Holly read what Blaine had written, with growing alarm,
The present eruptive disease in the patients I am treating now is a far different type of smallpox than any I have seen before. There is no reason to panic if certain preventive, hygienic measures are taken. Homes of people already infected should keep a quarantine, and those not infected should avoid them. I have vaccination serum for those who have not been vaccinated and want to be vaccinated. In the houses where sickness is present, a dish or plate containing chloride of lime or other disinfectant should be placed.
The infected person should be kept quiet in bed, cooling drinks offered for fever, mild laxative given if required, liquids should be administered to patient as he can tolerate. Meticulous cleanliness in the sickroom and in the care of the infected person keeps the disease from worsening. Linens, clothing, bedding, etc., should be washed and changed frequently. To prevent pitting of skin, the most effective remedy is to paint the face with collodion.
Under Mayor Morrison's leadership the council reacted promptly. They established a Board of Health to enforce precautions to contain the spread of the disease. School was suspended, all meetings were banned, yellow flags were placed on the gateposts or porches of all houses where there was infection. Someone suggested the idea of burning pitch pine in the streets to purify the air. Carbolic acid was recommended to disinfect buildings.
When it was realized that whole families were coming down with it and there was no one to care for the sick if the mother of the home was ill, an emergency "pest house" had to be found. The town itself was quarantined with citizens of Riverbend prohibited from traveling into other nearby counties.
The day the mayor's proclamation to close all public gathering places was posted, only five children had showed up for school. As Holly told the subdued little band there would be no school the next day, Suzie Briggs put her head in her hands and began to sob heartbrokenly. Holly was at her side in a minute. Kneeling down next to the child's crouched figure, she put her arms around the little girl's shaking shoulders and tried to soothe her, "As soon as everyone is well again, Suzie, we'll have school again."
Suzie kept on sobbing. Her older sister, May, fighting tears herself, told Holly, "Pa told us to come here, Teacher; said you'd take care of us. He's bad sick, and Ma hasn't moved from her bed all day yesterday."
A chilling realization clutched Holly. These children's parents were desperately sick, perhaps dying, or maybe even dead! They had nowhere to go, no one to take care of them. She would have to check it out but in the meantime—Holly got to her feet and saw the other children all standing staring at her with wide, frightened eyes. She looked from Joel to Cissy, who was clinging to him, to gangly Sam Durkin, looking as lost and scared as the younger ones. With cold certainty Holly knew what she had to do.
Thus, the schoolhouse was turned into a haven for the suddenly homeless as well as an infirmary as one after the other of the children, except Sam, came down with the smallpox. Fortunately, all but Cissy had light cases. The little girl, already weakened by malnutrition and neglect, suffered severely. Holly sent Sam for Blaine while, with the delirious Cissy in her arms, she paced agitatedly and prayed frantically.
At last, Blaine arrived, his coat stained with rain. "Thank God, you've come, Blaine; I think she's very ill." He looked as if he had not eaten nor slept in days. She was weak with relief that he was here and would know what to do.
He took the child out of Holly's arms and laid her gently down on the pallet of quilts Holly had made for her in her own bedroom. Holly hovered anxiously as he examined the little girl. Afterward he turned to Holly and said quietly, "All you can do is keep her as comfortable as possible, I'm afraid."
"What do you mean 'you're afraid'?" Holly whispered, feeling a rush of fear, the beginning of panic.
Blaine looked at Holly with sudden sympathy. Her wide eyes were shadowed with dark circles; she was pale and looked thinner. This woman, hardly more than a girl, had without warning been thrust into a crisis that demanded maturity, judgment, and emotional strength, as well as physical strength. "I mean that Cissy is very weak, Holly; I don't think she has enough strength to fight the infection—"
"Oh, no, Blaine!" Holly put her hand to her mouth.
"You've got to stay calm, Holly, be strong," he told her. "Those children in there are depending on you. I know you'll do fine. I've seen you in emergencies before. And I know you are strong, competent, brave—"
Holly shook her head, "No," she said. "You're wrong, Blaine. I'm not brave at all. I'm sickeningly frightened."
"That's what real bravery is," Blaine replied quietly. "To be afraid and to go on doing what has to be done, when there is nobody else but you to do it—in spite of how you feel. In wartime, men get medals for that kind of fear."
"Can't you stay longer, Blaine? Can't you do something for Cissy?" Holly pleaded.
"I'm sorry, Holly. Cissy is beyond help now. I can't stay, but I have other sick people I may be able to save."
She was torn between being selfless and selfish. What she really wanted was for Blaine to stay with her, give her the support she needed so badly, but she understood others needed him more. She also realized he was the only doctor in Riverbend and was taxed to the last ebb of his strength. He looked so weary and drawn, so sorrowful, that Holly longed to reach out, comfort him.
After Blaine drove away, Holly went back inside. Sam was standing at the door leading into the classroom, now an improvised dormitory of sick children. Sam, who had been one of the ringleaders of the trip to the saloon the day she had had to march in after them. What a miracle turn-around. He had been a staunch help during these troubled days.
Holly had to remind herself that Ad, too, had been an unexpected source of help. Vaccinated himself, he had no fear of infection and almost daily brought her boxes of needed groceries, medication, and extras.
"Take care of yourself, Holly," he'd told her sternly. "Don't play Florence Nightingale until you drop from exhaustion yourself. That won't do anyone any good." His eyes were concerned. "We don't want to lose you."
"What can I do to help, Miss Lambeth?" Sam asked in his gravely adolescent voice. Distractedly, Holly glanced at him and saw an unexpected understanding in the boy's eyes.
The Briggs girls were recovering and restless, Holly had noticed. They were finding it hard to lie quietly, which was imperative for them to do until all the eruptions had disappeared.
"Thank you, Sam. Maybe you could read to Suzie and May? That would help keep them still," she suggested.
"Yes'm." Sam grinned and started toward the bookshelves.
Holly went back into the bedroom, lifted Cissy, and wrapped her in a blanket; then holding her on her lap, she sat in the rocking chair and gently rocked her. From the other room she could hear Sam haltingly struggle to read The Adventures in Sherwood Forest The child in her arms moaned faintly, and looking down at the once angelic, now blackened face of the little girl, Holly felt stinging tears cloud her eyes and run unchecked down her cheeks. For some reason the words "Suffer the little children ..." came into Holly's mind. "Oh, dear God, why must these little ones suffer so?" She felt her heart was breaking.
She knew the little girl in her arms had in some way filled the place left lonely when Hetty had deprived her of being with Aurelia. But then Cissy had created her own special niche. After
Holly's first week as her teacher, Cissy had never come empty-handed to school. It was only something she found along the way, a bunch of wild flowers clutched in her tiny, birdlike hand, or a pretty rock, or a handful of acorns. It didn't matter what it was, Holly thought, choked with grief—it was a gift of love. A gift that was given completely without any thought other than to be just that—an expression of love. "Unless you become as a little child . . ."—Cissy had taught her so much about love, real love, unconditional love, the only kind of love that really mattered.
Holly never knew how long she sat there rocking Cissy, humming the old familiar hymns of her childhood. Outside, the daylight faded, and the room slowly filled with shadows. She could hear the murmur of children's voices in the next room, and she thought she should really put Cissy down and go see about getting some kind of light supper for the recuperating patients. Cissy was very still, and Holly's arm had grown numb holding her head. Instinctively, Holly held her breath and, in a minute, realized that the little sufferer was no longer breathing.
Sometime later, Blaine returned. When she heard his buggy wheels, Holly threw a shawl around her shoulders and stepped out onto the porch. When he reached the top step, she told him, "Cissy's gone, Blaine; she died this afternoon."
Without a word, Blaine took Holly gently into his arms. She leaned against his shoulder, felt his hand stroke her hair, heard him murmuring her name. Holly let the tears come at last, and Blaine's embrace tightened. She felt the blessed comfort of his arms holding her, and from deep within her came an aching to stay within his embrace, draw from his strength—always. Words rushed up inside her, begging to be said. Words of love and need and longing. Holly had to bite her lip to keep from saying them. Finally, she gave a long shaky sigh and lifted her head.
"I haven't told Joel yet," she said. "I don't know how."
Blaine wiped her cheeks with his thumbs and said softly, "You'll find the right way. I trust you." Then Blaine took her arm, saying, "Come outside with me, Holly, there's something else you have to know." Blaine's voice sounded infinitely weary. Holly followed him to the porch, wondering what new tragedy he was about to tell her.
Blaine's voice was heavy. "I've just come from the McKay's cabin—Joel and Cissy's parents are dead, Holly."
"Oh, no, Blaine!"
"Maybe Cissy's better off. ..." Blaine shook his head sadly.
Holly was too stunned to speak at first, then she whispered, "What will become of Joel?" "I don't know."
"Why is life so hard?" she asked brokenly.
"I don't know that, either, Holly."
She searched his face for another answer but saw only the sorrow and shock in his eyes. With sudden insight Holly realized that Blaine was vulnerable to pain and unanswerable questions, too. Finally he said, "I have to go, Holly."
"Yes, I know," she said with difficulty.
"Try to get some rest. It won't do if you get sick," he said as he turned up his coat collar and went out into the rainy night.
Holly felt a tremendous ache to see him go. The truth she had denied so long to herself clearly surfaced as she watched him wearily mount into his buggy. She knew she loved Blaine whether or not her love would ever be returned.
The Monitor posted the number of cases and also repeated the information Blaine had given to the paper so people would be aware of the symptoms and know what to do if they or members of their families fell ill.
When it became necessary to clear out one of the older buildings in town as a place where victims with no one to care for them could be placed, this was also reported along with the news that some nurses had come from Portland to help in the emergency.
A dark pall seemed to settle over the town, streets were empty, business in the downtown stores of all kinds was practically nil, people only ventured out for the most basic supplies, afraid of contamination or infection from others about to succumb. Social life of every kind had totally ceased, there were no gatherings of any kind—not the sewing circle, quilting bees, or church meetings of the Missionary Society or Bible studies. Fear ran amok, no class of society was protected from this dread scourge. It struck rich and poor alike, and although it might be possible for the more affluent to nurse their sick at home, provide a few more comforts, the dreadful ravages of the disease itself knew no social barriers.
The stagecoach now only brought mail, and no longer did drivers linger at the Doggone Best or the Nugget to revive themselves. Instead, they made their stop as brief as possible in the place now known throughout the state as "plague town." Once the ban was posted on people from Riverbend leaving because of the fear of other counties in the area that they might spread the disease, there were few passengers on the stage.
The "pest houses" were crowded. Mops and pails smelling of chloride and alcohol could hardly contend with the peculiar smell of the illness itself. Makeshift beds of straw pallets were laid end on end beside cots; as the dead were lifted off and out, new cases were placed upon hastily cleaned ones.
The hillside cemetery was the only place in all Riverbend that saw daily activity. With gravediggers working round-the-clock, the Town Council allotted two new parcels of land for cemetery space, which had been previously earmarked for the expansion of business in town when the railroad came.
All day long on Main Street the steady sound of the hammering of nails on wood could be heard as Joe and Bill Slyder made coffins, stacking them and then unloading them onto carts almost as soon as they were finished.
There were now more obituary notices in the Monitor but fewer flowery eulogies written by relatives of their deceased, and funerals were quick and without many mourners outside the immediate families; sadly enough, fewer and fewer people showed up as whole families were stricken and perished.
The only light in the darkened Monitor office wavered as the solitary oil lamp on the editor's desk sputtered. Ad looked up, threw down his pen, and rubbed his eyes wearily. Then he reread what he had just written: "This is a town under siege. The smell of burning pitch through the night is a macabre reminder that people—children—are dying—"
He planned to dispatch this article in the morning to his former editor at the San Francisco newspaper where he used to be a reporter. How could he make anyone understand what it was like to live in a "plague town," to stir their compassion, their goodwill, to compel them to dig into their pockets and to send much needed medicine and supplies to this beleaguered community?
He ran his hand through his thick dark hair. His neck and shoulders ached; he straightened and stretched. Just then he heard a plaintive meow, and Chester leaped onto the pile of papers in front of him, his paws skidding a little, then made a dainty leap into Ad's lap. Absently, Ad's long fingers kneaded the soft fur of the tabby, who settled down with a contented purr.
A sizzling sound alerted Ad that the coffee pot he had set on top of the potbelly stove had boiled over, and he got to his feet, unceremoniously dumping Chester. The cat voiced an indignant yowl and marched off, tail switching, to find a more accommodating place to snooze.
Ad lifted the blue-speckled pot, stained by a dozen or more similar accidents of forgetfulness, but as he did, he burned his fingers and swore. He grabbed a greasy cloth hanging near the handpress mainly used to wipe the printer's devil's inky fingers, wrapped it around the pot handle, and poured himself a cup of the foaming brew. While waiting for it to cool so as not to scald his tongue as badly as he had his fingers, Ad stood morosely staring out into the darkened street. Ironically, on this Saturday night, when the saloons would usually have done a "land office" business, Main Street was deserted. The lights from the pitch fires mounted on hastily erected posts, cast an eerie illumination on the street where no one walked.
He hoped he had made the situation, the circumstances he had written about, real to the people who would read them. But how could he adequately convey the courage and selflessness of some, the humanness of the citizens of Riverbend during this crisis?
Ad's thoughts turned to h
is friend Blaine, who had worked tirelessly and without thought of his own health among the stricken people of this deadly plague. And Holly Lambeth— something uncharacteristically soft and tender touched Ad's heart thinking of how Holly had reacted during this time. Who would ever have dreamed she had the strength, stamina, and fortitude needed to care for those children? He had been wrong about Hollis Lambeth, and Ad wasn't usually quick to admit mistakes. In fact, he had always rather prided himself on having correct first impressions. But Holly had turned out to be no pampered Southern belle. She was—in Ad's opinion—the genuine article, a real heroine.
Holly woke in the gray, chilly dawn. She hadn't slept much. Not that she wasn't tired these nights; she just wasn't sleepy. It was more than physical. It was a feeling of exhausted weariness that came from some deep inner core of hopelessness and sadness. Cissy's death and Joel's heartbrokenness had made her aware of the uncertainty and fragility of life.
She lay in bed listening to the rain, knowing that it fell, too, on the new little grave on the hillside. She closed her eyes again, lying inert for a few minutes, unwilling to get up and face yet another terrible day, one more in an endless line of unendurable days. And yet, she had endured, she had survived. Was it that Blaine had expressed his faith in her that had kept her going more than her own determination? Why was his opinion of her so important?
At last, reluctantly, she pulled herself up, went over to the window, pushed back the curtain and saw that the day looked as gray and cheerless as she felt. Then all at once she saw someone swathed in a long cloak turning into the schoolyard, carrying two large baskets. There was something very familiar about that walk—the figure coming toward the schoolhouse.
Grabbing her shawl and wrapping it about her, Holly rushed to the door and stood barefoot and shivering in her nightgown as Vi mounted the steps. She looked up and smiled, "Thought you could use some help," she said.
"Oh, Vi, you better not come in here, we're quarantined!" Holly protested.
