The Potter and the Clay: A Romance of Today
Page 34
*XIII.*
The long days crept slowly by at the Station and through the infecteddistrict. as horses driven by Death, mercilessly, tired by their task,and yet urged on continually to break through the breastwork of care andprecaution raised by Mackenzie and Trevelyan, so that the course oftheir charioteer might sweep onward to the outlying districts and turnthe scourge, local as yet, into a devastating epidemic.
"Anything to keep the barracks clear of it," Trevelyan had thought andsaid, and Mackenzie, grown silent with the effort of the fight, noddedwithout speaking, forcing away from him the remembrance of the epidemiche himself had been through, and the stories once told him by hisfather, who had helped beat back the scourge on the Ganges in ’63.
Each hour was freighted with unspeakable horrors, and Trevelyan learnedto know the course of the disease almost as well as Mackenzie himself.He knew the first symptoms; he knew with an instinct that rarely failed,just the cases that were liable to pull through, and those that wereliable not to; he could foretell the signs of the _collapse_, when theface would become cold and gray, the finger tips and lips and noselivid; the eyes deeply sunk and bloodshot with the dark rings beneath;the breath without any sensible warmth when caught on the hand; thescarcely audible beating of the heart;—the apathy that was itself adeath.
The haunting shadow of his crime was driven back and back by theabsorbing matter of the hour, and even Cary’s face—moon-kissed—seemedindistinct and far away, as he went about his tasks. It seemeddeveloped on a plate, hidden in the dark room—the innermost recesses ofhis soul—to be produced and worshipped now and then when courageweakened and the heart languished and grew sick.
He would recall it, at night sometimes, when he had flung himself downfor a few hours of rest, and he would press his fingers over his eyes asthough to hide from sight the memories of the day’s horrors and theday’s deaths, and the face would come to him then, and his soul wouldlook upon it as on some dream of heaven.
And then the memory of her face would fade, and he would let it slipaway from him, as though knowing it had no place here—midst the cholerascourge, and he would fall off to sleep and sleep exhaustedly.
The days held but one purpose, but one thought—his service to the men,and he sometimes wondered how even the service of the hour had a powerto hold him, stronger than the memory of her face.
In those days, when each morning saw another man added to the inmates ofthe hospital, it was all reality—grim, terrible and as strong as thedeath he fought; and he and Death kept on the fight, and even when Deathwon, his triumph seemed petty and incomplete because of this man’scourage, which he could neither break nor bend.
It was when Death had seemingly withdrawn his presence a little way thatMackenzie, one morning motioned to Trevelyan to come outside to theentrance of the hospital. He spoke to the point—a necessity taught himlong ago when he had first joined the army and helped fight the Asiaticscourge for the men.
"Five cases have broken out ten miles in-country. You know what thatmeans—a general mowing down and spread of the disease unless it isstrangled right away! I can’t leave the men here, or go any distancefrom the barracks for fear—"
Trevelyan looked at him squarely and nodded.
"Of course not, and you want me to go?"
"Clarke isn’t fit yet, and I couldn’t let him go anyway. Could you go?"
"Sure."
"And take charge of things? I’ll send you some helpers, and perhaps runover for an afternoon later to see how you’re getting on."
"All right. When am I to start?"
"Could you go to-day—now?"
Trevelyan brought his hand up to his forehead suddenly in the oldsalute, a shadow of a smile in his eyes.
"Yes, sir."
Mackenzie looked away and stood silent a moment.
"It hardly seems as though I could spare you," and then quickly, "Youunderstand about the calomel and how to use it?"
"Yes."
"And Trevelyan—"
Trevelyan stopped suddenly as he was walking away, and turned.
"Well?"
"And just when the morphia’s needed, and when it’s judicious to give theopium, calomel and white sugar—and about the salt injections in theveins?"
"Yes."
"And Trevelyan—"
Trevelyan wheeled around, stopping short again. Mackenzie was stilllooking away.
"Well?"
"And, for God’s sake, be careful!"