by Lyn Cote
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!”
Chapter Two
Everyone around Lon and Mercy Gabriel froze.
“Did you hear me?” the man shrieked. “I was told a doctor’s here! My wife’s dying!”
Dr. Gabriel put down her cup, swallowing the last of her cookie. She rose and faced the man. “I am sorry to hear that. Why hasn’t thee brought her here?”
“She won’t come! She won’t come into a saloon!” The man swung his rifle toward the Quaker. “You gotta come with me! Now! Save her!”
Lon leapt to his feet, pulling out his pistol, ready to shoot.
“Fri
end, I am heartily sorry for thee, but I cannot leave all these patients—” the woman motioned toward the crowded room “—to go to one. Thee must bring thy wife here.”
“What?” The man gawked at her and raised his rifle to his eye to aim.
Lon moved toward the man slowly. He didn’t want to shoot if he didn’t have to.
“Thee must bring thy wife here. And then I will do whatever I can for her.”
Lon marveled at the Quaker’s calm voice. It shouldn’t have surprised him that the man with the rifle was also confounded. The man froze, staring forward.
Dr. Gabriel moved away to a patient and began to give the woman another dose of the saline infusion.
“You have to come with me, lady!” the man demanded. “My wife won’t come here.”
Dr. Gabriel glanced over her shoulder. “Is she still conscious?”
The man lowered his rifle. “No.”
“Well, then what is stopping thee from carrying her here? If she is unconscious or delirious, she won’t know where she is.” The Quaker said this in the same reasonable tone, without a trace of fear. Lon had rarely heard the like.
This woman was either crazy or as cool as they came.
The man swung the gun above Mercy’s head and fired, shattering one of the bulbous oil lamps behind the bar.
Lon lunged forward and struck the man’s head with the butt of his pistol, wrestling the rifle from him. The man dropped to the floor.
“Does he have a fever?” the Quaker asked as she gazed at the fallen man.
Lon gawked at her. Unbelieving. Astounded.
“Does he have a fever?” she prompted.
After stooping to check, Lon nodded. “Yes, he’s fevered. Doctor, you are very cool under fire.”
She gazed at him, still unruffled. “Unfortunately, this is not the first time a weapon has been aimed at me.” She turned away but said over her shoulder, “Set him on the floor on a blanket. Then please find out where this poor man’s wife is and see if she’s alive. I doubt there is anything I can do for her. But we must try. And, Lon Mackey, will thee please keep asking questions? We must get to the source before more people die.”
Lon carried the unconscious man and laid him down, then asked another person where the man’s home was. As he turned to leave, he snatched up the rifle and took it with him. He didn’t want anybody else waving it around.
Since the war, nothing much surprised him. But Dr. Mercy Gabriel had gotten his attention. She could have gotten herself killed. And she didn’t even so much as blink.
Mercy went about her round of injections, thinking of Lon and the ease with which he’d subdued the distraught man. She had never gotten used to guns, yet this was the second time today men had been forced to draw guns to protect her.
A young woman with a little girl in her arms rushed through the swinging doors. “My child! My Missy is having cramping. They said that cramping…” The woman’s face crumpled and she visibly fought for control. “Please save her. She’s only four. Please.” The woman held out her daughter to Mercy.
“Just cramps, nothing else?”
“Just cramps. She started holding her stomach and crying about a half hour ago.” Tears poured down the woman’s face.
“Thee did exactly right in bringing her here so quickly. I will do what I can.” Mercy lifted the child from her mother’s trembling arms, tenderly laid the little girl on the bar and smiled down at her. “Thee must not be afraid. I know what to do.”
Mercy felt the child’s forehead. Her temperature was already rising. Mercy fought to keep her focus and not give in to worry and despair. God was in this room, not just the deadly cholera.
The mother hovered nearby, wringing her hands.
Mercy bent to listen to the child’s heart with her stethoscope. “Missy, I need thee to sit up and cough for me.”
The mother began to weep. Mercy glanced at Indigo, who nodded and drew the woman outside. Then Mercy went about examining the child. Soon she glanced over and saw that Indigo had left the woman near the doors and was continuing her rounds of the patients. Indigo bathed their reddened faces with water and alcohol, trying to fight their fevers.
Mercy listened to the little girl’s abdomen and heard the telltale rumbling. No doubt the child had become infected. Mercy closed her eyes for one second, sending a prayer heavenward. Father, help me save this little life.
A call for help came from the far side of the room. Mercy looked over and her spirits dropped. One of the patients was showing signs of the mortal end of this dreaded disease. A woman—no doubt the wife of the dying man—rose and shouted for help again.
Mercy watched Indigo weave swiftly between the pallets on the wood floor to reach the woman’s side. Mercy looked away. She hated early death, needless death, heartless death. Her usual composure nearly slipped. As the woman’s sobbing filled the room, Mercy tightened her control. I cannot give in to emotion. I must do what I can to save this child. Father, keep me focused.
Mercy mixed the first dose of the herbal medication her mother had taught her to concoct, which was better than any patented medicine she’d tried. “Now, Missy, thee must drink this in order to get better.”
“I want my mama.” The little girl’s face wrinkled up in fear. “Mama. Mama.”
Mercy picked up the child and cradled her in her arms. “Thy mama’s right beside the door, see?” Mercy turned so the child could glimpse her mother. “She wants me to make thee better. Now this will taste a little funny, but not that bad. I’ve taken it many times. Now here, take a sip, Missy. Just a little sip, sweet child.”
Missy stared into Mercy’s eyes. Then she opened her mouth and began to sip the chalky medicine. She wrinkled her nose at the taste but kept on sipping until the small cup was empty.
“Excellent, Missy. Thee is a very good girl. Now I’m going to lay thee down again, and thy mama will come and sit with thee. I will be giving thee more medicine soon.”
“It tasted funny.”
“I know but thee drank it all, brave girl.”
About half an hour later, Mercy was kneeling beside the man who had burst into the saloon and was still unconscious. She carefully gave him a dose of saline water. It seemed a pitiful medicine to combat such a deadly contagion. But it was the only thing she knew of that actually did something to counteract cholera’s disastrous effect on the human body. And no one even knew why. There’s so much that I wish I knew—that I wish someone knew.
It was nearly dawn when she heard her name and glanced up to see Lon Mackey. “Did thee find this man’s wife?”
His face sank into grimmer lines. “She’s dead.”
The news twisted inside Mercy. She shook her head over the loss of another life. Then she motioned for him to lean closer to her. She whispered, “We must find the source or this disease will kill at least half in this community.”
The stark words sank like rocks from her stomach to her toes. She forced herself to go on. “That is the usual death rate for unchecked cholera. Has thee found out anything that gives us a hint of the source?”
“I’ve talked to everyone. The little girl’s mother told me something I’ve heard from several of the others.”
“What is that?” Mercy asked, turning to concentrate on slowly infusing saline into the man’s vein.
“Wild blackberry juice was served at the church a week ago Sunday. There was a reception for the children’s Sunday-school recitation,” he murmured.
Mercy looked up into his face. “Wild blackberry juice? Who made it?”
“It was a concoction Mrs. McCall made from crushed berries, their good well water and sugar. Mrs. McCall was the wife of the first victim. And the whole of his family was ailing first and all succumbed.”
Mercy sat back on her heels. Closing her eyes, she drew in a slow breath, trying to calm her racing heart. Lon Mackey may have found her the answer. “That tells me what I need to know. Thee must do exactly as I say. Will thee?”
Hours
ago Lon wouldn’t have done anything a female stranger told him to do. But he would do whatever Mercy Gabriel asked. He just hoped it would work—passions were running high outside the saloon. “What must I do?”
“Go to the McCall house and examine the water source. Examine the house and the grounds with great care. Take a healthy man with thee as a witness.”
“What am I looking for?” he asked, leaning closer. The faint fragrance of lavender momentarily distracted him from her words.
“After the 1834 cholera epidemic, New York State passed laws forbidding the discarding of animal carcasses in or near any body of water. Does that help thee?” she asked.
Without a word of doubt, Lon rose and strode outside. He motioned to the bartender, Tom Banks, who was adding wood to the fire under the kettle of water the Quaker required to be kept boiling. “We’ve got a lead on what might have caused the cholera. Come with me. She told me what to look for and where,” Lon said.
The two of them hurried down the empty street. Dawn was breaking and normally people would be stirring, stepping outside. But every shop in town was closed up tight and all the houses were eerily quiet. No children had played outside for days now. Even the stray dogs lying in the alleys looked bewildered.
“Do you think this Quaker woman, this female doctor, knows what she’s doing?” the bartender asked.
Lon shrugged. “Proof’s in the pudding,” he said. But if he had to wager, his money would be on Mercy Gabriel.
At the McCalls, the two of them walked around the empty house to the well. He was used to violent death and destruction but the unnatural silence and creeping dread of cholera was getting to him. Everything was so still.
“The Quaker told me to examine the well and any other water source.”
“Doesn’t she know that contagions come from bad air?” Tom objected.
“She knows more than we do,” Lon replied. “Every time I talk to her, I know more about this scourge than I did before.” Of course, that didn’t mean she could save everyone. In times like these, however, he’d found that a show of assurance could avert the worst of hysteria. He didn’t want anyone else bursting into the saloon and letting loose with a rifle.
