by Holly Bush
“I got a telegram off to Max. I had to drag an operator from his bed. I don’t know how long it will take him to get here, though. The trains aren’t running on time,” Zeb said as he tied a mask around his head.
“He will get here when he can,” she said. “And there is nothing we can do about it anyway.”
Zeb peered around her at the room and the cots and the stacked blankets. “Three more since I left.”
Jolene nodded. “Beatrice has died. One of Pete and Maria’s children is sick. He will be bringing her here any minute.”
“Shit,” he said.
“Prepare yourself, Zebidiah,” she said. “This will touch every family here.”
Chapter Sixteen
Max wiped the sleep from his face and stumbled over his open suitcase at the foot of his bed. He cracked the door to his room and squinted at the bright light from the hallway. A bellman stood at attention with an envelope in his hand.
“What time is it?” Max asked.
“Four, sir.”
Max took the envelope and reached in his dungaree pocket for a tip. He was wondering if Timothy ever slept. Papers slid under his door two nights ago, long past midnight, and last night Timothy’s visit after two in the morning. He’d not been able to sleep, he’d told Max, knowing now that they were turning the corner on Sutherland, and that they’d just landed the Houston Daily News’s endorsement, quite a blow to the hometown candidate. Timothy had called him Senator Shelby that night. It scared him suddenly, that title, although he’d said it to himself a few times. This was no lark. This was the serious business of governing his country, as it fought its way past the still vivid hangover of the Civil War, and as it was propelled forward by advances as never seen by the world in medicine, in machinery, and agriculture. He would be at the forefront as an already great nation set its sights on the twentieth century.
Max sat down on the edge of his bed, turned on the gas light, and opened the envelope. His eyes quickly scanned the contents of Zeb’s telegraph and thoughts of a Senate run or victory were far from his mind. Max rang the bell pull, washed quickly and began shoving his clothes and his shaving kit into his suitcase. When the same bellman arrived back at his room, he instructed him to knock on Mr. Timothy McCastor’s door and to tell him to come immediately to Max’s room. He was nearly ready to leave when Timothy arrived.
“I’m going home,” Max said as he shrugged on a jacket. “And you should, too.”
Timothy shook his head. “Leaving? You can’t. We’re meeting with the ministers tomorrow. We’ve got that luncheon day after next . . .”
“It’s the influenza. The Hacienda has the influenza, and Dallas has been hit hard.”
“Emily,” Timothy said as he stared at Max.
“And Melinda and Jolene and Zeb and all the others there need me. They’ve set the bunkhouse up for the sick. Some families are talking about taking their chances and leaving the Hacienda. Zeb is not known for being overly dramatic but he told me to get home immediately.”
“I’ll meet with one of our contacts here and catch the next train to Dallas,” Timothy said.
“I’m heading to the train station now.”
* * *
The Houston train station was filled with people, and he understood why as he made his way from the hotel to the station two hours before dawn. It was whispered on lips and printed in the headlines he saw on the banded newspapers in piles outside of the hotel. Influenza. Houston was yet to be hit, although hospitals and officials were bracing for the onslaught. But Dallas was in the throes of an epidemic. Hundreds had died already, and the first reported case had only been recorded seventy-two hours before the first fatality. Some recovered from the influenza, only to be killed by pneumonia that often trailed it. When he paid for his ticket, the clerk had looked at him.
“You sure you want to go to Dallas, mister?”
Max nodded and took the ticket.
“Be prepared for delays. We’ve got conductors and coal men down sick. You may want to get off one stop early at Corsicana. We’re hearing the train yards in Dallas are nearly deserted. The engines aren’t getting turned around, and the coal cars are sitting empty.”
There were delays, interminable ones, in Max’s estimation. He read a Dime Novel he’d bought at the Houston depot but couldn’t stay focused. What if his ranch hands or wild catters or their families were sick? What if Maria and Pete were sick? Or Zeb? He refused to think of the two people top most in his mind. He refused to succumb to panic. He said a long, fretful prayer and hoped the faith that he’d found after Melissa’s death and relied on to keep him sane in those first years, hadn’t escaped him, because he was certain that he would need it to face the tragedies that would surely come his way over the next few days.
Max stepped off the train in Corsicana and got directions to the stables. Going into Dallas with its inevitable chaos would be frustrating but nothing compared to the chances he took exposing himself to crowds in an already distressed city. He needed to be well to tend his people. Max bought a horse, a fine one with the build for long distances, and a saddle for triple the price he would have paid otherwise. He sold his empty suitcase and wool suit at the Mercantile where he bought a bed roll, a canteen, and ammunition for his pistol. He stood in line to drink a flu remedy made and sold by an old wizened woman. It tasted like vinegar and smelled like coal oil and nearly made him gag, and he knew that it was a fool’s errand to believe it could ward off disease. But he drank it down and paid the five dollars it cost.
Max pulled himself up onto the horse and headed across the open range. He prayed he wouldn’t be too late.
* * *
Jolene stepped outside the bunkhouse, pulled the mask from her face, and took a deep breath of fresh air. She should change clothes, she thought, at least her blouse where there were spots of blood and other stains she did not want to think about. All fifteen patients were sleeping and she had just given them either broth or willow bark tea. She headed to her rooms and found Alice going in the same direction.
“You must sleep, Alice,” she said. “You will be no good to any of us when you fall over from exhaustion.”
“I will not fall if you do not fall, Mrs. Shelby. It is two full days you’ve been up without sleep, but I think we have little choice.”
Jolene nodded. “Change into something comfortable and put the clothes you have on and mine in a bag to be burned. I’m going to check on Melinda, wash, sleep for an hour, and then get something to eat. I suggest you do the same. I have left Barnaby Wilson at the bunk house. He is only fourteen, but he follows my direction, and I told him to get me immediately if any of their conditions change.”
Jolene awoke at eleven in the morning, nearly two hours after she’d lay down. She splashed water on her face, dressed in a simple dark skirt and a white blouse, and knocked on Alice’s door.
“Check on Melinda, please, Alice,” she said through the door. “I had her making masks this morning when she got up. She needs to feel useful, but I do not want her outside of her rooms.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she heard back through the door.
Jolene hurried through the kitchens, picking up a clean apron from the stack in the pantry. Maria was peeling potatoes with tears running down her face and had a young helper scrubbing pots.
“My Eva likes the potatoes mashed with butter,” Maria said and sniffled.
Jolene looked at her steadily. “I know she does. She told me. We will do the best we can, Maria.”
“It is in God’s hands, Mrs. Shelby,” Maria said. “But if the worst were to happen, I do not think Pete could live any longer, that is how much he cares for his little girl.”
“We will not think that way,” Jolene said. “We must not.”
Jolene went to the bunkhouse and checked on each of the patients. Barnaby followed her and told her what had happened while she slept. Three more had died, and Pete told him to leave Jolene sleep as there was nothing more she could do for them. She
could hear the scrape of the saws outside the bunk house as more coffins were built. Those three, two men and one woman that she didn’t think she’d ever met, brought the deaths to twelve. The bodies had already been removed and Jolene gathered up the blankets and sheets they’d been on, and carried them to the laundry pots. One lone elderly woman stirred the water and pulled the clean bedding out. She laid the blankets on a tarp, folded them in quarters, and knelt to wring out the excess water before she slowly carried them to the clothes lines, already heavy and swinging with sheets and toweling.
“Ada? Where are your helpers? This is too much for you,” Jolene said to the woman. Ada was most likely seventy years old and had lost her husband and children and had nowhere to go. She was a great aunt of one of the families and lived with her niece and nephew in their small home at the Hacienda and tended their young children while their parents worked on the ranch.
Ada shook her head at Jolene and replied in broken English, telling Jolene that everyone else was busy with chores for the sick and for the livestock, and that she was still useful and would tend the laundry.
“I will find someone to help you,” Jolene said.
Ada shook her head again and her long gray plaited hair swung over her shoulder. She pointed at the bunk house. “Save them, senora.”
“Mrs. Shelby!” Barnaby called as he ran across the yards. “It is Mr. Moran! He is sick!”
Jolene gathered her skirts and ran to the bunk house.
“There,” she said to the men dragging Zeb inside. “Put him on that cot. The sheets and blankets are clean. I need fresh water and please ask Maria to brew more tea.”
Pete lingered at the doorway. “I love you, my beautiful Eva.”
Jolene shook her head. “Don’t come in, Pete. You have other children, and I don’t want you sick. I am tending Eva myself. You must trust me to do the best for her.”
Jolene hurried to Zeb, knelt on the floor beside his bunk and tilted his head to drink the willow bark tea.
“So cold,” he said and shivered as Jolene covered him with blankets. It was warm, nearly hot, in the bunkhouse from the brand new coal stove that Jolene had the men fill and fire up. She felt Zeb’s forehead. He was sweaty and burning with fever.
“Look at me, Zebidiah,” she said. “You must use your considerable stubbornness to fight this disease. Do you hear me?”
“Don’t want to die,” he mumbled.
“You will not die,” Jolene said lamely, knowing that her saying the words, much as she’d said to her son, did not have the ability to save him. “You will not die. Mr. Shelby would be very displeased.”
The corner of his mouth lifted just a hair. “Yes, ma’am.”
Jolene and Barnaby attended to the others, cleaning them up, or feeding them tea or broth, or just holding their hands. Jolene came to Eva and was pleased to see the girl’s eyes seemed clear of fever.
“I am hungry, Mrs. Shelby,” she said.
“That is very good,” Jolene replied. “Eat some of this broth, and if you are still hungry after that, I will fetch you the mashed up potatoes with butter that your mother has made for you.”
“Mmmm,” the girl said.
Jolene turned to knocking on the bunk house door. “Mrs. Shelby! Mrs. Shelby!” she heard Alice shout.
“What is it, Alice?” she asked after opening the door.
But she knew. She knew as soon as she saw her maid’s face and their eyes met. Alice swallowed.
“Melinda is feverish.”
“You must tend the sick here, Alice. There is no one left to do it. Barnaby will help you,” Jolene said. “I will care for Melinda myself.”
Jolene pulled off her apron, dropping it as she ran towards the kitchens. She scrubbed her hands when she got there and put a clean mask on. “Eva is asking for mashed potatoes, and her fever has broken. I believe she is through the worst of it.”
Tears rolled down the cook’s face. “Thank you. Thank you, Mrs. Shelby. You have saved my daughter.” Maria came around the long table then and clutched Jolene’s hands. “I will pray for our dear Melinda. You must tell me if there is anything that you need. I will see to it myself.”
Jolene nodded and took a moment to take deep, steady breaths. If she began to cry, she was worried she would never stop. She must maintain her composure even in the face of . . . what would she tell Maximillian? How would she ever say the words aloud to him? How could she break his heart?
Jolene raced up the steps as fast as she was able to carry freshly brewed willow bark tea and not spill it. She would not let this child die. She would not! But even as she thought it, she knew it was a hope at best and a dream at worst. She opened the door to Melinda’s room.
* * *
Max lit a fire and ate the ham slices and bread that he’d bought at the restaurant beside the Mercantile in Corsicana. He could have ridden longer but was afraid to ride in the dark. If his horse slipped or went lame, he would have a long, solitary walk with little water. He figured he was about half way to the Hacienda as it sat southwest of Dallas. It would be another full day in the saddle.
He’d met some travelers in motorized buggies and some in wagons streaming south away from Dallas. They’d told him some frightening tales of the sickness in the city. There was no one, one man ventured to say, who would not know someone that had contracted the influenza and more than likely would know, if only through acquaintances, someone who had died.
Max slept fitfully, woke at first light, and pulled himself into his saddle. Let me be in time.
* * *
At first Jolene was hopeful. Through the morning and early afternoon, Melinda was uncomfortable but still quite awake and ate some broth. Jolene read to her from books on the shelf in her rooms and even set up the checker board on her bed. She propped Melinda up with pillows, and they played a few games. Melinda yawned hugely in the early evening, and Jolene tucked the blankets around her and told her she would be back in an hour. She kissed Melinda’s forehead and told her to get her rest.
Jolene went to the bunkhouse and was relieved to hear that no one else had been brought in although a few families were tending sick young ones in their own home. Jolene did not have the strength to argue. Only two more had died during the day, and the others seemed to be on the mend besides Zebidiah, who was clearly in the worst way.
Jolene dismissed Alice and told her to wash and change and sit with Melinda. Maybe her maid would take a nap in the chair beside Melinda’s bed as she had done. She would stay with Mr. Moran, who was flailing and shouting in the midst of a fever-induced nightmare. Jolene ran cold cloths over his forehead and neck and spoke quietly to him, shushing him and telling him everything would be alright. She dribbled willow bark tea down his throat only to have Zeb vomit it back up. She had no idea if he’d kept enough down to help break the fever or not, but she continued to cool his face and hands with cold water. Finally, he fell into a deep, but fitful sleep, and his head was cooler than before. Jolene sat straight on the small stool she was sitting on and stretched the muscles of her back.
“Mrs. Shelby?” Barnaby said.
“Yes?”
“Miss Alice thinks you should come to Miss Melinda’s room right away.”
Jolene jumped up and hurried out the door of the bunkhouse and into the Hacienda. She was exhausted, she knew, and perhaps not even thinking clearly to say that she would nurse Melinda herself and save her, but that is what was going through her head. She wondered if she was using it as an excuse to force her body to continue moving. But she was not thinking of herself. She was thinking about Melinda and Maximillian. She washed her hands at the sinks in the kitchen, and Maria gave her a piece of bread with butter and jam on it. She ate it quickly as she went up the steps. Alice was outside of Melinda’s rooms when Jolene got there.
“She was sleeping soundly and then she woke, begging for water and burning up,” Alice said hurriedly. “I have given her some tea, but she can’t keep it down.”
“Mr.
Moran needs constant attention. The others are beginning to recover, I think, although I believe we will lose some more of the children and infants who are in their homes before too long. I must get to Melinda.” Jolene pulled on the clean apron she’d carried with her and turned back to Alice. “I know you are exhausted, Alice. But we must continue on. Get something to eat from Maria before going to the bunkhouse. You will need your strength.”
Alice nodded, hurried away and Jolene turned the knob on Melinda’s bedroom door. The room was warm from the fire in the fireplace and dark with just the light from a small lamp turned low and the curtains drawn against the sunshine. Jolene stared at Melinda. The difference in the girl from just hours before was marked. Her hair was lack-luster, and her skin was pale and translucent. Her mouth was drawn and Jolene watched the girl’s chest rise and fall with each belabored breath. She sunk down on the side of the bed and picked up Melinda’s hand.
“Melinda?” she whispered. “Melinda? Can you hear me?”
The girl nodded once.
“You must listen as closely as you can,” Jolene said as the girl’s eyes fluttered. “Concentrate on my voice. You must think good thoughts now. Of your horse Daisy and of my sister Jennifer due to arrive any day now. You must think of you father, certainly on his way, and probably bringing you some wonderful gift.”
Melinda reached for her hand and Jolene clasped it and bent close to her to hear her words.
“Going to die?”
Jolene’s eyes filled with tears and she quickly kissed Melinda’s forehead through the mask she wore. “Absolutely not. No. I will not allow it, Melinda. Do you hear? But you are very sick, and I need you to be strong even if you are so sick that it is hard to hear my voice any longer. You must try though. You must listen for me. Do you promise me?”
Melinda nodded and then groaned and twisted over the edge of her bed to vomit in a chamber pot sitting on the floor for that reason. Jolene wiped her mouth and made her take a sip of water. She wrenched the rag out and stroked Melinda’s face and hands even though the child was shivering visibly.
