by Bonnie Leon
Moving to the armoire, she rifled through the clothing, searching for something John could wear. She found a nightshirt and laid it out on the bed. “We’ll have to get you out of these filthy clothes,” she said, reaching to unbutton John’s shirt.
He looked at her, suddenly seeming alert. “I can do it.” He tried to sit up but only managed to make it halfway before stopping to rest against the headboard. His fingers fumbled to unbutton his shirt. He managed, but the effort took so much from him that he lay gasping.
“Let me help you.” Hannah pulled him upright, allowing him to rest against her, and gently removed the garment. After laying him back down, she stripped off his trousers.
“I can’t . . . breathe.” John’s voice sounded thick.
Trying to keep her tone light, Hannah said, “Of course you can. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to talk.” She rested a hand on his bare chest, frightened at the heat she felt and the rapid thumping of his heart.
“I’ll be back in a moment.” She took the basin from the bureau and went to get water from the barrel on the front porch. She filled it halfway, then retrieved a washcloth from the kitchen. Returning to John, she sat on the edge of the bed and gently washed him, then helped him into his nightshirt.
John rested against her. “You shouldn’t . . . be . . . here,” he panted. “You could . . . get sick.”
“No need to worry about me.” While he leaned against her, Hannah managed to fluff his pillow and then lowered him to the bed. “I’d say you could do with some broth and a bit of milk. Mrs. Goudy said they might help.”
“I can’t . . . swa . . . llow.”
“I’m sure you can get some down if you try,” she said cheerfully, but inside she felt panic. He was deathly ill. Not since her time on the ship had she seen anyone this sick. Hannah stood and turned to find Quincy standing in the doorway. He stared at John, his expression morose. “Quincy, could you be so kind as to bring some milk from the springhouse?”
“Sure.” He remained for a moment, his eyes on John. “Ye think he’ll be all right?”
“Of course.” Hannah’s tone was confident. She didn’t dare give in to her fears or negative thoughts.
Looking unconvinced, Quincy left. Hannah turned back to John. If it were possible, his breathing sounded more labored than before. She pulled him upright and pushed another pillow behind him, propping him up. It seemed to ease his breathing a bit.
Hannah stared at him. He was so focused on finding his next breath that he seemed unaware of anything else. The same alarm she’d felt when she’d watched her mother die crept inside Hannah. Lord, please help him. Don’t let him die.
She forced herself to leave him and went to the kitchen. Mrs. Goudy had packed at least two dozen onions with instructions to roast them and then mash them into a poultice. Hannah set out several onions.
Quincy returned with the milk. “It’s already been strained and is cool.”
“Thank you. Can you build a fire for me?”
“I can, but what ye going to do with a fire in this heat?”
“Cook onions for a poultice.”
Quincy’s eyes went to the onions on the counter. “All right, then.” He headed outside, seeming glad for something to do.
While Quincy roasted the onions, Hannah unsuccessfully tried to get John to drink some water, then took a glass of milk in for him. She set the glass on the bed stand and scooted a chair next to the bed. The strident sound coming from John’s throat and his fierce fever terrified her. “John, have a go at this. It will help.” She put a hand behind his head and held the glass to his lips.
He tried to drink, but mostly gagged and coughed. Almost none of it went down.
Quincy stepped into the room. “The onions are cooked.” He stared at John, unable to disguise his fear.
“Thank you. Can you put them in the kitchen?”
“Right. I can do that.” Quincy backed out of the room.
Hannah let John’s head rest against the pillows and set the milk on the nightstand. “I’ll just be in the kitchen if you need me.” John didn’t respond.
Hannah set to work crushing the onions. They were still hot. Both her eyes and fingers stung. She added the herbs Mrs. Goudy had sent along, then tied the mixture into a muslin bag. She returned to John. “Mrs. Goudy said this is just the thing.”
John tried to lift his eyelids, but it was as if they were too heavy.
Hannah tied the compress about his neck.
“What . . . is . . . that?” He put a hand to the reeking bundle.
“An onion poultice. It will ease your breathing.”
“It stinks . . .” John choked and started again. “Smells like . . . burned garbage.”
“That it does.” Hannah pressed her hand to the concoction. “But it will help.”
The day passed, and although Hannah did everything she knew to do, John grew worse. She changed the poultice several times and tried to get John to drink a bit of milk, but he couldn’t get it down. He managed to swallow a small amount of broth, but choked so badly Hannah feared he’d suffocate.
She moved a rocking chair into the room and sat reading and watching John. Often, she’d stop and pray. And when he thrashed about or complained that his head hurt, she’d gently rub his temples until he relaxed.
Late in the day, the sound of a carriage approaching carried hope. Perhaps it was David Gelson . . . or Margaret. The idea of Margaret’s arrival wasn’t comforting. Hannah didn’t trust the woman to care for John.
She moved to the window and looked out. “David! Praise be!” She rushed outside and met him as he climbed down from his buggy. “I’m so glad you’re here. Nothing I do is helping.”
“I came as soon as I could.” Looking weary and troubled, he grabbed a leather satchel and moved toward the house.
“David, you look done in. Are you all right?”
“Just tired. I could do with a bit of coffee, if you have some.”
“I’ll make it.”
“No. Don’t bother.” He started up the steps. “Where is he?” “The downstairs bedroom.”
Hannah hurried to the bedroom with David following. John seemed to be unconscious. His chest heaved with the effort to breathe, and drool trickled from his mouth and onto his chin.
David gently wiped the spittle away and began his examination.
John roused. “David. Glad you’re . . .” he stopped and tried to swallow, giving up on whatever it was he’d intended to say. David listened to John’s heart and lungs, then said, “Let me have a look at your throat. Open your mouth.”
John did as he was told. Hannah hovered, afraid of what David would find.
Using a wooden tongue depressor, he examined John’s throat. His brow furrowed. “You can close your mouth.” He dropped the depressor into his bag. “You’ve got quinsy, all right.” He straightened and folded his arms over his chest. “But you’ve a strong constitution, so I expect you’ll soon be right as rain.”
Although his words were confident, his eyes said something else. David reached into his bag and took out a vial of powder. “I’ll need a glass of water.”
Hannah filled a glass and gave it to David. “He can barely swallow. I don’t know that you’ll be able to get anything down him.”
He stirred a teaspoon of the powder into the water. “Give it to him a bit at a time, then. It’s a diaphoretic and will make him sweat. Sweating helps purge the infection.” He inspected the onion poultice. “This is fine, but a muffler will serve well too. Just make sure it’s as hot as he can bear.”
He set the diaphoretic on the bed stand and closed his bag. “Make sure he continues to drink, keep him warm, and if you can get more broth or milk into him, that will help keep his strength up.” He rested a hand on John’s shoulder. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
John didn’t reply. He’d returned to oblivion.
David stood and moved to the door.
Hannah followed. “Will he be all right?”
“I’ll not lie to you. He’s got a bad case. I’d like to stay if I could, but there are others.”
“How many?”
“I’ve about ten cases right now; it’s spreading. Make sure you keep yourself rested and well fed. You’ll be no good to John if you’re sick as well.”
Hannah took a quaking breath. “Is he going to die?”
David gently grasped Hannah’s upper arm. “I don’t know. He has an abscess over his throat that’s blocking his airway. If his body can fight off the infection before the abscess cuts off his air, he’ll make it. Otherwise . . .” He gave a slow shrug. “I’m sorry. I wish I could offer you more hope.” He moved onto the veranda. “Lydia and I will be praying.” His steps heavy, he walked to the buggy. Hannah stared after him, tears blurring her vision. Lord, I couldn’t bear it. And Thomas . . . please remember Thomas. He loves his dad. She closed the door, wiped at her tears, and returned to John’s bedside.
Sometime during the night, Quincy came in and woke Hannah. She’d been sleeping in the chair. “Ye ought to go to bed. I’ll sit with him.”
Barely awake, Hannah peered up at Quincy in the dim lantern light.
“If ye get sick, ye’ll be no good to him or to yer son.”
Or my baby, she thought. “All right. I’ll go up and sleep in Thomas’s bed. Call me . . . if anything changes.”
“I will.”
Hannah pushed out of the chair, and with one last look at John, she left the room and climbed the ladder to the loft. When she lay down, her mind went to Margaret. Why hadn’t she returned? Quincy said he’d sent word to the boardinghouse.
Was it possible she was also sick?
16
Four agonizing days and nights passed, and Hannah remained at John’s side. Margaret hadn’t returned.
The morning of the fifth day, Hannah dozed in the rocker in John’s room. With first light she roused and knew immediately that something was different. John’s labored breathing had stopped. Fear, like a fire out of control, burned through her. She pushed out of the chair. Lord, no. Please, no.
Her eyes on John, she moved to the bed. In the half light of morning, she was unable to see him clearly. Was he breathing? Her hand quaking, she reached out and placed a palm on his chest. He was warm. Beneath her hand she felt the steady rhythm of his heart. Praise you, Lord. She leaned closer and could hear him breathing—unobstructed.
John opened his eyes and looked at Hannah.
She placed a hand to his cool brow. “You’re better.”
He nodded and croaked, “Water?”
Hannah quickly poured him a glass, helped him sit upright, and then held it to his lips. He managed to drink most of the contents.
“Tastes wonderful,” he said, and lay back down.
Hannah stood looking at him, joy replacing trepidation. “You’re going to be just fine.”
“That I am,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. He closed his eyes and fell into a restful sleep.
Hannah put an arm around John’s shoulders and helped him sit up. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? Your fever broke only this morning. I’d hate for you to overtax yourself.”
“I can’t bear this bed another minute.” He eased his legs over the side, leaning heavily against Hannah. He grabbed hold of the headboard. “I’m a bit unsteady yet.” He took several deep breaths. “Give me a moment, the room is spinning.”
“You’ve been abed for five days with nothing to eat and barely enough to drink to keep a body alive. I can hardly believe you’re even attempting to get out of bed.”
“I’ll just sit here a moment. Can I have more water? I’ve a thirst that can’t be satisfied.”
Hannah gave him a glass of water, and he drank it down.
Holding the empty glass, he said, “Oh, that tastes good.”
Hannah set the glass on the bed stand. This was unbelievable. Only yesterday, she’d feared he would die. “I thank the Lord you’ve rallied, but you’d best be careful so not to relapse.”
“I’ve things to do. And I’ll never regain my strength if I stay in this bed.”
“Do you think you can make it to the chair?”
He nodded and scooted to the edge of the mattress. As John pushed to his feet, Hannah braced him by pushing her shoulder under his arm. He wobbled, but managed to maintain his balance.
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
With a nod, John rested his weight on Hannah and took a step. “I think the porch is a fine place to rest.”
The porch? Inwardly Hannah chided John but knew better than to scold him. He wouldn’t hear it anyway.
John looked at the window. “I want to smell fresh air—the heated fields and the gum trees.”
“Are you certain you can make it? If you were to fall . . .”
“I’ll not fall.” He straightened slightly and took another step and then another. Sweat beaded up on his face.
By the time John reached the porch chair, he leaned heavily on Hannah and made a huffing sound with each breath. Hannah worried he’d done too much.
“Do you need a blanket?” She helped him sit.
“In this heat?” He smiled. “Now you’re being silly.” His gaze went to the field and then to the river. “I wondered if I’d ever see it again.”
Hannah rested a hand on his shoulder, unable to speak, her words choked off by emotion. John grasped her hand. Although knowing it was inappropriate, Hannah let her hand remain in his. Just for the moment it would be all right; for the moment they need not ignore their love. They’d survived a tempest together. This was a time to rejoice together.
Finally, Hannah released his hand. “I’ll see to your bedding. It badly needs changing.”
John caught hold of her arm. “Wait.”
His grip was surprisingly firm. Hannah felt her heart quicken. She moved so that she stood in front of him, but was unable to meet his eyes. “John, it’s—”
“Hush.” He pressed the back of her fingers to his lips.
Hannah didn’t have the will to extract her hand.
“Dear Hannah, thank you. Without you, I would have died. You put your life in jeopardy for me.”
She found the courage to look at him. His expression was tender, his eyes filled with love. For a moment she was swept away. Please, don’t look at me like that.
As matter-of-factly as possible, she said, “Someone had to take care of you. Poor Quincy was beside himself. He had no idea what to do.”
John grinned. “I much prefer your nursing over his.”
Hannah smiled. “He’s the one who went for the doctor . . . after Margaret left.”
A question touched John’s eyes. “And then he got you.” He took her other hand and pulled her closer. “I’m convinced I would have died if you hadn’t come.”
“I did what I could, God did the rest. You should thank him for your life.”
“And I do.”
A buggy rolled up the drive. It was Lydia.
Hannah snatched her hand back and stepped away from John.
Lydia stopped in front of the porch and quickly climbed down from the buggy. “John? I declare, I can hardly believe what I’m seeing! David said you were terribly sick.”
“I was, but this morning I woke up nearly feeling like a real person.” John’s voice trembled, and he sounded breathless, but he managed a smile.
“I convinced him to let me come for a visit as long as I stayed outdoors.” She glanced at her abdomen and rested her hands there. “He wants me to be especially careful now, with a little one on the way.”
“As you should be. To do otherwise would be a sin.”
His statement assailed Hannah. She’d had those same thoughts before coming to care for John, but . . . I had no choice. Did God see it as a sin, or had it been an act of faithful obedience? She chose to believe the latter.
“Hannah, David told me you were here. How kind of you to help John.”
“I did what anyone would have.” The t
opic of her presence here made Hannah uncomfortable. It really wasn’t her place. She glanced at John. Her time here had only strengthened her love for him. Perhaps I should have asked someone else to stay with him. This was a mistake. Now she’d have to return to the Athertons’ and learn to live without him once more.
“I suppose I’ll be returning to the Athertons’ in a day or two. Of course if Margaret comes home, I won’t be needed.”
“Margaret?” Lydia huffed. “Where is she? Shouldn’t she be here now, caring for her husband?” She leveled green eyes on John. “Why hasn’t she returned from Sydney Town?”
John shook his head. “I can’t be sure. I supposed she’s unaware of my condition.”
“Unaware?” Lydia folded her arms over her chest and tossed a glance at the road. “I think not. Word was sent. She knows full well you’ve been ill. What kind of wife deserts her husband when she’s most needed?”
“Lydia,” John’s voice was sharp, “I’ll not have you speak of her in such a tone.”
“I don’t mean to offend, but someone must speak their mind. It just as well be me.”
Hannah was surprised at her friend’s outburst. It was a bit much even for Lydia.
“I’m sure she has good reason for not returning,” John said.
“And has it occurred to you that she might also have fallen ill? I’ve been more concerned than anything else. I’ve been hoping to hear of her situation.”
Lydia’s eyes remained heated. “I’d also be interested to know how she’s passed the time these last days.” Her lips tightened into a line. “I suppose it’s possible she’s ill. But then I’d expect we would have heard something.”
“Perhaps,” John said tersely.
Lydia leaned against the porch railing, her expression softening. “I don’t mean to be harsh, but sometimes my ire gets up and . . . well, ye know I tend to speak my mind.”
“I know.” John managed a smile. “No harm done. But please give poor Margaret the benefit of the doubt.”
