The Eden passion

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  But for all that grim inventory, nothing was worse than his eyes, and before that devastating emptiness Andrew retreated. There was an additional worry plaguing him. He couldn't stay here forever at Scutari. But how could he leave John in such a condition? Confident

  that Mr. Brassey would not want him to leave until all was well, he'd stayed four days, thinking every day his friend would stir and request water, a biscuit, something.

  In a rush of despair Andrew was about to try again when suddenly he heard a disturbance at the far end of the ward. He looked up to see a dozen or so litter-bearers bringing new wounded through the double doors.

  Andrew glanced out of the window. He'd seen no hospital ship, no new arrivals on the landing stage from Balaklava. As the ill moved past him, he saw that a few were dressed in military garb, though mottled and strange-appearing, and others were clad in plain civilian clothes, quite ragtag they were, and most peculiar of all were their faces, bronzed and sun-baked, not the rough chapness caused by the Crimean cold, but the dark brown burnt look of constant exposure to extreme heat.

  As litter after litter filed past him, he noticed something else as well, the telltale symptoms of dysentery, the legs drawn up in an attempt to accommodate the searing pain in their guts, the spreading stains of brown beneath their hips, their lips parched and open.

  Suddenly two orderlies shouted at him, "Move back, soldier. This one here is in need of that empty bed next to your friend."

  Andrew grabbed the camp stool and moved to the window, staring in sympathy as the large man turned and twisted on the litter, his hands clutching at something about his throat, begging them to leave him be.

  As the nurses approached, his screams increased, and from where Andrew stood he noticed that not once did the man's hands leave his throat. They appeared to be clasping a leather pouch of some sort.

  "Here, now," one of the nurses soothed. "All we want to do is make you comfortable. You'll let us do that, won't you?"

  As one of the nurses reached again for his neck, the man struggled with all his might to flee the bed, and would have, had it not been for the quick action of the three orderlies who stepped forward and restrained him.

  "Very well, no need," one of the nurses said, seeing the cause of his fear. "You may keep your toy, whatever it is. I promise, we won't touch your pouch, but do let us bathe you. We only want to . . ."

  About twenty minutes later the man had been bathed and dressed and now lay upon the bed, his eyes still keeping watch on all those around him. At last the orderlies stepped away, and the man, sensing

  his increasing weakness, stuffed the leather pouch into his mouth, as though to say, "Try to remove it now."

  As the nurses gathered up his soiled garments, Andrew moved to assist them. As he handed over a pile of soiled linen, he asked quietly, "Where are they from? I saw no ship dock at—"

  The nurse shook her head. "Their ship docked at Malta, an unscheduled stop due to an outbreak of dysentery. The hospital there was filled, and we inherited the overflow. From India they are."

  "Are they soldiers?" Andrew asked.

  "A few," she replied. "He isn't, however," she said, looking down on her new charge. "Just an Englishman, soldier of fortune, you might say, gone off to see the world." She looked down on the man's feverish face. "Seen a bit too much of it would be my guess," she added sympathetically.

  Someone called for her assistance from the end of the ward. Before she left, she glanced down on John. "And what are we going to do with your friend, Corporal?" she asked sadly. "He must eat soon." Her hand brushed across John's forehead in a loving caress. "Wouldn't it be lovely to hear him screaming like his bedmate there? I never worry quite so much when they are screaming," she concluded.

  The voice from the end of the ward called to her again, and with an air of resignation she started away. As she passed the foot of John's bed, she looked back at Andrew. "Does he have a favorite food?" she asked brightly. "Our stores are somewhat limited, but Miss Nightingale believes in fighting pain with pleasure. If there is a certain treat that he might respond to . . ."

  Her voice drifted off as she waited for Andrew to respond. But try as he did, he could think of nothing. Faced with his silence and the voice coming from the end of the ward, the nurse gently shrugged. "Well, I'll tend to his tray myself this evening. Perhaps between the two of us we can coax him into swallowing a few bites."

  He started to thank her, when again she turned back. "What's his name again, Corporal?" she asked, an air of apology in her voice.

  "Eden," he said. "John Murrey Eden."

  She nodded, then she was gone.

  Slowly Andrew drew a deep breath, lifted the camp stool and placed it again at John's side. As he sat wearily, he looked over at the newcomer from India in the next bed. He appeared to be sleeping. But that curious leather pouch was still in his mouth, the line of his jaw suggesting that his teeth were exerting pressure, that no one had

  better dare try to remove it, or in spite of his weakened state, he'd come fighting out of his semisleep.

  India, Andrew mused. What had he been doing there? For a moment he felt a surge of resentment. The man appeared able-bodied. Hadn't it occurred to him that England needed him in the Crimea, not India, where the empire was secure?

  As his weary mind built a connection between the wounded silent John Murrey Eden and the man on the other side, Andrew rearranged the camp stool and turned his back on the soldier of fortune and concentrated anew on the ravaged face of his friend. He leaned forward with a resolute beginning. "John, remember Childe's, remember how we used to . . ."

  But after those few words, he was defeated by the still face and the fixed staring eyes, the parched lips which were moving now, as they frequently did, in delirium, whispering only one recognizable name, though Andrew had no idea who it was or how to respond to it, a name spoken so softly that on occasion it sounded like little more than a gentle expulsion of air, the same name he'd heard John utter over and over again during the last four days and nights, a simple name which seemed to soothe him just to speak it.

  "Harriet. . ."

  It was a slow-falling dusk, typical of the Crimea, when the sun seemed to hang forever on the black horizon line. On the small table near John's bed rested the tray of untouched food, a tribute to female ingenuity, a deep bowl of rich red beef stew and to one side a sherry trifle, a delicacy which Andrew had never seen in the Crimea. In addition there was a pot of tea, now grown cold, and a wedge of soft white bread.

  After a half hour of gentle pleading with John, the nurse had urged Andrew to eat it himself, and at first he'd been tempted. But instead he'd taken a cheese roll from the trolley as it had come through the ward, always hopeful that perhaps sometime during the night, John might stir and request sustenance.

  With the coming of night, the ward was growing quiet. Bedtime medicines had been administered, the moans of pain subsiding. Andrew stood up and tried to stretch the tightness out of his legs and shoulders. He eyed the stone floor beside John's bed. For the last four nights he'd napped there, brief intervals of sleep.

  How much longer could he wait here? Was John purposely starv-

  ing himself? Was it an act of premeditation, or had his grief literally unhinged his mind?

  Hurriedly Andrew moved to the window as though to move away from such a thought. If only Jack Willmot were here. Willmot had been the only one who could handle him.

  Though not by nature deeply religious, it occurred to him to pray, though to what God he would speak and how he would address Him, he had no idea. How to begin? Our Father in Heaven . . .

  It sounded stiff and childish, and in a rush of self-consciousness he lifted his head and turned away from the window. As he turned, his eye fell on the double doors at the end of the ward, on the figure of a woman standing there, looking back at him.

  She appeared thin and angular. Her hair from that distance was indistinguishable, though it appeared dark, parted in the middle
and drawn tightly back, a cap of white lace covering all but the rim of her face.

  As she drew nearer, Andrew noticed other specifics; in her arm she clasped a heavy black notebook, and her face, coming closer, was not as old as he had first thought, scarcely a middle-aged woman.

  Less than twenty feet away, she stopped. Would she stand there all evening merely gaping at him? If she had business with him, let her come forward. Growing exhausted by the curious encounter, Andrew at last rose to face her. Perhaps she was a relative and had come to visit someone, as soon as she could find him in the long rows of silent beds.

  To this end, he asked courteously, "May I assist you? If you're looking for a specific patient, I'd be happy to summon a nurse."

  Was he mistaken, or was that a smile on those small features?

  "I need no assistance, Corporal," she said, "at least none that you can give me."

  Though plainly spoken, the rebuke was not offensive.

  "You don't know me, do you, Corporal?" She smiled, stepping to the foot of John's bed, her eyes falling upon that still face. Suddenly the smile faded, as though something in those ravaged features had caught her attention.

  "It is him," she whispered. "When the nurse told me his name, I thought it might be, but. . ."

  Andrew stepped forward. "You . . . know him?" he inquired.

  Without looking up, she replied, "I knew his father, Edward Eden. And him as well," she added, "when he was just a babe. I spent my eighteenth year as a volunteer in the Ragged Schools of

  London." She shook her head, obviously falling victim to nostalgia. "How much I learned from his father, Edward Eden. Oh, not scientific knowledge to be sure. Mr. Eden was sadly lacking in that department." She laughed softly, her eyes holding fast on John's face. "But what a master the man was in the art of caring. No matter how small or dirty or diseased the child, Mr. Eden's arms were always broad enough to hold it, his heart always open and receptive to the faintest cry."

  Her voice seemed to drift off, and Andrew felt himself leaning forward as though fearful of losing a word. When she seemed disinclined to say anything further, Andrew said, "I'm afraid you have the advantage. My name is Andrew Rhoades. And you are . . ."

  She looked up with an expression of apology. "I'm sorry," she murmured, and extended one thin white hand in an almost masculine gesture. "Miss Nightingale," she said.

  It was a few seconds before Andrew recovered, and by then she'd already withdrawn her hand, placed the notebook on the foot of the bed, dragged the camp stool close and sat upon it, her head and shoulders erect, her hands folded primly in her lap, demanding of Andrew in an efficient voice, "Tell me about him. What's causing this?"

  After the amazing announcement, Andrew did well to stammer, "He . . . was in the massacre, in the employ of Mr. Thomas Brassey, the . . . rail link at Section. . ."

  The sound of his own voice flustered him even more, and grateful for a reprieve, he watched her bend over the bed, draw back the blanket and commence an examination of John's shoulder wound, unwrapping the bandages, asking only of Andrew that he, "Bring the candle closer."

  He did as he was told and found his attention torn between the red and angry-looking shoulder wound and the woman herself, this frail female who, single-handedly had taken on all the stupidity and inefficiency of the British Army.

  "Healing well enough," she pronounced. "I've seen men up and about with more."

  The wound rebound, she lingered over John's face, one hand stroking his brow. "The resemblance is quite unique, isn't it?" she commented quietly.

  At last Andrew felt himself recovered enough to speak. "It is," he agreed. "I too knew his father. I grew up in the Ragged School near Jacob's Island."

  She looked at Andrew as though with new respect. "I'm afraid, Corporal," she began, "that the nature of my duties here has taken a heavy toll of my respect for the . . . maleness of the world." She looked back down on John, the brusqueness softening. "However, I can say without hesitation that Edward Eden was one of the rarest individuals it has ever been my privilege to know."

  In the face of such a tribute, Andrew thought it safe to remain silent. Then again she seemed to shake her head and in a clear tone asked, "Now, tell me everything."

  As succinctly as possible, he recounted all the grim events of the last few days. Not once did she interrupt, and at the conclusion of the brief account, she continued to sit primly upon the stool, as silent as the man in the bed.

  At last she lifted her head, as though an approach had been decided upon, and in a clear voice which exuded self-confidence, as though it had never occurred to her that she would not receive an answer, she said, "John? Can you hear me?"

  Andrew stood still, his eyes moving back and forth between her face and the unresponding one on the pillow.

  "Of course you can," she went on, undeterred by the silence. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to welcome you four days ago. But I'm certain that you'll forgive me. Men with mere arm wounds do not, of course, warrant the same attention as men with no arms. But now I'm here, with a few minutes to spare, and I'd like nothing better than to pass them with you."

  In a mix of amazement and despair, Andrew watched. How many times during the last four days he'd tried the same approach.

  But whereas, in the past, Andrew had retreated after a few such words, Miss Nightingale persisted, nothing in her manner to suggest that she was, in essence, conversing with herself.

  "Now," she went on, "what I want to know is where do you intend to go from here? You see, in a few days you'll be able to get about quite handily on your own power. Will you be returning to the war zone or going back to England? The war zone," she went on, answering her own question, "is in my opinion quite unrealistic, don't you agree? I must confess I can't for the life of me understand what we are doing there at all. Can you? Of course not. Clearly you were 'talked into' something. Am I correct? Of course I'm correct."

  Andrew listened closely, amazed by his impression that John was actually responding. But of course he wasn't. Her voice simply gave

  that impression. And how clever, her denunciation of the war, how close she was moving to John's heart.

  "But the fact remains," she went on, "for whatever foolish reason, here you are, at the end of one road, and now you must select another, mustn't you? Of course, that shouldn't be too difficult, a young man like yourself. The most pronounced difficulty will arise in the variety of roads open to you."

  She laughed softly and seemed to relax a bit, one hand smoothing the lace collar at her throat. "I'll now confess to you, John"—she smiled—"all my life, in secret, I've wanted to be a man. But merciful heavens, the agony of choosing which worlds to conquer. To have every horizon open to you, and to know that you can accomplish everything." She shuddered. "What hell that must be. For the female of the species, the decisions are so simple. Still, there have been many times when I would willingly change all that deadly simplicity for just one day of your glorious hell."

  Andrew had the feeling that she was no longer speaking for John's benefit. Some essential aspect of her personality had without warning surfaced, and the self-revelation had to be dealt with before she could go on.

  But deal with it she did, and once again restored, she talked on.

  "I knew your father, John," she began, one hand grasping the limp one on the bed, "knew you as well when you were the length of a man's arm. Merciful heavens, what a weight we all put upon you in those days, long before you were ready to carry it. And the weight is still there, the weight that the gods place on all gifted individuals, the willingness to be tested to the very limit of one's endurance and capacity."

  She abandoned the limp hand as though it had offended her in some way. "What a baffling inconvenience," she pronounced in a mocking tone. "How skillful we all are at raising false issues. The death of a good friend, the horror of a stupid war, the old phalanx of weakness bristling with its accustomed spears. So easy to say I'm beaten. Much more difficult having to admit
that you've simply thrown away the game. And with all the winning cards in your hand! And so noble a game! John Murrey Eden threw the game away!"

  There was mockery in her voice, as harsh as any man's. Andrew moved a step forward, amazed to see John's eyes upon her.

  Then, in a curious reversal of both mood and manner, she announced bluntly, "I will not speak to you of God. The subject is beyond me. I have been accused of viewing the Deity as little more

  than a sanitary engineer. A man's god is something personal." Her manner and voice altered as though for a confession. "Not that I haven't dwelt on the puzzle long"—she smiled—"though I'm afraid that the fruits of my efforts are thin and lacking."

  She seemed to warm to the "thin-and-lacking" subject, leaning close to share an intimacy. "The most fascinating approach that I can devise for the matter is a simple question. What beings should we conceive that God would create? Now, He cannot create perfect beings, since essentially perfection is One. If He did so, He would only be adding to Himself."

  She paused as though aware of her audience of two, for at some point Andrew had lost interest in John's reaction and was listening to her words as though they were being spoken for him alone.

  "Thus the conclusion is obvious," she went on. "God must create imperfect creatures." Again she smiled down on John. "All that will be asked of us at the end is whether or not we have been unprofitable servants. He gives us a lamp by which we shall stand, and frequently the lamp shows us only our own shipwreck. No wonder at times our feelings are mixed to the point of a confused silence," she said softly. "And yet, at other times, I fancy there are possibilities of human character much greater than have ever before been realized."