“Saints be,” he murmured. “Cholera. For certain?”
“As certain as I am sitting here. Mr. Schmidt, the last thing I want is for your wife to be exposed to the contagion. Far away,” and he nodded at the house in the distance. “That’s the safest thing right now. Seattle would be better. Portland, better still. There should be no delay, sir.”
“Cholera frightens me as much as it should any man with half a brain,” Schmidt said. “It isn’t a question of delay, my young friend. What’s your best, educated guess that my wife’s…what did you call it? A lesion? What’s the guess that it’s the cancer?”
“Better than fifty percent.”
“Does the new fellow…Hardy? Does he agree?”
“Yes.”
Schmidt had been packing his pipe thoughtfully, and now he touched a match to the pipe until it billowed. “I haven’t met your new partner yet. Hope to hell he isn’t another Zachary Riggs.” The reference to his late father-in-law’s errant scallywag of a partner prompted a flinch.
“He is no Riggs, sir. A fine fellow. And brilliant. And hard-working. You will like him.”
“And you’re certain it’s cholera?”
“I’m certain, sir. And that’s why you and your wife should be on the next packet to Seattle. I shall not be able to accomplish such surgery on her while we’re with the cholera. The risk is simply too great.”
“Cholera.” Schmidt rolled the word through a cloud of pipe smoke. “Unusual, isn’t it?”
“Highly.”
“You know, in the far East, cholera kills a lot of people.”
“Indeed it does, sir. Here as well. Mrs. Snyder has just expired.”
Schmidt looked hard at Thomas. “Flora Snyder? Dead?”
“Yes. The same. And Marcus is in the battle.”
“Son of a bitch. You know he’s one of my best filers. When the lure of the sea doesn’t kidnap him. The little girl of theirs ill recently? Tilly? I suggested…no, I told him…to take her to you.”
“She is well. A small surgery. But she is in danger, Bert.”
“She has the cholera as well, you mean?”
“No, but she is exposed. At first, my thought was to send her home. But we can’t do that now. If she were to bring the contagion into the house with the others? Or if they have caught the contagion from their parents, then…”
“So what’s to be done?”
“Bertha knows of a Snyder brother in Carter. I haven’t been there. I don’t know where it is. But in the meantime, I am headed to the school. If the Snyder children are at risk, so too is every other child in that building. They must all be tested.”
“You can do that?”
“Of course.” I sound as if I do this on a daily basis, Thomas thought.
“A boy rode out to the mill not long ago,” Beaumont said. “He informed me that I was to return to the Willis on summons from my first mate. This is why?”
“Indeed, sir. Your crew is in jeopardy as well.”
“Then best we be on our way.”
“I ask you not to do that, sir. The Clarissa is quarantined, including some of your crew, your first mate as well. For another thing, several of your crew have gone to the Dutch Tract camp. There is poker there, I’m told.”
“Oh, you betcha,” Schmidt laughed. “That’s what keeps my crews poor and working.”
“One of those loggers has been exposed to the cholera, sir. Ben Sitzberger?”
“Sitzy? Really? How is that possible?”
“I don’t know. I have sent Howard Deaton to fetch him. If he is ill, then his companions are in danger as well.”
Schmidt grimaced as his pipe gurgled. “I don’t understand all there is to understand,” he said after a moment, “but by the look on your face, I know desperation when I see it. What do you need from me, Doctor? I can’t imagine you having many resources at your disposal.”
“Who alerted you?”
Schmidt turned his pipe this way and that, regarding the handsome burl. “The boy, as Captain Beaumont reports. And Horace James took it upon himself, Doctor, early this morning, at urging from his sister. And with other news as well.” He reached across, extending his hand. Thomas grasped it, and for a moment, Schmidt held on, then pumped twice and released him.
“Congratulations. The infant is thriving?”
“Indeed he is.”
“And Alvina?”
“An amazing woman. She was up and about, walking with the infant, when I was able to return home early this morning for a few moments.”
Schmidt nodded with satisfaction. “So…how may we help? When all is under control, we’ll worry about the surgery. My wife wants no one else to touch her, and now that our minds are made up, there is no changing it.”
“To remain is a dangerous decision, sir.”
“We don’t think so. What do you need? You must have needs, sir. If this thing catches fire, you’ll be overwhelmed.”
“I have a list, I’m afraid,” Thomas said. “First and foremost, a cook to work the kitchen, and to work with the Victor and the laundry. One of my nurses has already quit.” He grimaced. “She took one look at the cholera and ran home. I can’t say that I’m surprised.”
“That would be the young woman? The step-daughter of the man with Presbyterian knees?”
Thomas laughed, once again finding himself amazed how everyone in this small community knew the slightest stir of a neighbor. “The same.”
“And that’s all?”
“Most urgent is to find this young man, Sitzberger. Howard is about that at this very moment. We have every reason to believe that Sitzberger spent the night at the Clarissa with one of our patients before she was stricken.”
“At the Clarissa. He was with the buxom Miss Levine? Or was it the Patterson girl this time? Well, not Patterson. The step-daughter, Miss Stephens.”
“I don’t know.”
Schmidt shrugged. “I may be mistaken. I have a lot of employees, but they’re a talkative bunch, you know. When the machinery is idle, the mouths aren’t.” He took another long inhale of smoke. “What else?” Schmidt regarded Thomas with interest as the young man put both hands to the side of his head, forcing the thoughts into some sort of order.
“Do you have a water pump? The sort of thing that one uses for quenching fires?”
“After a fashion. It’s a hand pump, with an inch line.”
“Does it draw from a tank?”
“It could, but the tank is but a hundred gallons, Doctor. We usually just drop the feeder hose in the inlet.”
“It must be from a tank.” Thomas quickly described the back side of the Clarissa as it faced the inlet. “That is contagion just waiting,” he said. “I envision mixing sublimate in a rich mixture and hosing the back wall thoroughly, right down to the water line.”
Schmidt’s eyes narrowed. “And that would work?”
“It might.”
“Let me think on that, Thomas. Jules understands the need?”
“He does…I think. But George Aldrich certainly does, and he is at the Clarissa to enforce the quarantine.”
“And he will do just that. Let me talk it over with my mill foreman. He’s a creative man, is Jean Paul.”
“Thank you, sir. And your wife? She must be distressed.”
“Of course. But patient.”
Thomas pointed off toward the mill. “The smoke is a nuisance, I think. Your new shake mill is often upwind of your home. I wouldn’t be surprised if there is an irritant there that causes her distress. The mill is new, is it not?”
“Just months.”
“As is her sinus distress.” He pulled up his own sleeve. “This is a simple test that you should employ. It is cedar used for the mill, is it not?”
“For the most part.”
“I thought so. Even I could smell it in the village now and then. So try this. Take some aromatic cedar scraps, then, finely chipped. The pungent saw dust is even better. Rub them on her forearm, here.” He i
ndicated the soft underside of arm. “When you do that, you may well see a reddening, an irritation. The faster the reaction, then the more of an irritant the cedar is. If that’s the case, then we certainly know that she suffers from the wood essence somehow.”
The mill owner sat silently for a moment, gazing off toward the plumes of smoke. “Move the house, the mill, or the wife,” he said, and smiled. “Is that the choice?”
“I would think so.”
“Life is never simple, is it.” He touched his cap. “You’re a busy man, Doctor. I’ll keep you no longer. If your man Deaton doesn’t find young Sitzberger, we will. He’ll be on your doorstep, impressed with the urgency of the matter. And I’ll see what I can do about a couple of hands to lend for the clinic staff. No one is going to want to work around cholera, you know.”
“Including myself,” Thomas said.
Chapter Twenty-one
Nels Whitman was no stern taskmaster. He sat on a banker’s swivel chair on the crude raised dais at the front of the classroom, a book in one hand held open to place with his thumb, the other hand held high in the air, fingers pointing down at one of the older students as if Whitman were the conductor and the student his first violinist waiting for a cue.
“Think on this now,” he was saying. “Innocent stealing. A marvelous concept, don’t you think? And one that might stir young Huck’s conscience. I search for one example.” Without changing his position, he swiveled the chair with a toe, the raised hand drifting across the fourteen eager faces. “Just one.” He drifted far enough that he could see the door behind the students, and Dr. Thomas Parks standing in silhouette.
“Page two hundred and fifty, chapter twenty-nine. And while Samuel reads, follow along.” Whitman pushed himself out of the chair and frowned great mock thunderclouds at a stumpy, powerful youngster who sat near one of the three windows. “And Samuel…when you come to it, the third word is fetching.” He fired off a quick smile. “I thought you’d want to know.”
The boy rose, thumped across the rough board floor and mounted the dais, obviously with great pride. He settled into the swivel chair with a great creaking of the springs. At least half of the faces, watching Samuel’s enthronement, shone with delighted envy, as if to say, “Oh, if only I could sit there!”
Whitman extended a hand as he limped up to Thomas. “What a pleasure,” he said, and beckoned toward the steps. He gently eased the door shut behind him. “We’re exploring the intricacies of a new book by this Twain fellow. Remarkable, really. There are at least two students who know what I’m talking about. And equally remarkable…I hear such tales from my wife.” He held both hands over his head, and Thomas caught the strong aroma of a much-used pipe, the stem of which protruded from the breast pocket of Whitman’s frock coat. “A man caught high in a tree, hands smashed in an unrelenting grip.” He rolled the R’s theatrically. “How is the poor soul doing?”
“He still lives, which is remarkable in itself,” Thomas said. “But I come on an urgent matter that will affect us all, Mr. Whitman.” He reached out and made sure the door was tightly shut. “We have cholera in the village. Right now, it is a limited outbreak.”
“Merciful heavens, I hadn’t heard. Helen has said nothing about it.”
“Have you noticed any illness among your students, sir?”
“Of those who attend, none.”
“Lethargy? Discomfort of the gut? Vomiting? Frightful headaches?”
“Believe me, Doctor, I would know. These children are as my own…would that I could adopt about half of them.”
It appeared that the schoolmaster was about to embark on a litany of how wonderful his students were, each and every one—and indeed Thomas could hear the boy Samuel’s fluent, theatrical job of reading chapter twenty-nine, with no tittering or horseplay. But Thomas cut him off.
“This is what I ask, and it is an immediate thing, sir. We can readily identify the bacillus that is reputed to accompany the cholera. We can actually culture the dreaded thing in our laboratory, humble as it is. We must have culture samples from each child.”
“Culture samples?”
“With a sample of the fecal matter, we can establish if the bacillus is harbored in the gut, sir. If we know it is there, then we can act aggressively.”
“My word.”
“I can’t exaggerate the danger of this,” Thomas said, growing impatient. “In such an epidemic of the cholera, we can expect to lose eighty percent. That is eight of ten.” He nodded toward the door. “Neither of us can imagine losing so many.” He saw anguish in Whitman’s eyes.
“The entire town must know of this,” Whitman said.
“Indeed. But even more urgent is to establish a culture for each student. It will take but a moment for each child.”
“You’ve come to do that this morning?”
“No. I cannot do it here. But at the clinic, it is a simple matter. This is what I propose.”
And fifteen minutes later, trading a reading of the new Huckleberry Finn for an adventure of another kind, the fourteen children paraded in a military line, Mr. Whitman limping along in the back, Samuel Pinkston in front like a teen-aged Ulysses Grant, the youngsters arranged by height from great to small. The least of all clasped Mr. Whitman’s free hand with both of hers. Not singled out in any way, the two Snyder children were among the rank and file.
The school was half a mile from the clinic, and Thomas pushed the gelding hard through the streets, reaching the clinic in time to warn Lucius Hardy that his laboratory was going to be busy indeed. Hardy and Bertha Auerbach quickly arranged the examination room.
“Aldrich will do what he can for us at the Clarissa,” Hardy said, “but I doubt that he’ll achieve the equal of this…like the pied piper.” They could see the line of children as the parade reached Gamble Street. But it wasn’t the fourteen children and their teacher who reached the clinic first.
It was Adelaide Crowell who saw the young man as he lashed the reins against the flanks of his mule. “Dr. Parks?” she said, and pointed. Reaching the clinic, the young man slid off the mule, snatched his hat from his head, and presented himself at the door, hat rolled in his hands along with the reins of his mule.
“Mr. Schmidt sent me to ask you,” the man blurted. The sun now broiled the hard clay of the street, and the young logger’s cloths actually steamed.
“And what am I to be asked, sir?” Thomas glanced up the street at the advancing parade.
“We got five down with the grippe,” the lad said. “Mr. Schmidt wants to know if you’re comin’ out there, or we should herd ’em all in here. Mr. Deaton, he don’t know what to do. He said you should bring the other ambulance out if you can.”
“Your name?”
“Fran Nolan.” He said it as if he wished that he weren’t. “Ain’t never seen nothing like it.”
The grippe. Maybe that was the best tactic, Thomas thought. Such a common complaint, especially as the summer months closed in. Working men, tight quarters, food prepared in the most casual way—it could be the grippe.
“Sitzberger?”
The logger nodded. “He ain’t good. His girl is with him, even. Sick something awful. Him and the Dane, and three others. Maybe more.”
“Wait for me,” Thomas said. “The men must be brought here, but there is preliminary treatment that we shall undertake out at the camp. You understand me? Wait for me. While you wait, think of the most expeditious route for the ambulance. I’ve only been to the camp on horseback. The ridge trail is far too rough.”
Nolan frowned. “I can get you there, Doc.”
“Then take your ease for a few minutes,” Thomas said, his mind spinning. “Wait. Do you know how to drive a team?”
“Sure do, Doc.”
“Then you shall.” He turned and dashed back into the clinic, to be met by Bertha Auerbach as she came down the stairs. “At the camp,” he said. “We’ll need both ambulances,” he said. “The young man out front will drive the second. I’ll take th
e gelding. We’ll want a supply of clean blankets, laudanum, morphine, the Salol, turpentine…you know what we need, if you would help me assemble the kit. And at least a half dozen sterile syringes.” The words burst from him in a flood, and the unflappable Berti waited patiently until he had finished.
“You will bring them all here?” She nodded at the doorway, where Mr. Whitman now stood, the urchins behind him.
“We must,” Thomas replied. “You will be long finished with the cultures before we return.” Hardy appeared, his hands dripping. “I must to the camp,” Thomas said. “At least five, maybe more. If we leave them there, there is no way to provide continuing treatment. Remaining there, they might as well not be treated at all.”
“I was not arguing against it,” Bertha said. “But we must be prepared. We will see to that.”
“But the children first. Include Matilda Snyder in the procedure.”
“I believe Dr. Hardy has accomplished that already.”
“Gwendolyn is here? I ordered her to come.”
“She is, and rests upstairs with the little girl. Mrs. Whitman is with them.”
“And cultured,” Hardy added.
“Thank God.” He started first toward the door and the expectant Mr. Whitman, interrupted himself to turn toward the dispensary, then stopped again. “Mr. Schmidt will find us help,” he said. “We talked.” He started to say something else, and Hardy held up a hand.
“You’re needed at the camp. We’ll tend to the children, prepare for the arrival of the ambulances, and if we have the time, confer with Mr. Aldrich about progress at the Clarissa.”
In twenty minutes, the second white ambulance pulled out of the clinic driveway, the horses tossing their heads with excitement at the new hands on their reins. From a quartering view from the rear, Thomas watched young Nolan half standing, half seated as if he were driving a Roman chariot. Howard Deaton would have blistered the air at such treatment of his pampered team and polished rig. The two horses would be blowing and lathered in ten minutes.
Comes a Time for Burning Page 18
