“I thought you said you were okay with it.”
“I am. I’m just curious.”
Lillian shrugged. “I don’t know.” She reached into a chest and brought out underthings, then went to a wardrobe and pulled out a dress. “Many of these things were donated or were found on the base. I was only kidding about the dead girl part.”
Claire doubted it, but she accepted the clothing and allowed Lillian to help her out of her nightgown and robe.
“Phew, where were you? These are filthy.”
“I don’t know.” And truly, she didn’t. She was in such a daze when she arrived at the hospital she didn’t think she could find the tunnel again.
“Right. I’ll draw you a bath. Then I’ll help you dress. No reason to get the other clothes dirty too.”
“Thank you.” She tried to put as much warmth into her tone as possible. Lillian probably didn’t want to be caring for someone as capable as Claire. At least that was how Claire interpreted her coldness.
Claire wrapped herself as best she could in the blanket from the hospital and waited for Lillian to finish with her bath. She wondered what had happened to Martine. They’d gotten to be friends and had graduated together. Then he’d gone back to Paris, and she hadn’t heard from him since the siege and chaos of the Commune. She hoped he was all right. The thought of Gounod and the other professors made her draw the blanket closer around her.
What would he make of where I am now? I certainly haven’t proven myself useful to Doctor Radcliffe yet. Once I’ve gotten dressed, I will.
Chapter Thirteen
Fort Daniels, 25 February 1871
Chad got the last wave of patients settled or under Perkins’s care and went outside to lean against the tree that would soon shade the side of the hospital. Its winter-bare branches laced together under the pale blue sky. The air was strangely warm, or maybe he had just been working that hard, his mind moving at a faster pace than his body.
How had Claire gotten to the hospital? Had she run through the shelling? It seemed unlikely for the state of her psyche.
He rubbed his eyes. He was sure the answer was obvious, he just needed a bath and sleep.
“Doctor Radcliffe?”
It was Nanette. He tried not to scowl at his quiet moments being interrupted. She could be summoning him to attend to a patient.
“Yes, Nurse?”
“Go get some rest. We can handle it from here. Doctor Perkins says to sleep a few hours, and you can relieve him tonight.”
Chad ignored the fact he was taking orders from Gregory Perkins. Scratch that. He acknowledged it but was too damn tired to care. “Tell him thank you. I’m afraid I’d only make mistakes at this point.”
“He slept last night before the attack. You didn’t.” She shrugged. “It’s obvious you’re the one who gets to rest first.”
“Thanks,” he said again.
He headed toward the barracks, but he stopped at the Negroes’ quarters first. Most of them were out helping with cleanup, but he found Lacey, an old blind mulatto woman, weaving a basket. The general had let her stay there after she lost her eyesight and take charge of the quarters.
“Is everyone all right?” he asked.
“Far as we know.” Her hands kept moving without slowing.
“So you haven’t heard from the contraband camp yet.”
“No.” She shook her head slowly, and he marveled at how she could do that and still continue to move her hands as if they and her head were parts of a different person.
“I’m going to rest for a bit, but if you hear something, send someone to the men’s barracks and tell them to find me.”
“Yes, Doctor. And if you know someone that needs a place to stay, bring ’em here to Old Lacey. We got room.”
“Thank you.” He didn’t know of anyone who’d take her up on the offer—hell, some of the white soldiers didn’t want him in the barracks with them, so they wouldn’t stay with the Negroes—but he appreciated her generosity.
The evening’s rain had given way to a warm breeze. It was unseasonably early for it to be so warm, and he wondered what it would mean for the spread of disease through the hospital. The rebel with consumption had been resting comfortably the last time Chad checked on him, but he wished he could get the man off the base. They’d been lucky so far that no one had come down with the wasting illness, and he didn’t want the prisoner to start an epidemic.
He stopped by Longchamp’s office. The man wasn’t there, but he added a telegram form to the outgoing pile of reports. Then he walked back to the barracks and found it empty. Not surprising since everyone who could was out cleaning up the base. After stretching out on his bed, he fell asleep quickly and sank.
And sank.
And sank.
He was aware, but in a more profound state of exhaustion than he’d experienced previously. He dragged his eyelids open to find he lay in a sort of stone tomb.
“Am I dead?” he asked.
“I hope not,” a familiar voice said.
He turned his head to see Iris Bailey, formerly Iris McTavish, bending over a table strewn with stone artifacts. She picked one up and examined it with a magnifying glass.
“Iris?”
She shook her head with a smile. “This place has been playing tricks on me since Edward brought one of the aether isolators down here. I hear your voice, but I don’t see you, Doctor Radcliffe.”
She glanced at him, and indeed, her gaze passed through him. All he could move were his head and face, nothing below his neck.
“How did I get here?”
“Who knows?” She put one of the artifacts down and, after making some notes, picked up another. “I’ve fallen into the past before, but haven’t managed to travel with my spirit in the present.”
Was that what he was doing? No, it must be a dream. Still, he’d take advantage of the opportunity to see what his mind made of it all.
“What did you mean in your telegram? You said you’d made an important discovery about Apollo’s Flame.”
Now she looked over with a frown. “How did you know that?”
“You sent the telegram. I only got it this week. The postmaster at the base is lazy and only sorts the mail once a week.”
“Well, if you’re one of the spirits who haunts this place, you’ll already know. We’ve found the key to the scroll that Firmin gave me in Paris. Edward is hard at work on deciphering it now. He has a knack for puzzles.”
“He’s an aetherist. Of course he does. And how are Maestro and Madame Bledsoe?”
“Johann and Marie are fine. They’re busy in the nearby city playing and acting to support our work here. You’re a very knowledgeable spirit. I’m almost tempted to believe I’m being visited by Doctor Radcliffe.”
“I can assure you it’s me. I’m not sure it’s you, though.”
She shrugged. “This is a very strange place. How is Mister O’Connell coming along with his device?”
“Still struggling with the lens materials and configuration. And I am even more motivated to proceed with my therapeutic device. Claire is here.”
Now she looked at him, her eyes wide. “Your former fiancée? How?”
“She is now a neuroticist and has gotten a grant to try some of the techniques she learned in Europe on the soldiers. We are on the cusp of negotiations if there isn’t a decisive Union victory soon, and we were just attacked last night.”
“I’m going to check the newspapers in a few days to see if you are indeed giving me tidings from beyond. If you are Chadwick Radcliffe, all I can do is warn you to be careful with the Eros Element. From what Edward has found, it may be more than we suspected. Just remember these words—Ottoman metal.”
The scene faded, and something sucked Chad through a tunnel, or that was how it felt. He opened his eyes to the barracks, where t
he sun slanted at a late-afternoon angle through the small window. In spite of the stuffiness of the room, he shivered.
What had just happened? He must have dreamed about Iris because he’d gotten the telegram.
He rolled to his feet and checked his watch. He needed to return to the hospital and relieve Perkins.
When he arrived, he walked into chaos.
* * * * *
After taking a bath and dressing, Claire helped Lillian organize the unused parts of the women’s hospital into temporary quarters for those who had been misplaced, then wandered to the mess hall for dinner. She didn’t expect much with the base’s routines having been upended. She had just reached the threshold and was about to step into the warm light when a man’s hand on her arm stopped her.
“Doctor McPhee, I’m glad to see you’re well.”
Major Longchamp was unshaven, and one arm was in a sling. He sported the same dark shadows under his eyes as the rest of the base’s inhabitants who had been up all night.
“Major Longchamp, I’m relieved to see you’re safe.”
He didn’t release his grip on her elbow. In fact, he squeezed harder. She jerked her arm away and consequences be damned, tried to detect what he was feeling and if he meant her harm.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you’re real. You are, aren’t you?” He emanated a pitiful confusion.
“As far as I know.” She rubbed the spots where she knew bruises would emerge. What’s wrong with the man? Then she recalled his calling out to Mrs. Soper and then the tunnel collapsing behind her. Of course. He was suffering from the same kind of psychic injury she’d come to cure, but an acute case due to the previous night’s events.
A couple of soldiers paused behind them, and Claire moved aside but tried to stay in the rectangle of light from the now cracked window in the door. This wasn’t exactly the place for an intervention.
“Is Mrs. Soper all right?” she asked. Perhaps the older woman would have some idea of what to do for him since she had some familiarity with him.
“She’s in an isolation room in the women’s hospital. Her injuries were too severe to put her in the general ward. She caught the worst of the house’s collapse.”
“I am truly sorry to hear that. I probably wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for her.” And whatever strange spirits guided me. The experience of the previous night was more like a half-remembered dream than an actual memory. Had she been walking while dreaming in her sleep? It would explain the strange things she’d seen.
“As far as the rescuers could tell, she was sound asleep in her bedroom when the house was shelled. I was downstairs, and the support beams protected me. How did she manage to get you out but not herself?”
“I’m sorry, but I truly don’t know.”
“You don’t, do you? Your face says you’re as confused as I am, and it doesn’t seem to me that you’re lying.”
“I’m telling you what I can remember. Is there anything I can do for her?”
He looked around and then leaned in to ask, “Have you seen any ghosts since being here?”
“Have I seen any what?” She didn’t want to say so, not even to herself. Then she would have to admit they were real.
“Any ghosts. Spirits.” He waved his hand. “The dead are thick in this place. Weren’t you aware?”
“N-no.”
“And now you’re lying. Just beware, Doctor McPhee, if they take an interest in you, it means they want you to join their little party.” He shook his head and wandered into the darkness. Half the exterior lamps on the base were damaged, and they’d opted not to light the others in case of another attack and a breach of the walls. In spite of the air being more damp than cold, a shiver started at the base of Claire’s spine and made the back of her neck quiver.
“Are you all right?” a friendly voice asked.
Claire turned to see Patrick O’Connell.
“I think so. I just had the oddest interaction with Major Longchamp.”
“Oh?” He held the door for her. “Are you going in?”
“Yes, thank you.” Yes, she wanted to get out of the darkness of the evening. Who knew what lurked out there?
“I’m glad I ran into you,” O’Connell said. “I’m going to bring dinner to the hospital, and I could use some help carrying the trays.”
* * * * *
“Where the hell have you been?” Perkins asked Chad. He struggled to cauterize a wound as two nurses held the soldier down.
“I went to rest as you recommended.”
“I did no such thing. Why would I suggest you leave in the middle of the worst day we’ve had in months?”
Chad looked around for Nanette but didn’t see her. Dammit, what was the woman playing at? These were people’s lives.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Set some bones. I’ve got them lined up in the barrel room. I hope we’ve got more laudanum somewhere. Even with conserving it, we’re running low on that and other pain medicines.”
“But we just got a shipment.”
“You don’t have to tell me that. We can worry about it later.”
Chad thought about telling Gregory he should take something to calm down, but he was more irked at himself. He should have checked in before he left for his nap. Or had Perkins said something that had been misinterpreted? There was no time to find out now.
Bryce McPhee caught up to Chad before he walked on to the ward. “I heard that. Do you need me to do anything?”
“How is your arm?” Chad asked.
“It continues to heal.” He flexed his fingers, which were the size and color they ought to be.
“I might need an extra hand if you can spare it. And I hope you’ve got a strong stomach. Crushed and broken bones aren’t pretty.”
“One hand is all I’ve got, but it’s yours. I’m sure I’ve seen worse. Uncle Allen used to joke that nothing could disturb my appetite.”
Chad smiled at the memory of his almost father-in-law. “Then you’ll do fine.”
He opened the door and saw nurses moving around the beds offering comfort where they could.
“Thank goodness you’re here, Doctor,” one of them, a pretty blonde girl who looked not much older than Bryce, said. “We’ve done what we could, but some of the crushed bones are beyond our abilities. Or we need a man’s strength to wedge things back where they should be.”
Chad glanced at Bryce, who’d gone pale but not green. That was a good sign.
“Fine. You triage, we’ll set,” Chad said.
“Right this way.”
The rhythm of the work was punctuated by moans, screams, and curses. Some of the bones would need further work, and he wished they had a surgeon who could manage to put things back together without infection setting in. He feared at least a quarter of the patients would require amputations, but they’d have to wait for Perkins and his saw. Meanwhile, he’d patch them up as best he could.
By the time he and Bryce reached the end of the ward, both of them were exhausted and sweating from their efforts.
“We’ve done the best we could,” he told the young man. “How did your other arm hold up? Don’t think I didn’t see you using it when you shouldn’t have.”
Bryce shrugged and winced. “It’s been better.”
Chad looked under the sling and saw where blood oozed through the bandage. “I’ll have the nurses put a new poultice on that tonight.” He motioned the little blonde nurse over. “See to it that he gets taken care of.”
She looked at Bryce, and her cheeks pinked. “I’ll be happy to, Doctor. By the way, there’s dinner for you in the staff office. I’ll make sure he gets something to eat too.”
“Thank you.” He could only smile and shake his head as he walked to his office to make some quick notes on what he’d don
e to whom beyond what the nurses put in the official charts. Even in the worst circumstances, girls would find boys and boys would find girls.
It’s what keeps the human race going.
He opened the door and stepped back. There, asleep with her head on his desk, was Claire McPhee.
Chapter Fourteen
Fort Daniels, 25 February 1871
Chad paused and looked at Claire. She held her glasses loosely in one hand, and her dark copper lashes made little C’s on her lightly freckled cheeks. His desk lamp burned low, and he could see she had been reading something. Ah, the charts he had pulled out for her. He had to admire her persistence in doing what she came to do even amid the chaos of an attack and its aftermath.
He wondered if anything of hers besides her glasses and nightclothes had survived the shelling of the general’s house. Not that her possessions mattered—the important thing was that she was safe, even if not exactly sound due to her previous injuries and the treatment she’d endured for them. But how lost would she be once it all hit her? He and the others at least had some grounding in the past, good memories of love they could return to.
And that was what she wanted to bring the boys with battle hysteria to, their good memories. Was it because she’d lost so many of her own?
He wished he could run a finger along her cheek and erase the tear whose trail ended in an extra sparkling freckle by her ear. He’d imagined them working together so many times before the accident, he the doctor and she the tinkerer who would invent medical devices that would help his patients, miracle machines no one had dared to envision. They had talked about their dreams, especially once the war started and the path had opened up for him to have a career that would give him the chance to treat all patients, not just the ones who shared his dark skin, and possible patronage and recommendations in the future. At the very least, the number of Negroes fleeing north would give him a clientele.
Then the accident had happened, shattering her memory and his hopes that they would be partners in all things.
“Ahem,” he said and cleared his throat.
She bolted into a sitting position and fumbled to put her glasses on, which ended up being adorably askew due to the missing arm. He would have to speak to Major Longchamp about ordering replacement frames. He could transfer the lenses, one of the many things he’d had to learn to do as a field doctor and then in Paris.
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