Mercer's Belles

by Heather B. Moore

  “Very good, Pearl. The baby is moving well and has a strong heartbeat. How old are you, dear?”

  “Seventeen, ma’am.”

  Not as young as she looked, which was a relief. Younger girls had harder births. Cora nodded. “And you, Sally?”

  “I’m twenty, just a few weeks ago.”

  “Pearl, you need three meals a day and plenty of water. You also need good rest at night, perhaps a nap in the afternoon. Exercise and fresh air are important, but we can’t risk anyone seeing you above decks. So pace the room several times a day, open the porthole regularly.”

  Sally nodded. “Anything you say, Nurse Martin. I’ll make sure she does it all.”

  “Take care of yourself too, Sally.” Cora smiled. “You can’t help Pearl if you’re not healthy.”

  Both girls smiled in return, some of the terror gone from their gazes. They had the exact same eyes, big, round, and a beguiling shade of jade green. Pearl had more freckles than Sally on their matching white skin. Pretty, both of them. Maybe they will find those husbands in Seattle without a problem. They’ll certainly need someone to provide for them. Cora said a silent prayer of thanks that she had not been with child when Thomas died, that he’d not left her with the burden of another life. Seven years and not a single pregnancy. Cora saw it as yet another failure on her part, another way she was found wanting. She was deeply familiar with other women giving birth, but would she ever know it for herself?

  Cora had started training as a midwife shortly after her marriage. Thomas would not allow her to work in the mill anymore, but she longed for something to fill the hours. When she heard that the local midwife was looking for an apprentice, she’d carefully broached the subject with her husband. In the end, he liked the idea of extra income and had given permission. It had soured Cora’s stomach to need his permission. But at least she had found something that ignited fire in her soul like nothing ever had. A fire that grew tenfold when she stepped into the battlefield surgery tent.

  Cora pressed up to standing. “First thing—you both need food. I’ll go to the kitchens myself and be back soon.”

  Cora picked up her water bucket, stumbled to the door as the room rocked side to side.

  “Nurse Martin?” Sally called out.

  Cora turned. “Yes?”

  “Thank you. We feel so much better now.”

  “Good. I’m glad. Rest while I go fetch the food.”

  Cora stepped into the hall, leaned against the vibrating wall, and took a long breath. A pregnant woman on Mercer’s ship of virgins. Poor girls. What will we do when the baby comes? She looked up and down the empty hall. I guess there’s nothing for it. Good thing I brought my midwife bag.

  She wanted to run and tell Albert, to have a second set of capable hands caring for the girl, but she started toward the kitchens instead. Pearl needed her; Cora certainly couldn’t risk her place on the ship now.

  Roger Conant came around the corner. “No one will be leaping off the railing tonight, fair nurse. Our tragic girl is all settled into bed, snoring like a pirate thanks to Cunningham’s laudanum.”

  Cora shook her head at his tireless humor. “Thank you.” Another slam of water rocked the ship. Roger helped steady her, his hands gripping her shoulders. When the world leveled, she noticed he looked at her with his token curiosity. “What is it, Mr. Conant?”

  “He asked after you.”

  A roll of heat moved through her core. “Who?”

  He clicked his tongue. “You know exactly who. Our gladiator doctor.”

  She kept her face neutral. “Well, I’m sure he’s overrun.”

  Roger shook his head. “He wasn’t asking for a nurse, silly woman. He asked after you.”

  Cora quickly looked down at her bucket. “I must fetch some more water.”

  Roger didn’t release her shoulders. “I might be persuaded to convey a message back. What would you say?”

  Caught off guard, Cora’s jaw dropped open. “I . . . uh . . . I don’t think—”

  Roger lifted a hand. “He is my friend. You are my friend. I feel it my duty to help while you are parted by circumstances.” He smiled at her increased shock. “Oh, yes. He told me what happened.”

  “Mr. Conant, I appreciate your concern. But there’s no . . .” A swell of desire filled her chest. She pressed her teeth together, considering. She looked up at Roger; he leaned forward expectantly. She steadied her resolve. “Please tell Dr. Cunningham that I appreciate his concern and hope he is faring well.”

  Roger’s eyes warmed. “I’ll let him know.”

  Cora nodded, nervous energy bubbling in her blood. “Now I must go, Conant.” She stepped back. “Go write in that ever-present notebook of yours.”

  He half grinned. “I think I shall. I’ll write all about our savior nurse, her battered water bucket, and her hidden emotions. And then about our giant of a doctor and his yearnings for a tall nurse at his side.”

  Cora rolled her eyes. “You’re obnoxious.”

  Conant threw back his head and laughed. Then he bowed dramatically. “Thank you, Nurse Martin.”

  Cora shook her head and maneuvered around him, leaving him laughing as he walked in the opposite direction. She forced her mind off Albert and back to the poor pregnant woman and her sister.

  What will Roger write when a baby’s cry echoes down this hall?

  January 29, 1866

  The Upper Saloon

  Cora sat in the saloon, the favorite gathering place of the passengers, and focused on the book in her hands. The saloon was long and narrow, dotted with square tables at one end, with an open space in the middle and a sleek grand piano on the other end. The walls were paneled in yellow oak, the floor dark walnut. Simple, wide chandeliers hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly from the movement of the ship and casting a lovely glow throughout the room.

  The ship had a small library, and Cora had managed to find a book on herbal remedies for common ailments. Content to listen to the background sounds of Miss Ida Barlow at the piano and the comforting hum of conversation, Cora enjoyed her quiet corner table. Several of the women had pulled chairs into a large circle in the middle of the room and were busy knitting with the great skeins of yarn Mr. Mercer had produced for them. Everyone was in high spirits, the sickness of the past weeks forgotten.

  “Do you not wish to knit, Mrs. Martin?”

  Cora looked up from a page on the pain-relieving qualities of St. John’s wort to find Mr. Mercer standing over her table. His fiery, strange hair always caught her off guard, but his greasy smile made the effect far worse. She stiffened so as not to flinch away. “No, thank you, Mr. Mercer. I prefer to read. Alone.”

  Alone, Mercer. Go away.

  “That’s too bad. You really should socialize with the other women; you’re on your own far too often. And it’s important to work on your domestic skills. Don’t you want your new husband to have some nice warm socks?”

  Cora gripped the edges of the book. Mercer walked the halls of the ship with a thick air of superiority, dispensing unsolicited advice to all the ladies like some impressive father figure, pulling apart couples, breaking up card games, insisting on early bedtimes, and gathering groups to spout sermons about purity and honesty—only to be found sneaking off with his own choice of young lady soon after. He’d become quite a joke among the crew and passengers. Roger Conant had taken to calling him Old Red and often sent groups of girls into fits of giggles with melodramatic impressions of the odd leader.

  Bite your tongue. Be polite. Even if he’s a detestable twit.

  Cora forced a ladylike smile. “You forget, Mr. Mercer, that I’m a nurse and a widow. I have many skills and no need for another husband. Enjoy your evening.” Cora lowered her head and focused her eyes on her book, hoping he would honor her dismissal and go pester one of the younger girls. He stood there for a brief moment and then spun away in retreat. Cora half smiled and sighed with relief. She flipped the page and read only a few sentences before another masc
uline shadow fell over her book.

  “Good evening, fair nurse.” Roger Conant grinned down at her, looking dashing in a black suit and tan waistcoat.

  “Hello, Mr. Conant.”

  “Please save me from the infernal clicking of these knitting needles and take a turn with me up on deck. It’s a pleasant evening.”

  Cora smiled, suddenly noticing how loud the needles had become. Some fresh air sounded nice; she shut her book. “I’d love a walk.” She took his offered elbow and let him guide her to her room, where she dropped off her book and retrieved her coat. Tonight she wore a cream shirtwaist and indigo-blue skirt. Simple, with no embellishments except the enchanting depth of the color. Her green coat was a fine compliment to the skirt. She’d braided her long hair and coiled it at the base of her neck.

  “You look lovely, Mrs. Martin.”

  “You’ve a silver tongue, Mr. Conant. I look quite normal.”

  He laughed heartily, the noise echoing in the stairwell as they ascended. “I promise my tongue is true and my words sincere. You are a beautiful woman, unmarred by all the fancy frippery most women insist on donning.”

  Cora blushed, unable to ignore his generous compliments. “Thank you, Mr. Conant.”

  “Roger, please. We’ve become friends these last weeks, and I’m not much for stiff formality.”

  “Neither am I. I’ll call you Roger if you’ll call me Cora.”

  “With pleasure, Cora. The name suits you.”

  They strolled toward the front of the ship, walking slowly, the crisp winter air a pleasant relief from the hot saloon. Several other couples and groups had come up to enjoy the night air. Cora tilted her head back to admire the vast fabric of stars, brilliant and thick. The ship cut a steady line through the waves, a stiff wind from the south gaining strength. She’d come to relish the solitude of being at sea, the vastness of the ocean all around and sky above. Freedom scented every breath.

  “Mercer plans to sell all those knitted goods,” Roger said, “in order to help make up some of his costs.”

  Cora’s brow furrowed. “He told me they were gifts for the future husbands.” She shook her head. “The man is a confusion of schemes.”

  Roger grinned. “Well said. I might have to borrow that for my writings.”

  “Be my guest.” She gave him a shy, pleased smile. “Will you go back to New York, Roger? Or stay on in the West?”

  “I’m not sure yet. San Francisco may prove too irresistible. I’ve heard so many great things. Last night, Albert told me all about the mile-wide Golden Gate Strait connecting San Francisco to the Pacific and the beguiling fog and crush of new buildings.”

  At the mention of Albert’s name, a spark of heat sizzled on the back of Cora’s neck. She’d yet to see him face to face, but the time away from him had done nothing to cool her attraction. Albert and Roger had become close friends, and she wondered if Roger made it a point to talk to her about him.

  “Sounds incredible,” she said calmly.

  “For certain. Albert went there for—”

  “MAN OVERBOARD!”

  Cora and Roger froze, the burst of words knifing through the air. They looked at each other in shock and then took off toward the call for help. Cora picked up her skirts and ran, keeping pace with Roger. They flew past several other people, who’d been paralyzed by the unsettling declaration. Cora saw the shape of a life preserver hanging in the shadows and cut over to rip it off the wall. She met up with a small group leaning over the railing near the front bow. “Take this!” she yelled, shoving the preserver out. The man who turned to her was Albert, his face wide with fear, dark hair windblown across his forehead. His eyes flashed at the sight of her.

  “Cora,” he breathed.

  She blinked back at him, reveling at the pleasure on his face before she remembered what they were doing. “Take it. Throw it out to him.” She pushed the rescue device into Albert’s hands. If anyone had the strength and coordination to get it to the man in the waves, he did.

  Albert startled, looked at the white ring, and then snatched it from her hands. Cora moved to the side, giving him plenty of space. She squinted down at the black water, trying to find the man. “There!” Roger yelled from the other side of Albert. He pointed to the left. Cora marveled at how small the man looked, bobbing in the waves, arms thrashing.

  “We must get him before he’s pulled back to the screw,” a young crewman yelled as he ran toward the railing. “Captain is slowing the ship, but it takes time.”

  Albert wound the ring’s rope in his hand, leaned over the railing, gauged the distance, and then hurled with all his might. The target looked dead on; the man reached out. But a heavy wave rolled up behind him, surging out of the darkness to push him violently sideways. The ship took the brunt of the wave’s strength, rocking sharply. Everyone on deck lurched backward, scrambling for footing. Cora spread her feet wide and barely stopped herself from falling. She rushed back to the railing, Albert beside her.

  He swore under his breath. “Where did he go?” Albert yelled out, reeling the icy preserver back in, his face hard with disappointment. “Can anyone see him?”

  Cora worried the poor man had been slammed into the side of the ship by the wave. Or worse, pulled under to the mercy of the slicing screw. Everyone along the rail searched, heads and eyes snapping back and forth. The wind had chopped up the sea, and Cora strained her eyes, panic building in her gut. She looked at Albert. “The water is freezing.”

  He knew instantly what she meant. The man’s body had little chance of surviving the cold waves while he waited for rescue. “I know,” he whispered back. “Keep looking, Cora. It’s all we can do.” He nodded toward the unforgiving sea.

  “Can’t you lower the boats?” Roger begged the young sailor.

  He shook his head, face grim. “Not until the ship stops.”

  “It’ll be too late by then,” Roger countered, shoulders sagging.

  The sailor just stared back, blinking helplessly.

  Cora knew exactly how he felt. She leaned farther over the railing, trying to find the man in the chop, her mind telling her he was already gone, her heart holding out hope. What a horrible way to die. I’d rather face the battlefield than the waves. Going under the black water would feel like that basement room . . . She shuddered, her hand slipping from the rail. Albert caught her around the waist, pulled her back. The momentum made her turn, so she faced him, fully enclosed in his arms.

  “It’ll do no good to go swimming after him,” Albert said, his voice low and deep. He made no move to release her.

  Flustered and not sure she was breathing correctly, all she could say was “I’m sorry.” She lifted her chin to look up at him; he looked down, his gray eyes made dark in the shadow of night.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, voice gruffer than before.

  Cora nodded. “We had . . . uh . . . better . . .”

  Albert nodded back. “Yes.”

  At the same moment, they parted, moving away from each other. Cora tried to find her breath and ignore the heat left behind by Albert’s arms. Albert moved back to the rail, picked up the preserver again. She stood for a moment, unsure what to do.

  Stop it! A man is dying or already dead.

  The Continental had slowed significantly. Sailors readied the boats.

  Cora stepped next to Albert. “Dr. Cunningham, should I ready hot water and blankets?”

  Albert scanned the rough waves, cringed. “No, Mrs. Martin. I’m afraid it’s too late for our man.”

  She nodded, allowing a rush of emotion to sting the back of her eyes before she pushed it back down—a well-practiced professional skill that brought back painful memories of the battlefield and Thomas. She remained at Albert’s side as the rescue boats hit the sea, lanterns held out from the bows.

  The crew searched valiantly for two hours. Albert stayed by Cora’s side most of that time. He replayed the moment the man fell into the water over and over in his head. Albert had been walk
ing alone, hands deep in his pockets, thinking seriously of finding the woman now standing beside him, when a noise had lifted his head. He’d looked up just in time to see the man pitch over the railing, legs tumbling through the air. No one had seen exactly what made him fall. It was soon discovered that his name was Kinny Foster; he was a new cook, his first time aboard, and likely not more than eighteen. That was all anyone knew at the moment.

  Cora shivered beside Albert. He took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Go to bed. There’s no more to be done.”

  She lifted weary eyes to him. “I can’t sleep. It’s so . . . awful.”

  “It certainly is.” He let his hands linger on her shoulders for a brief moment and then folded his arms to keep from touching her more. “If only I’d thrown the ring a few moments earlier.”

  She shook her head. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. Even if he’d had a hold on it—that wave . . .” A frustrated grunt. “I hate that we couldn’t do anything to help him.”

  “Me too. So like the battlefield.”

  Albert nodded, sighed as the image of the young man’s frightened eyes filled his head. He’d seen that look many times on the men in his tent surgeries during the war. He’d seen it on dozens of patients. The fear of pain, the paralyzing terror of death. The hope it would all be avoided, while knowing it could not. He would never grow accustomed to that look, no matter how many times he confronted it. It was a great comfort that Cora shared that feeling, understood it.

  Turning slightly, he studied Cora’s profile, realizing that she understood the complicated depths of that look and the moments that caused it more than anyone else he’d met. She knew hardship as intimately as he. Few people understood the complicated emotions of being a surgeon, of being the person who faced that haunted look over and over, often with no solution or relief for it. But Cora Martin did.

  He stepped closer to her, allowing his arm to press into her shoulder. She didn’t move away.

  “I knew Kinny,” she whispered.

  Albert’s mouth dropped open. “What? How?”