Sawbones (22 page)

“Um, I am sure Sergeant Washington can help you with wrapping your shoulder. He seems a competent young man. Do any soldiers in your regiment have experience as an orderly?” I corked the carbolic acid–solution bottle and tried to move away. He pulled me forward and cupped my cheek with one hand.

“No,” he whispered, his breath light on my ear. I closed my eyes and tried to focus.

“Foster is allowing me to teach some men basic first aid. I will teach one of your men when you return. If I'm here still,” I said, my voice low and strained. Kindle pressed his lips on my neck just below my ear. I leaned into the hand cupping my face. He pulled me closer and his lips became more insistent, sending shivers down the left side of my body.

“We mustn't,” I said, without conviction. “Waterman…”

“Is snoring.”

I listened and heard a long, rattling snore. “He should sleep on his side.”

“You should stop thinking about Waterman.” Kindle took my earlobe between his teeth and gently tugged. I reached out for the lamp, turned the wick down to the barest glow, and gave in.

My hands found their way to his broad back, and pulled him closer, raking my fingernails across the smooth skin. He trembled and said my name, before pulling the collar of my shirt open and kissing my shoulder.

“William,” I said, breathless. “We are proving every criticism of female physicians correct.”

“Which ones?” The scrape of his stubble contrasting with the softness of his lips—good heavens, his tongue—made my stomach burn with what must have been desire. No one had ever made me feel the way he did.

“Emotions.” I couldn't think. “That women cannot separate our emotions…our patients…Inappropriate.”

“Have you fallen in love with many of your patients?” He spoke, but his lips never left my neck.

“My patients are mostly women and children.” I grasped the hand still cupping my face and turned my lips to it, kissing it frantically.

“Good.”

I grasped his head in my hands and pulled his lips away from my neck. “Stop. I cannot think when you do that.”

“You think too much.” He dipped his head to my neck again, and I didn't stop him.

“One of us has to keep our head about us.”

“Why?”

“You are leaving, in six hours, to be gone for two weeks. I may be gone when you return. Foster will put me on the first patrol bound for Sill when the new doctor comes.”

Kindle stopped and slowly lifted his head. His eyes were clear and challenging. “You and I both know you will be here.”

Leaving was precisely what I'd wanted since the moment I stepped foot in Fort Richardson. Now, the idea of leaving and never seeing Kindle again was almost as terrifying as the bounty hunters on my trail. The longer I stayed, the more likely I would be discovered.

I tried to pull away. “Aren't you arrogant?”

Kindle held me fast. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Pretending I am nothing to you.”

I lowered my head and pinched the bridge of my nose against a headache starting behind my eyes.

“Too much corn mash?” Kindle teased.

I looked up at him. “I suppose,” I said, though I knew it to be the same persistent headache I'd battled since the massacre.

Kindle pulled me to him. “Take care of yourself, Laura.” His strong arms encircled me, and his lips found my neck again. I leaned into him and pushed the fears of my uncertain future out of my mind.

I placed my mouth next to his ear and whispered, “William, it isn't that you mean nothing to me, it's that you mean too much.”

Kindle stilled as my lips kissed his scar from temple to jaw, moved to his chin, and finally his mouth. It was as if an entire new world had opened to me, one where colors were brighter, emotions were heightened, pain and suffering and unhappiness were unknown. During those moments alone with Kindle I understood how lust and desire, love and longing, could start wars and ruin lives.

Our kiss changed from passionate to tender and back, until finally playful. “Heavens,” Kindle teased, eyes dancing.

“You're mocking me.”

“Hardly.” His expression turned serious. “You
will
be here when I return.”

I stared into the eyes of a man used to getting what he wanted, a man who no doubt believed my objections to being an Army wife had been swept away on a wave of desire. Kindle didn't know this interlude was an ending, not a beginning. Selfishly, I wanted to hold this memory within me, to take it out in some distant future when I needed to remember that for a brief moment I had known and understood passion, and love.

If I allowed myself I could see a future full of possibility, of happiness. But, I could also see the disappointment on his face when I told him about Catherine Bennett, about the lies and accusations that drove me from New York City, about the need to hide, to be someone else. To run for the rest of my life. Sneaking away while he was on patrol would be cowardly, yes, but I could not face his expression of horror when he learned all, nor the rejection sure to follow.

“Laura?”

I held his gaze and lied without blinking. “Yes.”

“What do you mean there is no water?”

I stared at the tools necessary to illustrate to these men the concept of sterilization and cleanliness to reduce the chance of infection in the field—clean cloths, carbolic acid, water, lye soap, whisky in a pinch—and thought of the time wasted the day before organizing and readying my presentation. Foster had known the challenges these men would bring up yet had not informed me. Clearly, my impression he was humoring me to keep me busy and out of his way had been correct. I felt foolish and more than a little angry.

The five men tried to hide their amusement. Joseph Murphy spoke first. “Well, he don't mean there ain't no water, necessarily, though there are plenty of times when there ain't. What Sullivan is trying to say, Doc, is if we're pinned down and the choice is between drinking water and washing our hands with it, I suspect our mouths will win that battle every time.”

“You crossed so many rivers and cricks between here and Austin it's hard to believe water would be in short supply,” Sullivan said. “But, see, out there”—he motioned to the west—“that there is the Llano Estacado. Ain't no water up there, and that's where them Indians are. When they ain't hiding out in Palo Duro Canyon.”

“Any water we might chance upon is white as snow but smells like the bottom of a shitter. Excuse my language,” Murphy said.

I waved the profanity away.

“You can imagine what it tastes like.”

“I think I'd rather not.”

“We'd rather not drink it,” Sullivan said. “But sometimes you have to.”

“Whatever you do, do not use it to clean a wound,” I said.

“Truth be told, ma'am, most of the time men get sick from the cooking more than from fighting Indians.”

“I can count on one hand the times we've fought Indians on patrol. We spend most of our time chasing their trail and never seeing hide nor hair of them,” Murphy said.

I lifted the bottle of whisky. “I suppose suggesting you use whisky to clean—” The men's laughter cut off my comment. “Yes, that's what I thought.” I replaced the bottle.

“Don't look so sad, Doc. This hasn't been a total waste of time. You got me outta stable duty, and for that I thank you,” Sullivan said, to the general laughter of the others. The men walked toward the door.

“Where are you going? I'm not finished,” I said. “I have you for thirty more minutes and I'm going to teach you what you need to know. Whether you use it or not will be up to you, your commanding officer, and the circumstances, but at least you will know what needs to be done.”

Almost every point I made was met with skepticism and frontier logic, the latter of which I struggled to contradict. But, their resistance to change was no different from what I encountered from men almost daily back East. The best I could do was to give them the correct information, teach them how to use it, and hope one day they would remember what they'd learned and put it to use.

The bugle sounded for sick call and the men wandered off to their duties. I cleaned up my tools and was wondering what I would find to do for the rest of the day with no patients or projects when four men, stooped over and grasping their stomachs, filed into the south ward. One soldier heaved and shuffled as quickly as he could to the latrine at the end of the ward. We heard him vomit and soon after heard the
splat
of diarrhea. The other men stood at the end of the bed and appeared to be concentrating on holding their bowels together. I examined each man thoroughly, though even with the most cursory examination I would have come to the same conclusion. Waterman and I settled the men in the beds closest to the latrines and made them as comfortable as possible.

“Is the creek the primary source of water for the fort?” I asked Waterman.

“It's the only source.”

“We are disposing of the hospital waste downstream, like I requested?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“What about the rest of the fort?”

Waterman shrugged. “Whatever's most convenient.”

I chastised myself for not mentioning my concerns about the creek pollution to Foster.

“Get Martin to boil water, and lots of it. I'll round up a couple of laundresses to watch over these men while we inspect the creek.”

My inspection of the creek was delayed with the steady arrival of more sick soldiers. The south ward was soon overflowing and white soldiers were forced—most unwillingly—to the Negro ward.

“We have forty men, twenty beds, and eight latrines,” I said to Waterman.

“And counting. We need more room. And latrines.”

“Go to the quartermaster, get as many tents as you can. I'll speak to Foster.”

When I arrived at Foster's quarters, he and Harriet were sitting in his parlor, drinking tea and planning a dinner party. It was such an incongruous scene from what I'd left it was like walking into a dream.

“Dysentery?” Foster said in horror.

“Yes.”

“How many men are ill?” Harriet asked.

“As of ten minutes ago, forty.”

“Forty! Are you sure?” Foster said.

I was becoming inured to Foster's slights and doubts. “I saw enough dysentery in the war to know it when I see it. According to the logs, it's been a regular complaint. This spike is most likely due to the increased number of soldiers on fort and the lack of oversight regarding the dumping of waste.”

Foster's mustache twitched at the vague reprimand.

I continued. “The hospital cannot hold that number of men under normal circumstances, let alone with this complaint. We need a temporary ward and a latrine dug well away from the fort and water supply. I hope I have not overstepped my bounds, but I sent Waterman to the quartermaster to procure as many tents as possible.”

“You'll need men, I suppose.”

“Yes. A detail to set up the tents and help stock them and one to dig the latrines.”

Foster stood. “You'll have whatever you need. Excuse me, Miss Mackenzie.” Foster called for his orderly and retired to his office.

Harriet gathered her paper and pencil and stood as well. “What can I do to help?”

“Make sure the soldier who cooks for the officers, women, and children is boiling water before using it. The last thing we need is for the women and children to get sick as well. We will be stretched thin enough with the men.”

Harriet nodded. “What else?”

“Come find me. I am sure there will be something for you to do.”

Within two hours, the detail of soldiers Foster had assigned me erected the open-air tent and dug a latrine forty feet long and three feet deep with a crude bench for the men to sit on while they attempted to relieve their bowels. With a kerchief covering his mouth and nose, the youngest soldier and newest recruit threw lime on the excrement to minimize the miasma.

Harriet arrived shortly afterward and worked alongside me through the night, with occasional help from the nurses, orderlies, and a few officers' wives, trying to make the sick men comfortable and encouraging them to drink the water Corporal Martin was constantly boiling. Dysentery is a debilitating, degrading ailment, with no cure, that had to run its course. All I could do was manage their pain as best as possible and hope it didn't turn chronic, as it had for Jethro, and kill anyone.

I was glad Kindle was on patrol. With his body fighting to heal his two wounds, he would have been more susceptible to illnesses such as dysentery. It was difficult enough watching men I didn't know suffer, but keeping distance and objectivity was part and parcel of the medical profession, and a skill I never had difficulty cultivating. Watching Kindle suffer from the degrading symptoms of dysentery, and being helpless to heal him, might have been more than I could handle.

Since parting from Kindle in the small hours of the morning, my emotions had been in turmoil, battling with my logic and reason, and for the first time in years, they were winning as often as not. Nothing had changed; I would never be an Army wife or mistress, and Kindle would ask me to give up medicine. I knew Kindle was stubborn, but I wasn't sure he knew the depth of my intractability as well. I would never give up medicine. Even for love. Even for Captain William Kindle. Until I thought of the way he touched me, the sound of his low voice in my ear, the scratch of his stubble on my chin as he kissed me, his shudders as my fingers traced the muscles on his back.

As I had dozens of times, I shook the memories free and went back to work, thankful for the distraction, and guilty for it.

At two in the morning, the temperature dropped and the rains came.

I stood at the edge of the tent and looked out at the latrine. Soaked through and miserable, eleven men sat hunched over, most trying and failing to defecate. Harriet walked up beside me. We stood in silence for a few minutes.

“We're going to need more blankets,” she said.

I nodded. “We've cleaned Franklin out. I'll go to town in the morning.” Another man walked out of the tent and into the rain to the latrine. “Need help, Private Cahill?” I asked.

“No, ma'am. Thank you.”

I sighed.

“What is it?” Harriet said.

“I hate being so useless.”

“Useless? Look at everything you've done in less than a day.”

“Yes, but I cannot help these men. Cure them. They suffer and all I do is watch their misery and offer a blanket.”

Lanterns hung from the tent poles but barely broke through the darkness. A rush of rain pounded on the tent, making it almost impossible to talk. Alice Strong walked past me and Harriet, offering each soldier watered-down whisky to drink. Even in the semidarkness, I could tell she was exhausted.

“You and Alice should go rest.”

“What about you?”

“I drank a cup of Waterman's coffee. I'll be awake until eighteen seventy-two.”

“I'll stay with you.”

“No. I'll need you here tomorrow when I go to town.”

I knew Harriet studied me but I didn't turn to face her. “You said you'd seen this enough in the war to know it was dysentery. Were you a nurse?”

My shoulders sagged. Did I say that? I couldn't remember. Couldn't this woman let me be, even for a day? Is this what my life was going to be like, constantly trying to decide on the best lie to tell? I was exhausted, mind and body, and did not want to argue or spar with Harriet Mackenzie. As I watched the soldiers suffer in the rain, I'd had enough.

I faced Harriet. “When this is over, I will tell you everything. Until then, will you please leave me be and let me do my job?”

After a moment, she inclined her head and went to Alice. The young woman listened, looked at me, and followed Harriet out of the tent, leaving me alone with forty suffering soldiers who I could not help.

I was draping a blanket over Private Cahill's shivering shoulders when Dr. Ezra Kline walked into the quarantine tent. I eased Cahill down onto his cot, but kept my eyes on Dr. Kline, who was scanning the tent in search of someone. When his eyes landed on me, his face paled and his eyes widened.

“Rest, Private.” I patted Cahill's chest.

“I'll try, Doc.”

I walked across the tent to Dr. Kline.

“Dr. Elliston?”

“Yes.” I offered my hand. His hand was warm and plump, with short, squared-off fingers, the hands of a researcher, not a surgeon. “Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Kline. I've heard so many good things about you.”

“I've heard many things about you as well.” There was disapproval in his eyes. I'd expected nothing less.

“Let me brief you.”

I ushered him around the tent, telling him all that had been done over the last two days to stop the outbreak before it became unmanageable and introducing him to Harriet and the officers' wives. He listened attentively, his head bent in concentration and hands behind his back like the professor he was, with only the occasional question.

“I finally had the chance to inspect the creek this morning. A little more than a mile upstream we found the carcasses of about fifty dead dogs. Private Murphy told me they purged the fort of stray dogs two weeks ago. Instead of burying or burning the dogs, the soldiers dumped them in the creek. The cattle from the wagon train I was with is also using the creek in the same area. That, in combination with the dumping of fort waste near the hospital, is what I believe has caused this outbreak.”

Dr. Kline nodded. “And, what is your recommendation?”

“I sent Privates Murphy and Sullivan to town to procure four barrels and told them to drive up the creek until they find uncontaminated water. They should be back sometime this afternoon with fresh water. I've also ordered all the cooks to boil their water before they use it. I intended to speak with Lieutenant Colonel Foster on the possibility of digging a well. I am not sure the landscape will support it, but it might not hurt to try.”

“Excellent work, Dr. Elliston. You did everything I would have, and a few things I wouldn't have thought of. When you are finished here, come to my office so we can speak about the rest of your duties.”

I inclined my head in acknowledgment.

“Miss Mackenzie,” Dr. Kline said, and left.

I turned and saw Harriet standing nearby, listening.

“Dr. Kline,” Harriet said.

I busied myself at the quarantine for as long as my nerves could stand, then walked across the parade ground to the hospital.

He sat at the desk reading the surgeon's log, his half-moon spectacles perched on the end of his nose. The sunlight from the window streamed through the bushy halo of hair around the back of his head, making him look like a portly angel auditing Saint Peter's heavenly list. I couldn't help but smile. He would have hated that description.

“Uncle Ezra.”

The old man turned to me with a frown on his brow and lips but the eyes peering over the top of his glasses were full of mischief.