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He wasn’t in his first youth, but he was also by no means near middle-aged. His face was rugged from the sun and perhaps the war—he had that look about him, the look of a soldier. And from just the little of him she’d seen in action, he was most probably an officer. He was used to giving orders and he expected to be obeyed. And he is a man who cares about others.
Mercy raised her voice and repeated, “I will set up my medical supplies near the bar. If thee isn’t nursing a friend or loved one, I need thee to get buckets of hot water and begin swabbing down the floor area between patients.
“And get the word out that anyone who has any stomach cramps or nausea must come here immediately for treatment. If patients come in at the start of symptoms, I have a better chance of saving their lives. Now please, let’s get busy. The cholera won’t stop until we force it out.”
The people stared at her.
She opened her mouth to urge them, but Lon Mackey barked, “Get moving! Now!”
And everyone began moving.
Lon mobilized the shifting of the patients and the scrubbing. And, according to the female doctor’s instructions, a large pot was set up outside the swinging doors of the saloon to boil water for the cleaning.
He shook his head. A female doctor. What next? A tiny female physician who looked as if she should be dressed in ruffles and lace. He’d noted her Quaker speech and the plain gray bonnet and dress. Not your usual woman, by any means. And who was the young, pretty, Negro girl with skin the color of caramel? The doctor had said she was a trained nurse. How had that happened?
“Lon Mackey?”
He heard the Quaker woman calling his name and hurried to her. “What can I do for you, miss?”
“I want thee to ask someone to undertake a particular job. It has to be someone who is able to write, ask intelligent questions and think. I would do it myself, but I am about to begin saline infusions for these patients.”
“What do you need done?”
“In order to end this outbreak, I need to know its source.”
“Isn’t it from the air?” Lon asked.
She smiled, looking pained. “I know the common wisdom is that this disease comes from the air. But I have done a great deal of study on cholera, and I believe that it comes from contaminated water or food. So I need to know the water source of each patient, alive or dead—if they shared some common food, if there was any group gathering where people might have drunk or ingested the same things. You said that the cholera appeared here in this saloon first. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” He eyed her. Contaminated water? If there had been time, he would have liked to ask her about her research. But with people in agony and dying, there was no time for a long, scientific discussion. He rubbed the back of his neck and then rotated his head, trying to loosen the tight muscles.
“Was the person first taken with cholera living on these premises or just here to socialize?” she asked.
He grinned at her use of the ladylike word socialize. Most people would have used carouse or sin for stepping inside a saloon. This dainty woman continued to surprise him.
“It was the blacksmith. Comes in about twice a week for a beer or two. I think McCall was his name.”
She nodded. “Has anyone at his home fallen ill?”
“Yes, his whole family is dead.”
Her mouth tightened into a hard line. “That might indicate that his well was the culprit, but since the cholera seems to be more widespread…” She paused. “I need someone to question every patient about their water and food sources over the past week. And about any connection they might have had with the first victim.” A loud, agonizing moan interrupted her.
“Will thee find someone,” she continued, “to do that and write down the information so that I can go over it? This disease will continue to kill until we find its source and purify it. I assure you that the cholera epidemics that swept New York State in the 1830s were ended by cleaning up contaminated water sources.”
He nodded. “I’ll do it myself.” From his inner vest pocket, he drew a small navy-blue notebook he always carried with him.
“I thank thee. Now I must begin the saline draughts. Indigo will try to make those suffering more comfortable.” She turned to the bar behind her and lifted what he recognized as a syringe. He’d seen them in the war. The thought made him turn away in haste. I will not think of syringes, men bleeding, men silent and cold…
Several times during the long day, he glanced toward the bar and saw the woman kneeling and administering the saline solution by syringe to patient after patient. The hours passed slowly and painfully. How much good could salt water do? The girl, Indigo, was working her way through the seriously ill, speaking quietly, calming the distraught relatives.
He drew a long breath. He no longer prayed—the war had blasted any faith he’d had—but his spirit longed to be able to pray for divine help. Two more people died and were carried out, plunging them all into deeper gloom. He kept one eye on the mood of the fearful and excitable people in the saloon. A mob could form so easily. And now they had a target for blame. He wondered if the female doctor had thought of that.
Would this woman, armed with only saline injections and cleanliness, be able to save any lives? And if she didn’t, what would the reaction be?
Much later that night, candles flickered in the dim, chilly room. When darkness had crept up outside the windows, voices had become subdued. Lon saw that for the first time in hours the Quaker was sitting down near the doors, sipping coffee and eating something. He walked up to her, drawn by the sight of her, the picture of serenity in the center of the cruel storm. Fatigue penetrated every part of his body. A few days ago he had been well-rested, well-fed and smiling. Then disaster had struck. That was how life treated them all. Until it sucked the breath from them and let them return to dust.
As he approached, she looked up and smiled. “Please wash thy hands in the clean water by the door, and I’ll get thee a cup of fresh coffee.”
Her smile washed away his gloom, making him do the impossible—he felt his mouth curving upward. She walked outside to where a fire had been burning all day to heat the boiled water for the cleaning and hand-washing. A large kettle of coffee had been kept brewing there, too. If he’d had any strength left, he would have objected. She wasn’t here to wait on him. But it was easier to follow her orders and accept her kind offer. He washed his hands in the basin and then sank onto a wooden chair.
The Quaker walked with calm assurance through the swinging saloon doors as if she were a regular visitor of the place, as if they weren’t surrounded by sick and dying people. She handed him a steaming cup of hot black coffee and a big ginger cookie. “I brought these cookies with me, so I know they are safe to eat.”
It had been a long time since anyone had served him coffee without expecting to be paid. And the cookies reminded him of home, his long-gone home.
He pictured the broad front lawn. And then around the back, he imagined himself walking into the large kitchen where the white-aproned cook, Mary, was busy rolling out dough. But Mary had died while he was away at war, a sad twist. He shrugged his uncharacteristic nostalgia off, looking to the Quaker.
She sat across from him, sipping her coffee and nibbling an identical cookie. He gazed around him, smelling the harsh but clean odor of lye soap, which overpowered the less pleasant odors caused by the disease.
“You’re lucky to have a maid who can also nurse the sick,” he said. Ever since the unlikely pair had entered the saloon, the riddle of who the young black girl was had danced at the edge of his thoughts.
“Indigo is not my maid. She is my adopted daughter. I met her in the South during the war. She was only about seven at the time, an orphaned slave. Now she is nearly a woman and, as I said, a trained nurse.”
He stared at her, blowing over his hot coffee to cool it. He’d never heard of a white person adopting a black child. He knew, of course, that Quakers had been at the forefront of abolitionism, far ahead of popular opinion. What did he think of this unusual adoption?
He shouldn’t be surprised. Just like him, Dr. Mercy Gabriel obviously didn’t live her life guided by what others might think. A woman who had nursed in the war. He recalled those few brave women who tirelessly nursed fallen soldiers, both blue and gray. As he sipped more bracing hot coffee, he studied this courageous woman’s face. The resolve hardened within him. I won’t let any harm come to you, ma’am.
“Will thee tell me if thee has found any connection between the first victim and the others?” she asked.
Glad for the distraction from his contemplation of her, Lon pulled the notebook out of his pocket and flipped through the pages. “The first victim, McCall, had just butchered and sold a few of his hogs to others in town. But some people who have died were not connected with this hog butchering or sale.”
She nodded, still chewing the cookie. She daintily sipped her coffee and then said, “Once a contagion starts, others can be infected by coming into contact with those who have fallen ill.”
“Are you certain it isn’t due to an ill air blowing through town?” His large round cookie was sweet, spicy and chewy. He rested his head against the back of the chair.
She inhaled deeply. “Over a decade ago, Dr. John Snow in London did a study of the water supplies of victims of cholera in a poor district in London. The doctor was able to connect all the original cases to a pump in one neighborhood.”
If Lon hadn’t been so tired, he would have shown shock at this calm recitation of scientific information. This woman was interested in epidemics in London? Few men hereabouts would have been. He studied her more closely.
Her petite form had misled him initially, but she was no bit of fluff. Despite death hovering in the room with them, her face was composed. She had taken off her bonnet to reveal pale, flaxen hair skimmed back into a tight bun, though some of the strands had managed to work themselves free. Her eyes—now, they stopped him. So blue—as blue as a perfect summer sky. Clear. Intelligent. Fearless.
He recalled her tireless work over the past hours, her calm orders and take-charge manner. Some men might resent it. He might have resented it once. But not here. Not now. Not in the face of such a wanton loss of lives. This woman might just be able to save people. Maybe even him.
“Do you think you’re having any success here?” he asked in a lowered voice.
She looked momentarily worried. “I am doing my best, but my best will not save everyone who is stricken.”
The swinging doors crashed open. A man holding a rifle burst into the saloon. “She’s dying! I need the doctor!”
Chapter Two
Everyone around Lon and Mercy Gabriel froze.
“Did you hear me?” the man shrieked. “I was told a doctor’s here! My wife’s dying!”
Dr. Gabriel put down her cup, swallowing the last of her cookie. She rose and faced the man. “I am sorry to hear that. Why hasn’t thee brought her here?”
“She won’t come! She won’t come into a saloon!” The man swung his rifle toward the Quaker. “You gotta come with me! Now! Save her!”
Lon leapt to his feet, pulling out his pistol, ready to shoot.
“Friend, I am heartily sorry for thee, but I cannot leave all these patients—” the woman motioned toward the crowded room “—to go to one. Thee must bring thy wife here.”
“What?” The man gawked at her and raised his rifle to his eye to aim.
Lon moved toward the man slowly. He didn’t want to shoot if he didn’t have to.
“Thee must bring thy wife here. And then I will do whatever I can for her.”
Lon marveled at the Quaker’s calm voice. It shouldn’t have surprised him that the man with the rifle was also confounded. The man froze, staring forward.
Dr. Gabriel moved away to a patient and began to give the woman another dose of the saline infusion.
“You have to come with me, lady!” the man demanded. “My wife won’t come here.”
Dr. Gabriel glanced over her shoulder. “Is she still conscious?”
The man lowered his rifle. “No.”
“Well, then what is stopping thee from carrying her here? If she is unconscious or delirious, she won’t know where she is.” The Quaker said this in the same reasonable tone, without a trace of fear. Lon had rarely heard the like.
This woman was either crazy or as cool as they came.
The man swung the gun above Mercy’s head and fired, shattering one of the bulbous oil lamps behind the bar.
Lon lunged forward and struck the man’s head with the butt of his pistol, wrestling the rifle from him. The man dropped to the floor.
“Does he have a fever?” the Quaker asked as she gazed at the fallen man.
Lon gawked at her. Unbelieving. Astounded.
“Does he have a fever?” she prompted.
After stooping to check, Lon nodded. “Yes, he’s fevered. Doctor, you are very cool under fire.”
She gazed at him, still unruffled. “Unfortunately, this is not the first time a weapon has been aimed at me.” She turned away but said over her shoulder, “Set him on the floor on a blanket. Then please find out where this poor man’s wife is and see if she’s alive. I doubt there is anything I can do for her. But we must try. And, Lon Mackey, will thee please keep asking questions? We must get to the source before more people die.”
Lon carried the unconscious man and laid him down, then asked another person where the man’s home was. As he turned to leave, he snatched up the rifle and took it with him. He didn’t want anybody else waving it around.
Since the war, nothing much surprised him. But Dr. Mercy Gabriel had gotten his attention. She could have gotten herself killed. And she didn’t even so much as blink.
Mercy went about her round of injections, thinking of Lon and the ease with which he’d subdued the distraught man. She had never gotten used to guns, yet this was the second time today men had been forced to draw guns to protect her.
A young woman with a little girl in her arms rushed through the swinging doors. “My child! My Missy is having cramping. They said that cramping…” The woman’s face crumpled and she visibly fought for control. “Please save her. She’s only four. Please.” The woman held out her daughter to Mercy.
“Just cramps, nothing else?”
“Just cramps. She started holding her stomach and crying about a half hour ago.” Tears poured down the woman’s face.
“Thee did exactly right in bringing her here so quickly. I will do what I can.” Mercy lifted the child from her mother’s trembling arms, tenderly laid the little girl on the bar and smiled down at her. “Thee must not be afraid. I know what to do.”
Mercy felt the child’s forehead. Her temperature was already rising. Mercy fought to keep her focus and not give in to worry and despair. God was in this room, not just the deadly cholera.
The mother hovered nearby, wringing her hands.
Mercy bent to listen to the child’s heart with her stethoscope. “Missy, I need thee to sit up and cough for me.”
The mother began to weep. Mercy glanced at Indigo, who nodded and drew the woman outside. Then Mercy went about examining the child. Soon she glanced over and saw that Indigo had left the woman near the doors and was continuing her rounds of the patients. Indigo bathed their reddened faces with water and alcohol, trying to fight their fevers.
Mercy listened to the little girl’s abdomen and heard the telltale rumbling. No doubt the child had become infected. Mercy closed her eyes for one second, sending a prayer heavenward. Father, help me save this little life.
A call for help came from the far side of the room. Mercy looked over and her spirits dropped. One of the patients was showing signs of the mortal end of this dreaded disease. A woman—no doubt the wife of the dying man—rose and shouted for help again.
Mercy watched Indigo weave swiftly between the pallets on the wood floor to reach the woman’s side. Mercy looked away. She hated early death, needless death, heartless death. Her usual composure nearly slipped. As the woman’s sobbing filled the room, Mercy tightened her control. I cannot give in to emotion. I must do what I can to save this child. Father, keep me focused.
Mercy mixed the first dose of the herbal medication her mother had taught her to concoct, which was better than any patented medicine she’d tried. “Now, Missy, thee must drink this in order to get better.”
“I want my mama.” The little girl’s face wrinkled up in fear. “Mama. Mama.”
Mercy picked up the child and cradled her in her arms. “Thy mama’s right beside the door, see?” Mercy turned so the child could glimpse her mother. “She wants me to make thee better. Now this will taste a little funny, but not that bad. I’ve taken it many times. Now here, take a sip, Missy. Just a little sip, sweet child.”
Missy stared into Mercy’s eyes. Then she opened her mouth and began to sip the chalky medicine. She wrinkled her nose at the taste but kept on sipping until the small cup was empty.
“Excellent, Missy. Thee is a very good girl. Now I’m going to lay thee down again, and thy mama will come and sit with thee. I will be giving thee more medicine soon.”
“It tasted funny.”
“I know but thee drank it all, brave girl.”
About half an hour later, Mercy was kneeling beside the man who had burst into the saloon and was still unconscious. She carefully gave him a dose of saline water. It seemed a pitiful medicine to combat such a deadly contagion. But it was the only thing she knew of that actually did something to counteract cholera’s disastrous effect on the human body. And no one even knew why. There’s so much that I wish I knew—that I wish someone knew.
It was nearly dawn when she heard her name and glanced up to see Lon Mackey. “Did thee find this man’s wife?”
His face sank into grimmer lines. “She’s dead.”
The news twisted inside Mercy. She shook her head over the loss of another life. Then she motioned for him to lean closer to her. She whispered, “We must find the source or this disease will kill at least half in this community.”
The stark words sank like rocks from her stomach to her toes. She forced herself to go on. “That is the usual death rate for unchecked cholera. Has thee found out anything that gives us a hint of the source?”
