Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  She found, as she poured the drink down his throat, that the fur on his tongue was beginning to peel, leaving raw red patches, and that his teeth had made deep indentations in it. His pulse had quickened, his breathing was more rapid and sometimes he coughed slightly. He lay in a deep coma, not sleeping but wholly unconscious, and it was no longer possible to rouse him at all. Even when she touched the plague-boil, now a soft doughy mass, he gave no indication of awareness. It did hot seem possible, even to her, that a man could be so sick and live very long.

  But she refused to think about it. She was, in fact, so tired that it was almost impossible to think at all.

  She went back to the kitchen to finish the cleaning there. Then she swept the other rooms and dusted the furniture, put the towels to soak in hot soapy water and vinegar, brought up some more water and finally—when she felt that she could not make another move—she went into the bedroom and dragged out the trundle. Her lids felt rough and seemed to scratch against the eyeballs and there were muddy circles around her eyes.

  It was about noon when she lay down and though the draperies were pulled the hot sun beat into the room. She woke up several hours later, wet and with a heavy aching head, feeling as though the house was rocking. It was Spong shaking her shoulder.

  "Get up, mam! The doctor's below a-knockin'."

  "For God's sake," muttered Amber, "can't you do anything without being told? Go let 'im in."

  Spong was offended. "Ye told me not to leave his Lordship —no matter what happened!"

  Amber got up wearily. She felt as though she had been drugged, her mouth had a vile taste, and days seemed to have gone by since she had lain down. But it was only five o'clock and though the room was darker the fire kept it as hot as ever. She pushed back the curtains and bent to look at Bruce, but he seemed not to have changed, either for better or worse.

  Dr. Barton came into the room, looking tired and sick himself, and once more he merely looked at Bruce from a distance of several feet. Amber knew with despair that he had seen so many sick and dying men he could no longer distinguish one from another.

  "What do you think?" she asked him. "Will he live?" But her own face showed no hope or expectation.

  "He may; but to be truthful, I doubt it. Has the carbuncle burst?"

  "No. It's soft now but it feels hard deep inside. He doesn't seem to even know when I touch it. Isn't there anything we can do? There must be some way to save him."

  "Trust in God, madame. We can do no more. If the carbuncle breaks, dress it—but take care to get no blood or pus on yourself. I'll come tomorrow and if it hasn't opened by then I'll have to cut it open. That's all I can tell you. Good-day, madame."

  He bowed slightly and started out but Amber went along with him. "Isn't there someway I can get another nurse?" she asked, her voice soft and urgent. "That old woman is useless. She doesn't do a thing but eat and drink up my supplies. I could get along as well alone."

  "I'm sorry, madame, but the parish-clerk is too busy now to consider the problems of each individual. The nurses are all incompetent and most of them are old—if they could get a living any other way they wouldn't be doing this. The parish sends them out to nurse to avoid the charge of keeping them on charity. Still, madame, as you must know, you may fall sick yourself at any time—it's better not to be alone."

  He left and Amber, shrugging and deciding that since she could not get rid of Spong she would find some use for her, went into the kitchen. The soup was ready now, a rich heavy pottage with the fat swimming in hot oily circles on top of it, and she ladled out a bowlful to eat herself. It made her feel better. Her headache disappeared and she felt almost optimistic again. She was sure once more that she could keep him alive by sheer force of will-power.

  I love him so much, she thought, he can't die. God won't let him die.

  When she was ready to go to bed she decided to try bribing Spong. "If you'll stay awake till three and then call me I'll give you a bottle of brandy." If the old woman would watch and let her sleep at night she was willing to have her drunk all day.

  The arrangement satisfied Spong who vowed again that she would not so much as close an eye. Once Amber woke suddenly and sat bolt upright, glaring accusingly at her—it was light in the room for the fire was kept burning all night. But the nurse was sitting there beside him, arms folded on her belly, and she grinned across at Amber.

  "Fooled ye, mam, eh?"

  Amber flopped back down and instantly fell asleep again. She was wakened by a gurgling scream that brought her to her feet at a leap, her heart pounding sickeningly. Bruce, kneeling on the edge of the bed, had grabbed Spong by the throat and she was lashing and flailing about, helpless as a flounder. With his face contorted, teeth bared savagely, shoulders hunched, he was forcing all the strength of his arms into his fingers and they were crushing out the old woman's life.

  Quickly throwing herself onto the bed behind him Amber grabbed his arms and tried to drag him backwards. Cursing, he dropped the nurse, and turned on Amber, his fingers closing around her throat—squeezing the blood into her face and temples until the top of her head felt ready to burst. Her ears cracked and she went blind. Desperately she put up her hands and finding his eyeballs she gouged her thumbs into them. His grip weakened slowly, and then all at once he collapsed onto the bed, sprawling weirdly.

  Amber slowly sank to the floor, helpless and stupidly dazed. It was several seconds before she realized what Spong was trying to tell her.

  "—it's broke, mam! It's broke—that was what drove 'im mad!"

  She dragged herself to her feet then and saw that the great swollen mass of the carbuncle had burst, as though the top had been blown off a crater. There was a hole deep enough and large enough to thrust a finger into, and the blood poured out in a dark scarlet stream that ran into a spreading pool on the bed and clotted thickly. A watery gland-fluid came with it, and yellow pus was beginning to work its way upward.

  Amber sent Spong to the kitchen for some warm water and began immediately to wash off the blood, wiping it away as it ran out. The bloody rags accumulated in a heap and the nurse was kept busy tearing bandages from some clean sheets. But it would have done no good to bind them on; they would have soaked through in less than a minute. Amber had never seen a man lose so much blood, and it scared her.

  "He's going to bleed to death!" she said desperately, throwing another red sopping rag into the pail beside her. His face was no longer flushed but had turned white beneath the short growth of black bristle and it felt cold and wet to the touch.

  "He's a big man, mam—he can lose a lot of blood. But ye can thank God it broke. He's got a chance to live now."

  At last the blood stopped flowing, though it continued to seep slowly, and she bound up the wound and turned to wash her hands in a basin of clean warm water. Spong approached her with an ingratiating whine.

  "It's half-after-three now, mam. Can't I go to sleep?"

  "Yes, go on. And thanks."

  "It's almost mornin', mam. Could I have the brandy now, d'ye think?"

  Amber went out to the kitchen to get it for her; and though for a while she heard her behind the closed door, droning a song, finally she fell silent and then set up a clattering snore that went on hour after hour. Amber was kept busy changing the bandages and refilling the hot-water bottles. Along toward morning to her enormous relief the colour began to return to his face, his breathing became more regular, and his skin was dry again.

  By the eighth day she was convinced that he would live, and Mrs. Spong agreed with her, though she said frankly that she had expected him to die. But the plague took them quickly, if at all. Those who lived until the third day could be reasonably hopeful, and whoever lived a week was almost certain to recover. But the period of convalescence was long and tedious and characterized by a deep physical and mental depression, an almost complete prostration, during which any sudden or undue exertion could have rapidly fatal results.

  Since the night the carbuncle had
opened Bruce had lain supine, never making a voluntary move. The restlessness, the delirium, the violence were gone and his strength had wasted until he was not able even to stir. He swallowed obediently whatever food or drink she put into his mouth, but the effort seemed to exhaust him. Much of the time, she knew, he slept, though his eyes were almost closed and it was never possible to tell when he was awake or even whether he was conscious of being awake.

  Amber worked ceaselessly, though after the bursting of the carbuncle she was able to get enough sleep, and she did her tasks with enthusiasm and even a kind of pleasure, certainly with satisfaction. Everything that Sarah had ever taught her about cooking and nursing and housekeeping came back to her now and she prided herself that she did a better job of all three than her maids could have done.

  She did not dare bathe Bruce, but otherwise she kept him as clean as possible, and with Spong's help she managed to change the sheets on the bed. The rest of the apartment was kept as immaculate as if she expected a visit from a maiden-aunt. She mopped the kitchen floor, washed the towels and sheets and napkins and her own smocks and ironed everything; every day she scoured the pewter dishes with bran and soap and set them before a hot fire to dry, which was the way Sarah had taught her to keep them shining and spotless. Her hands were beginning already to roughen and she had several small blisters, but that mattered no more to her than did the fact that her hair was oily and that she had not worn a speck of powder for a week and a half. When he begins to notice me, she told herself, I'll take time for those things. Meanwhile, her only audience was Spong and the shop-keepers she saw when she went out to buy provisions, and they did not matter.

  She had heard nothing at all from Nan and though she worried about her and the baby she tried to make herself believe that they were all right. As far as she knew there was no plague in the country. And of course it was very likely that the letter had not reached her at all. She knew Nan well enough to know that she could trust her loyalty and resourcefulness, and now she must do so and refuse to think anything but that they were safe and well.

  Her own health continued as good as ever, a fact which she attributed to the unicorn's horn, the Elizabethan gold coin she kept in her mouth, and her daily practice of taking a snip of her own hair, cutting it up fine and drinking it in a glass of water. This last was Spong's suggestion and both of them followed it religiously, for it had seen Spong safely through eight houses full of plague. Occasionally she said a prayer, for good measure.

  Dr. Barton had not come since his second call, and both Spong and Amber decided that he had either died or run away —as the plague got worse more and more doctors were leaving. But, as Bruce continued to improve, she did not trouble to find another one.

  Every morning when she had fed Bruce his breakfast— usually a caudle—she changed the bandage on the great sloughing wound, washed his hands and face, cleaned his teeth as well as she could, and then sat down beside him to comb his hair. It was the moment she enjoyed most in each day, for her work kept her so busy that she had very little time to spend with him. Sometimes he looked up at her, but his eyes were dull and expressionless; she could not tell whether he even knew who it was bending over him. But each time that he looked at her she smiled, hoping for an answering smile. And at last it came.

  It was the tenth day after he had fallen sick and she sat on the bed, facing him, intent on combing his hair, which was as crisp and healthy as it had ever been. She laid the flat side of her hand gently into one of its waves, smiling as she did so, deeply and truly happy. She realized then that he was watching her and that he actually saw her, knew who she was and what she was doing. A swift thrill ran over her flesh and as his mouth tried to smile at her she touched his cheek with her fingers, caressing.

  "God bless you, darling—" His voice was soft and hoarse, scarcely more than a whisper, and he turned his head to kiss her fingers.

  "Oh, Bruce—"

  She could just murmur his name, for her throat had swollen until it ached, and a tear splashed down onto his cheek. She brushed the next one away before it could fall, and then his eyes closed again, his head turned wearily and he gave a light sigh.

  But after that she always knew when he was conscious, and little by little he began to talk to her, though it was many days before he could say more than a few words at a time. And she did not urge him to talk for she knew how great was the exertion and how tired it left him. His eyes often followed her when she was in the room and in them she saw a look of gratitude that wrenched her heart. She wanted to tell him that she had not done so very much—only what she had to do because she loved him, and that she had never been happier than during these past days when she had used all her energy, all the strength she had, every thought and waking minute for him. Whatever had been between them in the past, whatever was to come in the future, she had had these few weeks when he belonged to her completely.

  Day by day London was changing.

  Gradually the vendors disappeared from the streets, and with them went the age-old cries which had rung through the town for centuries. Many shops had closed and the 'prentices no longer stood before their stalls, bawling out their wares to the passerby—the shop-keepers were afraid of the customers, the customers were afraid of the shop-keepers. Friends looked the other way when they passed, or crossed the street to avoid speaking. Many were afraid to buy food, for fear it might be contaminated, and some of them starved to death.

  The theatres had closed in May and now many taverns and inns and cook-shops were shut up. Those which continued to do business were ordered to lock their doors at nine o'clock and to put all loiterers off the premises. There were no more bear- baitings, cock-fights, jugglers' performances, or puppet-shows; even the executions were suspended, for they invariably drew great crowds. Funerals were forbidden, but nevertheless long trains of mourners were to be seen winding through the streets at almost every hour of the day or night.

  And in spite of the great fear of the disease, the churches were always crowded. Many of the orthodox ministers had fled, but the nonconformists remained and harangued the confused, miserable multitudes for their sins. The prostitutes had never been busier. A rumour began to spread that the surest protection against plague was a venereal disease and the whorehouses of Vinegar Yard, Saffron Hill, and Nightingale Lane were open twenty-four hours a day. Harlots and customers often died together, and their bodies were carried out by a back door to avoid offending those who waited in the parlour. An increasing attitude of fatalism made many say that they would enjoy whatever was left to them of life, and die when their turn came. Others rushed to consult astrologers and fortune tellers and anyone might set himself up as a soothsayer with the prospect of a very good business.

  Searchers-of-the-dead walked in every street. It was their duty to inspect the dead and to report to the parish-clerk the cause of death. They were a group of old women, illiterate and dishonest as the nurses, forced to live apart from society during a time of sickness and to carry a white stick wherever they went so that others might know them and stop up their mouths as they passed.

  The town grew steadily quieter. The busy shipping of the Thames lay still—no ships might enter or leave the river—and the noisy swearing impudent boatmen had all but disappeared. Forty thousand dogs and two hundred thousand cats were slaughtered, for it was believed that they were carriers of the sickness. It was possible to hear, far up into the City, the roaring of the water between the starlings of London Bridge—a noise which usually went unnoticed. Only the bells continued to ring—tolling, tolling, tolling for the dead.

  It soon became impossible to bury the dead in separate graves, and huge pits—forty feet long and twenty feet deep— were dug at the edge of the city. Every night the bodies were brought there, some of them decently in coffins, more and more shrouded only in a sheet or naked, as they had died. In the grave they found a common anonymity. During the day crows and ravens settled there, but at the approach of a man they swarmed up into th
e air, circling and hovering, waiting until he was gone, and then they drifted earthward again. As the bodies began to rot a foul stench crept into the town, and there was no breath of moving air to dispel it.

  There had never been a hotter summer. The sky was bright as brass, blue and without a shred of cloud; they thought of the cool soothing fog as a blessing. Large birds flew heavily and laboriously. The church-vanes scarcely turned. In the meadows about London the grass lay burnt and the earth was hard as brick, flowers withered and dried. Amber transplanted some of the stocks, pink and white ones with a spicy cinnamon smell, into pots and kept them shaded on the balcony, but they did not prosper.

  She protected herself against plague by refusing to think about it. It was all that any of them could do, who were forced to stay in the town, to keep their sanity.

  Often, when she went out to shop—she had to buy almost everything herself now that the vendors were gone—she heard cries and groans and terrible screams from the closed houses. Pitiable faces appeared at the windows and hands reached out pleadingly: "Pray for us!"

  It became more and more common to see the dead and dying in the streets, for the plague struck swiftly. Once she saw a man huddled by a wall, beating his bloody head against it and moaning in delirium. She stared a moment in horror and then she hurried by, holding her nose and making a half-circle around him. Another time she saw a dead woman slumped in a doorway, a baby still sucking at her breast, and the small blue plague-spots showed plainly on her white flesh. She saw a woman walking slowly, crying, and carrying in her arms a tiny coffin.

  One day, as she was busy in the bedroom, she heard from outside a man's loud voice shouting something which she could not at first understand. But he drew nearer, evidently coming up St. Martin's Lane, and his words became more distinct. "Awake!" he bawled. "Sinners, awake! The plague is at your doors! The grave yawns for you! Awake and repent!" She pushed back the curtains and looked out. He was walking swiftly by, just beneath her window, a half-naked old man with matted hair and a long dark beard, and he brandished his closed fist at the still houses.