The Moon by Night

by Lynn Morris

  Finally he hailed a hansom, and then, as the driver watched incredulously, Shiloh lifted up the two dogs and set them in the seat.

  “You’m wanting me to drive two mutts over to Gramercy Park?” the driver repeated cautiously.

  “That’s right,” Shiloh grumbled, remounting Balaam. “I’ll follow.”

  “No, sor,” he said smartly. “You stays up in front wheres I can see you. And it’ll be forty cents. Up front.”

  Shiloh paid him and rode out.

  “For dogs,” Shiloh muttered darkly to himself. “I’m out in a blinding freezing storm, renting a hansom for two mutts. Huh? Sorry, Balaam, but I don’t know of any cabs big enough for you to ride in. Let me assure you that if there were such a thing, I would certainly be hiring it for your comfort and convenience.”

  Balaam snorted derisively.

  “Hey, I gotta stay out in it too, to ride you, don’t I?” Shiloh growled.

  Balaam blubbered a loud raspberry.

  “Lemme tell you something, Horse,” Shiloh said. “We gotta quit hanging around these docks.”

  Thirteen

  For Barely Moments

  Cheney lifted Cornelius Melbourne’s left hand and placed her forefinger on the pulse point of his wrist. She smiled to herself, recalling that she had used her thumb to take her first pulse as a first-year medical student. Her teacher, a gentle Quaker professor named Dr. Henry Vallingham, had said in a kindly manner, “Miss Duvall, are you feeling quite well?”

  “Why yes, Dr. Vallingham, I’m very well, thank you,” she had replied, mystified.

  “That is good. I was concerned because you appear to be taking your own pulse, even though you are holding a patient’s hand. The thumb, you see. It has its own pulse.” Cheney had jerked her hand away, startled, and then she, the patient, and Dr. Vallingham had all laughed.

  Sixty-one per minute. A little slow but strong. She noted it, along with the time, in Melbourne’s file.

  Next she held her watch out again, marked the minute, then carefully watched his respiration. She didn’t just count the number of breaths; she noted the look of his nostrils to see if he was straining, the sound as the air went in and out of his throat and lungs, how deeply his chest rose and fell.

  Fourteen, she noted with satisfaction. Also slow but rhythmic and deep.

  She hesitated, for she really needed an accurate temperature.

  Tomorrow would be one week since the catastrophic accident, and the young man was doing very well, under the circumstances. When a person is subjected to a traumatic injury, regardless of his general health or age or gender, all parts of the body are weakened. Cornelius Melbourne was still very weak while his system was recovering from the shock of the injury. He had been in a deep sleep, a state close to unconsciousness, for the first three days after the accident. This was not unusual, as it was the body’s way of beginning a recovery process. After this initial posttraumatic reaction, Cheney had kept him heavily sedated on heroic dosages of laudanum. Now she was considering reducing the drug dosages, but she must think this through carefully. Not only was laudanum a very effective pain-killer, it was also an extremely good sedative. In cases such as Cornelius Melbourne’s, it was important that the patient be tranquil and free from anxiety while the body began to heal.

  Now he was resting so quietly and soundly that Cheney hated to awaken him to take his temperature. Mr. McBean, a rather melancholy ex-soldier who was the morning shift attendant in the men’s ward, had told Cheney that the patient’s parents had visited that morning, and his mother had seemed to agitate the patient. Mrs. Melbourne still wept every time she visited and showed so much fear that even after she had left this morning, Melbourne was very restless, sleeping fitfully and often jerking awake and calling out for the doctor. Mr. McBean had said sourly, “He called for you so often, Doctor, and was so upset that Dr. Pettijohn said I was to give him another full sixty drops of laudanum two hours before your orders specified.”

  “That’s fine, Mr. McBean,” Cheney had responded. “As long as it was duly noted in his file.” It had been, in McBean’s cramped and awkward left-handed script.

  Making a decision, she gently laid her hand on the man’s brow, barely resting it on his skin. It felt warm but not hot and was dry to the touch. Just to be sure, Cheney felt the back of his neck and his lower abdomen. Temp normal by touch only; patient in deep sleep, she noted in his file.

  Now she hesitated and looked at the door of the cubicle tentatively. She had left the curtains open, as was her habit on routine bed checks. All of the doctors did that unless a procedure required privacy for the patient. That way, if anyone in the hospital had to find the doctor, they didn’t have to stand on a ward and yell for them, they could just walk the hallway and check the cubicles with open curtains.

  But Cheney was going to do something that was at best unusual and could at worst be disturbing to a chance observer. Furtively she pulled the curtains closed and went back to Cornelius Melbourne’s bedside. Pulling the covers down, she lifted the light dressing on his incision, then bent down until her face almost touched his chest. Closing her eyes with concentration, she breathed in very deeply.

  That is, she smelled the incision.

  Shiloh had taught her that. “I found out in the war that you can smell gangrene before you can see it, Doc,” he had said as they worked the emergency room together at the hospital in San Francisco. They had been checking a dressing on a small boy’s thumb. It had been cut deeply a few days earlier, but his mother had brought him to the emergency room at St. Francis because he had started coughing and running a fever. Cheney had diagnosed influenza, but Shiloh had stripped the homemade bandage—a clean strip of cotton—off the boy’s finger and then had lifted it to his nose.

  “We better do your treatment on this, Doc,” he had said gravely, referring to a rather revolutionary treatment that Cheney had created for treating gangrene—a combination of debriding the wound and cleaning it with a weak solution of carbolic acid by plunger, repeatedly, for certain periods of time. It had actually worked for the only patient they had tried it on until that time—a man with a leg injury they had treated when the wound was in the very first stages of gangrene. It had not advanced, and he had recovered completely. And so did the little boy’s thumb, Cheney recalled. But she had noted that Shiloh had been correct; the cut on the boy’s thumb had not looked at all swollen or inflamed, and his bandage had been clean. But when Cheney put his hand under her nose, she had smelled the first very faint sour wisps of infection.

  She was particularly worried about Cornelius Melbourne’s wound, because the accident site had been so dirty. The street had been ankle deep in putrid mud, and it had seemed to Cheney that Melbourne had been dragged along somehow on his stomach, for his face, his hair, and the front of his clothes were absolutely sodden with the glutinous muck. He had had it in his nose, mouth, and ears. Cheney had observed that the injury must have occurred after he had been dragged, because the spike itself was not mud-covered, and besides, Melbourne’s injury was such that if the spike had been moved around after the injury had occurred, it would have inflicted much greater tearing damage to the tissue and would certainly have broken his ribs. Still, it seemed impossible that some minute filth had not entered the wound.

  In wounds of the extremities, a saline solution could be used to wash out a wound with foreign matter in it. But no surgeon was willing to take the chance of introducing any type of fluid, even boiled water, into wounds of the chest or abdominal cavities, for the odds of the patient developing septicemia were much higher in these types of surgeries. Generally the physician tried to repair any damage as quickly as possible so as to minimize the time the internal organs were exposed and with the very least manual interference inside the cavities as possible.

  Cheney had explained these principles in great detail to Dr. White. After the surgery, both Cheney and Dr. White had spent a few anxious minutes suctioning out blood and peering down into the incision
as closely as they could, trying to see any signs of foreign matter. They saw nothing at all, not even specks, but the image of Melbourne’s mud-caked clothes and chest haunted Cheney.

  Now as she looked at Cornelius Melbourne’s pale face and the bluish shadows under his eyes, she reflected with a hint of sadness that Shiloh could probably just get close to the bed and be able to smell any infection, for it seemed that all of Shiloh’s senses were preternaturally sharp. Cheney’s were not. And so she waited a few moments, standing still at the bedside with her eyes closed so as not to be distracted, and checked the incision again.

  Nothing except the faint antiseptic smell of carbolic acid.

  Opening her eyes, she was about to straighten up when she saw a big clump of crumbly dried mud on the pillow. The clod was entangled in Melbourne’s hair, which was very thick and fashionably long, curling down his neck. The nurses had toweled and combed his hair, but it had been impossible to remove all of the sticky mud, and it would be many more days before he could be moved to have his hair washed. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, Cheney leaned closer and ever so gently dislodged the mud, lightly combing through the curls at his neck.

  He stirred very slightly—more a deeper breath than a movement. Then he lifted his hands to caress Cheney’s face and turned to her. His lips brushed hers as lightly as a wisp of air as he whispered, “Dr. Duvall…”

  The dream kiss was for barely a moment, and Cheney simply froze. Then, when she realized what was happening, her first impulse was to jerk away. But instinct took over. She knew that Cornelius Melbourne was not fully awake, that he was heavily drugged, and his actions were more dreamlike than conscious acts. His eyes had remained closed. She didn’t want to yank away and frighten him, so she slowly pulled his hands away from her face—he didn’t stir in protest—and rose. He remained relaxed, and Cheney was certain that he was in a deep sleep. She turned to pull up the bedclothes—

  And jumped with a startled cry.

  Dr. Pettijohn stood by the door, with the curtains pulled closed behind him. Leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms and eyebrows arched high, he casually nodded. “Dr. Duvall,” he said with barely disguised amusement.

  “Oh! You startled me half to death,” Cheney said harshly, gripping the side of the bed.

  Cornelius Melbourne stirred, then his eyes slowly opened. He was so drowsy that he could hardly focus. He might still have been dreaming. “Dr. Duvall?” he said softly and smiled a little. “I…thought you had come. I could smell…your sweet scent…. I thought we…”

  “No! Mr. Melbourne, wake up,” Cheney said rather too loudly. She told Dr. Pettijohn, “I-I don’t wear scent to work. He’s-he’s just dreaming.”

  “Is he,” Dr. Pettijohn said expressionlessly.

  “Yes! And that was just—I was just—” Cheney gritted her teeth with exasperation and said tightly, “What do you want?”

  “Mrs. Green is complaining of pain,” he said easily. “I’ve already given her all that Dr. Buchanan has prescribed. I’m following your orders to check with you before I do anything differently with the patient.”

  “Has Dr. Buchanan been here today?”

  “No, Doctor.”

  Cheney said tensely, “Then in a few moments I will come and look at her file.”

  He turned to leave, but Cheney said haltingly, “Dr. Pettijohn, that was—I don’t know what you saw, but it’s not at all—”

  He was facing her, one hand on the curtain to draw it aside. Again Cheney marveled at the perfect blandness in his eyes, the lack of emotion, the impenetrable wall hiding his thoughts.

  Her voice trailed off, and she turned back to her patient, who was watching her with bewilderment. “Never mind,” she finally said to Dr. Pettijohn.

  Without a word he left.

  “Hello, Dr. Duvall,” Melbourne said weakly. “Did I—did I do something wrong?”

  “No, of course not,” she said, taking his hand. He gripped her hand hard, though he seemed to still be drifting in and out, half asleep, half dreaming.

  Cheney said calmly, “You look better than you did yesterday. Are you feeling better?”

  “I-I don’t know,” he said with confusion. “I can hardly remember…how I felt yesterday.”

  “Mr. Melbourne, do you recall anything at all about the accident yet?” Cheney asked gently.

  His eyes went into a distant stare, and she could see that he was struggling to concentrate. “The…the accident…I’ve tried…Did I…did I get stabbed?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Cheney cautiously replied. “You can’t remember how you got hurt?”

  He frowned. “Hurt…I got hurt…. I can’t remember. All I remember is…being so cold, freezing…and you. Your face, your voice. What was it? I was so afraid, and you—” Suddenly a light, faint and muted by the laudanum, but still a glimmer of warmth and quiet joy, came into his eyes. “You prayed, and I prayed. I remember that.”

  “Yes, we did,” Cheney said. “You prayed and asked the Lord Jesus to save you, and He did. And together we prayed and asked for me to have skill in attending to you, and for you to be healed. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, I remember,” he said, smiling up at her a little.

  She nodded and said calmly, “Now we need your help, Mr. Melbourne, about the accident. Do you remember the lady? The lady who was with you?”

  “Lady? With me?” he repeated, his brow wrinkling. He blinked several times, rapidly, and said in a voice filled with dread, “A lady…What happened? I don’t remember a lady. I can’t even remember what happened to me…Did something hit me? My chest hurts.” He raised one hand to pull down the bedclothes, but Cheney quickly took his hand in both of hers.

  “Never mind, Mr. Melbourne,” she said quietly. “I don’t want you to worry about anything right now. Just lie still and relax. Don’t worry yourself trying to remember. Are you in pain?”

  He sighed, then grimaced. “My chest hurts. I feel sore. My arms and legs are aching something awful. And my head is pounding.”

  “It’s almost time for your medication, so I’ll—” She began to pull her hand away, but he held it still.

  “Dr. Duvall, don’t leave, please. Can’t you stay and talk to me for a while? You make me feel safe. Besides, I think I must be the luckiest man in the world to have a doctor who is so beautiful, with hands as soft and sweet as—”

  “Stop, please,” Cheney interrupted him gently. “Mr. Melbourne, I’m married. Happily married, to a wonderful man.”

  His face fell. “Oh, but I thought—You aren’t wearing a wedding ring.”

  “No, I never wear jewelry at work.”

  He smiled sadly. “You told that other doctor that you don’t wear perfume either, but the scent of your hair is heavenly. Never mind, Dr. Duvall, that’s the last personal observation I’ll make. Please forgive me for my indiscretion.”

  “Not at all,” Cheney said comfortably. “I understand what you’re feeling, Mr. Melbourne, and I know that you are blameless. Now I’m just going to go get your medication. I’ll be back with it shortly.”

  As she pulled aside the curtains, she turned back to give him one last glance. He was watching her, and the unhappiness on his face was bitter. She knew that his feelings for her were part hero worship, as people tended to form attachments to people who have saved them from death.

  As she scrubbed her hands at the carbolic acid stand, she grimaced as she thought about the scene Marcus Pettijohn had witnessed. How unfortunate could she be that the one person at the hospital with whom she had personal difficulties had come into the room at that moment? But it was done, and now it was over. Cheney had no intention of explaining anything to Marcus Pettijohn. No matter what he thought, Cheney knew that she—and for that matter, Cornelius Melbourne—were both perfectly innocent. She determined to put the matter out of her mind.

  After giving Melbourne his laudanum and staying awhile with him just to be sure he was resting quietly, she finished the men�
�s ward rounds. There had been several checkouts in the previous week, so now Cheney had only two patients on the men’s ward besides Cornelius Melbourne.

  One of them was a sturdy carpenter named Henry Norton who was in the hospital because he had fallen off a scaffolding and broken his leg two weeks ago. He was just about to go home, but to Cheney’s distress, she saw that he was showing symptoms of influenza. Quickly she finished the ward round and saw that William Reese, who was Dr. Pettijohn’s only patient, also definitely had influenza, more advanced than Mr. Norton’s.

  Cheney went to the nurses’ station, where Nurse Flagg, who had recovered from her unfortunate incident with the chloroform, was working on patient files. “Nurse Flagg, in your rounds today have you noted that Mr. Norton and Mr. Reese likely have influenza?”

  She looked up in alarm. “Why no, Dr. Duvall, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. I did go on morning rounds with Dr. Pettijohn, but he…he—” She stopped and cleared her throat. She knew that a nurse could never blame a physician for anything, particularly to another doctor. “No. I didn’t know,” she finally said evenly.

  Cheney nodded and gave the nurse a small smile to let her know that she understood. “I’m going to go speak to Dr. Pettijohn, and then I’ll do a thorough round on the women’s ward. Please get Mr. Norton’s file out for me, and I’m sure Dr. Pettijohn will wish to note Mr. Reese’s file.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Cheney walked rapidly down the women’s ward, searching for Dr. Pettijohn while speaking a cheerful word or two to all of the patients. Her pleasant greetings belied the tone of her thoughts.

  Where is that man, anyway? It’s as if he deliberately disappears when you need him, but let just one patient kiss you for one second while he’s asleep and you’re just getting some stupid mud out of his hair, and there’s Dr. Pettijohn—

  “Oh, dear,” she muttered, coming to an abrupt stop outside of Rebecca Green’s cubicle. She could hear the girl crying pitifully. Cheney had forgotten to check her file to see what should be done about her pain medication. She listened for a few moments and heard no voices, but that didn’t mean Ira Green wasn’t in there with his wife. He was a rather inarticulate man and sometimes sat for long periods of time just staring at the wall above his wife’s bed as she talked or slept or wept. Cheney didn’t want to risk going into the room, not because she was afraid of Mr. Green, but because it upset Rebecca so, even if her husband wasn’t there.