The gunboat was in range, and Daniel wondered briefly why their gunfire was not coming close to the junk. When the skies opened up, letting loose a deluge of rain, he realized that the crashing had not been gunfire at all, but thunder. And this new storm was worse than any they had yet encountered.
Yin Chu let off the mainsheet—for the junk was already being pushed to its limit. The gunboat was the least of their worries now. Visibility was too bad, the gunboat would have to call off pursuit.
“This is no usual storm,” yelled Yin Chu over the howling wind and driving rain. “This is a monsoon.”
“What’ll we do?”
“Reef sail. You must do it—I have to steer.”
“I don’t suppose we can just stop?”
“Not yet. I can still handle winds. We’ll stop when winds get worse.”
“Worse?” Daniel couldn’t imagine anything worse than the fierce gusts propelling them along at a breakneck pace.
Half an hour later, and a good distance from where they had encountered the gunboat, Yin Chu had heaved-to and they were waiting out the storm, bobbing in the water with the monsoon raging over them. For the first time Daniel began to seriously question his sanity in instituting this undertaking. What had he been thinking? Did his feelings for Mariana cancel all good sense? Surely she would only think him a worse fool than ever for attempting such a harebrained journey.
That is, if he survived.
Survival seemed a slim possibility, however, with the winds buffeting the little boat horrendously, tossing it about like a piece of driftwood. And even if the winds and rains stopped, the Japanese gunboat might still be waiting for them.
Was love really worth all this?
Love.
Did he truly love Mariana, then? Was that what this was all about? The thought was almost as frightening as the storm and the Japanese navy put together.
With such thoughts roaring through his mind like the unabated winds, Daniel fell into a miserable sleep. He awoke to darkness and a chilling silence. He had no idea how much time had passed, and for a moment he wondered if he was dreaming, or perhaps even dead. But when he saw Yin Chu crumpled over in sleep, his hand still gripping the tiller, Daniel knew that somehow, by some miracle, they had survived the storm.
20
As Mariana walked through the Old Town of Port Arthur in the early morning on her way to the hospital, she wondered why the foreign residents so extolled this mean and dirty city. The dirt paths meant to function as streets were clogged with mud when it rained, as it did frequently now during the rainy season. When the hot sun came out, they dried out quickly, sending up choking dust clouds. The squalid buildings were almost as primitive as a peasant izba in Russia. Foreign residents, of course, managed to have better accommodations, but still Mariana would hardly classify this as one of the great cities of the world, as she heard many of the locals boast.
Situated at the very tip of the narrow Kwantung Peninsula, Port Arthur was a landlocked harbor, surrounded by rugged hills rising to almost six hundred feet. It was considered—by its Russian inhabitants, at least—a glowing symbol of the Muscovite spirit and of Russian domination of the Pacific. Before the war, construction had begun on New Town, situated on a plateau to the west of the railroad. A grand city had been planned, fully illuminating the most stunning Russian vision. Hundreds of buildings were under construction, but less than a fifth of the new city had been completed so far. Old Town was still the center of activity in the thriving port.
The population had dwindled appreciably since the war, many having evacuated to Chefu, Vladivostok, or to European Russia, if possible. Only a few thousand civilians remained, a thousand of whom were Russians and other foreigners—mostly businessmen wishing to protect their interests and make money off the war, and about five hundred wives and children of the officers. A garrison of some forty-two thousand soldiers defended the town; the military presence was unavoidable.
The militant atmosphere of Port Arthur was made worse by the fact that the commander of the garrison was none other than General Stoessel, the same man Mariana had heard rail so unfairly at his troops. No one liked the man. He was pompous, arrogant, and, from some of the rumors Mariana had heard, completely incompetent. According to one story, while supply ships were still coming to the port, Stoessel had turned several away. One, containing a precious cargo of tinned milk, he had allowed to unload only after other officers applied great pressure on him, but Stoessel told the skipper not to return. His reasoning was that Port Arthur had enough stores—even with a siege looming in its near future! Other officers had protested that the city was in desperate need of supplies, having only enough to withstand three months of siege.
Mariana had also heard that Kuropatkin, the commander of all military forces in Manchuria, had recalled Stoessel, requesting that General Smirnoff, the fortress commander, be given full charge. Stoessel had ignored the order until it was too late for him to get out safely. So, in addition to all the other problems, there was great contention within the high command.
Fortunately, Mariana had little opportunity to cross paths with Stoessel. Her time, consumed with hospital work, left few spare moments, and even when she was off duty, Port Arthur offered little in the way of social activities. She usually spent her time off sleeping, writing letters, or reading. She worked twelve- or fifteen-hour shifts, often more. Although the city itself had not yet been attacked since that first bombardment in the early part of the war, there was frequent fighting around the outer perimeter as the Russians held back the encroaching Japanese. Wounded were brought into the city daily. There were several hospitals in the city—two real hospitals and several other buildings that had been commandeered for that use, including a new luxury hotel in New Town that had not even had a chance to open for business.
Mariana worked at St. Stephan’s, a hospital in Old Town that had about five hundred beds, all full. It was a dreary old building with peeling paint on the outside and a strong odor of disinfectant on the inside—a scent that did little to camouflage the other more unpleasant smells in the place. Not surprising, St. Stephan’s was overpopulated and understaffed. But Mariana liked her work. She felt useful, and she didn’t mind spending most of her time there. She was in charge of a medical-surgical ward with fifty beds—almost all occupied by soldiers, with an occasional civilian patient.
Mariana checked in with her head nurse and prepared to make rounds with the nurse assistant, who happened to be Ludmilla Tolsikov. She was glad that Ludmilla had decided to stick it out after that first awful experience, for she was proving a capable nurse.
They visited each patient and exchanged a brief, cheerful greeting to those who were awake. The men were always glad to see the young nurses, especially since the nurse on the night shift was a hard-edged, sour-faced woman who acted as if she hated her job and resented the patients for taking up her precious time.
Mariana paused at the bedside of a new patient who had arrived during the night. She took his chart from the foot of the bed and scanned it. His name was Captain Philip Barsukov, and he had come in with a badly shattered right leg. As soon as the surgeons had time, they would probably amputate it. For the time being, he was under heavy doses of morphine, but he was awake when Mariana and Ludmilla paused at his bed. He opened his eyes and gave them a weak smile.
“I must have died and gone to heaven,” he said. “I’m surrounded by angels!”
“I hope heaven will be better than this old place,” said Mariana. “And you’ll think differently of us when we start to poke and probe you.”
“Probe all you want—I’m not feeling much of anything for the moment.”
“That’s good. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”
Captain Barsukov smiled, and a mischievous glint invaded his eyes. Then he shook his head. “Nothing, I suppose, right now. But when I am well, I would love to walk through a rose garden with you.” He paused, turning serious. “That is, if I shall be walki
ng anywhere. Do you think it’s possible?”
“We’ll do everything we can to make it possible.”
He raised a doubtful eyebrow. “I’ve heard how eager our Russian doctors are to chop off legs and arms.”
Unfortunately the captain was only too right. Mariana hesitated a moment too long before replying.
“That’s all right,” Barsukov said, “you don’t have to say anything. I’ll just have to take what comes like a man.”
“When I finish with rounds, I have to change your dressing—I’ll have a better idea then just what your prognosis might be.”
Half an hour later Mariana returned with a dressing tray and gave the captain a shot of morphine. While the medicine was taking effect, she asked him about himself. He was from Moscow, a prince from a prominent banking family. When Mariana asked how he received his wound, he seemed rather reluctant to answer, saying only that he was wounded on a scouting expedition with a detachment of a dozen men.
Mariana knew more than the captain was telling—everyone in the hospital, in fact, had heard the story of his heroism.
His detachment had been cut off and surrounded by a squadron of Japanese. When the Russian scouts tried to retreat through the ranks of the enemy, the Japanese major hurled taunts at the Russians. The major’s insults had so inflamed Captain Barsukov that he grabbed his sabre, turned, and attacked the major. With the major killed and his men routed, the Russian troops were able to break through the enemy line. Barsukov would have made it unscathed had he not gone back to rescue his sergeant, who had been shot in the chest. He caught the dead Japanese major’s horse and loaded the wounded sergeant on the animal’s back. But just as Barsukov was swinging up behind the sergeant, an artillery shell struck his leg. Barsukov would receive the prized Order of St. Andrew for his valor.
Mariana lifted the blanket and began working on the blood-soaked bandage. The leg was a torn and bloody mess, but her medical training told her that the leg was not in as bad shape as it appeared on the surface. The tibia was broken, but not shattered beyond repair; the fibula was sound. More importantly, there was still good circulation to the captain’s toes. He had lost a great deal of blood, and the possibility of infection or gangrene was still a threat, but Mariana believed the leg could be saved.
She hated to admit it, but his chances depended more upon other factors than on the leg itself. If the doctors were swamped, they simply could not spend the necessary time to repair arteries and mend torn muscles and ligaments. Often they had to be satisfied with just saving lives, foregoing the luxury of delicate procedures.
Unfortunately, time was not Captain Barsukov’s only enemy. He simply might have the ill-luck of drawing a poor surgeon. Mariana didn’t like to be critical; the doctors were, after all, working under a tremendous amount of pressure, in poorly equipped and sparsely supplied hospitals. But there were a few doctors who didn’t deserve medical certificates, and one of the worst happened to be here at St. Stephan’s. Since there were seven others on staff, there was a chance the captain might get one of the other surgeons. But she didn’t want to raise false hopes in the patient, and as a nurse she wasn’t permitted to offer diagnosis. She tried to be noncommittal, yet at the same time soothe the man’s worries. “Well, Captain, it could be worse, really. I’m only a nurse and can’t say for sure, but—”
A new arrival cut her off mid-sentence. “I’m certain the patient doesn’t wish to hear an unqualified opinion, Miss Remizov.”
Mariana glanced up and saw her worst fears realized. The very doctor she had dreaded was standing before her. She knew it was too much to hope that his presence was just a coincidence. Dr. Karl Vlasenko must be the unfortunate captain’s surgeon.
“Dr. Vlasenko,” said Mariana, ignoring his droll remark, “I’m glad you’ve come by. Perhaps you can ease Captain Barsukov’s mind over the status of his leg.”
Karl took a quick glance at the leg and said, “We’ll get rid of that thing and you’ll be happy to be alive afterward, Captain.”
“You . . . you mean amputation?” asked Barsukov in a shaky voice.
“Of course. There’s no other way.”
“But, doctor—?” Mariana began, only to be sharply cut off.
“Nurse Remizov, do you have a problem? I will remind you I am the doctor; you are nothing but a nurse.”
Unfortunately, this was not Mariana’s first encounter with the ill-mannered doctor.
For good or ill, Karl Vlasenko had become a much more self-assertive man than he had been five years ago when, egged on by his domineering father, he had attempted to seduce Mariana. In fact, it seemed as if his inflated ego was in direct proportion to his blatant incompetence.
This was not the first time Mariana had been in conflict with him since they found themselves in the same hospital. She had been taught never to question a doctor’s orders, but it was impossible to keep silent in the face of some of Vlasenko’s misguided medical decisions. And there had been times Mariana could have sworn he had been intoxicated while on duty. In a couple of incidents, Vlasenko’s orders—had they been followed—would have actually killed the patient. She had corrected him once about a wrong dosage of medication, and when he realized his error, he had merely grunted and said, “Of course, that’s what I meant. How stupid do you think I am?” He even implied that if she had not caught the error, she would have been to blame for the results.
“Nurse Remizov,” said Vlasenko, “I shall be able to take this man into the operating room immediately. Please prep him for surgery.” He then spun around and strode away.
Mariana watched, somewhat dazed at the sudden rush of events. Captain Barsukov looked markedly pale.
“I suppose it’s no more than I expected,” he said. “At least I won’t be like some of those peasant lads I command, reduced to pauperhood by such a crippling injury. My family can afford to take care of me, and . . .” All at once he choked on a stifled sob. There was only so much a man, even a hero, could take, and the thought of never being whole again, always the object of pity, was Barsukov’s limit.
Mariana took his hand and squeezed it, knowing that was a small comfort. Her eyes strayed toward the retreating figure of Dr. Vlasenko. How could he have so heartlessly dropped his awful pronouncement on the captain, then march away without a word of sympathy? Vlasenko, of all men, should have had some sympathy. He suffered with a club foot that made him slightly lame.
The thought of the man’s insensitivity distracted Mariana from her patient’s needs and made a hot anger rise within her. If only she had finished medical school and become a doctor . . . But even that wouldn’t have helped; the Russian medical community would no more have accepted a female doctor than they would a female tsar. Had she finished her training, she probably would have ended up a feldsher or gone to some foreign country to practice.
But this was no time to spout a woman’s right to practice medicine. A man’s life was at stake. There was no reason for this man to live his life as a cripple, not if he had proper medical care. Mariana had no idea what she could do about it, but she knew she had to do something.
“Captain Barsukov, will you excuse me a moment?” Before waiting for a response, she grabbed Barsukov’s chart and hurried away.
She reached Vlasenko at the door to the ward. “Dr. Vlasenko,” she said. He turned but the look on his face clearly indicated he didn’t appreciate being waylaid in his important work by a mere nurse.
“What is it, Nurse Remizov?”
“Doctor, I thought you’d want to see Captain Barsukov’s chart before surgery.”
“If I had wanted to see his chart, I would have looked at it,” he snapped.
“It is usually routine.”
“Are you trying to tell me how to practice medicine?”
“Of course not, it’s just that you might not have realized there are X-rays—”
“That’s enough, Nurse Remizov! I am about to report you for insubordination. You always were an uppity number wit
h little regard for authority. But those attitudes will be your undoing here.”
She had tried to be calm, reasonable, biting down her fury; but seeing that tact would get her nowhere, she let her anger have vent.
“You simply can’t doom a man to amputation by a quick, cursory glance!” she retorted.
“And how do you know I didn’t examine him when he came in during the night?”
Mariana knew what doctors had been on duty last night, and Vlasenko had not been one of them, but she wasn’t going to waste time on such a petty point.
“Had you examined his leg and looked at his X-ray, you would have seen that there is every possibility of saving it. The bones are sound, the circulation is sound. The muscles and ligaments will need suturing and repair, but—”
“That’s enough, nurse! Consider yourself on report!”
Mariana shrugged at his toothless threat. What could they do to her, anyway? Send her home? Give her a couple weeks off from her backbreaking, grueling hospital duty?
“Do what you feel you must do, doctor,” she said, “and I will do what I must.”
“What does that mean?”
“I am going over your head.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
In response, she turned and exited, leaving Vlasenko with his mouth gaping open.
The chief of staff was Dr. Vassily Itkinson, a highly competent physician who had been practicing medicine for thirty years. Just prior to the war he had been a professor at St. Petersburg School of Medicine. Mariana knew him on a more personal basis because he was one of the few in the old school of the medical profession who supported the Women’s Medical School, and he had taught one of Mariana’s classes while she was there. He had encouraged her to stick it out when things got really tough.
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