by Karen White
“Miss Laura!” My head snapped up and I quickly disengaged myself.
Sarah stood in the threshold, her eyes wide. “Mama needs you right now. There’s something wrong with Robbie.”
After a reluctant look back at a slightly disheveled Stuart, I followed her out of the room and up the stairs to the master bedroom. Julia sat on the bed, Robbie cradled in her arms. His weak cries sounded like a wounded puppy’s, not like his usual lusty wails. His face was flushed slightly, with pinkened cheeks and glazed eyes.
As I approached the bed, she pulled the baby’s gown up over his abdomen and lifted a pudgy leg. “Would you please take a look at this, Laura?”
I stared at the round mark on the back of Robbie’s thigh. “Did something bite him?”
“I am not sure. I thought you might know.”
I examined the mark more closely and determined that it wasn’t a bite because there seemed to be no holes marring the surface of the skin. “Me? Why would you think that?” I sat down next to her on the bed, my hand stroking Robbie’s warm cheek. His fretting subsided slightly.
Julia looked at me. “You are so smart.” She lifted her hand to halt my objections. “No, you do not know much about sewing and gardening. But you always seem to figure out the right thing to do.”
“Have you called for Charles to come up?”
“Not yet. I called for you first.”
“I really think we need a doctor here.” Turning to Sarah, who had brought me upstairs, I said, “Go get Dr. Watkins, please. And ask him to bring his bag, if he has it with him.”
I placed the back of my hand across Robbie’s forehead and felt the fever burning his skin.
There was a soft tapping on the door and the doctor entered, followed by Sarah. With a brief nod to Julia and me, he took the baby from Julia’s arms and laid him on the bed. Robbie started whimpering again as the doctor lifted his gown and prodded his abdomen. Robbie emitted a hoarse howl as the doctor tried to pry his mouth open to examine his throat and then continued to protest as Dr. Watkins ran his fingers over the glands in Robbie’s neck.
Pamela appeared at the door. “Julia, what is wrong?” She glided into the room, her black silk gown swooshing across the floor and trailing the scent of a musky perfume.
Her gaze not leaving the baby, Julia answered her mother. “Robbie has a fever. I just want Charles to have a look at him.”
Pamela leaned over the doctor while he examined Robbie. “He is flushed. I will go prepare some wintergreen tea to bring down the fever.” She left as suddenly as she had appeared, her heels tapping across the hallway.
Turning the baby over, the doctor paused as he caught sight of the mark on the leg, and he stretched the discolored skin between his thumb and forefinger.
“What is it, Charles?” Julia asked, reaching for Robbie.
The doctor scratched his chin and looked at Julia and then me. “It appears to be diphtheria. Little Rosa Dunwody has also come down with it this week.”
I knew eight-year-old Rosa and her mother from the Ladies’ Aid Society meetings. Rosa and Sarah were great friends. But I was even more familiar with the name diphtheria.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am sure. But with good care, we can make him well.” He pulled Robbie’s gown back in place. He continued. “The best way to treat it is give him plenty of rest, keep him comfortable, and try to get his fever down. I suggest a camphor rub on his chest to help him breathe, and for those tending him to wear a lump of camphor around their necks to ward off the vapors of the disease.” He started to close his bag. Then, nodding in my direction, he added, “Make sure everyone who comes in contact with him washes her hands thoroughly. And that includes all of you here before you return to the party. I have heard talk from battlefield surgeries about these germs. Perhaps there is some truth in your theory.”
Almost shocked at the doctor’s concession to my obsession with clean hands when tending the sick, I let his Dark Ages comment about vapor-killing camphor pass unremarked. But I certainly had no intention of wearing the foul-smelling stuff anywhere on me.
“Most importantly,” I interjected, “we need to keep him separated from the other children.”
Dr. Watkins bristled. “I really do not see the need—”
“Please, Charles,” Julia said softly. “Do as Laura says. Remember how she saved Robbie.” Julia handed the baby to me. “I am going to go help my mother. I will also find Sukie and have her keep an eye on him, because I want you to return to the party and play hostess for me.”
“Actually, I should let everyone know that Robbie has diphtheria so they can be on the alert for symptoms in any of their own family members. I’m afraid with such a contagious sickness in the house, we should ask the guests to leave.”
Julie studied me for a moment, then nodded. “You are right, of course. Would you please take care of that for me?”
“Are you sure I can’t be more help here?” I asked, cradling the baby and feeling his sweat-soaked gown.
She smiled, although I saw the strain around her mouth. “This is not the first child I have ever nursed through a fever. I just need to give him some of the tea Pamela prepared to lower his fever and get him settled. I will be fine.”
I thought I caught a glint of something in her eye, but she gave me a warm, comforting smile. “Really, Laura, Robbie will be fine. All children get sick. Between Charles, my mother, and me, we will have him crawling like a june bug in no time.”
My tongue seemed to thicken in my mouth. In my time, most children were vaccinated against diphtheria. I knew I had been inoculated, as had Annie. But here, in this time, there was no such protection. Children and their parents were subject to the whims of virulent diseases that randomly plucked children from their parents’ arms and laid them in small graves.
Turning, Julia opened the door, and the sounds of garbled voices and laughter could be heard from below, climbing the stairs and pulling me toward them. The doctor followed her out, and the sound of their footsteps descended the stairs. Shortly afterward, Sukie came to take Robbie.
I handed him over just as Sarah, who had remained silent in a corner of the room, approached. “Will he be all right, Miss Laura?”
I laid my hand on her blond head. “Your mama certainly seems to think so. We’ll just have to do everything we know how to get him better, and that would include playing quietly when you’re inside so you don’t wake him up. The doctor says he needs his rest.”
She looked down into the little bundle cradled in Sukie’s arms and then kissed him.
I pulled the baby away. “No, Sarah. Please don’t. You could get his germs and get sick, too.”
Her eyes widened with fear.
“I’m sorry, Sarah. I didn’t mean to scare you. But I want to keep you healthy.” I gave her a hug and propelled her out of the room. “I think it would be best if you stayed away from other people until we know you’re not infected. Go ahead and get ready for bed and I’ll come up to say good night.” She gave me a somber look and then walked slowly down the hall to her room, her feet dragging in an exaggerated way with each step.
I wanted to give the partygoers a few last minutes of peace and joy, so I slipped out the back door and walked toward the fallow cotton fields, the earth cold and brittle in the December winds. Bright stars and a quarter moon brought relief to the inkiness of the night and I moved my face toward the frigid wind.
“Laura.”
I turned to see Zeke, who had been standing in the shadow of the oak tree as I approached.
“Good evening, Zeke. Why aren’t you with the party?”
“Too many people for me. I have made an appearance for Julia’s sake, and now I think I will go back home. I need to make a root poultice for Robbie’s neck.”
But still he stood, not making as if to leave. He pointed toward the sky.
“Can you see the Little Bear?”
I tilted my head back and stared up at the icy black sky. “Do you mean the Little Dipper?” I asked, recognizing one of the few constellations I was familiar with.
“Yes. If you let your eyes follow along the handle, you can see the polestar.”
“It’s the very bright one, isn’t it?”
He nodded slightly, still looking upward. “The polestar has been used throughout the centuries by navigators for charting their routes.” He was now looking directly at me, as if to convey a meaning to his casual conversation.
“Zeke, are you trying to tell me something?”
“Nothing that you do not already know. Just reminding you to use the skies and your heart to guide you home.” Very silently, he said good night and began to walk toward the woods.
“Good night, Zeke,” I called after him. I saw him raise an arm and wave before he was enveloped in darkness. My nose hairs froze as I breathed in the winter air.
My hands felt numb from the cold so I turned to go back in. I heard the faint notes of the piano tinkling “Dixie.” Despite the liveliness of the tune, I felt a deep and abiding sadness. The lives of these people would soon be irrevocably altered. History had already decried that their way of life would be gone forever, as would many of their sons, brothers, and husbands. But what if I could change that, save one life? I shook my head, focusing on my house and Annie. I had to get back soon, before it was too late and I foolishly interfered with fate.
The wind carried scattered voices past my ears, and I listened as if I were hearing them across the passage of time. The back door opened, and I recognized Stuart’s form silhouetted against the light spilling from inside. I could feel his eyes on me, like a beacon on the dark sea, guiding me home. He waited for me as I picked up my skirts and walked toward him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
I awoke to the smell of smoke. Jumping out of bed, I ran to the door and was relieved to find it cool to the touch. I cracked it open and stuck my head out to investigate but found no flames, only the pervasive smell of smoke.
I hastily returned to the bed to wake Sarah, who had been moved into my room when Willie had come down with swollen glands and fever. Despite her children’s illness, Julia continued to stay unalarmed and infuriatingly calm, but her face now held a pinched, strained look. But it must have worked, because I did not feel panicked. Robbie didn’t seem to be getting any better, but he didn’t seem to be getting any worse, either. Dr. Watkins had told us that the disease would climax in about ten days and then we should see a change.
Every night I remembered to close my curtains tight, just in case there would be a full moon to scare Sarah, so I stumbled in the dark to the window and threw open the curtains to peer out. I didn’t see anything, but smelled the heavy scent of smoke in the air. “Sarah. Get up,” I said as I knotted a shawl around my shoulders. She groggily rolled back over into her pillow, and I had to pick her up and get her off of the bed so I could remove the blanket. Just in case.
I ushered her out into the hallway. “Fire!” I shouted, deciding to err on the side of caution, even if no flames were detected. Julia emerged from the sickroom, the bundled form of Robbie in her arms.
“Can Willie walk?” I asked. She shook her head as I strode past her and picked up Willie. He had a slight frame and I estimated he could weigh no more than fifty-five pounds. Light enough to carry—if not for very far.
“Sukie! Stuart!” Shuffling feet sounded from downstairs and the flickering light of a candle illuminated Sukie as she poked her head up the stairwell. Stuart’s door opened from the other end of the hall and he emerged, hastily buttoning up his shirt. Pamela ran out of her room, her hair unbound and flying wildly about her thin face.
Heavy wisps of smoke now floated haphazardly in the air, infusing everybody with a show of alarm. We all clambered down the stairs, Julia with Robbie in the lead, the baby protesting with thick, croupy coughs.
Sukie ran ahead and opened the front door, allowing the rest of us to take refuge on the front lawn. Leaving Willie with Julia and the children, I followed Stuart around the side of the house, in search of the smoke source.
“Damn!” I heard him swear and then I echoed him as I saw the kitchen house and the adjoining storehouse engulfed in flames. Smoke from the burning wood coated my throat while the heat licked at my face, making me step back. The surprising aroma of bacon cooking filled the air.
Three dark forms ran toward us from the direction of the slave cabins on the other side of the field. Turning abruptly, Stuart said, “Run to the barn and bring every bucket you can find. It might be too late to save the kitchen, but we might be able to salvage the storehouse.”
I ran as fast as I could, ignoring the chill as I stepped away from the heat of the flames, the hem of my nightgown heavy from the moisture on the grass.
The five buckets I found were readily pressed into service as we formed a system for bringing water from the creek near the springhouse. Stuart told me to go back with Sukie and Julia, but I ignored him, knowing that every arm helping could make the difference between starvation and having enough food to get us by until the spring.
Sparks flew in every direction, and I caught Stuart’s worried gaze as a stray one would shoot near the house. My muscles ached from the hoisting of the heavy buckets filled with water, but we all struggled on, black and white, fighting the common enemy.
A loud splintering split the air as the roof over the kitchen crashed down, blowing puffs of flame rolling toward us. We all ran back until I heard Stuart’s voice shouting, “The meat box! Get the meat box!” He rushed forward, disappearing in a wall of smoke and flame. My heart stuck in my throat as I stared at the spot where he had gone.
Within minutes he reappeared, dragging the meat box. One of the other men rushed to help him, pulling the precious store of food with them.
Stuart shouted at me over the din to get the other women and children to the relative warmth of the barn, which was far enough away from the flames as to pose no danger. As they ran back to the kitchen, a rumbling sounded overhead. All faces turned upward in open appeal, and were quickly rewarded with the splattering of icy-cold raindrops.
Stuart’s face, awash with the light from the flickering flames, wore a crooked grin as the clouds started their onslaught, washing the black smudges from his forehead and jaw. A cry of delight went up as the flames diminished, the hissing and popping slowly dying to a low steam.
I threw my arms around Stuart, our drenched clothes sticking to each other, and I was grateful for the shawl that granted me a modicum of modesty. A bolt of lightning illuminated the sky briefly and was soon echoed by more rumbling thunder as sheets of rain fell on us, saturating hair, clothes, and earth.
Placing me gently to his side, Stuart turned to the others. “You men go on home. There is nothing else we can do tonight while it is still smoking. We will see what we can salvage in the morning.” Slowly, the other men walked away, back to the dryness and warmth of their cabins. Stuart grabbed my arm and led me to the shelter of the back porch.
Growing worry gnawed at me. “Do you think there will be anything left to salvage?”
His profile was a mere shadow in the dark, but his warm breath licked at my cheek.
He shook his head. “Not much. We had just about everything in that storeroom—salt, syrup, tallow, lard, potatoes, turnips—everything. It is all gone. Luckily, most of that hog we butchered is still in the smokehouse.” He lifted a hand in the darkness and wiped his dripping hair off his forehead. “But I doubt it is enough.”
“Enough?” I hated that word. Although there hadn’t been any Confederate requisitioning parties to deplete us further of our already-low food stores, there never seemed to be enough cornmeal, eggs, flour, meat, and medici
ne for the sick children. Somebody was always hungry. But when the Yankees came, in less than a year’s time, there would be even less.
“Stuart.” My voice cracked. “You need to send them away.”
His callused fingers rubbed my skin as he cupped my face, his fingertips delicately brushing my temples. “Why? What do you know?”
A sob escaped my throat. “Because it’s true—Roswell isn’t safe for them. The Yankees will be here, Stuart—don’t ask me how I know, but I do. You need to trust me just this once.”
His fingers tightened on my skin, pushing on the hard bones of my skull. “What are you trying to tell me?”
I couldn’t see him, but the tense urgency in his words gripped me like claws. I paused, knowing already the choice I had to make. My tears mixed with the rain on my face, and the pressure of his fingers increased. “The Yankees will be here, Stuart—in less than a year. Atlanta will be theirs by September. And then they’ll push through Georgia to the sea, destroying everything in their path. They’ll be in Savannah by next Christmas. Take Julia and the children south—to Julia’s aunt in Valdosta. They’ll be safe there until the end of the war.”
My hands covered his and forced them away from me. He stood, facing me, his eyes glittering in the dim night. “How do you know this?” He pulled away from me. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Don’t you know? I love them, too. Julia, the children, Zeke. Even . . .” I was going to say, You, you thickheaded, stubborn man, but I stopped, not wanting to complicate matters further. Instead, I said, “I want you all out of harm’s way. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I did nothing to protect you.”
His voice carried softly to me on the night air. “Tell me, then. Who are you, Laura, really? Where do you come from? How do you know these things?”