by Helen Wells
The voice whispered again, like ghostly fingers brushed over harp strings, “Who dares to enter the house of the dead?”
With lowered eyes, she watched the dreadful shadow move closer. She could not raise her eyes to face whatever might loom in the doorway. The figure stretched out commanding arms, distorted in shadow on the floor.
“Leave this house! Leave unless you too … ker … ker … choo!” There was a loud sneeze, followed by a twangy Middle West voice exclaiming, “Doggone it!”
Cherry darted to the door. There stood Bunce, flapping his arms.
“Bunce Smith, I ought to report you for playing such a joke on me!”
Bunce rocked with loud laughter. “Scared, weren’t you? Sissy! I only wanted to get you out of this dirty, deserted old house.”
“I’m no sissy! And I’m going to stay if I want to!” Cherry exploded. “Here I hope to have some fun exploring this place, and you … and you … sneeze!”
“You have to admit I’m a pretty good actor,” Bunce boasted.
Just then, they both heard a low cry.
“Was that you again?” Cherry demanded disgustedly.
“It certainly wasn’t me, ma’am!” Bunce’s clear blue eyes were mystified.
“It seemed to come from right in this room,” Cherry puzzled. She looked around the windowless room, empty except for the broken chair and the big heap of rags.
Then the rags stirred. Cherry and Bunce looked at each other anxiously. “A tramp, I guess,” Bunce reassured her.
But it was not a tramp. At least, not the sort of tramp they had ever seen before. As they stood watching, the top layer of rags went hurtling off, and a queer little man tried to sit up. He was small, with coppery skin, a rather flat, blunt face, and two black pigtails. He moved his hands helplessly and sank back into the pile of rags.
“He’s sick!” Cherry exclaimed.
She ran over to the man and looked into a pair of dull, beady black eyes, offset by broad cheekbones. Bunce was right behind her.
“He’s an Indian,” he muttered. He fingered a handloomed wool shawl of rainbow stripes which the man wore over his rusty black suit and purple shirt. Cherry studied the stolid, copper-colored face. She had seen Indians many times in Illinois when they came into Hilton on Saturdays to market, but they had been much taller and lighter-skinned than this little man. Suddenly it struck her, she was used to North American Indians, this man must be either a South or Central American Indian!
But his nationality did not concern Cherry now. What mattered was that he was a human being, sick and helpless. He was shivering, his teeth were chattering, his face was wan, and his fingers had gone colorless. These were the symptoms of tropical fever … first stage.
“What’s the matter with him?” Bunce asked fearfully.
“Don’t you remember,” she whispered, “what you read in Herold about malaria?”
Bunce swallowed. “Sort of similar, but this is a lot more severe! What kind of tropical fever is this?”
All the dread possibilities raced through Cherry’s mind … this could be malaria, or yellow fever, or one of the unknown, uncontrolled fevers! And then she thought of something even worse—malaria cases in the Army were isolated, kept under control, the source of infection was known and fought. But here was this fever-ridden man wandering about, without anybody’s knowing that the fever was abroad and unleashed without control. One sick person was enough to start an epidemic.
Frantic questions raced through Cherry’s mind. Where had he caught it? Where had he been? From the looks of his battered shoes and his pinched face, he had traveled a long way. How long had he been in this house? That swampy garden was full of mosquitoes; let many of them bite him, carry infected blood, and a swarm of disease-bearing mosquitoes could descend on the city like winged death. Cherry thought fearfully of that cistern; it would make a fine place for mosquitoes to lay their eggs.
Abruptly she got up and ran out of the house. Pushing aside the heavy undergrowth in the garden, she located the cistern, knelt, and looked down into the stagnant water. It was hard to see down there in the late daylight. Yes, there it was! A grayish film of larvae floated on the dirty-looking still water. Mosquitoes were breeding here! They might or might not be disease-carrying mosquitoes. She ran back into the house.
“It’s a breeding hole, out there,” she announced to Bunce. Bunce’s face grew worried as he began to realize the terrible implications of the man’s illness.
Cherry started to question the sick Indian. He listened to her questions, his coal black eyes watching her lips. The stolid expression on his face did not change. Apparently he understood no English.
She suddenly noticed the man wore a ring on one of his fingers. She bent closer, breathing a silent prayer that it might give her a clue as to who he was and where he came from. It was a heavy ring of beaten gold and silver on which was portrayed a sun atop a mountain, a palm tree, and an Indian in a canoe. She slipped the ring off his finger and held it up before the sick man’s eyes.
“Listen!” she said desperately. She pointed to his ring. “Where? Donde! Doctor! Americano!”
The Indian said something low-voiced in a strange tongue. “Must be Indian dialect,” Bunce muttered to Cherry, “doesn’t sound like any Spanish I ever learned.”
The Indian was fishing in his pocket. He produced a tattered snapshot and held it out to Cherry with trembling fingers. She and Bunce studied it. It showed a young man, an Indian, standing beside an American soldier, both smiling.
“His son?” Cherry guessed. “He’s on his way to find him?” Bunce shrugged and spoke to the Indian in halting Spanish. But the man did not understand Spanish, either. He was having such a severe chill that he was losing consciousness. Cherry looked at him in horror.
“So this is our ghost,” she said in a hushed voice to Bunce.
“Haunted house, huh?” Bunce muttered.
Cherry said, “Don’t you see? People think it’s haunted because they see or hear things going on in here. This house is used as a way station, as a place to sleep, by wandering Indians! Didn’t you see the food and the marks on the walls when you came in? It’s Indians, not ghosts!”
“This is worse than any ghost,” exclaimed Bunce worriedly, “this is death on the loose. Gosh! I do hope they’ll know what it is and have the right treatment for it!”
“The right treatment,” echoed Cherry. Dr. Joe and his new serum flashed into her mind.
Cherry was suddenly galvanized into action.
“Listen, Bunce! I have a plan. We’ve got to get him to the hospital, on the double. You stay here with him. Do your best to keep mosquitoes away from him. I’ll come back with an ambulance.”
Bunce gulped and agreed. Cherry snatched up her purse and hat, raced out of the house and sprinted down the lane. She remembered the way back to Ancon’s main throughfare. There she caught the Army hospital bus, and in twelve minutes time she was back in the hospital lobby. She rushed to the telephone operator’s room.
“Can you locate Dr. Upham for me?” Cherry asked her urgently.
The obliging operator tried all the wards. She tried the Operating Rooms, Major Fortune’s laboratory, a research room, Lex’s office. It was useless.
Cherry went back into the hall. At the end of the corridor, she saw a familiar little figure in nurse’s uniform approaching her.
“Hello, Cherry. What are you looking so upset about?” Rita asked.
“There isn’t time to explain now,” Cherry said as she started to hurry on.
Rita’s dark little face puckered up into a frown as she peered at Cherry’s smudged face and soiled seer-sucker dress. “You’d better get yourself cleaned up for the ward. We’re due to start our night duty at seven, remember, and that’s less than two hours off. And Vivian says Johnny Mae is in no mood to trifle with.”
“Thanks, Rita, but I’m in a big hurry now,” she flung over her shoulder as she rushed out of the main building. She knew now what s
he would have to do. She had no authority to act on her own. But which came first … this man’s life, and possibly many other lives, or discipline? But discipline was needed in order to safeguard lives, Cherry reminded herself. On the other hand, what about medical ethics? What about the dictum, “The patient must be saved at any cost”? The more reasons and arguments Cherry thought of, the more mixed up she became. Meanwhile, her feet were carrying her on, and her will was driving her forward to do what she most deeply knew was right. And she had not a minute to lose!
Cherry crossed the hospital yard to another wing. The sun was dropping and, though it was still daylight, the air had lost its warmth. She entered the Receiving Department and sought out Ann.
“Ann, could you help me get an ambulance?”
“Have you a doctor’s O.K.?”
“No.” Cherry added, “It’s urgent. Take my word for it.”
Ann’s calm dark blue eyes studied her. “Is the patient an American soldier?”
“No, but you know we often treat anybody at all who needs care. It’s awfully important that this patient be admitted.”
Ann looked down, thinking. “It’s awfully strange. I don’t—Urgent. Hm-m. Wait here. I’ll see what can be done.”
Cherry waited as Ann disappeared into a small office. She emerged soon, her face expressionless. She said to Cherry:
“I can’t take the responsibility of ordering an ambulance. But I put in a good word for you with the clerk. You’ll have to talk him into it yourself. And oh, golly, how I hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for!”
“I know,” Cherry said grimly. “I also know I’m doing something necessary.” She marched in to talk to the clerk. She argued, pleaded, coaxed, explained. How she managed it, she did not know … probably by confusing the clerk so much he did not know exactly what to think … but Cherry succeeded.
“We’re short of ambulances,” the clerk told her, “we can’t send you one for half an hour.”
In that case, she had better not wait to drive over with the ambulance. She would go ahead and relieve Bunce, so that he at least, could get to the ward well before seven. Accordingly, she gave detailed directions to the clerk for the driver.
Walking shakily out of the clerk’s office, Cherry did not know whether she was glad or sorry that she had undertaken such an unauthorized responsibility. The minutes were spinning by faster and faster. She had to relieve Bunce quickly!
Cherry rode part way on the bus, ran the rest. She still had a chance of being on time herself if the ambulance arrived when promised. She fled up the lane.
The house, as she entered it, looked darker and more sinister than ever, now that twilight approached. She went through the door.
Bunce was still faithfully at the Indian’s side. He looked up in relief when Cherry squatted down beside him.
“He’s worse, I think,” the boy said worriedly. “He’s awfully hot, but his skin is dry as paper.” In the half-dark, the Indian’s face was flushed, his eyes were closed.
Second stage, clicked Cherry’s mind, recalling what she had read. This was some form of malaria, all right!
“Bunce,” she said in a strained voice, “you aren’t going to like what I’m going to say, but well, it’s an order. I want you to get back to the hospital and go on duty. You’ve done your part, and more than your part.”
“And leave you alone in this deserted house?” Bunce shook his shaggy head. “I should say not!”
Cherry was firm. “It’s an order. Please go. I have my reasons, Bunce.”
“You’ll come back with the ambulance?” Bunce asked anxiously as he stood up.
Cherry nodded. Bunce reluctantly left. She heard his footsteps in the next room, then on the steps. Presently they faded in the lane.
It was very dark and still in this inside room. The trees outside in the cool evening wind swayed and moaned. Cherry tried to settle the suffering man a little more comfortably on the pile of rags. She fanned him with her hat. “I hope,” she thought somberly, “that Dr. Joe’s new serum will cure this case.” Serum! The sentence she had read reappeared sharply before her eyes——
“Severe rare form of malaria called blackwater fever must be treated with serum.”
Cherry had a hunch that this was it … blackwater fever. Oh, if only that ambulance would hurry, hurry, hurry! A faint buzzing edged into her thoughts. Mosquitoes! Clearly, and distinctly she remembered reading these frightening words: “The fever mosquito, which spreads blackwater fever and yellow fever, is a night feeder and does not attack until sunset. It prefers light to dark races, and young people.”
Cherry shivered. If these winged hypodermics had bitten the sick Indian and become infected … if a fever-bearing mosquito bit her … The whining buzz sang in her ears. She flapped her hat about steadily. She was tired and frightened. Her duty was to her patient. Stay here she would, at all costs!
The room grew darker and darker, and still the ambulance did not come. She would never get to the ward on time. Cherry hardly could see the Indian’s face now. The buzzing grew louder, higher. She lost track of time, and in her fatigue and tension, still flapping her hat, relapsed into a sort of waking dream.
Noises outside roused her. She heard the throbbing of an engine, axles straining, and men’s shouts. The ambulance! At last! Cherry ran through the two dark rooms to the door.
“In here!” she called. “Bring lights and a stretcher!”
She saw in the fading light, two men jump down from the ambulance … one was a most welcome familiar figure … it was Lex! Oh, bless him! Ann must have told him about her request for an ambulance. She ran down the lane sobbing with relief, “Oh, Lex, oh, Lex, I’m so glad you’re here!”
The ambulance driver apologetically said, “We had a hard time getting this big car through the side streets. Hope your patient hasn’t suffered by the delay.”
Cherry smiled at him and said, “As long as you made it!” Then turning to Lex she rapidly explained the situation.
“And, Lex, it looks worse than malaria. I have a hunch it’s blackwater fever!”
Lex let out a low whistle and said, “Come on, Cherry, let’s have a look!” They went into the house and Lex bent over the sick man to examine him. When he straightened up, his face was very grave.
“Cherry, we’ve got a serious case on our hands. We’ll have to act fast. We’ve got to report this case to Colonel Wylie for orders.”
At the mention of Dr. Wylie’s name, Cherry’s face fell. “Oh, no, please, Lex, no! We can’t. Oh, Lex, this is Dr. Joe’s chance to use his new serum. Don’t you see that Colonel Wylie will send this case to the civilian hospital … and poor Dr. Joe will lose this wonderful opportunity to prove his new serum? Lex, please,” she pleaded, “can’t we take him back to the hospital and get Dr. Joe busy right away? Lex, do you remember our dictum: ‘The patient must be saved at any cost’?”
Lex yielded. “All right, Cherry, you win! We’ll think about charges for breaking the rules later.”
The strain was beginning to tell on Cherry. She felt sick. In a kind of miserable daze, she answered questions and filled out the ambulance report. At last they were off!
Back at the hospital, Cherry and Lex moved the patient into bed quickly … safely in quarantine. So far, so good. Then Cherry ran to the telephone and called Dr. Joe. Relief sounded in her voice when she heard Dr. Joe’s gentle hello coming over the wires. “Dr. Joe, this is Cherry. Listen carefully. I haven’t time to explain now, so don’t ask questions. Come right over to the hospital and bring your new malaria serum. We’ve discovered a case that may be blackwater fever. Yes, yes, we’ve got it right here in the hospital. I found the patient in a deserted house. No, no, we haven’t reported to Colonel Wylie. We’re doing this on our own. Please hurry. Lex will meet you in the lobby.”
As she turned from the phone, she saw Bunce Smith loping toward her with open relief written all over his face.
“Miss Cherry, did the ambulance co
me? Is everything okay? Did you get the case to the hospital? I shouldn’t have left you there in that house alone.”
Cherry started to reassure him when a cold voice broke in. It was Captain Endicott. He had heard everything. Cherry groaned.
Captain Endicott’s face was cold and forbidding as his eyes swept disdainfully over Cherry’s disheveled appearance.
“I see. Lieutenant Ames and Private Bunce Smith are at it again. Lieutenant Ames, what is this all about? … a case of blackwater fever here in the hospital, brought from a deserted house … haven’t reported it to Colonel Wylie … we’re doing this on our own. In case you are not aware of it, Lieutenant Ames, black-water fever is a job for the U.S. Public Health Service.” His eyes glittered with hatred. “I suppose they, too, weren’t informed. I shall report to Colonel Wylie at once.” Sarcastically he added, “That’s Army regulations, Lieutenant Ames!”
He wheeled about and strode purposefully off.
Cherry looked at her watch. “The time,” she groaned. “I should have been on duty an hour ago.” She hurried upstairs to Medical Ward, trembling at what she had done. It felt like a year, instead of a day, since she had hurried down these quiet, familiar, hospital corridors. She burst into the door of the ward to find Johnny Mae Cowan waiting for her. Rita, busy at the beds, looked up with a scared face.
“Lieutenant Ames, you are outrageously late!” the Chief Nurse declared. “You have been absent from the ward for an hour. Absence warrants dishonorable discharge!” She scowled at Cherry’s soiled dress and rumpled hair.
Cherry was ready to burst into tears. “But I can explain,” she pleaded.
“This is the Army! We want performance, not excuses! An order is an order!” Cherry knew it would be insubordination to argue with the Chief Nurse. An Army no was final. And she already had too many charges against her. She was busy at her duties when the Chief Nurse called her and told her ominously: