by Baird Wells
She shook her head, even though Matthew wasn't looking at her. “He was fine when I arrived. This is something else, something new.”
The spasms abated, and Miller lay limp and pale against the dirt, beads of sweat dotting his forehead and chin. His breathing slowed, but he didn't wake up. She lifted his shirt, pinching at one of the bandages with dread. She pulled it back, finding nothing. The lacerations were red, but with no oozing, no stench of infection. The skin around the sutures seemed healthy. If anything, it was a little dark.
“Porter, get him back on the table.” Kate stood up, swiping the back of her hand across her brow.
Matthew stood beside her, studying Miller. He turned, looking her squarely in the eye. “I'll leave you to your patient. Keep me apprised.”
She nodded to his back, wondering if he was simply giving her space to work or if he thought her negligent.
“Kate...” Porter's deep voice spun her around. He jabbed a finger at Miller. A crimson bulls-eye spread along the tail of his shirt, growing larger as blood and urine saturated the linen.
She watched the stain, paralyzed. Nothing made sense, and she had no idea where to start.
Porter grabbed the hem, tugging up Miller's bloody garment. “A blow to the gut, maybe.”
“I thought of it. He has bruises on the back, but no hardness to his belly and no deficiency in his bowels.” Her mind grabbed at causes and symptoms, pairing them together for anything that fit. She listed them off, throwing each failed idea aside in turn. “Kidneys, spleen, gut, liver –”
As she spoke, Miller began to tremble again. She would have been relieved, more assured if the tremors were violent. Instead, it was the weak quivering of a body expending the last of its fight.
Then, he was still. She watched his chest, waiting. It went down and did not raise up.
“Breathe,” she whispered. “Breathe, breathe.”
Miller's lips blanched, a dusky shadow slowly ringing his mouth. The pungent stench of feces struck her. Kate laid two fingers at his throat.
Private Miller was gone.
* * *
Kate stared at her feet, tired of trying to break into Astley's victory speech. She had lost track of how long he had been nattering on, something about sending off for a proper nurse and a poison being purged from the garrison. He didn't matter enough to listen. She mind was somewhere else, in her hospital tent with Private Miller, churning through memories of the last six days for what she had missed, what had gone wrong.
She glanced at Matthew. He was not listening to Astley either, his eyes piercing her from behind his desk.
Astley took a breath and sneered at her off his shoulder, sweeping a hand in her direction. “Well, off you go, Miss Foster. Better luck to you in the future.”
Matthew raised his hands, helpless.
“I'm not leaving.”
Astley was nearly at the door, marching out in triumph. Too late, Kate realized her mistake. She should have waited until he was gone.
“What do you mean, 'not leaving'! You damn well are. We made a wager, and you lost.” Astley stormed back and practically spit the last word in her face. Her hand flew up, smacking flat-palmed into his nose and shoving him toward the general's desk.
Matthew shot to his feet. “Enough!”
Astley darted toward her, but the general's hand at his collar leashed his assault.
“We contracted a fair deal!” Astley whipped his head around to Matthew, jerking free. “You witnessed it. The losing party has to leave.”
His whining made her want to strike a fist against his throat. Astley did not care about Private Miller, or his patient, or what had gone wrong. He only cared about winning.
She looked at Matthew, who raised his hands again. Give me something, Kate. She saw the plea as he stared at her.
“A day.”
“Unthinkable,” Astley snapped.
She ignored him, begging Matthew with her eyes as much as her words. “One day. You saw Miller's decline just in the time you were in the tent. Please. One day.” She swallowed hard, looking from the general to Astley and back. “One day, and then I'll go.”
Matthew ground a knuckle against his lips, studying the floor. Then, he looked at her and held up a finger. “One day.”
She closed her eyes, going limp. “Thank you.”
Astley stomped. “No! No, no! The bargain was lose, you leave.”
Matthew smashed a fist into the top of his desk, jarring the legs, scattering papers to the floor. Her heart jumped, and Astley cowered beside her.
“And so she will! When I decide!” Matthew's chest heaved, and for a moment Kate wondered if he would regain control. He fell back into his chair. “One day, Miss Foster.” He stared at the desk, not seeming to trust himself. “Mister Astley, if you harass or molest her in any way, you'll spend the night in the brig.”
She didn't wait, not for Astley's snotty retort or for Matthew to dismiss her. Kate turned and ran, covering the camp faster than she ever had before. The general had given her one day to solve the mystery of Private Miller, and she would need every minute of it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Why?
What had she missed? Kate sat before Dr. Addison's hulking volume of 'The Competent Physician's Reference'. It was well after midnight as she thumbed the pages desperately. Private Miller had one symptom of a disease, but not another. He had all the symptoms of another, but it should not have been fatal. Nothing fit. She continued flipping. “Larynx, lazy eye, leeches, leukonychia-”
An illustration halted her. The detailed sketch of a hand showed small white half-moons speckling the nails. She could swear she had seen the same thing earlier, when she touched Miller's fingers. Kate read the text beneath the drawing. “The condition may be disregarded as a harmless, self-resolving injury, except in the circumstances where a physician by other complaints would suspect arsenic as the culprit.”
She clawed at the pages, flipping them in wide sections until she came to the A's.
Arsenic.
Kate traced the lines of print with an index finger.
“...At the onset, a physician will observe confusion and head pains, loosening of the bowels, and drowsiness. Affected skin will be observed with a darkening of pigment, irritation and blistering. Intolerance of foods. Blood and other ill humors in the urine will follow. Leukonychia striata presents upon the nails of the hands and feet.
Once acute, the final stage of the poisoning is persistent sleep, tremors, and death.”
Sick pangs stabbed at her gut as she unfolded from the chair. Kate held up her hands. She had faithfully applied the liniment to them, every time, before she had touched Private Miller. Between her fingers the webs were red, angry and scaled. The backs were coated in a peeled white dust that hinted of chapped skin. She had blamed it on excessive washing.
The knot in her belly twisted, and she tread softly toward Miller's body beneath the drape. She pinched a corner of the dirty canvas and folded it back atop his pale, blotched chest.
Kate tugged one stiff arm from over his heart, turning it as much as the joint would allow, and inspected his nails. White on white, the speckled bands arced prominently over the surface. The sick feeling erupted into her throat as angry bile. The skin around every suture was dusky, darker than the rest. Rage propelled her thoughts, sliding the puzzle pieces into one another. Blood in the urine, fits, intolerance of food. Night blindness.
I wake up sure a man's in the tent.
It couldn't be. Kate shook her head, trying to dislodge the idea. Not even Astley was so unscrupulous.
But he was, a voice corrected.
Kate looked at her reddening hands again, and her head fell against Private Miller's clammy chest. Her fists balled into the linen sheet and she threw it, not recognizing the animal cries that tore from her chest. The liniment jar was her next target. The heavy glass sailed easily through the tent flap, connecting with the hard-packed ground outside. She heaved with sobs but no tea
rs came to relieve her aching eyes. Porter stumbled in, half asleep, drawn by the commotion. Kate jammed her foot over and over into the frame of the small recovery bed. Wisely, Porter stood back, knowing better than to interfere.
If her rage had not already been mostly spent, she wouldn't have noticed the small, shiny object that clattered free of the bed frame and came to rest at Porter's feet. He bent his long frame, scooping it up easily, letting dangle before her. “Not Private Miller's, I'd guess.”
Panting, Kate stared at the pocket watch swinging frantically by its chain. The gold cover, crest engraved in relief, was something she must have seen a hundred times. It had been the time keeper of life and death for countless patients. It was Dr. Addison's old pocket watch.
She snaked the chain with a trembling finger, hooking it out of Porter's hand and dropping it like an anchor to the bottom of her apron pocket. Eyes closed, she inhaled for a measure of control. In that moment she felt a capacity for murder that must have equaled Astley's.
“Porter, wash your hands thoroughly, and do not touch the liniment. Then please go tell the general that I need to speak with him. Urgently. And tell him to send for Mister Astley, as well. I'm certain he would like the watch back.”
* * *
It was an epidemic.
That's what he feared she would say.
Matthew sat at his desk across from Astley. They were pointedly ignoring each other, only one of them curious to hear what Kate had found. He prepared himself for the worst, news that whatever had debilitated Private Miller was about to run rampant through his men.
His fears were not allayed when a sentry pulled back the flap to let Kate pass. Dry trails streaked the dust and old blood on Kate's cheeks, beneath her swollen lids. If he had to guess, she had been up all night. There was an unmistakable slump to her shoulders.
He stood up, anxious for whatever she had to say, eager to find a solution. She did not even look in his direction.
“Mister Astley, I wanted to return this.” Kate fished in her apron, dangling a pocket watch. Astley swiped but she jerked it back. Matthew groaned. She would antagonize her rival to the very end.
“Are you certain you want to grab it?” Kate was pinching it by the chain, swinging it just beyond Astley's reach. “It's coated on every surface by the liniment I used to treat Private Miller.”
“I don't know why that should matter.” Contrary to his nonchalance, Astley's right hand tucked between his thigh and the chair.
Now she lowered it to his face. “Here, take it. I don't recall Doctor Addison's gifting it to you, but I've noticed that you seem to carry it everywhere lately.”
Matthew realized he was missing something significant in the exchange between Kate and Astley.
Kate thrust the watch at Astley again, who turned his face away like a petulant child at dinner. “It's only liniment, Gregory.”
Astley jerked his body away, flailing arms at Kate's midsection. She stepped back, continuing to shake the watch under his nose. Any moment now, they would escalate to blows.
Leaning across the desk, Matthew grabbed ineffectually at her wrist twice before getting a grip on Kate's arm and pulling her to him, making her take a seat in his chair. Then he positioned himself between her and Astley, so she couldn't get up. Astley took advantage, coming to his feet and jabbing a finger past Matthew at Kate's face. “You're a raving lunatic! When you pack this morning it should be for Bedlam!”
He jabbed an elbow hard into Astley, knocking the smaller man to the rug. He lay there, rubbing his shoulder theatrically. Astley could no longer see Kate, but that didn't stop his ranting. “You're a poor loser and worse imitation of a doctor.”
He started to get up, but Matthew turned and pressed him back with a boot heel. “Shut up.”
He didn't have enough hands, or patience.
“Miss Foster...” Matthew had no notion how to continue. He wanted her promise to sit still, he wanted an explanation, and he did not expect much cooperation on either count. Finally, he tried appealing to her a different way. “Tell me what happened to Private Miller,” he coaxed.
She wouldn't meet his eyes. “Tell him why you won't touch the watch, Gregory.” Her words were cold and flat as marble.
Matthew glanced over his shoulder to Astley, still reclining on the floor, lips pressed defiantly together.
He crouched down in front of Kate. “Miss Foster, I know you came here for more than just a watch.”
She still did not look at him. “Do you know what happens when a person dies of arsenic poisoning? It's slow and horrible, eating you from the inside.”
Astley snapped up. “Poison! Truly? Is that what you're claiming now?”
He drew back an elbow, the threat wiping away Astley's sneer. Too bad. He was beginning to enjoy the idea of planting a blow squarely in the man's face.
Kate gathered herself, sitting up to look at him. “I prepared a special treatment for Miller's wounds, a combination of herbs known to stave off infection. I used it on his wounds every four hours.” She held up her hands for inspection. “I also purified my hands with it after washing.”
Angry red like a sunburn, and cracked between the knuckles, her fingers showed small blisters. “This is arsenic when the skin serves as a barrier. But if it were absorbed more quickly, such as through sutures or open wounds...” Her shoulders lifted weakly. “You saw for yourself.”
He stood up. It was information impossible to absorb while seated. Pacing was a mindless, rhythmic activity, something to occupy his body while his brain worked, and Matthew did it until he found himself standing over Astley, who seemed intent on the rug's pattern. “Explain the watch.”
No answer. He looked at Kate, hunched in his chair with hands clasped between her knees.
She set the watch gently on his desk. “I dislodged it from the bedstead.”
Her words were damning. Kate's hospital was her own, granted when he had given her leave to work separate from Astley. He could not imagine the man ever paying a social call on her, and the rules of the wager expressly forbade him from being anywhere near Kate's patient. These facts melded together in his brain and dropped like an anchor to his gut. The tent was colder, dimmer somehow in proximity to a man who by all evidence was a murderer.
Kate glanced up. “Porter was there and can vouch for me.”
“The negro?” Astley snorted.
“The Onandaga have a word for you: Ji'hah! Dog!” She lunged forward in her chair and spit at Astley's face. “You are disgusting.”
He turned back to Astley. “Get up.”
Astley sprung up, brushing and fiddling uncertainly, eyes darting everywhere.
He snatched Astley's arm with one hand, the knife from his holster with the other. Before the man had time to fit, Matthew pierced his palm with the blade's tip, dragging it up Astley's palm.
“What is wrong with you?” Astley shrieked, twisting his arm to get free. Matthew held fast until he saw blood bead up from the cut, then shoved Astley away.
“You're a goddamn madman!”
Matthew pointed to the watch. “Go pick it up.”
Cradling his injured hand, he moved with more haste than Matthew had expected, but there was an angle of hesitation to Astley's arm when he reached to take it. Fingers trembled and drew back. “Don't know what she might have done to it...” Astley reached in his pocket, produced a worn linen handkerchief and started to drape it over the watch. Matthew slapped it away, spattering blood across his papers. “Pick it up.”
The way Astley swallowed was disgusting, pathetic and frightened like an over-stuffed pelican undulating its throat. “No.”
Matthew brought his right hand to left hip in a practiced arc, drawing his pistol and cocking it before Astley could flinch. “Reach out your hand,” he tightened his fingers along the curved walnut grip, pressing steel to the small of Astley's back, “and pick it up.”
He forgot about Kate, or where he was. All of his concentration centered on the te
nsion in his trigger finger, taught along the iron guard.
The moment held them frozen in place. If not for the ticking watch, he would not have believed time still moved. Then Astley collapsed into a chair, leaving the watch untouched, and began to sob.
“General.” At Kate's voice he relaxed, lowering his arm. She stepped past him, arms crossed, and stared down at Astley's heap. “What was it, Gregory? Was the doctor's position so important to you? Was it just about distinguishing yourself?”
Astley gasped, catching his breath, and looked up at her with his dark, dead-fish eyes. “I hate you. That's all. Always nattering, fussing. Medicine practiced for thousands of years and you,” he rattled out a sharp laugh, “are going to yell from the belfry that it's wrong. You.”
There was a difference in feeling, from suspecting one man had killed another, to knowing it. Matthew no longer saw Astley as a person. “Where is the arsenic you used?”
His voice, when it came, was hollow. “The drug chest, in my tent.”
Cold sweat beaded up Matthew's spine, thinking about the grog, the water stores, even the horses. “Did you poison anything else?”
“I should have.” Astley showed not a hint of remorse or contrition, just a frown at his frustrated plans. “Anything to be rid of her. You will lose more men to Miss Foster's plants and germs than to the musket. Depend on it.”
“Sentry!” He'd heard more than enough.
The soldiers snapped in at attention, blank faces feigning ignorance. Matthew knew from experience what could be heard through the heavy canvas of a tent wall. “Fetch the duty officer. I want six men for the firing squad. And I want it done before the evening meal.”
He waved in the other soldier. “Clap this man in irons and escort him to the brig.”
Astley trembled, but he did not protest. He hung limp in his seat as the manacles were fastened, looking truly sad.
Matthew glanced to Kate, who regarded him with unexpected disapproval. It made him guarded, salting his words. “You don't agree with my methods. Perhaps you feel I was too harsh?”