by John Wilson
Sixteen hundred. I roll back and stare at the ceiling. Billy, Sam, Captain Mason, the family from the cabin. The thought of the girl in the red nightdress brings tears to my eyes. I know I did everything I could, but while I was in the river, I couldn’t shake the idea that saving her was my salvation too. Somehow it would make up for all that I had done. But she was dead. I’d failed again.
I look back at my neighbor. I can’t take my eyes off the flat blanket where his legs used to be. At least my hands will heal.
“We make a great pair, huh?” the man says. “Me with no legs and you with bum hands.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he continues. “It’s what everyone thinks when they see me. You’re thinking that, apart from some scars, your hands’ll heal. All this poor cripple can look forward to is life sitting in a chair or pushing himself around on a wheeled trolley. And you’d be right.
“To be honest, I ain’t looking forward to it, but seeing your eyes, I’d say you’ve got worse scars than me. The scars you carry ain’t just on your hands. And if you carry them inside scars with you, they’ll cause you more grief than my missing legs.”
I roll back and wish he would shut up. Are my troubles so obvious that everyone can see them as easily as if I were carrying a sign? To my great relief the man beside me stops talking and I eventually drop back to sleep.
JUNE 1865
TWENTY-SIX
I hesitate at the foot of the bed. I want to leave. I want to go home, but it’s not easy. The five weeks of rest and food in the hospital have worked wonders. I almost feel human again. My hands are almost healed, and it’s been a long time since I screamed when the doctor changed the dressings. I’ll even miss my talkative, legless neighbor. As soon as I walk out that door at the end of the ward, it’ll be just me and my ghosts. And I have a new one now. As I suspected, the girl in the red nightdress has joined the others in my nighttime accusations.
I’ve tried to find out what happened to the girl and her family after we were pulled onto the boat. I’ve asked everyone I can, but there’s no blonde girl in a red nightdress in this hospital or any of the other hospitals in Memphis. I don’t know enough about her parents to even begin to search for them. It’s hopeless. The girl and her parents are dead. Everyone I touch dies.
“Looks like you got visitors.” It takes me a moment to realize that the legless man is talking to me. I turn toward the door. Who would come and see me?
Coming toward me down the ward, smiling broadly, are a woman and a girl. The girl’s not wearing a red nightdress, but I would recognize her anywhere. My legs go weak with shock. Ghosts, I think. But everyone else can see them.
“Are you Mr. Jake Clay?” the woman asks.
I can’t talk. I nod stupidly.
“I’m so glad we’ve found you at last,” she goes on, holding out her hand. She hesitates when she sees the angry red scars on the backs of my hands. “My name’s Annabelle Fletcher and this is my daughter, Sarah. We wanted to thank you for saving Sarah’s life on the river.”
“You’re dead,” I say, staring at the girl.
“Very nearly,” the mother says. “The sailors on the Bostonia who pulled you both out of the river thought she was. Fortunately, there was a doctor as a passenger on board who was tending to the victims. He noticed that she was still breathing, but only just. He wrapped her in blankets and took her to his cabin. When the Bostonia reached Memphis, he took her to his home, and he and his wife nursed her back to health.”
“Your husband found you?” I ask, looking from one to the other, still trying to take in what is happening.
“I’m afraid not.” The woman’s face darkens with sadness. “They found Joe’s body on an island near where the disaster happened.
“I was picked up by a boat from Memphis. When Sarah was well enough to give the doctor details, he came looking and found me in a hospital on the other side of town. All she could talk about was the man who had talked to her on the river. So, we came looking for you.”
I can think of nothing to say and continue to stare dumbly at them both.
“Well,” the woman says eventually, “I’m very glad we found you before we caught the train home. You saved my girl’s life, and I will always be grateful to you. If you pass though Boston, there will always be a welcome for you at our house.”
She places a hand gently on my shoulder. “I wish you well and pray that your wounds heal completely. Thank you again.”
“Thank you,” the girl says with a sad smile. Then they are gone.
“I must say,” the legless man comments, “you’re quite the conversationalist once you get going.” He chuckles quietly to himself. “You really save that girl’s life?”
“Yes. I did,” I say.
“Well, that’s something to be proud of in this whole sorry mess, and no mistake.”
He’s right. I should be proud, and I will be, as soon as what has happened sinks in. I saved her life. At last, I have something positive to hold onto. Something I can remember when the blackness of the hell I’ve been through threatens to overwhelm me. Something that might just lay Nathaniel, Billy and the others to rest.
I nod to the legless man. “Take care of yourself.”
“You too, Jake. Good luck.”
I walk down the ward and out the door into the morning sunshine. I stop on the steps and look around. The world looks brighter and more colorful than I have seen it in months. A man walking past tips his hat to me.
“Morning,” he says.
“Good morning,” I reply. It’s a statement as well as a greeting.
Perhaps I don’t need to walk all the way home. I step after the man.
“Excuse me.” He turns. “Which way is the railroad station?”
The man points down the street. “Take that wide road to the left. About half a mile. Can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
I set off down the street. I can always walk the last bit if I need to, but I have to be sure and get home before the fall. There’s a big old trout I have to catch.
JOHN WILSON is the author of twenty-three books for juveniles, teens and adults. His self-described “addiction to history” has resulted in many award-winning novels that bring the past alive for young readers. Incredibly, even the worst of the horrors that Jake experiences in Death on the River actually happened.