In spite of the abstract nature of her words, Andrew had the feeling that at the heart of the matter was a soul made of steel. He found it difficult to believe that such a woman had ever truly agonized over the mystery of God. If anything, the Almighty had better be careful lest He too fall into her clutches and she reorganize heaven as she had reorganized Scutari.
In the semidarkness of the ward, Andrew saw her eyes still focused downward on John, and he listened closely for the parting words, expecting some moving summary to everything she had said earlier. Instead, to his surprise, she said simply, in a manner so positive, and practical, "I'll give you a week, John. Then I want you up and about. You see, I need your bed, for others less fortunate."
Without hesitation she walked rapidly away, never once turning back, as though the possibility that she would not be obeyed was simply beyond her.
Andrew held his position beside the table and watched her the length of the ward, was still watching even after the double doors had closed, her presence lingering in spite of the physical vacuum, like the hallucination of the eye when it continues to see a flame after the candle has burned out.
It was some minutes before he shook off the mood and drew near to John's bedside. He looked down. Nothing. The eyes had returned to their customary spot on the ceiling. For all her noble efforts, Miss Nightingale had accomplished nothing.
Suffering a strange weakness brought on by the encounter, Andrew sat on the camp stool, his eye in the process falling on the man in the next bed, his cheeks still bulging with the leather pouch, though from all signs, he was fast asleep.
It wasn't until Andrew turned back toward John's bed that he saw the first faint movement, that left hand suddenly stiffening with new energy, the arm following suit, and arm and hand together lifting the torso, the body angling to the right as it fought for a center of balance, John himself at last seated upright on the edge of the bed.
The face lifted with a stubborn concentrated expression, and as the eyes, buried in hollows, met Andrew's, two words left those parched lips.
"My . . . friend," John whispered, lifting his hand.
The next evening, with Andrew packed and ready to leave, John sat propped up by pillows and tried to manipulate the spoon in his left hand. He finished the bowl of stew and pushed the tray away, a little annoyed by the grinning Andrew and greatly annoyed by the delirious mutterings of the man in the bed next to him.
"It's like Bedlam," he muttered, feeling irascible, in the manner of an invalid.
"It's paradise"—Andrew smiled—"compared to what it used to be."
"Then spare me paradise," John grumbled, and slipped down beneath the blanket, amazed by his presence in this place. Still struggling through a degree of confusion, he looked up at Andrew, neat and polished in his scarlet tunic and white shoulder straps. "When are you leaving?" he asked, as quietly as the ravings in the next bed would permit. He knew the answer anyway.
"With the evening tide," Andrew said.
John was on the verge of expressing his gratitude when suddenly the sun-baked lunatic in the next bed let out an unearthly scream which brought nurses scurrying from all quarters of the ward. Even Andrew hurried to offer his assistance. For the first time John felt a wave of sympathy for him. Perhaps the poor man had simply fallen into the pit out of which John had recently climbed.
As the man's howls increased, John sent his attention in the oppo-
site direction. Slowly he lifted his hand to his right shoulder. The only remaining sensation was a burning, a negotiable discomfort, but still something new, considering that for four days he'd felt nothing. During that strange time, apparently every nerve ending in his body had been occupied elsewhere, trying to assist him with that mysterious and difficult passage which at one point had deposited him at Eden, a scene of crystal clarity, withered leaves blowing about the inner courtyard.
Again the man screamed. God, what were they doing to him? Unable to bear the sounds of misery any longer, John threw back the blanket and stood, a bit wobbly on unsteady legs, and cut through the barrier of nurses and orderlies with a single command.
"Leave him be!" he shouted.
One by one, the nurses looked up in surprise, Andrew with them, their expressions registering amazement that so firm a command could come from such an unlikely source.
Without warning, he felt weak. He took a step backward until he felt the bed behind him, and sat, trying to maintain the impression of strength.
One of the nurses offered an explanation. "He must be bathed, Mr. Eden," she said kindly. "That's all we were trying to do."
John felt the recently consumed stew turn in his stomach. "Clearly he does not want a bath," he muttered.
Apparently Andrew saw the approaching weakness and moved back to John's side, throwing out a suggestion to the waiting nurses. "Perhaps he's right," he said. "Later. He might be more cooperative later."
From where John sat on the edge of the bed, he could see the objecting patient in the next bed. The hospital robe had been stripped down to his waist. Apparently someone had tried to remove a small leather pouch which hung about his neck. The man now clutched at it, his eyes white and darting, his cheeks ablaze with fever.
John watched him for as long as he could; then, using the last of his energy, he walked to the bed next to him and with his good hand drew the blanket over the man's chest, muttering angrily, "Damn nurses. . ."
The man looked gratefully up out of his fear. "Thanks . . . mate," he whispered, both hands clutching at the leather pouch.
John lingered, moved by the helplessness of so strapping a man. Under better circumstances, no one would lift a hand to him without his permission. While he was still standing there, John saw the
man's eyes close, as though convinced that now it was safe to sleep.
"Where did he come from?" John asked, stepping back to his own bed.
"India," Andrew said, "or so one of the nurses claims."
John looked up, newly interested. "India? How did he get here?"
"Aboard a troop ship heading for England. Dysentery caused them to put in at Malta. Some were sent here."
As a new wave of weakness swept over John, he leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes, wishing that the whitewashed walls would stop whirling about him.
As Andrew drew up the blanket about him, John asked a question. "Have. . . you been here all the time?"
Andrew nodded, smiling.
"Without sleep ... or respite?"
Again Andrew nodded.
John watched his friend's face closely. There really was no need to pose either question. The answer was clear in the lines of fatigue about Andrew's eyes.
Suddenly John caught the hand that was arranging the blanket and held it fast. Something had to be said. "There was no need, you know."
"There was every need."
"I would have survived."
"I wanted to see for myself."
A tension had fallen over both, a unique defense against rising emotions. John released his hand. "You really insist upon returning?"
"I have no choice," he repeated.
"That's nonsense and you know it," John snapped. "The rate of desertions each day is high, and climbing higher."
"And I will not add my name to the list," Andrew said with conviction. Apparently he saw the look of annoyance in John's face and moved to dispel it. "Oh, don't get me wrong, my friend." He smiled. "I should have listened to you back in London, on the day we signed up. But then I thought you were wrong."
"And now?"
Andrew lowered his head. "It was a stupid venture to start with. And you?" he asked. "What will you do? Is it back to London or Eden for you?"
Such a simple question I Still gaping, as though the answer were written on Andrew's face, John realized for the first time the full measure of his recent estrangement from life. The immediate future
had come to a halt on that escarpment above Section Three. And with Jack Willmot's de
ath, it had vanished altogether.
John shook his head. Was it necessary that he address that black vacuum of the future so soon?
While Andrew detected his mood, he obviously did not know its cause. "Shall we plan to meet in London, then? Within the year? Together we should be able to plot some sort of negotiable future, don't you think?"
John nodded, shocked by his ability to deceive. Meet in London! He had neither appetite nor desire for London. What was there in London except the empty flat on Warwick Lane, filled with Jack Willmot's memories? What was there for him in that obscene house in St. George Street? And he would never again step foot in Brassey's office. The generous wage and assistantship that was to have been his future had been shattered on the bloody field of massacre at Section Three. As for Eden? On that thought his mind disintegrated into the fragmented images of a madman.
"Then London, is it?" Andrew asked.
John nodded. He would write to Andrew later and abridge the lie, after he had settled upon a destination.
He looked up to see Andrew moving back to the foot of the bed. "Must you leave so soon?" John asked. "There's time yet."
But Andrew shook his head, a helplessness in his expression which suggested that the parting was no easier for him than it was for John. "I need to report to the docks early," he murmured. "I heard this morning that the ship will be full to capacity. A new regiment was brought in from India. Reinforcements." He grinned. "Don't worry. In no time we'll have Ivan on the run back to Moscow."
John's suffering was acute at the imminent loss of this last good friend. He thought that it would be best if he said only what Andrew wanted to hear. "Then go and fight your war." He smiled. "Go along with you."
Andrew lifted the valise at his feet. He started to lift his hand to his forehead as though in salute. But something altered in his face. He dropped the valise and started forward, and John was there to receive him, his good arm returning the embrace, the mottled patterns of late-evening sun dancing in liquid movements across the bed.
Then he was gone. For a moment John held still, his eyes fastened on the vacuum at the end of the ward. Finally he fell back into the pillow, appalled at the tears in his eyes. How long would it go on, this unfortunate propensity of his to lose people he loved?
Lacking the energy and will which might have led to an answer, he turned on his side in an attempt to conceal his tears from the passing nurses. He swallowed hard and was in the process of wiping his face with the back of his hand when suddenly he felt eyes upon him and glanced across at the bed opposite. The man lay in his exact same position, on his side, one hand crooked beneath the dark matted hair, the other still grasping the leather pouch about his neck, his pale watery eyes open and fastened upon John.
Neither spoke, as though both were shocked by the intimacy of the confrontation. Finally, in a voice so low that it was scarcely audible, the large man smiled. "Rough, ain't it, losing a good mate?"
John said nothing. For the first time he noticed a front tooth missing in the broad flat mouth, and took in the rest of the face and was on the verge of turning in the opposite direction when the man spoke again.
"Didn't mean to pry," he said. "No offense?"
Still uncertain whether he should respond to the strange man, John returned his stare, fascinated and curious about the way in which the man maintained an iron grip on that soiled leather pouch. When the man seemed disinclined to speak again, John closed his eyes, assuming the episode was over.
Then again John heard his voice, weakened now, but audible. "I meant what I said," he whispered, "about losin' a friend. I . . . lost mine, just three days ago. At Malta. Went to India together, we did. Saw good times and bad, fortune and misfortune. . ."
His voice seemed to be fading. John raised himself up on his elbow, the better to hear. India interested him as always and here was a firsthand witness. The man's eyes were open, though fixed and staring at the ceiling. "But we was headin' home, with our just rewards, and he . . . died." The voice broke. John saw tears running out of the corners of his eyes. "Oh, lord," the man murmured, "how can the world and ever'thing in it look so right one morning and so wrong the next?"
John listened sympathetically. "Sleep now," he urged quietly. "Ill stand watch, if you wish. No one will come near you. I swear it."
There was a moment of doubt. Once John saw him make an effort to throw off his fatigue. But he couldn't do it, and as his head tossed back and forth on the pillow, John urged, "Please. Whatever the nature of your treasure, I promise it will be safe."
The man looked up at him. "That's what me mate was told as
well," he whispered, "and he ended up with a knife between his ribs."
"I have no knife," John reassured him, startled by the account of murder.
"Them didn't either," the man said, his speech beginning to slur as sleep crept closer. "But they found one quick enough when they learned what me friend was carrying."
In one last effort he tried to lift the small pouch. But even that was too much to ask of him now.
Still watching, John was certain a few minutes later that he was fast asleep. But as he was on the verge of drawing a breath of accomplishment, the man opened one eye. "Forgive me, lad," he whispered, "but what's your name? Something about you tells me you couldn't knife a man you'd exchanged names with."
"Eden," he said, "John Murrey Eden."
The man seemed impressed. "Suits you, it does," he murmured. "With luck, you'll grow into it one day. Beats hell out of mine." His eyes were closed now. John was beginning to wonder if the mouth would ever follow suit.
"You might as well hear it right off . . ." He faltered. "Alex. Alex Aldwell, and I don't recollect who gave it to me, but ... I'll catch up with them one day, and when . . . I do . . ."
The threat was never completed. At last the massive head rolled to one side, mouth open, though silent.
John held still a moment. There had been false alarms before. But no. At last the large man was safely submerged in sleep. As John expected, the last area of the man's body to relax was that left hand, the fingers uncurling from about the leather pouch.
Again he looked closely at the sleeping man. His precise age, John could not even guess. Fifty perhaps, the same as Jack Willmot.
A bad move, that. Best to stay safely lost in the mystery of Mr. Alex Aldwell. The longing for Jack Willmot behind him, John took up a vigil on the edge of the bed, determined to serve the man by keeping his word.
From the end of the ward he heard the approach of the dinner trolley. He'd eat again tonight. Practically speaking, a man didn't stand a chance of putting his world together again on an empty belly.
He heard the trolley making its slow progress down the hospital ward. But his attention was now focused in another direction, on one small object, that leather pouch which hung, unattended, about
the man's neck. What was it? And what a simple matter it would be to. . .
No. When he became rich, he might indulge in a harmless deception. But he was a poor man now, and when a poor man gave his word, it was all he had to give.
A week later, John sat in the large solarium at the end of the central ward, looking out over the blue waters of the Bosporus at Constantinople, a blaze of early May sun on his face, trying to coax Alex Aldwell into telling him about India.
John leaned back against the wicker chair, a little amazed at how well he felt, both physically and emotionally. His constant companion for the last seven days had been Alex Aldwell, a not-so-peculiar bond springing up between the two, considering that both had lost good friends during the last fortnight.
Of course, as far as John was concerned, there was no point of resemblance between his new companion and Jack Willmot. There were the physical attributes, for one. Though strong, Jack had been normal size, while Alex Aldwell standing was an even more awesome sight than Alex Aldwell lying prone on the bed. A good foot beyond John's six feet, he literally towered over all, and added to that was the gir
th of a chest which resembled an apple barrel, and arms and flanks the size of quartered cattle, and in every sense of the word he was an awesome sight. Once past the more weakening stages of his dysentery, he had shown no anxiety at all over that damnable leather pouch which still hung on the V of white flesh about his neck. And no wonder. Any man would be a fool to try to remove it against Alex's wishes.
"Tell me of India, Alex," John began on a fresh breath. "Everything," he added, smiling. "How did you get there? Why did you leave?"
The big man looked sideways at him, his expression one of suspicion. "Why?" Alex demanded bluntly.
"Why not?" John countered.
Alex averted his face, his mammoth hands locked together between his legs, the pouch bobbling gently about his neck. "What's to tell?" he muttered to the floor. "Suffice it to say that it's . . . Eden, that's what it is."
John looked sharply up, amazed that that one small word could render him speechless. Surely it had been mere coincidence. Not once had he spoken of his past to Alex Aldwell.
A broad grin broke on Alex's face. "At least as close to paradise as any man has a right to expect, a gorgeous land, really," he added, warming to his subject.
John was on the verge of prodding the man to speak further when he saw there was no need. Alex leaned back into the settee now, his legs sprawled before him, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, a new calm on his face. "Would you believe me if I told you I was never cold there, not once? Lord, I grew up with ice in me blood, and it took that Indian sun to thaw it proper."
"How did you get there?"
"How else?" Alex muttered. "John Company." He looked over at John and apparently saw the question on his face. "East India Company," he explained. 'Twenty-five years ago, it was the new horizon. If you had no future in England, join the company and go to India. There was future enough for all."
Sternly he shook his head. "'Course, all that changed right enough. I signed on simply as a guard for the company. Then one day, about ten years ago, I looked up and it had the smell of the military about it, more sepoys than whites in the ranks, and officered by English 'gintlemen.'"
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