Beyond the Ashes

by Karen Barnett

  “X-rays are safe.” Robert snapped. “You can see from the files the incredible progress our patients have made. These are all patients you and other doctors cast aside as terminal cases. We gave them hope.”

  “False hope, Dr. King.” Emil barked his response like a sea lion. “You and your colleague are making a mockery of science. And if Dr. Lawrence is correct, you could be putting the entire hospital at risk.”

  Robert stood and jabbed a finger toward his former professor. “And you, sir, are an ostrich, trying to bury its head in the sand!”

  Gerald grabbed Robert’s elbow and yanked him back to his seat. “Robert, be silent or get out.”

  Emil cackled. “Your assistant has more fervor than you, Gerald. Could it be you are beginning to see the light?” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his bulging pin-striped vest.

  Gerald dug his fingers into his upper leg for control. “Give us six months, gentlemen. If I cannot show you solid results by then, Dr. King and I will shut down the X-ray project and you can settle back into your comfortable bubble of paregoric and mustard plasters. In the meantime, let us finish our research without being dragged before the board every time someone so much as sneezes.”

  The room buzzed as the group of men muttered to each other. Robert wove his fingers together as if in prayer and pressed them to his mouth. He turned to Gerald. “Six months?” His faint whisper remained hidden among the murmurs.

  After a few moments the room hushed, and all heads swiveled toward Emil Dawson.

  Dawson leaned back in his seat, cigar dangling from his lips. “I’ve seen your injured hand, Larkspur. I’m not certain you’ve got six months.”

  30

  Gerald strode down the busy sidewalk, dodging businessmen and paper-hawking newsboys, determined to avoid his partner’s attempts at conversation. A dense fog draped over the half-finished buildings, concentrating the mingled odors of exhaust and manure.

  “What did Dawson mean—you might not have six months?” Robert’s ruddy face and crooked tie spoke of the rushed pace.

  Gerald paused, letting a few well-dressed young women pass, their high-pitched voices grating against his raw nerves. As soon as their skirts cleared his path, he bolted again, the brisk walk doing little to chase off the whispering doubts clamoring in his head. “He’s sowing seeds of doubt among our supporters on the board.”

  Robert stepped up the pace, his long legs pushing him in front. He threw an arm across Gerald’s chest. “Wait a moment—tell me what’s going on. He mentioned your hand. Is he speaking of the radiation burns? Are they still troubling you?”

  Gerald balled his fists, shoving them under his arms. “I assisted in a surgery last week with Dawson and Lawrence.”

  His partner’s face darkened. “And?”

  “Emil must’ve spotted the scars.”

  “Dr. Dawson wouldn’t throw you to the wolves over a scar.” Robert thrust his chin forward. “Let me see.”

  Gerald stumbled back. “Here? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not asking you to disrobe. Show me your palms.”

  “When did you become so bossy?”

  Robert scowled. “When you started courting my sister.”

  Gerald glanced to the left and right, the sights and sounds of Market Street not serving as a suitable distraction from his nosy friend. He jerked his head toward a quiet storefront, stacks of books on display in the long front window.

  Robert followed him, the derby casting shadows around his dark eyes.

  Gerald leaned against the brick façade, his heart pounding from the exercise. He stripped off the glove. “Be quick. I don’t wish to be late.”

  Robert frowned, hunching his tall frame over Gerald’s hand. “From this, Dawson assumes you’re in your death throes?” He grasped Gerald’s wrist and drew it upward for a closer inspection.

  “I told you, he’s grasping at straws. Anything to shut us down.” Pain lanced through his lower arm, his elbow jerking in response.

  “What was that?” Robert’s eyes caught his.

  Gerald yanked his hand away. “Nothing. Joints have been a little achy. I’m probably coming down with a cold.”

  “It’d explain why you’ve been such a grouch.” Robert stepped back. “You’re certain Dawson isn’t onto something?”

  “Positive.”

  Robert pressed his hat back and shrugged. “I’d feel better if I could get a tissue sample to examine under the microscope.”

  Gerald tucked the gloves into his pocket. “I already did. Probably the least interesting slide I’ve seen all year.”

  “Doctors make the worst patients.” His friend leaned against the storefront and crossed one ankle over the other. “If we answered Dawson’s concerns about your health, the board might ease up.”

  “You think if we prove Dawson wrong, he’ll happily acquiesce? You don’t know him at all.”

  “He’s a scientist. He can’t deny the truth.”

  Gerald scoffed. “Emil Dawson’s a figurehead. His job is to keep the hospital financially stable.”

  “You’d think he’d be more supportive of our research. If we are successful, it’ll bring acclaim to this second-rate institution.”

  “And if we fail, the board bears the disgrace. Not to mention the cost. How many of those Crookes tubes have we burned through?”

  Robert pushed away from the brick building. “I’ve got a few ideas to help them last longer.”

  Gerald checked his pocket watch as he fell in beside his friend. He’d agreed to visit the camp in an hour—so much for lunch. Exhaustion dogged his steps. “Make it a priority, Robert. Our funds are drying up. The board won’t pay for many more unless we start showing some results.”

  * * *

  The scent of fish stew lingered in the misty rain drifting about the refugee camp. Ruby lifted her feet high with each step, the mud clinging to the soles of her second-best shoes. “How much further?”

  Patrick chuckled, lifting the umbrella high above Ruby’s head. “Not far now.” His white shirt gleamed under his tailored coat.

  Ruby wrinkled her nose. How did the man stay so clean, living in these conditions? She stepped onto the wooden boards laid as a pathway between the buildings. “Gerald is meeting us at the medical center at two-thirty. I don’t want to be late.”

  The minister checked his timepiece. “Then we have thirty minutes to view the sewing facilities before we meet with your Dr. Larkspur.”

  “He’s not my Dr. Larkspur.”

  The corner of Patrick’s lip twisted. “Could’ve fooled me. The family cheered when he planted the kiss on you the other night.”

  Heat rushed to Ruby’s cheeks. “Please, don’t speak of such things. It isn’t decent.” Had they clustered around the windows, watching?

  The clergyman halted. “I’ve no pretense in me, Ruby. I believe in speaking the truth. Too many hide behind the veil of manners and good breeding.” He caught her hand and pressed it in his own. “If you’re not keen on the man, I wish you’d speak plainly. My heart can’t take it.”

  His wide-eyed expression tore at her spirit. She pulled her fingers away. “I respect you and your work, Patrick, but my affections belong elsewhere.”

  He managed a curt nod. “With Larkspur.”

  “Yes.” She swallowed hard. As much as she loved Gerald, she hated disappointing this kindhearted fellow. “I never dreamed I would find love after I lost my first husband. I’m not quite certain how to react.”

  Patrick exhaled. “Our Lord has a way of surprising us when we’re least expecting it. And we know ‘All things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.’”

  “I don’t imagine God had much to do with this.”

  A grin played around his lips. “Our lives boast His fingerprints, Ruby. He cares about each of us, intimately. He knows the number of hairs on your ginger head.” He gazed into her face and heaved a second sigh. “O
h, the lovely redheaded brood we’d have had, you and I.” He shrugged as if dismissing the errant thought. “But there I go again. As I said, never been one for manners.”

  Ruby tugged the brim of her hat to shield her eyes. If God cared so much, she’d already have a life full of children, instead of fading dreams.

  Patrick gestured to a cottage at the end of the wooden path. “Shall we?”

  She wove her hand through his offered arm as he led the way to one of the obscure green shacks and pushed the door wide.

  Peals of laughter rang out as Ruby stepped over the threshold. Six women sat at treadle machines, the whirring contraptions clicking along at a rapid clip. Their voices rose above the din, like a flock of cackling hens on nests.

  “Good afternoon, ladies.” Patrick’s voice cut through the noise as all eyes turned toward the doorway.

  “Patrick, how good of you to stop by!” A younger woman—probably not even eighteen—bounded from her place and hurried to his side. She clutched his sleeve. “Let me show you what I’m making.”

  The machines slowed to a stop as the workers gave Patrick their attention.

  Patrick freed his arm from her grip. “In a moment, Miss Howard. Allow me to introduce you to our honored guest.”

  The girl stepped back, mouth puckering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice your companion.”

  Ruby glanced around the room. Of course she didn’t. All of the ladies gazed at Patrick with eyes agog. Likely as not, none of the women had noticed her presence. At Patrick’s words, their curious gazes focused on her.

  He cleared his throat and held a hand toward Ruby. “May I introduce Mrs. Ruby Marshall? Mrs. Marshall heard of the excellent work you ladies have been doing and asked to see it firsthand.”

  Ruby pasted a smile on her face, the women’s eyes studying her like a crooked bit of stitching. “Patrick—I mean Reverend Allison—speaks quite highly of your industrious efforts on behalf of the camp.” She glanced around the room, bolts of fabric lining the walls and stacks of finished garments laid out on a long table in the rear. “I’m impressed.”

  Miss Howard bobbed her head. “Patrick says busy hands prevent gossiping tongues.”

  A dark-haired woman chuckled. “Little does he know, you put a bunch of women together, we’ll whip up all sorts of wicked thoughts.”

  Patrick made quick work of the introductions, the six names rolling off his tongue so fast Ruby struggled to match them with their owners.

  The young Miss Howard tugged his arm anew. “Come and see. It’s a surprise.”

  Patrick and Ruby followed her to the machine set up in the far corner, a white shirt bunched under the presser foot. Miss Howard loosed the garment from the grips of the contrivance. “It’s for you. Look, I embroidered green shamrocks on the neckline. Of course, they’ll be hidden by your collar—but I thought they’d remind you of me.” Her freckled face colored. “I mean, of us. Of how much we appreciate you.”

  Ruby examined the tiny clovers. Patrick had clearly made an impression. Perhaps not the one he’d hoped.

  His smile shone as he patted the girl’s arm. “It’s mighty kind of you. I’ll wear it with pride. There’s a rough and tumble lad over in cabin six who’s put a hole in the seat of his short pants. Do you suppose you might work up something for him next?”

  Miss Howard clutched the shirt to her bosom. “Of course, Patrick. I’d do anything for you.” Her breathless voice matched the intensity of her words.

  Ruby wandered the rows of machines, studying the sturdy garments. She paused to admire a dress being stitched by a dark-haired woman. “It’s lovely. Is it for a friend?”

  The woman guided the midnight blue fabric in a straight line as her feet rocked the treadle in an even rhythm. “It’s for one of the other working girls. She don’t have much ’cept her old saloon clothes.” She glanced up at Ruby. “I thought if she had something more serviceable, it might help her stay on the straight and narrow. Like Patrick’s teaching us.”

  Ruby bit her lip and nodded. “Good idea. Are there many . . . um . . . working girls here?”

  Patrick appeared at her elbow. “We’d best be moving along, Mrs. Marshall, if we’re to meet Dr. Larkspur.” He cast a pointed glance at the older woman.

  “Just a moment, Patrick.” Ruby crouched down, studying the machine. “It might go faster if you ease the tension a bit.” She fiddled with the controls. “Do you have difficulty with your thread breaking?”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “You have no idea. Seems like I’m always rethreading the blamed thing.”

  Ruby twisted the wheel forward, squinting as the needle bounced like a nervous jackrabbit. “The mechanism needs adjusting. How old is it, anyway? I’ve not seen one like it.”

  She huffed. “As old as Methuselah, likely. But we’re mighty glad to have it.” She lowered her voice, for Ruby’s ears, only. “I let the other gals have the nicer ones. I know I’m here on Patrick’s good word—or on God’s grace, as he says. No idea why the good Lord would give it, but I don’t want to push me luck.” Her wrinkled hand hovered over the fabric. “If you know how to help me work it better, I’d be mighty grateful.”

  “Of course.” Ruby tinkered with the controls. “It needs a few drops of oil. I’ll bring some tomorrow. We’ll get it working smooth as silk in no time.”

  A smile spread across the woman’s lips, wiping years from her face. “Thank you, Miss. I could sew for more of the gals if the pesky bobbin thread didn’t keep snapping.”

  Ruby stood, her heart warming. She might not be worth much in the soup kitchen, but she knew her way around a sewing machine. “I’ll return tomorrow with my sewing tool kit.”

  Patrick glanced up from a gaggle of bright-eyed admirers. “Ready now?”

  Ruby inhaled deeply, the energy in the room flowing through her. “I am.”

  * * *

  Gerald frowned as the odor of outdoor latrines accosted his nose. The military had done much to enforce sanitation rules in the camp, but the sheer numbers of people hampered their best efforts. Lord, be merciful. Not even the five-cent bounty on dead rats could prevent the looming health catastrophe if God wasn’t on their side.

  He hurried toward the medical center, arriving just as Ruby and Patrick rounded the corner, deep in conversation. Ruby’s wide smile sent a complex flood of conflicting emotions through Gerald’s chest. His arms longed to pull her close—and away from Patrick.

  Ruby turned her gaze on him. “I met some of the seamstresses Patrick told us about.” She glanced down at the muddy path, as if searching for words. “Interesting women. Industrious.”

  Patrick beamed. “I believe you made quite an impression on them.”

  Gerald fought the urge to step between them. The last thing he needed was to come off as a jealous suitor. He focused on the minister instead. “You said you had some people you wanted me to see.” His voice graveled deep in his chest. He coughed into his glove.

  Ruby frowned. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded, clearing his throat. “Long morning with the board.”

  She tucked a hand into the crook of his arm, warmth spreading from her fingers up through his veins.

  Patrick gestured down the plank path. “A few more are suffering today, I fear. I’m glad you could come.”

  31

  Gerald knelt by the small child curled on a makeshift pallet. Hardly more than a babe, the toddler’s chest caved as he tried to draw in breath, the lymph nodes bulging around his neck. Gerald propped the fellow up and motioned for Ruby to cradle him. “How long has he been like this?”

  The mother wiped her brow, stringy blonde hair hanging from her bun. “Two days, though he’s getting worse by the hour. It’s not the influenza, is it?”

  The child’s cheeks glowed with fever. Ruby curled her legs under her as she grasped the tiny shoulders and head, easing the airway. “Poor little mite.”

  “Tip him back a notch. I’d like to examine his throat.” Gerald lowere
d the boy’s jaw and inserted a tongue depressor while Ruby placed a hand on the child’s forehead, resting him on her forearm. The limp form didn’t struggle as Gerald pressed the wooden stick against his tongue.

  A cold sweat seeped down Gerald’s back, despite the sweltering heat in the room. “Can you see this, Ruby?” The swollen tonsils nearly filled the patient’s trachea, a sickly gray coating clinging to every surface.

  Ruby stooped forward. “What in the world?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s a wonder he can breathe at all. Is it . . .” Her rounded eyes confirmed she recognized the problem. Diphtheria.

  Four more children huddled in the opposite corner of the cottage. Ruby’s gaze swept the room, her cheeks paling.

  Gerald rocked back on his heels, keeping his head down. “Patrick, is this how all the patients are presenting?”

  Patrick lingered in the doorway, the fresh breeze from outside a welcome addition to the room. “Very similar, yes.”

  “How many?”

  He pursed his lips, as if mentally counting. “Perhaps a dozen now? There may be more today. Mostly young’uns.”

  The mother stepped closer. “What’s wrong? Will he recover?”

  Gerald’s hand wavered as he unsnapped the latch on his leather bag and withdrew the stethoscope. He cupped the bell-shaped device against his palm to chase the chill from the metal. “It’s diphtheria, I’m afraid. Are any of your other children suffering from sore throats, Mrs. Ives?”

  She sank down in a wooden chair, covering her mouth with her hands. “Di-diphtheria? My little cousin, she died of—”

  “The others. Do they complain of trouble swallowing?” Gerald pressed the scope to the child’s chest, watching as the boy’s skin pulled against his straining ribs. The heartbeat swished in the earpieces, racing.

  The woman’s eyes filled with moisture. “Two of them, yes.” She lifted her gaze to the cluster of children on the far side of the room.

  Three out of five. How long before the other two succumbed? “Let’s hope for the best.”