Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga)

by Gilbert, Morris

  The broad brow creased with effort, but finally Smith shook his head. “No, nurse.”

  Miss Dix said quickly, “Well, it’ll come back to you, I’m sure—” She broke off suddenly as something occurred to her. “You should know, though, that we weren’t able to discover your real name. So we just called you John Smith. Perhaps you can tell us your real name now.”

  The two women waited, and when the man said nothing, they exchanged glances. “Just your name?” Grace said encouragingly.

  But John Smith had closed his eyes and dropped his head. His hands were clenched so tightly together that the veins stood out like cords. He began to tremble, and Grace at once said, “John, don’t worry about it! Don’t be afraid!”

  “But—I can’t remember!” The dark eyes opened, and fear pooled in them as he cried out, “I can’t remember my name!” He suddenly grasped Grace’s hand, his iron grip hurting her. “Why don’t I know who I am? What’s wrong with me?”

  Grace ignored the pain in her hand, saying very quietly, “Thee needs time, John. It’ll be all right. Thee will remember. I promise you.”

  Smith stared at her, then slowly nodded and relaxed his grip. He slumped in his chair, seemingly exhausted.

  Miss Dix’s eyes narrowed, and she said quickly, “Nurse Swenson, why don’t you take John for a walk. I’ll have Nurse Miller take over your duties for a while.”

  Grace caught her meaning at once and nodded. “I think that would be nice. Come along, John. We’ll get you a warm coat and we can go for a walk outside.”

  “All right.” The tall man rose obediently and followed Grace out of the room.

  Miss Dix stood at the window, thinking hard. Finally she saw the pair come out of a side door. They were both wearing blue coats, and the dark hair of the tall man made a striking contrast with the blond locks of the woman. Miss Dix watched them as they walked slowly along and disappeared around the corner.

  Dorothea Dix did not sit down for a long time, but gazed out at the rows of white buildings, thinking of what she had just seen. Finally she took a deep breath, then said aloud, “Well, we need a miracle once in a while around here!”

  Then she sat down at her desk and began writing in a small, cramped script.

  CHAPTER 12

  “THEE HAS A MAN OF THY OWN!”

  Winter swept over Washington suddenly, bringing freezing rain, sleet, and driving snow, and the city struggled to free itself from the mountains of snow that were dumped on it from leaden skies. Nobody except the vendors of firewood and the excited children enjoyed it after the first fluffy drifts were transformed into sheets of ice.

  On the second day of November, Grace was sitting in a large oak rocking chair, knitting gray yarn into a large sock and watching the snow fall in slanting lines out of a buttermilk sky. Beside her in another rocker, his long legs stretched out, John Smith gazed through half-shut eyes at the large flakes, which were building a crystal mound on the outside of the window.

  “This is nice, isn’t it, John?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Grace was accustomed to her companion’s brief answers. For the past two weeks, she had spent a large part of every day with him, robbing other patients of her service. She had the implied consent of Miss Dix, who had said at the beginning of all this, “He needs you right now more than the others do, Grace. He has a chance to recover, but somebody must stay with him and lead him out of the darkness.”

  Grace had taken Miss Dix at her word, and not a day had passed but that she had spent hours with the mostly silent patient. Some of the other nurses had complained, as well as one or two of the patients, but Grace chose to ignore them. She was engrossed with the man known to her as John Smith—and it was more than a casual interest. She believed in what the Quakers called the Inner Light—a divine guidance, a word from God giving directions for living.

  She had tried once to explain this part of her life to Lettie Johnson but had made no headway at all. Lettie had listened carefully but had finally demanded, “But if it’s all in your head, Grace, how do you know it’s not just what you are thinking?”

  Grace had been unable to answer Lettie’s question, for that was a problem. Sometimes her own thoughts were so intermingled with the things God was speaking that she made mistakes. But this time, in the matter of John Smith, she knew as surely as she knew she was alive that God was using her to minister to his beclouded mind.

  She had to restrain herself, however, for the temptation was strong to push him, to force him to remember his past. Early in their time together, she had learned that this was counterproductive, for the more she attempted to pressure him, the more confused he grew until he withdrew into complete silence.

  Now as they sat together on the small enclosed porch that looked out on the front of Armory Square Hospital, she spoke infrequently, and he sometimes offered a comment of his own. This in itself was progress, for two weeks earlier, he would sit for hours without volunteering a word.

  Now Grace looked out the window at the snow. “It reminds me of home. In Pennsylvania, where I grew up, we have deep snows like this. Sometimes we go for rides in my father’s sleigh. I always liked that so much.” Her eyes grew dreamy, and she stopped knitting as she went on in her quiet voice. “Riding in a sleigh is so different from riding in a wagon. Thee just glides over the snow, and there’s no bumping…just a hissing sound. Thee can hear the bells jingling and the sound of the horses’ hooves plopping into the snow.”

  Smith turned to look at her, then shook his head. “That sounds like fun. I’ve never done anything like that—at least I don’t think so.”

  Never ridden in a sleigh? Where could thee have come from where thee has never gone for a sleigh ride? Grace wanted to pursue this but feared that if she did, he’d grow moody and silent. Instead she merely said, “Well, maybe thee can visit my home and I’ll take thee for thy first sleigh ride.”

  John Smith’s lean face was smooth, and he nodded with some eagerness. “I’d like that, Miss Grace.” He hesitated, then shook his head. “But I doubt it’ll ever happen.”

  “Oh, perhaps it will,” Grace said quickly. She started to speak, but a sudden fit of coughing overcame her. Her body was racked by the harsh spasm, and Smith watched her with some alarm.

  “I don’t like the sound of that cough,” he said uneasily.

  “Oh, it’s just a cough, John.”

  But he leaned forward and looked into her face closely. “I don’t think so. You’ve had it for almost a week. It’s the same kind of cough that Davie and Sim and Dexter had.”

  Those three had developed a fever, which then went into pneumonia, and when Grace saw the concern on John’s lean face, she knew he was unhappy. It was a good sign—and a bad one, she had come to understand. It was good that he’d come to trust her, but not so good in that he’d become dependent on her.

  “Now thee mustn’t worry about me, John,” she said with a smile, overcoming the need to cough by a monumental effort. “I’m well enough.”

  He was not satisfied and turned to look out the window at the white landscape. It was this sudden tendency to turn his mind inward that troubled Grace, for she knew it was not good for him. She felt weak and tired, and she longed to go home to bed—but somehow she felt that she could not leave him.

  She went to the mess hall with him for dinner, and while she ate almost nothing, she was glad to see that he ate well. She watched him, studying his face while he gave his attention to his food. He had a strong jaw, determined and a little pugnacious, and the deep-set eyes glowed with intelligence. His mouth was a wide slash, and his long English nose gave him a slight aristocratic air. His raven black hair had a slight curl and was long enough to curl up over his coat collar; the black eyebrows formed a shelf over dark eyes.

  He is good-looking, Grace thought, but he has no idea of such a thing.

  He turned suddenly and met her eyes, and she felt her face redden as she dropped her gaze. “You haven’t eaten two bites, Mi
ss Grace,” he said. “You have to eat.”

  “I had a snack earlier.” Grace evaded his eyes, then said, “Thee has a good appetite, John. I think you’ve gained five pounds the last few weeks.”

  “I’m fit enough.”

  Grace glanced at him quickly, for there was a note in his tone that she recognized: a nonchalance that hid despair and depression. “Are you finished?” she asked. When he nodded, the two of them left and made their way back to the porch. “It’s chilly out here,” Grace said, “but let’s sit and talk for a while before I go home.”

  He threw himself into a chair, and there was tightness in his lips as he stared out at the night sky. “You’d better go now,” he muttered. “Not much fun talking to a man who has nothing to say.”

  “Oh, don’t speak like that!” He really was despondent. Grace set herself to cheer him up. “You know how much I enjoy talking with you.” She glanced out the window at the glittering stars that had come out. “Look, the sky’s cleared,” she said. “Maybe it won’t snow any more.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Ignoring his short reply, she leaned forward, peered out the window, and exclaimed, “Look at that star, John! It’s so bright! I wonder which one it is?”

  Glancing at the skies, Smith said, “That’s Sirius, the Dog Star.”

  “Really? I don’t know the names of any stars. I don’t think most people do.”

  His answer had been casual, but he suddenly straightened his back and looked at Grace, his brows raised. “I can name most of those out there. I wonder how I came to know them.”

  A slight thrill ran through Grace, but she suppressed it, saying with a tone of mild interest, “Maybe thee was a sailor, John. They know the stars, don’t they?”

  He considered that, then shook his head. “No, I wasn’t a sailor.”

  “No?”

  “No. I don’t know the names of the sails on ships. A sailor would know all those, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” She shivered in the cold. “People of all sorts study the stars.”

  “You mean like astrologers?” The thought caused him to smile. “Maybe I can tell your fortune or whatever it is they do.”

  “No, that’s nonsense, John.”

  “Is it, now?” He turned to her, interest making his eyes glow. “I seem to think that people guide their lives by the stars.”

  “Some do, but they’re foolish.” Grace thought for a moment, then said, “God made the stars, just as He made us. We’re to learn about ourselves from God’s Word, not from the stars.”

  Smith’s lips tensed, and he said, “You read the Bible all the time, Grace. Is there anything in there about me? Will it tell me who I am?”

  “In a way, yes, it will.” Grace spoke very carefully, for he had never shown any interest in the spiritual side of his life. “All of us need to know three things, John, about ourselves.”

  “What three things?” he asked, his curiosity aroused.

  “All of us need to know where we came from, who we really are, and where we’re going.”

  “I need that second one, at least,” Smith said, irony in his voice. “I’d settle for that—just to know who I am.”

  “No, it wouldn’t be enough, John.” Grace shook her head. “The world is full of people who can give thee their names, but they don’t really know who they are.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They just live without God, as the animals do—and that’s not enough.”

  He studied her face, intrigued by the smooth lines of her cheek. “Guess I don’t understand any of it. I don’t know where I came from, I don’t know who I am, and I sure don’t know where I’m going!”

  Grace felt sympathy for him rising within her and reached out to touch his hand. “Neither do millions of people, John. And the false religions of the world have no answer. Only the Christian knows his beginning, for Christianity has the only answer. ‘In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.’ And He made man, so that’s where you came from. And only the Christian knows where he is going. The other religions say when man dies, he becomes less than a human, but Jesus said He Himself would come back and that He would take us to live in a place prepared for us. That’s the answer to the third question.”

  “Which leaves number two,” Smith said evenly. “Who am I? Does Jesus answer that?”

  “Yes, He does, John. Just before He died for our sins, He prayed, ‘And now I am no more in the world, but these are in the world, and I come to thee. Holy Father, keep through thine own name those whom thou hast given me, that they may be one, as we are.’ Isn’t that marvelous, John? Jesus, the Son of God, prayed that we may be so joined to Him that throughout all eternity we’ll be one with Him and the Father!”

  Smith stared at the young woman, noting the light in her eyes and the joy in her face. But he finally shook his head, saying, “It’s too much for me to take in, Grace. All I want to know is my name!”

  Grace knew he was in despair, and quickly she said, “Don’t let fear come to thee! God will help thee.”

  She sat there for fifteen minutes, then rose, saying, “I must go home, John—” But she had risen too rapidly, and a wave of dizziness caused her to weave.

  “Miss Grace!” Smith reached out and steadied her. “What’s wrong?”

  Grace was so overcome with dizziness that she clung to him. He put his arms around her, and she yielded to his strength. Finally she drew back, laughing ruefully, “I just got a little giddy, John. I’m fine now.”

  “You shouldn’t go all the way home in the dark and in this weather!”

  “I’ll be all right,” Grace insisted and forced herself to smile. “I’ll see thee in the morning.”

  She left the hospital, but when she finally got into a cab, she was feeling much worse. She began to cough, and her chest was racked with pain. She stumbled out of the cab, paid her fare, and, by the time she got into bed, was aware that she had a fever.

  I can’t be sick, she thought, but her head whirled. She began to sweat, and sometime later she awakened Lettie, who got up at once. “You’re shaking, Grace!” she said in alarm. “I’ll get Mama.”

  Grace protested, but Lettie was gone. She returned with Mrs. Johnson, who took one look and shook her head. “It’s the ague,” she announced. “I’ve got some medicine left over from when I had it last month.”

  “I can’t be sick!” Grace protested feverishly. “I’ve got to be at the hospital at seven in the morning.”

  “No, you have not! You’ll be down a week, if not longer. I’ll have Dr. McGuire come in tomorrow, but he’ll not be telling me anything about the ague!”

  And the next day it was as Ida Johnson had so firmly said: Dr. McGuire came, announced that Grace had the ague, prescribed the medicine that Mrs. Johnson had already started pouring down her patient’s throat, and commanded her to stay in bed until she’d had no fever for twenty-four hours.

  Grace’s protests made no dent at all in Mrs. Johnson. She was kept in bed for five days despite her protests. She did persuade Lettie to carry a letter to Miss Dix, and she got one in return that was brief and to the point: Stay in bed until you get well. You won’t help matters by returning to duty too soon. I hope your recovery is swift.

  The days dragged by interminably for Grace. She knew there was no alternative but to rest, yet she fretted and longed for the day when she could get out of the house. For the first two days, she almost drove Mrs. Johnson to distraction with her pleas to be allowed to get up, but that stopped abruptly when her landlady finally asked her impatiently, “Aren’t you Quakers supposed to be patient? I always heard you’d go to church and sit around waiting for hours for God to speak. Is that right?”

  “Well yes, it is—”

  “Then why don’t you act like a Quaker?” Mrs. Johnson demanded. “You’ve got to stay in this house for a week. Why do you have to keep fretting and fussing and driving me crazy? I wish you’d show a little of that famous Quake
r patience with me!”

  The admonition struck home, and Grace lay quietly in bed from that time on. She became so docile that her landlady said with amazement, “I declare, I wish Lettie and Willie would pay as much attention to me as you do, Grace!”

  And so time moved slowly, but Grace had learned her lesson. She began to practice the art of silence. Which meant that she lay in bed, thinking of God, praying, and asking God to make His will known to her. As she did so, peace washed over her. It was a strange sort of peace, for she had no idea what would happen in the future, but she realized she didn’t need to know. She only needed to know the One who was in control.

  Finally the day came when she went for twenty-four hours without a trace of fever, and the next morning she got up and dressed. She was too weak to do anything more that day and the next, but on the following morning, she dressed and put on her heavy coat, and Ryan Callihan took her to the hospital. He’d been to see her twice while she was ill, and now he protested vehemently that she had no business getting out so soon.

  But Grace only smiled, saying, “I’m well, Ryan. God will take care of me.”

  “That’s as may be,” the old man retorted as he pulled up in front of the hospital. “But I’m staying here to take you home, and no arguments.”

  “I won’t stay long this morning, Ryan,” Grace said. “Only an hour, perhaps.”

  “I’ll be waitin’ fer ye,” he said grimly. He leaped down and helped her to the ground. She needed his help, for she was weaker than she had thought. Finally he left her inside the door, saying, “Remember, I’ll be waitin’ right outside.”

  “Yes, I’ll remember.”

  Grace went at once to Miss Dix’s office and was greeted many times as she made her way down the halls. Miss Dix stared at her with surprise, then rose to come and greet her. “You’re so thin!” she exclaimed. “And what in the world are you doing here? You’ll have a relapse, Grace! You should know better!”

  Grace took the chair she was offered, saying rather breathlessly, “Don’t scold me, Miss Dix!” She smiled and pleaded, “I just couldn’t stay away any longer.”