The Scarlet Ribbon

by Derry O'Dowd

  He entered the building and ran to the room where the injured had been taken. A scene of complete disorder met his eyes, men lay all about, the wooden tables stained with their blood, and cries of pain rang in his ears.

  ‘Thank God you’re here!’ cried one of the surgical apprentices. James took a breath and crossed to the badly hurt sailor.

  He ran his hands along the man’s roughly broken leg, looked at the bloody, glistening bones and sinews that gaped through the torn skin, and realised that an amputation would be the only thing to save his life.

  ‘Everything will be well now,’ he whispered into the man’s ear. ‘Hold fast and we will help you as best we can.’ The sailor’s eyelids fluttered in reply and James turned to his two apprentices.

  ‘Hand me an apron. Get the laudanum – this man needs to have his leg amputated if we are to save him from gangrene and putrefaction, and it will be necessary to dull his senses.’ And for us to not have to restrain him so much, he thought to himself grimly.

  The apprentices laid out a tourniquet, knife for skin and muscle, and a saw for the bone as James ran through the steps of the operation with them. Once the laudanum had been administered and the sailor was more restful, they put a lead ball into his mouth for him to bite on when the pain took him. They tied him to the table with leather restraints and James began to run through the operation in his mind.

  Make a curved incision, incise the muscle, saw through the bone, catch and tie the bleeding vessels, let the skin flap cover the exposed bone and bind firmly, he thought.

  ‘Well now, what do we have here?’ a voice disturbed his mental inventory and James looked up to see Surgeon Stone return from treating another man badly injured in the accident, wiping his bloodied hands on his apron. He looked up, delighted and relieved to see his mentor, before attending to the task in hand once more.

  Meanwhile, the sailor, clear terror in his eyes and in the sweat that coated his face and brow, was advised to bite down hard on the ball. The man lost control of his bladder and the warm stench of urine was added to the rich iron smell of his blood.

  A tourniquet was tied tightly to the sailor’s thigh, he was held down, and James raised the knife he was gripping tightly, lowered it and began the operation to the sound of the sailor’s muffled screams.

  Marguerite tossed and turned on the bed, her brow damp with moisture, dark hair sticking to the pillows with her sweat.

  ‘There, my sweet,’ crooned Peg, ‘your little one will be with you soon. Take my hand and your mama’s hand, and we will help you deliver your darling.’

  ‘We love you, Marguerite,’ said her mother, ‘and would bear the pain for you if we could. We cannot, so take our strength and we will all do it together, my beautiful girl. We love you, we love you.’

  The midwives stood at the foot of the bed, waiting, Hayes echoing what the other women said.

  ‘Mama, my head hurts and I have a pain deep under my right breast, a different pain. My sight is clouded,’ Marguerite cried, panicked and in distress.

  ‘There, there, my sweet, sweet girl, shh, shh. We shall call for Physician Ryan again,’ replied her mother as she looked at Peg and the midwives with concern in her eyes. ‘And we shall get James home for you too, as his love and strength will add to ours and we will all get through this together, my darling girl. Then you will have your baby in your arms and forget that this had ever been a trial for you.’

  Midwife Doyle nodded and left the room quietly and quickly as the others returned to their gentle ministrations.

  The men were having difficulty restraining the sailor as James sawed through his bone. Sweating through the exertion of holding the terrified, suffering man and the raw noise of the saw against bone, James looked up and saw, for the second time that day, an agitated servant. From his own home. Marguerite. The baby surely wasn’t here already?

  He listened to the servant’s explanation numbly, the sound rushing through his ears like the waves crashing onto Barna beach in the midst of a storm. Marguerite was in great pain and Physician Ryan had been called for again. Fear gripped his belly and he felt his insides soften and his vision darken and swim.

  James looked at the bloody scene under his fingers. He nodded, told the servant that he would be back as soon as possible, and continued to work on the sailor. As the man started to bleed copiously, they tightened the tourniquet and James felt a sinking sense as he saw that this operation would take longer than anyone could have foreseen.

  Marguerite was crying endlessly as the horrible pain coursed through her and took her breath away again and again. Rolling through every fibre of her being, a relentless crushing pain, like someone was sitting on her chest and beating her whole body. The pain came from deep within her, too. And then the pain was in her heart as she knew that she was very ill and something was dreadfully wrong.

  Her heart cried out, hurting, hurting, and as the stars bloomed in her head and a dark blossoming took over her vision, she screamed, ‘James!’

  Then she began to convulse, jerking her heavily pregnant body like a badly controlled puppet, so badly, amazing in its viciousness and total sense of wrongness.

  She foamed at the mouth, the white stuff dribbling down her chin, shocking to see. Red joined the white as she bit her poor tongue, unable to stop herself.

  The women held on to Marguerite as one, to stop her falling from the bed with her precious cargo.

  As the beautiful young woman breathed out heavily, everyone around her did too, thinking the bad time past. But then Marguerite’s breathing ceased and a dusky hue stole over her face.

  The midwives fell to their knees and started to pray. Peg began to cry and Mama Lynch stood in the whispering and sobbing of the close room, shocked beyond belief, looking at her baby girl who still carried her grandchild. The tears crept down her cheeks, leaving silvery tracks in their wake.

  James finally managed to secure a carriage. The sailor had bled his life away, despite their best efforts, and James felt stricken that a life was lost. He sat on the edge of his seat in the carriage, desperate for it to go faster so he could get home to his Marguerite.

  Marguerite started to breathe again. It was long and harsh, but she was alive, and the women were so relieved that a sense of joy filled the bedchamber.

  ‘My love, my love, welcome back,’ her mother smiled tremulously as she took her hand.

  ‘Mama, I am so tired. And I have a terrible pain around my baby, Mama. Mama!’

  Marguerite cried out in agony as a gush of blood stained the white sheets with dark red sorrow.

  James stared at the serene face of the Blessed Virgin Mary, smile lifting her lips for eternity, fixed there by the sculptor. Masses of flowers covered the bower that the statue was carried on, in every colour under the sun. The faithful sang hymns to celebrate her Feast Day, their slow feet charting the progress of the procession. Regina Caeli, Laetare, Alleluia. Queen of Heaven, Rejoice, Alleluia; their voices carried by devotion up to the skies above.

  James felt the sense of desperation again as he realised that his carriage was entirely stalled on the bridge. ‘I have to go!’ he shouted up to the driver, and took to his feet. He pushed past the crowds, desperate to be home, ignoring the pains from passing elbows in his great need to be with Marguerite. He was jostled and shouted at, and even kicked once or twice, but his gaze was firmly directed elsewhere, with his mind on his love.

  Marguerite began to flail and jerk around her bed again. It was too small to hold her; she was like an animal trapped in a cage that was the wrong size. She foamed at the mouth, snarling, her head snapped from side to side, inhumanly.

  ‘Oh dear, yes,’ spoke Physician Ryan. ‘I can see I am here too late. If you had only called me earlier,’ he sighed and turned his palms outwards in emphasis, ‘I may have been able to do something for her. Her mother fits are so severe that I fear there is nothing I can do. I’m afraid you must prepare your daughter and her child, your grandchild, for the next life.’r />
  Marguerite slipped away from them then, into unconsciousness, as if she had heard the physician’s words and there was nothing left to fight for.

  Peg sank to her knees and took Marguerite’s hand. Marguerite’s mother knelt on the opposite side of her daughter, taking the other hand, crooning to her, baby soft words of love. Her tears fell to the bedclothes and wet the bump under Marguerite’s white birthing gown, drops of baptism from a human font.

  The midwives busied themselves with Marguerite, for they knew she was about to die the dreaded death of many young women, and wanted to save her unborn baby’s soul. A baptismal tube was inserted through her birth canal, held open with a coin. Another coin was placed in her mouth so that the air might flow through to the little soul she still carried.

  Lastly, the windows and door of the room were opened so that Marguerite’s soul, and that of her baby, would not be trapped in the room and could fly to Heaven.

  All James could hear was the sound of his own laboured breathing as he ran along the street. The cobblestones were uneven and slippery and he fell, again and again, hurting his hands and knees.

  Ahead, he saw a black carriage pull away from his house. As it passed by, the passenger stared ahead grimly, his aquiline features barely visible in the gloom, a gold-headed cane clasped in his gloved hands. James realised he had missed Physician Ryan.

  James ran into the house, bumping his shoulder painfully against the front door. He took the stairs two at a time, breathless, eager to see his wife and new child.

  He came to Marguerite’s bedchamber and stopped, for the door had been wide open to him, and he willed what he now knew to be true not to be so.

  His wife lay quite still on her labour bed, partially covered with crimson-soaked sheets, her expectant belly undelivered. Peg knelt to one side of her, Mama Lynch to the other. Midwives Hayes and Doyle were praying at the end of the bed. All were weeping.

  As James approached the bed he could see the baptismal tube that penetrated Marguerite’s bloody, swollen birth canal. His breath came torn as he moved to her side. Her heart did not beat for him as his trembling hand touched her soft chest.

  ‘How long? How long is she like this?’ he demanded, but the women couldn’t answer him, so great was their grief. He put his hands to his dead wife’s pregnancy and stood back in amazement as he realised that there was still life within.

  From the deep recesses of his memory James plucked greedily at the words of Laurence Stone, and he fumbled in his pocket and found the gift from his father, a Spanish pocketknife. He threw back Marguerite’s birthing gown. The knife was in his hand. He slashed deep and long. Blood filled the wound. Deeper and deeper he went.

  The women screamed at him to stop and he shook his head wildly, snarling at them.

  Marguerite’s womb appeared at last. Then thick meconium appeared in the wound, and there was the infant. James pulled hard. The newborn boy was blue and made no sound. James smacked his tiny, slippery feet to no avail. Grabbing the newborn by the ankles, he swung the child in an arc around his head. Crimson and dark green spattered the walls. Then, a feeble cry was heard.

  ‘He lives,’ said James, voice breaking.

  ‘He lives? A boy? Oh James,’ cried Mama Lynch and she rushed to his side, taking his son from him to clean and cuddle him.

  As the sound of the baby’s thin wails and the sob-soaked coos of Mama Lynch filled the room, James looked to Marguerite.

  Blood had trickled from the bed to the floor. His sorrowful eyes traced the dark red drip to the pool of mess in which the she lay.

  Peg, weeping, left the room. The midwives, crying all the time, held her belly as he applied a binder. They prayed for her departed soul and for the future of her newborn baby as they tenderly cleansed the dead woman and cleared the soiled clothing and bedding. There was a great silence.

  ‘Go, now,’ he whispered hoarsely to the midwives, ‘and thank you.’

  He sighed from the core of his being, shoulders slumped in defeat, face pale, eyes burning. Midwife Hayes laid her hand on his shoulder as she left, but he did not feel her touch.

  He lay down by Marguerite’s side and gathered her gently to him as his tears streamed and wet her hair. He pushed the tresses back from her face and gently closed her eyes with trembling fingers. The scarlet ribbon that was part of her wedding finery was in her hand; she had wanted it with her during the birthing. He took it from her hand before death closed it there forever, and put it in his pocket.

  James kissed her face, then, and not minding the mess of blood and fluids held her close to him, rocking her.

  ‘Oh wake up, my love, my lover wake up,’ he whispered softly into Marguerite’s ear, ‘oh wake up, my love, my lover wake up.’

  And as his tears blinded him, and the sobs that hurt his throat and heart rolled relentlessly, James Quinn surrendered to his dead wife’s last embrace.

  4

  To ease the sorrowful mind

  Take a good handful of honeysuckle, sweet chestnut and gorse and add to a fine amount of fresh water. Boil the mixture until steam rises from it and the ingredients are quite soft. Strain the mixture and leave to cool. Once it is cooled add a few drops of rose water and a spoon of sugar. Mix well and let it stand for a few days. Take a couple of spoonfuls at any time when needed.

  Quinn Household Recipes and Remedies Book

  * * *

  Peg smiled tentatively at James as she set his supper in front of him. He stared down at the plate without seeing what was on it, took up his fork, and put some of the food into his mouth. It tasted like ashes on his tongue; everything did these days, colourless and tasteless.

  His stomach rolled uneasily, for in truth he was still ill from last night’s excess of brandy. He angrily blinked back the tears that threatened and forced some more food past his lips and onto his tongue. He swallowed like he was eating stones instead of good food prepared with care, and looked up to see Peg watching him intently.

  ‘What is it, Peg? I am tired, late home again after treating the sick. What do you want?’ he asked of her brusquely, wearily.

  Her smile faltered, then she seemed to take stock of herself and cleared her throat as she said, ‘Well, I was just wondering …’

  James motioned with a dismissive wave of his fork for her to go on.

  ‘It’s just that Baby Daniel is so gorgeous, now that he is six months old. And sitting unaided. And such a happy, sunny little person. Do come up to the nursery to see him. He is so peaceful as he sleeps, with his little lids and dark long lashes covering his great brown eyes. Why, he is even starting to make talk! He says “ba ba”; he is so pleased with himself, almost surprised at himself. Just this morning he said “ma ma”.’

  The words dried in her mouth as she faltered, and she looked at James anxiously. She had not meant to hurt him, but she knew that she had.

  ‘I am too busy now, Peg. I have case notes to write all evening.’

  ‘But, it is so long since you have set eyes on him, why—’

  James cut her off mid-sentence and roughly pushed the table away from him, throwing the fork onto the plate with barely disguised irritation.

  ‘It is no damn business of yours,’ he hissed at her angrily as the chair scraped back across the floor. He stood and put his hands on the table, holding onto it tightly for support.

  She left the room, frightened and hurt at his rough treatment of her. As she calmed herself she felt a great sorrow settle on her shoulders; for herself, for Marguerite, for the baby. And for James, who was suffering so greatly. She sighed and put her hand on the banister to climb the stairs softly and slowly, with pity and sadness around her like a cloying, heavy cloak, wearing her down with its weight.

  James Quinn set down his quill and looked at his case notes, the words blurring before his eyes. His eyes roamed around the room, with the leather-bound books lining the shelves, the candle on the desk making a pool of buttery light over his messily written pages. Marguerite sat here o
nce.

  He traced an ink-stained finger lightly along the top of the desk, as if he could take in some of her essence from the grain of the wood there. He looked up to the ceiling and sighed as the all-too-familiar grief fell on him again, crushing him. He was unable to catch his breath. He panicked and stood, not noticing in his haste to get to the brandy bottle that the chair he had been sitting on fell to the floor, clattering there and breaking the night’s quiet silence with its jolting descent.

  Peg stood at the door of the study, watching him drink his sorrow away. She had heard the chair falling and had known what he would be doing, he did it every night. Her heart went out to the man sitting on the floor by the desk, nearly empty bottle by his side. He was muttering as he sobbed.

  The light from the desk’s candle on his hair and face softened him and made him look younger – his son was so like him – and in that moment she opened the door, entered, and knelt down by him, heartsore and eager to help the man-child.

  ‘Ah now, James, come and sit over here with me and tell me your woes.’ She helped him up and they staggered over to the couch together. He raised his tear-stained face to hers and took another great drink from the bottle. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and started to lay out his sorrows in front of her, scared little soldiers, as he had never talked to anyone about Marguerite’s death before now.

  ‘I can’t believe that she is gone, you see. I don’t believe it, I can’t believe it, for then our love and our plans would all be lies. It was all a lie. Was it all a lie? I won’t believe it, Peg. I won’t.

  ‘I asked God to give her back to me, the day we laid her down and I felt like I was watching over it. That I wasn’t there. That is wasn’t happening to me. I said to him, take the baby, give me back my wife.’