The River Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  Eames returned and Jeanne stood behind him as he examined Marvel. "Light a lantern and bring it over here, please, Jeanne." The room was still lit with strong afternoon sunlight, but the bed in the alcove was deeply shaded.

  As Jeanne got the lantern, the doctor took Marvel's pulse, staring at a pocket watch. Jeanne brought the lantern and he took out an instrument with a big round polished silver face and a tiny magnifying glass in the middle. "Hold that above her head so that the glow falls directly on her face." Again he pulled up Marvel's eyelid and almost touched her face as he bent close to look through the tiny aperture at her eyes. "Open your mouth wide, please, Marvel," he instructed. With blunt forceps he depressed her tongue, motioning Jeanne to hold the lantern so the light streamed down Marvel's throat. "Okay," he said quietly. "Now, Marvel, would you please sit up for me? And Jeanne, if you'd pull up her gown." He took out his stethoscope and held the chestpiece between his palms to warm it. Then he listened for long moments to different places on Marvel's chest, and then her back. "Here, let's get your nightgown back on, and cover you back up." He plumped up Marvel's pillow, tucked the quilt around her, and took her hands between his again. "I need to talk to you, Marvel. Do you feel like you can answer a few questions?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "When did you start feeling sick?"

  "This morning, after breakfast but before dinner."

  "So you ate breakfast this morning? Did you eat a good breakfast?"

  "Yes, Ezra made fried hominy, my favorite, and fried eggs and I had some toast with maple syrup poured all over it. I ate a lot, 'cause I didn't feel bad then." She winced. "Now it doesn't sound too good, 'cause I threw it all up."

  "Yes, that's what happens when you throw up, it makes you not want to eat that same food for awhile," Eames said sympathetically. "But don't worry, there'll come a day when fried hominy will sound good to you again. Now, when you started feeling bad, exactly how did it happen? Did you feel sick to your stomach first, or did you have the fever first?"

  "I can't hardly remember. I was just sitting on my cushion down in the firebox, and then I got dizzy. Ezra had to carry me."

  "I know it's hard when you get sick all of a sudden. Try and think what you were doing when you got sick. Maybe that'll help you remember how it happened," Eames said encouragingly.

  Marvel shivered a little, though the chills were lessening in intensity. "Roberty and I were doing our arithmetic. I was trying to work eight plus three, and I was trying not to count on my fingers 'cause Mama says that's not the right way to learn. And then, and then, my head started hurting. It hurt really bad. I forgot that."

  "It's okay, you're doing very well," Eames said. "You're a smart little girl, I see. So your head started hurting, and then what happened?"

  "I closed my eyes and laid my head down on the table, on my arms. Roberty asked me what was wrong and I said my head hurt. He said he'd get me some water, and he left and brought me some iced water and I drank some and laid my head back down. Then after a little while I started feeling that kind of raw, prickly feeling all over my skin. Not the good prickly, it was that kind when even soft clothes feel itchy. And I drank some more water and I thought it was real cold but then I knew that my lips were hot, and then I knew I had a fever. And then I got sick to my stomach, and Roberty told Ezra, and Ezra carried me up here, and I threw up." She seemed exhausted. She turned her head and closed her eyes.

  "Very good, Marvel, thank you. That helps me know how to take care of you," Eames said soothingly. "You rest now, try to go to sleep if you can. I'm going to talk to your mother."

  Marvel nodded slightly without opening her eyes. Eames led Jeanne out into the hallway and said in a low voice, "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

  "Down here, in the galley," she said and they went down the hall. Clint, Vince, Ezra, Roberty, and Leo were all there. The men jumped to their feet when Jeanne came in, and they stood in a tight circle around her and the doctor. She didn't greet them, she just turned to Eames and said, "Well?"

  "You already know that she has a fever, Jeanne," he said gently. "My examination doesn't tell me definitively whether it's yellow fever or not, because she's not jaundiced. But Mr. Hardin said that there was yellow fever in Memphis when you were there three days ago, and so it makes sense to diagnose that. This would be the early stages and, therefore, she wouldn't necessarily be jaundiced yet."

  "I don't understand," Jeanne said harshly. "I thought jaundice was something babies got. Marvel was jaundiced when she was born, but it went away."

  "Jaundice is caused by bile in the blood, because the liver isn't functioning correctly," Eames explained. "That's the primary symptom of yellow fever; in fact, that's where it gets the name, because of the yellowing of first the whites of the eyes, and then the skin. You're right, Jeanne, many times babies can be jaundiced but usually mother's milk corrects the problem."

  "All right, assuming it is yellow fever and it is in the early stage, what's going to happen to her?"

  "She's going to have nausea, chills, fever, headaches, and body aches for three or four days. Mr. Hardin tells me that Marvel doesn't have a strong constitution. Would you say that she is frail? Very frail?"

  "I—I don't know," Jeanne said in confusion. "She's better, stronger than she used to be. What—what do you mean? What does that mean?"

  "I'm trying to figure out what prescriptive might work best for her," he replied. "A blue mass pill is hard on the digestive tract, so I'm afraid it would just nauseate her more, if she's susceptible to stomach upset. Calomel is easier on the stomach but harder in the mouth, if you get what I mean. It tastes terrible. And quinine is bad on both."

  "But these medicines, they'll cure her, if she can keep them down? They cure yellow fever?" Jeanne asked eagerly.

  Eames hesitated and glanced at Clint, whose mouth had tightened and eyes narrowed as Eames had been talking about the drugs. "I'll be brutally honest with you, Jeanne. Those drugs are always prescribed for yellow fever. But there are no statistics that have been compiled as to their success. I've had patients with yellow fever before, but not enough of them to really know whether the medications do any good or not."

  "I want them," Jeanne muttered. "I want all of them."

  Eames nodded. "I brought all three of them, but I must caution you. The reason I was trying to determine about Marvel's general constitution is because these drugs are very difficult for a person to keep down. The more Marvel vomits, the weaker she gets. The weaker she is, the harder it's going to be for her to fight this off."

  "What are you saying!" Jeanne almost screeched. "Do I give her the medicine or not?"

  Calmly he replied, "Please understand, I'm only trying to explain everything as clearly as I can. I recommend that we try the blue mass pills first. If she can keep them down, then we'll try adding the calomel. I don't know about the quinine, it really is harsh. I just really need to keep assessing her to know the exact course of medications to give her. And I'm going to do that, Jeanne. I'll stay here until we know for sure."

  "Thank you," she said tightly. Then she turned to Clint, her color high, her lips bloodless. "This is all your fault. You brought this plague on the boat. No one else even went into town, but no, you had to run off, probably to see some woman! If Marvel d— if she—" She choked, a dry sobbing sound, and ran out of the galley.

  Dr. Eames said quietly to Clint, "People do this, you know. Especially mothers with sick children. They get angry, and want to blame someone, and say hurtful things that they don't really mean."

  Every bit of color had drained from Clint's face when Jeanne turned on him. He looked as sick as Marvel did, and his voice was dull and lifeless. "She did mean it, though. And you know what? She was right. She was exactly right."

  CLINT WENT OUT AND sat on the dock, leaning against one of the tall pilings. He bent one knee and threw his arm across it, and the other long leg was hanging down over the water. He was perfectly motionless except for that leg kicking, his face chis
eled into grim lines, his eyes a murky slate blue as he focused on nothing. He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, except when Vince sat down beside him he suddenly realized that night had fallen.

  Vince put his hand on his shoulder and said, "Clint, you can't take to heart what Captain Jeanne said. She's so scared she doesn't know what she's saying or doing."

  "I told you, she was exactly right. Her attitude doesn't matter," Clint said woodenly.

  "No, she wasn't exactly right. I know you. I know you didn't just pop off the boat and go see one of your women. And Jeanne herself sent you back into town, remember? I don't know what you were doing when you left the first time, but I know it wasn't the way Jeanne made it sound."

  "None of that matters now, does it? Anyway, Vinnie, I'd really like to be alone just now. Get it?"

  Vince rose slowly. "Yeah, I get it, and I'll go with it, for now. But I'm worried about you and I'm going to be watching out for you, brother."

  "You don't have to worry about me unless that little girl dies," Clint muttered. "And if she does I won't need or want you to watch out for me."

  Defeated, Vince left.

  Clint thought, So what will I do if Marvel dies?

  Already he felt so guilty and miserable, it was difficult for him to envision what he would do if she died. It was difficult for him to think, period. His mind was filled with darkness, with rag-tag bleak thoughts, with bits and pieces of Marvel's face, pale in death, with Jeanne's fury-filled visage. He swallowed hard and realized he was thirsty, but he hadn't the will to get up even to get a drink of water.

  Awhile later—perhaps much later, Clint thought with confusion—Dr. Eames came out to sit down by him. "It's almost two o'clock in the morning, Mr. Hardin. You've been sitting here for six hours. My prescriptive for you is that you eat something and go to bed."

  "I don't need your help," Clint lashed out at him. "How's Marvel?"

  Eames sighed. "She is a very sick little girl. She's not holding down the meds, or anything else for that matter. The next two or three days are going to be hard for her, and her mother."

  "And there's nothing at all I can do," Clint said bitterly. "There's not one single thing I can do to make up for it, or to help."

  "As for helping Marvel, really none of us can do anything except pray. Are you a praying man, Mr. Hardin?"

  "I am not."

  "That's too bad," Eames said mildly. "The Lord Jesus is the only comfort we have in bad times. I'll pray for you, Mr. Hardin, that you'll find Him, because I know He will give you rest and peace."

  "Yeah, thanks," Clint said dryly.

  "You're welcome. I also want to talk to you about yellow fever."

  "I've had it. I know about it. What is there to talk about?"

  Eames shifted a little to a more comfortable position and stared out over the river as it whispered softly by in the still night. In a cool lecturing voice he answered, "I doubt you do know all about yellow fever, Mr. Hardin, because even doctors don't know much about it. We really don't know how the disease is transmitted. Some think it's in the air, some think it's in the water, some think you have to touch an infected person. Now, suppose it is carried on the air. Why do some people in a household get the fever when others don't? Same thing with the water. If people drink from the same well or source of water, why don't they all get yellow fever? And by touch: Why does it so often happen that people caring for yellow fever patients don't contract the disease themselves?"

  For the first time Clint turned to look at Eames' face. It was a plain, honest face, and he had kind eyes. "You're trying to tell me that maybe I didn't cause Marvel to get the fever."

  "I doubt very seriously that you did," he said sturdily. "I got Ezra and Vince to tell me everyone's movements after you returned to the boat. Apparently you didn't even see Marvel until after you had disinfected the entire boat, did you?"

  Clint frowned. "I—I hadn't thought about it, really. But yeah, Marvel and Roberty stayed in Jeanne's cabin while we finished scrubbing up, and that took until late afternoon. Then Jeanne let her and Roberty come down."

  "Again, why would Marvel catch the fever from you, particularly after you had disinfected yourself, along with the entire boat? Yes, Vince told me you doused yourself in vinegar, even washing your hair with it. So why didn't Ezra, or Vince, or Jeanne catch it? They all were with you right after you came back from town."

  "I don't know," Clint said wearily. "All I know is that Jeanne thinks I infected Marvel, and that's all that matters."

  "No it is not," Eames said vehemently. "You can't bear the guilt for this, Mr. Hardin. However Marvel got yellow fever, and I don't think we'll ever know, you did not cause it. You are not to blame."

  Clint turned to stare blankly into the darkness again. "Then who is? Never mind, I'm really tired of talking. I appreciate you trying to help me, Dr. Eames, but right now I'd much prefer to be left alone."

  "All right. There's just one more thing I wanted to let you know. I am going to have to quarantine the Helena Rose. Of course my family and I want you all to feel free to come out here on the dock, fish if you'd like, anything like that. But please don't let anyone go anywhere else, and no one is going to be allowed to come down here while Marvel's sick. Except me, of course. I'm going to go get some more things from my house and then I'm coming back to stay the night."

  Clint looked up at him curiously. "Aren't you afraid you'll catch it, Eames?"

  "Sometimes," he replied lightly. "But most of the time I trust in the Lord, and I believe that I am in His hands. Just as Marvel is; just as we all are. He is much more comforting than any doctor or any prescriptive, I find. And as I said, Mr. Hardin, I'll pray that you find His comfort, too."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Marvel was terribly sick. Jeanne suffered more anguish than Marvel did. She was so angry even the taste in her mouth was sour. She was so bitter that every conscious thought was pure misery. Always when Marvel had gotten ill, Jeanne had had to deliberately keep herself from letting Marvel see her cry. This time she couldn't cry. She was gentle and tender with Marvel, of course, but she felt that inside she had a leaden weight where her heart used to be.

  With an effort she made herself be courteous and grateful to Dr. Eames. He stayed all night the first night, and tried various things to help Marvel keep down the medicines. He gave her sips of barley water, he tried rice gruel, he tried ginger tea, but nothing worked. Finally they were only able to give Marvel small chips of ice to hold in her mouth. She was always desperately thirsty, but if she took even tiny sips of water it came right back up.

  At last the dawn came. Jeanne had sat in the armchair all night, her eyes wide and gritty, never feeling the least bit sleepy. Dr. Eames dozed in the other armchair by Marvel's bed. Jeanne watched the gray light of dawn turn into the cheerful yellow sunshine of an August day, streaming unconcernedly through the windows. Jeanne hated it, and wished for night again.

  Eames stirred and rubbed his eyes. Then he checked Marvel, who was sleeping, though fitfully. She still had a fever, but it had been several hours since she had vomited. "I don't think we need to try to give her anything else today but the ice chips," he said.

  Jeanne nodded. "I know. You'd better go home and rest. Thank you for everything."

  He stood up and rubbed the back of his neck. "If you don't get some rest you are going to get sick yourself, Jeanne. I mean it. I told you, Marvel will likely be sick for the next two or three days. You cannot go without sleeping, or without eating, for four days. You won't be doing Marvel any good at all."

  "How can I eat when the thought of food makes me sick? And how can I possibly make myself go to sleep? I feel like any minute I'm going to jump up and start screaming and not be able to stop!"

  He considered her for long moments, then went to his bag and pulled out a small flat bottle. "This is brandy, and don't look at me like that, Jeanne. This is definitely for medicinal purposes. I want you to drink a very small glass of it, what's commonl
y known as a shot. Then eat. Then take another shot, and lie down and go to sleep. If you won't agree to do that, then I'm going to come back and make you do it."

  Jeanne felt rebellious, but then realized that there was no reason to argue with him. "All right, I will," she said dully. "In a little while."

  He grimaced, then left without saying anything. He came back with a mattress from one of the crew bunks, a pillow, and clean linens. "Here's your bed. Ezra is fixing you some soup, and I want you to go to the door and answer it when he brings it to you. Apparently this is not a drinking man's boat, because there's no shot glass on board, so here is a coffee mug. Look. I'm pouring out one, two, three. That's a shot." He handed it to her. "It's good brandy, sip it, don't gulp it. If there's any change, have them ring the Big Bell. Otherwise, I'll be back this afternoon."

  Jeanne barely noticed when he left, for she was lost in thought. And dark thoughts they were, indeed.

  How could You let this happen, God? It's not fair! She's an innocent child! Why not me, or someone, anyone else? You have to heal her, You have to make her well!

  Even through the rage she felt, Jeanne knew this wasn't right, but she had forgotten how to pray. All right, I know I'm saying this all wrong, God, but please, help me. I can't stand it if Marvel dies, I couldn't live! I know that since we've been doing better, with the Helena Rose and all, I haven't been as close to You as I used to be. I know I've been ignoring You, and I'm sorry! Just please heal Marvel, and I swear I'll come back to You. I promise I'll do better, I'll be better!

  Jeanne had been a Christian a long time, and she wasn't a fool. She knew this was attempting to bargain with God—no, worse, she knew she was actually trying to bribe Him. The realization of her folly only made her feel worse. Now she was not only angry with Clint Hardin, and with God, but she was angry at herself. She didn't even try to overcome it. She gave up. The room may have been lit with glorious light, but Jeanne saw only the blackness of her own soul.