Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

Charlotte vowed, just to be on the safe side, never again to use a Heinz condiment of any kind.

“And I don't need to tell you, I want all of this kept on the q.t. At least until we've got a better grip on things-Danzig in particular.”

December 16, 2 p.m.

Eleanor was only vaguely aware of what was going on. She remembered being helped, nearly carried, to the door of the church, then being placed atop a cumbersome machine, on a sort of saddle. She had been encouraged to put her arms around the man sitting in front of her-Michael Wilde, he'd said his name was; she wondered if he was Irish-but that would have been far too forward and with her remaining strength she had resisted.

The other man had then tied a rope around her, made of some thin but sturdy fiber, and fastened the hood of her coat down tightly around her head. The machine had roared off across the snow like a stallion, but the wind, and icy spray, was so strong that, like it or not, she had had to lean her head down and rest her cheek against Michael's back. And before long, just to keep her stability, lift her arms around him.

If not for the hood, the noise might have been deafening, and as they rumbled across the barren landscape, she felt herself oddly lulled. All day, she had been growing weaker, and fighting to resist the allure of the black bottles Sinclair had left in the rectory, and now she felt the last of her energy ebbing away. Her eyes closed, and her limbs relaxed. She felt powerless, but not unpleasantly so. The rattling of the machine reminded her of the thrumming of the engines on the ship she had taken to the Crimea… under the ever-watchful eye of Miss Nightingale. But oh, what would her employer make of a scene such as this? She knew perfectly well that Miss Nightingale disapproved of her nurses fraternizing with the soldiers or breaking with most of the social conventions. Scandal was to be avoided at all costs, and for all of her natural ease with the troops, Miss Nightingale often seemed humorless and inflexible with her female staff.

On the morning after finding Frenchie among the wounded, for instance, Eleanor had known enough to rise an hour early and creep, as quietly as she could, out of the staff quarters. The stairs were still dark, and she nearly tripped twice as she made her way down out of the tower and back to the ward where Lieutenant Le Maitre lay. But in addition to a clean shirt, she had in the pocket of her smock a sheet of folded paper and the stub of a pencil.

Although some of the men were still asleep, many others lay rocking in their beds, sick with fever or racked with pain, their eyes glazed and lips parched. Two or three of them reached out to her as she hurried by, but she had to neglect their entreaties and keep to her mission. She would have to be back at her regular post in less than an hour.

As she approached the ward, she passed one of the surgical carts being set up for the day's bloody business. Two orderlies-one with jug ears and a cowlick standing straight up-said, “Morning, Missus. You're up bright and early.” The other, a burly fellow with a badly pitted face, said, “Care to join us for a cup of tea?” He lifted a battered kettle from the cart. “Still hot.”

Eleanor declined, then swiftly crossed to the far corner, where she found Le Maitre wide-awake and staring up through the broken window at the early dawn. She crouched down beside his bed, and it was only when she said, “I've come back,” that he seemed to take any notice of her. “And look what I've got,” she said, displaying the paper and pencil.

He licked his lips, and nodded at her. “And this, too,” she said, holding up the clean shirt. “We'll get that old one off of you, and this new one on, just as soon as I've found some water for a wash.” He looked at her as if he barely understood what language she was speaking. The night, she realized, had taken its toll on him.

“Frenchie,” she said, in a low voice, “I'm ashamed to admit that I don't even know your true first name.”

And for the first time, he smiled. “Few do.”

She was so glad to see even this spark of life in him.

“It's Alphonse.” He coughed, dryly, then added, “Now you know why.”

She perched on the side of his bed, careful not to touch his damaged legs, and flattened the paper on her lap. “Is this letter to your family?”

He nodded, and recited an address in West Sussex. She took it down and waited.

“Chers Pere et Mere, Je vous ecris depuis I'hopital en Turquie. Je dois vous dire que fed eu un accident-une chute de cheval-qui m'a bksse plutot gravement.”

Eleanor's pencil hung in the air. It had never crossed her mind that Le Maitre's family might actually speak in French. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I cannot write in French.” She looked up and saw that he had closed his eyes to focus his thoughts better. “Can you say it in English?”

There was a rattling of wheels at the door of the ward, and several voices engaged in discussion. The hospital was waking up.

“Of course.” His voice was barely a croak. “How silly of me. It's just that, at home…” He stopped talking, then started again. “My dear mother and father, I am sending you these words from the hospital in Turkey. A friend is writing them down.”

The rattling got louder.

“I'm afraid I was injured… in a fall from my horse.”

Eleanor, scrawling the words down, looked up to see the jug-eared orderly pushing the surgery cart like a flower wagon toward their corner. The other one was carrying a white screen, furled like a sail, under his arm. There was no mistaking their intentions.

“Oh, can't you wait just a little while?” Eleanor said, rising to her feet.

“Doctor's orders,” the first one said, as the second dropped the base of the screen onto the floor and quickly spread it out to shield the bed from view. Until Miss Nightingale's arrival, all amputations had been done in clear view of the other patients. But Miss Nightingale, not only to ensure some measure of privacy for the amputee but to spare the others the full grisly spectacle of what might await them next, had insisted upon the use of these screens.

“The lieutenant has just begun dictating a letter to his family- surely you can attend to someone else first?”

“Eleanor?” Frenchie said, clutching at her sleeve. “Eleanor!”

She turned back to him, and saw that he had drawn a silver cigarette case out from under his mattress.

“Take this!”

It was the same case she had once seen at the Longchamps Club, after the day at the races. It bore the regiment's grim insignia-a Death's Head-and its motto, “Or Glory.”

“See that my family gets it-please!”

“But one day you'll be able to give it to them yourself,” she said, as he pressed it into her hand.

“Missus, we have our work to do,” the burly orderly said.

She let the cigarette case fall into the pocket of her smock, as the white-haired surgeon strode toward the cot. “What's the obstruction here?” he bellowed, throwing a murderous glance at Eleanor. “We haven't got all day.” He whipped the sheet away from Frenchie's mangled leg, inspected the damage for no more than a few seconds, then said, “Taylor, place the block.”

The jug-eared orderly took a wooden chopping block, encrusted with dried blood, and began to wedge it under the leg to be amputated. Frenchie howled in agony.

“Smith, bind his arms.”

“As for you,” the surgeon said to Eleanor, “I do not recall giving permission for Miss Nightingale's protegees to interfere on my wards.”

“But doctor, I was only-”

“You'll address me as the Reverend Dr. Gaines, if you must address me at all.”

A cleric and a physician? Even in the short time Eleanor had served at the Barrack Hospital, she had come to dread the devoutly Christian doctors more than any others. While chloroform was, undeniably, in short supply, there was usually some to be found for the amputations, but the more pious surgeons were often opposed to its use. For them, anesthesia of any kind was a novelty, a recent invention that only served to lessen the noble and purifying pain that the Lord had ordained. She turned to look at Frenchie, whose face, now that his leg had been raised, was flushed with blood. His arms had been bound to his sides by ropes passed under the iron bedstead. Taylor was holding a glass of whiskey to his lips, but most of it was dribbling down Frenchie's quivering chin.