probably an officer. He was used to giving orders and he expected to be obeyed. And he is a man who cares about others.
Mercy raised her voice and repeated, “I will set up my medical supplies near the bar. If thee isn’t nursing a friend or loved one, I need thee to get buckets of hot water and begin swabbing down the floor area between patients.
“And get the word out that anyone who has any stomach cramps or nausea must come here immediately for treatment. If patients come in at the start of symptoms, I have a better chance of saving their lives. Now please, let’s get busy. The cholera won’t stop until we force it out.”
The people stared at her.
She opened her mouth to urge them, but Lon Mackey barked, “Get moving! Now!”
And everyone began moving.
Lon mobilized the shifting of the patients and the scrubbing. And, according to the female doctor’s instructions, a large pot was set up outside the swinging doors of the saloon to boil water for the cleaning.
He shook his head. A female doctor. What next? A tiny female physician who looked as if she should be dressed in ruffles and lace. He’d noted her Quaker speech and the plain gray bonnet and dress. Not your usual woman, by any means. And who was the young, pretty, Negro girl with skin the color of caramel? The doctor had said she was a trained nurse. How had that happened?
“Lon Mackey?”
He heard the Quaker woman calling his name and hurried to her. “What can I do for you, miss?”
“I want thee to ask someone to undertake a particular job. It has to be someone who is able to write, ask intelligent questions and think. I would do it myself, but I am about to begin saline infusions for these patients.”
“What do you need done?”
“In order to end this outbreak, I need to know its source.”
“Isn’t it from the air?” Lon asked.
She smiled, looking pained. “I know the common wisdom is that this disease comes from the air. But I have done a great deal of study on cholera, and I believe that it comes from contaminated water or food. So I need to know the water source of each patient, alive or dead—if they shared some common food, if there was any group gathering where people might have drunk or ingested the same things. You said that the cholera appeared here in this saloon first. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” He eyed her. Contaminated water? If there had been time, he would have liked to ask her about her research. But with people in agony and dying, there was no time for a long, scientific discussion. He rubbed the back of his neck and then rotated his head, trying to loosen the tight muscles.
“Was the person first taken with cholera living on these premises or just here to socialize?” she asked.
He grinned at her use of the ladylike word socialize. Most people would have used carouse or sin for stepping inside a saloon. This dainty woman continued to surprise him.
“It was the blacksmith. Comes in about twice a week for a beer or two. I think McCall was his name.”
She nodded. “Has anyone at his home fallen ill?”
“Yes, his whole family is dead.”
Her mouth tightened into a hard line. “That might indicate that his well was the culprit, but since the cholera seems to be more widespread…” She paused. “I need someone to question every patient about their water and food sources over the past week. And about any connection they might have had with the first victim.” A loud, agonizing moan interrupted her.
“Will thee find someone,” she continued, “to do that and write down the information so that I can go over it? This disease will continue to kill until we find its source and purify it. I assure you that the cholera epidemics that swept New York State in the 1830s were ended by cleaning up contaminated water sources.”
He nodded. “I’ll do it myself.” From his inner vest pocket, he drew a small navy-blue notebook he always carried with him.
“I thank thee. Now I must begin the saline draughts. Indigo will try to make those suffering more comfortable.” She turned to the bar behind her and lifted what he recognized as a syringe. He’d seen them in the war. The thought made him turn away in haste. I will not think of syringes, men bleeding, men silent and cold…
Several times during the long day, he glanced toward the bar and saw the woman kneeling and administering the saline solution by syringe to patient after patient. The hours passed slowly and painfully. How much good could salt water do? The girl, Indigo, was working her way through the seriously ill, speaking quietly, calming the distraught relatives.
He drew a long breath. He no longer prayed—the war had blasted any faith he’d had—but his spirit longed to be able to pray for divine help. Two more people died and were carried out, plunging them all into deeper gloom. He kept one eye on the mood of the fearful and excitable people in the saloon. A mob could form so easily. And now they had a target for blame. He wondered if the female doctor had thought of that.
Would this woman, armed with only saline injections and cleanliness, be able to save any lives? And if she didn’t, what would the reaction be?
Much later that night, candles flickered in the dim, chilly room. When darkness had crept up outside the windows, voices had become subdued. Lon saw that for the first time in hours the Quaker was sitting down near the doors, sipping coffee and eating something. He walked up to her, drawn by the sight of her, the picture of serenity in the center of the cruel storm. Fatigue penetrated every part of his body. A few days ago he had been well-rested, well-fed and smiling. Then disaster had struck. That was how life treated them all. Until it sucked the breath from them and let them return to dust.
As he approached, she looked up and smiled. “Please wash thy hands in the clean water by the door, and I’ll get thee a cup of fresh coffee.”
Her smile washed away his gloom, making him do the impossible—he felt his mouth curving upward. She walked outside to where a fire had been burning all day to heat the boiled water for the cleaning and hand-washing. A large kettle of coffee had been kept brewing there, too. If he’d had any strength left, he would have objected. She wasn’t here to wait on him. But it was easier to follow her orders and accept her kind offer. He washed his hands in the basin and then sank onto a wooden chair.
The Quaker walked with calm assurance through the swinging saloon doors as if she were a regular visitor of the place, as if they weren’t surrounded by sick and dying people. She handed him a steaming cup of hot black coffee and a big ginger cookie. “I brought these cookies with me, so I know they are safe to eat.”
It had been a long time since anyone had served him coffee without expecting to be paid. And the cookies reminded him of home, his long-gone home.
He pictured the broad front lawn. And then around the back, he imagined himself walking into the large kitchen where the white-aproned cook, Mary, was busy rolling out dough. But Mary had died while he was away at war, a sad twist. He shrugged his uncharacteristic nostalgia off, looking to the Quaker.
She sat across from him, sipping her coffee and nibbling an identical cookie. He gazed around him, smelling the harsh but clean odor of lye soap, which overpowered the less pleasant odors caused by the disease.
“You’re lucky to have a maid who can also nurse the sick,” he said. Ever since the unlikely pair had entered the saloon, the riddle of who the young black girl was had danced at the edge of his thoughts.
“Indigo is not my maid. She is my adopted daughter. I met her in the South during the war. She was only about seven at the time, an orphaned slave. Now she is nearly a woman and, as I said, a trained nurse.”
He stared at her, blowing over his hot coffee to cool it. He’d never heard of a white person adopting a black child. He knew, of course, that Quakers had been at the forefront of abolitionism, far ahead of popular opinion. What did he think of this unusual