She looked at his broad back, his short heavy wisps of hair, dark as a ravens. Stripped of his coat, the sleeves of his coarse shirt rolled to the elbow, and holding a bloody rag in his hand, he barked out an array of orders.
He fit here in the hospital with his work, tending the sick. Yet in Claire’s mind, he didn’t fit. As she had speculated earlier, she again considered him in the same mysterious light. He seemed alert, aware, with a restrained wildness about him, ready to fire a reaction at a moment’s notice. The assured poise he demonstrated in dictating where patients were to be set in order of their weakness and severity disproved the nature of an ordinary physician. His pleasant yet authoritative voice ringing out those commands with innate confidence belied a man of a different mien that she couldn’t quite identify. He remained a puzzle to her, a man of contradictions.
“Malaria, smallpox, usual remedy is quinine or “the bark”. Opium pills−I’ve cut it down so they can rest,” he snapped to his stewards. “Smoke and lime to kill the contagion. Lay sails over the courtyard and set more beds beneath. Get to the apothecary.” His commands ripped through the air like a cannon down the coast.
“What are you doing here?” His sour tone matched his mood.
Claire didn’t turn around. She squared her shoulders. She remained impressed for out of devastating chaos; he had restored order of epic proportions with improvisation and invention. It surprised and galled her how the islanders deferred to him, despite his status as a slave. Her hands dropped slowly with the cloth she held to a fresh basin of water.
“I will thank you to address me properly−” Claire did not desire a fight. She pressed the cloth to her patient’s fevered brow.
“The man’s a slave−” he said.
She squeezed the cloth, twisting and twisting until every last drop wrung out.
“The tone of your discrimination is noted. It stands an ignorant and false assumption on your part, Doctor,” she rebuked him. “Nonetheless, the man is a human being.”
“Your uncle would be of a different sentiment. He regards such chattel as vermin, better left to die of their miseries.”
“As you can see, I am not my uncle.” She turned, frowned and stared at him a moment with increasing haughtiness. “What is it that makes you think that my uncle and I share the same opinion?”
“It is a kindness, your efforts, but if your uncle were to learn of it−” he shrugged.
“I shall deal with my uncle when the time comes. The concern is mine, not yours, Dr. Blackmon.” She turned her back to him.
“You are at risk.”
“How wonderful of you to voice concern. But never worry. I am immune. I survived the pestilence my eighth summer as did my cousin and Cookie in her youth.” There stood too much work to do to bicker further. With so many people crying out in fever and pain, Claire decided to let him wallow in his contempt of her.
By Devon’s orders the islanders and slaves were divided into pairs to maximize resources. Cookie worked with an older giant of a slave, and Lily with a slender golden-haired slave. Claire chose to work alone.
She grimaced at the hideous corpuscles, oozing with blood, inflicted on a poor woman. Claire had been spared the scarring from her battle with the horrid pestilence. For this woman, the scarring would be nothing if she survived. Mrs. Bennett. Claire did not recognize her. She had met her twice at the governor’s mansion and regretted never being able to learn more of her father. Claire procured a pillow to make her more comfortable. The woman’s eyes fluttered.
“Claire. You are a dear girl.” Her breaths came labored. “I know you own the plantation. I feel it in my bones. I found a hint in my old journals that were not destroyed by fire.”
Claire listened. What did you discover?”
“You do not have to be forced to marry anyone. Find the deed.”
Claire sponged her forehead. She needed Mrs. Bennett to talk more. The woman lay limp. Claire was at a loss for she did not know what else to do. She looked up, regarding the yawning beams of the belfry. The bell hung, despairingly solitary. She needed help. She hated to askhim.
“Dr. Blackmon?” she said, as she moved beside him.
He didn’t seem surprised to see her. Did he know she was coming?
“Is there a problem, Madame?” he asked without turning to her. A barely controlled hostility simmered beneath his formality, if released, would roll her over with the force of a tidal wave. What lay between them could never be openly discussed.
“The patient by the column, Mrs. Bennett, I-I do not know what else to do.”
“Johnnie. Move that woman out−the west side.” He jerked his head to where Mrs. Bennett lay.
Claire closed her eyes and said a prayer, the west side−a silent assignation for the patients that would soon die. “Is there not something you can do?”
“A friend of yours?”
Claire nodded.
He crossed the room and examined the patient. “The pox has done its job. She has passed onto the next world.” He covered Mrs. Bennett with a sheet and checked the man beside her. Johnnie appeared. “Take this man as well.”
