Chapter 13

And the Lord Taketh Away

There was blood almost everywhere. Blood on the blanket, blood on the sheets, blood on Juliet’s nightgown, blood on her hands, blood on her face even, where she had pressed her hands to her cheeks, to her mouth—perhaps to muffle anguished cries or just to keep herself in check—blood in her hair where she must have torn at it or pushed it back from her face; blood all around her.

The room was lit only by a single candle on the nightstand. Its flickerings illuminated the bed like a stark white and red island amidst a sea of black flaring shadows, or like a lit-up stage in a darkened theatre.

Juliet sat in the middle of the display, slightly hunched, with a pool of crumpled blanket around her. She was supporting her weight on one arm in front of her, the other was wrapped around her waist, and she was rocking back and forth, back and forth, slowly, almost placidly.

It was eerily still; not a sound came either from her or from the cradle, hidden somewhere in the darkness of the room.

Hoss wavered in the door way, afraid to ask, afraid to know, afraid to trespass. Finally, one soft word made it past his dry lips. “Juliet?”

She looked up. Her eyes were huge; dark like Lake Tahoe at night, and just as deep and bottomless. Fear?

“Hoss.” A mere whimper, he almost didn’t hear it. Yes, she was afraid. Terrified.

He crossed the threshold and stepped into the small circle of light. “What happened? Where…Henry?”

“Henry is asleep.” She looked into the dark to where the cradle must be standing, as if to make sure she said the truth, then back at him. “He’s asleep. He’s a good boy, sleeping through the night finally. As if he knew…”

She clutched her middle more tightly, nearly doubling over, and let out a small, suppressed cry of pain.

He knew telling her to stop holding back would be useless, and so he did the only thing he could think of and let himself down beside her, not even wincing at the thought that he was sitting in her blood. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the distraught woman in pain next to him. Hoss laid a hand on her back, moving it in small soothing circles.

Hands clenched on the blanket, she merely endured his caress, heaving deep shuddering breaths until her posture relaxed, and she sat up straighter, even leaning into his touch.

She cradled her hands in her lap, palms up, studying them intensely. With a sleeve of her nightshirt she tried to clean the blood from one hand, not comprehending the futileness of it.

“I’m losing it,” she eventually whispered. “Or maybe it’s gone already.” The wiping of her hand became almost violent, the dabbing more like punching.

He increased the pressure to her back, trying to make his presence more palpable, to make it an offer, a reassurance, an anchor. There was no doubt about what was happening, no doubt that there was no way to stop it. Nothing he did would change that. All he could manage was to be with her, awkward and surreal as it was, sitting here next to her, caressing her back and yet not really reaching her. Two people side by side yet miles away from another. Once again, he wished he were more like Adam, who always seemed to know what to do and what to say, and how to get through to her.

You don’t have to be Adam. You’re Hoss; and that’s all you need to be. Hadn’t she said that herself on the train ride?

He tightened his grip on her, and pulled her into his arms. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m holding you.”

He felt her breath warm and wet on his shoulder, where she’d pressed her face; he felt her body much bonier and lithe than he’d have expected in his arms, felt her softly melting into him—unexpected, inappropriately right. And alarming.

“Juliet?”

“I failed,” she said into his shoulder. Muffled, low, barely audible. “It’s my fault, I know it. I shouldn’t have…shouldn’t have…but how could I not have done it? I needed answers, I needed to look for…and we nearly found him, right? Hoss? We nearly found him, we’re almost there.”

“This ain’t your fault. This ain’t nobody’s fault.” Wasn’t it? Shouldn’t he have spared her this ordeal? Shouldn’t he have told her to stay at home and have gone all by himself? Shouldn’t he have read the signs better? Her exhaustion, her anguish? Shouldn’t he have realised the toll this all was taking on her? Shouldn’t he have stopped her?

“It ain’t nobody’s fault,” he repeated, shoving the jolt of guilt aside. He couldn’t afford the luxury of wallowing in guilt right now. Guilt was selfish, and this wasn’t a time to be selfish. He was needed. She needed him; strong, comforting—not self-incriminating.

Juliet apparently hadn’t heard him, or she just ignored his words—or didn’t believe them. “I failed,” she said again. “I failed to take care of my child. Of our child, Adam’s and mine. Adam’s.”

As she lifted her head from his shoulder, he could see her face, white as a ghost’s and almost as frightening. “It was Adam’s child, and I…I failed him. Them. I don’t deserve—”

“Stop it.” He thought briefly about slapping her, but settled for shaking her at her shoulders. “Juliet, you know that’s not true. You know you ain’t failing nobody. Not Adam, not the baby. Things happen. That’s all there is to it.”

He saw even more traces of colour draining from her face, as impossible as it seemed. She fell back into his arms, her body lying against his, boneless and heavy, as if there wasn’t any strength left in her to keep her upright.

“Hoss,” she breathed so low that if she weren’t so close to him he wouldn’t have heard her. “Promise me to look after Henry for me if anything…promise me. Promise me to keep looking for Adam, and when you find him, look after him, too.”

“I—nothing will happen, ya hear me? Nothing. Everything will be all right.” Don’t do this to me. For a brief moment the image of Adam flashed before his eyes, Adam in a Yankee uniform, who asked, “Where’s Juliet?” He shook his head to make his mind stop trying to put the unthinkable into words. This couldn’t be happening, could it?

“Promise me,” Juliet repeated.

And even though he was scared of the consequences, he said, “I do. I promise,” and then he felt her become even heavier in his arms, and completely still. Beneath her, the bed sheet soaked up every ounce of life draining out of her, the red creating an almost obscene contrast to the once pristine white.

He held her, helpless, not daring to let go of her, until he heard footsteps on the stairs. There was Mrs. Milward with the doctor, a grim looking middle-aged man who took a sharp breath at the scene before him; and then Hoss was ushered out of the room.

He stood outside in the hallway, unable to move, not knowing where to go or what to do, until the landlady opened the door and handed him Henry, who blinked sleepily at him, his twisting mouth already indicating the impending tears.

“Go downstairs,” Mrs. Milward said. “And take the baby with you. He can’t be in here now.”

“Is…will everything be all right?”

“I don’t know, I’m sorry. It doesn’t look…I don’t know. Prepare for anything.” She squeezed his hand, briefly, then turned and closed the door behind her.

And then Henry started to wail; and no matter what Hoss did, he kept crying for the rest of the night.

***

The sea was in turmoil. The water was murky, yet strikingly green, churned up by the winds of a thunder storm, the boiling waves crowned by white foam. In the sky, clouds were chasing one another, tattered shreds of dark grey, like rag dolls, mirroring the seething chaos beneath them.

His boat was sturdy, big and solid; even though he had to clutch firmly at the mainmast to avoid going overboard, he felt safe from sinking. Strangely fascinated, he watched the mayhem around him. At the edge of his vision he made out a shipwreck. It was an old ship, as far as he could tell, an English three-masted barque. Two masts were down, the stern half submerged. Lifeboats were scattered around the ship, desperately trying to stay upright in the angry sea; some had gone keel up already.

He thought he heard the seamen’s desperate cries over the roar of the storm and the waves, but it might have been his imagination. As his ship steered closer to the wreck, he saw that the boats were empty. One by one they flipped over and were swallowed by the raging sea, until one last boat remained—and this one was occupied. The figure in it was blurred; he caught a glimpse of something dark green, though it might have been only a reflection of the sea. A hand was stretched out towards him, an arm clad in green, nearly the same colour as the sea; but he was too far away to reach it.

The boat danced on the water; tossed by the waves like a nutshell, it was on the verge of capsizing. With certain clarity he suddenly knew he wouldn’t be able to reach the boat in time to save its sole passenger.

And just as he realised that, he heard the cry for help.

“Help me.” It was a small voice, nearly inaudible in the storm, not classifiable, most certainly not familiar—but not much had been familiar lately, anyway.

“Help me,” it said. “I need you.” It sounded nearly intimate, as if the caller knew to whom they addressed themselves.

He formed a mouthpiece with his hands and shouted, “I can’t reach you.”

“Help me,” the voice came back. “Help me, Adam!”

The shock of it awoke him. He was sweating, again, and breathing heavily. He reached for the mug of water he knew was standing on the bed table, and for the small book Bernadette had given him to record whatever clue with which his dreams fed him.

Not that he ever forgot anything he’d dreamt. It was as if he was trying to prove to himself that he didn’t forget things on purpose, that there was something bigger than he that kept the memories of his former life obscured from him.

No, he didn’t drink from Lethe willingly. He wanted to know. He wanted to remember.

Bernadette sometimes seemed afraid of what lay in the past, as if it could destroy the present. But the present was…nearly nothing. It was pain and illness, it was suspicion and distrust. It also was love, that one bright spot. Love and Bernadette, love and Bernadette, love and Bernadette. How could a man fall so easily, so completely, so deeply in love? He’d never fallen so quickly—well, maybe he had, but he couldn’t remember.

It was strange, weird: he could remember how to speak, to read and write, how to hold a spoon and to put on a shirt (now he finally was able to do it on his own again), he could remember things he’d read at some point in his former life; and he could remember his virtues, and how it felt to be in love. How to court a woman, and how to be a polite and friendly man. But he couldn’t remember who taught him to be polite and friendly, or why he knew that a black man wasn’t worth less than a white and that no man should own another. He couldn’t remember how he’d learnt that a woman wanted to be touched tenderly, and spoken to in a respectful manner.

He couldn’t remember what had made him the man he was—or what kind of man he actually was.

He had a vague idea of how his last days on the battlefield had gone, even though he still had no idea for which side he’d been fighting. All right, that last wasn’t entirely true. He had a pretty good idea of that by now—just no proof—but he wouldn’t share that particular information with anyone.

Random bits of memory came back to him every day. Sometimes triggered by a smell, a sound, a touch, something somebody said, a certain tone of voice. Nothing substantial up to now: memories of a chestnut coloured horse galloping towards him; a basket of strawberries on a red-chequered blanket; a ladybug on his hand; a porcelain music box painted with cherubs and flowers; an infectious giggle; red artist’s tights; a bed of cream coloured roses—things like that. Nothing that had told him who he was. Except that he was sure it did tell him who he was. Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, all those bits were parts of who he was, of what made him…

Adam.

The voice in his dream had called him “Adam.” He had two names now, Joe and Adam. Joe, apparently someone close to him, and Adam…that was him.

“Adam,” he said in wonder. It did sound familiar, like something he’d known all his life. The most natural thing. He had no idea how he could have forgotten it at all. “Adam.” He chuckled. Couldn’t help but laugh. Another bright spot in his present life.

From a much darker part of his mind, though, it laughed at him. How small his world had become, how little he needed to be happy. Pathetic.

And yet it was enough. Step by step, he thought. And this particular step wasn’t as small as his sarcasm was trying to make it look. It was huge: he had a name now.

He smiled, smiled broadly still when Bernadette approached his bedside, carrying a bowl of water and a basket full of what looked like stripes of linen.

“Good morning. You’re in a good mood, I see,” she smiled, putting her things down on the bedside table. “I’m going to have to spoil it a bit, I’m sorry to say. But I promise I’ll be careful changing your dressings.”

“You’re always careful, m’dear.”

“I try,” she said, then checked his forehead and frowned. “You’re still running a slight fever, I’m afraid. Let’s see what awaits us under those bandages.”

As she reached out to pull down his blanket, he caught her hands. They were small hands, strong and gripping if need be, but feather-light and tender at other times. She tried to wrench them out of his grasp, but he didn’t let her. Just held them firmly in his hands.

“What…?” she laughed, a trace of insecurity resonating in her words. “I promised to be careful.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then let me…” She pulled again, to no avail. “What is it?”

“I’ve got a name.”

“Everybody’s got a—” She broke off. Sinking down on his bedside, she drew her hands out of his now-slackening grip and put them on his shoulder. Leaning closer, she said in a low voice, “You’ve got a name? You…know your name?”

He nodded. Smiled.

She swallowed. “You know who you are now?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Just my name. Adam.”

“Adam.”

“Yes.”

“Adam…who?”

“Just Adam. No surname.”

“Adam.”

He could see she was tasting the name, rolling it on her tongue. Something of it was familiar, something that triggered…an outstretched hand, long, elegant fingers, manicured but stained with tiny blue spots—ink? and then it was over, the image gone.

“Adam. A good name, Adam.” She smiled. “Adam.”

Her smile was beautiful. The joy in her voice was beautiful. He wanted more of that. More beauty, more smiling, more joy.

“I might be a sailor,” he gave her, and was rewarded with more.

“A sailor? Captain Adam.” More more.

“I dreamt I was on a ship on the sea.” He closed his eyes, trying to conjure the images of that last dream. “There was a storm, and someone called for my help.”

“Did you recognise that person?”

“No.”

“A man, a woman? Young, old?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t…really, I couldn’t see much. Everything was blurred.” He opened his eyes. “It was the first dream that wasn’t about the war. Strange, I realise that only now. It was about…well, not the war. Something private…civilian. It must have been significant.”

“So you’re Adam, the sailor.” She frowned. “Or Adam, the traveller?”

The traveller. It sounded…right, somehow. A traveller. A salesman, perhaps. But the calluses on his hands told the story of hard labour…so perhaps it was “Adam, the sailor” after all.

“I’d rather be a traveller,” he finally said, amused by his almost petulant tone.

“Maybe not knowing can be a blessing, too.” Bernadette nodded slowly. “You could start anew. Be what you want to be, who you want to be. A traveller, if you’re so inclined.”

“I prefer to know things. Bad or good, I want to know.”

“Even if it hurt you? Even if it would cost you…”

“The truth is never too expensive,” he said almost savagely—and he was sure he’d heard those words before from another person. A dark, velvety voice. Coffee-brown eyes…

“It could—”

“I thought I told you to change the patient’s dressing, not to chitchat with him.”

She jumped up at that voice, straightening her skirt and apron, checking her nurse’s hat. “Dr. Mabbs, I’m terribly sorry, I just…”

“Don’t blame her, doctor. It’s my fault, I—”

“I’m sure it is, Soldier. Don’t think I don’t see through you and your schemes.” The doctor stood straight and tall, his uniform straining around his massive middle. He made an impressive figure, a fact of which he seemed entirely conscious, and which he obviously even tried to enhance by squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin to peer down on his inferiors in scrutiny.

“I don’t understand…” Adam started but was interrupted yet again.

“Oh, of course you don’t understand. You don’t understand very much, do you? With that oh-so-convenient amnesia.”

“I don’t find it particularly convenient. What are you implying?”

“Implying? I’m not implying anything. I just put one and one together. Isn’t it funny how you know so much about this last battle—yet don’t remember to which side you belong? I call that very convenient, Mr. Yankee-Accent.”

There was more pointing towards the North, more than his accent, Adam was aware of that. Everything in him screamed that there was no way he’d be fighting for a society that supported slavery. Even though he understood the South’s striving for freedom and their feeling of having been overruled by the Union for a long time, he couldn’t believe he supported the idea that not all men should be free, no matter the colour of their skin. It was a part of him so fundamental that he hadn’t forgotten it, just as he hadn’t forgotten how to breathe, how to eat and drink.

Of course, he’d never share these insights with anyone here.

“Don’t take me for a fool, Soldier. I’m watching you, and as soon as I have proof for my suspicion I’ll have you transferred to prison.”

“I’d never take you for a fool, doctor. And I advise you not to take me for a fool, either.” He spat it, knowing it was the not the wisest thing to do—but he couldn’t help it. There was no way he could have swallowed those words or said them in a less hostile fashion.

Predictably, Dr. Mabbs picked up the gauntlet only too willingly. “Perhaps I’ll arrange for the relocation right now,” he sneered.

“You can’t do that,” Bernadette jumped in. “Without constant medical care he’d die. The infection still isn’t under control, he’s running a fever, he’s weak and…and…and ill, and….”

The doctor let her deliver her rant, mildly smiling like a father would at his babbling child. Only as she trailed off, he spoke again, deadly soft. “If that is the case, Nurse Lemont, then you might want to see to it that my orders concerning the patient’s treatment are followed without any further delay.” He waved an impatient hand. “Clean the wound, change the dressings. No chitchatting. Then see to your other patients.”

He turned and stalked away without sparing his patient another glance.

Bernadette was close to tears. “Adam, I—”

“Shh, not now. Let’s talk later. Tonight.”

She nodded, and carried out her instructions: cleaned the wound, changed the dressings. No chitchatting. Then saw to her other patients.

Adam soon fell into a troubled slumber. This time he found himself drifting in the raging sea, clinging to an upturned lifeboat. Through the howling storm he heard it again. “Help me, Adam. I need you!”

It was the voice of a woman, and he knew her.

__________
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions. ~ William Shakespeare, Hamlet

***