Chapter 7

The Harvest of Death

“He’s a goner, Maxine. Don’t waste your time on a lost case when there are so many others here who still have a chance.”

Of course, Flora was right. But… “He’s so handsome.” Maxine pursed her lips. That was in no way a professional approach. In fact, it was highly unprofessional and exactly what Sister Mary Frances had cautioned her against all those years ago when she’d first started education at the nursing school.

The patient’s unnatural sleep became restless—again. He thrashed around on the narrow cot, mumbling unintelligible words and furrowing his dark brows while he restlessly turned his head from one side to the other.

Maxine put restraining hands on the soldier’s chest, knowing from the experience of the last few days that human contact was the only thing that would bring the man back into a more peaceful slumber.

“Maxine.”

“I…really, I can’t let him alone—not like this, not when…not now.”

Flora gave her a pitiful look, then sighed. “All right, have your way. But if I need you to help me care for a living soul—”

“He is a living soul.”

“Barely.” Flora shook her head and then turned and walked away, briskly, as if caring for a dying man was a major affront to…well, whomever. The living, maybe. Lord, when had she become a cynic?

“Mhmm…” The man’s moans got louder, and his hand went down to where his right leg had been before the spreading infection had forced the doctors to amputate it. Very often, it took the patients days to realise that an amputated limb had actually gone; and even when they were fully aware of its absence, it continued hurting them. It was a small blessing that this particular patient most probably would never register what he’d lost.

Maxine rubbed small circles on the man’s chest, something that always made him calm down. She wondered if his wife had used to do the same thing. “Shh,” she cooed, casting a quick glance around. “Shh, Adam, it’s all right. You’re safe here.”

At least he had a name. Many soldiers were unidentifiable. Some had small coins with their names engraved tucked in their pockets or hanging on a chain around their necks, some were lucid enough to tell their names; but far too many were brought in unconscious and without anything on them that said who they were. Adam had been one of those senseless men and, blessedly, had remained so throughout the whole ordeal he’d undergone. But he’d carried a letter in his pocket, addressed to “Mrs. Juliet Cartwright” and signed “Adam,” so they knew not only his name but also that he was married.

Maxine knew that many soldiers were married, that most had families at home, parents, siblings, wives, children; but knowing Adam’s wife’s name made it even more real, made the fear and desperation that woman must feel waiting for her husband to return tangible and haunting. And how devastating it would be for her when she eventually got the news that would shatter all her hopes.

And there was no doubt that that woman’s hopes would be shattered. Sweat drops on Adam’s forehead told Maxine that his fever was spiking again, and she was sure that his debilitated body wouldn’t stand another attack. To offer what little comfort there was, she wetted a cloth and wiped the sweat from his brow, cooing to him as if to a little child, what seemed to have become her mantra. “Shh, Adam, it’s all right.”

This time, it evoked a reaction. To Maxine’s utmost surprise, the man’s upper body shot up. His eyes flew open, and he stared at her, frantically, uttering his first discernible words, “I…no…mhmm…Ju—Ju—Ju—” And then all strength seemed to leave him, and he fell back, panting heavily.

“I know,” Maxine said. “I know, Adam. Don’t speak, save your strength.”

“No…Ju…” He broke off again.

“Shh, I understand. I’ll tell her.” And she would. She could acquire her address, couldn’t she? She would write his wife a letter, when all this was over and she would be able to put it into words, this desperation that made a man use his last breath to whisper his wife’s name.

His last breath? She bent over him. “Adam?”

He was silent. No more thrashing, no more moaning, no more head throwing. His handsome face looked tranquil. The pained crease over his brows gone; his features relaxed, his eyes focused on a world beyond comprehension. He was at peace.

Maxine swallowed a sob. Tenderly, she brushed over his eyes, closing the lids. “Farewell,” she whispered, and then she drew the thin blanket over his face.

“Maxine, quick!” The yell came from the other side of the hospital tent, and Maxine hurried to where her help was needed for fixing a man who actually had a chance to live.

Two thousand or so miles away, Juliet Cartwright woke from yet another dream about Adam telling her, in fluent German, that he did love her, but that she simply had to understand that there was a greater good that was more important than personal happiness.

“That’s bedlam, Adam,” she had answered, “complete moonshine.”

But just as Adam cocked his head and pursed his lips, and she squared her shoulders and lifted her right eyebrow in preparation for their habitual battle of wits, the desperate cries of little Henry penetrated the scene, and she left the place with a last regretful glance at Adam, who suddenly looked very serious and whispered, “I love you, Juliet.”

She wondered fleetingly why dream-Adam said those words real life-Adam never found necessary to utter, but she soon was distracted by more urgent matters, like changing a wet diaper and feeding a hungry mouth.

At the age of five months, Henry seemed to need less and less sleep, and so he didn’t take it too kindly when Juliet tried to put him back into his bed. He was dry and fed, and apparently he thought now it was time for entertainment—a view Juliet wasn’t inclined to share. Henry’s previous night had been a seemingly never-ending sequence of sleep and wake ’n’ wail, sleep and wake ’n’ wail; and the intervals between Henry’s awakenings had become shorter and shorter as the night had drawn out. Consequently, neither of them had gotten nearly as much sleep as Doctor Martin had pronounced healthy and normal. And now it was five in the morning, and Henry had decided that the night was over. How he could be as wide awake as he was now, was beyond Juliet—she certainly was dead on her feet and would have given a kingdom for an hour more of sleep. Alas, she didn’t have a kingdom to put into the bargain, and Henry obviously wasn’t interested in any commerce anyway: he made his discontent with his unwilling mother loudly known.

Babies, Juliet thought not for the first time, were merciless. She sighed. “Oh, all right,” she gave up, scooping Henry out of his bed. “You win.”

And so the family found a very tired-looking Juliet, uncharacteristically slumped in her seat, when they came down into the great room for breakfast that morning.

Henry was lying on his back on the settee in front of her playing with his naked feet. His toes seemed to hold a particular fascination for him, and apparently there was nothing more fulfilling in his world than to stuff them into his wet, toothless mouth and suck on them. As soon as he spotted his uncles, however, Henry stopped abusing his feet as pacifiers. He made a gurgling sound, flailed his little arms enthusiastically, and greeted his two favourite entertainers with a big, open-mouthed smile. Said entertainers returned his welcome by grinning like two lunatics, and, abandoning every thought of breakfast, crouched down in the narrow space between the settee and the coffee table.

Juliet, happy to be relieved of duty, slid aside making room for the uncle brigade. She was joined by her father-in-law, who cast a concerned glance on her before he turned his attention to Henry’s morning merriment.

“Lookee who’s awake already,” Hoss said in his funniest-uncle-of-the-world voice and tickled Henry’s belly until the baby squealed in delight. “Dootsie, dootsie, dootsie,” he then added genially.

Henry stopped squealing and frowned at his uncle.

Hoss laughed. “Are ya doin’ an Adam on us again, little rascal?”

“Of course, he is,” Joe chimed in. “He’s grown out of baby talk weeks ago. I’ve told you, he’s the smartest baby ever born.”

Henry grinned at Joe, and started to wiggle his arms and kick his legs rather energetically.

Joe picked a silver rattle up from the table and held it above Henry’s face, just in reach of his arms. The boy’s gaze focused on the rattle, his grin gave way for a look of utmost concentration, and then came back instantly as he snatched the toy out of Joe’s hand. Henry shook the rattle enthusiastically for a while until he stopped to try and stuff the elephant-shaped top into his mouth.

Both his uncles went forward to rescue the poor silver animal, and Henry was instantly distracted. With a quick motion he delivered a surprisingly well-aimed whack at Hoss’s head.

Joe exploded with laughter.

And earned a whack at his head for that.

Hoss wisely held his burst of laughter back, but to no avail. Henry quite obviously recognised a sophisticated game when he saw one, and kept on banging his rattle on heads right and left. From his gurgling giggle it was easy to discern that he had quite a pleasant time, and the simple fact that neither Joe nor Hoss shrank back an inch said that the pleasure was mutual.

“You two are lunatics,” Juliet mumbled when she moved between her brothers-in-law to see what all the giggling and cackling was about and found them being happily mishandled by her baby son.

Henry stopped his actions immediately, and smiled, as impossible as it seemed, even wider when he saw his mother.

“What, was that what you were pining for tonight? A scuffle with your uncles?” She pinched the baby’s nose fondly, and, leaning down, whispered conspiratorially, “Your grandfather doesn’t tolerate scuffling in the house, though.”

Henry listened intently, then puckered his lips and aimed the rattle at her.

Juliet raised an eyebrow. “You might want to think about it, Henry.”

Henry considered his mother, still with those puckered lips that made everyone think of Adam. And then his mouth melted into that fat smile that was entirely his, and he smacked the silver elephant on Joe’s forehead.

“Oh, yeah, yer right, Joe: that little rascal is the smartest baby ever!”

Hoss’s laughter nearly drowned out Ben’s low words, but Juliet heard them anyway. “Smart enough to keep his mother on her toes day and night.”

“Excuse me?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop at least ten degrees.

Ben looked caught. He seemed to shrink a bit under his daughter-in-law’s glare—or maybe it just looked so, because Juliet straightened her back and lifted her chin, and with that she seemed to grow an inch or two.

“I don’t mean to criticise you, Juliet, but maybe some advice from an experienced—”

Some might think you can’t interrupt someone by drawing a breath, but Juliet proved that it was, indeed, possible. Never in the history of respiration had a breath carried more laboriously suppressed annoyance than the one Juliet heaved before she said, “I thank you for your consideration, but I am adequately supplied with all needful information.”

Ben squared his shoulders. “Juliet, dear, just let me share what I learnt from bringing up three sons. You are exhausted, and you needn’t be. Your health isn’t secondary to Henry’s wellbeing. But as long as you jump into action at every little sound Henry makes, he will never learn to sleep through the night.”

“So what do you think I should do? Let him cry?”

“Well, yes. If you know he’s fed and…otherwise taken care of, then—”

“Mrs. Beeton is quite adamant that one should not do such a thing. It would disturb the child who has no other way to communicate than crying.”

“Mrs. Beeton?”

Juliet tilted her head. “Mrs. Beeton, yes. She wrote in her book—”*

“You depend on a book?”

“I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“Juliet, not everything can be learned from a book. For some things you have to rely on experience. Raising children isn’t like baking a cake.”

“Oh, now is it not.”

“All I’m saying is—”

“That I should let my child cry.”

“From time to time, yes.”

“And you tell me that from your experience?”

If Ben had been more observant, he would have been alerted by her sudden change of tone. Adam would by now have prepared an honourable retreat, but, of course, Ben was less experienced in arguing with Juliet. Until now, he had carefully refrained from it; and had Juliet not become as edgy as she had over the last few weeks, she might even have realised that his present bold foray originated solely from honest concern.

Juliet’s tone wasn’t scandalised anymore or indignant, it was…warning and sly at the same time.

“Well, yes. If I had—”

“So that’s what you did to Adam.” A statement, and a sentence.

Ben blinked.

“And you wonder why he’s so reluctant to admit it when he’s not feeling well?” She rose, as did the volume of her voice. “When he has learnt from early on that no one cares for his needs anyway?”

She looked sick; maybe that was why Ben let her get away with it. Or maybe she’d hit too close to home.

Whichever it was, it still hung in the air of the great room when after an awkward breakfast Ben sat down at his desk, the sleeping infant in his bassinet close by, and Juliet excused herself rather stiffly to go outside for a desperately needed breath of fresh air. Breakfast hadn’t seemed to agree much with her today.

Joe was glad that he had had a perfect excuse to flee the uncomfortable atmosphere in the house as soon as the morning meal was over. Pa had just signed a contract with the army involving four dozen sturdy horses, all well broken; and since Adam wasn’t at home, most of the breaking lasted on Joe. He’d announced that he wanted to get a head start on it this morning, and had left the breakfast table quickly, while his sister-in-law was still sipping at the cup of tea that had been the only nourishment she’d seemed to actually enjoy that morning.

He stood in the dim barn revelling in its calm quiet while he fastened the chaps on his hips, then wiggled the leather until everything sat perfectly. He wondered what was eating at Juliet. She hadn’t been that erratic and moody since…well, at least since Henry had been born. But then Adam had left and… Well, he guessed that answered the question. He left the barn, thinking that it might help if he talked to her. Their little chat after she’d bailed him out of jail a few weeks ago had been a real revelation, and maybe he could build on that.

He got his chance earlier than expected, as he found Juliet standing on the front porch, white-faced and breathing heavily, holding on to one of the posts for dear life. It went without saying that she denied anything was wrong but insisted that she was fine, very fine. Briefly Joe asked himself if perhaps Juliet had been left crying too many times when she’d been a baby, too, but very fortunately, he had just enough self-restraint to suppress the impending grin.

“Look, Juliet,” he started, boldly taking her hand. Which she didn’t pull back. “Pa means well. I know you know that, too. You’re tired, and he wants to make things easier for you. We all want to make things easier for you, if you’d just let us. Maybe Hoss and I can…well, we can’t do the things you do…” Lord, what had he gotten himself into, Joe thought as he felt his face flush. At least his embarrassment brought a small smile onto Juliet’s face. “I mean, we could look after him when he’s awake and wants to play, and then you could sleep for a spell, and, who knows, maybe you can even start writing again if we get him off your hands every now and then.”

“You want to look after Henry so I can write?”

“Yes, I’d love to. I know how much you’re pining to get back to your desk and deliver a broadside against…well, anyone.”

She tilted her head and studied his face for a moment, then her small smile reached her eyes. “You know that I…. You know that.” She squeezed his hand, nodding more to herself than to him. “Joseph, what do you—”

“Trying to steal yer brother’s wife again, Cartwright?”

Their heads shot around towards the man who’d so rudely interrupted them.

Letting go of Joe’s hand as if was wrong to hold it, Juliet asked, “Who is that, Joe?”

“Colston,” Joe spat. “Billy-Bob Colston.”

“The man you walloped?”

“The man whose jaw he nearly broke, ma’am,” Billy-Bob offered, slightly slurred. He fumbled at his gun belt.

Seeing Billy-Bob’s hand hovering over his Colt, Joe became painfully aware that he was unarmed. You don’t put a gun belt on when you want to break a horse. He pushed Juliet to the right and carefully, never taking his eyes from Billy-Bob, moved to the left, step by step putting more distance between him and his sister-in-law, thus getting her out of the line of fire.

“Billy-Bob, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t care whatcha meant to or not, Carwright. All I care for is that I ain’t eaten nothin’ solid in weeks, and that’s fer sure botherin’ me.”

Joe cringed. Really, he did understand Colton’s misery. “Tell you what, Billy-Bob, I’ll get Hop Sing to fix something real nice for you, something that makes you forget it’s stew and—”

“I don’t want no danged stew.”

“What is it then that you want, Mr. Colston?” Juliet’s words came unexpected, her clipped accent in sharp contrast to Colston’s drawl.

Billy-Bob blinked. He looked from Joe to Juliet and back. Slowly, with an unsteady hand, he produced his weapon.

“Now wait a minute, Billy-Bob—”

“No, you waita minute.” Shakily he aimed the weapon at Joe. “You think you get away with smashin’ ma jaw, jest because yer a Cartwright, but I’ll teacha.”

“I do think we will find an adult way to handle this, Mr. Colston,” Juliet said taking a step forward that, to Joe’s utmost horror, brought her back into the line of fire. “And I assure you we won’t need any arms for that.”

Before Joe could issue a warning, Juliet made another step up to Billy-Bob and pointed at his gun—a gesture that could easily be misunderstood as reaching for it, especially by a man as nervous as Billy-Bob Colston.

Sensing Billy-Bob’s tiny movement more than he actually saw it, Joe instantly went into action. He darted towards Juliet and tackled her to the ground, covering her body with his even before the echo of the shot had died down. He’d felt the impact of the bullet while still in motion, somewhere in his lower back, but the pain reached his consciousness only after a short, oddly disconnected moment of disorientation. What horrified him more than being hit, however, was the fact that his left hand had somehow come to rest on Juliet’s breast. His last thought before the world shut down around him was that neither she nor Adam would ever forgive him that.

__________
My dear, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. ~ Major Sullivan Ballou, in a letter to his wife (1861)

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