Chapter 8

Out, Out Brief Candle

Ben smoothed the blanket covering his youngest son’s body for the umpteenth time. As much as he wished otherwise, there was nothing more he could do. Nothing.

He had been a father for…how long? Thirty three years now, and this was the worst part of it: the times when you just had to sit and wait, sit and watch, sit and do absolutely nothing.

He smoothed the blanket again, pulled it higher on Joe’s chest. Maybe the blanket gave some comfort—or maybe not. He pulled it back down. Joe looked hot, which—according to the doctor and his own far too considerable experience in dealing with serious injuries—was to be expected. Even though the bullet had miraculously missed any vital organs, it had done devastating damage on its way through Joe’s body. The immense blood loss had made him cold with shock at first and then started a fever that rose slowly and steadily as the day went on.

He took the wet cloth from Joe’s forehead, soaked it in the basin on the nightstand, drained it carefully and placed it back. Well, there was something he could do, after all. As little as it was, as useless as it seemed, given the heat that radiated from his sick boy. He was rewarded with a low moan and an oh-so-small movement that pressed Joe’s face just so into his father’s touch. Ben allowed his hand to linger on the wet cloth for a moment, then let it slide down along Joe’s burning cheek.

“Shh,” he cooed. “It’s going to be all right. You are going to be all right.”

There was no further reaction, but for once Ben was resigned to it. Joe needed to rest, the doctor had said, needed to build up strength—and blood. Strength first, by sleeping, then blood, by…Ben had forgotten. Beef broth, most probably, or any other fluids, as usual.

Gingerly, he removed his hand from Joe’s face—let the boy sleep—and straightened his back. A sudden moment of vertigo took him by surprise, a feeling of nausea and complete weakness. Cradling his head in his hands, deliberately breathing in and out, it took him some time to get his body back under control. He needed to eat something. It was well into the afternoon, and he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.

Breakfast. What an unpleasant affair that had been, with Joe and Hoss being so awkwardly silent and Juliet sporting a nearly violently restrained expression—and yet, in retrospect, he would gladly relive it again and again rather than go through the subsequent events one more time.

He leaned back into his chair taking a deep breath, just as he’d done when after breakfast he’d sat down at his desk. He’d found it difficult to concentrate on the contract lying before him. Hoss had felt the tension, too, had lingered in the great room, fiddling with his hat on the credenza first, then with the cushions on the settee, with a blanket on Adam’s blue chair, and finally with the lace on Henry’s Moses basket.

“She didn’t mean no harm, Pa,” he’d eventually started, but Ben had waved him off.

He knew that Juliet hadn’t meant to hurt him. She had just gone with the old proverb of offence being the best defence, and, in her impulsive way, had lashed out. Ben couldn’t help but chuckle. At times, his daughter-in-law displayed an astonishing resemblance to Joe, even though he was sure she would deny that with all her might.

It had hit him for the first time when Juliet had tried to placate him after Joe’d confessed she had to bail him out of jail. He’d sensed something was wrong even before he’d seen Joe’s injured hand when they’d come home from Virginia City. The way Joe’s head had hung, the way Juliet’s shoulders had been rigid beyond her usual upright carriage.

Joe had told his tale in a low voice, barely delivering more than the crucial facts. Ben had been livid: Joe should know better than starting bar brawls, and he had told his youngest that in unmistakable terms. Juliet had stood back, watching, listening; and only after Joe had retired, she’d spoken to Ben.

“Sometimes,” she’d said, and the unguarded misery in her eyes had told him she was not speaking solely about Joe, “sometimes your body does things your mind does not approve of. Sometimes you have no control…no resistance to…your emotions. Joe didn’t think. He just…felt, and did. He did wrong, there’s no mistaking, but he didn’t do it…willingly.”

“You’re not trying to tell me he’s not responsible for his actions, are you?”

“No, of course not. He is responsible, and he should have restrained himself, but…we all are human, Ben. And pain…hurt…makes you weak and more likely to lose control.”

There had been something in her eyes…and, oh, he had learnt to read her eyes, had learnt to catch the moment she let her shields down. Had learnt that the night they’d kept vigil over an injured Adam after his duel with Langford Poole, when he’d seen that endless love in her eyes—and the vulnerability that came with it.

This time, it was something akin to panic: fear mixed with hurt, and it had begged to come out.

“Is that what happened to you in San Francisco?” he had ventured, fully aware that Juliet most likely would stall again.

But she’d graced him with her trust. “I…I didn’t intend to—I would never do that, Ben. I’m not a coward; I wouldn’t steal myself away like that. I didn’t want to hurt myself. I wanted to…destroy, yes, destroy. I didn’t think, I just gave in to…misery…pain? I don’t know. I couldn’t stand seeing me alone in that mirror, and my hands…they just…” She’d looked down, slowly removed her white gloves, exposing her wrists, her lower arms. She’d traced the red scars with her fingers, nearly caressingly, then, suddenly, folded her arms over her chest. “I was in a frenzy, realising what I was doing only when it was too late already. There was blood and pain…and then I woke up in bed. Apparently Henry’s cries had alerted the chamber maid.”

It hadn’t been the first time he felt the desire just to take her in his arms, but the first time he’d given in to that urge. She’d surprised him by letting it happen, by burying her face in his shoulder. She hadn’t cried, not that he’d expected that from her anyway, but she’d done something far more haunting: she’d whispered, “He doesn’t even know what he’s doing to us. Why?” and then, even more subdued, “What have I done?”

Joe had been more explicit, later that night, when he’d finally come to Ben and spoken his mind. “Why doesn’t he care about us?” he’d said and then given Adam some less than flattering names. But all in all, it hadn’t differed too much from what Ben had heard from Juliet.

A soft sigh asked for Ben’s attention. He bent forward, and hovering over his sleeping boy tried to read some kind of growing awareness in his still face.

“Joe?”

“Let the boy rest, Ben,” he was startled by Paul Martin’s voice. “I told you he would sleep for a while. Better let him wake on his own account. He needs to rest.”

“To build up strength, I know. I just thought…” Ben turned around to face the doctor who’d entered the room unnoticed. He was met with a mug of coffee and a cheery smile.

“He’s going to be all right. It could have been much worse, but Joe’s a very lucky boy.” The doctor forced Ben’s hand around the mug. “Drink this, and then eat something.”

“I—”

“No, Ben, I mean it. We both know that you won’t sleep tonight, so have at least the sense to eat. Or soon you won’t be able to supervise your son’s each and every breath.” Paul patted his shoulder. “Relax, Ben. Keep Joe quiet, give him as much liquids as you can once he’s awake, and watch out for any signs of infection—that’s the one threat we have to be wary of.”

“He’s already running a fever.”

Paul checked Joe’s temperature with the back of his hand. “No, that’s just the aftermath of the shock and the advancing evening. If the fever isn’t down in the morning, then we can start being concerned, but we’ll cross that bridge only if we’ll get there.” He stretched his back, then clapped his hands decisively. “Well, I’ll better be on the go before it gets dark. No need to see me out, Ben, I know the way.”

The doctor was already out of the room, when he turned back and added, “Juliet should be all right in no time, too—in case you’ve wondered.”

He was gone before Ben could respond. Well, it might be better that way, since he didn’t even know whether to be outraged about Paul’s implied reprimand or ashamed for his tunnel view that had focused his attention solely on Joe.

Well, his focus had been slightly off from the moment he and Hoss had heard the shot. No, he hadn’t been able to concentrate even before that. He couldn’t focus on breakfast, he couldn’t focus on his desk work, couldn’t focus on Hoss’s attempt at consoling him. And then, while he’d still struggled to explain to Hoss—and himself—why he was hurt, yet not hurt by Juliet’s outburst, a shot and Juliet’s choked-off cry of terror and pain had brought them to their feet.

Ben would never comprehend why the first thing his eyes fell upon coming through the front door was Billy-Bob Colston, who stood next to the hitching rail, his face ghostly white, unspeakable horror in his bloodshot drinker’s eyes, his arms hanging limply at his side. Then the revolver that dangled in his slack hand slipped down and hit the ground with a soft thud. Billy-Bob flinched and stammered, “I ain’t…Lord, I didn’t meant ta…I didn’t…”, and his vaguely waving hand at last drew Ben’s attention to the messy heap at his feet.

They lay where Joe apparently had tackled Juliet, he atop her, both of them deadly still. There was blood, huge amounts of blood, more of it still pulsing out of a small hole in Joe’s lower side. It soaked his shirt, ran down his side in thick rivulets viciously glistening in the morning sun, formed large scarlet pools on Juliet’s light blue summer dress, flowed onto the ground below them, where it was received by the dry earth.

Hoss was busy carefully disentangling Joe from Juliet, mindful of his injury turning him over and to the side, thereby revealing the actual source of blood on Juliet’s dress: a much larger exit wound on his front.

“The doctor—get the doctor!” Ben bellowed to no one in particular, knowing that one of the ranch hands, who had hurried to the house from the nearby corral would be on his way to town in no time. They had brought down Billy-Bob already, but Ben didn’t really care. Questions, accusations, reparations, all that could wait. For now the only important thing was Joe.

Hoss had him in his arms then—and Ben was torn. He should see to his daughter-in-law. Make sure she was all right. But there was Joe and he was pale and shaking, and Lord, there was so much blood and his son, his son needed him…needed him…

“Give him to me,” he croaked, and Hoss obeyed.

As he’d carried his precious load up the stairs and into Joe’s bedroom, Ben had fleetingly thought that Juliet would be more comfortable with Hoss anyway.

He sighed. Yes, she most certainly had been more comfortable with Hoss, but still, he had the feeling he’d failed her. Would he have acted differently if they hadn’t had that silly argument earlier?

No, he wouldn’t. Joe had needed his help more.

But did he know that then?

Ben buried his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes with his palms.

It was completely useless to think about it any longer.

“Ben?”

Well, speak of the devil.

“I’m bringing stew.” Juliet stood in the doorframe with a tray of food, hesitant and shyly smiling, as if she were afraid to come in.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Liar.” She snorted, then her smile widened into something genuine and she stepped into the room and set the tray on Joe’s desk. “You must be starving.”

It was interesting to see how much easier Juliet could deal with defiance than with well-meant advice. But then again, how many people did he know who took well-meant advice gratefully? Especially when it was delivered unsolicited? Had he himself taken it gracefully when people offered unasked advice? Not always, no. Not when people had thought they knew better than he how to deal with his sons…oh, well. Apparently this was a problem older than the mountains. Of course, Juliet’s attack still wasn’t what Ben would have called a respectful correction, but his daughter-in-law wasn’t the most diplomatic person to begin with, and she surely wasn’t at her very best right now, with Adam gone, and Henry’s stressful nocturnal routine and her obvious indisposition.

“Here.” She handed him a plate. “Eat it, while it’s hot.”

The stew smelled delicious, and Ben belied his earlier words by digging into it with hearty appetite. He was already halfway through when he interrupted his meal to take a good look at Juliet.

She had changed her soiled dress, had cleaned herself up and apparently even done something with her hair. But her hands were shaking slightly, and her face was white, the sickly pallor more pronounced than in the morning. She looked decidedly unwell.

“Shouldn’t you rest?” Ben asked belatedly.

“I’m fine.”

Of course she was. She always was. Swaying on her feet she was, but she was fine.

“Sit.”

He must have taken her off-guard, or maybe she actually felt as faint as she looked; whatever the reason, she sat down on the edge of Joe’s bed—a tad too carefully for Ben’s liking.

“Were you injured?” he inquired.

“I—Why, I…”

“Were you?”

“Not really.” She pressed her lips together and looked…embarrassed.

“What does that mean: not really?” He reached for her hand. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Juliet.”

She sighed. “The bullet that went through Joe somehow grazed my side. It’s nothing, really, just a scratch. It didn’t even need to be stitched. The…” She looked down and continued in a very small voice. “The whale bone must have deflected it.” She stared at her hands.

“The whale…? Oh. I see.” Ben hemmed. His daughter-in-law had been rescued by her corset. No wonder she didn’t want to talk about it.

And then the strain of the past hours, the pent-up tension erupted in laughter. It started slowly, with a silent chuckle low down in Ben’s stomach that worked its way through his body and up his throat until it came out of his mouth in an undignified snort that morphed into a fully grown belly laugh when Juliet looked up, scandalised, and then her indignant face dissolved into a display of pure mirth and she laughed with him.

Through the following days, when Joe was writhing with fever and pain, and the demons his mind tricked him to believe were real denied his body its desperately needed rest, and—again—Ben was restricted to do nothing, the memory of that shared laughter was the one thing that grounded Ben when he was tempted to give in to despair. The memory of a familiarity that would still need years to become something natural but perhaps had to be treasured even more just because of that, and—Henry.

Hoss and Juliet tried to relieve him from his vigil at Joe’s side every now and then, not always successfully. Sometimes Juliet confined her efforts to just setting the baby on his grandfather’s lap, and then Henry stretched his arms out to Ben trying to grab his nose or ears or just any part of his face, and that was nearly as refreshing as some hours of undisturbed sleep.

Henry, who was the spitting image of his father at that age, who showed even the same facial expressions as Adam—he also reminded Ben of Joe. He was sure Adam must have had some of Henry’s eagerness to touch people, to take a hold of fingers, noses, hair, and to put everything into his mouth that couldn’t be removed quickly enough; but he couldn’t remember a single instance, and it seemed so much more like Joe anyway.

He wasn’t sure if Joe felt that way, too. He only knew that his youngest was a natural when it came to fooling around with the baby, and that Joe never seemed to tire of making funny faces or entertaining noises for his nephew. He loved to watch him and Henry, just as he’d loved to watch Adam and Joe when Joe had been a baby. And as he had loved to watch Adam and Henry.

The Lord’s ways… In his weaker moments, Ben had feared he might never see Adam cuddling with Henry again. Never would it have occurred to him that Joe could be the one in danger. Goodness, Adam was the one jeopardising his life in war; Joe was supposed to be safe at home.

Safe. Safe from what? The war? The war had finally reached the Ponderosa, maybe long before Billy-Bob had come to take revenge for Joe’s violent reaction to the man’s unwise taunts. And now Joe could easily become the first casualty of war the family would have to mourn.

No. Not his son, not Joe. Not…not Joe. Ben squeezed Joe’s clammy hand between his, as if that was a way to transfer his own will into Joe’s weakening body. “You will be all right, Son. Fight, Joe, fight.”

“Fight, Joe, fight.”

Joe was floating. To him it seemed as if he’d been floating forever, as if his whole life he’d never done anything but float in that dark, haunted nowhere. At times he’d come closer to the surface, at times sunken even deeper into the abysmal nothingness. And then there were times when the nothingness was populated with figures that were vaguely familiar and with complete strangers, with animals and monsters, with places of which he seemed to have recollections and places he was sure existed only here, with sounds and shrieks, with feelings of pain and fear, of rage and anxiety.

Sometimes, when he’d been close to above, he’d heard voices he thought had a meaning to him, but every time he’d tried to reach out, to actually get in contact with what was outside of his confinement, something had pulled him back, some pain or fatigue—or a face he knew he would see nowhere else.

At first he’d been tired, cold and tired, and everything around him had been silent and peaceful. Then he’d felt he was burning, and there’d been commotion, and agitated voices. A warm, calming presence, soft hands—hands?—on his face, ”Shh, calm down, son” and then pain, searing pain in his side; his whole side had been on fire—no his whole body.

More voices, more hands. They had moved him. Didn’t they know they hurt him? They didn’t seem to care, they moved him and—pain, hot, hot pain—and tried to choke him with something startling cold in is mouth. And pain, pain, pain! Joe had then given in to the pull, to the voices that asked him to come down.

Down below, there was peace and war, all in one, or one after another, or nothing at all. It was confusing, terrifying—but better than being above and in pain. The voices outside had become low and insignificant, and Joe stopped listening at all and let himself slip down deeper and deeper.

The further he went, the better he felt. The pain vanished completely, as did the confusion; in the end, there was only a feeling of complete peace, and that grounded him, kept him there.

Oh, and Adam, of course.

He’d seen Adam several times already, far away, a blurred image somehow awash in red. He’d never really made it to him, had always been held back from going further by a voice from outside, by a person from closer to the surface or by his own fear. But now he was past fear; he moved on, steadily coming closer, making his way through the thick nothing until he was only an arm’s length from his older brother.

Adam wore an army coat that didn’t really fit him and concealed his whole body. His face was gaunt, his expression haunted; his hands seemed to tremble. To Joe’s utmost disappointment, he did not smile.

“Adam!” Joe cried, and he threw himself into his brother’s arms—only to hit empty air.

Adam stood three steps back from where he’d been a moment before, holding his hands up, palms out, in a defending gesture. “Don’t,” he said, “don’t touch me.”

Joe choked back a sob. He longed to hug him, but something in Adam’s face held him still.

“What are you doing here, Joe?” Adam’s voice sounded more tired than anything else. “You don’t belong here. Go back.”

“But I don’t want to go back. I want to be with you.”

Adam laughed humourlessly. “Believe me, you don’t want to be where I am right now.”

“Where…are you then?”

“I am where you’re not supposed to be.”

“But—”

“No. No but. You can’t be here, Joe. You have to go back, and quickly.” Adam made a small movement as if he wanted to touch Joe after all, but flinched back. “Pa…he needs you. Go back, Joe; be there for Pa.”

“Fight, Joe, fight.”

Joe looked around.

“Listen to Pa, Joe.”

“Fight, Joe, fight.”

“Adam…”

“Listen to Pa. He’ll guide you back.”

Adam’s figure blurred at the outline, became translucent; and when Joe reached out to him once again, he dissolved into the blackness.

Joe blinked, his eyes trying to penetrate the dark mist—and then there was Pa’s face above his. Tired, exhausted, smiling. Pa.

“Welcome to the land of the living, son,” he said.

Naturally, after that there was another frenzy. Joe was helped to have a drink, then Hoss and Juliet were summoned; little Henry in his mother’s arm made a fuss and didn’t take it very well that he wasn’t allowed in Joe’s bed, Hop Sing appeared with some broth, then the doctor came and with him some pain as he checked Joe’s wounds before he declared him out of danger. All the time, Pa sat in the rocker next to Joe’s bed, touching him whenever he could, making him drink water and herbal teas Hop Sing brewed for him, and saying very little, as if he didn’t trust his voice.

But words, Joe found, weren’t necessary at all. Pa was there, he wouldn’t allow nightmarish things to happen, and he most certainly wouldn’t dissolve into nothing. And that was enough.

Pa stayed with him through the next night, wiped his brow when the fever spiked again, held him when the darkness tried to lure Joe back, and Joe wondered if it really was Pa who needed him or rather he who needed Pa.

In the morning, Juliet brought a tray with something that looked like oats in milk and a cup of tea. She put it on the bedside table, then gave Pa a look. “Your breakfast is downstairs,” she said with royal air. “Hoss is already waiting for you.”

Pa opened his mouth, but Juliet lifted an eyebrow. “Please,” she then said, much softer.

After Pa had checked Joe for fever and eventually left the room, Juliet handed Joe the bowl and a spoon, and took seat on the abandoned rocker.

“Can you manage?” she asked.

“Just dandy.” Joe tasted a spoonful. “Oats. Couldn’t Hop Sing find anything that’s not horse fodder?”

Juliet looked unimpressed. “Miss Nightingale advises it for ill people. It’s easy to stomach and still nourishing.”

“Miss Nightingale.” Joe lowered the bowl. “You haven’t met Florence Nightingale, have you?”

She tsked. “I read her book. It’s a recognised treatise about nursing. Paul had recommended it to me.”

“She’s English, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“From where in England?”

Juliet leaned back and crossed her arms. She gave Joe an eyebrow and an amused smile. “Don’t start a hare, Joe.”

“What?”

“Don’t try to distract me. Eat your oats.”

“It was worth the try,” Joe grinned, then resigned himself to eat.

Juliet watched him intently for a while, then said without preamble, “Is it a special Cartwright trait to put other’s lives above your own?”

Joe stared at her.

She stared back.

“I couldn’t let him shoot you, could I?” he finally blurted.

“But…you could have died.”

Joe grinned impishly. “Well, I didn’t plan to.”

Juliet gaped at him as if she’d seen a ghost, then leaned her head on her hand. “Now you even talk like Adam.”

He chuckled. “Not the worst thing one could say to me. But honestly, I wasn’t…trying to sacrifice myself. I tried to get both you and me out of the line of fire.”

“Well, it seems that you weren’t too successful with that, were you?” Teasing. Two months before he would have taken it as an insult, now he had learnt it better.

“One can only try…”

“You shouldn’t have—”

“I should have. I have. And I would do it again, anytime.”

She looked at him, thinking, smiling. She nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Joe, for…that. I—” She looked down.

“…would do anything in your power to protect me, too, right, sister?”

Her head shot up, she stared at him, surprised. “Yes,” she then said in a small voice. “That I would. Brother.”

There was an uncomfortable pause, not really awkward, just…slightly uncomfortable.

Juliet reached blindly toward the desk behind her, until she got hold of a small booklet. “Shall I read you something?” she asked, opening it. “Beadle’s Dime Novels…The Trail Hunters or Monovano, the Shawnee Spy. This does sound quite…nice.”

She sounded slightly sick, but that wasn’t anything unusual lately; and Joe really, really wanted to hear her reading it. She was a good narrator, and anything would be better than continuing their earlier conversation anyway. Juliet seemed to think along the same lines, for she started to read at the slightest nod of Joe’s head—somewhere in the middle of the book, but Joe didn’t mind: miraculously she’d chanced on one of the most suspenseful parts.

“Ducking his head downward, like a crouching animal, and trailing his rifle, he started upon a half-trot, and a half-walk. He had a keen eye, and followed the trail readily. He was very careful not to disturb it, but to keep to one side. The last wish of Jenkins was to encounter the Indian who, he believed, was thus leading him on. His long companionship with Dingle had given him much skill in tracking a foe; and he felt confident that his ignorance would not bring him into a collision. From the evidence of the different signs, he was satisfied that he was an hour or so only in the rear.

“The pursuit was maintained with the persistency of the blood-hound, and soon resulted in another most important discovery—”

“Juliet.” It was Hoss who interrupted her reading. He lingered in the door, gulping nervously, giving Joe the shortest glance, kneading his hands. He looked afraid. “There’s a soldier downstairs,” he said. “He wants to talk to ya.”

___________
It is such a secret place, the land of tears.
~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery

***

 The words given were guard, frenzy, hare, forward, and basket