Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (2 page)

“It was my choice. England is home. My daughter is here.” Her father’s
raspy voice distressed her. He did not sound the way she remembered, strong and
disciplined.

“True. Nevertheless, it will cost you dearly, Sir Richard. The infection
will spread.”

A chill rippled over Rebecah’s skin. Her heart sank to her soles. A pause
followed, then, “In the name of heaven, what did they use for stitches—horsehair?”

“Leave me alone. Call my daughter.”

Stepping through the door, Rebecah entered the room. Her father lay in
the four-poster bed he once shared with her mother, pillows piled behind him, a
counterpane covering him up to his chin.

With the utmost care a man in a tight gray wig, unraveled bloodstained
bandages. She shuddered when she saw the infectious lesions invading her
father’s bicep. The shriveled arm streaked red and molting, shook at the
physician’s touch.

Beads of sweat glistened on Sir Richard’s forehead. Rebecah wanted to save
him, heal him, take away the pain. She went on her knees at the bedside and
held her father’s hand.

“Papa?”

The physician glanced at Rebecah over the rim of his spectacles. “Young
woman, it is best you leave the room.”

“He needs me, sir. I will stay.”

In the past, Rebecah’s father had always returned hale and hearty,
blustering through the front door, barking out orders to servants, with his
hounds leaping and baying around him. When she first read his letter saying he
meant to come home, she thought he was in good health. But now to see him
mortally wounded, she repented of her feelings, of thinking of herself, of what
his homecoming meant for her.

His eyes were closed. Did he not hear her, feel her hand close over his?
His face ashy, his breathing shallow, his movements stilled. The surgeon asked
if he could speak with her outside in the hall.

“I did not want your father to overhear in case he woke.”

Rebecah’s throat tightened. “Is my father dying?”

“He’s in danger.” He removed his spectacles. “The bullet was removed
carelessly in my opinion, a sloppy job, and the wound sutured with I know not
what. Infection set in and inflamed the arm. It is amazing he lasted this
long.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“I’ve been asked not to divulge the details.” He held out his hand. It
had blood on it. “I’m Dr. Harvey, by the way.”

 “Forgive me for not shaking your hand, sir.” She glanced at his hand and
he withdrew.

“Oh, I beg your pardon.” He placed it behind his back.

“If you remove the arm, will my father live?” she asked.

“He has a better chance. I’ve administered mercurial ointment, wrapped
the arm in warm cloths soaked in vinegar, and bled him before we made the
journey here. There has been no improvement.”

“You mustn’t let him die. He is all I have in the world. I lost my mother
a few years ago. I’ll do whatever you ask. Money is not an issue. I must go to
him.”

“I promise to do all I can. I’ll bleed him again from a larger vein and
draw out a substantial amount of blood. It will help purge the infection from
his body.”

“That you’re willing to try, sir, gives me ease.”

“Pray for your father. It’s the best thing you can do for him.”

Together they returned to Sir Richard’s room. With each step she took, Rebecah
made an anxious plea to God.

* * *

Night grew old and Sir Richard’s fever grew more intense. Wind groaned
against the house. Rain pelted the windows. A candle sputtered and his mouth
moved in silent speech.

With his condition worsening, Dr. Harvey wished to go on with the
procedure. He shook his head as he examined the wound.

“I cannot wait any longer, Miss Rebecah. Your father has passed into a
stupor and will not feel it. If we wait any longer, I fear he will die.”

The horror of losing her father gripped her. She lifted the candle from
the table and moved closer. “I pray God will lead your hand, sir.”

“Thank you. I’ll do my best. Please have your servant bring in a bowl and
pitcher of water.”

Margery hurried out, her rapid footsteps tapping down the stairs. With
dread, Rebecah watched Dr. Harvey apply a tourniquet. She bulked at the putrid
smell coming from her father’s arm. Listening to his labored breathing brought
tears to her eyes. She wanted to cry, but managed to hold them back.

Dr. Harvey opened a leather box lined with red velvet. He lifted the felt
cloth covering his surgical tools. The amputation saw, the curved knife. The
instruments reflected the quiver of the hearth fire. Distraught, Rebecah
scanned her eyes over them. A chill rippled up her spine, passed like ice water
through her veins.

“Fill the bowl, if you please,” Dr. Harvey told Margery. She poured water
from the pitcher, and brought the bowl to the bedside.

“Hold the candle closer, please,” Dr. Harvey said when she stepped back. “Hold
him down, Ralph.”

The assistant laid the weight of his body across Sir Richard’s chest. Then
Dr. Harvey bent his head and leveled his tool. Forced to be strong so not to be
put out of the room, Rebecah fought the faint feeling in her head. She took in
a breath, released it and drew in another. But nothing could calm the rapid
beat of her heart.

Harvey looked over at her. “You may want to look away, Miss Rebecah. This
is not for your eyes.”

She turned her face, shut her eyes. The grate of the surgeon’s saw cutting
flesh, through muscle, then bone, pained her through and through. Her poor
father did not deserve this. The sharp metallic scent of blood, the rancid
smell of contagion, assaulted her, made her sick.

Tears pushed against her eyes.
How much longer? What if he wakes?

Shivering, she closed her eyes and waited for it to be over.

The mantle clock ticked on. The fire in the hearth seethed. Her hand
shook as she gripped the candlestick tighter. The clink of the surgeon’s tools
tossed into a tin pan brought some relief. But she was afraid to look, to see
her father changed.

“Take it away, Ralph,” she heard Dr. Harvey say.

While her heart lurched inside her breast, she listened to the creak of
hinges, then the latch. Rebecah opened her eyes. Gore stained the sheets.
Doctor Harvey dipped his hands into the bowl of water and washed. Rebecah shut
her eyes when he wiped then in a towel and she saw the stains.

“I’ll need to give Sir Richard laudanum as soon as he wakes. It will keep
him calm. I’ve nowhere else to be, so I’ll sit up the rest of the night with
him. Have you a bed for my assistant?”

“My maid will show him to a room.” She turned to Margery and gave her
instructions. Dr. Harvey sat in a chair near the fire, and within minutes dozed
off. Rebecah drew her wrap over her shoulders, set another log on the fire, and
waited by her father’s bedside.

Several hours later, a high wind shoved the rain southward, and dawn
rose. Rebecah’s father turned his head and gazed at her with a painful glint in
his eyes.

She smiled at him. “Hello, Papa. I know I was supposed to wait, but I
couldn’t help it. I hope you’re not disappointed in me.”

“Never.” He tried to rise. “No feeling in my arm, daughter. No feeling.”

Barely could he speak the words. His voice raspy and low, gurgled from a
dry throat. She gave him water, and he coughed. With trembling fingers, he
shoved the glass away, reached over to touch his septic flesh, the cotton
bandage, the stump. His face turned white, and he let out a ragged cry.

Tears sprang into Rebecah’s eyes and she embraced him. “It’s alright, Papa.”

“That self-righteous Methodist took off my arm,” he cried.

She tried to soothe him, touched his face. Dr. Harvey bolted from the
chair, urged Sir Richard to be calm. Rebecah took the flask of laudanum from
his hand and spooned it into her father’s mouth. “It’ll help, Papa.”

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. He looked at her and she
realized he had lost the will to live. Such sadness and despair were in his
eyes. Such fear.

“I’m no longer a whole man. What is left for me now? You should have
married before I left. Then I would not be grieved you will be left alone.”

Sir Richard reached for Rebecah’s hand.

“You’ll not die, Papa. We’ll have good times together again. I learned to
play backgammon while you were away. Remember you told me to learn so you could
beat me?”

Fear seized her as his eyelids fluttered and closed. She spoke to him.
She held his hand tight, pressed it against her cheek.

Margery stepped closer and Rebecah turned to her. The look on her face
broke Rebecah’s self-control. She went into her arms and wept.

“Come, away. He’s at peace and no longer in pain.”

Rebecah looked into her father’s face. Though he had been good to her,
his reckless spirit had driven him into a military career. He had gambled away his
inheritance, died a penniless, broken man, whose achievements were meager in
the eyes of the world. Nevertheless, to his credit was the love he had for his
daughter.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she leaned over and kissed his forehead.
She moved away from the bed to the window, opened the sash and felt the breeze,
allowed it to quiver the curtains.

“I’m deeply sorry.” Dr. Harvey touched her hand. “I tried to…”

“I do not blame
you,” Rebecah said. “There is no one to blame—except the man who did this, and
my father for being so careless with his life.”

Near the Monocacy River in
Maryland

John
Nash drew in a lung-full of air and gazed at the foothills shadowing his land. Dogwoods,
oaks, and maples shimmered in the light of an autumn sun.

He
brushed back his hair and put on his slouch hat. “I hate to leave, Joab,” he
told the man standing beside him. “Watch over my land while I’m away.”

Joab
nodded. “I will, Mr. John. It sure is a pleasant place. The good Lord blessed
you.”

Joab,
age sixty, once a slave, was now a freeman thanks to John Nash. His eyes had
remained clear and sparkling in spite of the hard years he had lived. His hair,
speckled with gray, receded above his forehead.

John
Nash put his hand on Joab’s shoulder. “You know, I believe one day you and your
descendants will own land.”

Joab
shook his head. “I haven’t any family that I know of.”

“You
have me.” Nash smiled.

Old
Joab chuckled. “Indeed I do. I’ll stay with you until the day I die.”

“Well,
for now, while I’m away, think of this place as your own. You’re master in my
absence. Don’t let Mrs. Cottonwood bribe you into working for her while I’m
gone.”

Joab
let out a quiet laugh. “I don’t mind helping her when I can. She’s a widow, and
the good book says I’m supposed to help widows and orphans. Now don’t it?”

“Yes,
you’re right. But she’ll take advantage of you.”

Tramping
through the leaves, they reached the road that bordered his land. Nash wore his
fringed hunting shirt and moccasin boots.

“Excuse
me for asking, Mr. John, but what’s those round your throat?”

“Indian
beads given to me by Logan.”

“The
Indian chief of the Virginias?”

“Aye.
I won the chief’s favor after spending time in his village along the Yellow
River.”

“Must’ve
been long time ago.”

“Time
enough, before I bought my land here. Logan was impressed when I wrestled his
strongest warrior to the ground in a friendly match.”

“I
sure would’ve liked to have seen that.” 

Nash
looked back over his shoulder. “I’ve not chosen a name for this place.”

Joab
scratched his head. “It’ll come to you sooner or later.”

“Got
any suggestions?”

“Nash’s
Choice? Or how about River Bend?”

“Those
are good. But I don’t know. How about Laurel Hill?”

“Good
as any, Mr. John. There’s lots of mountain laurel growing in the hills.”

“Laurel
Hill it is. I’m glad that’s settled.”

The
dwelling stood two stories, the window glass made in the Catoctin furnace. It
had been hard work building the house, digging out stones from mountain and
field, hauling them to the site, laying them with mortar. Neighbors from all
over the county had come to raise the small barn.

From
where he stood he smelled the sweet waters of the Monocacy and Potomac rivers.
The currents flowed pure and crystal, teaming with bass and sunfish. Jeweled
dragonflies hovered above muddy flats in hoards. Swallows wheeled above the
water in search of insects, their black wings sharp and their underbellies
yellow in the light of a ruby sunset.

They
spoke of other things as they strode along. A stag and young doe sprang from
the woods and leaped across the field. Nash watched them until they
disappeared. The unexpected thought of living alone without a woman made him
feel empty, incomplete.