without a word. He knew her too well ever to believe such a thing.
Which left only one alternative… that Eleanor had been taken.
Against her will.
Had men from the camp come in his absence and made off with her? Any tracks they might have left in the snow would have already been obliterated, and with the wet dogs in the church, it was impossible to see any footprints the intruders might have left there, either. But who else could it have been? And where else but their camp could she have been taken?
Finally-and that was where all his thoughts were tending- how could he best effect her rescue?
The obstacles to that were immense, especially because he could not see what the endgame would be. Even if he were successful at finding and freeing her, where could they flee on this ice-bound continent? He felt as if he were staring down a narrow defile to certain doom, just as he had done on that brisk October morning in Balaclava. But somehow, he reminded himself, he had survived that apocalypse, and even worse. Regardless of how black the page, he had always managed to turn it and move on to a new chapter in his life.
And he did have certain advantages, he reflected grimly. A cup of fresh seal blood rested like a chalice at his elbow, next to a book of poetry that had traveled with him all the way from England to the Crimea, and now to this dreadful outpost. He opened it, and let the pages fall where they would. His eyes dropped to the yellowed paper, stiff as parchment, and there he read…
Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.
Though there was precious little balm in the words for most men, for him they provided comfort. Only the poet seemed to guess the awful truth of his situation. The dogs howled, and Sinclair sawed off another slab of blubber from the dead seal lying on the table and tossed the pieces into the nave below. The dogs scrambled to get them, their claws scraping on the stone floor, their barks echoing up to the rafters.
From his tall stool behind the desecrated altar, Sinclair surveyed his empty realm. He could envision the faces of the whalers who had once occupied the pews, their faces smeared with grease and soot, their grimy clothes encrusted with dried blood. They had gazed up at that very altar, hats in hand, listening to the minister extol the virtues of the life beyond, the bounteous treasures they had laid up in Heaven to compensate them for the torments they endured day after day. They had sat there, in the desolate church- even the crucifix was rough-hewn and plain-in a frozen waste, surrounded by flensing yards and boiling cauldrons, piles of entrails and mountains of bones, and they had listened to stories of white clouds and golden sunlight, of boundless happiness and eternal life. Of a world that was not a reeking slaughterhouse… and oh, Sinclair reflected, oh, how they had been duped.
As he had once been duped by tales of glory and valor. Lying on his pallet in the Barrack Hospital, consumed with the mounting and inexplicable desire, he had been driven to a deed he had long regretted but could never undo. The bloodlust engendered by that unholy creature on the battlefield at Balaclava had proven too strong to resist, and he had preyed upon a helpless Highlander too weak to fend him off.
The Turks would have numbered him among the cursed. And he would not have disputed it.
Still, the next night, when Eleanor had come to his side, he had felt distinctly stronger. Revived. He felt that he could truly breathe again and see more clearly. Even his faculties seemed to have been restored.
Was that how it felt to be one of the damned?
But in Eleanor's face, he had detected something troubling; he had seen what he thought was the first glimmering of the mysterious Crimean fever, and he knew the signs well; he had noted them countless times in many others. His fears were confirmed when she swayed on her feet, spilling the soup, and the orderlies had escorted her from the ward. The following evening, when it was Moira, and not Eleanor, who came to assist him, he knew the worst.
“Where is Eleanor?” he had demanded, lifting himself on one elbow from the floor. Even that was painful; he suspected he had fractured a rib or two in the fall from his horse, but there was nothing to be done for a broken rib, and anything the surgeons might attempt would no doubt kill him.
“Eleanor's resting today,” Moira said, trying not to meet his eye as she set down the bowl of soup, still warm, and a mug of brackish water.
“The truth,” he said, clutching her sleeve.
“Miss Nightingale wishes her to gather her strength.”
“She's ill, isn't she?”
He could see the furtive look in her eye as she wiped a spoon on her apron pocket and put it into the soup bowl.
“Is it the fever? How far has it gone?”
Moira stifled a sob and quickly glanced away. “Eat your soup, while it's still hot.”
“Damn the soup. How far has it gone?” His heart seized up in his chest at the very thought of the worst. “Tell me that she's still alive.”
Moira nodded as she dabbed at her tears with a wretched excuse for a handkerchief.
“Where is she? I need to go to her.”
Moira's head shook, and she said, “That's impossible. She's in the nurses’ quarters, and can't be moved.”
“Then I'll have to go there.”
“Seeing her like this… she don't want it. And there's nothing you can do to help her.”
“I'll be the judge of that.”
He threw back the ratty blanket and staggered to his feet. The world spun around him, the dirty walls, the muslin curtains speckled with flies, the wretched bodies lying in disorderly rows all across the floor. Moira threw her arms around his waist and steadied him.
“You can't go there!” she protested. “You can't!”
But Sinclair knew that he could, and that Moira would help him to do so. He groped around the straw he'd fashioned into a pillow and pulled out the jacket of his uniform, wrinkled and soiled though it was. With Moira's reluctant help, he finished getting dressed, then lurched toward the door. It opened out onto two endless corridors, equally dim and cluttered, but leading in opposite directions. “Which way?”
Moira took his arm firmly and led him to the left. They passed room after room filled with the sick and the dying-most of them silent, a few softly muttering to themselves. The ones who were in such agony or delirium that they could not be kept quiet were given a blessed dose of the opium, and it was simply hoped that they would not awaken again. Occasionally, they passed orderlies or medical officers who gave them a curious glance, but by and large the hospital was so vast, and everyone working in it so overwhelmed by their own duties and responsibilities, no one could spare any further concern.
Since the hospital had originally served as a barracks, it was built as an enormous square, with a central courtyard sufficient for mustering thousands of troops, and towers at each of the four corners. The nurses’ quarters were in the northwest tower, and Sinclair had to lean heavily upon Moira's ample arm and shoulder as they mounted the narrow, winding stairs. When they came to the first landing, they saw the glow of a lantern descending toward them, and Moira had to usher Sinclair quickly into a shallow recess. As the light came closer, Moira stepped forward and said, “Evening, mum,” and from the shadows Sinclair saw that it was Miss Nightingale herself, lamp in hand, a black lace handkerchief draped over her white cap, whom she had greeted.
“Good evening, Mrs. Mulcahy,” she replied. The white collar and cuffs and apron she wore stood out in the lantern glow. “I expect you are returning to your friend's side.”
“That I am, mum.”
“How is she? Has her fever abated at all?”
“Not so's you'd notice, mum.”
“I'm sorry to hear that. I shall look in on her when I have finished my rounds.”
“Thank you, mum. I know she would appreciate that.”
