Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“A profound melancholia associated with an almost absolute disregard of the future—a peculiar intonation of words, the persons speaking mechanically.”
~Correspondent for the Medical News of Philadelphia regarding a surprising number of cases of prolonged shock from the flood victims
Annamae pressed her fingertips into the muscles in her neck to work out the ache.
She’d never experienced aiding this many necessities at once.
She’d never seen anything like it, not even during the scarlet fever epidemic two years ago when hundreds of people had flooded the capital’s hospitals.
Many had been turned away for lack of treatment space.
She’d worked dawn to dusk for days, quarantined within the walls of the building.
It had been hard work—long and tedious and sometimes heartbreaking—but nothing like this.
Arching her back, she felt her spine crack, relieving the pressure.
She exited the side flap of the tent for fresh air and a few moments of respite.
In every direction, people worked on crews removing debris, transporting the deceased to the morgues for identification and burial, distributing supplies, building new construction, and compiling information for those who’d lost someone.
It reminded Annamae of the time Rufus Ellington destroyed a large anthill behind their schoolhouse when she was six.
Though she’d begged him not to, he’d scattered the mountain of dirt, laughing at her distress.
Immediately, hundreds of ants spilled to the surface, and each did its part, rebuilding what had taken them weeks to create.
The brisk air made her shiver, but the unusually cool temperature for a June day was a blessing.
It helped to slow the decomposition process and made for a more comfortable workday.
Thunderheads drifted across the sky, promising another dousing.
The Red Cross team going door-to-door assessing needs would endure an even more arduous task if cleanup was delayed.
To her right, a man sidled between the tents, hands in his pockets.
His shirt fit him tightly, like a glove, leaving nothing about his muscular form to the imagination.
The extra-wide cuff of his pants compensated for too long an inseam.
He wore no suspenders or hat, but that was normal in the current circumstances.
Things like proper etiquette and hats were the least of anyone’s concerns.
His rich brown hair was longer on top than the rest, and it flopped to one side in a large wave, appearing damp.
The lethargic speed of his stride and the glaze in his eyes struck her as a man in shock.
Appearing not much older than her twenty-one years, he seemed lost. Dazed.
A flood victim, certainly. Wearing clothes from the meager donations that had made it into the valley, she guessed, by their clean appearance.
She’d seen this disoriented behavior before, and she’d heard Miss Barton—Clara—describe it many times when telling stories of the war.
Annamae moved to intercept him. “Sir? Is everything all right?”
He stopped and blinked at her.
“Are you in need of medical attention?” She crossed her arms over her middle to ward off the chill, amazed at how much warmer it was inside the tents.
“No.” His head tipped to the side.
Serious eyes the color of her daddy’s old dungarees seemed to brighten as he took her in. His hard square jaw and muscular build were intimidating, but the softness of his demeanor and the boyish twinkle in his gaze heightened her nurturing instincts.
How could a man look ridiculous and glorious at the same time?
“Are you searching for someone?” she asked.
“Um.” He frowned in thought. A few moments passed before he said, “Yes.”
His slow, one-word answers told her enough.
“You’re peaked. I’m a nurse with the Red Cross, and I’m here to help. May I examine you, Mr… .?”
“Monty.” The name scraped along his vocal cords as if his throat was parched.
“Several are complaining of feeling ill—nausea, aching limbs, severe fatigue. Are you feeling any of those symptoms, Mr. Monty?”
His thick eyebrows furrowed again. “Monty is my given name.”
Oh. She always addressed patients by their surname. It kept things professional and her emotions distant.
“May I?” She didn’t wait for his reply but pressed her cool fingers to his forehead. Then to his cheek.
“Fever. Only a touch though. Do you have any injuries, cuts, bruises? It—”
He caught her lowering hand and pressed her palm against his cheek. His stubble poked her skin.
She stiffened, ready to fight him off if needed.
Instead of manhandling her, his eyelids closed. Then he sighed. “Your hand feels nice.”
Clara certainly hadn’t taught her about this during her apprenticeship.
His liberties should offend her, and she should scold him back into his rightful place.
She’d done it many times when male patients attempted to flirt with her.
But she could tell this Monty fellow’s actions weren’t menacing.
If anything, they were oddly childlike. He simply needed the comfort of human touch after all he’d gone through.
And ointment on those puckered and scabbed hands.
Annamae searched their surroundings to see if anyone witnessed their exchange. Relieved that no one seemed to have noticed, she said, “Monty, will you please follow me into the medical tent so I can assess your condition?”
At least that way, they’d be on formal grounds.
His eyelids twitched then opened, and he released her. Chagrin made one side of his mouth tick upward, and his face held color now. He nodded and followed her inside.
She gestured to the nearest vacant “bed,” which was nothing more than a thick plank topped by thin ticking wrapped in a clean sheet. Two other nurses worked in the room of twelve patients. Monty sat on the bed while she retrieved her bag of instruments.
His knees pressed against the outside of her thighs as she lifted each eyelid. “Are you experiencing stomach cramping, rash, or chills?”
“No.”
She reached behind her and tightened the loosening bow of her apron. “Have you regurgitated or had the runs?”
His lips parted, and he reared back. “No, ma’am.”
She grinned. “Sickness is nothing to be embarrassed about.”
He squirmed and looked down at his lap. “I’m not used to discussing such things with a lady.”
“A lady, yes, but I’m also a nurse. It’s my job to inquire about such things with all patients. I apologize if it makes you uncomfortable.”
With all the horrific things the Johnstown residents had experienced and seen the last few days, she was surprised this conversation made a chink in his pride.
She told him to breathe normally and listened to his heartbeat with a stethoscope. Perfect. She reached for the patient list beside her and wrote his first name. “What is your surname, Mr. Monty?”
“Childs. Montgomery Childs.”
This seemed to shame him more than her previous question.
“Are you a resident of Johnstown, Mr. Childs?” She could guarantee he was, but Clara had commanded they ask since many volunteers had arrived from the outlying towns.
Should the volunteers come to need medical attention as well, this was how they could keep their patients separated on record.
Clara prided herself on detailed bookkeeping.
“Yes.”
“And what is your occupation, Mr. Childs?”
“I’m a pastor.”
Pastor Montgomery Childs. That had a pleasant sound to it. “With the utmost respect to your calling, may I address you simply as Mr. Childs?”
“I prefer you just call me Monty, ma’am.”
The more he talked, the more his brain seemed to thaw from its frozen state. She continued asking him random questions in soothing tones while she checked his ears and throat.
Her fingers didn’t detect any swollen glands. “Did you lose anyone, Monty?”
“No. My family lives elsewhere, and I’m unmarried.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed against her fingertips.
A rush of heat flashed through her body.
She performed this same routine with dozens of patients daily.
Something about his powerful neck peeking through his open collar, her fingers dancing along his flushed skin, and their close proximity made the examination feel intimate.
She dropped her hands and put space between them.
Annamae cleared her throat before speaking. “Are you having pain anywhere? If so, I can fetch a doctor to examine you.”
Monty covered a yawn with his marred hand. “I’m stiff and sore, and I have a cut on my leg, but nothing that requires a doctor.”
“Cuts can turn infectious. How did you hurt your hands?”
Monty held them up and studied both sides as if forgetting he suffered the wounds. “The wave knocked my home off its foundation and into the church. I made it to the attic, but the water was rising. I punched a hole through the roof to escape.”
The statement stole the breath from her lungs. She couldn’t imagine.
Blinking back tears of compassion, she retrieved salve from the supply table, lifted his hand in hers, and rubbed the thick substance into the skin. “Have you eaten?”
He yawned again. “I ate a bowl of pork and beans from the commissary about an hour ago.”
“How long has it been since you’ve slept?” Her fingers rubbed in small circles, working the salve into every inch of skin.
He shrugged. “A little here and there. I’ve had some dizzy spells.”
“Well, good news then.” She placed the lid on the salve and wiped her greasy fingers on her apron.
“I believe your condition to be nothing more than exhaustion and your body adjusting to what you’ve experienced the last several days.
I’ll have one of the doctors examine your leg, but I’d like for you to rest here a while so we can monitor your symptoms in case your dizziness stems from a more severe condition. Will you do that for me?”
She scribbled his diagnosis on the paper.
He fiddled with a loose string on his pant leg. “I need to find an acquaintance about an important matter.”
“I understand, but you need rest and observation more.” After witnessing the devastation, she could confidently say his lack of sleep stemmed from having no proper place to rest his head.
She set the paper aside and leaned toward him, softening her voice. “At least stay long enough to get some sleep.”
As if his body had decided for him, he yawned again, and his muscles visibly relaxed. He removed his boots, and she guided his head to the small square of a pillow. “After your nap, I’ll see what I can do to help you locate your acquaintance.”
His eyes closed. She covered him with a wool blanket, tucking it under his feet that hung three inches off the end of the bed. She turned to walk away, but he blindly grabbed her pinky. “You’ll be here? In case I need anything?”
His words slurred.
“I’ll be here, Mr. Childs.”
“Monty,” he whispered.
An indescribable movement shifted in her chest. “I’ll be here, Monty.”
Before she’d finished her sentence, his breathing fell into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep.
She extracted her finger from his grip and left the front of the tent to see about the next patient, her insides quaking over the gentle stranger’s touch.