An Unmarked Grave (9 page)

I rode in the last ambulance, prepared to do what I could if we were forced to stop and attend to one of the men. It was a hard, jolting ride through mud and craters and ruts deeper than most axles, and was warm enough for the miasma to rise and envelop us with the unforgiving smells of the battlefield. I held on for dear life to avoid being shaken to death. But we reached our destination without mishap, blessedly everyone still alive.

Here was where I’d fallen so ill. Here was where Private Wilson had died. Had the staff changed? How many of them had survived?

I felt a wave of relief when I saw that Matron was the same woman I’d served with. She would be able to tell me about Private Wilson. After I’d turned my charges over to her, she invited me to her room for a cup of tea.

I hadn’t expected the rush of emotion that I’d felt as the aid station had come into view. I couldn’t help but wonder if matters would have been very different if my collapse had come an hour, even two, later and I’d had an opportunity to speak to her about what Private Wilson had shown me in the shed. Would he be alive now? Or would I simply have put Matron at risk too?

I tapped at her door, was admitted, and offered a chair.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you healthy once more,” she said warmly. “You gave us a terrible fright, you know.” In the lamp’s light I could see how worn she looked, and how tired.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’ve read about the great plagues of history,” she said. “I never dreamed I would experience one. We lost so many good people.”

“Did Private Wilson survive?” I asked, and immediately felt a surge of guilt for letting her assume I knew nothing about his death. “He handled so many bodies. I often wondered.”

“Haven’t you heard, my dear? He’s dead.”

“I wasn’t told,” I answered, which was true—I’d asked Simon to find out what had become of him. “He was always ready to do whatever we asked. Such a good man. Was it a lingering death or a kind one?”

Frowning, she said, “Odd that you should ask.” She looked down at the chart in front of her, then raised her eyes to meet mine. “After you were taken ill, he came looking for you, but you were too feverish to answer whatever question he had intended to ask. Instead he left a message for me. I’d been awakened early—there was an emergency, you see—and before I was free to speak to him, one of his stretcher bearers came rushing into my office to say that Private Wilson had hanged himself in the shed. Dr. Harrison suggested that he’d begun to feel ill, that’s why he’d sought a nurse. Then as his symptoms progressed, and he realized what lay in store, he decided to end it while he was still able. I was there when he was cut down, and I myself closed his eyes.”

“Did you agree with Dr. Harrison’s view?” A surgeon, he’d worked mainly with the wounded.

Looking away toward the door, she said, “I must say, as far as anyone knew, he didn’t appear to be presenting symptoms. No fever, no aches, no dizziness. And so I’ve wondered, you know, if I’d been available, rather than having to put him off, perhaps I could have done something for him—given him an opportunity to tell me what was on his mind. I don’t know if I could have helped, but I’d have tried. I did wonder if there was a problem at home. Several people asked for compassionate leave when their wives or a child died of the influenza.”

But there had been no problem at home. I’d spoken to Mrs. Wilson.

“I don’t know that anyone could have helped him,” I said gently.

“Do you remember the onset of your symptoms?” she asked, turning back to me.

“Not really. Great fatigue, but we were all unbelievably tired, weren’t we? A headache, I think. Dizziness.”

“You told Sister Burrows that you felt cold, unable to warm yourself. And then you fainted. Your temperature climbed rapidly.”

Surprised, I said, “I don’t remember fainting. Or being so cold. But perhaps Dr. Harrison is right. Private Wilson knew what was coming and that he had to act quickly.”

“I’ve tried to comfort myself with that thought. But there will always be that little niggling doubt.”

There was no way I could assuage that sense of guilt. Not without telling her the whole truth. I could only agree that he was the last person I could imagine doing such a thing.

“We can’t read minds, can we?” She took a deep breath. “I was glad it was not my duty to write to his wife. Dr. Bennett broke the news as gently as he could. “

“I don’t remember Dr. Bennett,” I said.

“No? He’d hardly arrived here when he was ordered to another station. Three of their doctors died in the epidemic.” She finished her tea. “I must make my rounds,” she said. “And you are needed elsewhere. It was good of you to come and see me, Sister Crawford.”

And five minutes later, the ambulance, washed down and ready to go back the way we’d come, was there at the ward door.

I had remembered nothing useful by coming here, I thought as we bounced and skidded over the broken ground. All I had confirmed was that Private Wilson had indeed killed himself. Or so it appeared. And perhaps he had, after all.

And then as if once I’d stopped trying, the memories crowded in, memories I hadn’t looked for because I hadn’t remembered they were there.

The man with the bandaged shoulder. I’d been standing outside the ward for a moment on that last evening before I fell ill. Another Sister had joined me there, both of us struggling with exhaustion and hoping to find in the fresh air, away from the odors of death and disease, a brief, desperately needed renewal. Yes, and I could almost see again how stained and frayed the bandaging was. The man had gone into the small, makeshift canteen, and I’d wanted to stop him and tell him to see to that wound before it turned septic beneath the filthy dressing.

Had he?

For that matter, was it truly a hasty field dressing? Or was it a disguise? There were so many men coming and going, all of them wounded, that one more hardly warranted notice.

With two sisters standing not twenty feet away, why hadn’t he come to either of us to ask for help?

Sister, I’ve been waiting two hours or more, and nobody’s had a look at this shoulder. I’m fair famished for my tea, but it’s hurting like the very devil—begging your pardon, Sister—and I’m that light-headed from the pain . . .

We could have brought him his tea while the wound was being seen to. Why had he turned away?

There had been two officers passing by, limping.

Were they the reason he’d turned aside? Because he wasn’t wounded after all and had just put a dead man in the shed, where he should never have been found by Private Wilson or seen by me?

It was a shocking possibility.

“Stop!” I said to the driver of the ambulance. “We must go back. I—I’ve forgot to pick up something for Dr. Hicks.”

We had not come so great a distance that we couldn’t turn back, but ambulances were badly needed at the Front, and as the driver was reminding me, I ought not be using one for personal errands. But the question I needed to ask Matron would only take a moment, no more. Unless, of course, the Sister was still there.

Grumbling, my driver did as he was told, motioning the remainder of the convoy to continue on its way and reversing as soon as he could. I sat there, trying to recall which sister I’d been talking with. So much of those last few hours before my collapse seemed to be shrouded in a haze.

Sister Burrows, that was it. I’d liked her. We’d worked very well together.

The driver stopped not far from the ward where Matron had her office, and said, “I shan’t turn off the motor.”

A reminder that time was passing. I splashed through the muddy, torn yard and scraped my shoes before knocking at her door.

“Come,” she called, and I stepped in.

“Sister Crawford?” she said, surprised to see me. “Is there an emergency?”

“I had forgot—I have a message for Sister Burrows.” It was the only thing I could think of to explain my returning so impetuously.

Matron frowned, emphasizing how much these last weeks had aged her. “Didn’t you know? She died of the influenza not a week after you left us.”

I didn’t know what to say. Stammering, I finally replied, “No. I hadn’t been told.” Remembering my hasty improvisation, I added, “Nor had the young Lieutenant. I’m so very sorry.”

“She was a fine nurse,” Matron agreed. “She kept you alive, I think, until the crisis came. It was devotion to duty more than hope, but here you stand, living proof of her skill.”

“Did—did nursing me contribute to her own illness?”

“I doubt it. Like you when the influenza struck, she had been on her feet for nearly thirty-six hours working with a new convoy of the infected, although the doctor had told her to take a few hours for sleep. They had turned the corner, most of them, when she fainted outside my door. That too is to her credit.”

“I shall write to her family,” I said. “Thank you, Matron.”

I had turned to the door when her next words stopped me in my tracks. “You’re the second person this week who has asked for her.”

I forced myself to turn again slowly. “Who was he?” I asked.

“How did you know it was a man?” Matron demanded, the frown returning.

“I assumed it must be a patient. Or a former patient.”

“Yes, I see. It was rather odd. His name was Prescott, he said. Colonel Prescott. He told me Sister Burrows had nursed his son, and that he’d come to thank her. It’s always possible, of course, that he has a son in the Army. But Colonels seldom arrive without an entourage.” She regarded me. “Not related to your young Lieutenant, by any chance, is he? I’d feel more comfortable if he were.”

The last thing I wanted was to claim a connection with him. “I think not. My young Lieutenant was named Hennessey, and he came from her village.” I could feel myself flushing as I lied so boldly.

“I expect Sister Burrows is the only one who could have told us what this was about.”

“Do you recall what he looked like? The Colonel?”

“Prescott? Mustache. Dark hair. Very cold gray or perhaps blue eyes. I noticed them in particular. Possibly an inch or so short of six feet. A bulky man.”

I tried to remember what I’d seen of the man with the bandaged shoulder. Surely he’d been fair?

I shook my head. “I don’t think I remember a Prescott in our ward. Perhaps the son was one of those she nursed after I’d gone to England. Did you look at the lists?” We kept records of our patients. I was praying she would tell me he was there.

“No, the Colonel explained that his son was carried to the aid station where Sister Burrows had served before coming here. He’d had difficulty tracking her down, that’s why it had taken so long to speak to her, he said.”

“That could be true,” I replied, thinking aloud. “Still, I’d have thought he was too busy to come in person.”

“I wondered myself. But it’s possible he’s a better officer than he gave me the impression of being.”

I could hear the ambulance horn sounding now. I’d been here longer than I’d expected.

“I wonder if his son could have confused Sister Burrows with someone else,” I suggested, for Matron’s sake. I didn’t want her to be too curious about this Colonel Prescott and find herself his next victim. “Wounded men are so often in and out of consciousness—”

“I should have thought of that myself. It makes sense. Take care, Sister Crawford,” she said. “Don’t work yourself into a relapse.”

“I promise.”

And I was racing back to the ambulance, slipping quickly into my seat almost as the driver let in the clutch, and we were off.

This was the second appearance of “Colonel Prescott.” I needed to pass the information along to Simon or my father. But it wasn’t the sort of thing I could trust to the censors. He and my father had access to the military pouch on occasion, but I didn’t.

I couldn’t ask for leave. With the warming weather the influenza epidemic seemed to be waning, for we were beginning to see more wounded than feverish patients. Still, we were working around the clock, and nurses couldn’t be spared.

But what to make of this visit from Colonel Prescott, whoever he was?

When I reached the forward aid station I was told I wasn’t on call for six hours. And I was grateful—I could feel every mile in that ambulance in the stiffness of my body from clinging to my seat. But instead of sleeping, I found myself lying there, mulling over what to do. Simon had assured me that there was no Colonel Prescott presently on the rolls. He was seldom wrong about such things. The fact that there were rumors that Major Carson had deserted explained why his own commanding officer hadn’t written to Julia. Why had a Colonel Prescott? And why had this same Colonel Prescott come looking for Sister Burrows? Had she seen him later that night when I’d been taken ill? Spoken to him?

I was finally drifting off into sleep when I remembered the orderly carrying a mop and pail.

Hadn’t Sister Burrows promised to speak to him when he came by again, to ask him to bring a basket of clean linens to our ward? And if I’d come asking questions, she might have remembered that, especially if he’d never brought them. She could have described the man, surely.

But why had he risked coming openly to speak to Matron?

Because she would have no way of connecting him to that night.

The next thing I knew, someone was shaking my arm, trying to wake me out of a deep sleep.

I said, “Is it six o’clock already?” For it was still very dark outside as far as I could tell.

“Dr. Hicks wants you at once,” Sister Hanby told me. “Hurry, it’s an emergency.”

I dragged myself out of bed and into my clothes before I was fully awake, running across to the tent where emergencies were dealt with. Dr. Hicks was standing in the doorway, waiting for me.

“There’s a patient here who claims he knows you. You’d better come quickly, he’s in a bad way.”

My first thought was the Australian sergeant, wounded again. But when I saw the face of the man on the stretcher, his uniform cut off and dark blood pulsing from the wound on his shoulder in spite of what the nursing sister could do, I felt the world spin around me and thought for a moment I was going to faint.