That night, instead of repairing to the commons for dinner, they huddled behind an ice wall they'd built with the leftover materials from the snow dome, and thanked God for the NSF gear they'd found in their closets. They ate field rations that Lawson had brought along; they weren't labeled MREs, or Meals Ready to Eat, but Michael suspected that they came from the same fine kitchens that supplied the U.S. military. Michael's can said corned beef hash, but with his eyes closed, he wasn't sure he would have been able to identify it as such. When they were done eating�a quick and cold business�Lawson passed a plastic bag around and every scrap of refuse was gathered up and tossed inside.
�Out here, we leave nothing behind,� he said. �Whatever humans bring in, we take out.�
The base itself was maybe a half mile off, and downhill; its bare white lights, illuminated even in the constant sunlight, were just visible by the shore of the Weddell Sea. Charlotte was looking off at them as if they were the lights of Paris. When the wind blew their way, they could faintly hear the howls of the sled dogs in their kennel.
�You sure we can't call it a night?� she said to Lawson. �I mean, we know how to build igloos now. Do we really have to sleep in �em?�
Lawson cocked his head, and said, �I'm afraid so; we're just following the chief's orders. Ever since that beaker�excuse me, I mean the geologist from Kansas�got lost and died out here, Murphy's required a full day and night of snow school for all new arrivals.�
Darryl stood up and slapped his arms around himself to get the heat going. �So, who's sleeping where?� he said. �It looks like one of the dorms will have to be coed.�
�Right you are,� Lawson said, in keeping with his apparent philosophy of complimenting them on anything, no matter how obvious, that they uttered. �Michael, why don't you share with me? I made this first one with extra leg room.�
Each one of them picked up a subzero, synthetic-fill sleeping bag from the sled, said good night, and while Michael waited for Lawson, flashlight in hand, to squirm his way inside, Charlotte, in her great big green parka, waited for Darryl to go into the other one.
�Least he won't get seasick in there,� Michael said, and Charlotte just nodded. Her eyes were fixed on the hole in the snow as she held the rolled-up sleeping bag.
On a hunch, Michael said, �Don't even think about trying to walk back to the camp. It isn't safe.�
She glanced over at him, and he could tell he'd read her mind�or at least her inclination.
�Come on in, anytime,� Lawson called out in a muffled voice.
�See you in the morning,� Michael said, before scrunching down, pushing the sleeping bag into the hole, and crawling in.
It wasn't a long tunnel, but it was a tight squeeze. Lawson was, like Michael, over six feet tall, but the guy was built like a rubber band, and Michael wished that he'd provided just a little more leeway. The ceiling grazed his head every inch of the way, and to make any progress he had to dig the tips of his boots into the snow, then shove himself forward with the front of his body supported on his elbows. He didn't suffer from claustrophobia but that would have been a terrible time to develop it; his entire body was stuck in the snow, his lips were wet with flakes, and the sleeping bag he was pushing ahead of him blocked out nearly all the light from Lawson's flashlight. When it finally popped through, it was like a new world; Lawson shoved the bag out of the way and helped pull Michael in.
�Best thing about it,� Lawson said, �is that you don't need a fridge.�
Michael crawled in and got to his knees; the roof was only a few feet high, but the walls�firm and already slicked with ice from the condensation of their breath�were wide enough apart that, if he let his feet protrude into the tunnel entrance, he'd be able to lay out his bag to its full length. Lawson had covered most of the floor with insulated sleep mats.
But it was the light inside that truly stunned him. The flashlight beam was angled upward, and it sent twinkling rays of light in all directions. The walls seemed to glow with a glistening blue-white sheen, and a few errant flakes of snow, fallen from the roof, idly turned in the air, like diamonds on display. Michael felt like he was caught inside a snowball.
�The roof will drip a bit during the night,� Lawson said as he shimmied down into his own sleeping bag, �especially around the blowholes. It's nothing to worry about, but I'd suggest you drape the waterproof flap of your bag over your face.�
Lawson lay back, and loosely threw his own flap over his head. �Like this,� he said, his breath puffing up the fabric.
Michael unrolled his bag, and even though he managed to bang his head on the ceiling three or four times during the process, laid it out. He took off his boots, leaving on the wool socks and boot liners, then scrunched his parka, as Lawson had done, into a pillow. But the hardest part was squinching himself down into the bag with so many other layers of clothing still on. In the closed space of the snow dome, he got a good whiff of himself, and it wasn't a pleasant
smell. He wedged himself down, a little at a time, until his feet hit the bottom of the sack. Lawson had already stuck the end of his own bag into the tunnel, but there was just enough room left over for Michael to extend his legs without playing footsie. He put his head back on the balled-up parka and stared up at the curved ceiling, wondering if the whole thing might not cave in at any second. Instead, a big single drop of ice water dangled from the roof, then landed with a splat on his stubbly chin. He'd been shaving less and less in recent days, in anticipation of just such events as these, when any protection, even whiskers, might come in handy. He brushed the droplet away with the back of his glove, then fumbled for the sleeping bag flap to drop over his face.
�Lights out?� Lawson muttered.
�Right,� Michael replied, and groped for the flashlight lying between them. He found it, flicked it off, and the dazzling snow globe vanished in an instant, replaced by a blackness and a stillness as profound, Michael could not help but reflect, as the grave.
���
CHAPTER ELEVEN
June 21, 1854, 1:15 a.m.
ELEANOR AMES HAD
been employed at the Establishment for Gentlewomen during Illness, located at No. 2 Harley Street, for only less than a year, but it was a sign of Miss Nightingale's confidence in her that she had been appointed the night nurse. Although it meant staying awake until dawn, Eleanor was honored, and pleased, to have that responsibility. And, truth be told, she enjoyed the relative tranquillity of the night hours. Apart from having to administer the occasional medication, or change a soiled poultice, her duties were largely spiritual in nature; some of the patients, restless and distressed at the best of times, became even more so after dark. Their private demons seemed to descend as the night wore on. And it was Eleanor's task to keep these demons at bay.
Already she had looked in on Miss Baillet, a governess who had lost her position in Belgravia after a violent seizure had afflicted her, and Miss Swann, a milliner who was suffering from a high but utterly inexplicable fever. The rest of the night she had simply patrolled the wards, making sure that all was well, and tidying up the
dispensary. As superintendent, Miss Nightingale had made it abundantly clear that the hospital was to be spotlessly clean and orderly in every way. She insisted upon fresh air being let into the wards (or as fresh as you could get in London), especially at night; she was equally adamant that all beds be made up daily, fresh linen bandages be applied to every wound, and well-prepared, nutritional food be served at every meal. In many circles, Miss Nightingale's ideas had been greeted with skepticism, or a shrug�even the doctors who cared for the patients seemed to think it all irrelevant, though harmless. Eleanor, however, had come to embrace the Nightingale ideals, and was proud to be among the young women�and at nineteen, she was among the youngest�to have been accepted into the hospital's training program.
Locking up the dispensary (particularly the laudanum, which was much in demand as a sleeping draught by certain patients), she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass of the cabinet. Her dark hair, so tightly pinned under the white bonnet, had begun to come undone, and she had to stop to tuck it under again. If Miss Nightingale came down from her rooms on the top floor and found her night nurse looking disheveled, she would not be pleased. And for all her tender solicitude toward the patients, Miss Nightingale was not someone by whom you wished to be reprimanded.
Eleanor turned down the gas lamp and went out into the hall. She was about to go upstairs and straighten the solarium�Miss Nightingale was a great believer in the restorative power of sunlight� when she happened to glance toward the front door. Through its glass panels, she thought she saw a coach stopping, directly in front of the steps. As she watched, she saw three men stepping down, and, to her surprise, mounting the stairs. Did they not know that visitors were only allowed during the afternoon hours?
Apparently not, because even as she moved to forestall the sound�she did not wish any of the patients to be unnecessarily awakened�she heard the front bell tinkling, and almost at the same moment a fist hammering on the wooden portion of the doors. She saw a muttonchopped face peering in, and heard a voice call out, �Assistance? May we have some assistance?�
Just as the fist was raised again, she unlatched the door and threw it open. A big man with a florid face�the one who had been demanding assistance�looked suddenly abashed, and said, �Please
pardon our intrusion, Miss, but we have a companion in need of attention.� That companion, also in a red cavalry uniform, was holding his hand over one arm, while another soldier held him by the elbow, as if to steady him.
�This is a hospital for women,� Eleanor said, �and I'm afraid��
�We're aware of that,� the florid man said. �But this is in the nature of an emergency, and we did not know where else to turn.�
She could see blood seeping from a wound on the blond soldier, who suddenly looked familiar to her. Why, he was the same man who had stared up at her a few hours earlier, when she had leaned out to close the shutters.
�There is no physician on the premises,� she said. �And there won't be until tomorrow morning.�
The big man looked back at his companions several steps below, as if unsure what they wanted him to do next, and the wounded man said, �My name is Lieutenant Sinclair Copley. I've been injured while helping a woman to ward off an attacker.�
Eleanor vacillated on the front step; what would Miss Nightingale wish her to do? She did not dare to awaken her�after all, wasn't she, Eleanor, the night nurse, in charge?�but she also felt it incumbent upon her to offer a wounded man some help.
�In short,� the lieutenant said, �I've been shot and require someone to attend to the wound.� He had ascended the steps and, in the feeble glow of the streetlamp, he looked imploringly into her eyes. �Could you not at least examine the arm and see if you have some remedy on hand until I can consult a surgeon in the morning? As you see,� he said, removing his hand and revealing the blood-caked sleeve of his uniform, �something must be done to stanch the flow.�
She remained in the doorway, irresolute, until the big fellow, apparently losing heart, said, �Come on, Sinclair, Frenchie. I know an apothecary in the High Street, and he owes me a favor.� He turned his back on Eleanor and clumped down the stairs, but the blond man stayed where he was. Eleanor had the distinct impression, though a blush rose in her cheek for even thinking such things, that he had come here expressly so that she might care for him.
She stood to one side and swung the great door open behind her. �Please be careful to make no noise. The other patients are sleeping.�
She locked the door behind them, then ushered them down the wide and chilly hall�all the windows being left open�and into the receiving suite. It was something of a cross between a parlor and a surgery, with armchairs, tasseled lamps, and a desk in the front room, and in an alcove at the rear a leather-topped examination table, stuffed with horsehair, a white linen screen, and a locked bureau containing medical instruments and a small cache of medicinal supplies.
�I'm Captain Rutherford, by the way,� the big man said, �and this other fine gentleman is Lieutenant Le Maitre, generally known as Frenchie. All of the Seventeenth Lancers.�
�Pleased to make your acquaintance,� Eleanor replied�she could tell from their uniforms and their manner of speaking that they were wellborn men of means��but I must ask you again to keep your voices low.�
Rutherford nodded, put a finger to his lips in confirmation, and retired to one of the armchairs. He turned up the lamp on the table, adjusted the wick, then pulled out a packet of cigars, offering one to Le Maitre. Striking a lucifer off the bottom of his boot, he lighted the two cheroots and the men sat back contentedly.