The Moon by Night (Cheney and Shiloh: The Inheritance Book #2)

By Lynn Morris and Gilbert Morris

Book 2 of Cheney and Shiloh: The Inheritance. Cheney and Shiloh Irons-Winslow return to New York from their honeymoon and enthusiastically begin work--Shiloh at Winslow Brothers Shipping and Cheney in her medical career. But their tranquility is shattered when Cheney discovers that a young doctor she hired as an assistant hides a scandal in his past and possibly murder in his heart! Danger and plot twists abound as the Morrises pen yet another thrilling chapter in the continuing saga of the much-loved Cheney and Shiloh. Sequel to Where to Seas Met.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
• Release date: Apr 1, 2004
• ISBN: 9781441262653

Lynn Morris

Lynn Morris has collaborated with her father to create a powerful duo. With Gilbert's strength of great story plots and Lynn's research skills and character development, they have a loyal following. Lynn and her daughter live near Gulf Shores, Alabama.

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Cover

Part I

They That Build the House

Except the Lord build the house,

they labour in vain that build it:

except the Lord keep the city,

the watchman waketh but in vain.

Psalm 127:1

One

Emergencies and Alerts

For the third time Cheney started, then darted a quick glance behind her right shoulder.

Of course there is nothing there, she thought as she doggedly returned to her work. Just as there was nothing there the last time and the time before that. She adjusted the oil lantern so that she could see her yardstick better, then measured out three feet and marked the floor with a piece of charcoal. With satisfaction she straightened and surveyed the space she had outlined for a microscope worktable. Absently she pressed two hands to her aching back and then realized that her legs had pains shooting through them and her knees felt as if they were capped with slabs of ice. Quickly, with lithe grace, she rose from her knees, holding the lantern carefully so as not to brush against her wide skirts.

She was a tall woman, with a quick athletic grace that was certainly unfashionable in 1869, the thirty-second year of Queen Victoria’s reign and the third decade of the reigning fashion for women being that of pale complexions, dreamy eyes, frail constitutions, vaporish tendencies, and meek and complaisant temperaments. Dr. Cheney Duvall Irons-Winslow had none of these things. She was a strong woman, both physically and emotionally, and had a direct gaze and manner that was often intimidating, even overbearing. Her eyes were a brilliant green, her hair a fiery auburn, waist-length and thick and curly—all but impossible to tame. As was Cheney herself.

But this morning her maid, Fiona, had managed to pull Cheney’s hair back smoothly into a modest French chignon, though some curls had escaped at the nape of her neck and around her ears. She was wearing a plain white blouse with a plain gray skirt, though the white coveralls she wore hid them. It was a physician’s uniform, and over the pocket at the breast was embroidered St. Luke the Physician Hospital and a dove with an olive branch in its mouth.

She was in the cellar of St. Luke the Physician Private Hospital and Dispensary. St. Luke’s had opened only a month ago and was already at seventy-five percent capacity. Of the thirty-two available beds, there were thirteen patients in the women’s ward and eleven in the men’s ward. There were only two charity cases, one woman and one man, and the rest were paying patients. This had made the owners—Mr. and Mrs. Richard Duvall, Dr. and Mrs. Devlin Buchanan, Dr. Cleve Batson, and Mr. and Mrs. Shiloh Irons-Winslow—very happy. But what had made Mrs. Shiloh Irons-Winslow—or Dr. Duvall, as she was known to the staff and patients—really happy was this cellar. Cheney herself had designed it and had personally supervised the renovation that had turned a damp, dank, cavernous cellar into a well-lit, clean, efficient laboratory/morgue/storage area.

St. Luke’s was actually what was called the old van Dam place. In 1752 Kiliaen van Dam had built a gracious mansion far north of the little village of New York, in the forest close to a quiet little stream that ran into Collect Pond. It was a fine spacious three-story home, built of costly yellow-hued Holland brick. In the Georgian style, the front door was framed with fluted classical columns and topped by a pediment inscribed in block letters: Siste Viator. Latin, it meant Stop, traveler, which seemed very hospitable of Mr. Van Dam. But the first time Cheney had seen it, she had recalled that the ancient Romans had put this inscription on roadside tombs, and she had thought it rather odd, even a little sinister. She knew very little about the history of the house, though she knew its name because it was on the same block as the offices of Dr. Devlin Buchanan, M.D., R.C.S.; Dr. Cheney Duvall, M.D.; and Dr. Cleve Batson, M.D.

Today the hospital had been open for exactly one month, and Cheney had managed to secure their first corpse for autopsy, a prostitute who had evidently drowned in the Hudson River. Cheney was very excited about using her new morgue and laboratory, but when she had come down to the cellar, she had seen that she still had some organization and renovation to do before the laboratory could be considered complete. Although she had come downstairs at seven o’clock, it was already full dark, and she had realized that the gas lighting was insufficient for microscopic studies at night. So she had sat down and sketched out a design for a suitable workspace with good lighting and then had measured out the space along the wall where a long counter would be installed.

The cellar of the old van Dam place was huge, spanning the entire length and breadth of the original house. The rear half of the room had been built as a storage area, with cupboards along the wall and three rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves.

The front half was divided equally between the laboratory and the morgue. Cheney was so proud of her specially designed morgue. The rectangular room was built of the finest cypress and lined with a double thickness of tin. Along each side were long metal slabs with metal ice bins beneath. Cheney had also designed a rolling dissection table. When their ward policeman, Officer Sylvester Goodin, had delivered the corpse—he had called her Miss Darlene—to the hospital that afternoon, he and Cheney had placed the body onto the dissection table and simply rolled it into the morgue to wait until Cheney was ready to perform the autopsy. Now she went into the morgue and rolled the table out of the double doors straight into the laboratory area. In this way Cheney could handle autopsies by herself without needing an assistant on hand to help move the body.

But as Cheney began the dissection, she reflected ruefully, The only problem with my wonderful design is that I can’t see the east stairwell from here because the wall of the morgue blocks it. And I could swear I hear something over there sometimes. The cellar, which was, of course, sunken six feet underground, had two staircases leading up into the first floor of the hospital. The west staircase was plainly visible from the lab area, but the east one was not. And the outside entrance to Sixth Avenue was also on the east side of the room and out of sight from the lab.

Impatiently Cheney pushed away the unsettling thoughts. It’s silly. Probably just a draft or this old house settling or maybe a mouse. Perhaps we should get a cat.

She heard a noise on the stairs and realized with relief that someone was coming down the west stairwell, which she could see. It was Dr. Lawana White, an intern, and the way she was running down the stairs two at a time made Cheney stop her initial Y incision to ask sharply, What is it, Dr. White?

Emergency telegram, Dr. Duvall. From Officer Goodin, so I thought that you would probably like to handle it.

Yes, of course, let me see.

Dr. White hurried forward, rather nervously handing the telegram to Cheney while eyeing the lurid corpse on the table. The intern was a slight, small girl with red-gold hair, a lovely creamy complexion, and big innocent hazel eyes. Though she was soft spoken and meek, she was extremely intelligent, and her shy ways belied an iron determination. Dr. White had decided to specialize in surgery, still a controversial field even for well-established and respected physicians. She had managed to get Cheney’s adopted brother, the famous and renowned Dr. Devlin Buchanan, to accept her as a preceptee along with two other male interns, Stephen Varick and Duncan Gilder.

Dr. White had also succeeded in attaching herself to Cheney when she worked at the hospital, and Cheney had even agreed to tutor Dr. White along with her ongoing tutelage of her former maid, Nia Clarkson, who was attending the New York Medical College and Hospital for Women. Now Cheney could see, with slight amusement, that Dr. White had every intention of sticking to Cheney like a leech to deal with this emergency.

The telegram, sure enough, was on the special paper with the red heading: EMERGENCY-ALERT-EMERGENCY-ALERT

It read: EMERGENCY STOP MULTIPLE INJURIES STOP ACCIDENT WEST 10TH & WASHINGTON STOP REQUEST DR. W/AMBULANCE STOP

P/O GOODIN

If Officer Goodin requests a doctor with the ambulance, then it must be bad, Cheney murmured half to herself.

I’ll go, Dr. White said eagerly. I’ve already sent word to Dr. Batson to stand by on call. And Dr. Gilder is still here.

Ordinarily the male student doctors, or the male attendant, went with the ambulance. The simple reason was that only the very basic medical procedures—such as a tourniquet, a quick bandage, or the administration of laudanum—were attempted at the accident site. The main objective of the ambulance was to get the person to the hospital as quickly as possible. It was better for the physicians to be preparing to receive the patient rather than to be out riding at a breakneck, teeth-cracking, heart-stopping pace through the streets.

Very well, Cheney agreed with secret amusement. Then quickly go tell James and John to hitch up the ambulance. And check the ambulance box to make sure it’s fully stocked.

Dr. White turned and ran out as Cheney headed toward the long rows of the supply shelves with her medical bag. Cheney hurried up and down the long dim rows of the shelving, stopping here, holding up the lamp to squint at a label, whirling and running to another shelf, searching frantically for the supplies she needed. This storage area is still so disorganized. There are so many things without labels, no diagrams of the layout…and here’s the Lady With the Lamp running up and down. Only I’m more like the proverbial bull in the china shop than like Florence Nightingale.

Finally she finished and ran outside. She met Dr. White running back from the livery. Breathlessly the intern told Cheney, There’s nothing in the ambulance box except for a few rolls of surgical lint.

What! Cheney said sharply. I thought I had made it clear that—oh, never mind. Do you have a medical bag?

Yes, ma’am, in the physicians’ sitting room.

Then come on. Let’s get it and grab a few more supplies. Are both James and John still at the livery? Roe’s Livery serviced the hospital and was handily located right on the south side of the block. James and John Roe, two young brothers, often drove the ambulance when the male attendants couldn’t leave the hospital.

Yes, ma’am, and they’ve already almost got the ambulance hitched up.

Then let’s run.

Within three minutes they were in the ambulance, rounding the corner out of the drive on two wheels, both brass bells clanging loud enough to alert people on the streets for miles around. Inside the box of the ambulance Cheney and Dr. White gritted their teeth. The echoes of the harsh clangor inside were almost unbearable.

It was fifteen blocks down to Tenth Street. The numerous carriages, riders, hansom cabs, hackney coaches, carts, and pedestrians that filled the street somehow managed to clear out in front of the speeding ambulance wagon.

It seemed an age to Cheney, but actually they covered the perilous blocks in only twenty minutes. Before the heavy wagon had come to a stop, Cheney threw open the doors and jumped out, with Dr. White close behind her.

Officer Sylvester Goodin met Cheney. He was a tall, thin man, stoop-shouldered, normally with a pleasant homely face that reminded Cheney a little of Abraham Lincoln. Now he seemed more like a gargoyle with the garish lamplight making his face look cratered and grim and his shoulders hunched against the freezing cold.

Behind him Cheney saw a phaeton turned on its side in the middle of the street, its frame a bunch of spiky rods going every which way. A still form with a long mantle thrown over it was sitting half upright against one big spoked wheel. Another policeman knelt beside a man lying in the street near the overturned carriage.

On the other side of the carriage was a coal cart pulled across the street, blocking traffic. A man leaned up against the side of the cart, his face a little pale.

Officer Goodin said, Good, I’m glad it’s you, Dr. Duvall. One dead, one man slightly injured, and one severely injured. That man back there was driving the coal cart. Maybe Dr. White—good evening, ma’am—should see to him.

Of course, Dr. White said, hurrying toward the cart.

Officer Goodin took Cheney’s arm and said softly, I think you’re going to want to see this man, Dr. Duvall. As he was talking he pulled Cheney’s arm gently, and she allowed herself to be led toward the man lying in the street. As they neared the prostrate victim, the other policeman rose, and Cheney saw the injured man clearly for the first time. It was an enormous struggle for Cheney to keep the shock from showing on her face.

The man had a steel spike sticking out of his chest. He looked up at her with eyes stark with horror. His face was dead white, his lips colorless. He was a fairly young man, Cheney thought, nicely dressed.

Cheney knelt by him and took his hand. It was limp and freezing. The street was muddy, and the man was covered with the icy muck. She was conscious of James Roe, the older boy, behind her. James, she said softly, go get the blankets out of the wagon. All of them, please.

She turned back to the man. I am Dr. Cheney Duvall. What is your name, sir?

He didn’t speak, just looked up at her with stricken eyes.

I’m going to check your injury first, she told him calmly. He was wearing a quilted vest, and quickly Cheney cut both it and his white shirt underneath. The shirt was not showing a very large bloodstain. Good, the spike has effected a tamponotic staunch.

She took two two-inch rolls of gauze from her medical bag. I’m going to secure your injury, sir, she said with deliberate vagueness but with assurance. She placed the fat rolls of gauze on either side of the spike, watching him. He didn’t flinch. She knew that with some types of shock the patient did not feel pain, and this man seemed to be oblivious to it. Gently she packed the linen close and received no reaction from him.

I’m going to make sure that you’re secure and stable so that we can take you to the hospital, she continued as she took his pulse and respiration. His pulse was thready but regular at fifty-eight beats per minute, which was slow. His respirations were shallow, like small sighs. Cheney knew that he was in shock and there was very little she could do about it. She also knew that when a patient was not bleeding profusely and his pulse was slowing instead of fast and erratic, often the phenomenon was a temporary reaction rather than a slow decline into unconsciousness and death. Another encouraging factor was that he was still alive nearly thirty minutes after the accident. There was a good chance, with emergency surgery, that he would live.

Sir, please listen carefully to me, she said, suddenly speaking out authoritatively and loudly. His gaze, which had been growing steadily blanker, honed in on her face again. I am going to stabilize you and take you to the hospital. I want you to concentrate very hard on staying awake. I need you to tell me what you’re feeling so that I know best how to help you. Do you understand?

He swallowed, and his lips moved just a bit.

Cheney repeated more insistently, Do you understand, sir?

Y-yes, he whispered.

Good. I want you to keep listening to everything I say so that you will understand what I’m doing. Also I need you to answer my questions when I ask them.

James came dashing up with four thick wool blankets in his arms. Take two to Dr. White, Cheney ordered, then go get a stretcher.

Cheney tucked the two blankets around the injured man, carefully avoiding even the lightest touch on the steel bar. James came running back with the stretcher, a six-foot length of canvas rolled up scroll-style between two wooden rails. Unroll it, James, so that one rail is very close to this gentleman. That’s it. Now go around to his other side.

Sir, what is your name? Cheney asked, getting down close to the victim’s face and making him look at her.

Melbourne, he said faintly. Cornelius Melbourne.

All right, Mr. Melbourne, this is James Roe. He is going to help me get you onto the stretcher. He is going to pull you up on your side, and I’m going to position the stretcher under you, and then James is just going to lower you down onto it. Do you understand, Mr. Melbourne? Do you hear me?

Yes…I…understand.

Cheney motioned to Officer Goodin, who leaned down close to her. The patient’s eyes were focused on her face, and she sensed that her calm expression was his tentative hold on life right now. She spoke in a steady voice, neither loud nor soft. Officer, I want you to hold that spike steady as James pulls him up onto his side. Can you do that? Hold it exactly in place?

Yes, ma’am, he answered calmly. He went to kneel by James.

Cheney once again leaned close over the man. Mr. Melbourne? We’re ready. Just relax and let us do the work. Understand? Don’t move; don’t strain; we will do it for you.

Don’t…move, he repeated, his gaze burning into hers.

Officer Goodin put both his long hands on either side of the spike in the man’s chest. She nodded at James. He lifted, Cheney shoved the stretcher under him, and they lowered him down, all in mere seconds. Cheney looked up and saw Dr. White and John standing by, watching.

Dr. Duvall? Officer Goodin said, holding out his hand to her. Looking up at him, she shook her head and cut a glance at Melbourne. Officer Goodin nodded understanding, then leaned down close to where she knelt by the victim to speak to her. Dr. White says the gentleman who drove the coal cart was just kind of shaken up, nothing broken, no cuts.

Cheney nodded. Good. James, go ahead and get the wagon turned around, then Officer Goodin and John can load the patient. No bells on the way back. Go as quickly as you can, but as smoothly as you can.

Yes, ma’am. He ran to the wagon and hopped up on the seat. Briskly he pulled the reins and made a clicking noise. Slowly the great horses began to back up.

Officer Goodin motioned toward the body propped up against the phaeton. I would like to take her to St. Luke’s.

Of course. She goes in first, Cheney ordered, and he nodded understanding.

Cheney looked back down at her patient. Melbourne stared at her, not speaking, not moving. She bent close over him again. In just a few minutes, you and I are going to board the ambulance. It’s a very short trip to the hospital. For now I would like to listen to your heart. Would that be all right, Mr. Melbourne? She was making conversation, trying to keep him as focused and alert as she could. If he didn’t give up and slip into unconsciousness, he might very well live—after a successful surgical procedure to remove the spike.

As she kept talking to the man, one part of her mind was busily demanding, And who is going to do this surgery? You? You’ve never done any kind of procedure even remotely like this. Dev is on Long Island tonight, and the surgery must be done as soon as we reach the hospital…if he lives that long….

But I can’t do this alone!

The insistent voice in one dark corner of her head kept on, but Cheney was startled at the thought.

I can’t do this—alone?

No, I can’t….

Not without Shiloh.

Now, Mr. Melbourne, here we go, she said, standing up as Officer Goodin and John bent to pick up the stretcher.

The man moved for the first time. Weakly he raised his hand toward Cheney. Help…me…please.

She took his hand, swallowed hard, and said, I will. I can help you, Mr. Melbourne, and I will.

****

Shiloh Irons-Winslow took off his leather gloves, blew on his freezing fingertips, and rubbed his hands together. His horse, a big lazy quarter horse named Balaam, noisily mouthed his bridle and made a disdainful blubbery sound with his lips.

Aw, stop your complainin’, Shiloh said. I know it’s never this cold in San Francisco. You’re just gonna have to learn to live with it. And be quiet, will you? I can’t hear a thing except your grumblin’. Shiloh pulled his gloves back on, and the pair walked slowly on, Shiloh leading the horse by the reins and staying close to his steaming side.

Shiloh had acute vision, even in darkness, and now his steel blue eyes scanned right, searching the jumbled outline of old piers and piles of trash that lined the Hudson River. He was walking along West Street on this freezing November night, and the memories that came to him were as strong and tangible as the reek of rotten fish and ancient garbage that hung heavy even on this brittle air.

It was May ‘sixty-eight, he mused softly. Right along here somewhere, I found the Lord. The worst, and the best, night of my life. He stopped and Balaam obediently stopped, with only one small protesting stamp of his off hind. Shiloh narrowed his eyes to scan the huge mound of hay on one of the barges that lined this stretch of the river. He had never forgotten the feral, vicious children who had robbed him that terrible night. They were called hay barge children," for they were either orphans or children whose homes must be dismal indeed, for they preferred to sleep on the hay barges at night and either beg or steal during the day. Often when he was going to the hospital to escort Cheney home after her late shift, he would go a few hours early and wander along the river. He would like to find the children who had robbed him on that night so long ago, especially the boy named Rock. Not for revenge—Shiloh’s days of anger and bitterness were long gone—but to help them. Frequently he brought bread and cheese and fruit, hoping to see some of these blighted orphans. But he never did. He just left the food.

Shiloh thought he saw something now, a furtive movement, out of the corner of his eye. But as he searched, he saw nothing except the big mound of hay and an occasional glimmer of the water beyond. It was a black night, with low clouds and only an occasional accidental glimpse of starlight. Snowflakes were starting to fall, already hard and fast.

Great, Shiloh grumbled, sounding much like his horse. Snowing again. Balaam snorted.

Something small and dark, waving a big stick, jumped in front of the horse. Your b-b-bunny or your l-l-ife!

Shiloh and Balaam were both so astounded that they froze. Huh? Shiloh grunted in confusion. What’d you say?

Waving the stick menacingly, a high, shrill but oddly stuffy voice repeated, I s-s-said, s-s-s-ir, your bunny or— The stick waved and suddenly grew bigger and flared up and out, spooking Balaam. Throwing up his head, he whinnied in outrage and reared, hooves lashing out. The dark figure jerked, the offending stick flew, the shadow crumpled, and Balaam came crashing back down to stamp indignantly.

Wait— Shiloh finally came alive. He darted in front of the horse, grabbed the boy by the shirt collar, and dragged him out from under Balaam’s hooves. Shiloh shook him. Get up, you!

The boy was limp in his grasp, his head lolling like a broken doll.

Aw, man, you aren’t dead, are you? Kneeling quickly and cradling the boy’s head, Shiloh looked close—it was so dark he could hardly make out the features, though the face was a deadly white blur—and felt his head. He could see that this was a man—a very slight man, but he did have a mustache—with thin, greasy hair. Shiloh could feel the warmth of blood on his fingers. But the man was breathing. He even murmured slightly and his hand scrabbled vaguely. Shiloh felt his pulse. It was weak but steady. The man’s hands and face, however, were icy cold and corpselike.

Great, Shiloh rasped. Okay, Mr. Big Bad, you did it. You’re gonna have to carry him. But— Shiloh heaved up the unconscious man—it’s not going to be that big a pain, ’cause this little piffle doesn’t weigh as much as the doc does. But don’t tell her I said that, Shiloh added hastily. He tossed the man over the saddle like a bag of flour—a long, thin bag, perhaps—and then stooped to pick up the robber’s weapon.

It was an umbrella. A very nice umbrella, actually, made of fine black silk, with no broken spokes and a hand-carved wooden handle. Shiloh couldn’t see what the carving was, but he could feel the delicate etching of some hard, highly polished wood.

What’s a fine muffin like this doin’, anyway, mugging self-respecting men and horses out here like this? Shiloh asked Balaam, shoving the umbrella into the saddlebag. Aw, quit your whinin’. It’s all your fault anyway, knockin’ him out cold like that. Speakin’ of cold, let’s step it up a little, Balaam. Snow’s getting heavy, and I guess I need to get this little sneak-thief someplace warm before he dies on me.

Two

Lifeline

Put him in Surgery 3, Cheney told James and John as they carried Cornelius Melbourne into the hospital on the stretcher. They turned left into surgery while Cheney started toward the nurses’ station straight ahead. A weak cry from the litter stopped her, so she motioned to the duty nurse, and the two followed James and John into the operating room. The boys placed the patient, litter and all, on the surgical table. Cheney said firmly to Melbourne, This is Nurse Kitty Kalm, Mr. Melbourne. She is going to stay with you, because I must attend—

No, no, he said. Don’t leave me, Dr. Duvall. Please don’t leave me…. He was beginning to show signs of increasing agitation, though only his hands twitched. He kept his eyes locked on Cheney’s face. She knew that sometimes patients with horrible-looking injuries could not bear the sight of them, so they obsessively fixated on something else. In Mr. Melbourne’s case, Cheney seemed to be his tenuous lifeline.

She took his hand. All right, then, I won’t leave you.

He relaxed a little, and some of the dreadful panic diminished in his eyes and expression. His hand was cold and clammy. His lips were blue. Cheney knew that he must have surgery immediately. To Nurse Kalm she spoke in the quiet monotone that seemed to soothe the patient regardless of what she was saying. Is Dr. Batson here? Here for Cleve meant at the hospital, the office, or his home, as they were all on the same block. He always alerted the hospital of his whereabouts.

No, ma’am. He came in after lunchtime and said he was going downtown, that he had several patient calls to make. He left a list if you would like—

No, Cheney said, the casual tone in her voice belying the urgency in her eyes. Mr. Melbourne must have surgery immediately.

Nurse Kalm nodded. She was a cheerful, capable young woman who had that rare intuitive gift of understanding sick people and their needs. Now she considered the pale man on the surgical table thoughtfully. His expression did not change, and his gaze did not waver from Cheney’s face.

I can assist, Nurse Kalm said in the same confident tone Cheney had been using, perceiving the patient’s state of mind. I have anesthetized in eight procedures, all successful.

I’m going to assist, Cheney said. I need a surgeon.

Kitty’s eyes widened, but she was careful to speak quietly. Aren’t you going to do the surgery, Dr. Duvall?

No. I’m not qualified to do such a procedure.

Then Dr. Pettijohn will have to do it.

She and Cheney locked eyes for long moments. Cheney’s mind was a whirl of confusion. Nurse Kalm watched Cheney with what seemed to be clinical curiosity, waiting for her momentous decision.

To their surprise Cornelius Melbourne whispered weakly, Dr. Duvall…have you ever…done surgery?

She looked down at him and started to make excuses, but in that moment, her mind quieted and she answered with the simplicity of truth. Yes, I have. I have just never done the particular surgery that you require.

To her amazement the barest flicker of amusement showed in his dull eyes. Never had…anyone…with a steel spike sticking…out of his chest? Fancy that. I…want you to do it, Dr. Duvall. I want you…to operate on me.

She smiled at him, suddenly calm and sure. Very well, Mr. Melbourne, I will. He even managed a weak smile as he clung to her hand.

Now certain of her course, Cheney told Nurse Kalm, I want you to go tell Nurse Nilsson to take charge of the wards and do rounds with Dr. Pettijohn. Ask Dr. White to join us, and you come back to assist.

Yes, Doctor. She hurried out.

Cheney looked down at Cornelius Melbourne, and he looked up at her. He was growing weaker by the minute. The procedure to remove the spike and repair the damage was going to be perilous. His chances of surviving the surgery were not good.

As she looked deep into his eyes and studied his expression, she could see that he knew all of that. He was afraid, but he had put his hope and trust in her. Cheney knew she had one more duty to perform for this patient before she sent him on what might be his last journey.

Are you a Christian, Mr. Melbourne? she asked. Do you know the Lord Jesus Christ?

No, he answered. I have attended church all of my life, and I know of the Lord and His salvation, but I have never asked Him to save me. I would like to do that now, and I want you to pray for me.

Cheney bowed her head and closed her eyes. She knew that he kept his gaze trained on her. "Dearest Lord, Mr. Melbourne needs your love, your salvation, and your healing. I pray that in his heart he will seek you in spirit and in truth, for you have promised that those who do will find you, and you will take them in.

Give me strength as I operate on him. I humbly ask that you guide my hands and my eyes and my thoughts so that I may perform this procedure perfectly. And I ask that you heal this man, Lord. Amen.

He closed his eyes and prayed, I am a sinner, lost in darkness, Lord Jesus. Save my…soul. Give Dr. Duvall skill and knowledge and the guidance she needs, Lord. And if you…decide to bring me home, I ask that she will always know in her heart…that I have been saved.

When he opened his eyes again, Cheney could see fear still lurking, but he seemed more at ease than before. She said, I’m going to go wash my hands and get the surgical supply tables ready. Just over there, do you see? I’m not leaving the room. He nodded, then let go of his death grip on her hand. As she moved away, she paid close attention to the sound of his breathing. His respiration was still shallow, but he didn’t immediately start hyperventilating as soon as she got out of his line of vision.

Nurse Flagg is going to give you an anesthetic, chloroform, which is going to put you to sleep, she told him as she worked. And Dr. White, who was with us in the ambulance, will be assisting me with the surgery. You are in St. Luke’s hospital, and when you wake up, you will be in a comfortable private room.

She kept talking until Dr. White and Nurse Kalm returned. They scrubbed their hands, and Dr. White and Cheney took their places beside the bed as Nurse Kalm readied the anesthetic. Cheney smiled at him. I will see you later, Mr. Melbourne.

Yes, and whatever happens, Dr. Duvall, I’m glad that you are the doctor taking care of me. Don’t forget that.

I won’t, Cheney promised him. Now Nurse Kalm is going to anesthetize you. Just close your eyes…relax…

As soon as he was unconscious, Cheney yanked the blankets off him and said to Dr. White, Hurry. Cut the clothes off him. Nurse Kalm, I want you to continually monitor his respiration and pulse and take his temperature every five minutes. Let me know immediately if there is any change.

Yes, Doctor.

Oh, Dr. Duvall, he is absolutely filthy, Dr. White said. The mud has soaked through his clothes, and it’s caked all around the injury.

I know. I didn’t want to take off his clothes and clean him up until he was unconscious. Cheney began sponging him off with a saline solution. Taking a plunger, she began squirting jets of the solution all around the spike in his chest. He was half-frozen already, and I didn’t want to make him more miserable than he was. All right, this is good enough, Dr. White. We can finish cleaning him up after the surgery. Try not to touch any place but this area where we’ve washed him off. Now let’s wash our hands again in the carbolic acid solution and swab his whole chest area with it.

I don’t really know how to assist you, Dr. Duvall, Dr. White said uncertainly. I’ve never even seen an operation like this, much less assisted at one.

Neither have I, Cheney said, so we’ll just have to figure it out together. Nurse Kalm, have you ever seen a procedure like this?

No, Doctor, she answered. When I worked at Bellevue, I saw two patients come in who had been stabbed, and the knives were still imbedded in their chests. But they were both dead.

Cheney nodded. It’s a miracle this man is still alive.

Dr. White observed, There’s so little blood. I would have thought a person would just be swimming in it with an injury like this.

As Cheney carefully swabbed around the wound, she could see that almost no blood was seeping from around the spike. That’s because the spike itself is exerting enough pressure on the blood vessels to stop them up, as it were. Visualize sticking a pencil through a piece of paper and then looking at the underside where the pencil has gone through. Little bits of the paper will be turned under all round the pencil, correct? Just so here. The ends of the severed vessels are turned under all around the spike, so there’s minimal bleeding. Of course, this tamponotic effect wouldn’t have worked if the spike had struck a major artery, because the pressure of the blood flow would be too strong.

Yes, I understand, Dr. White said thoughtfully.

Cheney continued, Now I’m going to make two shallow incisions through the dermal layers: one horizontal and one vertical, with the spike at the center. Dr. White, peel back the four sections while I hold the spike steady. Very good. No, don’t worry about suction right now, just clamp each section. All right, let me see what we have here…yes, just as I thought. It’s wedged tightly between the ribs….

****

Steel spike one inch in diameter was lodged in right hypochondriac region between the fourth and fifth true rib. Ribs were left intact with no fracture or chipping.

Spike imbedded approximately six inches; four inches exposed. Frontal middle lobe of right lung perforated, posterior surface of middle lobe untouched. Further impalement effectively prevented by position of the spike wedged tightly between the ribs.

Cheney reread the sketchy description she had made of Cornelius Melbourne’s injury. There was much more to be entered in his file, but Cheney had decided to describe the injury while she had it vividly imprinted on her brain and enter the details of the surgery the next day. She had finished the surgery three hours earlier, but this was the first opportunity she’d had to make a patient file for Cornelius Melbourne.

The lady who had been with Melbourne—now in the hospital’s morgue—was still unidentified. Officer Goodin had not come to the hospital yet to take statements from everyone, as he was obliged to do when an accident involved a death.

Though Cornelius Melbourne had awakened soon after the surgery was completed, Cheney had asked him only about his family, not about the accident or the woman. He said that his parents lived in Brooklyn, then he drifted off into a peaceful sleep again. Cheney composed a telegram and sent James Roe to Yancy’s Telegraph Station, alerting the Brooklyn police to find Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Melbourne and give them the information about their son.

She made a few more sketchy notes in Cornelius Melbourne’s file to help her recall some details of his surgery. He’s actually alive and doing miraculously well, considering, she thought with satisfaction. I stressed that his nursing care was to be on the basis of his being in guarded condition, but that was very conservative, and everyone knew it. He actually woke up and smiled! Oh, Lord, you are good, and your mercy endures forever!

She closed the file and placed it by her medical bag so she would remember to take it back up to the nurses’ station before she left. Checking the watch that was pinned to her coverall, she was amazed to find that it was only eleven o’clock, for it had been a very long day—and night. Still, her shift was from two o’clock until midnight, and she never left early, even after a busy shift.

I can get that autopsy done, she thought with determination. Seems days ago I started it.

Quickly she straightened the supply table that she had left in disarray that afternoon, then rolled the dissection table out of the morgue into the lab area again and went to work.

Some time later—she had been so absorbed in her work that she was completely unaware of the passing time—she heard a steady tread on the stairs. Officer Goodin came down the west stairwell, yanking off his flat-topped cap as he came to stand by the dissection table. They told me you were still here, Dr. Duvall. I thought I’d give you what information I’ve managed to gather about that accident.

I’m so glad you stopped by, she said with sincere pleasure. You have more information?

A little, he said. I haven’t found out yet who that poor young woman was, but I think I recognized her—er—costume. It’s from a…a spot…and…er—

A tavern? Saloon? Brothel? Cheney supplied helpfully.

Officer Goodin looked shocked. No, ma’am, Dr. Duvall! At least, I mean—not exactly. The ladies at Beau Monde Gardens down on Suffolk Street wear clothes like that lady’s. I didn’t really get a good look at her, because she was dead when I got there, and I just covered her up. So I decided to come by here and get a good description of her in my head before I go to the Beau Monde to ask about her. Did your patient say anything about her, by any chance?

Cheney shook her head. No. I only asked him about his family. His parents live in Brooklyn, and I’ve sent for them.

He nodded. I need to speak to the young man, if he’s still breathing.

He is, miraculously, Cheney said, smiling. But I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until tomorrow, or maybe even the next day, to interrogate him, Officer. She told him about the surgery