Blue Damask (23 page)

     And Sonnenby.  What had happened to twist his mind so badly that he would lose consciousness?  It could be physical.  She rubbed the briefcase harder.  She had already read all the medical files.  Nothing suggested seizures.  He would not have been in military service had he been so afflicted.  No.  It had to be something else.  Some of her shell-shocked patients had panic attacks so severe they resulted in loss of consciousness.  The men would dash about, wild eyed and screaming before they dropped like stones.  But Sonnenby’s episodes were never accompanied by frenzy.  Except that time on the train.  And when he had chased the intruder on the ship?  Davies had said he looked over the stern rail at the churning water some six or seven stories below and then collapsed.

     Perhaps it was the exertion.  A sudden change in blood pressure, or adrenaline depletion. A heart condition would drop him like that. She rubbed her forehead.  There was no amnesia.  He could remember what he had been doing up to the point to collapse.  Elsa was leaning toward a diagnosis of extreme anxiety coupled with something physical.

He had long bouts of rational behavior punctuated by violence, like many with war trauma, but the loss of consciousness and then the catatonia was unusual. She wanted to find those reports and read them again.

     If she moved closer to the doorway she could use the shaft of light from the kerosene lantern to read.  She looked at each of the guards.  They were fairly relaxed.  It would be safe to read for an hour, and then she promised herself she would sleep.  It was also time to unite the two sets of files.  The military and school records were still strapped to her body.  She untied her sash and shimmied until her papers fluttered to her feet.  She bent to pick them up, tapped them to keep them straight, and then placed them inside the briefcase with the medical reports.

     Then her fingers touched the letters.  She looked up and around.  Soft nighttime breezes moved the leaves of the trees and she could hear the men murmuring to each other as they kept watch.  An occasional snore from Descartes told her he would sleep soundly for a while.

     She could read a few of the letters.  Just a few before she slept.  She arranged them chronologically, then slid her finger across the flap of the first envelope.  As she suspected from the elegant handwriting, this letter was not written as a communique from Lord Sonnenby to his business partner.  This letter opened with, “My dear Medjel…”

     Elsa read quietly, the first letter, then the second, and after the third she knew she would not sleep until she had finished them all.  There were twelve.  The writer must be Lady Sonnenby and they were written for her lover, though the language she used implied that she knew someone would be reading them aloud.  The letters were filled with the minutia of her daily life, included detailed descriptions of young Henry and his infancy and early childhood.  She told Medjel about the baby’s first steps, his first word, and his general health.  Every now and then, she would include an endearing term, or express a longing to see him again, but these references were very brief and spread throughout the correspondence.  She ended each letter with “you are
rohi
, my love” but there was never a signature.

     Elsa folded the last one and tucked it away.  It seemed Sonnenby had the wrong idea about his parents.

     Elsa woke suddenly, papers rustled under her cheek.  She returned the file and the letters to the briefcase and clasped it securely shut.    She looked at the guards and saw they were absolutely still and intensely focused on the road.  She listened until she heard the faint sound of hoof beats.  She crawled to Descartes and quietly woke him.

     “
Monsieur.
  Someone is coming,” she whispered.

     “
Mon Dieu
.”  He rolled on one elbow and then let her help him to sit propped against the house.  The hoof beats slowed and then disappeared, though the guards did not relax.  Elsa heard the metallic click of a rifle being carefully readied.  She gathered her briefcase close to her body and considered going into the house.  Descartes was trying to stand, but could not get his feet under him.  Elsa could not leave him outside.  She set her briefcase on the threshold and moved to put her hands under his arms.  Descartes took her arm, and bracing himself against the wall, staggered to his feet.

     She did not speak, but gave his arm a little tug toward the entrance to the house.  He shook his head and pointed his chin toward the guards.  He extended a hand towards the tarpaulin as if he were pointing an invisible pistol at it.  His index finger finger pulled the imaginary trigger.  She nodded, understanding.  Elsa helped him inch his way along the house, one hand on the wall until he could reach for the pile of supplies.  The guard nearest them kept his eyes on them both.

     Descartes retrieved the pistol and rolled the cylinder expertly.  He nodded toward the entrance to the house again and widened his eyes to insist that she enter.

     Elsa picked up her briefcase, and when she was certain Descartes could stand without falling, she went inside.  The two women were huddled in a corner.  The little girl was on the Turkish woman’s lap, the infant on the Bedouin’s.  The little boys were nowhere to be seen.   Both women stared at her, frightened.  She made a gesture with her hand to keep them still and quiet. She held on to the thick wooden beam that supported the sides of the doorway and the lintel and peered out.

     The four men had taken defensive positions.  Two of them were down on one knee with the rifles to their cheeks.  Descartes was propped against the brick house with his pistol ready.  The hoof beats became loud and moments later she could see the riders coming through the tall coarse grass that grew in the space between the river and the desert.  There were two horses and two riders.  She strained her eyes to see if the men approaching were tribesmen or Europeans.  The man in front was wearing a billowing head cloth and a black
agal
, the man behind was bareheaded.  The horses and riders became larger with every minute and soon she could tell that the man in front was wearing dark trousers and a suit coat with the
keffiyah
blowing behind him.  He was shouting.

     “
Salaam!  Salaam!”

     The rifles wavered. One of the guards spoke to the others.  Descartes lowered his pistol.  “
Que je sois damné
,” he murmured and then turned to her and said in English, “It is your Sonnenby.”

     The two men with rifles stood and pointed the weapons at the ground.  The third sheathed his long knife.  Elsa came out and stood on the threshold.  The two horses pounded up to the house at a gallop and began to slide to a stop before they reached the sheltering trees.  She could see now that it was indeed Lord Sonnenby wearing a suit with a
keffiyah
on his head
and behind him Mr. Marshall wearing a suit that was shredded nearly to ribbons. He was covered in blood from his shoulder to his waist.

     “By God, Elsa!”  Sonnenby leaped from his horse before the animal came to a complete stop. He ran to her and his hands gripped her shoulders painfully.  She saw he had a pistol in a holster on his hip and an ammunition belt strapped across his chest over the suit jacket.  His eyes searched her face, then her body.  “You are not hurt?  They didn’t hurt you?”  He was breathing so hard he could hardly speak and his face beneath the headdress was dripping with sweat, his beard beaded with drops.

     “I am not hurt, Mr. Sinclair.”

     “Oh God. Thank you, thank you.”  He closed his eyes and moved his mouth silently, then turned to speak to the tribesmen.  She did not know what he said, but the men lifted their arms and pointed to the west, then to the south.  One of them answered, gesturing to the house.

     Descartes took a step toward them.  “What happened in Deir El Zor?” he asked.

     Sonnenby spun around.  He drew his pistol and held it inches from the French geologist’s nose.  His thumb moved there was a sharp click and the pistol was cocked.  Descartes froze and his blue eyes went wide.

     “
Gott im Himmel
,” Elsa snapped at Sonnenby.  She pushed his arm down.  Sonnenby staggered back, blinking.  “
Monsieur
Descartes is a friend.  I forbid you to shoot him in the face.”

     Sonnenby rolled the cylinder of his gun to rest the hammer on the empty chamber and holstered it.  She saw that his arm trembled as he did it.  He looked up and said, “Sorry.  I didn’t see you when I rode up.”

     “No,” Descartes said slowly in English.  “You had eyes only for her.  Understandable.”

     Sonnenby gave Descartes a puzzled look.  “You were in the shadows.”

     “I was right here.”

     “Mr. Marshall!” Elsa called out.  To Sonnenby she said, “He looks to be injured.  He is covered in blood.”

     Sonnenby took a deep breath.  “He is injured, but not badly.”  He took the few steps toward Marshall’s horse which stood blowing noisily through its nostrils, recovering from that gallop.  Marshall was breathing hard as well.

     Elsa stood by the stirrup and looked up into his face.  He was pale in the places that were not dark with dried blood.  His hair was plastered flat to his head with blood and sweat and he had had not shaved in some time.  His eyes were wary.  He raised his chin without taking his eyes from her and she could see a straight wound on his neck, a gaping slice that started below his ear but stopped short of his trachea.  It was deep enough that blood had poured from it, soaking his shirt on the left shoulder and chest.

     “Mr. Marshall,” she said again, this time putting her hand on his knee by way of greeting.

     Sonnenby ushered her gently aside.  “Let’s get him down.”  He and Descartes caught Marshall and lowered him from the saddle to his feet.  That is when Elsa could see that Marshall’s trousers were damp.

     Marshall saw her looking at his trousers and said, “It happens sometimes,
fraulein
.”  He stood a little taller and straightened his bloody collar with a shaking hand.

     Sonnenby’s eyes softened.  He said quietly, “Archie.  It has happened to many men when they are frightened, even under less extreme conditions.”

     “His neck…” Elsa started.  It had begun to bleed again.  The bright glistening blood fell over the darker dried blood in little rivulets.  She wanted a bandage.  And sutures.  And alcohol.

     “What happened?” Descartes asked.

     Sonnenby pointed at the wound.  “One of the Ruwallah had entered his tent and had him on his back and the tip of his blade in his neck before I could stop him.”

     Marshall wavered as if the retelling were as traumatic as the event itself.  Elsa moved closer so she could catch him if he fainted. He needed to lie down before he fell down.  She took his elbow.  His eyes were unfocused and dull.  She looked over her shoulder at the other two men.  “He is going to faint,” she warned them.

     “I would not be surprised,” Sonnenby took his other arm.  “It is not every day a man looks death in the eye.”

     “And you saved him.”  She did not turn it into a question.

     “Of course.  I could not let them kill him.  I’ve known him since I was a child.  He is a good man.”  They tried walking Marshall closer to the house and away from the unsheltered yard.

     “Do you want him to lie down outside?  Here?”  Sonnenby asked as he took most of Marshall’s weight himself, positioning his arms and hands to lay him near the house where Descartes had been sleeping.

     “Yes, on his right side. 
Monsuier
Descartes has a medical kit, and a bottle of Talisker.”

     Elsa knelt beside Marshall and pressed the lips of the wound together and held it firmly.

     “What else do you need,
fraulein
?”  Descartes held out his kit to her, and then the bottle of whiskey.

     “Water to wash my hands and some of the blood from his skin so I can see what I am doing.”  Descartes left them and she could hear him calling into the house to the women.  Sonnenby knelt beside her and squeezed Marshall’s arm.

     “Arch?  You are going to be fine.  Elsa is here and she is going to take care of this little inconvenience.”

     That reminded Elsa that Descartes had told her that Sonnenby had been struck by a bullet.  He didn’t appear to be injured.  “Are you hurt too?” she asked him as she took the proffered water from the returning Descartes and poured it over the wound in Marshall’s neck.

     “No.”

     “The men said you had been struck,” she argued.  She gently wiped the old blood from Marshall’s neck.  The knife had slit the skin as straight as a scalpel and sliced part of the muscle beneath.  Turning his head would be painful for a few weeks.  No artery had been damaged, but the blood was coming from several smaller veins that had been completely severed.  ‘Not badly’ Sonnenby had said.  She wondered what he considered a bad wound.  She poured a little more water on the wound and wiped away the blood, aware that Sonnenby had not answered.

     Marshall opened his mouth and took a shallow breath.  “He was struck.  He is lying to you.  He was struck as he put me on that horse.  It was the bullet meant for me.”

     “It was a ricochet, and only singed my back,” Sonnenby argued.  He rolled one shoulder as if to demonstrate.

     “It struck him in the back,” Marshall insisted.  “It knocked him down.  Damn you, Henry.  Don’t lie to her anymore.”

     “Quiet, Archie.  Save your breath.”   Sonnenby didn’t sound like a man who had been shot.

     The suture material was in a glass jar filled with alcohol.  Elsa opened it and selected a length and a needle.

     “What do you men do when you don’t travel with a nurse?”  She mumbled.  She didn’t expect an answer.  She eyed the length of catgut and snipped it with the scissors.

     Sonnenby said quietly, “We die.”

     She glanced at him before bending over Marshall’s neck.  “Indeed.”

     To Marshall she said, “Hold still.  This will sting a little.”

     Sonnenby snorted.  Descartes knelt on the other side of Marshall and put a hand on his head to hold him still.

     Marshall objected to the hand on his head.  “I will not move,” he said.

     Descartes removed his hand.  “Are you Archibald Marshall?” he asked the Englishman.

     “I am,” Marshall answered.  He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

     “When Nurse Schluss is finished, I have a parcel for you from Damascus.”

     Marshall’s eyes opened again.  “A parcel?”

     “I was instructed to bring you a briefcase.  It contains medical files and a blue silk beaded ball gown.”

     Both men turned to look at Elsa.  Marshall winced when he moved his neck.

     Elsa did not look up from threading her needle.  “It is my briefcase. I would appreciate having it back, Mr. Marshall, though the gown is yours.”

     “The gown is a gift,” Marshall said in a croaking voice.

     “It is true?”  Descartes asked.  “Shall I give it to her instead?”

     “Yes, give it to her.”

     She doused the wound with the whiskey and touched the needle to flesh. Marshall jumped.  “Mr. Marshall…” she said.  She waited for him to calm himself, then tried again.  This time he lay still as death until she finished.  The whiskey had been passed around after it left her hand.  The bottle came back nearly empty.  She eyed it before pouring a measured amount onto Marshall’s neck.  “Have some,” she put the bottle in his hand and pressed his fingers around the glass.  Descartes helped him to sit up by bracing his shoulders and holding the back of his head.  Marshall downed it all. She patted his arm and then put Descartes’ kit right.  “You were a centimeter from being a dead man, Mr. Marshall,” she told him as she snapped the kit shut.  “Your carotid lies just beneath that nicked muscle.”

     Sonnenby gave him a healthy pat on the back and Descartes gave him a squeeze on the upper arm.  Sonnenby said, “It was intense for a few minutes in the village.  Seems like hours when it happens.  It is terrible for everyone involved.  Horrible.”

     Marshall looked up at him, moving only his eyes and careful not to move his neck.  “But I see that your trousers are dry.”

     Sonnenby grinned and patted him on the back again.  “Among soldiers, Archie, we call that the ‘holy baptism’.”  But his grin faded quickly.