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Chapter 14

Tides in Acheron*

In retrospect, the whole idea had been completely stupid. An idiot plan, if ever there was one. And yet it had sounded reasonable as they'd come up with it the night after Dr. Mabbs had issued his threat: wait until past midnight when everyone was asleep, put on some civilian clothes Bernadette would provide, tiptoe silently through the rows of beds, then down the corridors and out of the building. Sneak through Charlottesville's empty nocturnal streets until they reached the horse and cart Bernadette would have left somewhere in the outskirts of town before coming to the hospital for her night shift.

It had been a scheme born out of desperation and baseless hope, out of ignorance and denial of reality; destined to fail. A lost race from the very beginning.

Adam would have laughed if he weren't hurting so much.

Over the three days following the confrontation with Dr. Mabbs, Bernadette had done everything in her power to stabilise Adam's condition. She'd cleaned his wound and changed the dressings three times a day, fed him elderflower tea to fight the persistent fever and tried to get as much nourishment into him as he was able to digest—and the constantly waning provisions would offer. He hadn't regained as much strength as they'd hoped, but they felt they couldn't postpone things much longer.

Dr. Mabbs didn't repeat his original threat, yet he developed the unsettling habit of appearing out of nowhere and saying things like "You are very thorough, Nurse Lemont, aren't you?" or "I do believe you've done quite enough for this patient, Nurse. Others are waiting," whenever Bernadette was tending (and talking) to Adam, taking longer than strictly necessary. Bernadette always nearly jumped at the sound of the doctor's voice, her eyes became wide and fearful, she got clumsy with whatever she was doing, and all she apparently was able to reply was a stuttered "Yes, sir."

More and more, the Great Escape seemed to be indispensable for both of them, and Adam couldn't help but feel he was helping her as much as she was helping him. It was a comforting thought, a familiar and pleasant feeling: he was taking charge, he was protecting someone—as if he'd slipped back into an old suit, a well-worn pair of boots…a once-lived life.

It didn't need more than a whispered "Tonight" after yet another episode with Dr. Mabbs and a brief nod of agreement from Bernadette to settle the date.

It had been the only part of their plan that actually had worked.

Despite his best efforts, Adam must have fallen asleep for he was roused out of yet another dream in which he was drifting in a boiling green sea, desperately trying to follow the eerily familiar female voice whose pleas for help were slowly dying away, by a soft joggling at his shoulder. Momentarily disoriented in the pitch-blackness, not seeing but sensing a presence at his side, he couldn't suppress a soft gasp.

"Shh," Bernadette's low voice came out of the dark. "It's me, Adam. Only me. Shall I light a candle?"

"No," he breathed back. "I'm all right. Just need to adjust my eyes."

Bernadette didn't respond. She just sat there next to him, motionless. He heard her breathe a tad too quickly, a tad too shallowly, and he reached out and took her hand, held it tightly, stroking it with his thumb. She heaved a deep breath, then put her other hand over his. They remained like that until he could see more than just her outline and whispered, "Now."

The set of civilian clothes Bernadette had brought him turned out to be a pair of plain camel-coloured pants and a red and blue-chequered shirt. For a moment Adam thought his eyes betrayed him, but no: there was just enough light to distinguish the pattern and guess the colours.

"Couldn't you find something less…chequered?" he asked carefully.

She sniggered. Quietly, very suppressed so not to wake anyone, but she sniggered. They were attempting escape, and she'd—

"You do want me to become a lumberjack after all," he laughed softly, oddly comforted by her unexpected, untimely and…yes, stinging display of humour. Something was familiar about it, something that made the faint sting…enjoyable, something that reminded him that pleasure did not always come without pain. No rose without a thorn. And then there was that bed of cream coloured roses before his eyes again, and a burlap sack tied close with a red ribbon, a notebook bound in dark green with a meandering serpent embroidered on it, a stack of books, scarlet silk, a scarlet blood stain blooming on a grey vest, a long slim face with a thin moustache…. He heard a breathy voice saying "I promise to look after that Queen of Whiskey-flowers" and then a suppressed choking, and he turned his head, instinctively, to see the person who'd choked—but there was only Bernadette, panic-faced.

"Adam," she said. "Adam, are you all right?"

"I am...I just need to…" He tried to conjure the slim face, the choking—but as always when he wanted to force them back, the memories just slipped further away, leaving him feeling mocked and somehow emptier than before.

"Adam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I have another shirt in the carriage, you can change when we got there." Bernadette's whisper was urgent, her face still anxious.

He shook his head, as if that could rid him of all remaining traces of memory. This wasn't the time for soul gazing. "It's all right. I'm not—I don't mind the shirt, it's all right, honestly. Let's just…carry on."

By the time they'd finally gotten him into shirt and pants and a pair of boots, he was sweating and shivering, feeling more exhausted than he had any right to as he sat on the edge of his bed, breathing heavily. He didn't care what colour that blasted shirt had or whatever hideous pattern—there was no way he would change his outfit anytime soon. And if there were the world's finest garments on the carriage, he would not go through this ordeal again. Not for…a very long time.

This is not the way a gentleman would behave, a female voice with a very clipped British accent said in his head. She sounded like a governess. Had he been raised by a governess? He shook his head. No, not now.

He planted his feet firmly on the ground and pushed himself up. The world made a leap, then lurched to the side and slowly took him with it.

"Steady." How Bernadette managed to keep him upright was beyond him. She was a head shorter than him, with a small frame, but there was a strength in her that surprised him not for the first time. "Are you sure you're up to this?" she whispered.

"Sure." A blatant lie? Perhaps—but a necessary one. "I—wait." He reached down to the bedside table—at least this was possible without a problem, at least his head wasn't hurting anymore and the nausea that had accompanied every movement for weeks was gone—and snatched up his notebook. Passing it from one hand to the other he wondered, where to—?

"Leave it here," Bernadette urged. "It's only dead freight. It will just weigh you down. And in more ways than one."

"It's light weight, and everything I have. I don't consider it ballast." He stuffed it into his shirt. The small book contained his life, at least all he knew of it. And even though he knew every single word in it by heart, he wouldn't let it back, wouldn't let anyone have it. It was his life. His. His everything. "Now let's…"

The first step with his bad leg was pure agony. Even though Bernadette tried to support him, even though he leaned much more on her than he wanted, his leg shook violently, and buckled even under the slightest pressure. The second step was even worse. It was not a small wonder that he managed to stay upright at all; perhaps only the knowledge that he wouldn't be able to get up if he fell prevented him from tumbling. Seeing that he wasn't able to put any weight on his leg, it would have been only sensible to stop things there and then—but they were beyond sense already.

Bracing himself heavily on Bernadette's shoulder, Adam half hobbled, half limped beside her past bed after bed. The other patients were lying in deep, mostly laudanum-supported, slumber—two or three were awake, drowsily watching them making their awkward way through the unlit room. One man gave them a lazy salute and a sleepy grin.

Somehow they made it to the door. It felt like hours since he'd woken up, and the biggest part of that time they'd spent in crossing the room. Adam didn't want to think of the corridors that lay behind that door, the stairs that lay behind the corridors, or the streets that lay behind the stairs. He focused on the carriage that waited behind it all, the carriage with soft blankets on the wagon bed. The carriage that would take him to…some place. They hadn't really talked about that yet, but there would be time for that. Later. First, they had to open the door and make it down the corridor.

Bernadette held a finger before her mouth—as if he needed the reminder. She carefully opened the door—

"Well, see to it, Nurse Waterman. And next time think before you wake me," wafted in from somewhere out there in the hallway.

"Dr. Mabbs!" Bernadette's face suddenly was white as salt. "We will never—"

"We wait." Adam, leaning on the wall while Bernadette sounded out the situation, took her hand and squeezed it briefly. "We just wait until he's gone. I can use the break. It's a blessing, actually."

"But Dr.—"

"Everything will be all right."

"But—"

"Look at me, Bernadette. It's going to be all right."

She smiled, faintly, then opened the door again, just a slit.

A small sliver of light fell through the slit and down on the floor where it lay like a separation line between her and him—and so did the voice of Dr. Mabbs.

"Now I'm already awake, I can just as well look after the gut shot in room four. The Captain might need another dose of—"

The rest of the sentence was absorbed from the door Bernadette had hastily closed.

"Adam!"

He'd nearly cried. The worst had not been that their escape had been thwarted; the worst had not been that had Dr. Mabbs not checked on another soldier before he'd come to "the gut shot in room four" he'd have caught them right in the middle of said room four, like burglars or misbehaving children or escaping prisoners of war; the worst had not been that in their haste to get him out of his boots and pants and that ridiculous lumberjack shirt they'd aggravated his not yet healed wound, pulled open barely knitted flesh, torn overstretched skin—no, the worst had been none of those. The worst had been that he'd had to hobble all the way back, had to give back every gained foot, every hard-won inch, every goddamn step he'd made.

The way back had been even more taxing than the way to the door. Not only because he'd been worn out already—it was the thought that all his arduous labour had been for nothing, and the knowledge that even without the arrival of Dr. Mabbs their attempt at flight had been destined to fail.

They made it barely in time. Bernadette, having just secured the bundle of clothes they'd practically ripped from Adam under her wide skirt, was dabbing cold sweat from his face, when they heard the door open and Dr. Mabbs come in.

The bulky man walked through the room surprisingly noiselessly, paused somewhere and murmured something unintelligible, then moved back, softly speaking to himself, "Well, well, well. All is quiet."

And then Adam's notebook slipped through Bernadette's nervous fingers and landed on the floor with a crash that echoed through the silent room like thunder.

"What the deuce…?"

Dr. Mabbs's footfalls were much louder than before as they hurried to the back of the room. He was carrying a small oil lamp that sent out flickering vanguards of light and caught the hem of Bernadette's skirt, then wandered up to her frozen face.

"For God's sake, Nurse Lemont! You gave me the fright of my life." The doctor held the lamp higher, and the flames casted shadows on his face giving it an almost demonic expression. "What are you doing here in the darkness anyway?"

Bernadette's answer was a shaking finger pointing at Adam's leg that lay uncovered upon the blanket, its bandage a mess of blood and pus.

Dr. Mabbs suppressed a curse, and then, barking out orders Bernadette followed without asking twice, set himself to undress the wound, prodded and probed it and pressed out more pus. The pain outclassed everything Adam had experienced earlier that night, but he passed out only when the doctor started lancing the wound.

He woke from a stinging pain as his leg was dressed in fresh bandages. His mouth was dry and he felt the telltale signs of fever and fatigue that seemed to have become an integral part of his very being. His head was lifted, Bernadette, and then a glass touched his lips and he sipped cool, slightly bitter water. Laudanum. At least sleep will come easy.

"I don't know what you did to reopen that wound yet again," Dr. Mabbs said, only inches from his face.

Adam felt a fine spray of spit going down on his cheeks and, disgusted, tried to move his head, but the doctor held it in place.

"I don't know what it is," he hissed. "But I strongly advise you to stop it—even though this time it seems to have been a blessing because it opened a hidden abscess."

He let go of Adam's face and turned to Bernadette. "And I strongly advise you to stop anything that exceeds what is considered usual between nurse and patient. Now clean up and then go home. Your shift is over."

She had just nodded then, and silently watched Dr. Mabbs leaving, then had collected bloodstained cloths and surgical instruments in an enamel basin, and wiped the floor with a rag she thereafter had deposited it the basin, too.

Adam had tried to talk to her, but she'd given only short answers, never really interrupting her actions. In the end, after she'd taken the basin away, she'd come back wiping her hands on her apron, had sat down on the edge of his bed and heaved a deep breath before she'd said in a steady voice, "I love you, Adam. I won't do anything that'll bring harm to you."

He'd stared at her, stunned by her bluntness and moved by her sincerity. Overwhelmed by the enormity of her words. Speechless.

"But I will save you, and if it is the last thing I do." And then she'd leaned forward, taken his face in her hand and softly—oh, so softly—pressed her lips on his.

She'd gone right after the kiss, telling him he shouldn't fight the pull of the laudanum anymore and should just allow himself to sleep.

But he found he couldn't. He still felt her lips on his, still felt his heart beating quicker, the heat intensifying all over his body. He still felt her lithe body under his hands as he'd embraced her, her trembling and her softness. He still felt her hair tickling his face, her breath on his cheek. Still felt the want—and the shame about it.

He hadn't said it back, hadn't said he loved her, even though he did. He hadn't said it back, and he was ashamed of that, too. But he couldn't say it. He'd tried—but the words hadn't made it out of his mouth. He wondered if he'd ever said them, at any time in his life. He thought he'd loved before, but could he be sure?

He didn't know how he was supposed to live without the memory of those things. How he was supposed to assess his feelings when he had no memories to compare. How he was supposed to evaluate anything if he had no references from his past?

No doubt, a human being was more than just the sum of his memories. But without knowledge of his history, he felt bereft of his roots, of his base. As if the ground on which he was relying was a spit of quicksand: always threatening to give way—or to swallow him completely.

Bernadette tried to make him see the good in it. That he might be a blank page but didn't have to stay one. That he could just grab the chance and fill that page with a completely new story. That he didn't need an old history to write a new one.

She was right, in a way. But yet something kept him from writing the first word; something told him it was important to know what had been erased.

That dream, that ever recurring dream about the stormy sea and the pleading voice—that was important, Adam was sure of it. The person belonging to that voice, that familiar voice, she must be important. Somehow he was convinced that the key to his past lay in that person, that once he reached her, he would recognise her—and know.

Was she the reason he couldn't tell Bernadette he loved her? Was it that easy? Was there someone else in his life?

He touched his lips with a tentative finger, brushed over them, then made a fist and pressed it against his mouth. Closing his eyes, he let the feeling of something at his lips wash over him, the memory of Bernadette's kiss, gave it space…and time… And then he remembered another kiss. Another kiss, just as unexpected, just as exciting, just as…not-right. And a face: pretty like a porcelain doll, with a heart-shaped mouth and bright blue eyes that stared at him, wide and sad, as if he'd done something wrong.

She wasn't the woman from his dream, of that Adam was absolutely certain. The woman from his dream meant a lot; the disappointed porcelain doll meant surprisingly little to him. And yet, her image had come to him as he'd tried to find out if there was someone somewhere waiting for him. Was she trying to tell him that there was no one important? That loving Bernadette wasn't wrong?

With that comforting thought he finally gave in to the lure of the drug, and slipped into a healing sleep.

He started dreaming even before he was completely out, and his last conscious thought was to be surprised he wasn't caught in the stormy sea again but instead found himself in field of fragrant, full-blown cream-coloured roses. Queen de Bourbons.

ooOoo

One word
Frees us of all the weight and pain of life:
That word is love.
~ Sophocles

*River of pain in the ancient Greek mythology