Chapter Eight

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 11, 1871

When Meg was a child and learning to read at home after her schoolmistress called her hopeless, she had pointed to each word as her father read it and memorized the shapes of entire words and phrases rather than individual letters. They practiced for so long during the day that after going to bed at night, words stamped themselves on her closed eyelids. Once. Upon a time. There lived. What a torture of concentration it had been to assign meaning to those shapes.

The words that marched across her consciousness now held meaning she struggled to grasp. Home gone. Hiram dead. Murdered. Beside her, Stephen mumbled the impossible phrases. Meg knew he was trying to make sense of them too.

She could not tell if sorrow—both his and hers—added to or overshadowed the pain in her hands.

Sitting on the floor of the ravaged church they now called home, Meg gazed at the gothic arches above where the altar had been, and imagined the stained-glass panes that used to gild the walls. In her mind’s eye, she saw color and shapes, beauty and light, the story of redemption in a portrait of Christ on a heavenly throne, His scarred hands outstretched in victory over the grave. Just because the windows had been shattered in a fire that destroyed Chicago did not mean Christ was not still on His throne. Just because Hiram Sloane had been murdered . . .

Christ was still on the throne, she repeated to herself. Her own scarred hands aching, she squeezed her eyes shut, as shocked and grieved over the news as she had been yesterday when she’d learned it. There had been no good-bye, no warning. Had Hiram been afraid and confused? Did he suffer? Why would anyone kill the poor man?

Shifting on the stone floor beneath her, she opened her eyes, noticed Stephen had finally drifted into an uneasy doze, and looked past Sylvie, down the line of others waiting for the doctor’s care. There were at least two hundred refugees in this church alone. Though most of them wore donated clothes distributed by the Chicago Relief and Aid Society, the smell of unwashed bodies was strong. Several people gripped rosaries or crucifixes as they waited, their dry lips moving in silent prayer. Others engaged in lively conversation around the fire.

“What else could it be but God’s judgment on a sinful city rife with vice and crime?” one asked.

“No, no, you’re looking at it all wrong. What you see as judgment, I see as mercy. It’s a chance to rebuild this city even better than before.” A ball rolled close to the speaker, and he sent it back to a dozen children playing in the open sanctuary, where wooden pews had burned away.

“Mercy?” A third man jumped in. “What you mean is opportunity. Leave it to Chicago to turn tragedy into a way to make money and show up New York at the same time.”

Sylvie leaned over the bulging pillowcases wedged between her and Meg. “Let me roll up your sleeve. The doctor is almost here.” Nimbly, she worked her fingers over the sleeve until Meg’s upper arm was exposed.

Meg’s nerves stood on tiptoe as the visiting physician introduced himself as Dr. Dennis Gilbert and administered a smallpox vaccine to her sister. His greyish-white hair signaled years of experience, and the gentleness of his manner was comforting. Then it was Meg’s turn, and she watched the needle slide into her arm and back out again.

“Dr. Gilbert,” she said, lifting her hands. Her bandages were rags by now, blackened and falling apart.

“So I see.” The waxed tips of his mustache drooped as he frowned. The sweet smell of pipe tobacco lifted from his paisley vest. “The nature of the injury?”

Briefly, she told him.

“I don’t suppose any unguent or oil or liniment was applied before the burns were wrapped?”

Sylvie’s brow knotted. “There was no time, we had to—”

“I understand,” he interrupted, producing a bottle and holding it to Meg’s lips. “This will go easier if you have a drink of this. Two big swallows. I wish I had laudanum to offer you.”

It must have been whiskey, for she’d never felt such a burning on her tongue or down her throat. She coughed and sputtered. Sweat beaded her hairline.

Meg hadn’t even caught her breath before Dr. Gilbert unwound the bandage from her left hand until he reached the portion stuck to her wounds.

“You’ll feel some discomfort.” Then he peeled the linen away, taking pieces of burned flesh with it. A yellowish substance mixed with blood on hands that looked leathery, a blend of dark red and brown. “That’s serous fluid. It’s normal.”

She shut her eyes and turned her head, gritting her teeth. She shouldn’t have looked.

Beside her, Stephen awoke with a start. “What are you doing to her?” he fired at the doctor.

“Only what must be done, sir. If we had more time, and water at our disposal, I would take more care and bathe these burns properly.”

Stephen bristled. “Do you mean you’re treating her improperly? Do we have gangrene to look forward to now?”

Meg cringed at the mention but did not miss the sentiment behind it. That her father should express concern for her was an unlooked-for kindness. That it had grown rare enough to gain her notice, when before the war it had been as common as breath, was too tender a truth to dwell upon. She released the thought as one removed pressure from a bruise.

Dr. Gilbert began unbinding her right hand. “Be at peace, my good man. I am doing all I can.”

“This one doesn’t hurt nearly as much as my left,” Meg told him. Still, she didn’t watch as he exposed it. Neither did Sylvie, who caught and steadied Meg’s gaze instead.

The pause that followed could not have been more than a few seconds. Yet it was enough to kindle uncertainty.

“Your left hand has sustained a deep second-degree burn. But your right hand . . .” The doctor’s tone had shifted subtly yet distinctly.

Practiced in studying faces, she saw in the pull of his mouth and the sideways flick of his gaze that he was preparing what he would say next, and that she ought to prepare herself too. Dread vibrated through her.

“In your right hand, there is a section of third-degree burn that covers the underside of your thumb, index finger, and part of the palm beneath the middle finger before the third-degree burn fades to second-degree. That is why you don’t feel pain there. The wound went so deep, the nerves have been damaged.”

She heard him. But only as one heard a voice from the other side of a long tunnel. A flash of heat made her dizzy. Questions rose to the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them, not ready to hear what level of functionality could or could not be recovered. She would nurse hope and determination instead. Had she not also been told that she would never learn to read or figure sums? Those dismal predictions proved wrong. Even so, a chill danced down her spine.

“What’s next, doctor?” As gentle as her voice, Sylvie’s arm came behind Meg’s shoulders.

From his case, Dr. Gilbert pulled out a jar of ointment and began spreading it over her hands. Only the second-degree burns protested his touch. “We’ll bind you up again. If you can come by any laudanum, you should take it for the next three days to help manage the pain, especially before you change your dressings, which you must do daily. Just unwrap your hands, soak them in water for a bit to wash them, and wrap them up again. I’m afraid I have no unguent to spare.”

“But when will she be better?” Sylvie asked, a catch in her voice. “That is, when will her bandages no longer be needed?”

“For the left hand, in two or three weeks. The right hand will need them a few weeks longer. Follow up with me at the North Division free clinic in a week or ten days if I don’t see you again here.”

“And then? What about scarring?” Sylvie pressed. “It won’t interfere with normal function, will it? At least in the left?”

The doctor finished applying the ointment, then wrapped her wounds with fresh linen. “Oh, certainly she’ll be scarred even in the left hand. But the severity, and how it will affect daily life, remains to be seen.”

The way they discussed her fate in front of her but not with her made Meg feel oddly, mercifully, detached from it.

Dr. Gilbert moved on to Stephen. “All right, sir, your turn. If you’ll just roll up your sleeve.”

Instead, Stephen stood and stepped away, sending a broken shard of slate skittering across the floor. The sound stirred Meg’s attention, unfocused at the edges though it was.

“Sir?” the doctor said.

“All these people.”

“Yes, and they are all waiting for my services. So if you’ll just allow me to quickly administer the vaccine. . . .”

Stephen tugged the end of his beard, then tapped the side of his leg. “Too many people. I can hardly breathe in here.” Wind swept through the open windows, ruffling his unkempt hair.

The men who had been debating the cause and benefits of the fire broke off their conversation to listen. One woman quietly tucked her rosary away and watched.

“Father, just let the doctor give you the shot, and then you can go for a walk,” Sylvie told him. The curfew would start in a few hours and was strictly enforced, but he had plenty of time before then.

A storm was brewing inside Stephen, if Meg didn’t miss her guess. She ought to soothe him, but just now she couldn’t think how.

Dr. Gilbert’s eyebrows pulled together. “I must insist. The mayor has mandated the vaccine to prevent an epidemic of smallpox. Such crowded, unsanitary conditions create an environment that breeds disease.”

“I am familiar with crowded, unsanitary conditions,” Stephen ground out. “I know full well how environment breeds disease. Ever heard of a place called Andersonville?”

Understanding softened the doctor’s features. But before he could form a reply, a loud voice called out.

“Stephen Townsend? I’m looking for Stephen Townsend. Anybody seen him?” Two police officers stood in the church doorway. A pit expanded inside Meg’s stomach.

Stephen wheeled around to address them. “Who wants to know?”

“That’s him,” someone in the line cried. “That’s Stephen Townsend right there.”

Both policemen marched toward them, faces implacable. Sylvie stood and helped Meg do the same. She swayed, the heat of the alcohol rushing to her head.

“What’s this about?” She hated that her voice sounded weak.

They ignored her. The tall officer identified himself as McNab and the more robust officer as O’Hara. “Stephen Townsend, formerly of 133 Randolph Street?”

Stephen felt for the gun he’d lost. Sweat glistened on his face and neck. “So you’ve come for me at last. In a church, no less. I plead sanctuary.”

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Hiram Sloane.”

Shock ripped through Meg. Sylvie clutched her about the waist.

“What?” Stephen shouted. “That’s a lie! You’ve got the wrong man.”

“And yet you seemed to know we would come for you. Interesting, you didn’t seem much surprised.”

Meg was going to be sick. Policemen now stood at every door, barring any escape. “What evidence do you have?” she asked.

“Hold him.” Officer O’Hara drew handcuffs from his pocket.

Stephen lunged away, but there were too many people blocking his path. McNab struck his knee with a club.

“Stop!” If Meg’s hands were not wrapped, she would claw at these men to make them stop. Meanwhile, Sylvie said nothing.

Her father was doubled over, coughing, unable to run away. In a heartbeat, his wrists were yanked behind him and cuffed.

“Don’t do this! I demand to know what evidence you have to make such a ridiculous charge!” Meg tried to clench her fists, then gasped at the wave of pain that followed.

Stephen twisted violently against his captors and was rewarded with a blow to his temple that felled him to his knees.

“Stop! Stop, I beg you!” Meg cried.

Dr. Gilbert finally intervened. “Officers, you have your man in custody. Can’t you show his daughters the courtesy of explaining why?”

O’Hara looked at Meg, his gaze directly on her level. “An eyewitness told us he saw Stephen Townsend kill Sloane in a rage the night of the fire, October 8.”

“No, no,” Meg said. “They were friends.”

“Yeah, about that,” McNab said, standing over her father. “We spoke to the deceased’s nephew, Jasper Davenport. He says, and the household staff confirmed, that during a meal you all shared on Sunday, October 1, Townsend had some kind of outburst. Isn’t that true?”

Meg’s throat felt lined with fleece.

“Furthermore, the articles in the Tribune say this man became unhinged in Andersonville.”

“That’s not right.” Anger eclipsed the pain in Meg’s hands and clarified her thoughts. “The article by Nathaniel Pierce said absolutely nothing about him becoming unhinged. The letter to the editor that followed was hearsay and libel, nothing more.” She looked to Sylvie for help. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

But Sylvie’s countenance was as pale and lined as a ledger sheet. “What can I possibly say that will make this better?” she hissed. “If I could offer some defense on his behalf, don’t you think I would?”

One of the men waiting for his vaccination stood and pointed. “I saw him the night of the fire. He was hiding under his cart, and when I approached it, he came out and held his gun in my face. He called me a Rebel and threatened to shoot.”

“Because you were about to steal my cart!” Stephen roared, then winced, tilting his head. “What has the world come to if a man can’t even protect his own property from thieving Rebels?” Sweat poured from his temples. His shirt collar grew dark and damp. Even the children had stopped playing to gawk.

“Someone will take that witness’s statement shortly. What do you think, doctor?” O’Hara asked. “Is this a clear case of another veteran who’s lost his marbles? It wouldn’t be the first time we locked one up for being a danger to society.”

Unsteadiness washed over Meg. She wanted to protest, to shout that her father was no threat. But he’d just admitted to aiming a gun at one of the men in this room. There was something wrong with him, something mysterious and perpetual, something she hadn’t been able to fix with love and time and willpower.

Dr. Gilbert twisted one end of his mustache. “It is my observation among my patients at the Soldiers’ Home that veterans who were also prisoners of war suffer the greater percentage of mental breakdowns. They have trouble trusting people. Does that amount to lunacy? Not always. But their suspicions interfere with their relationships and daily life, as they are convinced someone is out to get them.”

“And I was right.” Stephen blinked excessively. “I was right.”

“Many of these veterans are fearful and verbally combative,” Dr. Gilbert continued, “but not all are prone to physical violence.”

“This one is.” O’Hara pulled from his pocket a Colt revolver with the handle burned off.

“That’s mine!” Stephen cried, and Meg’s knees threatened to give way. “Look at the side, it says SJT. Stephen James Townsend. I must have dropped it. I don’t remember.”

“Another common trait in this type of patient,” Dr. Gilbert added. “They can experience or create a traumatic episode—as though a blinding fury overtakes their being—and then genuinely not have any recollection of it.”

“Well, lucky for us, someone else remembered it.” O’Hara tucked the evidence back in his pocket. “You didn’t drop it, you buried it. Another witness told us where to find it.”

“Wait, stop.” Meg’s thoughts whirled to keep up. “That can’t be right. We buried our valuables, and they were saved from the fire. But that gun is warped, the handle burned away. It couldn’t have been buried. Your so-called witnesses can’t be believed.”

“The witness clarified that your father did not bury it well.” O’Hara smirked. “He was in a hurry to get rid of it and made a shallow hole with his hands. When the fire came, it wasn’t enough to protect it. When we found it, it was buried in ashes at the location the witness told us.”

“I tell you I have no recollection of doing that,” Stephen insisted. “But if I’d wanted to get rid of the gun, I’d have thrown it to the flames or into the river, and we’d never have seen it again.”

He was right. This was wrong.

“Enough chatting.” McNab hauled Stephen to his feet. “We have more criminals to arrest, looters to catch, and convicts to find, since the jail was opened the other night.” Shaking his head, he made a scuffing sound against his teeth.

With O’Hara gripping Stephen’s other arm, the officers marched him out of the church.

“Where will you take him?” Sylvie called after them.

McNab paused, angling to look over his shoulder. “Where do we take all the criminally insane?”

“No.” All hostility fled Stephen’s voice, replaced by breathless terror. “Not there. Don’t lock me up in that place. I swear I didn’t kill Hiram Sloane.”

Instinctively, Meg started after them, but Dr. Gilbert and Sylvie held her back.

“Stop, Meg.” Tears coursed down Sylvie’s cheeks. “There’s nothing we can do. It’s over.”

“It isn’t.” And yet Meg’s voice sounded as hollow as those empty words, for this moment was weighted with a finality like death. There had been a ripping in her soul the day Ruth was laid to rest, a searing knowledge that she’d never see her mother again, that the relationship of mother and child had been cruelly severed. There had also been guilt, for if Meg had known Ruth intended to climb to the roof in a storm, she would have stopped her. While she still ached over the loss, there was some comfort in the fact that Ruth was at peace now in heaven, a place free of tears, sickness, and sorrow.

How broad the chasm between heaven and earth. Stephen was not headed to a grave, but just as he’d lost part of himself in the war, he would be whittled down even further in the asylum.

Had this been inevitable? Was there ever a time after Stephen came home, some unseen crossroads, where they could have taken a different path that would have led anywhere but the asylum? Perhaps early treatment could have prevented all of this confusion and heartache. Guilt wrapped around Meg and squeezed until she struggled to draw breath.

Bracing herself, she waited for Sylvie to say she’d known it would come to this, that Meg had been mulishly blind and deaf to the signs. Sylvie could cut her to pieces with blame. By some measure of grace, she didn’t.

“All the news Father received of old friends and their ends,” Sylvie whispered, still holding Meg’s arm. “Do you think he knew it foreshadowed the course his life would take?” Her voice broke.

Meg looked at her sister’s reddened nose and tear-stained cheeks and grasped for an answer that would not crush them both. Some paths turn around, she wanted to say. He could still come back to us. The ache in her left hand pulsed in rhythm with the jerks of her heart. Her right hand hung dead and absent. Wounds can yet heal in both body and soul.

But all she could do was weep.