The Maverick's Bride. Catherine Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ sucked in a great gulp of fresh sea air. The certain knowledge that she was needed propelled her toward the gangway. Racing past the row of Englishmen lining the ship’s guardrail, she started down the sodden wood ramp.

      Nearing the bottom, she assessed the situation. One of the African laborers knocked into the water had been rescued. He lay motionless on the pier. Pushing through a circle of agitated onlookers, Emma knelt beside the unconscious man. Her mind hastily reviewed the nursing instructions she had learned under the tutelage of Miss Florence Nightingale and Mrs. Sarah Wardroper, matron of St. Thomas’s Hospital.

      Sound and ready observation, Emma recalled Miss Nightingale repeating. Sound and ready observation. The first and most important tool for a good nurse.

      Stripping off her lavender kid gloves, Emma laid a hand on the man’s chest. He was breathing.

      “Thank God,” she whispered.

      Never let a patient be waked out of his first sleep, Miss Nightingale had instructed. But this man was not asleep. He had collapsed and was utterly insensible. What to do in such an emergency?

      And now Emma realized she had left her instruction manual in the cabin. Without Miss Nightingale’s Notes on Nursing to guide her, would she pass this first true test of her skills?

      Emma was no doctor and such a dire situation called for a physician. Aware of the crowd pressing around her, she ran her hands along the African’s limbs to check for distortion. He was dripping wet but not bleeding, insensible but whole. Yet, how to rouse him? How to restore him to consciousness?

      Miss Nightingale’s words flickered through her mind. Accurate observation. A certainty of perception.

      Emma’s fingers traveled swiftly across his skull and she noted a swelling near his ear. Yes, he had taken a blow—a serious one. As she watched the man breathe, her fear turned to resolve. At the least, she would do something to ease his suffering.

      She mentally cataloged the essentials for a patient’s comfort and healing. Pure water. Cleanliness. Light. Warmth. Effects of the loss of vital heat must be guarded against—especially in cases of collapse such as this.

      First and foremost, he needed fresh air.

      “Stand back,” Emma ordered the crowd jostling around them. “Please, someone fetch a pail of clean water. Cissy?”

      Before she could speak again, a pair of well-muscled arms slid beneath the man and lifted him from the ground.

      “Let’s get him out of the sun,” a deep voice rumbled.

      Emma glanced up in surprise to find the injured dockworker supported against the broad expanse of a leather-vested chest. Eyes the color of a rain-washed sky looked down at her from a face that might have been carved from oak. Although young, it had been worn into striking planes and hollows. The sun had burned it to a buckskin brown. A shock of black hair fell across the forehead and brushed the dark brows.

      Recognizing him as the man she had seen on the horse, Emma nodded. “He should be in the shade. But he needs fresh air, and we must keep him warm.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” The tall man turned from her, and the crowd parted as he strode toward a grove of palm trees.

      Her patient momentarily out of her care, Emma stared after the stranger. Clad as no man she had ever known, he wore trousers of a blue that might have been indigo once but had long since faded into a soft, light shade. They molded to his long legs as if almost a part of him. His thick brown leather boots were nothing like the soft leather spats and buttoned footgear her father sported. These had odd chunky heels, squared-off toes and silver spurs that spun when he walked.

      Her petticoats causing some difficulty, Emma stood from the wharf. As she started toward the palm grove, she noted that the stranger’s shirt was clean and white—brilliant in the afternoon sun—but it didn’t do the things a shirt was meant to do. It had somehow lost its stiffness, the collar hanging loose at his neck and the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

      Oddest of all was the man’s hat. Not a derby, a top hat or even a straw hat, this was made of jet-black felt, and it bore a wide, curling brim with a black leather band. The crown rose above his head, then dipped into a valley at the center.

      As Emma approached, she saw him place the injured African on a patch of cool white sand near his horse. Then he slid a wool blanket from behind the black saddle.

      “Emma, come quickly!” Cissy’s voice drew her attention. “They’ve taken the other one out of the water. No one will touch him.”

      Whirling away, Emma followed Cissy through the crowd to the second African, who lay among the debris of the shattered crate. His body, clothed only in a fabric of native weave tied at the waist, glistened with water. He was awake but bleeding from a deep slash across his arm.

      “Oh, Cissy, you know I’m not a surgeon,” Emma exclaimed, kneeling. “But we can’t wait for one. We must bind this wound without a moment’s delay.”

      She glanced up to find her sister’s normally rosy cheeks pale, eyes wide with trepidation. Realizing Cissy would be no help, Emma turned her attention to the injured man. With effort, she lifted his trembling shoulders into her lap.

      “I am here for you now,” she murmured. “With God’s help, I shall put you to rights.”

      Miss Nightingale abhorred the practice of cheering the sick by making light of their danger or by exaggerating their probabilities of recovery. A good nurse must be concise and decisive, she instructed her pupils. Any doubt or hesitation should be kept to oneself and never communicated to the patient. Yet, Emma believed kind words could never hurt.

      “Now, let me have a look at your arm,” she said gently. The man probably could make little sense of her English language, yet she prayed her tone and touch would suffice. As she lifted his wounded limb, he flinched and tried to pull away. The gash was deep.

      “I must bind your arm. I need a clean bandage. Can someone fetch a—”

      Observing the sea of dark faces surrounding her, Emma understood at once that she was alone in this effort. The crowd hung paralyzed, every eye focused on her.

      “What would Miss Nightingale say now?” she mused. In such a place as this, everything necessary to good patient care was unavailable. Shaking her head, Emma lifted the hem of her lavender skirt, grasped her cotton petticoat and tore off a wide strip. It would have to do. She wrapped the fabric around the man’s arm and tied the ends into a neat knot.

      “You must go home and wash this wound, sir. Use soap and hot water. Put on a clean bandage and then…” She paused and looked up again. Cissy had vanished, and the row of silent faces gaped at her. “Does anyone here speak English?”

      “I’ll talk to him for you, ma’am.” The oddly dressed gentleman shouldered his way through the crowd and knelt in the dust beside her. “Touching a dead man is against these folks’ religion. They’re afraid both fellows are going to die.”

      “Not if I can help it. Will you please tell this man something for me?”

      “If he knows Swahili.”

      “You’re American, aren’t you? I can tell by your manner of speech.” Emma looked up into the brilliant blue eyes. “At first I thought you might be СКАЧАТЬ