Bloodline (5 page)

I tried over the next few moments to reassure her. But it became clear that she would not rest until she’d seen her brother for herself.

“Come,” I said, getting to my feet. “I will take you to him.”

Journal of
Lily Shaw

31ST
A
UGUST 1916

Oh, Mother, Father! Our John is injured! He is at the sanatorium here in Purfleet. I pray that you are looking down on him from heaven and sending your blessing for his recovery. I cannot lose him too! I’m told he’s almost healed from his physical injury, but a virulent fever from the trenches has robbed him of all reason.

Mary Seward, a girl from the village who now works at the sanatorium, brought me to him. She has been most kind to me during this terrible hour.

I arrived at John’s bedside and stared at the poor creature lying before me. The familiar features I love so well were stiff and startled, as if trapped beneath ice.

Tentatively, I touched his arm. He turned his head toward me but did not recognise me. At least, I hope it was not his beloved sister he saw, for he pulled away from my touch and scrambled into a hunched-up crouch on his bed, rocking rapidly—back and forth, back and forth.

Peering down at his fingers, he began feverishly crushing his fingertips and thumbs together, seeing something there that no one else could.

“You suck my blood,” he muttered. “I kill you and claim it back.”

Then he sucked his fingers greedily and sighed with what seemed like pleasure.

I stepped away, chilled and sickened. My darling John, whatever could have happened to him?

When the doctor came, he could give me little comfort. “Your brother is not a well man, Miss Shaw,” he said gravely. “This is one of the most severe cases of trench fever I have encountered.” Then, seeing my distress, his expression softened. “I feel confident he will recover, given time. And from what I’ve heard, your brother is lucky, considering …”

I stared at him, wondering what luck he could see in poor John’s condition.

“When Lieutenant Shaw was injured, his commanding officer carried him back from the enemy lines,” the doctor explained. “If the captain had left him, your brother would surely be dead.”

For a fleeting moment I wondered if it were better that John had died. Then reason flooded me with regret; at least I have him near me once more, and he must recover.

Mother, Father, your son is a fine, strong man. He will not be lost to this madness for long.

Your spirits guide me at this hour, and I know what I must do. I must write to John’s commanding officer—a Captain Harker, I believe John mentioned—and thank him
for his courageous act. If he is good enough to reply, I may find out what happened to John in France to so break his spirit.

Please, continue to watch over us both, as you have all these years. We have great need of your presence now.

Your loving daughter,
Lily                           

Journal of
Mary Seward

2ND
S
EPTEMBER 1916

I arrived on the ward early this morning to find another soldier in the bed John had occupied. Shock and grief tightened my chest. There was only one reason that I could fathom for this change: John had succumbed to his fever during the night.

I could not speak at first, but after a moment I gathered myself and turned to Sister. “What has happened to Lieutenant Shaw?” I asked her.

Sister looked up from her desk. “Doctor had him moved to the secure wing in the night. His ravings were disturbing the other patients, who have their own nightmares to contend with.”

Relief flooded through me. It was as if my heart had resumed beating.

Then the weight of Sister’s words reached me. I paled at the thought of John in the secure wing—that dark corner of
the hospital, where the worst of Father’s patients had been locked in cells for safety.

“The secure wing?” I asked. “But Lieutenant Shaw is fevered, not insane.”

Sister shook her head. “I am sorry. It is for the lieutenant’s own sake as well as that of the others. Doctor’s orders.”

I frowned. The grim aspect of the wing could only worsen John’s condition, which had seen precious little progress since his arrival.

Yet I dared not voice my disagreement.

“May I go and see him?” I asked.

“Once you’ve emptied the bedpans,” Sister replied firmly. She looked down at her files, and I knew she had finished with me.

I worked as quickly as I could and, before long, was knocking on the locked door of the secure wing. Sommers, the aged attendant, opened it. I told him whom I was there to see.

“Follow me, Miss Mary. He’s in Renfield’s room.” Sommers lumbered down the corridor toward the room where John was imprisoned. Ever the storyteller—Sommers had regaled me in my youth with the most unsettling of tales from the ward. Though my mother disapproved, each one thrilled and surprised me.

Despite the fact that I was now grown, I knew he was eager for another chance. I felt grateful for his comforting presence in this dreary place and so indulged him.

“Renfield?” I asked. “Who is that?”

“Man of that name occupied the cell—many years ago now, afore you was even born,” Sommers explained. “A strange case, he was. Killed hisself in the end. Broke his neck. Your father never used the cell again—right up to the day he retired. Me and the rest of the men used to wonder if Renfield’s spirit was still there—haunting the thing for the rest of eternity.”

I gazed up into his face. He gave me a wink and a smile.

We finally reached a small door at the end of the hall. I peered through the iron bars and found John sitting on a small iron bedstead, the only furniture within the padded cell.

He was sitting up now, I noted. Gaining strength. His body was healing. I could only hope the same was true of his mind.

I watched for as long as I dared. Clearly something was troubling him, for his gentle features held a look of confusion. He stared intently into nothingness, occasionally gesturing, as if he saw something there.

Suddenly he spoke. “It is most odd, Jenkins. The trench walls have become soft and clean. Can you see? I keep looking for the mud, but can find none.”

Then his expression darkened. His eyes grew wild. “I can still smell the rats, though. Can you smell them, Jenkins? The rats … and the blood … and
death!”

He grasped his head in his hands. Then lay back on his pillow. “I hear cries out in no-man’s-land. But I cannot find a
ladder. Help me get to them! Jenkins, help me!” he screamed.

I turned away, unable to bear seeing him like this.

Sommers placed a rough hand on my shoulder. “Been repeating those things since they brought him,” he said gently. “Poor chap.”

It seemed natural to give in to despair. Yet I knew I must not.

John was improving and if he was to improve further, he must be removed from this horrible place.

And so I have made a vow to do everything within my power to see Lieutenant Shaw well again. No matter what I must do to help him.

Report of Dr. McLeod,
Purfleet Sanatorium

Patient John Shaw, Lieutenant, no. 467842

Volunteer Mary Seward has shown a special interest in this patient, and since she is a calm and sensible girl, I have assigned her to his care. She will report back to me on the patient’s behaviour.

DM, 2 September 1916

Journal of
Mary Seward

8TH
S
EPTEMBER 1916

I have been visiting John Shaw in the secure wing for nearly a week now. When I look into John’s face, I know that he is in great need of me. I feel that I am the only one who can reach him.

In the time we have spent together, I have grown to understand his delirium. I have attempted to bring him back into reality gradually, so as not to overtax his mind. I feel strongly that we are making progress.

L
ATER

Sommers was in a rare, ill-tempered mood when I arrived at the door to the wing this morning. “A rat got in through the window of ’is cell,” he told me sourly.

I wondered if he blamed me for the rat’s intrusion. It was I who had left the barred window open, in the hope that the sweet scents of an English summer might help restore Lieutenant Shaw to his senses.

I heard a high-pitched squealing from his cell as Sommers led me down the corridor.

“Caught it with his bare hands,” he muttered, barely disguising the disgust in his voice. “I tried to get him to drop it, but he won’t let go.”

I peered through the bars of the lieutenant’s cell in disbelief. As Sommers had said, he was holding a large rodent by its tail.

Lieutenant Shaw shrieked with laughter as the rat struggled to free itself. “Jenkins! Hurry up with that bayonet!” he shouted. “This is a fine fat specimen.”

I grasped the locket that hung around my neck, pity and revulsion vying in my breast. I took a deep breath and gathered my senses. “Unlock the door,” I told Sommers. “And fetch a porter.”

Sommers began to argue. “But Miss Mary, you can’t. I—”

“Do it!” I commanded. “Quickly.”

Sommers turned the key in the lock, then hurried away for help.

As I entered the cell, John caught sight of me. “Have you brought it, Jenkins?” he demanded. “I want to spear the damn thing. We’ll roast it tonight.”

“Lieutenant,” I urged. “Let the rat go. Let it out of the window.”

“What!” he exclaimed. “And waste a perfectly good meal? Are you mad? Hand me your bayonet!”

“I don’t have one,” I explained as calmly as I could. “And I am not Jenkins.”

“Then fetch him!” John shrieked. He cursed until the porter arrived, Sister following close behind him.

“What’s going on here?” Sister demanded. “Porter, restrain this patient and take that vile creature away!”

The porter stalked forward.

Lieutenant Shaw backed into a corner, his eyes fearful at the thought of someone stealing his catch.

“No! Don’t upset him,” I implored. “Please. I can reach him. I know I can.”

Sister’s tone grew impatient. “Miss Shaw, this is no time for games. Leave the lieutenant’s cell this instant.”

I ignored her command and turned my eyes to John. Holding his gaze as best I could, I called to him softly. “Give the creature to me,” I said. “Jenkins will take it away and kill it for us.”

“Can we roast it?” he asked, his eyes lighting up.

“Yes,” I lied.

He looked distrustfully from me to the porter, who nodded. “I’ll take it away and cook it up just how you like it, sir.”

I felt perspiration gather on my brow. The filthy creature in John’s grasp twisted and gnashed its sharp teeth.

Slowly, slowly John held out the struggling rat.

I gingerly lifted it from his fingers and handed it—still dangling it by the tail—to the porter. He carried it from the room, shaking his head.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Sister regarded me for a moment with admiration in her eyes. Then she spoke, more gently this time. “I’m afraid we will still have to restrain him, Miss Seward. He is clearly beyond all sense.”

Her words struck me like a blow. “But why? I can reach him. And he has hurt no one!”

“Mary, he is a danger to himself,” she pointed out. “What if that rat had bitten him? The lieutenant doesn’t need blood poisoning to add to his woes.”

I nodded, fighting back tears. How could I disagree?

As Sommers held John down on the bed Sister strapped one of his wrists to its frame.

“No! No! No!” he yelled. “Do not leave me with Private Smith!”

I tried to soothe him—smiling despite my despair. “Hush now, Lieutenant. We will not leave you.” I bent and, as tenderly as I could, fastened the other strap.

“What is happening?” John asked me, his voice softening, a look of confusion on his fine face. “Please, tell me what is going on?”

“It is just for a while,” I whispered. “Just a short while … ”

10TH
S
EPTEMBER 1916

I am relieved to see the soft leather bands only chafe John’s skin a little. Distressing though it is to see him this way, it is
almost more upsetting to see what it does to poor Lily.

When she arrived to visit him yesterday, I warned her as gently as I could. But as I pushed open the door and she saw for herself, she gasped and swayed on her feet. I ushered her from the room so that she might catch her breath.

Tears streamed down her cheeks and she turned her face away. “Oh, Mary, I can’t bear to see him brought so low!”

“Please don’t despair, Lily,” I begged, grasping both her hands in mine. “This isn’t really your brother—it’s just his fever. We will have him back. I know it.”

Lily looked at me, lifting her wet lashes to stare at me hopefully. “I believe you care for him, Mary. And so I trust your words.”

I flushed with embarrassment at Lily’s directness—and at my own transparency. I longed to explain my feelings but could not find the words.

Luckily, Lily required no explanation. “Tell me, Mary, when the fever passes…?”

“He will be the brother you have always known and loved,” I promised, hoping with all my heart it was true. “You must not give up. Lieutenant Shaw needs you to be strong.”

Lily nodded. “Then I shall be.” She slipped her hands from mine, wiped her eyes, and returned to the cell.

She shed hardly a tear as she sat at his bedside. She tried so hard to be brave and cheerful, but I saw her tears once more as she bade me goodbye.

How terrible it must be to have a loved one treat you as a stranger.

I must confess to feeling something of this myself. For Lily is right. I have come to care for John Shaw—yet I’m not sure he even knows I exist.

16
S
EPTEMBER 1916

John remains locked in his own dark world. But today, as I left his cell, he commented, “I believe we’ve been visited by an angel, Jenkins. Did you see her golden hair? Her hands were so soft…. I wish she would stay….”

His words made my heart swell. I know that every day we are together, he moves further from the horrors that pursue him.

LONDON CHRONICLE

18TH SEPTEMBER 1916

Letter from
Captain Quincey Harker

THE ARMY AND NAVY CLUB
36-39 PALL MALL
LONDON
18TH SEPTEMBER 1916

Dear Miss Shaw,

How gracious of you to write. Your letter caught up with me here at my club in London, as I left the front shortly after your brother’s own departure. I have business at the Foreign Office and shall be in England for some while.

I assure you I could have done no less than save your brother’s life and know it was his dearest wish to return home to his beloved sister.

It is good to hear that John is getting the best of care at Purfleet Sanatorium. It sounds as though he is in good hands. You make Miss Seward sound like a guardian angel.

I plan to visit John shortly and do hope that I shall have the pleasure of meeting you as well.

Yours sincerely,             
Captain Quincey Harker

Journal of
Mary Seward

20TH
S
EPTEMBER 1916

John was particularly restless today, twisting himself into his sheets and struggling against his restraints. I didn’t want to leave him and asked Sommers to take a message to Father on his way home. I scribbled a few lines, telling him that I would be working late. Father does worry so.

As the evening drew on, John seemed to be experiencing something of a crisis. I sat with him, bathing his flushed face with cool water, trying to calm him. I was glad that I had persuaded Lily to go home. She would have been beside herself if she’d seen him suffering like this.

But then John’s breathing altered, deepened. I feared what new change in him this might signify. I felt his forehead and, to my surprise, found it cool. And as I withdrew my hand John opened his eyes.