The Comfort Shack (2 page)

“Be quiet. I don’t want to hear your
self-serving blather. The mirror cost two pounds. Pay me.”

“But I have no money yet.”

“You don’t? Then why did you offer to
pay?”

“I will pay you as soon as I can. I
promise.”

“The promise of a whore. Now I feel better.”
Rebecca turned away from the girl and dug through her purse. She
pulled out two silver coins and handed them to the driver. “Place
another order with the captain the moment you return to the ship.”
The driver nodded.

Rebecca held the mirror to her face. The
crack split her brow to cheek, one half angled higher than the
other. The effect was grotesque. She squeezed the silver handle
until the blood left her hand and the mirror quivered.

“I’ll be waiting for my money,” she said. She
lowered the mirror and stormed off for home.

The sitting room window of the Commandant’s
Cottage faced the Comfort Shack. Rebecca had no choice but to
observe what happened there. Fights had become commonplace since
the Indian girl arrived. Libby would take the first half dozen or
so from the line and turn away the rest. Rather than bedding down
with one of the other girls, most soldiers went back to the
barracks and held onto their money hoping to be one of the lucky
ones the next day. Jonathan threatened to close down the Comfort
Shack if the men couldn’t behave, but confided to Rebecca that he
didn’t dare as morale would grow infinitely worse if he did.

The Indian whore left two quid on Rebecca’s
doorstep the morning after her first full night on the job. The
sight of the coins started Rebecca's blood boiling again. It was a
reminder she’d not have her mirror until spring.

Libby had made herself invisible, though the
signs of her presence were unmistakable. A line of men congregated
in front of the Comfort Shack as soon as the sun set. Libby refused
to work during the day and slept until nightfall.

A plague hit the fort that week. Rebecca
hadn’t seen the bodies; however her husband, Jonathon, spoke of it.
He had a gift for description that made her feel she had been
beside him at the time. Two men had died. The illness struck
quickly. Men who seemed healthy the day before, were found dead the
next morning, one in the parade ground, the other at his posts on
the wall. Dr. Harker had seen nothing like it. He assumed it was an
unknown disease of the New World. The corpses had puncture wounds
on their throats, but Harker assured they were not significant
enough to cause death. In fact, the wounds didn’t appear to have
bled at all. The doctor surmised the men were already dead when the
punctures were inflicted, and were likely caused by some sort of
nocturnal animal.

One evening, Rebecca sat in her rocker
knitting a sweater. A flash of red at the door of the Comfort Shack
caught her attention. If it had been the dingy jacket of an
enlisted man, she wouldn’t have noticed. But the color was vibrant
and clean, it screamed out like a signal fire. It was the coat of
an officer.

She didn’t sit at the window to spy. In the
afternoon, the location offered the best light for her knitting.
The man appeared wary and nervous in the jaundiced glow of the
porch lantern. It was while he checked to see if anyone was
watching that Rebecca saw his face. It was Lieutenant Bennett,
Beatrice Bennett’s husband, stepping inside. She was so distracted
waiting for Bennett to leave, that she had to back out two rows of
ruined stitches. Half an hour later, the door cracked open. After a
moment’s hesitation, the lieutenant sauntered out making a beeline
for his cottage as if nothing had happened.

The weight of Bennett’s secret pressed down
on Rebecca like a platen. Should she tell Beatrice? Would the woman
ever speak to her again if she did? Would she even be believed? She
hated being put in this awkward predicament. It was all the
Indian’s fault. Trouble had followed her from the very day she’d
arrived.

Rebecca eventually told Margaret Adams, the
Quartermaster’s wife. If she hadn’t confide in someone she would
have burst from the strain, and Margaret could keep a secret.
Within a week, the only wife in the fort who didn’t know was
Beatrice Bennett. Afterward, things went oddly quiet when Beatrice
was around.

Rebecca felt badly at first, but it did bring
the rest of the wives closer than ever. Rebecca warned the others
of everything that had happened since the Indian girl arrived. They
listened, but paid no heed. Millicent Potter thought the real issue
was Beatrice’s decision to sleep in separate beds. Harriet Harker
had heard from her husband that three more men had died of New
World plague, for a total of seven.

During the morning, temperatures plummeted.
Snow fell, first as sparkling dust, then later in large flakes that
looked like goose down falling from the sky. By evening it was
calf-high, and still men stacked up in line in front of the Comfort
Shack. They actually came running, trying to beat each other for
the first places in the queue.

Rebecca didn’t even pretend at her knitting
as she rocked in her chair. She left the lantern unlit while she
watched, as it made it easier to see outside from the darkened
room. The men were taken inside in turn. That night’s number was
five. The rest were dismissed two hours later, disappointed.
Shortly after the line dispersed, a figure slipped from the shadows
onto the porch of the Comfort Shack, and rapped lightly on the
door. It was Captain Potter, Millicent’s husband. Rebecca noted the
russet-skinned hand that slipped out from the open door, curled
around Potter’s neck, and drew him inside. There was no mistaking
who he was there to see.

When she told the wives at Harriet Harker’s
cottage, their faces turned grim. They took her seriously this
time. It was as if their eyes had been opened and they realized a
snake had entered the garden, a snake that could take what was most
dear to them at any time.

“What do we do?” It was Harriet Harker who
asked, but the eyes of all of them fell on Rebecca. She quickly
realized
we
wasn’t
we
at all. It was Rebecca. Rebecca
was married to the Commandant, and the Commandant had ultimate
control of the fort. He alone had the power to force the Indian
whore out. And Rebecca shared his bed and had his ear.
Responsibility fell to her to remedy the problem.

Rebecca left feeling worse than when she’d
arrived. She had gone to share her burden and warn her friends.
Instead, her burden had been doubled. She slogged across the parade
ground through the snow, her feet soaked and stinging cold, wishing
she had a pair of high boots like the soldiers. The blanket of snow
that had twinkled in the moonlight the previous night, so smooth
and pure, was now a trampled, filthy eyesore.

As she neared the chapel, she decided to stop
in to pray for guidance and strength. Inside she spotted Dr. Harker
sitting in the back pew with his head resting in his hands. He was
a tall man and lean. He looked as if he’d have trouble holding his
ground in a stiff wind. But Jonathon said he was the finest doctor
he’d ever met. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

Harker jolted at the sound of her voice, his
face pallid and creased with worry. When he recognized her, he
settled back into the pew and nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

“You look as though something is troubling
you.”

He gazed at her a moment as if considering,
and then let out an exasperated sigh. “I apologize if I have caused
you concern.” He stood to leave.

“Has it anything to do with the New World
plague?”

Dr. Harker cocked his head and stared at her
like an inquisitive bird. “You know of it?”

She nodded. “My husband and I speak
often.”

Harker remained silent as if digesting what
she’d said. When his face relaxed, Rebecca knew he would confide in
her, as he likely reasoned she would hear it later anyway. “Another
man died last night, and I fear it is no plague. Disease spreads.
One sick man begets two. Two begets four. Four begets eight, and so
on. This has not happened. It’s been the same week after week. One
victim each time. It doesn’t spread as it should. The victims are
healthy the evening before, and dead in the morning. And always two
or three a week. Never more. Never less. Therefore, I conclude it
is not a disease, and fear the devil is in our midst. I have come
to pray,” he said, “and I advise you to do the same.”

Rebecca felt uneasy the rest of the day. She
waited for Jonathon to come off duty. The snow began again. It fell
softly and straight down as if the Earth was holding its breath. It
fell so heavily Rebecca could barely make out the Comfort Shack.
She stacked more wood on the fire so the cottage would be warm for
her husband's return.

Jonathon looked weary when he arrived home.
He remained quiet through dinner. She hoped he'd bring up the
latest news, but he didn't. “I saw Dr. Harker in the chapel. He
told me there was another death.”

Jonathon glanced up and swallowed his food.
“Yes, we found another plague victim up on the wall. It appears he
died during his watch.”

“Dr. Harker says he no longer believes it's a
plague.”

Jonathon dropped his fork and wiped his mouth
with his napkin.

“Harker should keep his opinions to
himself.”

“Do you know he believes the devil walks
amongst us?”

“Yes, I know. I am also a God fearing man,
but I am not entertaining this foolishness. All that is unfamiliar
is not necessarily the devil's work.”

“It's the Indian. I know it is,” she said.
Jonathon’s face tensed into a frown. Rebercca continued. “Nothing
has been the same since she got here. The men fight. Soldiers are
dying. Married officers are sharing her bed.”

Her husband’s brows shot upward in surprise,
“What?”

“I know it's an offense and I don't want to
cause trouble for anyone, but I've witnessed it with my own two
eyes.”

“These are serious charges. The men involved
could be court marshaled and sent to the stockade. Is that what you
want?”

“No. I just want you to send that whore away.
You have the authority to do it.”

“On what grounds?”

“I told you.”

“Because men fight and some are dying of
sickness?”

“Because the fort is falling down around your
ears. The Indian girl is at the center of it. She is a pox that
threatens all of us.”

Jonathon stood and tossed his napkin on his
plate. “You have had it out for that girl from the moment she broke
your mirror. It was an accident. Let the matter go. I do not like
this aspect of your character. The Bible says to turn the other
cheek. It's good advice.” He strode off to the bedroom and left
Rebecca alone at the table.

By the time Rebecca finished the dishes and
dressed for bed, Jonathon was already asleep. She blew out the
lantern and crept under the blankets beside him. It was then that
she sensed he was awake.

She spoke in a low voice, “I have been
considering what you said. Perhaps you are right. I think I need to
forgive and let bygones be bygones.”

Jonathon rolled over and kissed her
forehead.

Rebecca woke during the night shivering. She
turned for Jonathon but the bed was empty. A dull silvery light
glowed through the curtains and lit the room in shades of gray and
black. She put on her housecoat and slippers, and made her way to
the front room. Jonathon wasn’t there. She checked the sitting
room. The snow had stopped and a fresh white blanket shimmered
under a full moon, its smooth billowy surface broken by a single
track of footprints leading from the cottage to the Comfort Shack.
She slumped into her rocker, woozy and unable to breathe.
This
just couldn’t be
. Her Jonathon was a man of honor. He would
never… There must be an innocent explanation. She could think of
none.

As she rocked, moonbeams played on the raised
filigree of her broken mirror. She plucked it off the bureau and
turned it over to see her own angry image twisted into that of a
gorgon. It was the whore’s fault, all of it. The mirror was heavy
in her hand, its handle as icy as she felt inside.

Movement drew her attention out the window.
Jonathon stood on the porch of the Comfort Shack holding the Indian
girl tight in his arms. He leaned down and kissed her with a
passion he hadn’t shown Rebecca in years. Rebecca narrowed her eyes
to slits and clenched her jaw until she thought her teeth would
crack. She stood and hurried to the bedroom. She stripped off her
housecoat and slippers, and slid into bed. When Jonathon entered,
she pretended to be asleep.

Rebecca waited until Jonathon snored. When
she felt sure he was sleeping soundly, she slinked out of bed, put
on her housecoat and slippers, collected the mirror, and crept out
of the house. She was careful through the snow to step in
Jonathon’s footprints and leave none of her own on her way to the
Comfort Shack. Snow bunched on her slippers and wedged inside. Her
feet were soaked and throbbed with cold by the time she reached the
porch. A board creaked when she climbed the stairs. She paused. The
house remained still. She stalked to the door and pressed her ear
to it. She heard nothing. She reached for the door handle and
hesitated. There was one thing to check first. She turned the
mirror in her hand and brought it down hard onto her palm, edge
first. She winced. The mirror definitely had heft and was solid
enough to make a serviceable weapon.

She took a deep breath and reassured herself
that it was no sin to kill a servant of the devil. She reached for
the door handle and it jerked from her hand. Libby stood in the
doorway, her dark eyes glistening in the moonlight. She scanned
Rebecca top to bottom.

“Mrs. Smythe, what are you doing about at
this time of night?” Libby looked down at the mirror and smirked.
“You weren’t planning to dash my brains out with that, were you?”
She smiled and reached for the mirror. She curled her fingers over
Rebecca’s hand. A tingle radiated up Rebecca's arm and she gasped.
Libby pinned her against the wall. She was so strong. Rebecca
couldn't move. Libby looked into her eyes and smiled. She pulled
Rebecca inside and closed the door.