The Doctor's Mission

Chapter Three

Mary’s new boots had rubbed an angry blister on her right foot. The second day on the trail and her old boots were a fond memory whose faults she’d forgotten. She should’ve taken care to break the new ones in better before this trek. If the caravan didn’t stop for a midday break soon, she would be forced to ask for one. The risk of infection from an untreated blister in this humidity was high. Memories of field amputations flooded her brain, and she shuddered.

“Are you getting sick?” William asked, right at her back.

Mary almost jumped out of her own skin to stand beside herself. How did he do that? She could have sworn he was several places back. She would never get used to the noise of the jungle animals, the way it covered the most mundane sounds.

“I’m as healthy as the proverbial horse. Why do you ask?”

“You were shivering. While you may have had malaria as a child, you must know it frequently recurs. Often with no real warning.”

He, the pastor, was lecturing her, the physician, on malaria? “While I may not remember much from my personal experience, I’m perfectly aware of the disease and its ongoing nature. Medical school, even for females, was not a social experience.”

The short laugh from behind her was edged with bitterness. “You don’t know malaria until you have actually seen its devastation in this land.”

The intensity of his answer held her unruly tongue for her. Who had he lost to bring such pain to his voice? He probably wouldn’t appreciate her asking.

William edged past her while she answered. “Rest assured, I am not experiencing any symptoms of the disease.”

His back to her, he lengthened his strides to move ahead. “Speaking of rest, we will be stopping for a thirty-minute period shortly. Be prepared to march again after we’ve eaten.”

“Thank goodness,” she murmured. She didn’t want to start limping and be subject to more of a lecture. Both their tempers had been edging toward a real fandango.

It was bad enough the gunshot last night had affected her. The constant barrages at Argonne initially hardened her. But since her brother Jeremy’s death, she heard every shot in a new way. She would have been useless for frontline hospitals if the Armistice hadn’t come. She’d covered up her reaction last night, but she didn’t need to give this reluctant missionary guide another chance to look down on her and see weakness.

A long half-hour later, the caravan halted. Lunch was a quick and quiet repast of cold rice, absent monkey meat. No William in sight either, giving her time to tend her blister.

Sitting on a fallen tree at the edge of the path with Clara, Mary unfastened her panniers, the leg coverings she still wore for protection from mosquito bites, and unlaced her left boot, carefully removing her sock. An angry red swelling on the outside of her small toe brought a hissed intake from Clara.

“That’s not good.”

Mary forced a smile in Clara’s direction. “I know. Do you think you can get me my small pack?”

Clara returned, pack in hand. “It doesn’t look infected.”

Mary agreed. She used gauze and canteen water to clean the blister and applied a small plaster for protection. Mindful of the imminent call to move, she reached for her discarded sock.

“Uh, Mary?” Clara tipped her head to indicate Pastor Mayweather’s approach.

She tried to stuff her foot in the sock, but didn’t succeed before the pastor got an eyeful of her exposed bandage.

“Is there a problem?” His deep rumble easily crossed the short distance between them.

“No, no problem at all.” Mary pulled the sock snug and reached for her boot.

In one swift movement, William snatched the boot from her hand and squatted in front of her, concern across his face. “Take off the sock.”

“No. I have a small blister and I’ve taken care of it. I’m not going to waste my plasters to satisfy your curiosity.” She stretched her hand out for her boot.

“Blisters in the jungle are serious. Any open wound is.”

If only she could get to her feet. He obviously meant well, but she still had an urge to knock him off his know-it-all hobby horse. “Medical school managed to cover both malaria and minor scrapes in my training.”

“Too bad your training didn’t extend to proper footwear. Those shiny new boots will probably rub both of your feet raw before we reach Nynabo.” William stood, forcing her to crane her neck to look up. He held out her boot. “You need to take the hammock chair. Let your foot heal.”

Mary laced her boot and Clara handed over her pannier, looking amused over the whole exchange. Mary joined the hooks and stood. She was so close that she could easily breathe in his earthy scent. “I’m perfectly capable of walking.” Even to her, the irritation in her voice sounded petulant.

The corner of his mouth turned up and he inclined his head. “Obviously. Otherwise you wouldn’t have a blister.”

He made no move to step back and put a more polite distance between them, causing her an awareness of his nearness she hadn’t expected. She stared up into eyes that turned serious.

“Please, Dr. O’Hara. I would appreciate it if you would take my advice on this matter. Even if I do know more of the Bible than medicine.” He stepped aside and motioned to her hammock-chair bearers.

Mary’s first thought was to refuse. His eyebrows knitted in concern as he waited for her decision. His plea seemed genuine without any hint of an order behind it. She took a couple of steps and decided the hammock chair it would be.

The smile that lit the faces of her bearers surprised her. “Carry Mammy Doctor? Yes. Yes.”

Their enthusiasm was such that it occurred to her she might have offended them by refusing their services before. Only the depth of her ignorance of the pidgin they spoke kept her from inquiring further.

When the call came to move on, two eager men bore the poles on their heads, and Mary climbed into the canvas conveyance. She was soon fast asleep from the rhythmic sway and the sound of drums in the distance, tattooing out a deep bass beat.

A sudden stop broke her rest and Mary woke, embarrassed at having slept while others labored to carry her.

“Pastor, Pastor.” Cries from the front of the caravan, all of which had come to a screeching halt, reached Mary’s ears. She sat up and glanced around. Through an opening in the canopy, she could see the tropical sun hanging low in the sky. She must have slept for hours.

A few feet behind her, Clara was standing near her chair, taking advantage of the opportunity to stretch. Mary did the same. William pushed his way back from several spots forward. When he came level with her, she asked, “What’s going on?”

He ignored her and gave instructions to her bearers in a staccato native dialect. The narrowing of his eyes, the tightness around his mouth, both coupled with the insistent tone to her bearers, needed no translation. Her stomach tightened.

He started to walk off once he finished talking, but Mary grabbed his arm. “I asked you what is wrong?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself about. Just wait here and follow any instructions your bearers give you.” He pulled his arm from her grasp and moved away.

“I am not a child to be either coddled or ignored, Pastor Mayweather.”

“No,” he tossed back with barely a glance. “But you are under my care and I’m telling you to wait here.”

Mary stood in the interminable heat, sweat pouring down her back. Nearby porters failed to rest in their usual sprawl. Her bearers flanked her closely. Mary yearned for the vocabulary to explain the social decorum of space in her culture.

She was keen to walk forward and see what was happening. Trouble was she didn’t know what she’d be walking into.

Clara moved up and joined Mary. “Do you think there are hostile natives up there?”

“If there are hostiles, I fail to see how they could possibly win out over our acerbic pastor.”

Clara’s barking laugh echoed off the canopy above and set birds to scattering.

With nothing left but waiting, Mary turned her attention to the porters nearest her, all of whom shifted nervously. Those who carried rifles with their packs now had them slung through the crook of their arms, pointing down. Words in dialect tumbled back from the front of the caravan and the overall agitation level around her rose. She felt her mouth go dry as the porter in front of her slid the bolt on his rifle to chamber a round.

“Did you see that?” Mary asked Clara.

Clara inclined her head. “The one with the rifle?”

“He’s getting ready for something. Whatever message just passed through the ranks has them all on edge.”

Clara said, “I’m not sure whether to wish I understood the language or not at this point.”

“After the last year, I think we both understand enough of men with their guns to translate anyway.”

“More than enough. What do we do if shooting starts?”

If shooting started, could Mary trust herself not to panic like she did when Hannabo unexpectedly shot dinner? It was only one rifle shot that affected her last time. How would she fare if they ended up embattled with guns firing all around? “I assume the men guarding us so closely will know what to do if the time comes. It’s Pastor Mayweather that worries me. He’s up in the thick of whatever is going on.”

“Do the natives in the bush even use guns? Some of our men carry spears.”

“I don’t really know. Our indoctrination session back in France said the missionaries before Pastor Mayweather were the first of any whites that far into the jungle interior. How would they have even gotten rifles?” Curiosity was replaced by a shiver of apprehension running down her spine. Rifles or spears, either were deadly in an enemy’s hands.

An eternity passed in silence while they waited. Mary’s nerves frayed. Maybe William was right. She didn’t belong here. Not if she turned into one of those vapid women she despised every time a rifle was used.

Then she thought of his pinched lips and creased brow when he had lectured her before they left Newaka. She’d had a hard time taking him seriously when the wind kept blowing his unruly brown hair into his eyes.

Mary’s thoughts exploded with the crack of a single rifle shot. Porters grabbed Clara’s arms, hauling her off into the bush for cover. Mary resisted the ones who tried to grab her and stood rooted to the spot. Who was shot? Was William injured?

Her bearers reached again for her arms and pulled. “Is someone shot? Please, I’m a doctor, I must help.”

The younger man shook his head vigorously saying, “No savvy. Nana Pastor say Mammy Doctor must be protected.” His pressure on her arm increased.

Part of her longed to give in and seek cover in the surrounding jungle. The tree sheltering Clara looked so appealing. Her oath as a doctor won out.

She pulled her arm free and took advantage of her small stature to duck around him, striding quickly. The excited chattering and his at-heel position confirmed he hadn’t given up his quest to stop her. Fortunately she kept her immediate supplies in the pack she carried. She doubted she could have convinced any of these men to get it for her.

Ignoring the dread weighing down her stomach, Mary forged ahead. If William was injured, or even another man, she had to help, not cower in fear.

Sheer shock at her charge forward paralyzed the remaining porters still on the trail. A heavy sigh behind her told her that her shadow was still attached. She passed several more armed men, some with spears, before the jungle fell back and opened. She scented the wood smoke before she saw the tendrils reaching upward. Smoke escaped at random intervals throughout the yellow undulations of dried grass roofs.

They had arrived at a village. If the rifle shot was any indication, an unfriendly one.

Looking down the hill to the spot where the path widened at the village edge, Mary saw William. Hannabo was on one side and another porter, Jabo maybe, stood on the other. She stopped where she was to take in the scene. No one lay on the ground or clutched a wound. Who or what had been shot?

All of her dramatic worries and it was just a serious discussion with a group of natives. No one was at war here.

All of them were deferring to the one native in a worn black bowler hat and bright red loincloth standing with his arms folded across his chest, a chest hung with some type of decorative necklace. Must be the chief.

Whoever he was, she knew the moment he became aware of her. He put out a bony finger and pointed. Was he pointing at her? All conversation ceased.

William turned to see what Bowler Hat was pointing to, and if there had been any doubt in her mind she was the object of attention, the glare from William removed it.

Bowler Hat began to speak. Mary wasn’t close enough to hear anything. By the frequency of gestures, there was a debate or perhaps a trade. She knew that trading was one way a missionary made inroads into a tribe’s favor.

The conversation ended abruptly. Bowler Hat’s arms were back in place across his chest. William and Hannabo turned and headed toward the caravan. Hannabo looked on stolidly, but William’s face morphed from blank and emotionless to raw fury.

When he drew near, his voice came out as a low hiss. “I told you to stay put. Turn around and follow behind me.”

“I beg your pardon. I…”

“If you don’t want to be that old man’s newest wife, you’ll do as I say and you’ll do it right now.”

Chapter Four

William tried to ignore the sputtering sound behind him. Amazing what it took to make that woman speechless. Now if he could figure out how to get her to follow his instructions.

She didn’t stay speechless for long. “What do you mean I could end up as that old man’s wife? I assure you…”

The villagers out of sight, he wheeled around to give Dr. O’Hara the dressing down she deserved. Except he misjudged how closely she was following and ended up with her walking right into him, knocking her pith helmet off her head and sending her backward. He caught her before she tilted to the ground.

A hundred and ten pounds of warm femininity snapped back into his arms. Soft skin and womanly curves seared his bare arms. He loosed his grip and stepped back.

“Thank you, Pastor Mayweather. I’m not normally so clumsy. My apologies.” Mary bent over to retrieve her helmet.

“If by following me too closely you mean you didn’t stay put where you were told to, then you certainly do owe me an apology. Me and this entire company.”

“What?”

“Can you not follow simple instructions? I distinctly told you to wait where I left you.” His temple pulsed and throbbed. This healer would be the death of him yet.

“I heard a shot. What in the world did I do that was so wrong? I came to see if someone was injured.”

“No one was injured. Negotiations for passing through the village got a little difficult. Jabo overreacted when directly challenged by one of the warriors. He fired into the air.”

“I had no way of knowing that. Someone might have been injured. I only came to see if my skills were needed.”

She meant well, but William couldn’t find it in him to absolve her actions. Not considering. “Well, while you were busy seeing, you were seen before we’d negotiated simple pass through the village. It would have saved us hours on the trail. Now we’re expected to stay the night. By Nana Bolo no less.”

“Nana Bolo? Is that the older man in the bowler hat? The one you said wanted me to be his wife?”

“That would be the one.”

“Well, tell him I said no. Politely, of course.”

William blew out an impatient breath. “For an intelligent woman, you don’t know much about the way things work here.”

“A quick indoctrination in France before you climb on a freighter hardly covers everything. And excuse me if I don’t know the customs of the Liberian bush. I’ve been a little busy lately. France. The Great War. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

“The war affected us all. It took me months to get passage back here from leave in the States with transport at such risk.”

“Right. Try actually serving in the war instead of staying home in some cushy church job. Then we’ll compare notes.”

“Cushy church job… .” He snorted at the idea a compassionate leave qualified as cushy. Then the rest of what she said hit him. “Wait… You served in the war in France? How? The Army didn’t recruit women.”

“I already went over this with the Jansens at dinner, something you would know if you’d had the manners to join us. The Red Cross did the recruiting and the Army used us despite their public objections to enlisting female physicians.”

William felt the proverbial rug go flying out from under his feet. All of his assumptions…could he be wrong about her? The image of his delicate Alice on her deathbed tamped that idea down without hesitation. “Nevertheless, your knowledge and experience don’t extend into this battlefield. And make no mistake, it is a battlefield. A battlefield for men’s souls.”

“I am aware, Pastor Mayweather. But I intend to deal with men’s and women’s bodies much more than their souls. I’ll leave the cure for eternal damnation to you.”

Vehemence blew through Mary’s words, and William was hard put to understand. But they’d gone too far off track and he needed to deal with the situation at hand. “A good mission station is one where everyone works together toward the salvation of the heathen. However, we have to first get through the night alive in this village.”

Considering his plans for her quick removal from the mission, he wasn’t sure why he bothered with the lecture on teamwork. The only thing of real importance now was surviving the situation she’d created.

William crossed his arms and gave Mary his most serious look. “So you, Doctor O’Hara, must do exactly as I tell you tonight so you do not find yourself married or get us all killed. Nana Bolo will not accept your refusal. He thinks of women as property, and property does not make its own choices.”

Mary’s brow knit into a frown and her mouth opened in a small “oh.” The look didn’t last. What looked like fumes of outrage bubbled to the surface. “Well, you can set him straight on that right now. I am no man’s property.”

She punctuated her words with an adorable little foot stamp. William would have chuckled if the situation they were in was not so dire. “Tonight while we are in this village, you are. It’s the only concept he understands. Since you and Clara are under my care, I explained to him I was not willing to trade you despite his several generous offers.” William leaned down closer to her eye level and said, “And believe me when I say the bullocks, goats and chickens he offered are looking pretty good about now.”

Each step down the path to the village might as well have been on hot coals instead of rough dirt for the effect on Mary’s temper. Once her jaw began to hurt as they got to the village perimeter, she realized she was grinding her teeth. The nerve of the man. She’d made a mistake, but an understandable one. One he completely discounted.

Quick orders were exchanged between the tribesmen, Hannabo and William. As the carriers and porters were separated from them, a frisson of unease snaked down Mary’s spine. Leaving those familiar faces behind, familiar faces with weapons, unnerved her. William and Hannabo were armed, but what could two men do against a village? The iron-tipped spears in the warriors’ hands carried a sure promise of death.

Or better yet, what would two men do? Did missionaries have a code against defending themselves? Not to kill, or something? Her sense of vulnerability projected itself in stomach knots. It was like a residency all over again. Classroom training couldn’t compare to actual experience.

The booming artillery at Argonne had been unnerving, but shells rarely reached the mobile field hospitals and both sides strictly left the Red Cross personnel alone, keeping in mind they themselves might end up in need of their services. Captured enemies were treated alongside soldiers. The only fact she could remember about the Liberian interior was that many missionaries had died in the attempt to break evangelistic ground here. She knew the fatality rate of malaria. How many died at the hands of the natives?

“Dr. Mary, look.” Clara gave a slight nod of her head. They followed a hut-lined path through the village, stepping around the roaming chickens and one stray piglet. A break in the huts revealed a small work area, complete with a low cook fire and large iron cook pot with steam rising.

Mary glanced over and saw a group of about ten young children, including one nursing baby, all sans clothing. The older ones were eminently curious. Three of the youngest fled behind their mother’s legs to peer out from safety as soon as they had seen them. The oldest of the bunch, not more than seven, stood stock-still and tried to look fierce, not quite pulling it off. Of the five women present, presumably their mothers, although there was little doubt about the one who was nursing, expressions ranged from wary to curious to downright hostile on one thin woman with blue cloth covering her modestly while she stirred the pot.

Without exception, the rest of the women wore nothing more than a cloth skirt fastened about their waists and a small fetish bag she’d come to expect hung around their necks. Mary found herself gawking and forced herself to take her eyes off the uninhibited display of uncovered skin. Even as a physician, the unabashed nudity discomfited her. Why did some cover more than others? Was it a status indication?

As much for herself as Clara, Mary said, “They might not have ever seen a white person, Clara. Try not to stare. I think we’re scaring the little ones.”

“Then we’re on equal footing. Some of those warriors scared me. All those tattoos on their faces. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Me neither. Maybe it’s something just this tribe does. None of our porters bear those kind of markings. Although Hannabo’s patterned scarring on his face resembles them a little.”

“Well, the children are adorable. I can’t wait until we’re in Nynabo and I can start the school.”

“Let’s hope it won’t be much longer. The excitement of jungle travel wore off soon after we left the beach at Garraway and headed to Newaka. I’m ready to be settled.”

Clara laughed. “I know what you mean. The first few miles when we left Garraway city behind, the trail seemed so exciting. So different.”

Mary adjusted the medical satchel she carried. “I agree. The endless dirt track, tree roots waiting in ambush and all the insects lost their novelty for me.”

Clara glanced around. “Well, we should be careful what we wish for, because there’s a lot of novelty here.”

Novelty aside, they passed in a tired, companionable silence through the rest of the village, the tableau of cooking they’d seen repeating once more. The village, large and well laid out in several divisions from the perspective of the hilltop trail, was different when you actually walked through it. Now an endless maze of mud huts, topped with the low-hanging dried brush used for thatching, surrounded them. Mary feared she would get lost in the sameness if she tried to navigate alone.

A wooden palisade wall came into view and the tribesman leading them halted before a hut outside the entrance to the private compound. He gestured to the hut and to the women, and Mary assumed it to be their quarters for the night.

Before she could enter the hut, William put his hand up and conferred with Hannabo, all the while with his back still to them.

Arrogant. That was the word that normally came to mind when she thought of Pastor William Mayweather. Then he took off his pith helmet and ran his hands through that wavy brown hair and the word changed. Striking. And worried.

William crossed his arms when Hannabo conveyed something to the tribesman and the tribesman shook his head and repeated his gesture indicating the hut. What was the problem? Was he holding out for a better hut? They all looked the same to her.

The weariness settling over her as the sun dropped halfway below the horizon overrode her resentful obedience and she stepped forward. “What’s the problem? Is there something wrong with this hut? Because it looks fine to me.”

William turned to her with narrowed eyes, glaring. She flinched. If those rich, brown eyes had been spears, she would have been impaled on the spot.

She’d done it again. Whatever it was.

William’s deep rumble came out deceptively low. “I’m sure the hut is quite fine.” He came closer, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned down and in until he was only inches from her face. “If, that is, you don’t mind being separated from Hannabo and myself. Alone with only your sharp tongue for protection. Of course, we could always share the hut.”

William pulled back, the discomfort of being close enough to Mary to see her smallest freckles befuddling his thoughts. He had tried counting to ten, reciting Proverbs to himself about the futility of arguing with the foolish—none of it worked. No sooner did he get things back under control than this obstinate woman tried to insert herself right back into the thick of things. At least Alice let him be in charge, hung back and allowed him to do the man’s work. This woman wanted to literally and figuratively wear the trousers. At least…

William derailed his mental train of thought on the memory of Alice and traveled back to the reality of an impatient redhead in front of him with her eyes bugging out at his sarcastic statement about sharing a hut.

Oh, so her suffragette sympathies didn’t extend to sharing a hut with him. The shocked look on her face proclaimed outrage. Good to know. At least her morals stood firm, not loose like her definition of a woman’s place in life. What had the Mission Board been thinking to send him this female physician?

Mary took a deep breath in and out and straightened her spine, all under his careful observation. Indignation rolled off of her. “That is quite unacceptable. No tents on the trail were one thing, but sharing a private hut is another.”

William’s smile wasn’t one his Aunt Ruth would have approved of if she had been there. “My point exactly. Now maybe you’ll let me continue making my point with this tribesman so neither of us ends up indulging in scandalous behavior.”

“Can’t we be in separate huts but next to each other?”

“Not possible. Let me finish here and I’ll explain.”

The slight tic in her right eye gave away the fact Mary had more to say. Much more she suppressed with a great deal of effort. He turned his back to her and planted himself between her and their appointed village guide’s line of vision. He nodded to Hannabo and continued his negotiation.

He walked a fine line to accept the hospitality and yet require his own special guard for the women without impugning his hosts. When it became clear he risked insult to village hospitality, he’d explained his concern for the crazy woman with red hair wandering away and getting into trouble. Certainly true. Just not the whole reason.

When his tribal host laughed, he knew he’d won the day. Troublesome women, the universally understood notion among men.

The best negotiating ploy too, although the good doctor would have a conniption if she could only translate the language. Why couldn’t she understand he was in charge without constantly challenging him?

She thought western sensibilities would prevail in the situation with Nana Bolo. That sort of attitude would have her married and bearing the chief’s children in no time.

Hopefully, the idea that she was troublesome and a little crazy would get back to Nana Bolo. That wily schemer caught the turn of the phrase where William avoided claiming her as his wife. By indicating she was under his care, a phrase the chief took to mean Mary was William’s property, he left himself wide open to this. The chief would think he only held out for better terms.

Of course the only other option available to him would have been lying and saying that she was his wife. Not an acceptable course for his conscience or the mission of winning souls. Scripturally, lying about Sarah backfired on Abraham twice.

This way he could protect the women to the best of his ability. He would go to the palaver hut, an honor reserved for male guests only, but leave Hannabo to sleep at the threshold of the women’s hut. He may not want women in the interior with him, but he couldn’t leave them undefended this close to the chief’s compound.

Even if they were more trouble than they were worth.

Dr. O’Hara did have a tendency to forget to stay put. Her reasons may have been admirable. How many women would have run toward a gunshot to help? But now more than before, he needed her out of the sight of the villagers. She would be easier to protect once he could get to Nynabo. He refused to think about her return trek out of the jungle when the time came. She would be someone else’s responsibility then. He’d be sure they steered clear of Nana Bolo on her return trip.

He outlined his plan to Hannabo, who nodded. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to Clara and Mary. “Ladies, for your protection, our hosts agree Hannabo will stay with you, sleeping outside the threshold of your quarters. I would do the chief a grave insult if I don’t sleep in the palaver hut allotted to honored guests. And, as women are not allowed in that hut, you will stay here outside the palisade walls.”

Clara’s hand fluttered to her chest.