He remembered in his dream they had gone to the theater that night. Tess had been heavy with her third pregnancy but she was well and there was still time, or so the physicians had claimed. Midway through the second act she had begun to feel strangely, and so he had taken her home. In the carriage she had gone into premature labour and by the time the midwife had arrived and then the doctor, it was all too late. Both tiny babe and mother died upon the dinning room table. He recalled shaking her, pleading with her not to leave him all alone. He remembered it was not right that such a little woman should have lost so much blood…. they had left him there, sitting on the floor at the head of the table, a stained sheet covering his dead wife and son.
He bolted upright in the bed, awake to find the room spinning precariously about him. His heart racing, its beating, pounding in his ears. Already he could feel the next phase of his illness gripping him as the chills began to embrace him… or was that Tess finally doing as he had begged her? He pressed a hand to his mouth. No, she was gone…he did not believe in the foolish tales of ghosts.
He felt like retching and cast a glance about him. A pitcher and basin had been placed conveniently on the floor next to the bed. He leaned down quickly and grabbed the pitcher, before the cold could immobilize him. Vomiting was simple he reasoned with himself... surely any sailor worth his salt was familiar with the act? How many hazy nights had he spent well into his cups of port whilst trapped in some God forsaken port? It was the cold he dreaded more than any other symptom. A reaction to the high fever which caused the sweat to pour off him as his body fought to rid itself of the disease, leaving him and the sheets soaked with perspiration, until his core temperature would plummet in an attempt to regain control over the fever. To him the cold was more painful than any wound he had ever known. Oh God, Tess why did ye leave me?
He missed the table top with the pitcher and watched as it shattered on the floor…. Shards of porcelain erupting like so many splinters on a besieged ship. He leaned over the basin in time to empty the contents of his stomach into it. He fell back against the pillows when he had finished, the foul taste of vomit still in his mouth. He did not even realize he had cut his hand….And then the shivering began, uncontrollable, merciless… until his body shook violently and his teeth chattered so badly that he could barely speak the words… “For pity’s sake, someone shoot me!”
Instead he felt the hands again. This time covering him with heavy quilts and holding him tightly to protect him. In all of five minutes he would be sweating again and then the cold would come once more to take its formidable hold.
