Mickey was then just ahead of them. He jerked around toward Daisy Belle. His face looked queer too, stony and drawn, his dark eyelashes coated with brine, his lips purple. His mouth was stiff from cold, too; his words were barely intelligible: "American—is she American?"
Marcia could have told them both yes. She knew the hospital ships; she'd seen them often at Marseilles. Words stirred faintly in her consciousness; but not strongly enough to induce numbed muscles and nerves to speech. As a matter of fact, when they were picked up thirty minutes later Marcia was only vaguely aware of it. She knew when she was slung over a shoulder and carried up a swaying Jacob's ladder. She knew when they lifted her from a litter to a bunk and warmth and returning circulation made her cry with pain.
The others were in various stages of shock from exposure and cold, except for Alfred Castiogne, who was dead.
He had not, however, died of exposure.
"This man," said the doctor who examined him, looking at the knife wound in his back, "was murdered."
2
Marcia opened her eyes.
She was aware first of warmth and comfort, of soft blankets and clean, sweet-smelling sheets; she had been aware of that for some time really, and of the distant throb and vibration of the engines.
For an instant she looked at the small, cheerful cabin. There were double-decked bunks, accommodating four people; gay, chintz-covered chairs, a book shelf, a door leading to the passageway probably and another, open, to a tiny bathroom; there were two round ports and the light was on so it must be, again, night. She was still on a ship, but it was so sharply different from the dirty little Portuguese ship, so clean and shining and warm and with such an atmosphere of comfort, that she savored it gratefully, not thinking. And then she saw a slipper, shabby, high-heeled, rimy from sea water, lying on the floor. It was Gili's slipper.
Sharply then she remembered everything and sat up. Every muscle ached as if she had been beaten, but she was alive and warm. The miracle had happened; she was still Marcia Colfax, breathing, thinking, still linked up with her own destiny.
The two bunks directly opposite had been slept in and were still not made up. A tray with empty dishes and a coffeepot stood on the table. Someone had placed a crimson bathrobe across the foot of her own bunk. She was wearing, she discovered, pale-gray flannel pajamas which smelled of soap. She reached for the bathrobe and every muscle throbbed but the pain was, just then, welcome; it confirmed the miracle of, simply, being alive. She wrapped the crimson robe around her and, as she did so, the door into the passageway opened quietly and a nurse looked in, saw that she was awake, smiled and came into the cabin. She was young and pleasant; she was in uniform, beige and white striped seersucker which looked very crisp and clean, and she carried some clothes over her arm.
"Awake," she said. "I'm Lieutenant Stoddard. How do you feel? I've brought you some clothes."
"I feel wonderful," said Marcia. Her voice sounded hoarse and weak. "I can't believe it. It really is a miracle,"
"Not at all," said Lieutenant Stoddard. "People are rescued every day." She put down the clothes, carefully depositing a pair of brown oxfords on the floor. "I'll just make sure you are all right," she said and came to Marcia, and put her fingers on her wrist. "Well, no double pneumonia here. I'd better take your temperature, though."
She shook the thermometer briskly.
"Where are the others? Is everybody all right? Is—Mickey . . . ?" She suddenly remembered that on the Lerida she had had to address Mickey as Andre in order to square with the papers he was using; but that didn't matter now. If they were on an American boat, headed for home, they could tell the truth; explain why he was using a false name and false papers, explain everything and everything would be all right. The nurse put the thermometer in her mouth and said: "No double pneumonia anywhere, in fact. We got you just in time, I imagine."
She must have thought that Marcia's eyes were questioning, for she went on, pleasantly: "I expect you don't even know where you are. It's a hospital ship, the Magnolia. We are on our way home with wounded and sick soldiers. We picked you up just about dawn; you were unconscious, I think. We put you and Mrs. Cates and Miss—well, the other young lady in this cabin. Neither of them seems to be suffering any ill effects, although of course you'll feel pretty washed up for a while."
"The others . . ." said Marcia around the thermometer.
The young lieutenant turned to close the port behind her. "Quite all right, I believe. We gave everybody treatment for shock. Mr. Cates was the worst off; he had to have digitalis and I don't know what all, but he's all right now except for a cold. Mr. Messac is up and about, too. He looks quite all right." She turned back, but her eyes avoided Marcia's. "We let you sleep as long as you could." She waited another moment or two, removed the thermometer, glanced at it and said: "Perfectly normal. Now then, I'll get you something to eat."
She smiled again, gave a little nod and went quickly away. Marcia still savoring the warm comfort of the bunk and the tiny shining cabin, lay back luxuriously on the pillow. It was night again; she had slept probably almost around the clock. Mickey was all right, then; everybody, thought Marcia comfortably, was all right, and she slipped into a dreamy state which was not quite sleep but near it, so it seemed to her only a moment until the crisp, pleasant young nurse came back.
It was not, in fact, until she'd had food, hot soup and hot steak and hot coffee; until she'd had a hot bath with the incredible luxury of all the soap she wanted and was dressed —in a nurse's uniform, as a matter of fact, which luckily fit—that she had any warning that everything was actually all wrong. But even then she did not know that Alfred Castiogne was dead. The nurse only said that the ship's Captain wanted to see her. "He asked me to bring you to him as soon as you were awake. Do you think you're quite up to it?"
She had been thinking, naturally, of seeing Mickey. "The ship's Captain?"
"Captain Svendsen." The nurse hesitated. "I think it is rather—important." Something in the nurse's manner and voice seemed to be evasive. Five years in warring Europe had given Marcia an awareness of the very breath of danger. She looked quickly at the nurse. "What is wrong? What has happened?"
Lieutenant Stoddard bit her lip. "I'd better take you to them. If you're quite sure ..."
This time Mickey's assumed name came out naturally, without intention.
"Is it Andre? Andre Messac? Is anything wrong?''
"Oh, no, no. Mr. Messac is quite all right. Really, Miss Colfax. It's only—they'd like to ask you some questions, I think."
Questions? She considered it slowly; but naturally, there would be questions: her name, her destination, matters of record.
The nurse continued: "I brought you a coat too, Miss Colfax. I'm afraid yours is ruined with sea water. It's a nurse's coat. I guessed at size twelve." She held up the brown, trimly tailored coat with its gay scarlet lining and slipped it around Marcia's shoulders. "How do the oxfords feel? We had a time getting clothes for Mrs. Cates; she's so thin and yet tall, you know. And those beautiful fur coats . . ." The nurse shook her head and ushered Marcia into the narrow, long passage that ran the length of the cabin doors. It did not occur to Marcia that she kept on chattering, "We cleaned them as best we could, but sea water is so horrible. This way, Miss Colfax."
The passageway was painted gray and glittered with cleanliness. The air was fresh and warm and there was an inviting, floating fragrance of coffee and the clean smell of antiseptics. She caught a glimpse of a slender, crisply uniformed figure of a nurse going into a cabin ahead of them; doors were open here and there, giving glimpses of other cabins; of a glittering little diet kitchen; then they emerged into a transverse corridor, and open stairs like very sound and substantial ladders with stout railings, going up and down. There were people—corpsmen in white, two medical officers in uniform, talking to a transport corps officer; she had a quick glimpse of a corridor leading to a sick ward with its rows of double bunks and lights and several soldiers also in red bathrobes helping put up a screen for movies. Over and above everything was an indescribable sense of warmth and cleanliness, happiness and home. It struck Marcia with a poignancy that was like a comforting hand. An American ship; a mercy ship and she and Mickey were on it, safe and cared for and warm and going home. The nurse must have seen something of her feeling in her face, for she laughed a little, softly. "I know what you're thinking."