This is an ongoing serialization of an unfinished novel I wrote and Carson illustrated in 2001. New chapters will be published every Friday at 10 a.m. Read: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, and Chapter Seven.
Chapter Eight
Being a typically heavy sleeper, Ruthie was much chagrined to find that, while the first few hours were restful, all in all, her first night of sleep as a soldier did not go undisrupted. Rather, she found herself constantly jostled awake by the sounds of marching feet, the bang and batter of mortar shells, and the constant tremor of wagon wheels beneath her, moving slowly over a craggy, pockmarked road. She was pleased to find, however, as the night waxed on, that the pestering mortar blasts grew quieter and quieter and the marching feet grew lesser and lesser, until all she could hear as she was pulled from her slumber was the sound of the wheels on the road and the gentle clip of the horse drawing the wagon. From the unfathomable depth of the sleep that was afforded her by the diminishing distractions, she was scarce able to consider the oddity of her circumstance, that she was lying on the back of a horse-drawn cart, snuggled peacefully between ammunition boxes and stacks of rifles, moving farther and farther away from the frontlines with every sleepy turn she made, every sniff and snore she emitted. At one point in the evening, she awoke briefly as she felt herself lifted from her makeshift bed and carried a short distance, only to be set down again on a stiff mattress, which, by comparison to her previous sleeping arrangement, was absolutely heavenly and which prompted Ruthie to return to her sleep with a renewed vigor. It was not until she felt the sun pouring in on her sleeping figure, swaddled in a coarse woolen blanket, that she cracked her sleep-sticky eyelids and realized that she was certainly not on the front anymore. Indeed, Ruthie had no idea where she was.
“Franklin?” she called out hoarsely, surveying her surroundings. She was in a large room, some two hundred feet across by nearly the same in width, which was densely populated by the same vulgar metal spring bed frames on which Ruthie now sat. Each bed was impeccably made, their starched wool blankets adhered tightly to the ugly yellow stained mattresses beneath them, and a stale draft blew through the hall, smelling of dust, mildew, and boiled greens. Several large dirty windows on the far wall allowed what little sun there was to shine in on the dormitory, uncurtained as they were, and Ruthie marveled at the horizon beyond them, dotted by the tops of buildings and cathedral spires. Suddenly, she felt something give her a terrible pinch on her bottom and she yelped loudly, turning over on her side to investigate. Presently, she felt another pinch on her ankle, and then one on her elbow, until she was driven from the bed, her yowls of pain and surprise echoing throughout the large room.
“Bedbugs!” she cried. Having never slept in a bed that would have housed one of the creatures, Ruthie had not, until now, had the opportunity to be bitten by one, but she could only assume that that was what had bitten her. Rubbing her posterior, she crept up to the bed in order to get a closer look, and, as she had expected, the mattress, all water stains and mud spots, exhibited a veritable community of little leaping insects. Ruthie shuddered in disgust. “What is this place?” she wondered to herself, and, as if answering her own question, she recalled Lt. Franklin’s description of the orphanage to which he had threatened to take her. Her heart sunk at the thought. “Maybe this is some soldier’s training dormitory. A city barracks or something,” she thought to herself, scratching at her bites and wandering away from the bed. “Besides, I don’t see any weeping orphans around here—and there doesn’t seem to be any nagging brutish matron skulking about.” She was just about to make it to the window to further explore her new environment when suddenly she heard the large doors at the end of the hall come crashing open, and there stood the silhouette of a very large woman.
“Number 863?” the woman shouted from the doorway, still shrouded in shadow, “I see you have finally decided to arise! I hope you enjoyed that bit of luxury, because it is the last time you will be allowed to sleep in. Here, if you do not rise precisely when the hall clock strikes five o’clock, you will be struck repeatedly across the back with an untrimmed willow switch. If you do it twice, you will not only be whipped, but you will also be hung by your shoelaces from the chapel belfry. Is that clear?”
“I. . .uh. . .” was all Ruthie could say in response.
“Don’t sputter, girl! You sound even more stupid than you appear! And you will refer to me from here on out as Madame Rigmor-Pritchard and if I catch you referring to me in any other way, you will be locked in the root cellar with the rats.” The figure slowly walked into the light, revealing the ugliest woman that Ruthie had ever seen. Like two raisins obscured within a bowl of tepid oatmeal, Madame Rigmor-Pritchard’s eyes, all coal-black and beady, peered out from the sagging folds of her rutted, fleshy face; her jowls, marred by an army of moles and furry boils, drooped so precipitously from her cheekbones that they seemed in danger of sliding off of her face altogether. Her neck was not presently visible, the only sign of its existence being the presence of the starchy, sweat-stained collar that bulged upwards from her matronly black uniform, which, while being uncommonly pressed and tidy, could barely contain its ample contents and Ruthie could only imagine the groaning and complaining of each of the black buttons that lined the Madame’s chest as they desperately labored at keeping the two sides of the jacket closed. Her wiry black hair was knotted tightly into a bun atop her crown, with only a few strands hanging freely, jutting rebelliously from her temples. Her arms were crossed callously, holding a freshly cut willow switch that dangled from her thick, knobby fingers and tapped against the creaseless fabric of her floor-length skirt.
“Sorry, ma’am,” said Ruthie, arduously making sure that her speech was sputter-free, “I’m just a little confused, that’s all.”
“Confused?” shouted the Madame, “What in heaven’s name is there to be confused about? You’ve been abandoned by your parents, humanely saved from a life of desperation and immorality by a kind group of soldiers and deposited here, in the Kingsley Memorial Home for Destitute Urchins. Until some unfortunate couple decides, for whatever reason, that you are fit to become a wanton part of their family, you will labor tirelessly under my tutelage and be thankful that someone has shown you an ounce of charity and not let you rot in the gutter, where no doubt you rightfully belong.” Madame Rigmor-Pritchard walked farther into the room, clicking her switch against her solid thigh, the buttons on her jacket groaning with each step. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am!” said Ruthie, who by now was beginning to get her bearings. So Franklin had lied to her after all—there was to be no soldier’s life for Ruthie. It had all been an elaborate sham to get Ruthie to cooperate and calmly march towards her inevitable fate. She immediately felt sick to her stomach, the lieutenant’s deceitfulness coiling itself around her sickened heart.
“The other unfortunates have already breakfasted and are now well into their daily routine. I imagine you are hungry. I will take you now the cafeteria where you will be fed and you can join them when you are finished,” said the Madame, and, motioning Ruthie to follow her, she walked out of the hall.