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She stood for several minutes, starting to despair at not finding him, when the men on the pile reordered themselves. Those at the top were being helped down and replaced by those from the bottom.
Accepting a hand down, then staggering to the side, was James.
He bent as if he couldn’t stay upright anymore, his palms on his thighs, and he hacked. There was no safe place to sit; fires smoldered in various places nearby. He straightened and took a few weaving steps.
Clara let go of Em and ran toward him.
He looked up with exhausted bewilderment, as if he couldn’t trust his eyes.
“Mr. Robertson, you are staggering on your feet! Why, it’s frightful!” She turned back, shouting over her shoulder, “Em!”
Clara pressed herself against one side of him; he all but sank against her. She and the maid barely escorted James to the tent and onto a blanket before his eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth went slack.
“Mr. Pyle!” Clara called out.
Stella fetched Mr. Pyle from the other tent. He kneeled next to James, running his hands over his skull. “No head injury, leastways not that I can feel. Nah, he’s worn out, that’s all.” He looked around the crowded tent. “They all are.”
Clara knew it was true. The fire had been burning for nearly forty-eight hours; many of the men were sleeping for the first time.
She found clean linen and washed out and refilled a basin. As James lay unconscious, she bathed his face and hands. He coughed in his sleep. The skin around his nostrils and lips was blackened and singed.
She unbuttoned his filthy cuffs and collar and wiped him as clean as she could. Like everyone else’s, his hands were torn and blistered. He didn’t so much as stir while she applied ointment and clean bandages.
Uncaring of anyone who might see her, she fell next to him, holding onto him carefully.
Thank God you are safe, she repeated to herself, holding onto his bicep because his hands were too damaged.
When her lids felt heavy and she struggled to keep them open, she forced herself to her feet. Too much work remained.
