The Whipping Boy by Speer Morgan

the river was so loud and close that the train already seemed to be under water. Partway out came an immense shudder. “The Lord is my shepherd” died away. Even the babies stopped crying. Tom quit trying to look out. Couplings clattered against each other as the bridge wobbled and swayed in the river with the current and the weight of the train. The steady
ch-ch-ch
of steam from the engine turned peculiar, then stopped altogether.
    â€œRegulators are under water!” somebody said.
    They lost power, and when he felt the car’s vibration change and heard a loud splashing of water, Tom realized they were in it high above the wheels, plowing through the river on deeply submerged track. Water poured in from cracks in the floor planking.
    He had been in feverish worried excitement since the woman fell on him. He was less anxious about the river than he was about her. She lay slumped on him, her bosom crushed against his leg, her head rubbing and jerking in his lap with the wild motions of the train. Sweat ran down his face like tears, and he squirmed in the seat, wanting both to get away and not to get away. The feeling of euphoria in his lower extremities was so potent that he seemed almost to float above the seat. He looked down at her head, trying to decide whether to move it, then his breath caught and in the momentary silence of the car, his was the only cry—startled, unintentional, brief.
    Steam could be heard bubbling out the regulators, and the crowd gave up a ragged cheer. They’d made it across the bridge. The engineer stopped immediately when they reached Coke Hill, a high spot on the river end of Fort Smith, and the cars were still draining water as passengers piled off. Tom extricated himself and tried to stand up, but his body was numb, his knees rubbery, and he could hardly get out of the seat.

5
    J AKE HAD NEVER been so happy to step off a train in his life. Located a couple of hundred yards west of Parker’s gallows, Coke Hill was a little settlement off to itself, occupied by two bleak saloons, a ramshackle two-story hotel of dubious reputation called the Belle Point, and a huddle of poor dwelling houses. He hurried over to the hotel and secured a porter with a rig.
    The porter took the highest route, his mare trotting sure-footedly through the streams of water in the brick streets. In the coolness the woman was briefly wakeful, mumbling and cussing, but still unable to talk sense. The boy acted sleepy and confused. Jake felt markedly better despite his exhaustion and hunger, moving briskly through the clean, cold air. As he’d expected, the low end of town was thoroughly flooded at the confluence of the Poteau and Arkansas rivers. The ground floor of the Dekker building was bound to be under.
    St.John’s Hospital was out Second Street, a modest house with tall windows and a picket fence around it. A red flag with black letters hung by the entrance: SMALL POX . A young man with a hat pushed back on his head and a patch of hair hanging down his forehead sat on the front step underneath the flag, calmly puffing on a pipe. The rain had momentarily stopped.
    â€œDoctor in?”
    â€œI’m Doc Eldon. Who is that?”
    â€œJake Jaycox.”
    â€œWhat brings you?”
    â€œI have a patient for you.”
    â€œWouldn’t have smallpox, would he?”
    â€œIt’s a she. No, she doesn’t.”
    â€œI can’t do a thing for her, Mr. Jaycox. We’ve been under quarantine going on four days. I wouldn’t even want to examine her.”
    â€œWhere can I take her?”
    â€œWhat’s the trouble?”
    â€œHit in the head. Can’t seem to wake up.”
    â€œDoes she know her own name?”
    â€œI’m not sure.”
    â€œWell, ask her.”
    Jake turned and asked what her name was. She gave no answer, and after a moment the boy, on whose shoulder she leaned, said grimly, “Sleeping again.”
    â€œProbably has a