Sleep, Dearie, Sleep: Episode Four

You’re reading Sleep, Dearie, Sleep, a historical epistolary horror in which progress, modernity and reason are confounded by ancient, forgotten realities. This is Episode 4.

Previously, Archie’s wife and daughter arrived safely from Scotland, but Bridget soon noticed a change had come over Archie. Back at the bridge, an Indian raid on the eve of Beltane took Archie and his men past the point of no return.

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Original photo by Jimmy Emerson on Flickr (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

Diary, 6 June, 1793

Three weeks. That is how long we were allowed to make unhindered progress before calamity once again struck the camp, this time in the form of sickness. I sent for a doctor after the first two men fell ill, and he pronounced it to be typhoid fever. Four men have succumbed to it, with three others at death’s door. I myself have taken ill, though my symptoms seem to be abating. Most of the men, like myself, appear to be responding to the doctor’s ministrations.

In those blessed three weeks before we were struck down, we accomplished completion of the columns and arch, and made good headway on building the spandrel walls and buttresses. I’d had high hopes that we were gaining such good ground. Another week of using every moment of the lengthening daylight would have put us back on schedule. Alas, it was not to be.

Some of the more pious men are regretful of their actions on the eve of Beltane, and believe this is divine retribution for what took place that night. If that were the case, I would spend every waking moment on my knees asking for forgiveness and mercy, if I thought there were any chance my prayers would still be heard. But I believe the good Lord has washed his hands clean of us, having given us over to the gods to whom our deplorable actions have bound us.

I do not know how to write about this next part without sounding like a madman, nor if it indeed be wise to put it down in writing. Anyone reading it -- and I don’t intend that it should be read by anyone save myself -- would put it down to the hallucinatory ravings of a fever dream. But my night visitor showed himself to me, and I know it was no hallucination nor dream. I am reminded of the book of Job, when Eliphaz described his own night visitor as such:

Now a thing was secretly brought to me, and mine ear received a little thereof.
In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men,
Fear came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones to shake.
Then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up:
It stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof: an image was before mine eyes, there was silence, and I heard a voice, saying,
Shall mortal man be more just than God? Shall a man be more pure than his maker?¹

I cannot put down what this voice said to me. I dare not. It was too terrible to be borne. It demanded something of me that I cannot bear to give. My soul was not enough, nor the lives of those Indian braves. It wants my own heart. My singular devotion, and the one sacrifice I cannot bear to give, to prove my loyalty and seal my promise.

Night after night, three night’s running, it came to me, whispering grand promises and assuring me that my troubles will be no more. Promising the sort of life I have aspired to since the moment I set my sights on winning Bridget’s heart. My soul is already forfeit, or I would cry out for God to help me. Alas, I am forsaken. The best I can hope for is comfort in this life, for however long it may be granted to me, before my soul is dragged to hell. I draw some small solace from the life of comfort and ease I’ll be able to provide for my lady wife, though she’ll be grieved for a time.

I know what I must do. I have little choice. The lives of my men depend upon it. Shall I sacrifice their health and their very lives and livelihoods in order to keep that which is most precious to me? Shall I keep my own heart and see their families go to ruin?

I have given my assent, and sworn my promise. Already, the men’s fevers are breaking and they are beginning to recover. This new god I serve is swift to bestow favor and make good his promises. But there will be hell to pay if I go back on my word.

How I shall accomplish it, I do not know. I have until midsummer. A mere fortnight until my heart is sealed in stone.

There is no help for it. Nor for me.

---

1. Job 4:12-17, KJV

The Hon. Archibald Craig

Yadkin River Bridge
North Carolina

7 June, 1793

Dear Sir,

News has reached me of the outbreak of fever in your camp, and that you yourself have fallen ill. I send you my sincerest wishes for your swift recovery and restoration to full health. As soon as you are able, I hope you will depart for the comfort of your home to rest and regain your strength, which will be needed to oversee the final stages of construction. Your men, as they recover, should by now comprehend the plans well enough to continue construction in your absence.

I understand that prior to this, you had been making admirable progress. I have confidence that, should work resume and continue at the pace you had been going at before this most recent setback, our August deadline is still well within grasp. However, if my surmises are incorrect, please write at once to let me know if I must contact the Governor and negotiate another extension.

Nevertheless, I know your commitment to completing the bridge on time. I have heard whisperings that assure me you understand the degree of singular devotion and sacrifice required in order to achieve a certain level of success in our line of work. Your determination to complete the construction entrusted to you marks you as one who can be relied upon, and I have no doubt that this bridge is only the beginning of a long and illustrious career. You are doing yourself, as well as both me and the Rite, proud. A full partnership awaits you if you indeed are able to complete this project by that agreed upon time.

On a more personal note, I want to assure you that I understand how hard this decision is on you, and the impact it will have upon your young wife. However, time heals all wounds, and a bounteous life provides many balms to soothe a broken heart. No doubt your wife and your future children, may they be many, will one day be grateful for the sacrifices you showed yourself willing to make for their welfare.

For the time being, rest and see to your own welfare. Write when you can to inform me of your progress. I eagerly await your report.

Respectfully,
James Hoban

Diary of Bridget Katherine Stewart, 17 June, 1793

Praise be to God, Archie is home, and he is a changed man. Though weakened from his illness, his sleep is no longer troubled, and I sense a lightness in him, as though a terrible weight has been lifted.

His countenance towards Fiona is altered for the better, as well. He has taken to spoiling her, and wanting to spend all the time he can with her, as though afraid to let her out of his sight. It’s as though he is determined to make up for the times he was harsh with her, as well as the time that she was absent from his life. It does my heart good to see it. Though at times I still catch him brooding over her with a look of such sadness and longing. When I ask about it, he merely shrugs and tells me his mind had wandered to the bridge and the work still left to be done, and that it is nothing for me to worry about. That may be, but I suspect he is also thinking of the time lost, of the milestones of her growing up for which he was absent.

This was confirmed to me the night before last, when he expressed his hearty desire to have another child. Another babe that he can be present for, to hold it and watch it grow with his own eyes. I was delighted by the fervency of his wish, and more delighted to be able to tell him that it has already come true. I was waiting until he was fully recovered to tell him, but I had already begun to suspect shortly after he left, and I am certain that I am more than two months along at the least. Archie’s joy at the news came as a blessed relief, for I had been apprehensive that he would feel the news of another child as more weight added to the burden he carried.

His convalescence is almost at an end. He is much stronger now than when he first arrived, and much recovered. He’ll have to return to his bridge soon, but only for a month and a fortnight, and then it shall be finished. But I have Fiona, and the house to run, and a new babe to plan for, and so the time is sure to pass quickly, and then our family will be together again. And then there shall surely be much to celebrate.

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