Affection (3 page)

I wondered how the man had stayed alive in there for the three or four days he’d been laid up. His eyes had
withdrawn into two black pits, but his face turned towards me as I stepped into the cabin. I reached for the blanket.

‘Not here,’ I heard Humphry behind me say. ‘Captain? Can we move this man to a larger cabin?’

‘There are no larger cabins that aren’t occupied.’

‘What about Mr Dawson’s suite?’ said Humphry. ‘He’s for the working man. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’

Captain Thompson hesitated and looked back down the corridor, perhaps wondering if Dawson had heard. He asked, ‘How long is this going to take? Can’t you tell what’s the matter with him here?’

Humphry poked his head further inside the cabin. ‘I don’t know about this gentleman, but I’d suffocate if I had to spend a minute in here.’

‘Yes. All right. I’ll make the smoking saloon available then.’

‘Thank you,’ said Humphry, stepping backwards into the captain and then vanishing down the corridor. I heard him say ‘Make way, damn you,’ and some other men swearing. The captain shot me a sour look and followed him.

I was suddenly alone in the cabin with Storm. The poor man was gasping as he tried to raise his head to see what the commotion was about.

‘Can you walk?’ I said.

He nodded and made a weak effort to rise, but couldn’t get himself up on an elbow. I grabbed him
under the arm and pain flashed across his face. I let him fall back.

‘Here,’ said a voice behind me.

I turned and saw a man in the white linen uniform of a steward. His face was an assortment of odd angles, as were his teeth.

‘Captain said you’d need a hand.’ He held up a large and calloused hand, but didn’t move from the doorway.

‘Grab an arm and we’ll see if we can get him up,’ I said, pulling at Storm’s elbow again. The man groaned.

‘Should we be, well, touching him?’

I gave Storm his elbow back again.

‘You won’t catch it,’ I said. ‘Not like this.’

The steward looked back down the corridor, no doubt wanting to be somewhere else.

‘If it’s plague, it’s spread by fleas,’ I said.

He stared at me. I must have been a sight myself with the perspiration streaming down my face and my shirt soaked through, staggering as the steamship rocked.

‘That’s a new one. I’ve heard rats, I’ve heard Chinamen and now it’s fleas. Here’s Mr Storm sick and he’s none of those, far as I can tell.’ He nodded to himself and stood firmly at the door.

‘Well, if Mr Storm has it, it’s from a flea that bit a rat.’

The steward just stared. The stench, the lack of air, and the motion was making me queasy.

‘The ship was fumigated at Rockhampton? Mr Storm went ashore? Well, Rockhampton has the plague and he might have caught it from a flea. Do you see? No fleas
on this ship because it’s been fumigated. Unless a flea bites him and then you, you’re safe. No fleas; no worries.’

I was about to gag and wasn’t going to confuse matters with a few qualifications. I had to get out of the cabin. I turned and grasped Storm’s elbow, heaving him to a sitting position and feeling the heat like a coal fire in the man. And then a white shirt sleeve reached across and seized the other shoulder and we had Storm up on shaky knees. He buckled, but between us we steered him to the door.

‘Captain orders him up on deck,’ said the steward. ‘But I hope for both our sakes you’re right, doc.’

We manoeuvred Storm into the corridor and I gulped the fresher air. Storm sagged drunkenly between us, moaning, and the steward said over the sticky back of his bowed head, ‘My name’s Gard. Walter.’

I told him who I was.

‘You really a boxer?’

‘No.’

‘You are a doctor, right?’

‘Yes,’ I gasped.

‘Need a drink,’ Storm mumbled.

‘Don’t we all, mate,’ Gard told him.

The sick steward’s bare feet made a feeble pretence of climbing in mid-air as we frog-marched him up the steps and onto the blessed open deck. I stumbled into the fresh air as if it was a lake and I was dying of thirst, and we lowered Storm to his knees. He groaned long
and loud with his eyes shut tight against the glare. Passengers backed away in terror at the sight of us dripping, groaning and gasping.

‘Down here,’ said Gard, collecting Storm up again. His toes scraped along behind us, leaving a wet trail into the smoking saloon where Humphry had ordered all portholes closed. He’d set up a card table for his medical bag and had spread a tablecloth on the floor for his patient. We let Storm down and the man shuddered. Gard stood back and wiped his hands on his trousers, and I looked about for somewhere to wash.

Outside, the crowd had regathered and there was more smoke wafting into the saloon than out, which must have been a first.

Humphry, the captain, Gard, Storm and I were inside. Dawson appeared at the doorway.

‘Clear the room and close the door, please,’ Humphry told Gard. Gard went towards the door, but Dawson took two steps forward. He stood there with an unlit cigar in his mouth, his hair sharply parted as if by some newfangled machine.

‘And what is your particular interest, Mr Dawson? Medical? Philosophical?’ said Humphry.

The captain swore under his breath.

‘I’m representing the passengers,’ said Dawson.

‘Political then. Is this your new constituency? Was there a vote taken?’ Humphry seemed somehow fortified and I wondered if he’d been sneaking more nips.

‘The passengers have a right to know everything is being done and done correctly to ensure they get off this tub as soon as possible.’

‘Mr Dawson, this is a private medical examination and there is a chance a very dangerous, probably lethal and highly contagious disease is aboard this ship,’ said Humphry, raising his voice so everyone heard.

Dawson took the cigar from his mouth and pointed it at Humphry. ‘That’s rubbish and we both know it.’

‘Be quiet!’ Thompson’s shout made me jump; even Storm opened his eyes and tried to sit up.

‘This is my ship. I’m in charge here. You’re both forgetting that,’ the captain said, mopping his face.

‘Right you are,’ said Humphry. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

Dawson rolled the unlit cigar in his mouth, and then turned and closed the door himself. He walked across the room and stood over the sick steward, facing Humphry.

I wondered if Dawson was armed. I knew Humphry sometimes carried a pistol for crocodiles, if he ventured to the Burdekin or to the shanties along Ross River.

Humphry opened his medical bag on the card table and Dawson brought out a tin of matches and made to strike one.

‘No smoking, Mr Dawson, if you please,’ said Humphry. Dawson looked at the captain who shook his head, and Dawson put the matches away, but kept the cigar in his mouth.

We all stood over Storm’s prostrate body, Gard a little further away. Humphry took a thermometer from his bag and gave it to Captain Thompson.

‘You can make yourself useful if you like, Captain, and take the patient’s temperature. I’ll have to wash my hands.’

Humphry held up his hands and wiggled his fingers and Gard pointed to a door that led to the galley. The captain knelt beside Storm mumbling about where to put the blasted device. Dawson was standing, his cigar bobbing violently, offering no help, staring now at me, so I followed Humphry and found him washing his face over an enamel basin.

‘Damn those politicians. If I was a vindictive man I’d wish Dawson a good dose of buboes.’ He found a cloth and wiped his beard. ‘But I’m not, so here’s to his good health.’ He fished out his flask and took a mouthful. ‘And may he avoid the painful death he deserves.’

We found some more water and washed our hands with soap.

I said, ‘Mr Dawson could be a dangerous enemy.’

‘He’s all bluster.’

‘Still. Might be best not to annoy him.’

‘He’s taken a shine to you.’

‘He thinks I’m on your side.’

‘You are, aren’t you?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘You know,’ said Humphry, ‘I’m starting to hope now that it is plague. Might curb everyone’s
insolence,’ and as we dried our hands he started whistling. I suspected then that he’d already made up his mind.

‘The other steward says Storm has had typhoid,’ I said.

‘Yes. So the captain tells me.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think I need some air,’ he said, and then contradicted that by saying, ‘I wonder if the bar on this bucket is open yet.’

We had both read the medical papers that were being posted around the colonies since the first case of plague reached Sydney in January. A Dr William Fox had produced one of the first happy pamphlets: ‘The Bubonic Plague or Black Death: the Pestilence that Walketh in Darkness’.

The problem I noticed was that several other tropical fevers, including typhoid and particularly dengue, had similar symptoms. And as Humphry pointed out, some other symptoms of plague – slurring of speech and vertigo – could well describe half of Townsville on a Saturday night.

We went back into the saloon. The captain was standing over Storm. Humphry asked him to remove the thermometer.

‘Well?’

Thompson held it and turned his head to one side. ‘He has no temperature.’

Humphry took it. ‘You’ve put the wrong damned end in.’

Dawson let out a short explosive laugh.

Humphry ignored him and put the thermometer back in Storm’s mouth, and then undid the man’s shirt. He peeled away the sticky grey cloth from Storm’s chest and put his fingers under the armpit. He grunted, and then pulled the man’s trousers down. I could see a bruise at the groin.

‘Hand me a syringe, please, Dr Row.’

I found the large needle and syringe in the bag and passed them to Humphry. Storm was in a feverish daze when Humphry took the thermometer from his mouth.

‘One hundred and four, Mr Thompson.’

Humphry asked the steward Gard to hold Storm by the shoulders while I held him by the feet, and he took up the frightening needle. The captain turned away and Dawson’s cigar stopped moving as Humphry, with some effort, punctured the swelling and drew some viscous pink liquid. Storm stiffened and groaned, but took it well.

Humphry started putting the equipment back in his bag.

‘Well?’ said Dawson.

Humphry ignored him.

‘What do you think?’ said the captain.

‘We’ll tell you what we think tomorrow,’ said Humphry.

‘Tomorrow?’ said the captain, but it was Dawson who stepped over Storm’s body. He took the cigar from his mouth and jabbed it at Humphry’s chest.

‘Make a decision now.’

‘You’re putting us in a difficult position, Mr Dawson,’ said Humphry. ‘Dr Row has to inform the Townsville Joint Epidemic Board and I have to seek instructions from the Home Secretary.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘But you’re right, it is within our power to make a decision now, I suppose, if you’re so keen to have it.’

Humphry paused and Dawson glared at him.

‘What do you think, Dr Row? From your observations.’

All eyes turned to me. I swallowed hard. ‘I think we should speak with the Epidemic Board,’ I said.

‘But what do you intend to tell the board? From what you’ve seen of Mr Storm’s symptoms.’

Storm was lying on the deck shivering and moaning quietly.

‘From what I’ve seen, Mr Storm appears to have the symptoms of bubonic plague.’

‘I agree,’ said Humphry. ‘Pending the results of our test and the advice from the board and the Home Secretary, this ship and its crew and passengers without exception are to be quarantined for twenty-one days. You’ll all have to go to the quarantine station at West Point.’

The captain gaped. Dawson dropped his voice ominously and said, ‘You fool.’

‘Well, that’s our decision. Anyway, you have your wish. You’ll be off this ship tonight. Captain? You do understand? The
Cintra
is denied pratique. You have to proceed immediately to Magnetic Island.’

There was a shocked silence. Dawson popped the cigar back into his mouth.

Humphry said, ‘I suggest you make your passengers as comfortable as possible, and hoist a yellow flag.’

Dawson put his hand inside his jacket and I was about to shout a warning when he produced his tin of matches.

‘Is there anything you want to add, Dr Row?’ said Humphry.

‘Fumigation,’ I said, as Dawson struck a match and lit his cigar. ‘The ship and its cargo and luggage will have to be brought back here to be fumigated with sulphur.’

‘We’ll arrange that once the passengers disembark at West Point. Who’s in charge there?’

‘Dr Routh,’ I said.

‘That’s right, Routh. I’ll have him make the necessary arrangements for your arrival at West Point. I think that’s everything.’

Thompson and Dawson both started speaking at once, but Humphry said, ‘Right then,’ and pushed past Dawson.

‘You’re being unreasonable,’ said the captain, following him. ‘We’ll wait until tomorrow and the decision of the board.’

‘No. I don’t think so. Mr Dawson was right. A decision had to be made immediately. This is too serious a disease to be taking chances.’

Gard was first to the door and opened it to let Humphry and me out. Several men were leaning against the railing.

Dunsford stepped forward in Humphry’s way.

‘You’ll have to ask Mr Dawson,’ said Humphry, pushing past him. I followed with the captain close behind.

‘What’ll I do with Storm?’ shouted Gard.

‘Get the man back to his cabin and make sure no one goes near him,’ said the captain, and strode off in a dark fury towards the wheelhouse.

Dawson remained inside the smoking room, his exit blocked unintentionally by Gard at the door and the crush of men who milled around wanting to know what was going on. Dawson bellowed at the steward to get the hell out of the way.

I had to squeeze past the passengers who’d crammed the narrow deck between the saloon and the sea, ignoring questions about when they could leave the ship, they had family waiting, businesses to attend to. The sight of Townsville so close had made them optimistic, but Humphry hadn’t stopped to explain and I followed his lead.

The boat suddenly shuddered beneath me. I grabbed the railing and looked back. The captain was at the wheel and the stacks coughed a cloud of black smoke. The ship shuddered again and moved sideways.