The plague scare has many advantages over the war-fever. Kipling hasn’t made any great songs about it. It doesn’t move any great crowd of idiots to sing patriotic songs every five and a half minutes. It leads to cleanliness.
The Bulletin, 31 March 1900
THE WIND HAD SPRUNG TO TWENTY-FIVE knots overnight and now overtook the launch, pushing the smoke in front of us so that if anyone had taken a daguerreotype at that time it might look like this: a small grey boat appearing to go backwards through a grey sea. That illusion and the sensation of the engine made me queasy. I studied the horizon, looking beyond the activity on board, the crew tending the ropes, Humphry his flask.
Turner was standing on the bench seat with his back to me, his head over the side and eagerly facing forward, and if he had a tail it’d be hitting me in the ear.
He’d insisted on an early start and, in spite of Humphry, had managed to arrange things so that when I arrived at the Government wharf in the dark, the SS Teal was already belching loudly.
‘A telegraph to the Board of Health,’ Turner explained. ‘And one back to the port office.’
More surprising was the appearance from the shadows of Humphry’s buggy.
‘Just don’t say a word to me until sun-up.’
The dawn touched the whitecaps turning them pink, and they chased each other over the sea like galahs. The Teal rolled heavily and for the first time since I’d come north, I shivered. Behind me, Castle Hill sat on Townsville, a granite paperweight lit pink by the rising sun. Ahead was the deep blue strip of Magnetic Island.
I’d never been there. I didn’t even feel a morbid attraction to the place. All quarantine stations were alike on their glum islands. West Point would be more desolate than most because the regulation quarters, stores and sheds were carried away or wrecked by a cyclone in ’96.
The island heaved above the waves before us, a natural gaol where people who arrived by a ship carrying some fever or other were left for a quarantine period to sicken, recover or die.
During the previous two weeks, Humphry had come to my office to tell me stories that I didn’t want to hear. He’d sit on the other side of my desk and say things such as ‘They’re sending a petition to the Home Secretary.’
I’d been making a list of hygienic household practices: the importance of light, fresh air, sealing food scraps, poisoning rats, and the like. Humphry had a knack of interrupting when I was busy.
‘Every one of them signed it,’ Humphry continued. He rustled a sheet of paper loudly.
I gave up. ‘What’s that?’
‘The petition. Look here. They’ve spelt your name wrong.’
I looked. Humphry held up three ink-smudged sheets of paper pinned together and jabbed a finger at it. I squinted from my side of the desk.
‘They sent you a copy?’
‘Hell no,’ he said. ‘This is the original. I promised I’d take it to the post office.’
I put my pen in its stand and sat back.
‘They asked you to take a petition that demands your dismissal and just, what, pop it in the mail?’
‘Your dismissal too. But no, of course they didn’t ask me. It was the bloke who runs the supply lighter who begged me to post it for him, with the other mail.’
Humphry had then just come back from giving the Cintra passengers another check-up.
‘Saved him the trip from the wharf,’ he said. ‘And he did give me a lift over and back, so it was the least I could do.’
I leaned across and snatched the petition from his hands and began to read it through.
‘You’re breaking the law, interfering with the mail,’ I said. ‘You know that?’
‘Not at all. I’m still on my way to the post office.’
‘I haven’t decided. I might. Might even sign it myself.’
I sighed. Even the Methodist ministers had signed it. I handed it back to him.
I heard no more about it after that, but it added to my growing anxiety about the island. I was in a difficult position and Humphry wasn’t helping. He liked to poke sticks into wasps’ nests and didn’t seem to care if other people got stung.
It was hard to avoid him. Given the nature of our jobs, Humphry the Queensland Government doctor and I the municipal one, our paths crossed when it came to the public health of Townsville, so it seemed sensible to work together.
That’s what Humphry said.
The difficulties we would face in trying to protect Townsville from the plague had by then begun to appear in an acute form at West Point and we should have learned our lessons there.
The first problem was Dr Routh, the quarantine station’s medical officer.
He’d been thrown from his buggy at Hermit Park three weeks earlier, cracking his head and three ribs. Quarantine station duties were normally a doddle, but then The Lady Norman arrived from the Solomon Islands with a load of kanakas infected with measles. The Cintra arrived soon after. Routh had to move out there, to his horror, where the white passengers imagined they would be ravished, murdered and eaten in their sleep. Although they were well provisioned with newspapers and tobacco, the Cintra passengers never ceased complaining.
There wasn’t a murmur from the kanakas.
The only person relieved of company on West Point was the sick steward, Storm. Soon after his arrival, he had his own tent ringed by barbed wire to form a regulation compound twenty yards square with yellow quarantine flags sprouting from each corner.
‘See,’ Humphry told me, after his first visit, before Routh was dispatched. ‘Anyone who wants the North to separate from the rest of the colony only has to get plague and we could peg it out tomorrow.’
There was some confusion about the laws under which the Cintra passengers now lived. The quarantine station was provisioned and run under the Health Act, but convention also allowed Captain Thompson to maintain the law of the sea, and it was convenient, because of the lack of any other authority on the island, for him to divide them into steerage and saloon, and organise quoits and religious classes.
Dawson and Dunsford had apparently wanted some decision-making collective, but Captain Thompson, to his credit, said he’d consider that mutiny.
The kanakas had moved into the most habitable buildings by the time the Cintra arrived, of course, so the white passengers were given tents and removed themselves as far away as they could which, said Humphry, the kanakas must have considered a blessing.
Dawson particularly resented his incarceration and sent telegrams daily, via the supply lighter, protesting to the Premier that conditions were terrible, there was no plague, and demanding to be freed to appear before the railway hearing. Mr Philp never replied, and somehow Humphry knew all about that as well.
So we arrived at West Point after dawn. The wind on this side of the island curled around and beat the sea into short meringue peaks. A broken wharf struck out uncertainly from the beach and with the crew all the time worried about hitting a reef, we tied up at an unlikely-looking pylon halfway along.
I couldn’t see much beyond the beach, apart from some drifting smoke.
Because there had been no way of contacting the station, no one knew we were coming, but two men, who must have seen the boat approaching, appeared on the bank above the beach.
‘I hope the natives are friendly this time,’ said Humphry as we picked our way across the shambles.
The wharf groaned and shuddered where it leaned against the Teal and the Teal against it, like a pair of drunks. I was in the lead, followed by Humphry and Turner, jumping over gaps of churning grey-green water. To anyone on shore it might have looked comical: grown men playing hopscotch.
When I reached the end I saw that one man had gone and the other had come down to meet us. He stood at the end of the jetty with his hands clasped behind his back.
‘Mr Gard, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘Yes sir, Dr Row.’ But he didn’t look happy to see me. He didn’t look happy at all.
Turner was still picking his way. We each carried black medical bags.
‘Three doctors,’ said Gard. ‘One doctor’s enough bad news, isn’t it? Not sure what they’ll make of three.’
‘They don’t have to make anything of it,’ said Humphry, pushing past him and taking a steep path up the bank.
I followed, reaching the top and seeing Humphry trudge on along two wagon tracks that wound through the dry, low scrub. I looked back. We’d left the crew smoking and the launch looked particularly ugly beside the broken wharf. The mainland was a line of blue and brown.
I cleaned the salt from my spectacles as I waited for Turner.
Gard beside me said, ‘What’s the chance of going ashore today then?’
‘Quarantine ends in a week’s time. I doubt that’ll change.’
Gard shook his head. ‘They’re not going to be happy with that news, you know.’
Turner arrived at the top of the bank.
‘My word,’ he said, looking about before following Humphry.
I started to follow Turner, but Gard suddenly grabbed my arm.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘they’re getting more fidgety each day. Some people have been stirring them up.’
‘Dawson?’
‘And others. And seeing how Storm’s better…’
‘That’s what we’re here to find out.’
‘Well, I’m just saying they won’t be pleased to see you. Or him.’ He nodded at Humphry’s back. ‘It’s been three or four weeks since some of these people left Brisbane or wherever, you see what I’m saying? Could be trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
He shrugged. ‘Just saying be careful.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’ I started walking.
‘Me, I’m busting to get off this island too. You a married man, Dr Row?’
I ignored him.
‘You know what I mean?’
I caught up with Humphry.
The wooden buildings we passed might have been the bones of some giant saurian, picked over and scattered. The area was flat for maybe a hundred acres and then rose suddenly into dense bush. There was a racket of birds, but also a sort of peaceful charm to the place.
Gard began chattering aimlessly, pointing things out. The grass, he said, was kept trim by goats. They shot a few goats for meat, but they were too fast to catch for milking. Over there were two mighty stands of bamboo beneath the hill. That’s where kanakas buried their dead. On the other side of the clearing was the white man’s graveyard.
‘Years since it’s been used.’
Charming, as I said. A building slumped exhausted on the ground beside its stumps and looked as if it had been long abandoned by flesh. The roofs of the huts were a patchwork of badly fixed, dull and rusted iron sheeting.
A couple of black faces looked out from holes where the windows had been.
‘Ain’t them who’ll be causing you any trouble. Whatever Mr Dawson says, they’re all too lazy to butcher us in our sleep. Wouldn’t like to get too close to any of them but. There’s your disease carriers.’
Old large paperbarks had been left standing through the site and a few other smaller trees and shrubs grew here and there, thickest on the sea side.
Humphry nodded towards Turner who’d wandered off the track.
‘Man could be mad,’ he said.
Turner started plucking at some leaves, and as if to prove Humphry’s point he came towards us with his hand out, two green leaves on his palm. He poked them with his finger and one moved. He turned it over.
‘It has legs,’ I said.
‘A leaf with legs,’ said Humphry. ‘My word.’
‘Look how well camouflaged this caterpillar is. This is the leaf from the same tree. Almost identical. Dashed hard to see.’
‘What is it?’ I said.
‘Don’t recognise the species. A moth or butterfly, but I’ve never seen anything quite like this one.’ He pulled from his bag an empty bottle with a cork and popped the caterpillar and leaf inside.
‘In case she gets hungry,’ he said.
Quite.
We walked on.
The trees opened out and there was a building ahead. As we came closer I saw it was better kept than the others.
‘That’s the surgeon’s cottage,’ Gard told me. ‘Dr Routh sleeps in there. Seems he has visitors though.’
Three men were standing casually about the front as though they’d posed themselves there a minute earlier. One of them was standing in a flower bed and leaning against the stairs. The other man might have been the one who’d left Gard at the beach.
‘I didn’t know doctors got up so early,’ said the tall man as we approached. Dawson wore braces over a woollen undershirt. He hadn’t had the chance to shave or wash, but he’d acknowledged a sort of formality by wearing his hat and fiddling with an unlit cigar.
Humphry ignored them, marched up the stairs on to a porch, and banged the flat of his hand against the wall. ‘Wakey wakey.’
‘The doctor might not be in,’ said Dawson. His friends tittered.
Humphry just sighed at the coarse unpainted boards under his hand and then banged them hard three times.
‘Dr Routh?’
‘I’m coming, I’m coming. Who’s that?’ came Routh’s voice from the belly of the cottage. Humphry kicked the bottom of the door, it banged open and he vanished inside.
Dawson turned his glare to Turner and me. I’d just put my foot on the bottom step to follow Humphry when Turner said, ‘You’re Mr Anderson Dawson.’
Turner walked over and introduced himself, extending a hand. Dawson stopped chewing his cigar when Turner said ‘Jeffewis’. I wondered if the doctor had the short man’s inclination for picking fights.
‘Have we met?’ said Dawson.
‘Brisbane. British Medical Association. Amalgamation dinner?’ Dawson shrugged and Turner said, ‘January?’
‘I don’t recall.’
‘You probably had more important things on your mind.’
Dawson finally accepted Turner’s hand. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘The Government’s given me the job of making sure northern and central Queensland don’t catch plague,’ said Turner.
‘Who sent you?’
‘Mr Foxton.’
‘And you’ve come here to look at Storm?’
‘Yes.’
‘All the way from Brisbane?’ Dawson looked confused, as if Turner had appeared on the scene out of context, which I suppose he had. ‘You’re English.’
‘Quite.’
‘Turner. Name does ring a bell.’
‘Parasitic anaemia.’
‘You’ve been hounding the Government.’
‘I wouldn’t say hounding. I’ve brought a condition that’s affecting scores of children to its attention. It requires a scientific approach –’
‘Science,’ interrupted Dawson, taking the cigar from his teeth. ‘Science needs evidence, proof. Am I right?’
‘You are.’
‘That’s good. That’s very good.’ He glared at me then.
Humphry appeared at the cottage door with Dr Routh at his heels. Routh’s big moustache dragged the eyes down his face.
‘This is Dr Turner,’ said Humphry to Routh.
‘Yes, of course, how are you?’ but he clearly didn’t know who Turner was.
Humphry told Turner, ‘And this is Dr Routh, the medical superintendent.’
They shook hands and Routh winced.
‘Are you all right?’ said Turner.
‘Had a fall. I’ll be right. Well, what’s all this then?’
Turner explained who he was and what he wanted to do, and Routh seemed actually to brighten at the prospect of professional support.
‘Good. Good. You’re very welcome. Let’s get you some breakfast.’
‘Do you have coffee?’ said Turner.
‘Coffee? No.’
I think Routh was about to invite us inside, but Dawson said, ‘Follow me,’ and he popped the cigar into his mouth, turned and left. Dunsford and the other man followed.
‘Oh all right, if you like,’ and Routh followed. ‘Coffee. Now there’s something.’
I caught a glimpse of tents. Wood smoke from breakfast fires hung about the trees. Dawson stopped at a campfire where a large kettle hung from a tripod over the coals. A man stood as we approached and used a stiff length of wire to pick the kettle up and put it on the ground. He took several careful hand measures of tea and threw them in before sitting down again.
On a log were about a dozen tin mugs. I heard Turner say, ‘I didn’t realise the conditions were this primitive.’
‘Conditions have improved,’ Dawson said. ‘You’ll have to take it black.’ He poured the tea and handed a mug to Turner.
‘Don’t we have enough doctors today?’ said Dunsford, looking from Turner to Humphry to me with our black medical bags.
Dawson said, ‘I can tell you, you won’t find plague here.’
Turner blew on his steaming cup. ‘I very much hope that’s true, Mr Dawson.’
Dawson had taken the heavy kettle and poured tea into several other mugs on the log. I picked one up. Humphry stayed back, but Dawson collected two and took them to Humphry. He put one under Humphry’s nose and I thought Humphry might knock it away, but without taking his eyes from the politician’s, he reached into his jacket, produced his flask and poured a good nip into both mugs. He took the one Dawson offered. Dawson took his, walking back to the fire without saying a word.
‘And how are you going to help us?’ Dawson said to Turner.
‘By making sure you don’t actually have plague when you leave this place.’
Dawson snorted. ‘There’s still a week of quarantine left. There are women here without their children, husbands without wives, children without fathers…’
‘Politicians without soapboxes,’ offered Humphry.
‘Doctors without manners. One thing that would improve conditions markedly is if you could leave Dr Humphry with us so we can string him up.’
Humphry sipped his tea.
Dawson took a couple of steps and pointed his unlit cigar at Humphry.
‘It’s this cur’s misdiagnosis and the compliance of his, his lapdog here,’ he waved it at me, ‘that’s put us all unnecessarily and at great inconvenience on this blasted desert island.’
He picked up a twig from the fire and lit his cigar.
Turner said, ‘However much you feel you’ve been treated unfairly, Mr Dawson, Dr Humphry and Dr Row have been following the law.’
‘Pah,’ said Dawson.
Turner turned to Routh. ‘Perhaps we should see the sick steward now?’
‘Certainly. He’s right here.’
There was a moment’s confusion. ‘Here?’
And the man who was tending the fire when we arrived stood to attention. It took a few seconds to understand what had happened. I think we’d overlooked him because we were expecting to see a man pale, ill and supine in a tent. But here he was, looking a little uncomfortable in front of so many gawping doctors.
‘Dr Humphry,’ said Turner. ‘Is this the man you treated on the ship?’
Humphry looked the man up and down. ‘I believe it is, yes.’
‘How long has he been out of the quarantine tent?’
‘Just yesterday,’ said Routh.
‘Well, dash it, who gave permission to release him?’
‘Permission? He left the tent of his own accord.’
Storm raised his hand, a little embarrassed acknowledgment. He looked weak but otherwise healthy.
Dawson was standing back and had folded his arms. Turner spun around and Dawson shrugged.
‘Nothing to do with me.’ He took the cigar from his mouth. ‘I just found him chopping wood for the nurses. Can’t say I’m surprised the man’s better.’ And he stared at Humphry. ‘Seeing it was just a re-bout of typhoid.’
‘And how would you be able to tell typhoid from tremens?’ said Humphry.
‘I don’t have to. It’s the opinion of Dr Routh. He says it’s typhoid.’
We turned to Routh. ‘Well, I’ve said that before.’
‘Dr Turner,’ said Dawson, ‘what do you think of this evidence?’
‘It’s evidence of the man being well and apparently recovering from whatever had afflicted him. What that was is still to be determined.’
Dawson went over to Storm and slung an arm around his shoulders.
‘If it was plague, Mr Storm here would be dead, wouldn’t he?’ Storm kicked at the sandy dirt. ‘And we’d all be sick by now.’ He left Storm to his embarrassment and walked over to Turner. ‘This is a farce.’
Turner spoke softly. ‘I have to examine the patient and complete some tests.’
Dawson nodded. ‘Well, do that. I’ll be interested to hear what you find,’ and he walked back to the fire.
Turner asked Routh to lead the way to the plague tent where he could examine Storm. Storm seemed terrified by the suggestion. ‘But I’m feeling orright.’
‘I just want to make sure you don’t get sick again,’ said Turner.
So Humphry and I followed Routh and Turner to the tent where Storm had apparently spent the past two weeks, less a few days. Dawson and the others stayed at their fire.
When we were out of sight, Gard appeared at my side and leaned very close. I could smell smoke and sweat.
‘Storm just said he felt better and got up,’ he whispered. ‘Said he’d chop some firewood, and we said, no, you’re in the plague tent, mate. You can’t leave. We was talking to him over the fence, and he said, well bring me the wood and I’ll chop it in here.’
Gard pointed to the tent we were approaching, its wire fence, and a chopping block inside with wood chips all around.
‘And we did bring him the wood, but then Mr Dawson saw him and asked him if he felt better and would he like some breakfast. He said bloody oath and just stepped over the wire and off he went.’ Gard was rubbing the palms of his hands against his forehead.
‘Are you all right?’ I said.
‘I hafta get home, doctor. Hafta get back. I gotta see my wife.’
The tent was set apart – a new military-style tent, square, peaked and white like a fancy iced cake. We stepped over the wire and entered through the flap. It was bare but for a stretcher, a chair and a small table. It appeared clean enough, and the stretcher had a fresh starched white sheet. The nurses obviously kept it ready should Storm decide to return.
‘Where are the nurses?’ said Turner.
‘I sent one back. Didn’t need her,’ said Routh. ‘I use the other one at the dispensary. Matter of fact she’s making breakfast.’
Turner sat Storm on the stretcher and made his observations. There was a yellow bruise at the groin. It remained fixed and firm when pressed, but there was no visible swelling. The sight of the needle proved to Storm that he hadn’t been wrong about doctors, but we held him and Turner got his serum.
‘Well,’ said Turner, holding the syringe of dark blood to the light, ‘we’ll see what lovelies are in here.’
But most of Storm’s symptoms had vanished. What remained was lethargy, a backache and sulkiness. Turner gave Storm a wide glass jar.
‘What for?’
Turner said would he mind using the lavatory. He tapped the glass.
‘What?’
‘Have you been to the lavatory this morning?’ said Turner.
The man’s eyes darted to each of us. ‘Whatcha want that for?’
Routh handed Storm a bedpan, pointed to soap and a basin of water, and gave him instructions. We left the tent to stand outside where Gard was smoking one of Humphry’s cigarettes.
‘Should we keep him here until quarantine’s over?’ I said.
‘If it was plague, he’s past infecting anyone,’ said Turner.
‘Wasn’t plague, you know,’ said Routh. ‘Wasting your time.’
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ snapped Turner. Routh reddened and, mumbling about breakfast, excused himself. We watched him walk back through the campsite. The call of black magpies echoed around the hills.
Humphry struck a match and lit a cigarette. ‘Anyway, what do you think?’
‘Oh, I don’t doubt your original diagnosis, if that’s what you mean,’ said Turner. ‘The swelling’s gone, but I’ll make a bacteriological study.’
‘But it is plague?’
‘I can’t say that Storm still has plague until I’ve seen plague bacilli. It doesn’t mean he didn’t have plague before, though.’
Gard smoked anxiously, glancing furtively at each of us and looking away quickly. We contemplated the pastoral scene around us, while Storm could be heard trying his best to fulfil Turner’s request.
‘Anyway,’ said Humphry, ‘What’s wrong with typhoid? Perfectly good disease. Why does typhoid get a good wrap, but everyone runs screaming from plague?’
‘You know, you’re right. We’ve become familiar with typhoid and we treat it with contempt,’ said Turner. ‘Plague on the other hand produces a superstitious terror.’
‘Not in Townsville.’
‘It’s not in Townsville yet. And it’s easier to deny it than deal with it. In Sydney, it’s another story.’
‘Surely to God we don’t want that,’ I said.
‘What we do need is some sort of balance. I think there’s something to be said for having a healthy fear of disease.’
Storm let out a curse from the privy. Gard came over and asked Humphry for another cigarette.
Humphry lowered his voice as Gard walked away and said, ‘It’s a pity in some ways then that Mr Storm recovered.’
Humphry was right, but even then would they have believed that it was plague?
‘We have to convince people that plague is near, that it’s a real threat,’ said Turner, ‘and to reinstate fear proportionally, not by causing them to panic, but to make people take the proper precautions.’
‘God help us all,’ said Humphry.
Storm came over to us with his jar and held it out to Turner.
But Turner had Storm place the jar on the ground, slosh germicide over it and make sure it was well sealed. Then he wrapped it in a cloth and handed it to me to carry. We made our way back to Routh’s office, skirting the tents.
Gard was back in my ear like a sticky fly.
‘You said before I could only catch this plague through fleas and not to worry, but then here we are all in quarantine.’
‘In case someone else has the germ. You can have a germ and not get sick for a few days; perhaps longer.’
‘Well, why are we stuck here for three bloomin’ weeks?’
‘It’s the law.’
‘Damned stupid law, you ask me.’ He smoked in quick puffs. ‘We’re not going home, are we.’
‘Not today.’
He turned and strode away through the trees.
About twenty of the passengers, mostly sullen men, had gathered outside Routh’s cottage. Word had spread quickly that we were there, and I suppose they were hoping for reprieve. I felt sorry for them. None spoke to us as we walked by, but I could feel their frustration. Dawson wasn’t amongst them.
Inside, Routh and his nurse had organised breakfast. We washed. The station doctor appeared to be sulking and wouldn’t look at Turner. I’d lost my appetite somewhere between tea with Dawson and collecting the steward’s stool, which now stood wrapped and tied near our bags by the door.
‘It’s not such a bad place for a holiday,’ said Humphry, holding up a thick slice of salted bacon on the end of a fork. ‘I don’t know what they’re all complaining about.’
‘That’s what I keep telling them,’ said Routh, gloomily.
There was a single knock and we turned. Dawson filled the doorway.
‘This is cosy.’ He’d found his jacket and his cigar was lit and in place.
‘I’d ask you to join us,’ said Humphry, ‘but we’ve just done a faecal examination.’ He popped some bacon into his mouth. ‘Come to think of it, why don’t you join us?’
Dawson ignored him and pulled a chair over to sit next to Turner.
‘There are a number of people outside who’d like to know when they can get off this blasted island.’
‘I know,’ said Turner.
‘Well?’
‘Another week, Mr Dawson. I’m sorry. The quarantine period can’t be broken.’
‘So, as a man of science, can you say that the steward has plague?’ Dawson was trying his best to intimidate.
‘Had plague,’ said Turner. ‘He certainly appears to be recovered and his illness is consistent with Pestis minor.’
‘Minor? Well, then. I have a meeting on Thursday; it’s an issue of the utmost importance to my constituents.’
‘Give me two bob,’ said Humphry, ‘and I’ll put it on that nag of yours, if you like.’
‘The railway hearing,’ said Dawson, ignoring him, ‘is about the future. The future, Dr Turner. A new Australian nation. This line will employ hundreds of white men. Thousands will benefit from it. You don’t want to be responsible for scuttling that, surely.’
‘The future of the colony and its railway lines isn’t my responsibility. I’m not a politician, I’m a doctor. We all have to work within the law and twenty-one days’ quarantine has to be endured. I’m sure you can get the hearing rescheduled.’
‘Rescheduled!’ Dawson suddenly banged his hand on the table and the glowing end of his cigar rolled across the surface throwing sparks and leaving a trail of ash. It was such a violent punctuation that even Humphry stopped eating and stared at the politician.
‘Don’t you understand? The Tories won’t let it be rescheduled. This is what they want, for me to miss this hearing. That’s what I fear this is all about. This is some blasted conspiracy, isn’t it? Isn’t it? I’m beginning to think it must be.’
Turner said, quietly, ‘I assure you it’s not. It’s the law. There’s nothing I can do. Do you expect me to break the law?’
‘The law! It all smells like one of Foxton’s plots to me. I know their tricks. The law!’ Dawson stood, pushing his chair back. ‘You agree this is no place to hold people in quarantine and you say the steward is no longer sick and not a danger and yet you insist we stay. This is more than just incompetence.’
Turner stood and assured him it was in fact a very serious matter and it was being handled in the correct way, but Dawson turned and stormed out of the office.
‘Perhaps,’ said Routh, looking sad beneath his watery eyes and walrus moustache, ‘you’d better leave.’
We could hear Dawson outside telling the mob that they’d be here for another week. There was a general hubbub about this and I could hear a woman crying. Someone yelled that the doctors then should stay as well and this was greeted with applause.
Routh looked out the door and said, ‘I’m not sure I can guarantee your safety. Maybe you’d better stay here after all, until they quieten down.’
‘They may try to blockade the office,’ said Humphry, ‘if they get it into their heads. I think we should go now before Dawson puts it to a vote.’
Turner agreed. He gave me the jar and took my bag up with his and we moved out on to the verandah. We were greeted with booing.
Humphry cleared his throat and looked as if he might be about to address the crowd, but it was Turner who grabbed his arm and said, ‘Don’t,’ and pulled him down the steps. Two men stood in front of us with their arms folded and seemed determined not to budge. I looked back over my shoulder to see Dawson chomping his damaged cigar on the verandah. He smiled tightly and the circle closed around us. Humphry and I both took a step back and I looked over the heads of the crowd. I couldn’t see Turner, but I saw the captain.
‘Mr Thompson?’ I said. The crowd cheered. He pushed forward to the front of the crush, looking worried.
‘Let us through,’ I said.
‘It’s nothing I can help with.’
‘But you’ll be held responsible.’
‘Where’s Turner?’ said Humphry. ‘If we come to any harm there’ll be hell to pay.’ A few people laughed.
‘All three of us are employed by the Government,’ Humphry continued. ‘Does that make this treason, I wonder?’
Thompson turned and said, ‘Let them through,’ but it appeared he’d lost control over the crowd. He looked up angrily to Dawson, who shrugged. Turner was suddenly pushed into my side. He said quietly to me, ‘Where’s that jar?’
‘Here.’ I had the cloth bundle in both hands.
‘Why don’t you hold it up in front of you so everyone can get a good look at it.’
I managed to unwrap the jar as the jostling continued. And that was how we made our way through the crowd.
Humphry shouted, ‘We have to get this shit back for scientific examination. Get out of the way.’
Humphry was in front and Turner behind. Someone yelped as Humphry stood on his foot, but those closest could see the jar’s contents.
‘Plague or typhoid, Dr Row? What do you think is in this jar? I hope to God we don’t spill any,’ and we kept moving forward.
A few people insisted on jostling us with their shoulders and so I took the added precaution of unscrewing the jar’s lid. Humphry needed to say no more after that.
The crowd thinned out behind us, but a hard core of men continued to shadow us through the grounds.
Captain Thompson strode after them and said, ‘Gentlemen, please. Let them go.’
We went Indian file and I still held the jar up like a talisman.
‘Could you put the lid on that blasted thing now? I’m going to be sick,’ said Humphry.
Some men had got ahead of us along the track and may have had it in their minds to somehow stop us when we got to the wharf. We finally got to the bank above the beach and I saw the Teal still belching smoke, rubbing against the stricken wharf.
Humphry and Turner went down the embankment in an undignified rush and I followed. My heel hit some soft dirt and skidded from under me, and I landed on my backside. Mercifully, the lid was secure and I kept a grip on the jar.
A hand reached down towards me.
‘You right there, Dr Row?’ Gard was standing over me.
‘Yes, yes.’ As I sat there, half a dozen men surrounded me.
Gard took my elbow and pulled me to my feet and walked me through the group of passengers. There seemed to be no logic in what they were doing, which made it even more disturbing.
Gard whispered, ‘Could you take a letter to my wife?’
‘Your wife?’ Men pressed around and eyed me hungrily. I felt a rising panic.
‘Yes. Just give her this.’
I felt an envelope thrust into a pocket. Humphry had been well ahead of me and was coming back now that he saw I was surrounded.
‘Is there a problem, Dr Row?’ Humphry yelled.
‘Why don’t you send a telegram,’ I told Gard. Telegrams were free. They just had to be sent ashore with the mail.
‘This is personal. A letter from a husband to a wife. You understand?’
‘Dr Row?’ shouted Humphry, marching towards us. Did he really have a pistol in his hand?
‘Where do I find her?’ I said to Gard.
‘I dunno.’
‘What?’
‘I helped you. You help me. You’ll find her.’
I heard Humphry up ahead bellow, ‘Excuse me,’ and Gard stepped back and his place was taken by a grinning man with a big white beard and bad teeth. I felt a hand grab me and I tried to knock it away, but then they all stood back and I was suddenly with Humphry, stumbling over the uneven planks of the pier.
Behind me the mob watched. Perhaps they thought they’d achieved some sort of victory in our flight. There was some scoffing, public-bar laughter.
Humphry’s pistol had vanished.
Turner was already at the Teal and the crew was casting off. It bucked as I stepped aboard, and I stumbled on to my knees like a drunk, raising a few more distant laughs. The jar rolled from my hands but didn’t break. I managed to pick it up.
‘All right, Row?’
I stood and it was hard going but I managed to construct a smile.
Just as we pulled into the passage the wind caught my hat and I lunged instinctively to pluck it back. The jar fell to the deck and shattered. I gave a little skip backwards and looked dismally from my shoes to Turner.
‘No matter,’ he said, and he might have considered rescuing the damned mess as it streamed towards the stern, but for a quick-thinking crew member who threw a bucket of water at it. And another.
I turned to the receding jetty and saw my boater ride a foaming crest before it flipped over and vanished.