Rodman The Boatsteerer And Other Stories. Becke Louis
of the transport the master stood gazing seaward with a worn and troubled face, and as he viewed the gathering fog a heavy sigh broke from him.
“God help us!” he muttered, “ninety-six dead already, and as many more likely to die in another week if this calm keeos up.”
A hand was laid on his shoulder, and turning he met the pale face of the surviving surgeon of the fever-stricken ship.
“Seven more cases, Belton—five prisoners and two marines.”
The master of the Breckenbridge buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud.
“Can nothing be done, doctor? My God! it is terrible to see people perishing like this before our eyes when help is so near. Look! over there, only twenty miles away, is Twofold Bay, where there is a settlement, but I dare not send a boat ashore. There are not ten sound men in the ship, and if an easterly wind springs up I could not keep my ship from going ashore.”
The young surgeon made no answer for awhile. Ever since the Breckenbridge had left Rio, one or more of the convicts, seamen, or military guard had died day after day; and he had striven hard since the outbreak of the fever to stay its deadly progress. The cause he knew well: the foul, overcrowded ‘tween decks, where four hundred human beings were confined in a space not fit to hold a hundred, the vile drinking-water and viler provisions, the want of even a simple disinfectant to clear the horrible, vitiated atmosphere, and the passage, protracted long beyond even the usual time in those days, had been the main causes of their present awful condition.
Presently the surgeon spoke—
“Nothing can be done, Belton.”
“How is Lieutenant Clinton, sir?” asked the master, as the surgeon turned to leave him.
“Dying fast. Another hour or so will see the end.”
“And his wife and baby?”
“She bears up well, but her infant cannot possibly live another day in such weather as this. God help her, poor little woman! Better for her if she follows husband and child.”
“Who is with Mr. Clinton, doctor?” asked the master presently.
“Adair—No. 267. I brought him into the cabin. Indeed, Clinton asked me to do so. He thinks much of the young fellow, and his conduct ever since the outbreak occurred deserves recognition. He has rendered me invaluable assistance with Clinton and the other sick in the main cabin.”
“He’s a fine young fellow,” said Belton, “and his good example has done much to keep the others quiet. Do you know, doctor, that at any time during the last three weeks the ship could have been captured by a dozen even unarmed men.”
“I do know it; but the poor wretches seem never to have thought of rising.”
“What was Adair sent out for?” asked Belton.
“Lunacy; otherwise, patriotism. He’s one of a batch of five—the five best conducted men on the ship—sentenced to end their days in Botany Bay for participating in an attack on a party of yeomanry at Bally-somewhere or other in Ireland. There was a band of about fifty, but these five were the only ones captured—the other forty-five were most likely informers and led them into the mess.”
A hurried footstep sounded near them, and a big man, in a semi-military costume, presented himself abruptly before them. His dark, coarse race was flushed with anger, and his manner insolent and aggressive. Not deigning to notice the presence of the surgeon, he addressed himself to the master of the transport.
“Mr. Belton, I protest against the presence in the main cabin of a ruffianly convict. The scoundrel refuses to let me have access to Lieutenant Clinton. Both on my own account and on that of Mr. Clinton, who needs my services, I desire that this man be removed immediately.”
“What right, sir, have you, a passenger, to protest?” answered Belton surlily. “Mr. Clinton is dying and Prisoner Adair is nursing him.”
“That does not matter to me, I–”
The surgeon stepped in front of the newcomer.
“But it shall matter to you, Mr. Jacob Bolger, Government storekeeper, jailer, overseer, or commissary’s runner, or whatever your position is. And I shall see that No. 267 suffers no molestation from you.”
“Who are you, sir, to threaten me? The Governor shall hear of this when we arrive at the settlement. A pretty thing that I should be talked to like this by the ship’s doctor!”
“By God, sir, I’ll give you something to talk about,” and the surgeon’s Welsh blood leapt to his face. Advancing to the break of the poop, he called—
“Sergeant Matthews!”
The one remaining non-commissioned officer of the diminished convict-guard at once appeared and saluted.
He was a solemn-faced, taciturn man, devoted to Clinton.
“Mr. Belton,” said the doctor, “in the serious illness of Lieutenant Clinton I now assume charge of the military guard and convicts on this ship, and as a first step to maintain proper discipline at such a critical time, I shall confine Mr. Bolger to his cabin. Sergeant, take him below and lock him in.”
Bolger collapsed at once. “I beg your pardon, doctor, for my hastiness. I did not know.... I was–”
The surgeon cut his apologies short. “Go to your cabin, sir. I shall not have you locked in, but, by heavens! if you attempt to go into Mr. Clinton’s cabin I’ll put you in irons, Government official though you are. I am well aware that your presence is particularly objectionable to Mrs. Clinton.”
With an evil look Bolger left them, and the surgeon, turning to Belton, said: “That settles him, anyway, for a time. He’s a thorough scoundrel, I believe. Mrs. Clinton has a positive horror of the man; yet the brute is continually pestering her with offers of his services. Now I must go below again to poor Clinton.”
In the dimly lighted cabin the young officer lay breathing heavily, and as the doctor softly entered he saw that the time was now very near. By her husband’s side sat Marion Clinton, her loosened wavy brown hair hiding from view her own face and the dying hand which she held pressed to her quivering lips. At her feet, on a soft cushion on the floor, lay her infant, with one thin waxen hand showing out from the light shawl that covered it; at the further end of the cabin stood a young, broad-shouldered man in grey convict garb. As the doctor entered he stood up and saluted.
The sound of the opening door made Clinton turn his face. “Is that you, Williams?” he said, in slow, laboured tones. “Marion, my girl, bear up. I know I am going, old fellow. Do what you can for her, Williams. The Governor will see to her returning to England, but it may be long before a ship leaves.... Marion!”
“Yes,” she answered brokenly.
“Is baby no better?”
“No,” she answered with a sob, as she raised her tear-stained face to Surgeon Williams, who shook his head. “There is no hope for her, Harry.”
His hand pressed hers gently. “God help you, dear! Only for that it would not be so hard to die now; and now I leave you quite alone.”
She stooped down and lifted the fragile infant, and Williams and No. 267 turned their faces away for awhile. Presently Clinton called the surgeon.
“Williams,” and his eyes looked wistfully into the doctor’s, “do what you can for her. There is something like a hundred guineas among my effects—that will help. Thank God, though, she will be a rich woman when my poor old father dies. I am the only son.”
The surgeon bent down and took his hand. “She shall never want a friend while I live, Clinton, never.”
A light of thankfulness flickered in Clinton’s eyes, and the pallid lips moved; and then as wife and friend, each holding a hand, waited for him to speak, there came the sound of a heavy sob. Convict 267 was kneeling and praying for the departing soul.
Slowly the minutes passed, the silence broken but by the creaking and straining of the ship as she rose and fell