by The Rock
"I wants to, but I can't. I wants to now."
"Under the bed. Hold it for him, Eliott. There. Let it go.
... Hm. Not much. Write, 'Wants to urinate often but with little success; urine produced' is thick, high-colored. Pulse—one hundred, full.' "
"Doctor, am I going to die?"
"Of course not. Cheer up, man. Holy Mary, let's have some air to breathe in here." He walked down the ward to the far door and opened it. The thudding of the drum and the yelling of the sergeants burst in louder. "That noise won't disturb our patients," he said. "They'd think they was dead without it. Write in Tamlyn's report, 'Very nervous.' That's a common symptom in the beginning of this fever. Depression, nervousness, fear."
Eliott said, "I see."
O'Brien poked a finger into his chest. "Don't you want to know what the treatment is? Ask, ask, Eliott, or you'll never be a physician.... And now I'll tell ye, we have no idea what the treatment should be. Some of us do one thing and some another. The first thing I do, if the patient's not too weak, is to purge him. This is what we'll give him." He took the book and wrote: Ordered ipecac, gr xv. antimon. tartar, gr j to be wrought off with 2 quarts of water. "Now take that to Thompson, watch him make it up, then you give it to the patient. I have to go to a soldier's wife who I'm afraid..." He hurried away, shaking his head.
Hospital Mate Thompson was a thin rheumy soldier who seemed to fear that Eliott was after his job, but when Eliott insisted, he grumblingly allowed him to watch the mixing of the ingredients. Eliott then took the medicine to Private Tamlyn, who had hardly swallowed it before he was sitting up, retching and straining, convulsed. Just in time Eliott got the bucket out from under the cot.
O'Brien returned as Eliott was taking the pot out to the latrines. He said, "Stop there, boy. What's in it? ... Just his porridge, beer, tea, bread ... Write it all down. Now listen. There's two soldiers coming in complaining of pains and don't feel well and their heads splitting open. You take all particulars. I must go back to Mrs. Cropley. Aye, she has the fever."
Eliott took off his coat and hung it on the wooden peg behind the door in the surgeon's little office....
Pvt. Tamlyn, 3 pm. Emetic operated well. 2 copious fetid black stools. Body heat increased, tongue same, pains in back and loins worse, stomach easy. Face flushed, pulse 104, weak. Ordered oatmeal gruel with a little wine.
There were four other soldiers in the ward by then, and Mrs. Cropley in her married quarters behind. The lieutenant colonel of the battalion came and walked the ward with O'Brien. They stopped near Eliott, and the colonel said, "If it gets worse, I'll speak to the governor about taking the men out to camp."
Pvt. Tamlyn, 6 pm. 1 black stool; urine free, slight pain forehead. Thirsty, eyes red, tongue more furred, mouth dry. Took tea and toast. Pulse 108, moderately full, ordered 1 gr James' powder, at once, and if no effect another in 6 hours.
Eliott followed O'Brien to the next bed. And the next. And the next... At midnight he was asleep on the floor of the surgeon's office, a blanket under him, when he heard his name called. "David, David?"
He awoke, groaning, trying to unstick his eyes. It was his father. "David, what are you doing here? We've been searching all the town and the ships for you. I feared you'd been pressed into the navy. Come home now."
"I can't, father."
The groans and sighs and mutterings of the ward sounded like low laughter in a charnel house. The smell of vomit and sickness and feces lay thick and sweet under the acrid stink of the feathers Thompson had burned in the evening to kill it.
"This is my place," Eliott said.
"Ay, que miseria!" his father groaned. "It's safer with us, son. None of us have it."
Pvt. Tamlyn, Sep 1, 8 am. The dose of James' powder operated violently as emetic and purgative; now easy but thirsty; face swelled. Took tea and toast, drank toast and water. Fearful of not recovering. Pulse 104 but very soft. Ordered 2 gills wine in gruel through the day.
O'Brien said, "Ye recall that night we saw the Andalusians in the library garden? 'Twas August ten. Now a merchant called Bresciano—ye know him?—has come forward to tell that the priest of the Spanish church here, Don Francisco Hoyera, was dining with him that night and was called out to give the last Sacrament to a dying man. He found the sick man under a fig tree in the library garden, and as soon as he was dead his friends buried him there. They were smugglers from Malaga, but before they smuggled the tobacco out, they had smuggled death in. Aye, death, and ye see that what we have to thank this cursed fever for is greed.... How many more cases in the night? None? Well, 'tis early yet to say one thing or another. Now, Eliott, I'm going to do a very improper thing here. I'm going to experiment with these wretched men's lives. I'll give Tamlyn and the fellow next to him the regular treatment, but with others I'll try out different ideas. Ye've heard of the vaccination against the smallpox, which is giving the person a dose of a similar but less dangerous disease? Now the remittent fever's like the Bulam, but it's not so strong. So I'm going to give two patients a vaccination of urine from that man Hallam, who has the remittent fever. And we'll vaccinate volunteers who have no fever, ye see, to learn whether that protects them from getting it later. And I'm going to boil the stool of a patient who has recovered from the fever, and..."
Pvt. Tamlyn, Sep 1, 6 pm. Took 1 gill wine, tea, toast; vomited; head well, back and limbs painful; tongue very furred. Pulse 100, weak; feels chill, but body heat moderate. Ordered 1 gill extra wine before morning, and to take every hour 1 large spoonful of R. Decoct. Cort. Peruv. zviij. Tinct ditto, zj. spt. aether, vit. c. zjtinct. op ti. gr. xl. M.
Pvt. Tamlyn, Sep 2, 8 am. Slept very well; 2 fetid black stools, vomited a little early, tea and toast since, which is still sitting in him; some pains in limbs and throat. Pulse 100 moderately full but feeble; forward half of tongue toward tip clear and shining. Ordered medicines continued and to have 4 gills wine, with sago and tapioca.
"Eliott, there's a message for you here, to go to Mr. Matania's place of business at once. Me boy, are ye still supposed to be...?"
"Tell him I'm sorry. I'm busy, I can't come."
"Aye, but listen to me, boy, you know 'tis dangerous work looking after patients with the Bulam fever?"
Eliott nodded without speaking. He knew, too well. Fear of the disease sometimes paralyzed him, now that he was seeing its course at close hand and knew that all the surgeon's treatments amounted to no more than a pious wish; but that was only when he was not actually in the ward—once there, he became absorbed in his task of recording the symptoms and the treatment. Several times, feeling an onset of panic, he had gone to the ward to calm himself.
Pvt. Tamlyn, Sep 2, 3 pm. Thinks himself well; free of pain; vomited much, ate 1 oz meat (given him without leave by a soldier friend), face pale, tongue not so shiny, hawks bloody slimy matter, eyes clearer. Pulse 106, rather feeble. Has had 2 gills wine. Ordered 4 more, and to continue medicine.
"Ah, Eliott, come in, come in. I've asked the surgeons of the other regiments to have a look at our ward here, and then we'll have a talk, and I'm hoping we can speak with one voice to the garrison surgeon and he to the governor. This is Mr. Ashland of the 2nd, Mr. Greatorex of the 10th, Mr. MacKenzie of the 13th. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Eliott Conquy, my assistant. Now, if you'll follow me ... This patient was admitted—read from the book, Eliott...
They went down the ward and an hour later crowded into O'Brien's office, all standing, for there was only one chair. O'Brien said, "There you are, gentlemen. D'ye not agree that we must urge the garrison surgeon to go to the governor and declare an emergency? By God, we are at war! If the fever strikes us very heavily, the Spaniards could walk in and seize the fortress."
"Quite right," Greatorex said. "We should fumigate the whole of Gibraltar immediately. The air is foul, and the pestilence is breeding in it There should be fires in the streets, especially at night. Find the most pestilential areas and move the troops from those areas out into camp. Or into caves. St. Michael's
Cave would make an excellent site for several hundred men."
MacKenzie said, "By your leave, your proposals are nothing short of disastrous. The only help is isolation. The Bulam fever is contagious and is passed by physical contact, or breathing common air, between the fit and the sick, in which I include those in whom the disease is not yet fully incubated, that is to say, persons whom we have no means of knowing are about to become stricken. Everyone, therefore, is a potential danger, and everyone must be prevented from giving the disease to others."
"What evidence do you have, pray, that the fever is contagious? It is well established that this fever is spontaneously generated in certain climates and places, such as that very island of Bulam off the Guinea Coast."
"Rubbish, Mr. Ashland."
"Mr. Greatorex, fiddlesticks to you, sir."
"Sir!"
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, can we not agree on one thing, just one recommendation?"
"Provided it is agreed that contagion is not..."
"Contagion must be treated as the one, the only..."
Pvt. Tamlyn, Sep 2, 6 pm. Vomited, continues easy. Tongue not so shiny, pulse 102 feeble. Ordered continued wine and medicine.
Pvt. Tamlyn, Sep 3, 8 am. Bad night, delirious, 1 stool; vomited twice, comatose, tongue dry, very weak, no appetite. Pulse 90, feeble. Ordered bottle sherry wine, and to continue medicine with aether vitriol zj to ziv of the bark, M.
3 pm. No alteration.
7 pm. Vomited about one quart of matter resembling coffee grounds; no pain, delirious. Pulse 102, v feeble. Ordered continue wine and medicine with a tablespoon of water, strongly acidulated with elixir of vitriol, every half hour.
Sep 4, 8 am. slept little, was delirious, feels queasy, vomited black fluid very often, had half hour of hiccups; took medicine regularly, also 2 bottles white wine; pulse hard to perceive. Ordered continue all medicines and apply sinapisms to feet.
"Eliott, you look like a ghost walking."
"Yes, Mr. O'Brien."
"Yeoman's well on the way to recovery. The other three..." O'Brien took another swig from the rum bottle on his desk. His skin was gray, and his breath rank with liquor. "Mrs. Cropley died last night."
Pvt. Tamlyn, Sep 4, 2 pm. Died an hour ago. Bled profusely from nose and mouth.
Eliott drew a line under the entry and looked at O'Brien. "Next patient," O'Brien said harshly. "How do you feel, sergeant? Vomit? Stool...?"
Eliott usually enjoyed Succoth, the Feast of Tabernacles, more than any other religious occasion of the year. But today he felt nervous and uncomfortable.
The cantor and the rabbi led the service, their three-cornered hats bobbing and bowing. Eliott took the pointed palm and the citrus offered to him by his neighbor and stepped into the side aisle to find space. He bowed his body forward and began to thrust out the palm and citrus ... but should he be here at all, with Mr. O'Brien's certainty that the fever was contagious? Should any of them be here? Surely the Parnassim should have canceled the service and closed the synagogue? But could they?
Twice to the east, twice to the south, twice to the west, twice to the north: then twice upward and twice downward. He gave the palm and citrus to another. The singing became more intense.
"Hosha-na, Hosha-na,
Save us, we beseech Thee Save us, we beseech Thee,
For Thy sake, if not for ours, save us,
O Lord, save us we beseech Thee, we beseech Thee."
The president drew back the curtains of the Ark, and the Levantadores went forward, brought out two Torah scrolls, raised them, and carried them down the steps. Eliott bowed his head, carried out his prayer shawl, touched the case of a Torah with it, and kissed its fringes where they had touched.
When they had carried it slowly all round the synagogue and were again in front of the Ark, the Levantadores faced the congregation, suddenly raised high a heavy Torah, and unwound the scrolls so that three columns of the Word showed. In front of Eliott Mr. Matania half stretched out his arms, tears rolling down his cheeks. He believes, Eliott thought, so he is not a hypocrite, even though he is an unscrupulous old lecher. My father and young brother Hillel here beside me believe. But I? I am here, I perform the functions laid down, carry out the appointed rites, but do I believe? If not, how can I become a Teacher?
He glanced up at the balcony where his mother and three sisters watched intently, their faces half covered, wigs hiding their hair. Three hundred deaths a day in Malaga. What if the Law said one thing and medicine another? The Teachers were calling for a Cohen to read the Word, as was his right. Old Jacob Cohen hobbled up and read. When he had finished, the Teacher beckoned to Eliott, and he went up. He read from Leviticus 23, carefully, for he always found the unpointed Hebrew difficult to read:
"These are the appointed seasons of the Lord, even holy convocations, which ye shall proclaim in their appointed season.... And ye shall offer an offering made by fire under the Lord, seven days: in the seventh day is a holy convocation, ye shall do no servile work."
Afterward Mr. Matania met him outside the Tabernacle set up in the synagogue garden. He said, "You read well, David. But then you go and 'do servile work' in the soldiers' hospital.... Are you ready to come back to the counting house now? Or to start serious study?"
"There are still many sick among the soldiers," Eliott said, "It is getting worse. Afterwards ... when it dies down..."
"All our people are well," Mr. Matania said. "None has taken the fever. It breeds in dirt, and to avoid it only cleanliness and clean living according to the Law are needed."
But it was not true. Succoth fell on September 23 that year. On October 3 Eliott's father was stricken with fever, and the same day, Esther Matania and five other Jews. The pestilence continued among the military but now also moved full force upon the civilians. It crept out of the soil and shook down from the sky. It was breathed in the air, drunk with the water, eaten with the food. Day followed night followed day in a slow procession of nightmarish unreality of fear that spread and grew like cancer in the body, bursting out in sudden blossoms of violent pain and, worse, despair. There was a certainty of being unwanted, doomed. Twice Eliott saw men hurl themselves from upper windows and twice into the sea and make no attempt to swim.
Eliott left the 54th and moved out to the fever "ward" of tents and shelters set up on Windmill Hill. His daily hours of sleep dropped from six to four to two. In succession he nursed, and buried, five members of his family—all except his mother. The rich of all religions left Gibraltar, the Jews to Morocco, the rest to Genoa, a few to England. The poor stayed and died with the garrison.
Toward the end of the year the pestilence began to abate. In the first months of 1805 those who had fled began to return. The narrow streets of the town had become silent corridors, the houses silent but for the squeaking of rats. On Windmill Hill and by Black Town hundreds of vultures feasted on the ill-buried bodies.
Eliott Conquy returned to work for Mr. Matania because he needed money to support his mother and because Mr. Matania, who had lost seven out of nine clerks, begged him to. In the evenings he studied medicine with O’Brien or the Law with the Teacher of the congregation; but more and more now, when he finished for the night, it was the sacred books that lay on top, obscuring the medical notes below. Many who had known him for all the twenty-one years he had lived before the pestilence did not recognize him; for he had lost thirty pounds in weight and developed a stoop, so that he looked like a black-avised heron, the dark blue eyes deep-sunk under the bony overhang of his forehead. He believed that YHWH had shown him His terrible face and commanded him; for Eliott had turned away from Him and now his father, his brother, and his three sisters were dead, taken in agony. Eliott knew he must obey YHWH ... yet he had come to hate Him.
O’Brien rocked back in his chair, the grog glass shaking in his hand. He had not been able to drink heavily during the epidemic but had made up for it in the ten months since. Eliott did not think he would last much longer. It was a Friday—Octobe
r 18—four o’clock in the afternoon.
"Do you have a shilling to spare, Eliott?" O’Brien said. "The navy officers here are having a sweepstake on how long it will take the new governor to discover about Signalman Dacres. D’ye not know about that? Well, there’s a post for a common sailor to be naval signaler on the Rock that’s been filled and the pay drawn for the past twenty-four years by Admiral Dacres, and him retired in England since 1788! Old Tommy Trigge never did find out!"
Eliott did not smile. The minor rascalities of the Christian military seemed very unimportant against life’s permanent background of death and fear and the menace of YHWH, as real and as toweringly present as the Rock above these barracks.
O’Brien cleared his throat nervously, "Well, I mustn’t be wasting your time, must I? . . . I’ve been making out a summary of the epidemic from the regimental reports and the civilian figures you gave me. Take a look at that, me boy. . . . Well, Jasus, I shouldn’t be calling you 'me boy’ anymore, should I?"
Eliott picked up the paper. On it was written:
O'Brien leaned forward and tapped the paper with his finger. "Two things stick out like a sore thumb, Eliott. We had four thousand, eight hundred and sixty-four civilian deaths. That's about half the civilian population of before the epidemic. But many civilians left Gibraltar, so the mortality among those who stayed must have been near eighty-five percent... compared with fifty percent in the Engineers and only thirty percent in the infantry. And the infantry is the worst disciplined, the most crowded, and the dirtiest of all. What do you think of that?"