Ship Fever

by Andrea Barrett

  “I can’t say yet,” she told him. “I’ll try to find my brothers, first.”

  “I wanted to give you something,” he said. He reached under his desk. “It’s a satchel, for your things.”

  It was made of heavy carpeting and was quite clean, although not new. Perhaps it had belonged to one of the physicians, or one of the priests. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  And so November 2 found her aboard the St. George and headed up the freezing river. Along the banks she could see the ice extending further every hour. The breeze was icy as well, and low grey clouds scudded across the horizon. A few flakes of snow fell and she burrowed deeper into her cloak. Someone’s cast-off, true. And yet the cloak was warm and whole and clean, the fabric wonderfully thick, the buttonholes frayed only slightly and the torn satin binding nicely mended. The boots she’d found were too big, but the newspaper she’d stuffed into their toes acted as insulation. Her feet were remarkably warm.

  The sheer cliffs of Cape Diamond were a surprise; the bustling harbor, as busy as Liverpool, another. No one had told her the city was walled, or that the two addresses she’d asked Dr. Douglas to write out for her on a scrap of paper were not in the Lower Town, near the wharf where she disembarked, but high on the cliff and within the walls. Three times she asked strangers for directions to her first address; she got lost among the narrow cobbled streets and again emerging from the stairs at the top of the cliff. The strangers who looked at her scrap of paper and directed her on were distant but not rude. The dress, she thought, and blessed it. The cloak and the satchel and her boots. Later, when she would go in search of a boarding-house where she might spend a few nights, these clothes might keep her from unpleasant treatment.

  Caleches passed her on the snow-covered streets, the horses pulling the runnered sleighs as cheerfully as if they pulled carriages. She had prepared herself for disappointment at the newspaper office, but still the clerk’s flat words almost flattened her as well. No word of Ned and Denis, from either advertisement. In her mind’s eye she saw the river, malignant and frozen, stretching for hundreds of miles through a country she could never penetrate, to cities that were only names. Kingston, Toronto—what were the chances of her finding her brothers in either place? What were the chances that Ned and Denis had not been pushed from those unreachable cities, looking for work as loggers or farmhands? What were the chances that they were still alive?

  Two boys, out of the hundred thousand Irish emigrants who’d made the voyage to the Canadian provinces this season; two among all those who’d died on the passage over, or at Grosse Isle, or in Quebec and Montreal and further inland. But the numbers dead on the ships and the island meant nothing here in the city; the faces behind them could not be seen. As she walked toward her second address and came upon the market, she thought how the prosperous folk here forgot the numbers as soon as they sat down to breakfast or dinner, surrounded by this beautiful food—oh, the food in this market was astonishing!

  She inched toward a tower of hot mutton pies, drawn by the smell and disguised by her blue dress. In her pocket was more money than she’d ever had before, and when the roundfaced farmwoman told her the price of a pie she drew out a coin and ate her purchase right there. Flaky crust, hot spiced mutton, savory gravy that oozed with every bite; she closed her eyes as she chewed and thought how easy it would be to forget death in a place like this.

  There was a cathedral just in front of her, where surely services had been held for the dead. But right here, within arm’s reach, were muffins and large fried cakes and fresh butter and eggs. On the island food had been scarce and bad, cooked all at once in giant kitchens and distributed by the authorities: enough to keep them all alive, enough to make her give thanks every day, but by no means appetizing. Even back home, when there was still any food at all, a woman might have sat before a board on which were two or three eggs, a single ball of butter, perhaps a chicken or a goose. Here the eggs stretched like sand on a beach, the geese hung in rows by their beautiful feet, potatoes spilled from bags and oysters came not singly, nor even by the dozen, but by the barrel. As she watched, women with baskets over their arms made their purchases as if there were nothing unusual about the plenitude surrounding them. Haggling seemed like a sport for them; they bickered cheerfully. Some, having filled baskets with more food than Nora could comprehend, still had enough money left to buy odds and ends for sheer pleasure. Cedar boughs, balsam, candles.

  She bought a heavy golden muffin and ate that too; her mouth watered and her head spun. She touched potatoes and onions and cabbages, apples and squashes and leeks, and then she pulled herself together and moved on, to the address on Palace Street.

  The neat flagstone walk had been swept clear, and someone had knocked most of the snow from the shrubberies. For a minute she thought of going round to the servants’ entrance, but this was no servant’s errand she was on. She walked up to the handsome front door and knocked firmly on the center panel, below a carved decoration. Some kind of writing, she thought, staring at the intertwined shapes. Someone’s name, perhaps? Annie Taggert opened the door.

  The two women gazed at each other, each assessing the other’s probable origins and position. Nora took note of Annie’s worn shoes and reddened hands and coppery hair, but she also saw the care with which that hair was braided and pinned, the good-quality cloth of the simple dress, and the clean white apron, well-pressed and starched. Another Irishwoman, clearly, but one who had been here for some time and who was respected in this prosperous house. Annie, very busy this day, still registered the disparity between Nora’s dress and boots, nicer than her own, and the worn, thin, absolutely Irish face. A new one, Annie thought. Another like Sissy. Who did this girl think she was, aping her betters in those clothes?

  “There’s no work here,” Annie said frostily. “And you oughtn’t be coming to this door—you go around back if you’re looking for food, perhaps cook will have something for you.”

  Nora flushed. “It’s not work I’m needing,” she said, although soon enough she would. “Nor food.”

  Before she could finish speaking, Annie tried to slam the door on her. Nora wedged her satchel between the door and its frame and said, “I have a message for Mrs. Rowley. It’s important. Would you fetch her for me, please?”

  It was too much, Annie thought. Everything that had happened these past six months; it was simply too much. She owed this girl no explanations, but she did open the door a little wider. Perhaps she had not taken sufficient account of the quality of that blue dress. Perhaps this girl had important friends? “Mrs. Rowley is not available,” she said. “You may leave the message with me.”

  “Is Mr. Rowley available, then?”

  “He’s busy,” Annie said. “But you can be sure whatever you leave with me will reach him.”

  Nora shook her head and refused to move. “It’s important. And I have a parcel as well. I will wait.”

  For a minute Annie considered making her wait downstairs, but Mr. Rowley was so changed these days, and so distraught, that she dared not risk offending him. Suppose the girl was a friend of someone he’d met on his travels? Grudgingly, she said, “You can wait here in the hall, I suppose. But it may be some time.” She opened the door wider and led Nora in, pointing out a stiff brocaded chair. “Your name?”

  “Nora Kynd. Please tell him I have a message from a friend.” Just as Annie was about to say, “Don’t you go touching anything here,” Nora said, “From his friend Dr. Lauchlin Grant.”

  Annie drew back at the mention of Dr. Grant’s name. “You haven’t come from that island?”

  “I have,” Nora said proudly. “I worked there all summer. I was one of Dr. Grant’s assistants.”

  “Are you…sick?” Annie whispered. “Have you brought the fever back to this house?”

  “Of course not,” Nora said. “I had the fever back in the spring, and recovered—you know you can’t get it twice.” She brushed her arm over her c
loak and dress. “These are all newly boiled, completely cleaned. I touched nothing on the island after I changed.”

  “I’ll tell Mr. Rowley you’re here,” Annie said. She opened another door, into a nearby room.

  Nora could hear the sounds of men arguing in there, a constant rumble that broke only for a second when Annie interrupted them. Annie returned, said, “Mr. Rowley will be a while,” and disappeared again. She forgot to close the door to the library behind her, and so left Nora inadvertently eavesdropping.

  No faces, only voices; fragments of statements from which she might try to deduce an attitude, a person. One of those voices, she supposed, belonged to Mr. Rowley. She waited on her stiff chair, wondering where Mrs. Rowley was. Wondering if Mr. Rowley had any idea of the relationship between his wife and Lauchlin; wondering what she would do with the things in her satchel if Mrs. Rowley did not appear and Mr. Rowley asked leave to pass them on to his wife. Was he the sort of man who’d consider his wife’s belongings private? Or the sort who’d think his wife’s possessions were his, as his wife was his possession?

  As she studied the cut glass and the gleaming furniture, the knot of voices began to unravel and isolated phrases floated free. The men were forming some committee, or had already formed it and now were drawing up resolutions. Someone mentioned the Lord Ashburton; someone mentioned an article yet another someone had written about the terrible conditions aboard that ship. Someone reminded someone else of the recent deaths of both the mayor of Montreal and the Catholic bishop of Toronto. A man with a harsh, carrying voice said, “The stringent measures adopted by the Government of the United States have driven the poorer classes in Ireland to the more tedious but less expensive route up the St. Lawrence, with the result that a large mass of indolence, pauperism, destitution and disease has been thrown upon us.”

  “Fine,” another man said. “That’s fine, we’ll end the summary with that. Now for the measures we recommend, to prevent a recurrence of the catastrophe next year—”

  “Point number one,” said a man with a fresh, light voice. “The emigration tax must be increased.”

  “No, no, no,” said the harsh-voiced man. “We will list that second, even third. Most important is that we demand regulation of accommodations aboard the ships. No more than two tiers of berths six feet in length by eighteen inches in width, in the orlop deck no more than—”

  Still other voices broke in. “A medical attendant must be present for every one hundred passengers—”

  “Effective means for ventilation and cleanliness between decks must be assured—”

  On and on the men went, throwing out numbers and rules and restrictions, suggestions, demands, and pleas. Nora balanced on her straight-backed chair, gazing at the blue-and-white glazed vases and the framed arrangements of flowers made from shells while the men began to argue about money. A great deal had been expended by the province in caring for the sick and destitute emigrants, she heard. A much smaller amount had been received in emigration tax receipts. Who had paid, was paying, would pay?

  “Water, twenty-one quarts per week per passenger,” someone said. “Specifications must be laid down for all provisions. Biscuits, two and a half pounds; oatmeal, five pounds; two pounds molasses…”

  “Rice,” someone added. “Don’t forget an allotment of rice.”

  Would she have sickened, if she’d been given all that food on the bark? Would Ned and Denis have been stronger? She wished she had bought another muffin in the market and had the sense to stow it in her pocket. Had her father been here, she thought, he would have skipped the muffins and pocketed some of the expensive trinkets littering the tables. His right, he would have thought. They had it, he needed it. He would not have seen, as he had not back home, that the rich believed he had a right to nothing.

  A voice she hadn’t heard before, clear and yet somehow tired, said, “We have to keep in mind that the point isn’t to discourage emigration of these poor people—what else are they supposed to do? Where else can they go, so long as this famine lasts? The point is to make their voyage more humane, and to make better arrangements for them once they’re here.”

  The harsh-voiced man disagreed. “That you of all people should say that…no, we want to reduce the numbers as well as ameliorate the emigrants’ passage.”

  “You’ll excuse me for a minute. I have someone waiting to see me.” And then Nora heard footsteps coming her way and a man wearing a beautiful fawn-colored coat suddenly stood before her.

  “Miss Kynd?” he said. His features were youthful, but his face was pale and drawn. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Arthur Adam Rowley. How may I help you?”

  He was shockingly young, hardly older than herself although his poise and grace were those of an older generation. Perfectly groomed, and somehow very sad. She rose from her chair. “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” she said. “I have a message for your wife.”

  His face, already pale, blanched further. But his voice continued courteous and controlled. “My wife is very ill,” he said. “Of this fever that’s come in the ships. Perhaps you could give the message to me.”

  Nora silently cursed both her clumsiness and Annie’s secretive nature. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Would you have known Dr. Lauchlin Grant?” Still, surprisingly, it gave her a horrible pain to speak his name.

  “Of course. We were good friends. How did you know him?”

  Briefly, Nora told him the story of how Lauchlin had found her and saved her, and how she’d gone to work for him on Grosse Isle and then cared for him during his illness. “Dr. Douglas has packed up his books and most of his belongings for his father,” Nora said. “They’ll be shipped to the house soon. But he had a few small personal things with him, and he told me he wanted Mrs. Rowley—and you, too, of course—to have them if he died.”

  She lied here: he had told her no such thing. She had made this up on her own when she cleaned his office the day after his death. During the worst of his fever he had several times called out Susannah’s name, and she had linked this to the woman Dr. Douglas had mentioned, and then to the “Mrs. Rowley” Lauchlin had spoken of when he returned from his one brief leave. Although she was unable to read Lauchlin’s journal, she had seen him write in it so often that she believed it to be both important and personal. And surely the woman he thought of above all others during his last days deserved to have it.

  But now this woman was too sick to read it, and there might be something in the closely written pages that would bring her husband sorrow. Quickly Nora made a decision; she reached into her satchel and took out the small parcel containing Lauchlin’s good shirt and waistcoat, and his watchchain and his watch. She pushed the journal down deeper and then held out her gift.

  “It’s so little,” she said. “But I know he would have wanted you to have it.”

  Arthur Adam unfolded the wrapping paper with his long white hands, pushed aside the folds of the shirt, and lifted a loop of the chain. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re very thoughtful, to bring these here. My wife would have—will—cherish them. I’ll cherish them.”

  They were silent for a minute. Then Arthur Adam said, “They were very close, you know. Lauchlin and Susannah—they were childhood friends. It seems impossible that he’s gone, and her so sick—over and over this month I’ve kept thinking that if he were here he could help her.”

  “He was a fine doctor,” Nora said. “If you’d seen him with his patients…” For a moment she almost thought of shouldering what she could of the burden Lauchlin had dropped, as she’d done on the island. She might say to Mr. Rowley, Perhaps you need some help? I’m very good with fever patients. She might walk up those wide and curving stairs, find her way down the hall to a room where a sick woman lay in a soft, clean bed, near a shining window. To that woman she might say, Lauchlin called your name when he was dying. Over and over again. Let me bathe your face, let me smooth your hair, let me bring you a cool drink. All those things she might do, in memory of
Lauchlin. And then be caught here, in a web of obligation and sorrow…She picked up her satchel.

  “You look rather like my wife,” said Mr. Rowley.

  “Me?”

  “In a certain way. Your hair, the shape of your mouth and forehead. Where will you go when you leave here? What will you do?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, startled by his words. That she should look like Susannah, whom Lauchlin had cried out for—she knew then she was right in keeping the journal, and not just because she was protecting the Rowleys by doing so. That was her family tree in there, with its dead branches and withered fruit. She would find a teacher, a school, deciphering what Lauchlin had left behind and all he’d had access to: newspapers, books, the advertisements she’d place for her brothers and the ones that they, if they knew someone as kind as Lauchlin, might place looking for her.

  Annie appeared in the hall just then, irritable and faintly ashamed. Downstairs, while Nora had been waiting, Annie had been cursing Sissy with more than her usual violence. It was Mrs. Rowley who had brought her to this; she had no love for her mistress, but she pitied her and also everyone in this house. No one deserved to suffer as Mrs. Rowley had. Six weeks she’d been wasting away, and Arthur Adam could not take much more strain. Nor could she herself: she was exhausted shuttling trays back and forth, running errands for the doctor, putting up with the whims of the high-handed nurse. And then the sight of Nora, and the recognition of where she’d been, had brought her own early years in this strange land back to her. That awful time, when so few people had been kind to her; at the thought of it she’d yelled at Sissy and then felt abashed and wondered what possessed her to be so mean. She had been mean to this stranger as well, or at least unwelcoming. She cleared her throat and said, “Won’t you come downstairs for a cup of tea before you go?” Nora, grateful to be released from Arthur Adam’s gaze, followed Annie willingly.