This Golden Land (62 page)

B
ROOKDALE
F
ARM WAS EXACTLY AS
H
ANNAH HAD DESCRIBED
it, down to the last loving detail.

     Neal filled his eyes with the majestic vista of the Outback station that stretched away in every direction, over rolling hills and flat fields, beneath the endless blue sky and mid-day sun. He listened to the wind, inhaled the fragrance of eucalyptus and he was sent back to a billabong in the middle of red sand and low lying orange hills. He saw the white-barked ghost gums of Brookdale and saw other ghost gums shedding silver leaves onto that distant billabong's surface. He thought of Burnu and Daku and recalled the taste of kangaroo meat. He heard Thumimburee's didgeridoo and remembered ancestral figures painted on a rust-colored wall.

     
Her name was Jallara, and she was the very soul of this land.

     Hannah's book,
This Golden Land,
authored by "an Outback son," came to mind. I must photograph this place, Neal thought as he walked around the property that still displayed a For Sale sign. I must photograph others like it, along with the rivers and mountains mentioned in Hannah's stories—
the paddocks and fields and shearing sheds. We can re-publish the tales with accompanying pictures, to truly bring Australia to life.

     As he gazed at the house with the steeply gabled roof, the deep verandah wrapping around all four sides, he pictured the photographic studio inside, the dark room, the entry hall hung with his photographs. He imagined Hannah's private office—next to the nursery, perhaps, so she could be near the children. She would write her health manuals here. It would be
home.

     Station hands were tending the sheep and horses, men were working the fields, but Neal saw no sign of the land agent, Samson Jones, and assumed he was up at the goldfields, tracking down Brookdale's owner, Charlie Swanswick. Neal briefly wondered if he should take a detour and search for Swanswick himself.

     He thought about the Cave of the Hands. He should have been there by now. But his wagon wheel had hit a pothole in the road, breaking the axle. Neal had managed to repair it, but had camped overnight rather than try to navigate the unpredictable road in the dark. And then he had wanted to stop at Brookdale Farm and look the property over. As he was wondering if he should take a few days and search for Charlie Swanswick, but thinking that he had already wasted precious time getting to the caves, he heard a horse approaching along the tree-lined lane.

     "Hoy, there!" the rider called out.

     Neal stepped away from his wagon and waved in friendly greeting.

     The stranger brought his horse to a halt and said, "Am I on the right road to Bendigo?"

     Neal noticed that the man packed a bedroll behind his saddle, with a pick and a shovel tucked inside. "Just keep heading north. You'll come to the first camps by sundown."

     "Thanks, mate."

     As the man started to ride off, Neal said, "I was about to boil some tea, if you'd care to join me."

     "Thanks, but I'm in a hurry. I heard that diggers are heading for a cave formation north of the goldfields, where the woods begin. There's rumors of rich quartz formations. Have to get there as soon as possible before
there's nothing left." He eyed the supplies in Neal's wagon. "So where are you headed for? Don't look like mining equipment to me."

     Neal was traveling with the latest photographic equipment from Germany, lenses and plates designed to take exposures in dark places, using something called flash powder. I am headed, Neal thought, to the very caves that you and the diggers are about to destroy. "I go about photographing sacred Aboriginal sites."

     The man rubbed his nose and laughed. "Now that's ironic. You driving all this way to take photographs of Aborigines and there's a mob of them in Melbourne right now."

     Neal stared at the man. "Natives in the city? I didn't think that happened any more."

     "It doesn't. They know to stay away. But this lot looks wild, like they came from deep in the Outback. Ferocious looking. Maybe a hundred of them, all carrying weapons and demanding their sacred land back."

     Galagandra flashed in his mind. "Where?" he said. "What sacred land?"

     "The hospital."

     "Victoria Hospital?"

     "That's the one. Got the place surrounded from what I hear. Threatening to burn the place down with everyone inside. I gotta get going. Good luck with your pictures."

     Without further thought to the sacred cave and the destructive diggers, Neal quickly steered his wagon through the gate of Brookdale Farm and stationed it under a group of shade trees. Unhitching the horse from the wagon, to allow it to graze, he mounted his saddled horse and hoped that his crates and supplies couldn't be seen from the road. But if it all got stolen, it didn't matter. He had to ride back to Melbourne as fast as he could.

     Hannah was in danger.

I
DON'T LIKE THE LOOK OF THAT MOB,"
D
R.
I
VERSON SAID TO
Fintan as they peered through the glass-paned doors of the hospital's main entrance. He guessed that nearly a hundred people had gathered out front while the late afternoon sun dipped behind Melbourne's tallest buildings.

     As word of contagion and death spread through the city, citizens with friends and loved ones in Victoria Hospital had come out of concern. Dr. Iverson had allowed them in for orderly visits, cautioning them not to touch anything, and to visit only those who did not have the fever. He had then taken turns with Dr. Kennedy to periodically go outside and reassure the crowd, who refused to leave, that everything was under control.

     But the unexpected arrival of the Aborigines had upset things, reminding people of the legend that this land was cursed, causing panic. The way the natives just sat staring at the hospital, their naked bodies covered in white paint, the savageness of their appearance—the crowd had begun to grow nervous.

     Fintan eyed the Aborigines in the deepening dusk. It was an eerie scene. The twenty or so natives, males and females, ranging in age from adolescence to old age, sat on the grassy lawn that stretched from the street to the steps of the hospital. They had not moved since taking a position there during the night, their faces set toward the two-story building. They looked menacing as they held spears and boomerangs, with the primitive designs painted on their bodies giving them a formidable aspect. "What do you suppose they are waiting for?"

     "I do not know, Mr. Rorke." Iverson had tried speaking with the natives, with no success. Dr. Abe Kennedy, who had served two years at a Christian Aboriginal mission, had also tried, to no avail.

     But Marcus Iverson had more to worry about than the strange visit by the natives. Three fresh cases of childbed fever had broken out—in the men's ward! He didn't understand it. He had established rules to make sure the contagion wasn't carried out of the women's ward, and Blanche Sinclair, with her natural talent for taking control of situations, had enforced the rules to the letter. The only conclusion Iverson could draw was that the three men had been exposed to the same contaminant as the initial case, Nellie Turner. But what?

     He and Miss Conroy had spent every moment searching for the source, collecting specimens from water, linens, food, and inspecting them under microscopes. The microbe had to be carried on objects, possibly even the doctors' hands, because if the contagion were in the air, why had none of the volunteers or visitors or physicians come down with it? The fever appeared to strike only people who were already patients.

     
And what do three male patients have in common with a post-partum maternity case, a woman with a dislocated shoulder, and another woman with a broken foot?

     And with Edward Soames who, under the watchful eye of his devoted wife, was now dying of the deadly disease.

     If we do not find the source soon, Iverson thought in cold fear, the contagion might spread to the city and we will have a massive, deadly epidemic on our hands.

     When he saw several people marching up the hospital steps, no doubt
more family members worried about the safety of their loved ones, Sir Marcus said, "I'd better go and have a word."

     With the new cases in the men's ward, he had had to take drastic action. In order to contain the spread of infection, he had locked down the hospital, allowing only the barest number of visitors inside. No children or animals, and only such visitors as complied with the rules. Some insisted on visiting every patient in the ward, touching them, offering them bites of food that had already been sampled by other patients. Going up and down, spreading the contagion, and refusing to wash their hands.

     "You should rest, Sir Marcus," Blanche said, staying him with a hand on his arm. She and her friends had converted the small children's wing, still under construction, into private quarters away from visitors and patients. Fresh beds and linens had been brought in, so that the volunteers and physicians could retire periodically to rest. But there were now twelve cases of childbed fever, and a constant round-the-clock vigil was required to keep the contagion from spreading further. Dr. Iverson would not allow himself the luxury of even a nap.

     He gave Blanche an appreciative smile. Not only was she keeping her deeply ingrained fears at bay, she was doing an impressive job of organizing the female ward, delegating tasks, seeing to the efficient running of things. Although Blanche knew nothing about medicine or health care, she was a quick study. One lesson from Miss Conroy in how to turn patients every two hours to prevent bedsores, and Blanche was not only teaching the other ladies, but establishing teams and times for the task.

     Blanche also supervised the families and friends of the patients, giving them instructions on washing their hands, telling them what they could and could not do. And because Blanche was a lady of obvious high station, and because she spoke with authority, the visitors deferred to her.

     He looked at the deeply dimpled cheeks and a chin that narrowed daintily to a point, the almond-shaped eyes the color of violets, and wished current circumstances were different. How he had missed her this past year! And how desperately he wished to make it up to her.

     "I will go with you, sir," Fintan said, thinking that it was a lot of people for Dr. Iverson to handle.

     "I welcome your help, son," Iverson said as he donned his black frock coat and went out to face a growing mob that held lamps and lanterns against the darkening day. To those he met on the steps, he said, "Please, go home. Your loved ones and friends are safe in my hospital. I promise you they are receiving the best care. We have lady volunteers in there now."

     "We heard this place is cursed!" said one man. "We heard it's plague and it's going to spread to the city."

     "There is no plague here. It is a specific fever that affects only a small portion of the population, and we are searching for a cause and a cure at this very moment."

     "Then how come a doctor's got the sickness?" asked another. "Doctors ain't supposed to get sick."

     "It's the blacks' fault!" blurted a third, and a chorus of worried voices joined him.

     "Please," Iverson said. "The natives have nothing to do with this. The fever broke out before they even came—"

     "Still, this used to be their land. They poisoned it!"

     "They're using witchcraft!"

     Before Iverson could say another word, a commotion broke out at the back of the crowd, people being pushed aside as newcomers shoved their way through. Iverson saw two bearded men come running toward him, jackets and trousers covered in dust, their bush hats sweat-stained and battered. "Where's my Nellie?" cried the shorter of the two as they reached the steps. He had long black hair in need of a trim, and bushy whiskers— the unmistakable characteristics of a man just arrived from the goldfields. He shot up the steps and seized Iverson by the lapels. "Where's my Nellie?" he cried in Sir Marcus's face.

     Fintan stepped up and wrenched the man's hands from Iverson's jacket, and he saw a face distorted with grief, a beard soaked in tears. A young man, with eyes bespeaking pain and bewilderment.

     Straightening his jacket while Fintan restrained the distraught man, Sir Marcus said in a gentle tone, "Sir, please tell me who you are and I shall—"

     "I'm Joe Turner and I came home from the fields to find a neighbor
wet nursing my newborn son. My brother here," he jerked a thumb at his companion, who also looked distraught, "Graham here, he says my Nellie is dead. That you killed her. But I don't believe it. I want to see my wife!"

     Iverson stared at the two men and thought: Nellie Turner?

     Then he remembered. She had died the day before.

     He reached out to put a hand on Turner's arm. "If you will come inside with me, Mr. Turner. You've had a shock."

     "Are you taking me to see Nellie?" Wide hazel eyes begged silently. "I don't mean no disrespect, sir, but we have to baptize the baby. We're christening him Michael after Nellie's father. But I can't do it without Nellie. Please, can she come home now?"