Seaflower (18 page)

Chapter 7

‘M
r
Kydd, you said y' wanted ter see m' work this morning wi'out fail. An' here
'tis!' Luke held out his copy-book in the early light of morning, the pages
filled with spidery, childish writing. 'I done it while you was
..
. away last night,' he continued
proudly.

He
must have sat by the light of that single candle, scratching away at his worthy
proverbs, right into the night, thought Kydd. In spite of his fragile condition
he was touched by the lad's keenness. 'Show me,' he croaked. The letters swam
and rotated in a nauseating spiral. 'Tha's well done, Luke,' Kydd gasped, and
gave the book back. He had never before had to pay such a price for a night's
carousing. He felt ill and helpless -and despised himself for it. It had been
easy to be drawn into the wholehearted roystering of a sailor ashore, but he
realised there was a real prospect of sliding into a devotion to the bottle
that so many seemed to find an answer to hardship and toil.

Kydd
levered himself up on one arm. To his shame he found himself still in last
night's stained clothes. His resolve strengthened never to succumb again, and
he swung into a sitting position. It was a mistake. His face flushed and a
headache pounded relentlessly: it would be impossible to deal with the knowing
looks of his crew, to think clearly enough to head off trouble, to face Caird
... 'Luke, m' boy,' he began. He looked up to see the lad's eyes on him,
concerned, watchful. 'Feelin' a mite qualmish this mornin', think I'll scrub
round the vittles.'

'Yes,
Mr Kydd,' Luke replied quietly.

'Damn
it! Doesn't mean you can't have any,' Kydd flared, then subsided in shame. 'Do
ye go to Mr Caird an' present m' compliments 'n' tell him ... tell him I
regrets but I can't attend on him this forenoon, as I... 'cos I has a gripin'
in the guts, that's all.'

He
collapsed back on to the bed and closed his eyes.

He
woke from a fitful doze in the heat of the day and sat on the edge of the bed.
The nausea was still there, and a ferocious dryness in the throat drove him to
his feet in search of water. He swayed, and staggered drunkenly to the
sideboard for the pitcher, which he drained thirstily. Slowly and painfully he
stripped off his clothes, dropping them uncharacteristically on the floor.
Then, thankfully, he curled up on the bed again.

In
the afternoon no one came to commiserate, and Kydd knew that his story of
'sickness' had been received with the contempt it deserved. To be thought a
common toss-pot cut deeply.

Luke
arrived in the evening. Kydd had previously sent him away, not wanting to be
seen, and now Luke crept about the lodging as though in the company of a bear.
Kydd swore at him, and at the gruel he had thoughtfully brought. The evening
dragged on: still no one enquired of him. Luke took to hiding. As the illness
ebbed so Kydd's headache worsened under the lashing of his irritability. The
night passed in a kaleidoscope of conflicting thoughts.

At
last the light of dawn arrived to dispel the dark and its tedium. He felt hot,
dizzy — he needed water. 'Luke!' he shouted petulantly. The sleepy boy appeared
and, to Kydd's astonishment, his face contorted. A harsh cry pierced the air
and Luke fell to his knees, sobbing loudly.

'What
- if this is y'r joke
...'
Kydd felt
dread steal over him. 'What is it, younker?' he asked, fearing a reply.

Luke
looked at him with swimming eyes. He ran out and returned with a mirror. 'S-see
...'
he stuttered. Kydd looked into
it. His face looked back at him. The hideous jaundiced hue of his skin was more
frightening than anything he had seen in his life. It was the yellow fever.

They
came for him at noon. By this time Kydd had vomited violently several times, as
if his body were trying to rid itself of the invading fever. The fear of the
dreaded
vomito negro
seized
his thoughts and threw him into frozen horror: he had seen soldiers carried to
their graves by it in their dozens, but in the way of youth he had always known
it would be some other, never him. Luke sat by his bed, defying Kydd's orders
to get away, not caring at the likelihood of contagion. Kydd's mind started to detach
in and out of reality.

The
bearers, expressionless and silent, lifted Kydd on to the stretcher. The naval
hospital was full, and instead Kydd found himself at the door of the army
hospital on Shirley Heights, its austere grey lines unmistakable even in his
feverish state.

The
interior of the hospital was dark, but gradually he could see rows of low beds,
one or two orderlies moving among them. Some victims lay motionless, others
thrashed and writhed. A foul stink lay on the close air, the putrescence of
bodies giving up the fight. Moaning and weeping filled the consciousness,
numbing Kydd's senses.

He
was placed on the ground while a bed was prepared. A corpse was carried away in
a blanket, the ragged palliasse flicked over, the top vivid with dried
discolouring. He was transferred, the bearers never once betraying a flicker of
interest. They left the blanket rolled untidily at the foot of the bed and
departed.

An
orderly saw Luke and ejected him irritably, so Kydd lay alone, staring up into
the void, the pain, sickness and despair creeping in on him. It was here that
he would meet his end, not in some glorious battle but in the squalor and
degradation of disease, in this pit of terror. His mind wavered and floated.
The wasted hours, the unfulfilled hopes — those who loved him, trusted him.
Emotion choked him. Kydd waited in the gloom for it all to end.

Black
faces. Jolting, moving. Harsh sunlight. Kydd tried to understand. The lift and
bob of a boat — he cried at the poignant motion. Luke's face, looking down,
anguished. He smiled up at him and was carried on into an airy space. A woman
took charge and gently but firmly removed all his clothes. A clean smell of
hyssop and soap; he felt himself laid carefully on a sheet and the woman began
to wash him. He couldn't resist. Modesty had no more meaning and he drifted
into a febrile no man's land.

He
woke — how much later he had no idea — in a small room, clean and well
appointed. Next to his bed a woman kept up a lazy fanning, smiling at him, and
on the other side Luke sat, keeled over in slumber.

'Who
- er, what d' ye
...'

'Now,
sah, be still, youse in mah hands, Mr Kydd, sah,' the woman said happily. 'Sis'
Mary.'

The
talk woke Luke, who sat up, confused.

A
shadow darkened the door. It was Beatrice. 'Mr Kydd?' she asked timidly.

'Aye,'
said Kydd, with as much strength as he could.

'Thank
the Lord!' she breathed, and stood hesitantly at the foot of the bed, holding a
lace handkerchief to her face. 'When we heard you were sick, we never thought —
er, that is to say, we were led to believe by false witnesses that your
sickness . . . had other causes.' Her eyes dropped. 'My father thought it best
that you are cared for in a private way — it is the usual thing, you know.' She
spoke more strongly: 'Sister Mary has nursed many a soul to recovery.'

'Ye
need money f'r this,' he said feebly.

Beatrice
smiled. 'Let us hear no more about that, Mr Kydd. You are in the Lord's hands
and He will provide for His faithful servants.' Her fingers twisted together.
'I do wish you well — it is not over yet.'

But
Kydd could feel the fever diminishing and elation built at his escape. He was
ready to seize life again with both hands.

Sister
Mary took gentle care of him, seeming to know what he needed before he could express
it. She had an unvarying bright and sunny manner, not bothered by the violence
of his vomiting or Kydd's shameful need for a bed-pan. After each spasm she
bathed his burning face, whispering comforting words he couldn't understand.

The
fever faded, the vomiting grew less, and Kydd thankfully slipped into a sweet
sleep. On the morrow he would be on the mend.

He
woke in the darkness of the early hours, feeling strange and giddy. A sharp
bout of vomiting had him leaning over the bed. He pulled back in, and felt a
warm wetness exude from his nose. It stank, and he wiped at it uselessly. His
hand came away dark-stained in the semi-darkness.

'Mary!'
he croaked fearfully. She was asleep in a blanket on the floor and didn't hear
at first. Kydd called again, in his night-time panic hoarsely shouting her
name. When she came to him sleepily she saw his face, and at once trimmed the
light to full illumination. She tore back the single sheet and stared at his
lower body. There was no sunny banter.

Kydd
looked down and saw, oozing from his body orifices, a slow, fetid black
bleeding. He sank back. Sister Mary set to work, sponging him, insisting he sat
up in bed, placing supports around him. His vomiting was shorter, sharper — but
now it was discoloured, black and foul. Kydd's thoughts became confused. As the
morning light strengthened he saw Mary's figure distort and swell. He screamed
and whimpered.

At
times lucidity came, a strange calm in which he could see and hear but not
respond. He heard Luke's broken, desolate weeping and a regular mumbling — it
took some minutes for his mind to register that it was Beatrice at a distance,
praying. Caird's tall figure in its accustomed black loomed. He spoke to Kydd
slowly but the words were gibberish, as if he were saying them backwards. His
figure towered over Kydd, grim and foreboding, smelling of sin and death.

Deep
inside, Kydd knew that he was dying, but no one had prepared him for this
terror, this final process of separation from the world. It was so unfair — his
was a young life that would live! That would fight and win! Obstinately, from
deep within, he claimed the last of his strength, and in a final defiant act,
he turned on that which was killing him: he struggled up, facing the whirling
light patterns that were all that remained of his world, and screamed at it.
Dimly aware that he had fallen out of bed, he flailed and fought, and at last
stood swaying and victorious, shouting and cursing at the foul disease,
challenging it, daring it to do its worst. Fire jetted into his body, and he
exulted.

Images
came into focus, the horrified faces of Mary, Luke, Beatrice staring at him. He
laughed — strength came to him, he moved, staggered, fought. And won. His eyes
clamped on the real world he would not yield up, and in a dignified motion he
turned and collapsed again on the bed.

'I
do declare, we feared we had lost you, Mr Kydd,' said Beatrice, dabbing her
eyes.

Kydd
grinned, levering himself to a better sitting
position.
'D'ye get me another o' the lime cordials, I'd be grateful.' The fever broken,
he was going to live — and with a bonus: having survived the yellow fever at
its most virulent, with no lasting ill-effects, he now had lifelong immunity
from its terrors.

He
looked across at Sister Mary, quietly getting on with her work, and felt a
warmth towards her that surprised him with its intensity. Her homely face was
inexpressibly dear to him now. 'Has Luke been doin' his words?' he asked, in
mock-rough tones.

'Indeed
he has,' Beatrice answered primly. 'I have set him some improving verses, which
he promises to complete for you this very night' Her eyes softened. 'And .
..
welcome back, Thomas,' she said
tenderly.