This Golden Land

by Wood, Barbara

  Four more deaths. Four more burials at sea. And then Agnes's Donny fell ill and stopped eating.

  The ship's doctor called it dysentery. It dehydrated the body, he said, and so Mrs. Ritchie was to see that her boy drank as much water as he could. But it didn't seem to matter how much she managed to get him to drink, the dehydration was accelerating. His skin was hot and dry, his lips cracked and bleeding. He moaned with pain.

  Agnes had not left his side in days, even though she herself was weak from the illness and felt on the verge of collapse. "You'll be missing your lessons," she murmured as she stroked his hair. Captain Llewellyn had established a daily school routine for all immigrant children: they were to gather on the main deck and receive lessons in writing and arithmetic from a teacher also traveling to a new life. Each child had a slate and chalk, and their voices could be heard on the shifting wind as they recited the alphabet and multiplication tables. Donny Ritchie loved school and was always the loudest voice heard.

  "Come on, Donny lad, have some water." He had been in and out of torpor for three days, and always she coaxed him to open his eyes and drink.

  But this time Donny Ritchie did not wake up.

  "It's about bloody time!" boomed a voice at the other end of the vast, crowded belly of the ship. Agnes looked up to see Redmond Brown, a potato farmer escaping the famine in Ireland, raising a fist to Dr. Applewhite, who had just arrived. "How come that high and mighty lot up there ain't falling sick like us?" Brown shouted.

  "Allow me to pass, sir," Applewhite said, and made the mistake of laying a hand on the man.

  Brown shoved back, and the crewman who was escorting the doctor seized Brown's arm and pulled him away with such force that the Irishman staggered backward into a large barrel, knocking it over so that contents rushed out like a broken dam.

  "Now look what you've done!" Brown cried, scrambling to his feet. "That's our drinking water."

  As few lamps were burning in steerage, due to the high risk of fire, Dr. Applewhite had to make his way through darkness, pushing his bulk between beds and crates, bundles of clothing stowed on the floor or swinging from the rafters. He went to the wooden shelf that was Donny's bed, and examined the unconscious child in the light of the swaying lantern. As he searched for a pulse, the doctor made a secret vow: Never again to sail on an immigrant ship. In fact, he amended, once they were docked in Adelaide, he was going to set foot on solid ground and never set foot off.

  The steward was clearing away the barely touched lunch when Mister James came into the salon. The Merriwethers had retired to their cabin, leaving Neal Scott and Hannah Conroy to wait for news from Dr. Applewhite. At the sight of the First Officer, in his marine-blue tunic, brass buttons and gold braided cap, Neal and Hannah rose anxiously.

  "Mr. Scott," said James in a grave tone, "are you able to handle a gun?"

  "What's going on?"

  "The boy has gotten worse and the immigrants are threatening an uprising if he dies. We will need every able man to defend this ship."

  Hannah draped her shawl around her shoulders and started for the door. "I will see if Dr. Applewhite needs assistance."

  As Mister James handed Neal a pistol, he said, "You do not want to go down there, Miss. It's not a fit place for a lady like yourself."

  But Hannah walked past the officer, with Neal following.

  From the quarterdeck, beneath a blue sky, with a stiff wind filling the sails, they saw the crowd down on the main deck, looking angry and dangerous. The silence was ominous. Captain Llewellyn, in his long dark coat over white trousers, with his dark blue visored cap bearing the gold braids of his rank as commander of the Caprica, stood squared-off with the ragtag crowd that figured they had nothing to lose. Standing with Llewellyn were merchant marine sailors who wore blue bellbottom trousers and white shirts with square collars. Since their long hair was braided into ponytails and smeared with tar to prevent them getting caught in the ship's equipment, the men were nicknamed Jack Tars. Tough-looking sailors, Hannah thought, but no match for the enraged mob.

  Tucking the pistol into his belt, Neal took Hannah by the arm, protectively, and led her down the companionway. Hundreds of wary, suspicious eyes watched them as they went. As they descended into the foul-smelling belly of the ship, a crewman said, "Watch your step here, Miss. A barrel of drinking water got knocked over. The floor's slippery."

  "Ah, Miss Conroy," Dr. Applewhite said when she and Neal reached Donny's bedside. "I'm glad of your help. I've three new cases to look at. Revive the boy and give him as much water as he will tolerate. We'll need to keep this up round the clock if we're to save him."

  But when Hannah saw the deep torpor, the sunken eyes, and when she felt the barely detected pulse, she recalled an epidemic of dysentery that had swept through Bayfield, and she knew that the boy could not be revived and the subsequent lack of hydration would lead to his death. But when she voiced this to Applewhite, the physician said, "Oh, the boy will revive. At least once anyway. Use this." And he produced from his medical bag a small vial stoppered with a cork.

  Removing the cork, Applewhite slipped his arm beneath Donny and, lifting him up, moved the vial from side to side beneath the boy's nose. To Hannah's astonishment, the Donny's eyes snapped open and he drew in a sharp breath. Quickly stoppering the vial, Applewhite brought a tin cup of water to Donny's mouth and held it there while the boy took in a few sips. When Donny closed his eyes, Applewhite lowered him to the soiled bedding and said to Hannah, "It is called spirits of ammonia. It is made from ammonium carbonate, a compound that stimulates the lungs, thereby triggering the inhalation reflex, causing a patient to come round. A little trick I learned in India."

  Hannah was astounded. Her father's own recipe for smelling salts was ordinary table salt dampened by a dozen drops of lavender, and it would not have been strong enough to revive Donny Ritchie.

  When Hannah suggested that bringing him out of the hold might help, Applewhite agreed. "Take him to my cabin. The sickbay has a bunk with a porthole above for fresh air." He handed her the vial of smelling salts and said, "Slap the boy until he comes round, then force him to drink water. As much as he can tolerate without throwing up. Keep at it, Miss Conroy. Keep him conscious and keep giving him water. I shall stay here with the new cases."

  At that moment, Agnes collapsed. Neal picked her up and laid her gently on a bunk, but as he started to turn away, she seized his hand in a surprisingly strong grip, and whispered, "Take care of my boy. He's all I have. He's why I came on this voyage. Without him I have no reason to live." In the dim light of the odorous hold, while the ship groaned and creaked, and a mutiny brewed topside, Neal was captured by Agnes's wide, pleading eyes. And as he stood momentarily frozen, he felt something react deep inside himself, a nameless quake that jolted him.

  Dr. Applewhite intervened. "Now now, madam, your boy is in good hands. You must look after yourself." Then he gestured to a crewman near the companionway. "You there! Break open another barrel of drinking water!"

  As Neal gathered the child into his arms, he heard Mrs. Ritchie say in a weak voice, "Please God, I beg of you, take me instead."

  3

  T

  HE TINY COMPARTMENT ADJACENT TO THE DOCTOR'S CABIN was cramped, with a narrow bunk along one wall, cabinets and shelves containing medical supplies on the other. There was barely enough room for Neal as he bent to place Donny on the bed. He then returned to the door to allow Hannah to go to the boy's side, where she knelt and tapped his face the way Dr. Applewhite had. "I don't know how long I can keep this up," she said as she waved the smelling salts under Donny's nose. He awoke abruptly, sucking in breath, and she immediately brought the cup of water to his lips. Although his eyes were closed, Donny took in a few sips before he sagged in her arm. "It seems so barbaric. But there is no other way to get water into his body. And if he doesn't get adequate water, he will die."

  She looked up at Neal, who kept glancing over his shoulder. "What is it, Mr. Scott?"

&nb
sp; When he did not reply, but kept his eye on the corridor as if danger lurked there, Hannah said, "What is the matter, Mr. Scott?"

  "I'm sorry," he said, bringing himself back to Hannah who knelt by the bed. "I was just thinking . . . Agnes Ritchie . . . something she said."

  "And what was that?"

  He frowned, unable to put his feelings into words. For reasons Neal could not fathom, the Scotswoman had reached a place deep inside him, had touched his soul in a way it had never been touched. He could not shake her wide eyes, her whispered plea, her prayer to God from his mind.

  "Take me instead . . ."

  "Miss Conroy," Neal said suddenly, startled by the idea that had just jumped into his mind. "There is something I would like to try, with your help." Even as he spoke, Neal was amazed at what he was saying, the audacious experiment he was suddenly gripped to try. It had to do with Donny and his mother, but there was something more, an emotion so powerful within himself, nameless and foreign, that Neal knew he was acting upon pure impulse. For now, he must do this. He would analyze it later.

  "I would like to take the boy's photographic portrait."

  "Portrait!"

  He spoke quickly, the words tumbling out as the idea expanded in his mind. "Two years ago, a neighbor's child was killed in the street by a runaway wagon. The mother was inconsolable. She tried to commit suicide on the day of the child's funeral. But a photographer was there—you have heard of photography, Miss Conroy?"

  She nodded.

  "The photographer made a portrait of the deceased child lying in her coffin and—it was like a miracle, Miss Conroy. The distraught mother was so greatly calmed that she never thought of suicide after that."

  "But Donny hasn't died!"

  "He might, and I am afraid, Miss Conroy, that if he does, Agnes Ritchie's grief might be enough to spark a rebellion on board this ship. A photographic portrait might bring his poor mother some comfort, and help quell the uprising. And I would rather capture his likeness while he is alive, Miss Conroy, than when he is a corpse. Mrs. Ritchie would know the difference."

  She looked at him uncertainly. "You really think that a portrait—"

  "I have the equipment," he said quickly, wondering how on earth he was going to accomplish such an impossible feat on a moving ship. "A camera is part of my scientific equipment."

  "How long will it take? I must keep reviving him and administer the water."

  "We need keep him immobile only for fifteen minutes."

  "But how?" she said, looking down at the unconscious child. Donny's head rolled from side to side with the rocking of the ship. "The mayor of Bayfield had a photographic portrait taken, and the whole village turned out to watch. He had to sit with his head fixed into a clamp. The photographer said there must be absolutely no motion for the entire sitting."

  "I know," Neal said, rubbing his hands together, "but I'm wondering if we can immobilize Donny's head somehow, and then stabilize my camera so that when the ship rolls, the boy and the camera would roll synchronously. In essence, it would be as though there was no motion at all."

  But more importantly, Neal had to make sure of adequate sunlight. "Can the window in your cabin be secured open, Miss Conroy? Mine does not. The thing keeps crashing closed, and we will need ten minutes of sunlight to make a positive image from the negative."

  "Yes," she said, having no idea what he was talking about.

  "We shall have to move quickly."

  "Tell me what to do," she said.

  He knew they hadn't much time. The immigrants on the main deck were growing angrier by the moment. Shouts could be heard, threats. "I will fetch my equipment," Neal said.

  While Mr. Scott was gone, Hannah moistened her handkerchief and pressed it to Donny's lips. She looked at his pale face, the sweet features peaceful in repose. She knew that if he died, it would spark a bloody conflict on the Caprica.

  Neal returned with his camera box and tripod, and he slipped into the small sickbay, leaving the door open. As he began to set up his equipment, he said, "Geologists have been sketching rock layers and formations for years, but I believe the new technology for capturing photographic images will revolutionize science. Geologists will be able to record precise details without possibility of error. That is why I was hired by the colonial office to help survey the western coast of Australia."

  With the ship dipping and creaking, Neal used ropes to immobilize the wooden box-camera on its tripod, tilting the lens downward at the child. To stop Donny's head rolling from side to side, Hannah removed a ribbon from her chignon and laid it on his forehead, firmly tying each end to the bed. She brushed Donny's bangs over the ribbon, and disguised the ends by bunching the sheet on either side. Hannah and Neal shared an unspoken worry as they worked quickly: What if this backfired? What if a photographic image of her child sent Mrs. Ritchie into such hysterics that the main deck became a bloody battlefield?

  As Neal secured the camera at the foot of the bed, he watched Hannah's slender body bend over the child, tenderly counting his pulse, studying his face, listening to his soft respirations. Hannah's hair had come loose at one side and streamed over her shoulder, giving her a disheveled look that was strangely erotic.

  Stepping past Hannah, Neal lifted the horizontal glass pane in the port hole, flipping it up so that daylight streamed into the cabin. He looked at Hannah. She nodded. They were as ready as they were going to be.

  From Neal's supply of photographic paper, prepared by himself back in London and stored under his bunk in his cabin, he had retrieved one sheet and painted it with gallic acid and nitrate, and fixed it in a wooden frame which he now slid into place at the back of the large box camera. Shifting the back of the camera to and fro until he saw Donny's image come into focus in the view finder, Neal removed the brass lens cap and looked at his pocket watch. The exposure would need fifteen minutes.

  While Neal studied the watch, Hannah kept her eyes on Donny. She prayed she was not making a mistake. Was fifteen minutes too long to let him go without water? She realized she was frightened. And the silence in the narrow cabin only served to heighten her fear. She looked up at Neal Scott, who studied his timepiece. "You must be very close to your own mother," she said.

  He snapped his head up. "I beg your pardon?"

  "To go to such trouble to comfort Mrs. Ritchie. You said it was something she had said . . . I thought perhaps she had reminded you of your own mother."

  He stared at her. He felt the ship creak and groan around him, rock gently from side to side as minute by minute Donny's features were captured inside the box. Neal wondered if he dared tell Miss Conroy the truth. If I had told Annabelle sooner, would things have gone differently?

  Had Annabelle known the truth ahead of time, before Neal asked for her hand, she would not have flung his engagement ring at him, her father would not have brought a lawsuit against him for breech of promise and defamation of his daughter's character, and the whole ugly mess that had brought shame and embarrassment to Neal's protector, Josiah Scott, would never have happened.

  He looked at Hannah, sitting on the floor next to Donny's bed, looking up at him with an open expression, those nacreous eyes framed by dark lashes and finely shaped eyebrows—

  Suddenly it was very important to Neal that Miss Conroy knew the truth. "I am not close to my mother, Miss Conroy," he replied. "I don't even know who my mother was. You see, I was a foundling."

  He allowed a moment for it to sink in, a moment in which Miss Conroy could adjust to the fact that he had just told her in polite terms that he was a bastard.

  "I see," she said softly.

  Neal returned his attention to the face of his pocket watch. "Twenty-five years ago, a young lawyer named Josiah Scott came home from his Boston law office to find a cradle on his doorstep. It was made of oak, very nicely crafted, with a hood. I was a few days old, wrapped in a white satin christening gown edged in pearl-beaded lace. There was a note, asking Josiah Scott to place me with a good family. But Jos
iah Scott kept me, thinking that whoever had left me might have a change of heart and come back. But weeks, and then months went by and no one came for me, and in that time Josiah Scott grew fond of me. He kept me and raised me, and then he adopted me, giving me his name."

  Neal lifted his eyes from the watch face and said, "I was lucky. Josiah Scott is a kind and decent man. He never married. It was just he and I. We have had a good life together." As Neal studied the sweeping hand tick away the seconds, he thought of the chemically treated paper coming to life within the camera, and of a young unmarried lawyer with an infant suddenly on his hands.

  "Did you ever find out," Hannah began and then stopped, realizing she was prying.

  Neal did not mind talking about it. "I thought of searching for my real parents. But they left no clues, and I took this to mean that they did not wish for me to find them. Besides, I had no idea how I would even begin such a search, and now it's been twenty-five years."

  "So you do not know if you have brothers and sisters?"

  "No idea." He cleared his throat and looked at her. "What about you, Miss Conroy? Do you have siblings?"

  "My older brother and two younger sisters died in a diphtheria epidemic. Now both my parents are gone and I am alone in the world."

  There eyes met in the dim confines of the cabin. "As am I," Neal said softly.

  And then, remembering himself, he returned to marking the time.

  The sweep hand ticked off the seconds as the Caprica rolled and groaned along its course. Sounds from the rigging—clanking, snapping—drifted through the open window. Heavy footfall thudded on the deck above. Neal kept his eyes on the watch. Two minutes to go. He thought of the angry immigrants lined up against the Caprica's crew, while Hannah watched Donny's face, his chapped lips, wondering if this had been a mistake. The little boy desperately needed water.

  "You know, Miss Conroy," Neal said, wondering why he felt the need to explain such things to her, "in a way I am a very fortunate man."