‘Thought you were heading for Melbourne?’
Caleb took the whiskey bottle and glass from the doctor’s hand and pulled him to his feet by his shirt front. ‘I need you sober, Bowen. I need you to tell me I’m wrong because if I’m right, we have a medical emergency of monumental proportions.’
Bowen’s lip curled. ‘The mine? Didn’t hear the bell …’
‘Worse,’ Caleb said. ‘Smallpox.’
Bowen stared at him. The glazed look fell from his eyes. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph—’
‘We’re going to need all three.’ Caleb explained the situation and his suspicions.
Bowen nodded. ‘I fear you might be right. Give me a minute to wash my face and change my shirt.’
At the Britannia Hotel, business went on as usual. In the front bar, the proprietor—a cheerful Yorkshireman, introduced to Caleb by Bowen as ‘Yorkie’ Oldroyd—came out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a cloth.
He shook Caleb’s hand with hearty goodwill. ‘Heard what you did for Geordie Holdway,’ he said. ‘Have a drink on me.’
‘We’re not here to drink,’ Caleb said. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’
Oldroyd ushered them into a small, dusty office. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked with a nervous laugh.
‘Do you have the Murrays staying here?’ Caleb asked.
The humour drained from Oldroyd’s face and he glanced at the ceiling. ‘Aye. Came in last night. Murray said his wife was too poorly to go on to their home. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of ’em all day. I sent up some food but they told me to leave it at the door.’
‘Where is their home?’
‘They’ve a cottage on a piece of land just north of the Chinese gardens,’ Bowen answered.
‘So why didn’t they go straight home?’
Oldroyd tugged his moustache. ‘Murray had to carry the woman in. She couldn’t have gone any further.’
Caleb nodded. If he was right, and he still hoped he was wrong, the disease had moved quickly.
Oldroyd narrowed his eyes. ‘So what’s wrong with her?’
‘I can’t be sure,’ Caleb replied. ‘I saw her at Shady Creek and thought she was unwell but I put it down to something she ate. That’s probably all it is.’
Oldroyd snorted. ‘I’m not so green as I’m cabbage looking, Hunt. You wouldn’t come after her unless it was something serious. If it is that bad, then I need to know.’
‘Once we’ve seen her, you’ll be the first to know.’ Bowen cast a significant glance at Caleb. ‘Come on, Yorkie, we’re wasting time. Take us up to them.’
At the top of the stairs, Oldroyd rapped on a closed door with a number 3 painted neatly on it.
‘Go away,’ Murray said.
‘It’s Oldroyd. I’ve got the doctor with me.’
‘I didn’t send for a doctor.’
‘Open this door, Murray,’ Bowen said. ‘I heard Mrs Murray wasn’t well. Just wanted to check her over.’
From beyond the door they heard muffled voices and the scrape of furniture. The key turned in the lock and Murray peered around the edge of the door. Seeing Caleb, he frowned.
‘It’s you. What do you want?’
‘Dr Bowen is here to see your wife,’ Caleb said.
‘I didn’t send for him. Mrs Murray’s fine. Just a fever,’ he said.
Caleb pushed open the door, taking care to extricate the key from the lock and place it in his pocket.
‘Here—’ Murray protested as Bowen shut the door on the mystified Oldroyd.
The little family were closeted together in the hotel’s largest room. The sick woman lay in the double bed, lathered in fever.
She raised a hand. ‘Help me,’ she said.
Caleb and Bowen ignored Murray and crossed to the bed. Mrs Murray looked up at them with wide, frightened eyes. Caleb laid a hand on her arm and bent to inspect the rash on her face. Some of the spots had already begun to fill with pus. He looked up at Bowen.
Bowen nodded. ‘No doubt about it.’ He turned to Murray. ‘Your wife has smallpox.’
‘Nonsense. It’s just a fever,’ Murray said, but his tone had lost its conviction. He jerked a finger at Caleb. ‘Who’s he?’
‘This is Dr Hunt,’ Bowen replied.
Murray frowned. ‘Doctor?’
‘Yes,’ snapped Caleb. ‘I had my suspicions at Shady Creek so I came after you. Too late to prevent the idiocy of you lodging in a public house in the centre of town.’
‘He’s right,’ Bowen added. ‘You could not have done anything worse if you tried. Consider yourself now in quarantine, along with everyone in the hotel.’
The maid gave a cry and fell onto a chair, burying her face in her apron. ‘I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen,’ she wailed.
‘Have you been in contact with anyone with a fever and a rash?’ Bowen asked.
Murray drew a breath, ready, no doubt, to bluster a denial but the maid jumped to her feet.
‘I said we shouldn’t have come back,’ she cried.
‘Be quiet, Posy,’ Murray barked.
Undeterred, the maid continued, ‘We was visiting the mistress’s sister in Melbourne. She had a new bairn she wanted to show the missus. We were staying with Mrs Evans and her family in Latrobe Street when Mrs Evans’s cook got taken ill. Missus said we had to leave at once, so we did. I’ve seen it before. I knew what it was.’ Posy’s voice rose to hysterical levels. ‘I told him.’ She pointed a finger at Murray.
‘We just have to get her home. She’ll be fine once we’re at home.’ Murray made a lunge for the door, but Caleb stepped in front of him. He caught the man by the arms and thrust him back.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Caleb said. ‘Your wife has smallpox. Do you not understand, man? If smallpox gets into this town, it will devastate the population.’
Murray’s bluff and bluster evaporated and he buried his face in his hands.
Caleb laid a hand on the man’s shaking shoulders. ‘What’s your wife’s name?’
‘Elizabeth—Lizzie,’ the man said, his voice muffled by his hands.
‘And your son?’ Caleb smiled at the little boy, who stared back at him with wide, frightened eyes.
‘Robert, and this is our maid—’
‘Posy Edwards, sir,’ the girl answered for herself in a small, tight voice. She touched her face with shaking fingers. ‘I had the smallpox when I was a girl. Does that mean I won’t get it?’
Caleb nodded. ‘What about you, Murray?’
The man thrust his sleeve up, revealing an ugly little scar on his left. He glanced at his son. ‘But not the boy or … or …’ He turned his stricken gaze on his wife.
Caleb did not reply. He returned to the sick woman and took her hand. He looked down into her feverish eyes.
‘I’m going to die, aren’t I?’ she said.
Caleb gathered up her hand. ‘Not everyone dies of smallpox, Mrs Murray.’
He left it to Bowen to give the woman a thorough examination.
When Bowen had concluded, the two men retired to a corner and conferred.
‘It’s still in the early stages. Chances are she wasn’t contagious up until now but we can’t take any chances. Town authorities need to be notified.’ Bowen turned to face Murray. ‘I’m sorry, Murray, but you leave us no choice. You and your family are in strict quarantine. We’re going to have to lock you in this room while we make alternative arrangements.’
‘I don’t understand. Why can’t we just go home?’ Murray said. ‘We won’t bother anyone.’
‘Moving your wife runs the risk of passing on the infection,’ Caleb said.
‘Don’t lock us in,’ Murray said, his lip quivering. ‘We’ll stay put, I promise, but don’t lock us in.’
Bowen considered the man. ‘I have your word?’
Murray looked at the floor and nodded.
Caleb glared at Bowen. Nothing in Murray’s behaviour had given him any cause to trust the man. ‘I don’t thin
k that’s wise.’
‘I’m sure Murray’s a man of his word,’ Bowen said. ‘Now, you and I need to discuss this matter with the town council and make some plans to contain the risk of infection.’
Out in the corridor, they found Oldroyd leaning against the far wall and chewing his thumbnail. ‘Well?’ he said, straightening.
‘You have to shut the hotel, Yorkie,’ Bowen said. ‘You and everyone in it are now quarantined. No one in or out.’
Oldroyd stared at him. ‘Quarantined? Watcha mean?’
‘Mrs Murray has smallpox,’ Bowen said.
‘What?’ The colour flared in his face and he clenched his fists in impotent fury. ‘I want ’em out. Bringing pox into this house. I want ’em gone.’
‘Sorry, Oldroyd. Until we can find suitable accommodation for these people, no one is to enter or leave it, understand?’
‘But my customers—’
‘Will have to stay put.’ Caleb took a breath. ‘How many people in the hotel since the Murrays arrived?’
‘There’s the staff. I’ve got four of them and six regulars in the front bar. No other guests.’
Caleb saw fear in the man’s eyes and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You have to shut up the house, man. For your sake and everyone in this town.’
The landlord relaxed under Caleb’s hand. ‘You really a doctor?’
Without hesitation, Caleb nodded. ‘And I’ve seen smallpox before. Just do as Dr Bowen and I say and we can, God willing, keep the infection to just this family.’
‘What about you and Doc Bowen?’
‘We’ve been vaccinated.’
Oldroyd glared at the door to room three. ‘How long?’
‘Incubation can be up to fourteen days,’ Caleb said. ‘She’s in the early stages, so if you’ve come in to contact with her there’s a low chance of infection, but once we’ve got them out of here, you’re going to have to burn everything in that room.’
Oldroyd swore and rolled his eyes. ‘What did I do to deserve this?’
‘Not your fault, Yorkie. I’m sorry,’ Bowen said. ‘Come, Hunt. Police first and then the magistrates.’
‘Police?’ Oldroyd had gone pale.
‘We’ll have to put a guard on your door, Oldroyd,’ Caleb said. ‘Believe me, this is very serious.’
Outside, it had stopped raining and Caleb turned his face up to the cold, clear night. ‘What a mess, Bowen.’
‘Hopefully we’ve caught it.’ Bowen clapped him on the shoulder. ‘What a blessing you trusted to that instinct, Hunt. I told you it was good.’
Seventeen
12 January 1872
The members of the town council—Messrs Russell, Cowper and Mackie, together with Sergeant Maidment—met with Caleb and Bowen at the police station across the road from the Britannia Hotel.
The men did not need convincing about the seriousness of the situation and they agreed the Murrays had to be moved to a house well away from the town. Maidment knew of an abandoned property in good condition in a valley to the north and the family could be moved there in the morning. The health authorities in Melbourne would need to be advised and sufficient vaccine for the entire town requested. The Britannia would remain in quarantine.
When Caleb and Bowen took the plan to Murray, they found him in a highly agitated state. He refused to listen to them or to countenance any move to anywhere except his own home.
They returned to the committee, who had spent the last hour arguing about the wording of the public notice.
‘Bloody man,’ Cowper said. ‘Doesn’t he understand the risk he’s posing?’
‘No,’ Caleb replied. ‘His only thoughts are for himself and his dying wife. He’s not thinking beyond that.’
‘That leaves us with force,’ Maidment suggested.
‘It may come to that,’ Russell said, his face set in stone.
Cowper glanced at his watch. ‘It’s late, gentlemen, and we’re all tired. I suggest we adjourn this meeting until tomorrow morning, and return with suggestions about how to persuade Murray to move.’
Outside in the cool air, Caleb sighed. His leg ached and he longed for bed, any bed.
‘I suppose I could take a room at the Britannia,’ he said, looking at the now darkened hostelry, where only the glow of a pipe, marking where Constable Prewitt now stood guard by the front door, showed any sign of life.
‘Nonsense. Come with me,’ Bowen said. ‘I’ve a second bed. It’s not much, but it’s yours while you need it.’
Too tired to argue, Caleb followed the doctor up to his cottage. He had stowed his travelling chest with Will Penrose before leaving Maiden’s Creek and all he had was what he had carried in his satchel and now the urgency had passed, he realised how damp and mud spattered he was after the hard ride from Shady Creek.
Bowen lit a lamp and directed Caleb to the smaller of the two bedrooms, which contained a camp bed with a couple of blankets and a pillow.
‘It’s a bit rough,’ Bowen conceded as he poured large measures of whiskey into glasses. ‘There’s food in the meat safe.’
Caleb located a wedge of stale bread and a hunk of dry cheese. It would do. He carried the meagre meal over to the table and offered it to Bowen, who declined.
‘You did well to identify the illness,’ Bowen said.
‘Not well enough. I could have intercepted the coach and we would not be in the position we are now.’
Bowen’s fingers curled around his glass but before he could raise it to his lips, Caleb put a restraining hand on the man’s wrist.
‘Bowen, this town needs you sober.’
Bowen snorted and shook off his hand. ‘I’ll be sober in the morning, Hunt. That’s all that counts. Go to bed. We’ve a hard few days ahead of us.’ He shook his head. ‘I know these people. I delivered young Robert. It’ll break my heart to have to bury him.’
‘Hopefully it won’t come to that,’ Caleb said.
‘You and I both know that child doesn’t stand a chance.’
They were woken in the first grey light of morning by a loud knocking. Sergeant Maidment loomed in the doorway, his face grey and drawn.
‘They’ve gone,’ he said.
Bowen looked up at the tall policeman with bleary eyes. The few wisps of hair on the little doctor’s head were sticking up. ‘Who?’
‘The Murrays. He took the whole family in the middle of the night.’
Caleb swore. ‘What about your police guard?’
Maidment had the grace to look at the toe of his highly polished boot. ‘Asleep.’
Expelling a heavy breath, Caleb glanced at Bowen. ‘Where’s he gone? He can’t have got far with a sick woman and a small child.’
‘Took them home,’ Maidment said. ‘I’ve sent my men up to his place and they’ll make sure he isn’t moving anywhere else.’
‘Have you told the council?’ Bowen asked.
Maidment nodded and his expression indicated what the good burghers of the town thought. ‘They want to meet with you in half an hour,’ the policeman said. ‘At the police station.’
‘The Britannia stays quarantined,’ Caleb said.
Maidment nodded. ‘Yorkie’s kicking up, and to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if he helped get them out.’
Bowen’s eyes moved to the bottle on the table. It still contained a few fingers of whiskey. Caleb laid a hand on the doctor’s wrist and shook his head. Bowen nodded. No other words were necessary.
Adelaide Greaves sat at the table with the men of the newly styled Emergency Committee, a notebook and pencil set before her. Her eyes widened when she saw Caleb.
‘Mr Hunt,’ she said. ‘I am surprised to see you.’
‘And I you, Mrs Greaves,’ he replied with icy politeness.
‘We need to advise Melbourne and the telegraph is our best form of communication. It seemed easier to have Mrs Greaves at the meeting rather than relay the information,’ Russell said. ‘If you are concerned, I assure you, we can rely on Mrs Greaves’s di
scretion.’
Caleb had no doubt as to Adelaide Greaves’s discretion. His eyes met hers and he cleared his throat. ‘If Murray has returned to his home, I suggest our only course of action is to isolate the house completely.’
‘How?’ Mackie asked.
‘I saw it done in an outbreak back home. We have to enclose the house in a wall. No one in or out.’
The town councillors looked at each other and without further discussion, agreement on this drastic course of action was reached. Now it only remained to inform Murray.
The Murray’s house was set back from the road on an isolated plot of ground a couple of hundred yards north of the gate to the Chinese gardens. The creek curved behind it and a rose garden had been laid out in front. Lace curtains hung at the windows. On a normal day it would appear a pretty, much loved home. Today the blinds were drawn and, under a lowering grey sky, it looked as obstinately silent and stubborn as its owner.
Several wagonloads of lumber and the mine carpenters, arranged by Cowper, had already arrived and these stood well back on the road as the members of the newly styled Emergency Committee approached the house.
In response to Sergeant Maidment’s call, Murray appeared on the verandah, arms crossed. He glared at his distant visitors.
‘I told you I was going home,’ the man said. ‘I’m not going to any smallpox hospital. This is our home and this is where we’re staying. I’ll look after Lizzie, same as I always have.’
‘You’re a fool, Murray,’ Maidment said. ‘You’ve not only endangered your wife and family, but the whole town. I should arrest you. Unfortunately you leave us with no choice.’ He nodded at the mine foreman and the wagons creaked forward.
‘What’s going on?’ Murray demanded.
‘We’re building a fence around this property.’
All the defiance seemed to leach from Murray. He staggered back against his front door. ‘You can’t—’
But they could and in a matter of hours, an eight-foot-tall fence of solid gum surrounded the Murray house. The only entry would be by way of a guard hut built into the corner, consisting of two rooms with a door between. Food could be pushed through a hinged flap and anyone needing to go inside could change their clothes and wash thoroughly on their way out.
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