I quickly dressed in one of my older, simple cotton day dresses with a full skirt that allowed ease of movement. If Harriet did leave her room, she would never go to the second or third decks. I could help Dr. Carson, and she need never know. It would be only for a few weeks. As I tucked the laudanum into my pocket, I tried not to doubt Hari’s commitment to this new plan. Or my own. Harriet was right—it wouldn’t do for those in our circle to know I was Dr. Carson’s assistant and socializing with the lower classes. After all I’d been doing to try to salvage my reputation, I was taking a risk, but I had no other choice. I tried to ignore my queasy stomach. With luck, I would never be found out.
Chapter Fifteen
“This is everything,” I said, handing Harriet’s vials over to Dr. Carson.
“You’re doing the right thing, Miss Charlotte,” he said, meeting my gaze. Then he produced a large skeleton key from his pocket and went his desk. “One day your sister will thank you.” Once he had locked the vials away, he pulled an aging frock coat on over his yellowing white shirt. “Let’s get started.”
I hesitated. “About my work with you…”
“Yes?”
“Could we keep it between us? It’s just that it would be frowned upon by our circle of friends, if you know what I mean. I admire what you do, but there are certain… expectations I have to meet.”
He gave me a world-weary look. “I know too well what you mean. I promise to keep this arrangement between us.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Now, what would you like me to do?”
“You can carry my instruments,” he said, handing me a black leather bag. It was much heavier than it looked, and I had to carry it with two hands. He gathered up two other bags himself. “Your job will be to hand me items as I need them, but first you will clean each instrument with a disinfectant. I’m one of the new breed who believes in absolute cleanliness.”
I nodded as if I knew what he was talking about, then we set off. He walked briskly, and it was all I could do to keep up with him as he headed to the staircase that led to the engine room deep within the ship’s bowels.
“The worst injuries are the burns,” he called over his shoulder. “They’re the most likely to get infected and kill the patient. We are off to see Sam, the coal stoker. Nasty burn. Hope you have a strong stomach.”
The heat and roar of the engine room hit me like a solid wall. I caught my breath and pressed back against a rough wooden post for support, taking in the hellish scene. Flames flared from the huge open furnace, casting sepia-orange light across the walls and low ceiling. The air, heavy with black, choking coal dust, made my lungs ache and my throat so dry I couldn’t swallow. The sharp odour of male sweat mixed with old stale leather and unwashed linen was so thick I could almost taste it.
Everywhere men, stripped to the waists, grunted as they dragged carts of coal from the hold in the foredeck to the bunkers aft. After dropping their loads onto the floor in front of the burner that fed the throbbing, percussive engines, they pulled their carts back to the hold for yet another load. I felt sorry for them, but the stokers had it worse, standing as they were in front of the open furnace. They endured the intense heat and backbreaking work of feeding the hungry engines.
I had never seen anyone work in conditions like these. It seemed no thought had been given to the health and well-being of the men, and I wondered at those who had agreed to take it on. What drove them to accept such work? Was there no other option?
Dr. Carson signalled to one of the stokers, who set his shovel aside and came to us. He was short heavyset man. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing arm muscles that resembled the thick ropes used to tie the sails down. A bandage covered in coal dust was wound around his left arm.
“This is Sam,” Dr. Carson explained over the noise.
There was no real space to administer to Sam, but we made use of a few empty crates. Dr. Carson settled beside him and gestured for me to do the same, then set about unwinding the bandage on Sam’s lower arm. I gasped at the sight of the large, fluid-filled blisters, but the clamour in the room was such that no one heard me. Dr. Carson pointed to the bag I carried and I opened it.
“A lance,” he shouted.
I looked at the collection of instruments and reasoned that a lance would be some sort of piercing or cutting tool. Unfortunately, there were several that fit the bill. I held them up one at a time until Dr. Carson nodded. He indicated that I dip it in a jar of fluid. The disinfectant, I remembered. I did as he requested and handed the lance over.
As he began to slice open each blister, the smell of putrid flesh filled the room. I swallowed the bile in my throat, thankful there was nothing else in my stomach after last night. This was not anything like assisting the veterinary surgeon back home on our estate, and for a moment, I wished I had never agreed to help Dr. Carson. Working with the animals had been a fun adventure. I helped make them feel better, and they rewarded me with licks and snuggles. This felt like I had ventured into a battlefield where men suffered dreadful injuries in nightmarish conditions. Then I remembered Harriet, and I pushed my self-doubts away and willed myself to carry on.
A spasm of pain passed over Sam’s face. I placed a gentle hand on his healthy arm.
