“The important thing is that now you’re here, Charlotte,” he said.
I was grateful he didn’t pry. Best to stick to other topics, I thought. “Tell me, how did you become interested in smallpox? Why travel to British Columbia?”
His smile faltered and I worried that I had taken the conversation in a direction he did not want to go. “When I was little, I loved to read real-life adventure stories. For my twelfth birthday, my uncle gave me a copy of Captain George Vancouver’s journals written in 1792, when he sailed and mapped much of the northwest coast of North America. I savoured every bit of the story. Both the good and the bad.”
“The good and the bad?” I echoed, taking a sip of tea.
John stared off into the dazzling expanse of ocean for a moment. “There were descriptions of a beautiful land covered in massive forests that came right up to the shoreline, sandy coves replete with salmon, halibut, and shellfish. There were pods of whales and vast colonies of sea lions. On shore, there were huge numbers of game. It was a northern Garden of Eden, but with no people. It made no sense.”
“How so?”
“There were small communities up and down the coast, but not what he would have expected. The land could have supported so many more. Vancouver couldn’t figure it out until he started to find large abandoned town sites. There were canoes piled along the shores and evidence of once-thriving commerce. He sent a crew ashore to investigate. They found deserted villages full of skulls and bleached bones everywhere. People had simply died where they lay and there was no one to left to bury them. A large population had been wiped out by smallpox.”
“That’s awful. Rather like the black plague in Europe?”
“Considerably worse, I think. They started to rebuild their communities, but last March, a gold seeker from San Francisco arrived infected with smallpox. It quickly spread to the shipyard workers who are largely Natives. The colonial government’s method of dealing with it was to put all the sick into canoes and tow them back to their people up the coast. You can guess the result.”
The cake I had been eating turned to dust in my mouth, and I swallowed the dry lump. I drew a rather shaky sip of tea, too shocked by the story to respond.
“Mining has already put poisonous chemicals into salmon-spawning streams and rivers, and fish are dying. Those Natives who survive smallpox are forced to take low-paying jobs in harsh conditions like the coal mines. Disease has spread like wildfire, and the women have no choice other than to sell themselves to white men. That’s why I’m here,” John said finally. “The epidemic will be well established by the time I get to the colony, but there’ll still be lots to do, what with trying to improve working conditions and stopping the worst of the exploitation, and who knows when the next wave of infection will hit.”
I couldn’t imagine the horror of watching all your loved ones, and every person you ever knew, become sick and die over the course of a few days and knowing you would die soon as well. And the few who did survive faced new horrors. The empire had already bought misery to the most vulnerable. It was all so shocking. My own problems seemed so trivial in comparison.
“You are a good man, John. At least you are trying to do something.” I reached my hand out to touch his arm, then remembered myself, and withdrew it, masking my gesture by taking another cake. “Your work is admirable. It’ll save many.”
“As is your work. I think what you’re doing with Dr. Carson is admirable as well.”
I caught my breath. “What I’m doing with Dr. Carson?” I asked.
“The emigrant ladies told me you are ‘better than Florence Nightingale herself.’ They said the crew are very thankful for your nursing and that you saved little Jacob’s life.”
“You’re being kind, John, but I have a selfish motive. I’m only trying to help my sister.”
“I guessed she had a problem. I’ve seen it before, the look of laudanum—some of the women in my mother’s circle had it.” I must have looked upset as he quickly added, “Don’t worry, I won’t mention it to anyone.”
I felt somewhat reassured, but at the same time I was painfully aware that I didn’t know him well enough to be sure I could trust him. I hadn’t even told Sarah about Hari. The ship took on a slight roll and I moved the teapot to the middle of the table so it wouldn’t tumble off.
“I’ll be thankful when I’m on dry land again. I much prefer a horse to a ship,” John said, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “I can usually get them to halt when I’ve been tossed around enough.”
“You ride a lot in the colonies?” I asked, happy to be chatting about something else.
“My main mode of transport. It’s how I hide from my enemies as well.”
“You have enemies? What sort?”
“There are many who take a dim view of the work I do with the Natives. Mainly land-hungry miners and farmers, and big companies. It’s easier to take land and not pay compensation when the rightful owners have died off or have been worked to death in overcrowded work camps.”
I realized now what he was getting at during his conversation with Sir Richard at dinner. “That’s terrible. Truly,” I replied. “How does riding horses help you hide from these people?”
“Cattle drovers, or cowboys as the colonials call them, move cattle all over the open ranges, and no one bothers them. That’s just part of life there. I simply join them and blend in. I can travel the whole territory, and no one is the wiser. I stop at all the remote villages along the routes and do my work. I show the people how to inoculate their own and explain where
