Seaflower

 

Chapter 7

‘Mr 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,