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  I could feel the life of the child in my hands ebbing away, my own sweat almost blinding me. I tried to remember what it was the midwife had done to free the head, fighting hard to concentrate on what I had seen that day. I recalled how she had felt for the head through my mother’s belly. And then pushed down and forward with the palm of her hand.

  The women were screaming at me to let go, but I was convinced now that I was the only one who could save the life of this little girl.

  My hand slid over the blood on Catrìona’s belly, and I felt the head of the baby there, round and hard. I supported the child in the crook of my arm, and pushed down hard, yelling ‘Push!’ as I did. The head came out so unexpectedly that I staggered and almost fell. I felt the hands of many women grab and steady me. And I smacked that baby’s bottom so hard, just as I had seen the midwife do to Murdag.

  For a moment, there was nothing. Then a cough and a cry, and I cut through the umbilical with my knife to release the baby into my hands. And there she was, this tiny creature covered in blood and mucus, held to my chest, eyes opening for the first time.

  I was very nearly overwhelmed by the emotion of cradling this new life in my arms.

  The women gathered around with sheets to try to stop Catrìona’s bleeding. But Catrìona was oblivious to whatever pain or peril she might be in. She looked up at me in the half-dark with shining eyes and held out trembling hands for her baby girl. Someone took her from me and wrapped her in a blanket, then handed the child to her mother. Catrìona held her to her breast as if she were the most precious thing on earth. And in that moment, to her mother, I suppose she was.

  Catrìona looked from her baby to me, and in a voice barely audible above the storm and the creak of the ship, she whispered, ‘Thank you.’

  *

  We have been at sea for forty-five days now. One of my fellow cooks is dead, the other is sick, and I am doing what I can to feed the remaining passengers. There has been no meat for weeks, the grain is done, and all that remain are a few shrivelled vegetables with which I am doing my best to make a thin soup to go round. Our water, disgusting though it has been throughout, is all but exhausted, too. If we don’t succumb to the sickness we will die from starvation.

  More and more passengers have come down with the malady that took John Angus Macdonald. And now Catrìona is showing symptoms of it, too.

  She has not been well since the birth of her baby, and is deteriorating fast. I spend most evenings comforting her and keeping the children occupied. The baby would have died I am sure had a woman a few stalls away not still been nursing, so I do my best to see that the Macdonalds and the nursing woman get enough food to survive.

  Ciorstaidh is a distant memory now. But I know that for the rest of my days I will always regret the moment that I lost her on the quay.

  Tonight I had yet another burden of responsibility placed upon my shoulders. Catrìona knows she is going to die. How could she not? I had just wrapped up her children in a blanket and stroked their heads until they fell asleep. I turned to find her watching me with big, sad eyes. She reached out to grasp my wrist and whispered, ‘My grandmother always told me that if you save a life you are responsible for it.’ She coughed mucus and sputum into her sheet and took a moment to collect herself. ‘When I’m gone, my baby is yours to care for. My children, too. Do what you can, Sime. There’s no one else.’

  I am only eighteen years old. But how could I say no?

  *

  Yesterday, we slid three more bodies over the rail. All formalities have been dispensed with by now, although I always whisper Calum’s farewell to my father. Even if no one else hears it, I am sure that God is listening.

  The weather has improved these last days, and we have been making better speed. I lingered on deck for a while after the burials, and I heard someone shout ‘Land!’ With others, I ran to the rail on the port side and strained to see beyond the swell of the sea. And there in the distance I saw a small group of islands breaking the horizon. A crewman at my shoulder said, ‘Thank God for that. We’ll arrive tomorrow or the day after.’

  I felt such a sense of relief I wanted to shout out loud and punch the air. I wanted to be there now. I just wanted all this to end. It is strange how it is possible to hold yourself together when you know there is still a distance to go. But as soon as the end is in sight, somehow all your resolve vanishes and you can barely stagger to the finish.

  However, my happiness was short-lived. The crewman said, ‘Don’t get yourself all worked up, son. They’ll not let us through to Quebec City just yet. We’ll be stopped at Grosse Île first. And if you thought this was bad …’ His voice tailed away.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘What’s Grosse Île?’

  ‘It’s hell on earth, son. An island in the St Lawrence river, just a few miles downstream from the city. We’ll be held in quarantine there. The sick will be treated, and probably die. And the rest of us will be held until they’re sure we’re not sick. Only then will they let us go on.’

  I could have wept.

  *

  It seemed extraordinary to see land on both horizons when we sailed into the mouth of the St Lawrence earlier today. But the opposing banks of it are so distant that they barely blur the line between water and sky. I had no idea a river could be this big.

  Everyone who could, crowded on deck to watch our progress upriver, banks drawing in on either side. This was the great continent of North America.

  But of the 269 passengers who left Glasgow in steerage, twenty-nine are dead and only 240 of us remain.

  It was almost dusk when we sailed past a string of dark islands that loomed out of the stream of the river, to drop anchor finally at Grosse Île. There were eight or ten other tall ships anchored there in the bay, all flying the yellow jack of quarantine. It seems that we have brought all our diseases with us to this new world.

  Onshore I could see a collection of long sheds, and woods rising up on the hill behind them. From the wooden pier a long boat set out towards us, water from its oars catching the dying light as it dropped, like liquid silver, back into the stream of the river.

  A man came aboard in coat tails and boots and heavy trousers. He wore a hat above a gaunt face with sunken cheeks. One of the crew said to me, ‘That’s the doctor.’

  ‘Anyone speak English?’ the doctor said.

  After a moment I raised my hand. ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘What language do these people speak?’

  ‘Gaelic.’

  ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘Our Gaelic translator died two days ago. You’ll have to do it.’ He took several strides towards me and gave me a good looking at. Then opened my shirt and examined my chest. ‘You look healthy enough for the moment.’ He spoke a strange, nasal drawling sort of English. ‘I’m going to have to examine these folk to see who’s sick and needs treatment. The rest of you will be kept in the Lazarettos at the top end of the island.’

  ‘Lazarettos?’

  ‘Just huts, son.’ He looked around. ‘I guess the sick are still below deck.’

  *

  They finally got us all ashore. Ferried on longboats and gathered together on the pier in the dark, lanterns held above us on poles. A collection of miserable souls, dressed in rags, filthy hair long and unkempt, beards tangling on cadaverous faces. Not a single person wore shoes. One man was dressed in a woman’s petticoat, given him by the captain’s wife to hide his modesty. His humiliation was acute.

  Thirty-nine sick people, most of whom could not walk, were taken directly to the hospital sheds. The remainder of us had whatever goods we had brought with us removed by men wearing masks and gloves who moved among us like servants of death. Fortunately, the captain’s wife had possession of my diaries, so they were kept safe.

  Catrìona Macdonald was taken with the rest of the sick to the hospital, and I was left in charge of her children, holding the baby in my arms. We were herded on to carts then, to make the short journey to the north-east end of the island
.

  The doctor sat up on the cart beside me and the children. I could almost feel his fatigue. ‘I’ve seen things,’ he said, ‘that no man should see. I’ve seen suffering that no human being should have to endure.’ He turned to look at me with empty eyes. ‘I used to be a religious man, son. But if there’s a God, then he abandoned us a long time ago.’

  Our sorry convoy moved off through the night, a lantern on each cart. The track cut inland, the sea somewhere away to our right. On our left lay what the doctor described as a mosquito-infested lagoon. Cholera Bay, he called it. Where the Eliza had anchored, he said, was known as Hospital Bay.

  Nearly a hundred thousand people had come through Grosse Île this year alone, he told me. Most of them off boats from Ireland. He said that people were dying there in their tens of thousands from the potato famine. And I knew just how that must be.

  ‘Five thousand poor souls have died from typhoid on Grosse Île in the last seven months,’ he said. ‘It’s what most of the sick on the Eliza have, too.’

  ‘Will they die?’ I asked.

  ‘Some of them. The strongest will survive. All things considered, we do not do that bad a job. But our ambulance doubles as a hearse. And it’s at work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.’ He shook his head. ‘We’ve lost two drivers to typhoid already this year, and half of our translators.’

  I had no idea what to say to him. Five thousand dead? It was unimaginable. We passed through the only village on the island. Houses and a church set back along either side of the road. I said, ‘Who lives here?’

  ‘The quarantine workers and their families,’ he told me. ‘Doctors, nurses, translators, administrators, drivers. And the men of God, of course. Come to see first hand what hell Heaven has wrought on earth.’ His disillusion and lack of faith was almost painful, and I found it hard to meet his eye. And I wondered, too, what kind of people would come and work in a place like this, and bring their families to live here with them.

  Beyond the village, the land levelled off, and we were closer again to the sea. Finally we saw the Lazarettos, long shadows in the dark, set in rows overlooking a rocky shore.

  When we dismounted, the doctor told me they were sure to call on my services again, and he thanked me for my patience before heading off back to the village. But he is wrong, for I have no patience. I have no desire to be in this place, and will leave it just as soon as I can.

  A quarantine worker led us to the last of the huts. It seemed endlessly long, partitioned along its length, open doorways leading from one section to the next. Walls and roof and beams were crudely whitewashed. Oil lamps hung from the ceilings, and shadows lurked and moved like ghosts among the hundreds of people lying side by side on long trestles set against either wall. A double-tier trestle runs down the centre of the hut, groaning with bodies, a single sheet covering eight or ten souls at a time.

  This is to be our home for the next days or weeks, until we either come down with the typhoid and die, or survive and move on to the next phase of this hellish journey.

  The children clung to my legs as we shuffled in to claim our space on wooden shelves scarred by the graffiti of all those desperate people who have gone before us, and stained by God knows what excretions.

  The nursing woman took Catrìona Macdonald’s baby to feed her. We would eat shortly, they said. And for that I was grateful. But all I wanted was to be gone.

  *

  It is hard to say that I feel better, but after three square meals I am physically stronger.

  The doctor who met the boat came looking for me this morning to tell me that the administrator wanted a word. I rode back through the island with him on his cart, and he pointed out the armed guards posted on the edge of the village nearest the Lazarettos. ‘There are shifts of them night and day,’ he said.

  I looked at them in surprise. ‘Guards? What are they guarding?’

  ‘Against folk in quarantine straying into the village or trying to escape. It’s a dreadful thing, the typhoid, son. The authorities’ll do anything to keep it contained.’

  There were children playing among the houses in the village as we went through it, and they stopped their games to watch us pass. Dark eyes filled with caution that made me feel like those lepers they speak of in the Bible.

  The administration hut was close to the pier, a long shed with windows looking out over the bay. The administrator himself was a Scotsman from a place called Dumfries. He said he had been working here more than ten years. I asked him if he wasn’t afraid of catching the typhoid. He just smiled and said the fear never leaves you. But that if he’d been going to catch it he reckoned he’d have got it by now.

  ‘You speak the Gaelic, I’m told,’ he said, and I nodded. ‘We have translators for most languages here, but we recently lost our Gaelic speaker. Actually, he was Irish, but he seemed able to talk to the Scots well enough.’

  The administrator turned to gaze out of the window at all of the boats anchored in the bay.

  ‘I wonder if you might be able to help us with a wee problem we have. An Irishman called Michaél O’Connor who arrived here on the fifth. He doesn’t appear to speak any English.’ He turned back to look at me. ‘The man’s demented. Even turned violent once or twice. He hitches a ride on the ambulance and comes here two or three times a day shouting and screaming. Maybe you could talk to him for us. Find out what the hell it is he wants.’

  *

  I found Michaél O’Connor in Lazaretto No. 3, and was surprised to discover that he was not much older than myself. He was sitting at a table on his own, staring into space. Most men, it seems, shave and get their hair cut after a day or two here, but Michaél had a thick black beard on him, and his hair was shoulder-length, matted and knotted. He looked at me with the palest of blue Celtic eyes, empty of any emotion.

  Until I spoke the Gaelic to him, and his face lit up. ‘Man, I thought you were another of these bloody people come to jabber at me in English. There’s not one of them speaks God’s own language, and I can’t make myself understood at all.’ Then he glared at me suspiciously. ‘It’s a weird sort of Gaelic you speak, though.’

  ‘Not as weird as yours,’ I said.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Scotland.’

  He roared and laughed then and slapped me on the back, and I think it is the first time I have heard human laughter in months. ‘Ach, you’re a Scotsman!’ he said. ‘Second-best to an Irishman, of course, but you’ll do. Did they send you?’

  ‘Aye,’ I said. ‘To find out what it is you want from them.’

  His face clouded a little as his smile faded. ‘My brother Seamus left Cork on the Emily more than four months ago. He’d have been quarantined here, so there must be a record of him. They’re bloody meticulous about keeping their records. All I want is to confirm that he landed here safely and then passed on to Quebec City after his quarantine.’

  ‘Surely you could have found some way of asking them that?’ I said.

  And then he shocked me by speaking English with a thick brogue and a foul mouth. ‘The fockers don’t speak the mother tongue, Scotsman. Just the fockin’ English.’

  I was astonished. ‘But you speak it yourself.’ I raised my hands, at a loss to understand. ‘So where’s the problem?’

  His eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘I’ve never given the English the pleasure of hearing me speak their bloody language yet. And I’m not about to start now.’

  I laughed and shook my head. ‘But these people aren’t English, Michaél. They’re Canadian. And they only speak English or French.’

  He guffawed again. A big, loud, infectious laugh. ‘In that case, it looks like I’m going to have to learn the fockin’ French, then.’

  *

  They gave me access to the arrival and departure records in the administration office this afternoon, and I sat at a table with a great big log that listed the arrival of every boat – where it was from, when it arrived, how many people were aboard, how many
had died and were sick.

  I looked for the Heather, sailing from Loch Glas in the Hebrides. But I couldn’t find any record of it. I asked the clerk if every boat that arrived stopped here at Grosse Île. He was a grey little man, with not much hair left, and sad green eyes. He said that every boat got stopped here, but because of pressure of numbers this year if the doctor found no disease aboard then the boat would be allowed to continue without quarantine.

  And from that I took heart and hope that my mother and sisters had not faced disease aboard the Heather, and that they had passed on directly to Quebec City. I would find out when I got there.

  I turned my attentions then to the passenger list for the Emily, whose arrival I found had been registered on July 2nd. The crossing had taken fifty-one days, with a hundred and fifty-seven passengers in steerage. Nine had died during the crossing and sixteen were sick on arrival. And there among the surviving passengers was one Seamus O’Connor. The grey clerk with the green eyes raised his head wearily when I troubled him for some further information. ‘Seamus O’Connor,’ I said. ‘Arrived on the Emily from Cork, Ireland, on July 2nd. Can you tell me when those passengers left for Quebec?’

  He opened another huge ledger, and ran a bony finger with a dirty fingernail down columns of entries. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘The Emily was held in quarantine for just four days. Six of the sixteen that were put in hospital died.’ He ran his finger down another column, then looked up. ‘Seamus O’Connor was one of them. He’s buried in the mass graves.’

  *

  The mass graves are to be found in a flat, grassy area near the south-western tip of Grosse Île. The ground rises up on both sides, rocky and tree-covered. But through the trees beyond the graves, you can just see the sluggish swell of the river. Quebec City is somewhere there, not far upriver. So the dead were almost within sight of it.

  Rows of crude white crosses pepper the grass that has grown freshly here over the recently disturbed earth. I found Michaél standing among the trees, sheltering from the drizzle and looking out over the crosses. He wore a blue woollen jacket and torn, baggy trousers held up by braces. The stitching in his boots was rotten and barely held them together. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets.