Arrowsmith by Sinclair Lewis (learn to read books txt) 📕

the company should have taken them into danger. In the tepid wind they felt the plague.

The skipper reassured them, in a formal address. Yes, they would stop at Blackwater, the port of St. Hubert, but they would anchor far out in the harbor; and while the passengers bound for St. Hubert would be permitted to go ashore, in the port-doctor’s launch, no one in St. Hubert would be allowed to leave⁠—nothing from that pesthole would touch the steamer except the official mail, which the ship’s surgeon would disinfect.

(The ship’s surgeon was wondering, the while, how you disinfected mail⁠—let’s see⁠—sulfur burning in the presence of moisture, wasn’t it?)

The skipper had been trained in oratory by arguments with wharf-masters, and the tourists were reassured. But Martin murmured to his Commission, “I hadn’t thought of that. Once we go ashore, we’ll be practically prisoners till the epidemic’s over⁠—if it ever does get over⁠—prisoners with the plague around us.”

“Why, of course!” said Sondelius.

II

They left Bridgetown, the pleasant port of Barbados, by afternoon. It was late night, with most of the passengers asleep, when they arrived at Blackwater. As Martin came out on the damp and vacant deck, it seemed unreal, harshly unfriendly, and of the coming battleground he saw nothing but a few shore lights beyond uneasy water.

About their arrival there was something timorous and illicit. The ship’s surgeon ran up and down, looking disturbed; the captain could be heard growling on the bridge; the first officer hastened up to confer with him and disappeared below again; and there was no one to meet them. The steamer waited, rolling in a swell, while from the shore seemed to belch a hot miasma.

“And here’s where we’re going to land and stay!” Martin grunted to Leora, as they stood by their bags, their cases of phage, on the heaving, black-shining deck near the top of the accommodation-ladder.

Passengers came out in dressing-gowns, chattering, “Yes, this must be the place, those lights there. Must be fierce. What? Somebody going ashore? Oh, sure, those two doctors. Well, they got nerve. I certainly don’t envy them!”

Martin heard.

From shore a pitching light made toward the ship, slid round the bow, and sidled to the bottom of the accommodation-ladder. In the haze of a lantern held by a steward at the foot of the steps, Martin could see a smart covered launch, manned by darky sailors in naval uniform and glazed black straw hats with ribbons, and commanded by a Scotch-looking man with some sort of a peaked uniform cap over a civilian jacket.

The captain clumped down the swinging steps beside the ship. While the launch bobbed, its wet canvas top glistening, he had a long and complaining conference with the commander of the launch, and received a pouch of mail, the only thing to come aboard.

The ship’s surgeon took it from the captain with aversion, grumbling, “Now where can I get a barrel to disinfect these darn letters in?”

Martin and Leora and Sondelius waited, without option.

They had been joined by a thin woman in black whom they had not seen all the trip⁠—one of the mysterious passengers who are never noticed till they come on deck at landing. Apparently she was going ashore. She was pale, her hands twitching.

The captain shouted at them, “All right⁠—all right⁠—all right! You can go now. Hustle, please. I’ve got to get on⁠ ⁠… Damn nuisance.”

The St. Buryan had not seemed large or luxurious, but it was a castle, steadfast among storms, its side a massy wall, as Martin crept down the swaying stairs, thinking all at once, “We’re in for it; like going to the scaffold⁠—they lead you along⁠—no chance to resist,” and, “You’re letting your imagination run away with you; quit it now!” and, “Is it too late to make Lee stay behind, on the steamer?” and an agonized, “Oh, Lord, are the stewards handling that phage carefully?” Then he was on the tiny square platform at the bottom of the accommodation-ladder, the ship’s side was high above him, lit by the round ports of cabins, and someone was helping him into the launch.

As the unknown woman in black came aboard, Martin saw in lantern light how her lips tightened once, then her whole face went blank, like one who waited hopelessly.

Leora squeezed his hand, hard, as he helped her in.

He muttered, while the steamer whistled, “Quick! You can still go back! You must!”

“And leave the pretty launch? Why, Sandy! Just look at the elegant engine it’s got!⁠ ⁠… Gosh, I’m scared blue!”

As the launch sputtered, swung round, and headed for the filtering of lights ashore, as it bowed its head and danced to the swell, the sandy-headed official demanded of Martin:

“You’re the McGurk Commission?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He sounded pleased yet cold, a busy voice and humorless.

“Are you the port-doctor?” asked Sondelius.

“No, not exactly. I’m Dr. Stokes, of St. Swithin’s Parish. We’re all of us almost everything, nowadays. The port-doctor⁠—In fact he died couple of days ago.”

Martin grunted. But his imagination had ceased to agitate him.

“You’re Dr. Sondelius, I imagine. I know your work in Africa, in German East⁠—was out there myself. And you’re Dr. Arrowsmith? I read your plague phage paper. Much impressed. Now I have just the chance to say before we go ashore⁠—You’ll both be opposed. Inchcape Jones, the S.G., has lost his head. Running in circles, lancing buboes⁠—afraid to burn Carib, where most of the infection is. Arrowsmith, I have a notion of what you may want to do experimentally. If Inchcape balks, you come to me in my parish⁠—if I’m still alive. Stokes, my name is⁠ ⁠… Damn it, boy, what are you doing? Trying to drift clear down to Venezuela?⁠ ⁠… Inchcape and H.E. are so afraid that they won’t even cremate the bodies⁠—some religious prejudice among the blacks⁠—obee or something.”

“I see,” said Martin.

“How many cases plague you got now?” said Sondelius.

“Lord knows. Maybe a thousand. And ten million rats⁠ ⁠… I’m so sleepy!⁠ ⁠… Well, welcome, gentlemen⁠—” He flung out his arms in a dry hysteria. “Welcome to the Island of Hesperides!”

Out of darkness Blackwater swung