The Beothuk Expedition by Derek Yetman Read Free Book Online

They had probably raised the devil in that time.
    My eyes began to water as soon as I stepped inside, the air being thick with smoke from a crude chimney of loose, flat stones. The surgeon was not at home, the woman said, but she would show me to the young gentleman. I followed her across the flagstone floor and into a tiny coffin of a room, where a thin form lay on its side, the face obscured beneath a counterpane. By the glow of her lamp, I saw the moisture and mildew on the walls and the scurrying vermin that disappeared into cracks and shadows.
    â€œHow long has he been ill?” I asked.
    She looked down at the slight figure and shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. ’E were bought ’ere nearly a fortnight past and ’e were sick when ’e come.”
    â€œAnd what is the nature of his illness?”
    â€œMaster says ’e got da scurvy.”
    I nodded, not at all surprised that the most common affliction of the Navy had struck this young man down. During my own recovery, I had read a treatise on the disease that was newly written by a surgeon named Lind. He seemed to think that oranges and lemons were an effective cure, which I suppose was well and good if you fell ill in the Mediterranean.
    â€œWhat treatments has the surgeon applied?” I asked.
    The woman shrugged. “Diff’rent ones. First ’e covered ’im up to ’is neck in soil but after a few days da sores got worse, like. Then ’e give ’im doses o’ tarwater, only ’e couldn’t keep it down. Lately ’e been bleedin’ ’im every few hours.”
    I had experienced all of these so-called remedies and knew of none that was worth the suffering endured by the patient. “Anything more?” I asked.
    She took down a tiny bowl from a nearby shelf. “Just dis med’cine.” I lifted the thimble of reddish brown powder to my nose and recoiled at the pungently bitter smell.
    â€œWhat is the boy’s name?” I asked, returning the bowl and stepping closer to the bed. I took hold of the sheet and her reply came as I drew it back. I cannot say if it was the name in my ear or the face before me that gave me such a shock.

John Cartwright
    It was a close thing with that confounded shallop, I have to say. Of course, had the boatswain not issued orders contrary to my wishes, we would have weathered the affair quite nicely. Valuable time was lost in sending the hands to the jibsail first, when that was clearly not my intention. But there is no harm done, other than the addition of three men to my crew and the lack of our baggage. I am certain that we shall prosper all the same, provided the boatswain remembers his place on my vessel.
    The Guernsey has now parted company, leaving me to my own resources until we reach Fogo Island. I have decided that, if the ship is not there when we arrive, we shall provision as best we can and set a course for the Bay of Exploits. Mr. Palliser has determined that Man of War Cove, on the southern end of Fogo Island, will be our alternate rendezvous in a fortnight from now. In the meantime, I have made it known to all and sundry at Bonavista that a reward is offered for a captive Red Indian. Our host, Mr. Street, seems to have some reservation on this. He has said little, however, other than to note that a great many ruffians have passed through the town this summer, bound for the fishing stations of the northeast coast.
    Mr. Street informs me as well that there are many criminal charges waiting to be heard there. I have not the least knowledge of these cases but I can easily imagine the offences involved. They will include assault, theft, wanton damage to property and so on, and no doubt the greater part of it will be down to the immoderate consumption of spirits. Many of those brought before the court will also be of the Irish race. This I know from experience. They will be young men for the most past, shipped to Newfoundland because their