everyone had a dog.
I picked a path between the grooves, flicking the bicycle deftly around muddy holes and hard clay spines, but eventually the road was in such bad shape I had to get off and walk it the last hundred yards.
The passenger wharf was closer to the mouth of Ross Creek than the Government wharf, but even here against the sea breeze were the oily odours of industry. A steam shovel was working out into the bay to extend the harbour so that bigger coastal traders could actually tie up. At the moment lighters were used to take cattle, gold, and sugar out to the ships, and it wasn’t unusual to see steer swimming in the bay.
The water was now flecked with whitecaps and I could see a few ships at anchor.
The plague news up and down the coast hadn’t done much to slow the steamer traffic and the port was busy despite the burden on ships to be fumigated. I doubted many captains actually took the trouble. The regulations probably meant more backhanders for port officers.
That was the talk, anyway.
The northern railway lines terminated here, all the cattle, gold and men channelled through this point. A spur line ran on to the wharf, and there was a train parked beside the steamship.
The gunwale of the SS Leura was still slick with sea spray. Despite McCreedy’s vision of long-distance train travel, the steamship was the only civilised way to get to Brisbane.
I searched the crowd for Humphry.
Passengers lined the deck ready to disembark and there was a fair number of people to welcome them.Women in white skirts and muslins paraded beneath red sunshades and men in flannel suits stood around in small groups.
I saw the back of Humphry’s black boxer several yards in front of me. I knew it was Humphry because it was at an unlikely angle, pushed far back on his head in the manner of a bushranger I’d seen in a photograph, who wore it that way only because he was propped up against a wall, dead. I think Humphry enjoyed looking mad and dangerous.
He was standing with the dignitaries who’d come to the wharf to welcome the Government’s new health officer. As I was unsure of my own status in that crowd, I stood behind them while the ship tied up.
I knew their figures well enough now to recognise them from behind under their charcoal suits, hats and billows of smoke. Counting myself, there were five here to welcome Dr Alfred Jefferis Turner.
His Worship the Mayor stood beside Thankful Willmett. Alderman Willmett was the chairman of the Townsville Joint Epidemic Board and appeared to be a level head in a town largely run by lunatics.
Beside Willmett, taller and thinner, was Dr William Bacot, the chief surgeon of the Townsville General Hospital. Bacot was older than I, but not by much, and he was perpetually angry.
Beside Bacot was Humphry.
Three doctors and two aldermen.
I guessed that the aldermen outweighed us, even though we outnumbered them.
McCreedy was facing the ship and he said loudly that it was a shame there were no Members of Parliament to receive the Government’s agent today, Townsville’s own Mr Philp being caught up with matters of state in Brisbane and the MPs for Charters Towers incarcerated at West Point on Magnetic Island.
McCreedy leaned forward and turned to Humphry at the end of the line. ‘But I suppose that’s not your fault.’
‘Clearly not,’ said Humphry.
‘I’ve heard you’ve been going about startling people with unsubstantiated claims, Dr Humphry. Some people have come to me asking if the town is overrun with the Black Death.’
‘Black Death?’ Humphry snorted. ‘I wouldn’t say anything of the sort.’
McCreedy was about to say something more, but Willmett whispered in his ear and he turned his attention back to the ship.
There was some excited shouting as people on the wharf recognised passengers, but our group in black, like pallbearers waiting for the coffin, remained in dignified silence as the gangway rolled out before us.
The Wesley Military Band
I picked a path between the grooves, flicking the bicycle deftly around muddy holes and hard clay spines, but eventually the road was in such bad shape I had to get off and walk it the last hundred yards.
The passenger wharf was closer to the mouth of Ross Creek than the Government wharf, but even here against the sea breeze were the oily odours of industry. A steam shovel was working out into the bay to extend the harbour so that bigger coastal traders could actually tie up. At the moment lighters were used to take cattle, gold, and sugar out to the ships, and it wasn’t unusual to see steer swimming in the bay.
The water was now flecked with whitecaps and I could see a few ships at anchor.
The plague news up and down the coast hadn’t done much to slow the steamer traffic and the port was busy despite the burden on ships to be fumigated. I doubted many captains actually took the trouble. The regulations probably meant more backhanders for port officers.
That was the talk, anyway.
The northern railway lines terminated here, all the cattle, gold and men channelled through this point. A spur line ran on to the wharf, and there was a train parked beside the steamship.
The gunwale of the SS Leura was still slick with sea spray. Despite McCreedy’s vision of long-distance train travel, the steamship was the only civilised way to get to Brisbane.
I searched the crowd for Humphry.
Passengers lined the deck ready to disembark and there was a fair number of people to welcome them.Women in white skirts and muslins paraded beneath red sunshades and men in flannel suits stood around in small groups.
I saw the back of Humphry’s black boxer several yards in front of me. I knew it was Humphry because it was at an unlikely angle, pushed far back on his head in the manner of a bushranger I’d seen in a photograph, who wore it that way only because he was propped up against a wall, dead. I think Humphry enjoyed looking mad and dangerous.
He was standing with the dignitaries who’d come to the wharf to welcome the Government’s new health officer. As I was unsure of my own status in that crowd, I stood behind them while the ship tied up.
I knew their figures well enough now to recognise them from behind under their charcoal suits, hats and billows of smoke. Counting myself, there were five here to welcome Dr Alfred Jefferis Turner.
His Worship the Mayor stood beside Thankful Willmett. Alderman Willmett was the chairman of the Townsville Joint Epidemic Board and appeared to be a level head in a town largely run by lunatics.
Beside Willmett, taller and thinner, was Dr William Bacot, the chief surgeon of the Townsville General Hospital. Bacot was older than I, but not by much, and he was perpetually angry.
Beside Bacot was Humphry.
Three doctors and two aldermen.
I guessed that the aldermen outweighed us, even though we outnumbered them.
McCreedy was facing the ship and he said loudly that it was a shame there were no Members of Parliament to receive the Government’s agent today, Townsville’s own Mr Philp being caught up with matters of state in Brisbane and the MPs for Charters Towers incarcerated at West Point on Magnetic Island.
McCreedy leaned forward and turned to Humphry at the end of the line. ‘But I suppose that’s not your fault.’
‘Clearly not,’ said Humphry.
‘I’ve heard you’ve been going about startling people with unsubstantiated claims, Dr Humphry. Some people have come to me asking if the town is overrun with the Black Death.’
‘Black Death?’ Humphry snorted. ‘I wouldn’t say anything of the sort.’
McCreedy was about to say something more, but Willmett whispered in his ear and he turned his attention back to the ship.
There was some excited shouting as people on the wharf recognised passengers, but our group in black, like pallbearers waiting for the coffin, remained in dignified silence as the gangway rolled out before us.
The Wesley Military Band
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