Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [57]
I was distracted from these unhappy memories by a growing commotion on the next quay. A large knot of men had gathered by a ship’s gangway, and there was considerable shouting and pushing going on. Not a fight; I peered over at the altercation, shading my eyes with my hand, but could see no blows exchanged. Instead, an effort seemed to be under way to clear a pathway through the milling crowd to the doors of a large warehouse on the upper end of the quay. The crowd was stubbornly resisting all such efforts, surging back like the tide after each push.
Jamie suddenly appeared behind me, closely followed by Jared, who squinted at the mob scene below. Absorbed by the shouting, I hadn’t heard them come up.
“What is it?” I stood and leaned back into Jamie, bracing myself against the increasing sway of the ship underfoot. I was aware at close quarters of his scent; he had bathed at the inn and he smelled clean and warm, with a faint hint of sun and dust. A sharpening of the sense of smell was another effect of pregnancy, apparently; I could smell him even among the myriad stenches and scents of the seaport, much as you can hear a low-pitched voice close by in a noisy crowd.
“I don’t know. Some trouble with the other ship, looks like.” He reached down and put a hand on my elbow, to steady me. Jared turned and barked an order in gutteral French to one of the sailors nearby. The man promptly hopped over the rail and slid down one of the ropes to the quay, tarred pigtail dangling toward the water. We watched from the deck as he joined the crowd, prodded another seaman in the ribs, and received an answer, complete with expressive gesticulations.
Jared was frowning, as the pigtailed man scrambled back up the crowded gangplank. The sailor said something to him in that same thick-sounding French, too fast for me to follow it. After a few more words’ conversation, Jared swung abruptly around and came to stand next to me, lean hands gripping the rail.
“He says there’s sickness aboard the Patagonia.”
“What sort of sickness?” I hadn’t thought of bringing my medicine box with me, so there was little I could do in any case, but I was curious. Jared looked worried and unhappy.
“They’re afraid it might be smallpox, but they don’t know. The port’s inspector and the harbor master have been called.”
“Would you like me to have a look?” I offered. “I might at least be able to tell you whether it’s a contagious disease or not.”
Jared’s sketchy eyebrows disappeared under the lank black fringe of his hair. Jamie looked mildly embarrassed.
“My wife’s well known as a healer, Cousin,” he explained, but then turned and shook his head at me.
“No, Sassenach. It wouldna be safe.”
I could see the Patagonia’s gangway easily; now the gathered crowd moved suddenly back, jostling and stepping on each other’s toes. Two seamen stepped down from the deck, a length of canvas slung between them as a stretcher. The white sail-fabric sagged heavily under the weight of the man they carried, and a bare, sun-darkened arm lolled from the makeshift hammock.
The seamen wore strips of cloth tied round their noses and mouths, and kept their faces turned away from the stretcher, jerking their heads as they growled at each other, maneuvering their burden over the splintered planks. The pair passed under the fascinated noses of the crowd and disappeared into a nearby warehouse.
Making a quick decision, I turned and headed for the rear gangplank of the Arianna.
“Don’t worry,” I called to Jamie over one shoulder, “if it is smallpox, I can’t get that.” One of the