Free Oatcakes and Courage by Joyce Grant-Smith

I’m dead. Fallen in the river or something.” She gave a rueful shrug. “I may drown yet,” she murmured.
    â€œWould you go back if you could?” Ian asked, his voice little more than a whisper.
    Anne shook her head. “Nay. I had to leave, Ian.”
    â€œYou know,” Ian faltered, “I had thought… before your father offered you … once I got set up in Pictou…”
    Anne leaned forward to peer into Ian’s face. He glanced at her, then off into the night again. “Never mind,” he murmured.
    Anne regarded him for a long moment, trying to read his thoughts, then sat back and gazed at the stars as well.
    Many passengers slept on deck, not wanting to endure the stale, fetid air below. There were always ill settlers, confined to their bunks. Family members took turns sitting with them. Lily offered what nursing care she could.
    One morning when the wind tossed the waves into whitecaps, several settlers had heaving stomachs. They lay on their bunks, miserable with seasickness. Anne stood forward on deck, letting the chill breeze fan her face as she breathed deeply. As long as she stayed in the fresh air and gazed far out to the horizon, her stomach did not grumble too badly.
    Lily Sutherland came to stand next to her at the rail. She said nothing, but stared out over the waves. She held her cloak closely around her. Her face was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed.
    Anne put a questioning hand on Lily’s shoulder. This woman was usually a brick. Nothing perturbed her.
    Lily turned to Anne. A lone tear escaped the corner of her eye and slipped down her cheek. She hastily swept it away with the back of her hand.
    â€œWhat is it?” Anne whispered.
    Lily took a steadying breath and replied in a dull, quiet voice, “Isabel Fraser is sick.”
    Anne’s forehead furrowed. “Aye, she’s been seasick since we left Loch Broom, and it’s rough today. A lot of us are seasick this morning…”
    â€œNay,” Lily’s voice was firm but leaden. “She is not seasick.”
    â€œNot…?” Anne blanched. Not sure she really wanted to know, she asked hesitantly, “Then, what…?”
    â€œSmallpox.” The word dropped like a stone between them. “She has smallpox.”
    Anne gasped. “Nay! Are you sure?”
    Lily nodded. “Aye.”
    They stood regarding one another in horror.
    Anne finally said, “What do we do?”
    â€œI have told the captain. He asked that she be kept separate from the rest of the passengers and crew.” Lily snorted. “As if that were possible, in that crowded hold!”
    â€œWho is caring for her?” Anne asked.
    â€œMyself. Rebecca. Her husband, of course.”
    â€œYou don’t think… oh, Lily…. You don’t think others will…?”
    Lily gazed at Anne sadly. “In that stinking hold with no fresh air, and with us packed in like herring in a barrel? I don’t see how others cannot get sick.”
    Anne shivered violently and pulled her cloak closer about her.
    â€œI must go back down. Thomas means well, but he is not much of a nurse. Perhaps you could bring me some bread and water in a while?”
    Anne nodded, and gave Lily a squeeze on her arm before the matron trudged below to her sick charge.
    By noon, everyone on board knew of Isabel’s illness. A panic worse than the fear of the Hector ’s rotten timbers spread like a wave. A leaky boat was one thing. Smallpox among them was silent, lurking, deadly.
    A few of the passengers were smallpox survivors or had had cowpox. They volunteered to help care for Isabel and to clean her area of the hold. But many passengers huddled on the deck, refusing to go below for any reason lest they come in contact with the disease.
    By nightfall, it was evident that Jean, Isabel’s teenage daughter, was also taken with the smallpox. She lay on her bunk, burning with fever. Lily sponged