Death And The Running Patterer Part 11

"No, sir. My arm is double-jointed after an old break. Another fight."

The pieman pointed to Cora Gooseberry, who was now more composed and puffing on her pipe, which she had recovered and relit from the embers of the fire. "Is she all right?"

Bungaree nodded. "They wanted to rob me, too, but all I had was a handful of dumps I was paid on the last two ships I met. If they think I have gold, they're wrong. All I ever get is dumps. But I thank you, sirs. If you ever need friendship, my people will help you." He saluted smartly and led his queen back toward the town.

The Old Commodore raised his top hat and held out a huge hand to Dunne and then King. "I, too, am grateful. I owe you a great debt. Call for my services at any time. Just send word to me." He turned and limped off toward his boat.

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THE PATTERER AND the pieman were silent and subdued as they dressed and began to walk away from the battleground. Both had been badly shaken by the fight.

Dunne tried to lighten the mood. "You know, some people say that the name Miller's Point really refers to Governor Phillip's secretary, Andrew Miller."

William King thought about that then shook his head. "That can't be right. Too much of a mouthful-that would make it Andrew-the-Secretary's Point!" They both laughed, but soon fell back into their earlier gloom.

The patterer finally mused aloud, "I didn't really know it until just now, but I could easily kill someone. I was angry enough."

The pieman nodded. "You don't even have to be angry. Look at me. I did did kill someone. And the people you talked and drank with the other day ... deliberately or accidentally they may have killed. Captain Rossi was a soldier, Thomas Owens is a doctor-both can cause death. Even the governor was a fighting soldier once. Death's nothing to them." kill someone. And the people you talked and drank with the other day ... deliberately or accidentally they may have killed. Captain Rossi was a soldier, Thomas Owens is a doctor-both can cause death. Even the governor was a fighting soldier once. Death's nothing to them."

A vagrant thought, lurking in the back of the patterer's mind, itched suddenly, but he couldn't scratch it to life.

King pushed through a herd of wild goats blocking their path. "They're a d.a.m.n plague-like the parrots everywhere."

Dunne nodded distractedly. Parrots. Again, like his itch of a moment earlier, he had an uneasy feeling that, for some reason he could not capture, these birds were vitally important.

The patterer shrugged. If the birds had flown from his mind, not so the images of Miss Rachel Dormin, who had invited him to watch her that evening in a theatrical performance.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

Judge not the play before the play is done: Her plot has many changes: every day Speaks a new scene; the last act crowns the play.

-Francis Quarles, Emblems (1635)

AT THE THEATER LATER THAT EVENING, MR. BARNETT LEVEY rea.s.sured a rather breathless Nicodemus Dunne: "Rest easy, dear sir, it's not over until the fat lady sings!"

The patterer was puzzled by this remark but did not comment. A late reading of news to a demanding but well-paying patron had made the young man late (although happily not too late) for that evening's performance at the Sydney Amateur Theater, which was noisily crowded.

Dunne knew Mr. Levey well; at thirty, he was much the same age as the patterer and he was the brother of Solomon, the partner of Mr. Cooper in the Waterloo Stores. Solomon was a successful Emancipist, freed after having been transported for seven years for stealing ninety pounds of tea (a charge he still denied). Barnett Levey, on the other hand, was the colony's first free Jewish settler. Dunne belatedly realized that he could have sought him out in his quest for the meaning of zuzim zuzim.

The general merchant, builder, banker, grain merchant and bookseller was a busy businessman, but his true love was his theater-at which he wore many hats: owner, entrepreneur, often master of ceremonies, even performer of comic songs. And, of course, he oversaw the sale of drink in the bar of his Royal Hotel, which fronted his business and the theater.

As he entered the auditorium that night, the patterer reflected that, strictly speaking, there should have been no one there at all. Technically, the theater did not exist, for Governor Darling had so far refused to give Levey a license for his playhouse. But the diminutive, rotund young man defiantly mounted his theatricals as "at homes," "divertiss.e.m.e.nts" or "concerts," legitimately part of the Royal Hotel's entertainments. Tonight's performances had, for instance, been announced as an "olio," an approximation of the Spanish word olla olla, meaning "stew" or "hotpot."

In actual fact, Levey's rift with Darling ran deeper than a simple disagreement over greasepaint and scenery. When Levey had proudly erected his Colchester Warehouse in George Street, with the architectural help of Mr. Francis Greenway, he had added a windmill to the top story.

If the governor was not impressed, the populace loved the confrontation. Tear it down, Darling ordered. Levey refused and pointedly had the freeman's friend, Mr. William Charles Wentworth, write a letter on his behalf. It informed His Excellency that Levey would demolish his windmill when the government pulled down its own nearby. Stalemate.

As a safeguard against official sanction, Levey called his theater "amateur." Similarly, he took no money at the door. But Mr. Levey did accept bookings at five shillings for box seats and three shillings in the pit.

As far as the patterer was concerned, a Theater Royal existed in everything except name. Barnett Levey had told him that the pit and boxes could accommodate 700 people, while the stage had, in the entrepreneur's words, "a due quant.i.ty of trapdoors for entrance and exit of the usual number of ghosts for the grave of Hamlet."

There had been theaters in Sydney before, of course. The debtors' rooms in the jail had once pa.s.sed as a playhouse, and another theater had flourished near the Tank Stream, accepting rum and parcels of flour or meat for entry. One patron became overly enthusiastic about obtaining his his pound of flesh, killing an officer's grey-hound and pa.s.sing off the meat as kangaroo. Officials ordered that theater be pulled down, antic.i.p.ating Governor Darling's present view of "our prison population being unfit subjects to go to plays." pound of flesh, killing an officer's grey-hound and pa.s.sing off the meat as kangaroo. Officials ordered that theater be pulled down, antic.i.p.ating Governor Darling's present view of "our prison population being unfit subjects to go to plays."

The patterer struggled to find his way through the darkened room and the crowd milling before the stage. There was a reek of rum, beer, perfume, unwashed bodies and pipe and cigar smoke. This was not helped by the strong smell coming from the footlights and other whale-oil lamps that needed tr.i.m.m.i.n.g.

He finally joined Captain Rossi in a box. The policeman smiled. "Well, what brings you-as if I didn't know-to the Goose?" While most Sydney drinkers properly called Levey's hotel the Royal, local thespians and their supporters often referred to it as the Goose and Gridiron, a play on Swan and Harp, a name often given to a theatricals' tavern, and the coat of arms of Britain's venerable Company of Musicians.

Dunne put a finger to his lips as a comic began a fresh patter.

"Have you heard about the Irishman, the Scotchman, the Welshman and the English officer, all captured as spies by the Froggies before Waterloo? No? Well, the French captain said, 'You're all going to be shot at dawn ... "

The audience booed.

"'... So you're ent.i.tled to a last request.' The Irishman said, 'Begorrah, I'll have a thousand United Irishmen singing "The Wearin' o' the Green."' The Scotchman said, 'Och, man, I'll listen to 2,000 bagpipers playing as loud as they can.' The Welshman said, 'I will hear three thousand bards on Welsh harps.'"

The comic paused for effect. "Then the English officer said, 'I say, old boy, do you think you could shoot me first?'"

The audience roared its approval.

"I don't understand it," said Rossi.

"Never mind," said the patterer. "Tell me, have I missed Miss Dormin's performance?"

"I'm sorry, lad, but you have, by a whisker. She was grand in a scene from Oth.e.l.lo Oth.e.l.lo. Oh, when she said, 'She turn'd to folly, and she was a wh.o.r.e ... O, I were d.a.m.n'd beneath all depth in h.e.l.l, but that I did proceed upon just grounds to this extremity,' it was quite a sight and she brought the house down. I'm sorry you weren't here."

A new act hushed their conversation. A small man, noted in the program only as "Mr. Palmer, tragedian," began excerpts from Macbeth Macbeth. As he finished, "Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to h.e.l.l," some alchemy summoned two constables onto the stage and they began to drag Mr. Palmer away.

Over boos and protesting pig-noises from the angry crowd, one constable appealed to Captain Rossi, explaining that the actor was a prisoner out on a pa.s.s from the barracks only until nine, and that the time had pa.s.sed. Rossi consulted his watch, sighed and nodded.

"Exeunt pigs and Macbeth," muttered Dunne. pigs and Macbeth," muttered Dunne.

Two members of a low act, rushed on by Mr. Levey to calm the crowd, sang a couple of ditties designed to appeal more to the battlers in the pit than to any ladies and gents in boxes. They sang: In St. James's the officers mess at the club, In St. Giles's they often have messes for grub; In St. James's they feast on the highest of game, In St. Giles's they live on foul air just the same.

The audience then sang along with: Officers' wives have puddings and pies, But sergeants' wives have skilly.

And the private's wife has nothing at all To fill her poor little belly.

The patterer felt his cheeks flush as he half saw Miss Dormin suddenly slip into the empty seat beside him. He was grateful that the gloom disguised his too-obvious pleasure.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said. "I had to change and get out of my stage maquillage maquillage. And the following acts needed help dressing. Did you see me?"

On the spur of the moment the fl.u.s.tered young man lied, "Of course! You were wonderful!"

"You didn't disapprove?"

"Of the Bard? Never!"

But now it was time for Mr. Levey to bounce onto the stage to announce a solo rendition by a lady who had delighted the courts of Europe-Madame Greene. Madame walked slowly to center stage, her green gown and evening turban shimmering in the flickering footlights. She looked pale, especially against the vivid slash of green lacquer marking her lips.

Was she nervous perhaps? wondered Dunne. He marveled at this other side to the Queen of the Drabs. At least he now knew what Levey had meant about the fat lady singing!

Madame announced that she would sing the "'Calcutta Cholera Song,' for all old India hands." Her voice was surprisingly light, yet clear and carrying, although she still seemed under strain, as she sang: Spurn the Hooghly waters, As the foul miasmas creep.

They steal our wives and daughters, In pits of lime they sleep.

But raise your rum, be merry, Ere the depths of h.e.l.l you plumb.

Pay a toast to those we bury, And to those with death to come!

On the last notes she had faltered; now she shook her head as if to clear it, clutched at her belly and took a clumsy step toward the audience. Then she collapsed as if she had been shot.

Barnett Levey ran out from the wings, looked down at his fallen star and yelled, "If there is no surgeon here, send to the hospital!"

The patterer and Captain Rossi, with Miss Dormin at their heels, headed for the evening's most dramatic tableau.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.

Come, madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances.

-Oliver Goldsmith, She Stoops to Conquer (1773)

THEY HAD CARRIED THE COLLAPSED MADAME GREENE TO AN empty chamber (by grim coincidence it was called the green room, a place where performers could rest) by the time a doctor arrived. He was Dr. Thomas Owens, wearing, as usual, a long scarf and thick gloves.

The mood in the room was far from relaxed. The air stank of sweat, urine and feces. The wh.o.r.emistress was no longer the domineering figure she usually seemed. She sat over a chamberpot, dressed only in a shift; her prized gown had been stripped from her and tossed over a chair.

Dr. Owens appeared to listen to her chest and back through a device strange to Nicodemus Dunne, a seemingly simple wooden cylinder about nine inches long, not unlike a flute without tone holes. Then he recalled that he had read of an invention by a French physician, Rene Laennec, a decade before. The medical procedure was called, he believed, stethoscopy.

Owens frowned. Madame Greene's breathing was labored. "The heart rate is 110, at least thirty beats above normal," the patterer thought he heard the doctor mutter. "She is pa.s.sing thin, liquid bowel motions and is urinating too regularly."

All the onlookers could see clearly that Madame was sweating profusely, despite the caked maquillage maquillage on her face, and even though Owens said her extremities were like ice. on her face, and even though Owens said her extremities were like ice.

Madame Greene pointed urgently to her mouth. It was apparent she could not speak; moments earlier she had complained of a constricted, painful throat. Now she suddenly vomited into the bowl for which she had desperately mimed.

The patterer was ashamed of his sudden urge to flee from the room. He felt discomfort, the common reaction of the young and healthy to illness in another, but there was more; he was afraid. All of which made him amazed and impressed by Miss Dormin's behavior. She was proving more helpful to Dr. Owens than anyone else in the room. With Owens's a.s.sent, she used a washcloth to clear off Madame Greene's heavy makeup, then threw away the ruined cloth with a look of distaste. The face that emerged from the gluey mess was of surprisingly smooth complexion, though white as death.

"What is it?" asked Captain Rossi suddenly, articulating Dunne's fears.

"At first glance," replied the doctor, "something so potentially serious that I would not be offended if you all retired."

No one among the observers moved and Owens went on.

"Dysentery presents itself as a prime suspect-the griping pains, mucous evacuations, even b.l.o.o.d.y ones, inflammation of the intestinal glands and the mucous membrane. One also has to consider typhus, although, G.o.d knows, no one wants to. It's fatal enough. So far, we've been lucky here. It cla.s.sically breeds in the filth of crowded cities and often in army camps."

His audience needed no reminders. Little more than a decade before, the disease, as much as General Winter, had destroyed most of Bonaparte's 600,000-man Grande Armee in his Russian disaster.

Owens drew breath as his listeners held theirs. An equally dire alternative hovered in their minds.

As if able to read their fears, the doctor continued, "Cholera? That hasn't really escaped from the Indian subcontinent into Europe or elsewhere-"

At that moment, the door to the green room burst open and, eluding the arms of Rossi and Dunne, a small woman dressed all in black charged toward Madame Greene. The patterer and Owens managed to seize her before she could throw herself on the ill woman. "Oh, Madame! Oh, Madame!" she wailed, before collapsing on the floor.

"Who the devil is this?" asked Dunne.

"Why," said Miss Dormin, "I do believe it is Madame Greene's personal maid. Elsie, isn't it?" The woman nodded miserably.

"Yes," said the doctor. "I know her now. She is indeed Elsie." And a very personal maid, he thought. He knew that Madame Greene had long ago lost interest in men, apart from taking their money; physical intimacy with them was unsuitable to her taste. Not that she had abandoned the quest for s.e.xual satisfaction; she now simply had what were discreetly described as "Uranian" or "Sapphic" desires.

Over his shoulder, as he returned his full attention to his patient, Owens asked Elsie about her mistress's eating and drinking habits. He knew (although many of his colleagues did not agree) that febrile fluxes were often transmitted by infected food or liquids.

"Oh, sir," said the maid between wracking sobs. "She is very, very particular-all those soldiers in the house, you know. You never could tell where they'd been. I taste everything myself before she eats or drinks. How could I fail her?" She burst into fresh sobs, then added defiantly, "Nothing pa.s.ses her lips that don't pa.s.s mine. Nothing!" Elsie fell silent, then frowned in deep thought and suddenly burst out, "Oh, I tell a lie, sir! There was something I never tested-the medicines, sir, those medicines you gave her."

The doctor smiled. "Of course you didn't," he said easily. "Those were special medicines, Elsie, to help your mistress."

The woman was stubborn. "Not the lozenge. That wasn't medicine. I saw you give it to her. And she ate it."

Owens waved a hand. "I don't recall a lozenge."

But Captain Rossi had grown impatient. "You haven't yet told us what you think is wrong."

"Patience," soothed the doctor and then asked them all, "Tell me, does anyone notice any particular, unusual odor permeating the room?"

Dunne wrinkled his nose. "You mean, apart from ..."

"Of course I don't mean those obvious odors."

"Well, there is one aroma, quite pungent, but I'm not familiar with it," Rachel Dormin agreed.