It was late in the night when we tied up at Quebec and I took the first lodging-house I found. When I paid the landlord next morning, I asked him how I would get to Grosse Isle. “Ye’re jokin you are,” says he, “people lave it, they don’t go to it.” I tould him my errand. Says he, “Go home, it’s no use; your nevy is dead by this time, an if he isn’t he’ll be dead ony way. It’ll be the death of yoursel to go.” No, says I, I have come awl the way from Huntingdon to save the boy and I wunna go back widout him. Whin he see I was detarmined he told me how hard it was to get to the island; that the city people were afraid of the infection and watched everybody going and would let none come from there. He pointed to the landing-stage where the quarantine steamboat lay and I went to it. There was a sentry at the end and when I made to pass him he ordered me back. “I’m going to quarantine,” says I. “The divil ye be; shtand back; ye can’t pass widout an order.” I was pleadin wid him to let me by whin a voice behind says, “What is all this loud talk about?” I turns and sees a tall man in black, straight as a hickory. “Yer rivrince, this man wants to go to quarantine and has no permit.” “My good man,” says he to me, “you are seeking to rush into danger if not certain death. The sentry does a kindness in turning you.”
“I have a good raison for wanting to go.”
“It would need to be in risking your life and endangering the safety of the community by bringing back infection. What may be your reason?”
I saw he was a gentleman and his kind voice won me. I told him all.
“What is your nephew’s name?”
“Gerald O’Connor.”
“Has he been stricken! They did not tell me when I was last there. He has been one of our best helpers. His only hope lies in instant removal on convalescence and since you have come for that purpose, I shall see you have opportunity.”
With that he says to the sentry, “This man is my assistant today,” and putting his arm in mine he walks me on to the boat, where even the deck hands saluted him. When he walked away with the captain, I axed who he was. “Dat am Bishop Mountain,” says a Frenchman. “Bedad,” says I, “they shpoiled a fine cavalryman when they made a preacher ov him.”
The order was given to cast off and on we went, the river smooth as a millpond. When a long way off we could see rows of white tents and long wooden sheds where the sick lay on Grosse isle, and off the landing we found anchored 17 ships that had come from Ireland or Liverpool and had fever aboard. The wharf was a poor one and we had trouble getting ashore, for the steps were rotten and broken. The gentleman they called the bishop beckoned me to follow him as he walked on, speaking with the friends who came to meet him. When in front of the first shed, before going in at the door, he says to me, “Dr Russell will take you to your nephew,” and with a bow he passed into the shed. I followed the doctor to another shed and, heavens! when we went in the smell nigh knocked me down. The doctor must have seen something in my face, for he says, “Never mind, my man, you’ll soon get used to it.” We passed along between two rows of berths, everyone filled, and an odd man, here and there, trying to attend to their wants. The doctor stopped before a berth where lay a young man, with thick black hair. Seizing his arm he felt his pulse. “This is your man,” says he. I looks at the worn face and with a trimble in my voice I could not keep back, I asks, “Is he able to go away wid me?”
“He’ll go to his grave in a few hours,” says he.