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harbour.
    Governor Phillip was already there, next to a fishing boat, with two men to row it — convicts, for the marines felt it beneath their dignity to row boats. Arabanoo, the gentle native the Governor had captured to see if the warrior might be able to broker a peace between the colonists and the natives, was with the Governor to act as translator.
    Arabanoo’s peacemaking had been unsuccessful — the natives still speared any stragglers from the camp, or struck them with their axes. But Surgeon White respected Arabanoo. Never had a prisoner had such dignity, such kindness for all. The man was a gentleman, even if he was a native.
    Arabanoo knew medicines too. When he’d had a touch of dysentery he had demanded the root of a particular fern. It had worked. White had tried the root on his own patients. It was better than any remedy from England.
    The Surgeon nodded politely. ‘Good morning, Your Excellency, Arabanoo.’
    Governor Phillip looked worried. He always looked worried these days. ‘One of the men who was out fishing this morning says there are more sick natives a few coves over. I suggest we look at them ourselves.’
    White nodded. ‘It will be easier to get an accurate diagnosis if I can examine living patients. But Your Excellency …’ He hesitated.
    â€˜You believe it to be the smallpox?’
    â€˜Nothing else fits the symptoms,’ said the Surgeon frankly.
    The Governor looked back at his colony of huts and humpies, convicts and ragged marines, and at the wilderness of trees and ocean around them. Surgeon White could almost see Phillip’s thoughts on his sombre face. Home — and any help — was nine months away from them now, nor had they any ship big enough to sail from here or even send for aid. ‘Then let us pray.’

    The small cove looked deserted. Only the waves moved, back and forth on the muddy sand. It wasn’t till they drew nearer that the Surgeon could make out a tiny fire, its smoke spiralling up to the sky. An old man sat next to it. As the Surgeon watched, a boy staggered down the sand to fill a container with water, then crept back to pour it over the old man’s head.
    The bottom of the boat hit sand. The convict rowers jumped out into the shallow water, and pulled the boat up so that the Governor, the Surgeon and Arabanoo could get out with dry feet.
    The Surgeon stared at the boy and the old man by the fire. Their bodies were covered in white blisters. Neither of them seemed to have noticed the boat. Even as he looked the boy sank down onto the sand.
    Had the effort of fetching the water been too much for him? Was he dead or sleeping?
    A child’s body lay nearby, so covered in sand and sores it was impossible to tell at first that she was a baby girl. The Surgeon trod across the sand and bent down to examine her. Dead.
    Further up the beach, almost out of sight, a woman lay, her arms outstretched in death, her body swelling. The Surgeon glanced over at Arabanoo. The old man hesitated, still in the boat. He met White’s eye, then climbed out and began digging in the sand.
    â€˜A grave,’ whispered White.
    Phillip nodded.
    The girl’s grave was tiny. Arabanoo hadn’t seen the dead woman. The others waited as the translator gently carried the child’s body to the grave, placing it in the hole almost as though the child only slept. He covered the girl with grass, then mounded up the sand.
    The Surgeon hesitated. Should they bury the woman too? But the old man was still breathing.
    The boy gave a tiny moan. He was still alive as well. That decided him.
    The Surgeon turned to Governor Phillip. ‘We need to get the man and boy to the hospital.’
    There was no cure for the smallpox, but at least back at the colony the man and child could be nursed, given food and water. So often, thought Surgeon White, the sick die of thirst or starvation, their friends and family too scared to approach.