Like a thief in the night the plague crept into
Alberta, disguised at first in the form of light
colds to which the sufferers paid small attention,
but before the year was out those neglected colds had
turned into the scourge whose virulence singled out the
strong, the fair and the young for its victims.
Calgary was like a beleaguered city at bay against
the attack of a dread enemy. The printed warnings
everywhere in the newspapers and placarded in public
places and street cars; the newspaper accounts of the
progress of the sickness in Europe, the United States
and eastern Canada, with the long list of deaths threw
the healthy city of the foothills into a state of panic.
Schools were closed; the people were afraid to go to
church; disinfectant was sprayed over every store and
office. The faintest symptom of a cold, the least sneeze
was diagnosed as plague, and the growing fear in which
the people awaited the disaster created a hysterical
condition that probably precipitated its coming.
Slowly and surely, undeterred by precaution and prayer
alike, the terrible plague was drawing in upon Alberta.
The first definitely diagnosed cases came in early
summer, when the weather is raw and cold as it always
is there. At that early season only two or three cases
were discovered, but all the members of medical and
nursing professions volunteered or were conscripted
for service. By a curious negligence, no means of protection
were taken for the vast country that surrounded
the City of the Foothills on every side, and it was even
said that many cases that the authorities failed to
report had been sent off "to the country."
If the city authorities were indifferent to the fate
of the country regions, on which, by the way Calgary
was wholly dependent, there was one man at least who
kept the welfare of his beloved country close to his
heart. The erstwhile Scotch stable lad, who for many
years had dedicated his thought, his labor and his heart
to the farming and ranching people of Alberta, begrudged
himself even a few hours sleep. Night and
day, he "kept the road," keeping the keenest watch
for the first outbreak of the epidemic, well knowing that
plague respected neither person nor place, but leaped
across the great cities even to the remotest places of
the earth.
The warm summer brought an abatement of the
menace, but when the first frost came in with the fall,
the plague fell like a cloudburst upon the country.
Calgary, the city of sunlight and optimism, became a
place of suffering and death. Scarcely a house but the
dreaded visitor entered to take his tragic and inexplicable
toll of the youngest and strongest there. People
went about half-dazed, as if they were living in a nightmare.
Hospitals, schools, churches, theaters, every
available public building was turned into a house of
refuge. No one was allowed on the street without a
mask of white gauze fastened over nose and mouth.
The terrible crisis brought to light the extreme
scarcity of nurses and doctors. Although an army of
volunteer nurses were recruited by the city authorities,
they were inadequate to the needs of all those stricken
households, where one after another died for sheer lack
of care and attention. The hospitals and all the emergency
stations were filled to overflowing.
In spite of the almost superhuman expenditure of
effort, the death lists grew from day to day. Crêpe
hung from every second door in the city, and every day
a ghastly procession of hearses, automobiles, and every
vehicle that moved on wheels, passed through the streets
laden with Calgary's dead.
All the surrounding towns had succumbed meanwhile,
and the smaller the towns, the heavier was the mortality
for lack of skilled doctors and nurses and fit
accommodation for the patients.
Most desperate of all, however, was the plight of
those who lived on farms and ranches and at camps beyond
the reach of help. The state of things in the
Indian Reserves was appalling. The Indians were dying
like flies, their misery forgotten by their white protectors.
In their ignorance and helplessness, they
sought help at the farms and ranches, only to be turned
away, and often they carried the plague into places
which had been immune until then.
Half the countryside was down with the disease, and
still Dr. McDermott was vainly applying to the city
and provincial authorities for help. Seeing that his
demands were falling on deaf ears, he tried to impress
into service men and women ranchers whose families
had not yet been attacked, trying to make them understand
that at such a time it was everybody's duty to
do what he could. But the fear that had paralyzed
the cities had now reached the farmers, and the doctor's
appeal brought little response. In their desire to
escape, many families shut themselves up in their homes,
discharged their help and hung signs on their gates:
"Keep away!" They closed their doors in the faces of
friends and strangers both, and only opened them when
they in their turn were forced to cry for help. A few
did respond, it is true, to the doctor's call for help,
but nearly always were themselves overtaken before
they had served very long, and the demand for help
of any kind was so overwhelming that it was well-nigh
impossible to do more than show the sick how to take
care of themselves.
Overworked and exhausted, worn out with lack of
sleep, Dr. McDermott stopped one day at Angella
Loring's ranch.
The two girls were coming in from the field, Angella
in the democrat with the baby, and Nettie on foot,
driving home a team of work horses. They had been
plowing and repairing the broken fences, for undaunted
by the destruction of their crop, they were pluckily
on the land again, preparing for the next year's seeding.
Dr. McDermott, his bag on the step by him, watched
them as they watered and fed their horses and put up
for the night. Then, each taking a handle of the baby's
basket, they came through the barnyard to the house.
For the first time since she had known her doctor
friend, he failed to greet Nettie with his cheery:
"And how's my lass today?"
Gaunt and haggard, he stood up and scrutinized
them gravely before grunting:
"Hm! All right, eh? Not touched. Well, sit down,
girls. I've thot to tell you will make your hearts a wee
bit heavy."
Dr. McDermott opened his black bag and took out
some pills and a large bottle of disinfectant, which he
set on the steps. Angella, the baby in her arms, her
brows slightly drawn, looked down at the lined face of
the doctor, and saw he had brought bad news.
"Let's go in," she said. "You look as if a cup of
tea won't come amiss. Let me pass. I'll make it at
once."
"You'll hear me through first, and I've no time for
tea. There's a bit of sickness running about the country.
'Tis the same they've had in the old land. You'll
put this disinfectant about your place, and on your
person, and in case--in case of certain symptoms,
you'll go straight to bed, and you'll stay there till I
tell you when to get up, and you'll begin then to take
the pills I'm leaving. What's more, you'll send Jake
at once for me."
There was a pause, as Nettie's eyes met Angella's.
"Needn't worry about me, doc," said Nettie. "I'm
awfully healthy. You don't have to give me no pills."
The doctor glared at her furiously.
"That's the ignorant sort of talk I've been listening
to all summer; but the very ones who boasted of their
strength are the ones stricken."
"What are the symptoms?" interposed Angella.
"Symptoms? Fever, backache, headache, nose bleed,
a tendency to sneeze, hot and cold flashes."
Angella's face paled, and her glance went furtively
from Nettie to the baby.
"Are there many down?" she questioned with assumed
casualness.
"Thousands, ma'am, in the city, and God knows how
many in the country."
"What are they doing for help?"
"In the country they are doing without it--shifting
for themselves."
Angella looked startled, and Nettie turned round, her
slow gaze fixed upon the doctor's face.
"Who's taking care of them, then?" she asked.
"They're takin' care of themselves. They creep out
of bed and crawl to each other, and some of 'em die
before they can get back to their own beds. In most
of the families that have it, they are all down at once."
"Now, look here," said Angella abruptly, "you've got
to have some supper before you start off."
"No time for supper. There's nine in the Homan
family down, including the help. I'm on my way now."
He had snapped his bag closed. Nettie passed by
him into the house. Angella paused at the door and
caught him by the sleeve to detain him.
"Really, doctor, it won't do you a bit of good to try
and take care of people if you don't take care of yourself
first; you've got to eat. So you come right in.
It won't take me a minute to fix something for you."
"No, can't stop. I had a bite at noon, and will reach
Homan's in time for another sup."
"Well, wait. A minute or two more or less won't
matter. I want to know about this. Can't you get
nurses from Calgary, and aren't there any other doctors
in the country?"
"There are three besides myself over my territory,
but two of 'em's down, and the other--" The doctor
scowled and muttered something about "white-livered
coward."
"And nurses?"
"I tell you I've been unable to get anyone. The city
nurses have their hands full in town, and they won't
come up to the country. As for the women themselves--the
farm women, those who are not down, have gone
plumb crazy with fright. I've gone from ranch to ranch
like a beggar, imploring help."
Nettie had come out again. She had changed from
her overalls to the blue house dress that Mrs. Langdon
had made for her and over this she had thrown a plaid
shawl. The blue woolen tam that Angella had knitted
for her was on her head, and she looked singularly
young and sweet. A few articles of clothing were
knotted in a neat bundle under her arm.
"Doc," she said, "I'm going with you."
There was a long pause. Dr. McDermott blinked
up at her, scowled, grunted something under his breath,
and cleared his throat loudly. Angella stood stiffly by
the door, not attempting to move, and her arm tightened
involuntarily about the baby.
"I'm awfully strong," went on Nettie, "and I ain't
likely to ketch nothing, and it don't matter if I do, far
as that goes. It's up to me to help those that need me.
You'll let me go, won't you, doc?"
"You're a good lass," muttered the doctor, "and
you'll be a grand help to me."
At last Angella found her voice.
"Nettie, you're forgetting your--baby!" she said.
Nettie turned sharply round and the bundle fell from
her hand.
"No, no, Angel, I've not forgotten him; but you'll
be good to him, won't you? and he'll never miss me."
"Nettie Day, don't dare talk like that," said Angella
savagely. "I won't let you go if you have any thought
like that in your head."
But Nettie did not hear her. For the first time since
her baby's birth she was holding it in her arms, and the
feel of the little warm face against her own brought
a pang to her heart that was both agony and joy.
Motherhood seemed to have come to her in a sudden
rush of feeling, and her face was as white as death when
she at last gave her child back solemnly to Angel. The
movement awakened the baby, and now its cry was more
than she could bear. She clasped her hands over her
ears, and rushed to the gate. Dr. McDermott picked
up her bundle and followed.