“James, they’re ready for you.”
The old man nodded and looked up from the table he had arranged in the woodshed. Before him lay three piles of a plant with pretty orange flowers, which sat in stark contrast to the smooth black mortar and pestle beside them.
Why are all the most dangerous things in the Sub-Austral Colony so strangely beautiful? he wondered, adjusting his uncomfortable frock coat and rubbing his balding head. The botanist took out a scratched and faded pocket almanac out his coat, twisting the various small knobs and dials as the porcelain faces flipped through times, dates and phases of the moon. James already knew the contents by heart, and had personally adjusted the device for use in the Empire’s newest colony on the far side of the planet, but he found that the sight of the information flipping efficiently within the brass casing always calmed his nerves.
“I say, Drummond, are you sure this’ll work?” continued the old man’s companion from the door, his stout face creased with worry.
“It has to, Dr Harris,” replied James Drummond softly. “The future of the colony depends upon it.”
The Colonial Surgeon nodded and stepped out of Drummond’s way as the old man walked out into the noonday sun. Before him stood a wooden stock pen, with three animals waiting blankly while a small group of men watched on. Drummond’s gaze wandered past the group to the small farming town of Guilderton, the inland farming hub of the fledgling colony. From this distance the old man could make out the neat rows of whitewashed buildings, hemmed in by the dirt roadways that were hazy from the collective smoke and steam of the carriages and velocipedes.
“Gentlemen!” called Dr Harris. “Dr Drummond, Colonial Botanist, is now ready to present his experiments on the nature of the colony’s poison plants!”
“You don’t need to be so formal, Harris,” replied one of the men with a wry smile. “We’ve all known James for years.”
The assembled farmers chuckled, the richer among them adjusting their top hats and extending the small enameled metal flags that would have signaled a nearby steam thopter or taxicab. Drummond frowned at the showiness of it all; in the colony there was barely enough food to go around, and the only vehicle that could have picked the small group up was a tatty looking zeppelin floating high above Guilderton, alone and forlorn in a sky that would have teeming back in England.
“These are scientific undertakings that must be recorded properly,” announced the thickset surgeon officiously, producing a sheet of paper and an inkwell. “I will be transcribing today’s experiments, which are duly noted as taking place on 17th of May 1841. Members will record their names as being present-“
“We’re not schoolchildren,” replied another of the group lined up against the animal pen, rolling his eyes and fanning himself with a straw hat. “Just get on with it.”
The Colonial Surgeon frowned at the interruption, and reluctantly put away his writing tools.
“Considerable confusion has arisen on the subject of poisonous plants and may affect the livelihoods of a good many pastoralists,” continued Dr Harris stiffly. “Specifically, whether certain flowering plants native to this land are deadly poisonous when eaten by stock.”
“They’re not poisonous,” said one of the older men present with a snort. “The matter has been settled.”
“His Excellency the Governor disagrees,” replied the surgeon. “As such, he believes that the leading members of the Agricultural Society are best placed to disseminate the truth of the matter. A committee on the subject has therefore been formed and you have been invited here to witness Dr Drummond’s experiments.”
One of the young man sighed, putting away the small spring-loaded sheep shears he had been animatedly describing to his friends.
“Go on,” he said. “Let’s hear it then.”
John Drummond hesitated, feeling the weight of the assembled gaze upon him. Looking over the group of farmers he recognized Dr Harris’ son Joseph, a good friend who had joined him on his travels through the strange alien landscape of the Sub-Austral Colony. Nonetheless the old botanist felt acutely aware of how the other members of the Agricultural Society must be looking at him. Drummond knew he was generally respected, but that some of the men present considered him a nature-worshiping eccentric; one of the oldest and richest members of the colony, who dressed in plain work clothes and spent his days travelling around the wilderness with the Aboriginal natives that the colonial government had forcibly ejected from their traditional lands. In contrast to the slicked-back hair, vigorous beards and glittering devices sported by the other men present Drummond knew he was something of a relic; a strange old man with wispy white mutton chops to frame a face that had been wrinkled and bronzed from decades working in the sun.
I wish I was back in the bush, he thought sourly. Or at least at home with my plants.
“Citizens of Her Majesty’s newest colony, thank you for joining me today,” he said, with more calm than he felt. “As you may already know, last October I traveled to Tapsom’s farm at Blackwood with young Joseph Harris to investigate the mysterious death of a large number of sheep. Ludwig Priess was one of our group-“
“Dr Priess, you mean,” said one of the Agricultural members pointedly. “He’s as distinguished a botanist as yourself.”
“Ah- yes. Quite,” replied Drummond, trying not to sound flustered. “The poor beasts belonging to Mr Tapsom died in the most wretched condition; their hearts engorged with thick dark blood, and some thrashing madly as they died. After performing an autopsy with the best scientific apparatus available, our group travelled into the bush to see if we could solve the mystery of these deaths.”
“Yes, I read about what happened on the daily vox transmissions,” came a voice from the group. “You were all arguing over which plant was the culprit. Apparently you were wrong over which plant was causing the stock deaths, weren’t you? You said it was the Lobelia?”
“You are referring to the description of the events publicized by Dr Priess in the Inquirer,” replied Drummond slowly. “While I disagree I can understand why he feels he has to defend his reputation.”
“Once again, you’re utterly wrong, Drummond!” laughed Priess, his heavy German accent dripping with contempt. “You really think the culprit is the Lobelia? Perhaps it’s time to retire to your farm.”
Drummond sighed and tried to push down his growing irritation with the younger botanist perched atop a steam automaton shaped like a charging horse. As was his habit, the older botanist had chosen to sacrifice his own saddle to traveler’s bags full of botanical specimens, and he trudged doggedly forward through the rain behind his pony while Priess’s vehicle strode beside him.
“If you consider the characteristics of the plant,” continued Drummond quietly, “I think the evidence points to-“
“Nonsense,” sniffed the younger botanist, his smirk almost lost in the clouds if steam erupting from the metallic horse’s frame. “The culprit is obviously Bartonia, but I doubt it’s poisonous at all – the sheep were already exhausted and sick from their journey, the prickly seed pods likely over-stressed their blood.”
“I don’t think blood works quite the way you describe, Dr Priess.”
“So, what are you trying to prove today?” asked one of the Agricultural Society members, scratching his long beard and breaking Drummond free from the memory. “Have you changed your position that Lobelia plants caused the stock deaths?”
“I have,” answered the old botanist, nodding to Dr Harris and his son to bring out the small table from the shed. “Today I am going to prove to you that the culprit is from the Legume family, a plant which I have named the York Road Poison. I believe this plant may be from the Gastrolobium genus described by Brown in 1811 during his trip to the Amerika Colonies. The name, as you can see, comes from the swollen seed pods which are located-“
“Hang on,” said one of the farmers suspiciously, his bright copper eyepiece extending accusingly as he leaned in towards the small piles of orange pea flowers lying on the table. “That’s Bartonia, isn’t it? The one that Dr Priess identified?”
Drummond hesitated, steeling himself for what was coming next.
“You are broadly correct in that this is the plant that was experimented on by Dr Priess,” he said carefully. “However, a more detailed examination has revealed that his initial identification was in error. The plant in question is not a Bartonia, but rather a different family entirely. As such, I have taken the liberty of presenting the correct identification of the plant, and its poisonous properties, to His Excellency the Governor in November last year. Now if you will allow me to continue, this plant-“
“So Dr Priess’ vox was right!” called one of the assembled farmers accusingly. “You’re trying to steal the credit for Dr Priess’ discovery after you got it wrong!”
“I am not trying to steal anything,” replied Drummond, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. From the corner of his eye he could see Dr Harris frown, and even Harris’ son Joseph was looking downcast as the group of men started to whisper and shake their heads.
“Going so soon?” called the German botanist mockingly at Drummond’s back as the old botanist adjusted the bags on his pony and stepped out into the rain. “Hard luck on your experiments on Lobelia, eh? You should stay, James, you might learn something.”
Drummond walked away from Tapsom’s farm in silence. As the old man walked away Priess laughter his cheeks felt so hot that he was surprised the rain wasn’t steaming from them as much as the German botanist’s automaton horse.
“Listen to me, I beg you!” asked Drummond, shaking his head free of the memory and raising his voice above the murmurs. “I was wrong about Lobelia being the culprit. I should have stayed at Blackwood and examined Bartonia more closely, but regardless of its classification I tell you the York Road Poison is deadly! Please just watch the experiments that Dr Harris and I have prepared.”
“We already know this plant is dangerous,” said one of the Agricultural Society members, arching a bushy eyebrow as he adjusted the metal braces encircling his top hat. “Dr Priess’ own experiments proved this. From what Priess’ vox laid out, the plant isn’t poisonous at all, it’s just the seed pods that are indigestible.”
“This is, unfortunately, incorrect,” replied Drummond, more harshly than he would like.
“Priess drank some of the seed pods in a glass of wine to prove they were not poisonous!” cried another of the farmers. “And he believes that there are no poisonous plants in the colony at all, just foods the English stock aren’t used to.”
The old botanist risked a frown and scratched his balding head.
“Gentlemen, I have been convinced otherwise.”
“By who?” came a voice from the back of the group.
Drummond held up the orange pea flower to the young native who was guiding him on the latest expedition.
“Nakaloo?” asked the botanist cautiously, miming an eating motion. “Moditri?”
The young man’s eyes widened in shock, and he shook his hands furiously at the old man.
“Boodka, kart-jorga!” he protested, speaking slowly so Drummond could understand. “Stakj!”
“Well, my conversations with the natives have shown that there are a number of poisonous plants, and that they have developed several natural techniques to make them edible-” Drummond started.
“Oh please! What would a native know?” snorted one of the younger men, making a show the velocipedes parked nearby. “Where are their machines? Besides, if the plant just causes sore stomachs, the sheep will soon learn to stay away from it. Dr Priess has clearly stated that all Sub-Austral plants are healthy for stock feed, and my old Dad always fattened up his calves on similar plants back in England.”
“We are not in England!“
The Agricultural Society members stopped in shock, their milling brought to a halt by Drummond’s snarl. For years the old botanist had been a quiet background fixture in the colony, wandering through the bush cataloging plants with the native s or giving gentle vox lectures on his experimental crops. However, the man who stood before them spoke in a hard tone that brooked no argument.
“This foolishness must stop,” said Drummond forcefully. “I was willing to overlook Priess’ attitude, and stay silent on his inaccurate classification of the York Road Poison, but he has compounded his error by claiming that ingesting two seed pods mixed with wine is the same as a scientific experiment. Above all, his insistence that there are no poisonous plants in Sub-Austral is a falsehood that I cannot forgive. Tapsom lost three quarters of his sheep in a single week. The colony could be destroyed unless this matter is settled.”
The men standing before him were still too shocked to speak, and Drummond sighed before speaking again.
“Don’t you see?” he asked imploringly. “It’s not about who was right or who was wrong; good science is performed by constantly checking and re-checking your results. We cannot assume this new outpost of the empire will conform to our expectations, and we must be willing to learn.”
The assembled farmers looked downcast, but Drummond could see that some were nodding slowly.
“I have dedicated my life to the science agriculture in this colony,” continued the old botanist, his tone softening. “Please, witness these experiments so we can see the truth of the matter. The juice, the leaves and the seeds of the York Road plant – it’s poison. Drinking two small seed pods heavily diluted in alcohol won’t prove this, but what I can show you today will.”
The group of farmers looked at each other in bashful silence until the oldest member of the group finally spoke.
“Alright James, we’re willing to listen. What have you got to show us?”
First Report of the Committee appointed by the Agricultural Society for Inquiring into the Effects of certain poisonous plants upon animal life.
…The first subject was a healthy wether, to which, about half-past one, P. M., about half a pound of this plant was given, bruised in a mortar, and mixed with a small quantify of water. Considerable restlessness was exhibited by the animal soon after taking the poison, which continued till half-past five, when it ran out from the flock in the usual manner when under the influence of this poison, and died at half past six. A goat was presented with some of the plant in its natural stale, of which it ate a few branches; a smaller quantity of the pounded plant was also given to this animal, which died in about three hours. The third experiment was tried upon a second wether sheep; this animal ate about a handful of the bruised plant, and it was intended to have ascertained the effect of this alone, but the person in charge of the sheep gave it some of the plant pounded, with water, and it also died in about three hours.
These experiments, we consider, remove all doubts as to the cause of the death of so many cattle, sheep and goats.
The Sub-Austral Colonial Journal, 22 May 1841, p. 3
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