Village Limit.
Flies, Bugs and Skeeters,
KEEP OUT!
This is Doc Amlie’s Home Town.
Illness fell well below normal for the hot season. Regular elections would be held in the fall. There was little doubt that Horace’s incumbency would be continued. Genter Latham himself would hardly fly in the face of public opinion to the extent of opposing it.
Labor troubles afflicted the region, as fall approached. The destructive influence of the high-wage canal-building era persisted, working like a slow poison through the body economic. Field hands were asking fifty cents a day and their keep. Something had to be done about so vicious a threat to prosperity. The wool-growers, the mint-pressers, the ropewalk owners and the hemp cultivators got together, on call from Banker Latham (who had his finger in all their enterprises) and raised a fund to fetch in a corps of immigrants.
Mint was still the standard money-crop of the region, but hemp was crowding it close. Prices were high; the market was assured; the canal allowed a favorable freighing rate; labor alone was the stumbling block. The hemp plantations called for only the lowest grade of work in the fall. No skill was required for the harvesting; any Dutchman with a hemp hook or Irisher with a peat knife could qualify with a little instruction. The stalks were cut close to the ground, left to dry, and then shocked. Through fall rains and winter snows they would slowly rot, the processes of nature loosening the fiber from the woody portion and rendering it easy of removal.
Employment in this field was therefore temporary. The approved method was to bring in a corps of migrants, house them roughly, feed them well for the sake of the long and exhausting work, pay them as little as possible, and ship them out as soon as the crop was shocked.
Communication was established with the toughest and most reliable labor factor in New York City, who contracted to supply sixty mixed Irish and Dutch immigrants. They would be brought up by Hudson River and transshipped at Albany to Erie Water, at one cent per mile per head. Only the fly-by-night casuals of navigation would take on so mean a traffic.
Wages? They would take what was given them. Few of them spoke English enough to make a protest, anyway. Delivery was to be in September when the spikes of the mint were in the purple and the leaves rich with juice; when the cannabis shrubs wanted stripping, and the sheep would be foraging the lowlands.
Word of the enterprise leaked out to Horace. It worried him. These indentured laborers were of the lowest and most degraded type, poverty-stricken and filthy of habit. Too often, strange diseases broke out where they set foot. Officially he could not interfere unless danger to the community were established. He could only be ready.
Barracks were prepared, some near the Pinch, others on higher land, one unit being back of the Latham pasture lot. This was the first intimation that the great man had reached out into the hemp industry and acquired an adjacent plantation, taken over by his bank for debt.
Wealthia was singing in her garden when Dinty walked up that way on an early September afternoon. There was in the girl’s face that strange look, at once withdrawn and radiant, which her friend had learned to interpret, though, in this instance, she needed no enlightenment. She knew that the Jolly Roger was unloading at the warehouse.
“Come up and look at our bunkhouse,” Wealthia invited.
They walked through the fields to the place. The building was primitive but clean and well-ordered.
“I’m in charge,” said the heiress importantly, exhibiting first the sleeping quarters, then the cooking shack with its outdoor ovens of brick with cranes, kettles and spits. “Think of me being a wage-earner! Pa is paying me to look after his two dozen wild Irishers and dumb Dutchmen.”
“When are they due?”
“Any day now. Captain Ra——I mean, a canaller who passed the Merry Fiddler this side of Lennox brought in word.”
“The Merry Fiddler,” repeated Dinty. “That’s the awful man that Horace fought. It’s a vile boat.”
“Those creatures won’t know the difference,” said her friend disdainfully.
Captain Ramsey was in Horace’s office. “Something in your line, Æsculapius,” said he.
“What have you been up to now, Silverhorn?”
“Not me. It’s our friend, Tugg.”
“Is he looking for me?”
“Oh, no! He’s had plenty of you. He’s Palmyra bound with a hold full of labor.” His delicate nostrils wrinkled. “Spoiled in transit, I should say.”
“Redemptioners?”
“You might call ’em that. More like slaves, under their contracts. There’s sickness aboard.”
“Of course. There always is on those floating privies.”
“Doc, they said in Utica it was the spotted typhus.”
Horace sat up abruptly. “And they’re going to discharge here?”
“That’s the contract of delivery.”
“I won’t allow it.”
“Then, by the bellybutton of Barnabas, you’ll have your work cut out for you,” grinned the canaller. “Every bigbug in town has a finger in that pie.”
“Where’s the boat now?”
“Ought to be just beyond Port Gibson. Tugg’s underfed horses played out on him and he bought a span of old oxen. Two mile an hour.”
This gave Horace ample time to arrange a reception. Harnessing Fleetfoot to the road wagon, he set out to pick up volunteers. Without difficulty he enlisted Carlisle Sneed, who brought his blunderbuss, Dad Hinch with his war musket, and Decker Jessup who, being a man of peace, was lightly armed with an ax. The quartette drove to the eastern boundary of the village, and there waited on the towpath.
Presently the ox-team hove in sight. It was guided by a wretched travesty of a youth, whose sore toes protruded nakedly from their rag-wrappings, and whose scarecrow garb flapped in the breeze.
“Whoa!” he quavered, finding his progress blocked by an armed wagon.
The oxen stopped, drooping their great heads sorrowfully. One hundred feet back, the helmsman began to shout as the boat, losing steerage way, drifted toward the shallows. Furious bellowings reinforced his efforts. Captain Tugg, aroused from his siesta, charged up on deck.
“Whash shissh?” he roared, his enunciation having been liquidated by the rock which ended the classic duel of Lock Port. “Who the damnation hell issh shtoppin’ my boat?” Horace stepped forward. “Oh, my Gawd!” said the Captain in enfeebled accents and ducked below.
At a point opposite the cabin Horace halted and hailed. A jabber of outlandish voices answered. Strange, bearded faces popped into sight. Arms flailed and gesticulated. The jabber rose to a clamor. The helmsman’s petulant query cut through the babel.
“What’s all this hubble-loo?”
“Don’t let anyone ashore,” Horace directed.
“Who says so?”
“The law.” He exhibited his badge.
“Hey, Captain Tugg, Captain Tugg!” bawled the helmsman.
Setting his companions on guard, Horace jumped aboard. Tugg’s ugly face appeared in the hatchway. “Ish you, you shunnabish,” hissed the Captain through his dental vacancy. “Get offa my deck.”
He emerged, bearing a huge horse-pistol. Musket and blunderbuss immediately converged upon his head. The pistol muzzle drooped.
“Shree to one,” said Captain Tugg reproachfully.
“This is business, not ill-will, Captain,” said Horace civilly.
“Whash the bisshnish?”
“Have you fever aboard?”
“Goddam lie,” said the mariner sulkily. He had had his troubles in Utica, where he had informally dropped two corpses overside.
“You have sick men. Take me to them, please.”
Four hairy creatures lay in unspeakable filth between-decks. Horace hardened himself to make the examination. There was little doubt concerning the nature of the disease. The high fever and telltale spots were evidence enough. The medical constable had a problem on his hands.
His first act up
on disembarking was to buy a gallon of vinegar at the nearest farmhouse, strip to the waist, and disinfect himself with jealous particularity. On returning to the towpath, he gave his orders: no one was to leave the Merry Fiddler until further notice.
“Hey!” said the helmsman grievously, “I gotta gal waitin’ on me in town.”
“I’m afraid she will have to wait.”
“How long?”
“Until the fever is over.”
The Captain shrieked, “Like hell! Whoosh goin’ to feed ush?”
“The village, I suppose,” answered Horace, to whom this question had already presented itself with unpleasant force.
There was a splash in the water, astern. The helmsman had unobtrusively gone outboard, gained the berm, and was now running like a deer for safety.
“Tell Genter Latham,” yelled Captain Tugg after him. The runner waved and went on.
“Trouble coming,” observed Decker Jessup.
“You don’t have to be the Prophet Isaiah to tell me that,” retorted Horace gloomily.
It materialized within the hour in a cloud of dust, from the midst of which a speeding gig appeared, discharging first Genter Latham, then Lawyer Upcraft. The magnate advanced upon Horace.
“By what right do you stop this boat?” he demanded. It was the first word he had spoken to the other since the quarrel.
“There is a malignant and catching disease aboard, Mr. Latham.”
“Let it stay there. I’ll take the sound ones.” He raised his voice. “Captain, muster your passengers.”
Horace’s lips thinned to a hard line He reached back and took the Human Teapot’s musket from him. “I’ll shoot the first man that sets foot ashore,” he announced.
The outlanders, who had crowded to the rail armed with hemp hooks and peat knives, though probably failing to understand the language, had no doubts about the musket. They backed away.
“Why, you …” began Latham, when the lawyer’s hand upon his shoulder stopped him.
They withdrew to confer in low tones. Both climbed into the gig. Genter Latham laid to with his whip. The gig whirled dustily away.
“Doc,” said Carlisle Sneed, “the trustees’ll never pay to feed these cattle.”
“They’ll have to,” said Horace, but without conviction. “I’ll go back and ask for a meeting.”
Leaving the Human Teapot on military guard, he drove the other two back. It was not necessary for him to request a meeting. The meeting was waiting for him, having been urgently convened by Genter Latham. Horace stated his case briefly, asking an allowance to provide food and medicines for the marooned men.
The storm broke. The village fathers were outraged. Not only was the labor sequestrated for which they had paid transport in advance, but they were now expected to shoulder the expense of maintaining it in idleness at “the whim of a swollen and crazy fool” (Genter Latham’s contribution to the amenities of the occasion). The session was of one mind. Constable Amlie was ordered to lift the embargo forthwith.
“I am responsible for the safety of this community,” said that official firmly. “You have no authority to direct me and I refuse to obey the order.”
“Vere’s Lawyer Upcraft?” shouted Simon Vandowzer, and received a glowering side-glance from Genter Latham’s warning eyes.
The magnate knew well enough where the lawyer was. He was on his way, with all speed, for Canandaigua, where court was holding.
One of those many banquets whereby the small communities of the period lived and were made glad convoked at the Eagle Tavern that evening. Early among the toasts, and before the diners became too cheery and optimistic to be impressed, Horace secured the floor and delivered a brief disquisition upon Typhus. All good citizens, he told the assemblage, would shun the vicinity of the pest-ridden boat. One fugitive, he warned them, was already in their midst; the runaway helmsman was a threat, to be apprehended on sight and returned to the Merry Fiddler. (Nobody, however, got sight of him, as, after a visit to the Settlement, he took to the road and subsequently turned up in Rochester, having prudently made the twenty-two-mile journey on foot.)
With the painful memory of the false cholera still tweaking at their bellies, the guests were well inclined to heed Horace’s words. Several volunteered as guards. He held a session afterward and divided them into watches. In vain did the more conservative citizens pooh-pooh the danger. Word came in opportunely that one of the redemptioners had just succumbed. The village was ready to accept the medico-constable’s views in toto.
With matters well under control, as he supposed, Horace rode out to the boundary after breakfast next morning. The Merry Fiddler was snugged to the bank. The passengers lolled on deck in the morning coolness. Aft of his cabin sat Captain Eleazar Tugg, woebegone and subdued. At sight of the constable a mighty clamor arose. The prisoners thronged to the rail, jabbering vociferously and pointing with unmistakable significance to their open jaws. They were hungry.
Barbarians they might be—and certainly looked—but to hold them imprisoned and unfed would be more than barbarous. It was Horace’s immediate responsibility. If the trustees would not feed them, the contracting employers who brought them there must. Distasteful though the errand might be, Horace could think of no other course than to lay the problem before Genter Latham and his associates. He was about remounting Fleetfoot when he was hailed from the water. A dugout drew in from which emerged Ephraim Upcraft. He addressed Horace in his best courtroom manner.
“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” said he, and tapped the constable’s shoulder with an official document, which he delivered into the other’s hand.
It was a court order, under seal of the State of New York, prohibiting Horace Amlie, constable of the town of Palmyra, or any other official or private citizen from interfering with, preventing, or hampering the free disembarkment and importation of such passengers as were aboard the packet-boat, Merry Fiddler, Captain Eleazar Tugg, upon the berm, towpath, or territory adjacent to the Erie Canal in all its length and span. The injunction had been issued upon the plea of Genter Latham, Esq., of Palmyra, N. Y. Horace read and returned it to the lawyer.
“This is the worst day’s work you’ve ever done in this town,” he pronounced slowly.
“Majestas legis,” returned the other. “I call upon and summons you to respect the honorable court’s order.”
“Oh, I’ll respect it,” answered Horace, and advanced upon the lawyer. “And for two red cents I’d ram it down your gullet.” Upcraft fled.
Horace withdrew his guard. No other course was open to him. At once the immigrants came streaming off the boat, the sound supporting the sick, and were marched to town to be parceled out among the various employers.
Attempts to inspect living conditions in the shacks were checkmated by the Honest Lawyer, who produced a new and more sweeping injunction. It was rumored, denied and rumored again that two new cases had appeared in Genter Latham’s squad, and three among the workers in the mint meadows. The employers declared that the ailment was no more than the “canal shakes” to which all newcomers were liable.
Under Horace’s persuasion, Elder Strang preached a powerful sermon on the care of the body and the duty incumbent upon a good Presbyterian to guard his household against the contamination of disease. It had one good effect. People shunned contact with the foreigners as far as possible. The discourse was regarded as settling the old clergyman’s hash. He was “giving a bad name to the town.” Owing to Genter Latham’s hostility, his incumbency was already precarious. Now it was practically certain that the next church meeting would throw him out upon the world, after thirty years of devotion and sacrifice.
About this time, Gail Murchison’s practice began to increase. It was whispered that Genter Latham’s clique were subsidizing the whiskered physician. He went about proclaiming that fears of a pestilence were all hunca munca, that the slight increase in sickness was due to the fact of the imported workers being unused to the climate, that there was nothing malignant
about the cases and that he had cured all of those under his care without complications.
It was freighted about that Horace Amlie’s warnings were the vapors of a professional alarmist. What standing had he, anyway, a discredited physician? Horace, himself, fell a prey to doubts. So little was known as to “the spotted manifestation of the typhoid disease,” as the erudite medical pamphleteers termed it. Such data as he could elicit from his reading were meager and contradictory. Nothing conclusive could he find regarding the “catching” period. Had it already passed in Palmyra?
Such was the official opinion of the Board of Trustees. They issued a manifesto, certifying the village free of all but normal and seasonal sickness.
Under cover of night Quaila Crego came to Horace’s office.
“There’s two cases at the Settlement,” she said in a fearful undertone.
“How do you know?”
“Gwenny called me in. She was afraid to send for you for fear of getting you into more trouble.”
“Did you see them?”
“Yes. It’s the spotted death, for certes. My craft is useless against that. I’m going away, Doctor, before it reaches the Pinch.”
“Tell Gwenny I’ll look in tomorrow.”
Another caller was before Horace at the Settlement. Dr. Gail Murchison looked up with a sour face from Donie Smith’s bedside. The girl was delirious. To avoid a sickroom squabble with his confrere, Horace moved on to the other patient, a girl known as the Peach. Hers was a newer case, but the maculations were well defined and typical. While Horace was examining them, Old Murch entered.
“Are you treating this case, Mister Amlie?” he asked with intention.
“No,” said Horace.
Gwenny Jump came to the door. Murchison gave her some directions, ignoring Horace. “The measles should abate presently,” he concluded.
Horace almost shouted, “The what?”
“Measles,” repeated the other, looking annoyed.
“Good God Almighty, man! Have you ever seen rubeola spots resembling those?”
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