Canal Town

by Samuel Hopkins Adams

  “Rubeola patrida,” said the physician blandly. “An unusual type. Anomalous. Anomalous.”

  Horace said to the proprietress, “These girls have typhus. They are very sick. Donie will probably die.”

  To him, not to his senior, Gwenny said, “What must I do?”

  “Pay no attention to him, Mistress Jump,” puffed Murchison.

  “Send the other girls away,” directed Horace. “Let nobody come here. Are you going to look after them?”

  “Who else would?” said she simply.

  “Don’t touch them any more than you can help. Keep yourself washed in vinegar. Dr. Murchison will treat the cases,” he added with an unpleasant grin directed at that gentleman.

  “Harr! Hummh!” grunted the practitioner. “Here’s a great todo about a small matter.”

  “Small matter, eh?” snapped Horace. “Tell me that in a couple of days.”

  Murchison had nothing to tell in that time. Nor would he answer questions when Horace accosted him on Main Street. The constable called again at the brothel, to find it closed, barred and void of life. The sick girls had been spirited away. The next day two suspicious cases were reported from Poverty’s Pinch. There were grisly rumors about conditions in the Latham labor quarters, but Horace was not allowed near the place so he could neither verify nor disprove them. He even went so far as to approach the camp at dead of night, whereupon a guard testified to the explicitness of Genter Latham’s system by firing a musket at or toward him.

  Returning thoughtfully homeward, he heard a sound of muffled hammering back of Bezabeel Fornum’s shop. Never the most industrious of men, the cabinet factor was not prone to nocturnal labor. Horace made his way by path to a rear shed where he beheld Fornum, by the light of two candles, busily engaged.

  “Hello, Bez,” he said.

  The factor looked up, hammer poised above an oblong pine box. “ ’Lo, Doc,” he responded. “You kinda scairt me.”

  “You work late.”

  “Yup.”

  “Special job?”

  “Yup.”

  Horace glanced about the dim interior. Two other factures, similar in size and shape to the one in hand, leaned against the wall.

  “What do you call those?”

  “Feed troughs,” answered Bezabeel without a blink.

  “For worms,” said Horace.

  “Cute, ain’t ye?” commented the toiler.

  “Where are they going, Bez?”

  “Don’t know and ain’t inquirin’.”

  “How far wrong would I be in guessing that the trustees are paying for this job?”

  “Not fur mebbe.”

  “How many more besides these have you made?”

  The factor set down his hammer, removed a chaw from between his jaws and regarded his visitor earnestly. “Now, look, Doc. You and me is good friends. I’m bein’ paid extry money for this, so I’d just as ruther you’d go back to your bed and mind your own business. Good night to you.”

  “Good night, Bez,” said Horace.

  He was up early, making a rough canvass of the village. Though many doors were closed against him as a troublemaker, he had gathered enough information for his purposes when he presented himself at the Board meeting that afternoon with a request for a hearing.

  To a growing uneasiness among the members he owed his admittance. While they had adopted and officialized the Murchison pronouncement of measles, there was a feeling among some of them that much was being concealed. They allowed Horace five minutes.

  For once in his life he was diplomatic. There might be, he admitted, a question as to the exact nature of the disease in their midst, but there could be no doubt that it had assumed epidemic proportions. There had been at least four deaths since the previous meeting, perhaps more (several of the members blinked), and Dr. Murchison could testify to an abnormal amount of sickness. The town was endangered. Something ought to be done.

  “Vot?” asked Trustee Vandowzer.

  “Vote a fee to Dr. John Vought and bring him up from Rochester. He is experienced in such matters.”

  Angry protest came from Dr. Murchison, backed by Lawyer Upcraft. But there were influences working against them. Deacon Dillard’s eldest son lay mysteriously ill; the “measles” which Old Murch had diagnosed in the Drake household resembled no eruption with which the experienced Grandma Drake was familiar, and Constable Amlie’s confident statement as to deaths had impressed Chairman Levering (who did not like having been kept in the dark) and several others. Out of their alarms the Board found courage to withstand the Latham influence, voted fifty dollars for Dr. Vought, and deputed Horace to procure his attendance. To Horace’s surprise, the magnate offered no objection.

  The old gentleman arrived, full of spunk and fire. He made a tour of the village in company with Horace, brusquely declining the offered escort of Dr. Murchison, after which he addressed the Board in such terms as that dignified body had never before heard vented upon itself. Numskulls and nincompoops were the milder terms of his characterization. As for that looby who called himself Doctor Murchison. God save the mark! professional courtesy prevented a proper description of a man who could not distinguish the bright red of rubeola from the dull purple of typhus. For typhus it was, and the honorable Board could swallow that or puke it up, just as they liked. For the rest, he demanded that the ban on medical practice be at once lifted from his young and valued colleague. This was done by tacit allowance, Dr. Murchison hoarsely protesting that it was illegal, as, in fact, it was.

  Dr. Vought’s presence was a vast relief to Horace. The Rochester physician had experienced one typhus epidemic, as a medical student in New York City. No better expert could have been found. Taking up his domicile in the Amlie house, on Dinty’s pressing invitation, he settled in to see the battle through.

  In such conditions, it was impossible for Dinty to refrain from contributory activities. With Wealthia Latham and Happalonia Upcraft, she rallied the alumnae of the now defunct Little Sunbeams Cluster to the standard of Good Works. Entrance to the danger spots was interdicted to them, but they found helpful occasions in distributing medicines, acting as messengers for those autocrats, Drs. Vought and Amlie, canvassing houses for suspicious illnesses, and bearing food and encouragement to the poor.

  Another and an unexpected aide joined Horace. Tip Crego had formed a determination to follow in his benefactor’s footsteps and become an M.D. As he could not qualify by “riding” with the unlicensed ex-Doctor Amlie, he had been putting in his vacation by acting as factotum for the eminent Dr. Alexander Coventry of Oneida County who, learning of the affliction under which Palmyra lay, gave the lad a leave of absence to study an epidemic at first hand. Dinty welcomed her former playmate with delight.

  “How do you like being a collegiate young gentleman?” she asked.

  Tip liked it enormously, all but one feature. “I have to sleep between stone walls, even in the warmth,” he complained. “Like a jail. I almost smother.”

  “Dr. Vought has our guest chamber,” she smiled. “And I could hardly offer a learned scholar like you lodgment in the tool-shed. But there is shelter in the garden.”

  “I’ll do finely there,” he said. “Aunt Quaila is off gypsying.”

  He rigged himself a cunning lodge and settled in to act as man-of-all-duties for the two overworked medical men.

  Ominous symptoms were reported from scattered localities, mainly households having some connection with the imported labor. Within a few days, Dr. Vought had identified five well-developed cases and two doubtful ones. The townsfolk had no acquired immunity in their blood; the pest felled them where it struck. Marcus Dillard died a week after being stricken. Cole Barnes lost his wife. J. Evernghim’s youngest daughter was at death’s door. Rumor spread that two more corpses had been removed by night from the Pinch. Secrecy surrounded the labor camps.

  Although he foresaw an angry reaction, Horace placarded the infected houses, a measure hitherto reserved for smallpox. As the lab
els bore the word, TYPHUS, in conspicuous lettering, this was flying in the face of officialdom. The Board of Trustees ordered the offending papers removed. But the damage was done.

  Rochester, Auburn and other newspapers published the bad news. Stage coaches canceled their victualing arrangement with Mine Host St. John. Packet-boats refused to take on passengers from the vicinity. Business suffered. Horace Amlie became Palmyra’s most unpopular citizen. The Sentinel denounced him in a sizzling editorial. Tar, feathers and rail were too good for this ill bird who befouled his own nest. Horace went about his business with grim determination. There was plenty of work for him, for, despite his new unpopularity, the frightened citizens preferred to trust his skill rather than the pretentious ignorance of his rival.

  “You’ll live it down,” said Dr. Vought, rubbing his hands. He enjoyed a fight in a good cause. “Have you noticed that we’re being weasled, lad?”

  Horace had. He had observed a slinking fellow clumsily spying upon their night rounds.

  “Who is he?” asked the old gentleman.

  “A poor rat from the Pinch. He does Lawyer Upcraft’s dirty work for him.”

  “He isn’t working for Upcraft this time. It’s Murchison,” said Dr. Vought, who had a surprising way of finding out things for himself. “That old muckworm is after evidence.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “Illegal practice, I presume.”

  “On my part?” Horace grinned. “I’m ‘riding’ with the learned Dr. Vought. Nothing illegal in that.”

  “All very well,” grunted the learned one, “but how many times have you gone ahead on your own hook?”

  “Only in emergency cases, sir.”

  “Well, they’re hoping to get something to hang you on. That’s certain. Don’t give ’em any more openings than you can help, lad.”

  “I wonder if Genter Latham isn’t back of it.”

  “I’ll tell you something about Genter Latham, my boy. That man is scared.”

  “I’ve never known him to be.”

  “He is, just the same. Of the typhus. There’s more and worse of it in his camp than anyone but himself knows of, by my guess. You don’t notice him taking any stand against us.”

  “That’s true,” admitted Horace thoughtfully.

  “Nor won’t till the run of the fever is over. He don’t know when he mightn’t need us.” This time it was the old gentleman who grinned. “That pus-brain of a Murchison isn’t getting favorable results from his bleed-and-purge treatments. We’re stealing his patients every day. After you’re reinstated, they’ll be your patients. That’s why he’s so hot after your scalp. He’ll stop at nothing to get it.”

  The epidemic dwindled. No more did Bezabeel Fornum’s muffled hammer sound at night. A full week passed without a new report. After the evening rounds, the eminent Dr. Vought addressed his assistant.

  “I believe on my sinful soul we’ve got it under, my boy. Give me a drink, a smoke and a bed, and let me sleep the clock around, for by the moldering bones of Galen, if you wake me up before my time I’ll gut you with your own scalpel.”

  Informed of the good news, Dinty climbed the slope next morning to bear it to Wealthia. Turning the corner of the Latham porch, she came upon father and daughter in quiet talk. Genter Latham stood up abruptly. That expression of smiling tenderness which he kept for Wealthia alone was supplanted by a black glower. He turned his broad back upon the visitor and entered the house. The girl flushed an unhappy red.

  “You mustn’t mind him, Dinty,” said she. “He’s been under a strain, with all this trouble.”

  “I know,” sympathized her friend. “Hadn’t I better stay away for a while?”

  “No. You mustn’t. I want to see you as much as I can while I can.”

  “But you can any time,” replied Dinty, puzzled.

  Wealthia gazed out across the garden. “I may be going away.”

  Scrutinizing her, Dinty was struck with something new in her loveliness: a soft excitement, a look of adventure and expectancy such as, she thought, an explorer might wear at the start of a voyage into the unknown.

  “When?” asked Dinty.

  “I don’t exactly know. It’s a secret. Promise.”

  “Cross my heart and double-die,” swore Dinty.

  “I’ve been wanting to tell you something for a long time.”

  “I’ve always told you everything,” said Dinty. “Well, pretty near.”

  “I know. This is about Silverhorn.”

  “I think it’s desperate you’re still seeing him.”

  Wealthia looked away. A smile hovered on her lips. “I was with him last night.”

  “Where?”

  “On the Jolly Roger. All night.”

  “Oh, Wealthy!”

  “I don’t care,” burst out the girl with defiant passion. “I’m tired of all this pretending and concealing and waiting. I’m going away with him.”

  “Oh, Wealthy! Where?” cried Dinty, and again her friend said, “I don’t care. Anywhere he wants to take me.”

  “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “Yes, but I can’t help myself.”

  “But—but, Wealthy. Mrs. Ramsey. His wife.”

  The quick, angry, lovely color warmed the dark face. With appalling simplicity and sincerity, Wealthia said, “She isn’t his wife. I am. He had me before he had her. And since. More times than I can tell you.”

  “Wealthy, I do believe you’re out of your mind.”

  The smile returned to the curved lips. “I believe so, too. I’ve got no mind or soul or body that doesn’t belong to him.”

  “It’s terrible.” Dinty was near to weeping.

  “It’s terrible, and it’s wonderful.”

  “You’ll be a Lost Soul.”

  “I tried to be good. I tried for a while to keep myself from him. It’s no use.”

  One more matter was on Wealthia Latham’s mind. She made her confession with courage.

  “Dinty, I’m sorry about getting Horace into such trouble. You must tell him so after I’m gone. He thought he was right about me. So did I. He might so well have been! I—I don’t understand it even now. When Pa knows that I’ve gone away with Silverhorn, he’ll realize that he was in the wrong, and that I acted as I did because I was afraid to face him with the truth. It will be all right between Horace and him then.”

  “I don’t believe it will ever be all right between them,” said Dinty with profound depression.

  Wealthia’s desperate resolution weighed upon Dinty’s spirits. Horace rallied her over holding something back from him, but abandoned this process when he saw that she was genuinely troubled. One Wednesday evening, the publication day of the Sentinel, he sat across the table from her, reading by the smudgy light of the Seneca oil lamp. He lowered the paper and whistled.

  “Listen to this, Puss.” He read a flattering description of the Elegant Durham Cargo Boat, Jolly Roger, sold to Captain Stillwell of the American Spy. with all appurtenances, for the round sum of thirteen hundred dollars. “So Silverhorn sold out,” he observed. “Wonder what’s up.”

  He was astonished beyond measure when Dinty, after struggling for a moment against some mysterious emotion, jumped to her feet and bolted from the room.

  – 17 –

  Greatly refreshed by his twelve-hour repose, the learned Dr. Vought announced his intention of extending his visit for a few days with a view to writing a brochure for his favorite medical journal.

  “I’ll give you a title for it,” said Horace. “The Triumph of Science, or How the Pest was Eliminated.”

  Lowering his cup of coffee, the guest eyed his erstwhile disciple with dark suspicion.

  “What might that mean?” he demanded.

  “Nothing at all, sir.” Horace’s aspect was innocence itself. “All treatises on epidemics conclude with the triumph of medical science over the disease. Isn’t that true? So I assume that yours will.”

  “Damme! I believe on my soul the boy is makin
g sport of me.”

  “Oh, no, sir!” said Horace, full of shock.

  “Of medical science, then. That’s worse.”

  “Every disease, properly understood, yields to its ordained remedy,” recited the young man woodenly.

  “Who said that?”

  “Every lecturer I ever listened to.”

  “Not me, you young yahoo!”

  “Well, perhaps not you. But it’s accepted medical doctrine.”

  “Have you kept case records of this epidemic?”

  “Yes, sir. Dinty has them copied fairly for you. You might begin with Big Shawn.”

  “Which is he?”

  “The red-headed Irisher in Mr. Latham’s lot. He was one of the first.”

  “What was the treatment?”

  “Brandy, opium and Peruvian bark,” said Horace consulting the neat entry.

  “Recommended by the highest authorities on typhus. It recovered him, I believe.”

  “Something did,”

  “And we exhibited that same remedy in the case of the Dutchman who came down next day.”

  “Piet Vroot. He died.”

  “So he did, now that you mention it. Odd. We tried a different method after that, didn’t we?”

  “Bark-and-wine and volatile alkali. Three of those cases recovered and one died.”

  “I’ve always leaned to that regimen, myself.”

  “So did I until that fourth death at the Pinch. We were giving it down there, if you remember.”

  Dr. Vought swore in his beard. “I suppose you think oil of peppermint, elder-root decoction and the blisters are better.”

  “I don’t believe there’s any difference,” returned the young man boldly. “The disease runs its course, and if we can fortify the system to resist it, we’ve done about all that science can do.”

  “And what becomes of medical practice on that theory?” roared the veteran. “Not that I believe all that’s in the books,” he added, moderating his tone. “Not half, for that matter. In fact, I’d like some of the treatises I’ve written blotted out and forgotten,” he admitted ruefully. “Ah, well! The people die and go the way of all earth, but the race is preserved. Small thanks to science, say you. We live and learn. But our books live after us and perpetuate our errors. Littera scripta manet. I think I won’t write that article after all, my lad, and be damned to you for an interfering and undermining young heretic.” He finished his smoke and tossed the stump into the fireplace. “I saw our friend, Latham, yesterday.”