The Pox Party

by M. T. Anderson

  Dr. Trefusis gave the coachman a small purse of coins and bid him find an inn to stay at overnight before returning to Canaan, saying that Mr. Gitney had instructed he should have no need of the coach until the next day.

  An unaccountable serenity had stolen upon me; I felt the operations of my wits as clean and mechanical, aiming only at that which needed to transpire: the flight at the appointed time across the mud. I knew now also what I should do once we reached Boston: that we should first find an inn near the wharves; that on the morrow I should seek out a position with the military orchestra, the late bait used to afford my capture. I should receive a small sum from that employment. We should use the salary I made thus to find lodging. I had no doubt that other solutions would present themselves as clearly to my sight.

  We waited beneath a willow-tree down near the shore. It provided us but little protection. Dr. Trefusis and I huddled beneath the same horse-blanket as the drizzle grew to rain.

  At perhaps ten, we heard a great number of militiamen approaching, speaking in accents boisterous and jocular — and so we quit our position and crouched some several rods away, in the grasses by the shore.

  The grasses were no shorter than we, and provided excellent protection. The rain fell upon us; and we waited in the mire for time to pass so we might make our dash across the flats.

  It astounds the recollection, that we waited as we did, as fearful as we might have been, as cold, as shivering, as wary of danger as we were; and it cannot be imagined, what our thoughts must have been in that time.

  “Strength, Octavian,” said Dr. Trefusis. “You will not be the first royal son of a slave to be secreted in the bulrushes.”

  “You do me too much honor, sir,” said I.

  “I do not. You are a prince, are you not? And you are in the bulrushes.”

  “These,” I opined, “are not rushes, sir. They are grasses.”

  “Obstinate child. How do you know?”

  Grudgingly, I admitted, “Mr. Gitney instructed me. ‘Sedges have edges and rushes art round. Grass hath a joint that grows down to the ground.’”

  Dr. Trefusis began to shake mightily, which convulsions I could feel beneath the wet horse-blanket we shared. I thought he suffered from a chill, but recognized then that he laughed.

  “Octavian!” cried he. “Octavian, you are a gem of rare price. You are worth every ell of the rope that they shall hang me with.” He slapped my back awkwardly and stumbled, I catching his arm before he pitched into the mud. “My boy, you are brimful of promise. Someone should say this to you before we are shot.” He gestured grandly. “It shall be an honor to accompany you, Octavian, on the next chapter of your extraordinary pilgrimage.” We looked about us; and recognized, I believe, in the same moment, that the time was nigh, and that there was no purpose to remaining hidden; the next chapter had begun. For a moment, we gaped at the imminent futurity of it. “And without further flourish —,” said Dr. Trefusis.

  We trooped through the grasses out onto the mud, where the rain fell densely all around us. Dimly could we see the hearth-fires and candle-auras of Boston. I put the blanket about Dr. Trefusis’s shoulders alone. We looked about.

  “There is nothing now for us behind,” said Dr. Trefusis. “So we must go forward.”

  With this benediction, abruptly, he set off running; and I, caught unawares, ran after him, and within a few steps had mastered his pace.

  The sand was ribbed beneath our shoes, and the puddles often deep where we plashed. The shells of crabs snapped under our heels.

  We passed a campfire on the mud, steering well clear of it, for we saw that men in uniform tended it.

  Once we passed a cabal of figures in black cloaks and tricornes carrying torches and whispering together. They swam out of the darkness and the rain, and were as quickly swallowed up in it again.

  The storm grew heavier. But still we could see the city before us, though it was limned only by glances of light through windows, guttering signal fires, a glimmer of ovens.

  I knew not what I ran toward; I knew not what freedom meant, though it seemed at that moment to mean the quickness with which we leaped over rivulets; I thought on the word freedom, and could picture nothing that it might be, beyond freedom to die; I knew not what the hours held, nor the years; nor whether I would one day sit beside my river; nor whether I would hang, nor fight, nor what man I would be, nor what woman I would take to wife; nor what would be the fate of this nation, birthing like a Cæsar, tearing its mother midst blood and travail. I knew only the rain and the old man who toiled to keep pace with me; and I knew our goal. We left the Patriots behind us.

  Together, we fled across the bay towards the lights of the beleaguered city.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  It is worth a quick note on the use of history in this novel. Though much of the material is Gothic and fantastic in mood, it is founded on fact.

  The College of Lucidity is, of course, a fabrication, supposed to be a provincial and incompetent version of, for example, the American Philosophical Society. The lesser experiments undertaken by the Collegians are either inspired by or drawn directly from works on scientific and philosophical speculation in the period. Educational experiments gauging non-Europeans’ ability to absorb the Classics and other disciplines were really pursued: In the late seventeenth century, Harvard University supposedly attempted the experiment with several Native American boys. In the eighteenth century, the Duke of Montagu sponsored a Jamaican student’s education at Cambridge University with an eye to determining his capacities. When the student, Francis Williams, did remarkably well, flourishing and becoming both a mathematician and poet, outraged critics of African equality — including the philosopher David Hume — attacked the attempt as being inconclusive, just as Thomas Jefferson, later in the century, would refuse to acknowledge the equality of African capacities when confronted in a similar situation by freed African American Benjamin Banneker and his excellent almanac.

  As for the Revolutionary War material, it should be said at the outset that this is a novel, in which context it would be impossible (and even undesirable) to present all the available material in its full complexity. It was my purpose to try to re-create a moment when we did not know that the war would be won by the colonists — or what that victory would bring about. To my mind, attempting to understand the conflict as an uncertain revolution, as a civil war of Englishmen against their own legitimate government, restores awareness of the real bravery demonstrated by those provincial farmers and craftsmen who took up arms against the most powerful empire in the world.

  The issues of Loyalism and patriotism, populism and class, and of the role of race in the Revolution are tremendously complex, and readers interested in these questions should turn to histories of the period to learn more. Historical narratives, untied to a single fictional point of view, will inevitably render a fuller picture of the subtleties and nuances of the conflict than a fictionalized account such as this may do.

  Readers should keep in mind that the opinions expressed and the anecdotes related by these characters are reflections of what was believed to be true at the time by one group of people or another — not absolute fact. So, for example, I report a rumor that at the Battle of Old North Bridge, a soldier was scalped. The rumor is authentic, but the episode itself is not — it is now thought that a Patriot killed a soldier with a hatchet or tomahawk, and other soldiers reported it as a scalping. Similarly, Octavian’s mother understands the precedent of the Somerset Case to free all slaves in England, an understanding that apparently circulated among American slaves at the time. In fact, the reality was much more complicated.

  Though I tried to stick as closely as possible to eighteenth-century diction and grammar, of course I adapted period style to modern fictional ends. As an example: In my treatment of clothing, I referred to a “banyan-robe” instead of simply a “banyan,” because otherwise the term would have been meaningless. I refer to a “tricorne,” although the word supposed
ly only appeared once the hats themselves were out of fashion. I felt it was necessary to be more specific than simply speaking of “a hat.”

  Several of the scenes of mob unrest in Boston are composites, rather than specific real events. Take, for example, the tarring and feathering on page 75. The details are drawn from reports such as this, by Loyalist Anne Hulton:

  The most shocking cruelty was exercised a few Nights ago, upon a poor Old Man a Tidesman one Malcolm he is reckond creasy, a quarrel was pickd wth him, he was afterward taken, & Tarrd, & featherd. Theres no Law that knows a punishment for the greatest Crimes beyond what this is, of cruel torture. And this instance exceeds any other before it he was stript Stark naked, one of the severest cold nights this Winter, his body coverd all over with Tar, then with feathers, his arm dislocated in tearing off his cloaths, he was dragd in a Cart with thousands attending, some beating him wth clubs & Knocking him out of the Cart, then in again. They gave him several severe whipings, at different parts of the Town. This Spectacle of horror & sportive cruelty was exhibited for about five hours.

  The unhappy wretch they say behaved with the greatest intrepidity, & fortitude all the while. before he was taken, defended himself a long time against Numbers, & afterwds when under Torture they demanded of him to curse his Masters The K: Govr &c which they coud not make him do, but he still cried, Curse all Traitors. They brot him to the Gallows & put a rope about his neck sayg they woud hang him he said he wishd they woud, but that they coud not for God was above the Devil. The Doctors say that it is imposible this poor creature can live. They say his flesh comes off his back in Stakes.

  (He did, as it happens, survive, and sent portions of his skin to Parliament to show them how he had suffered on their behalf.)

  The origin of the Revolution is fascinating, and I recommend that those interested in exploring it further go beyond my brief précis of circumstances to examine the documents themselves and historians’ interpretations of these momentous events.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Liz Bicknell for editorial advice; thanks to J. L. Bell for his invaluable historical advice; thanks to Laura Murphy and Erika Gasser for reading suggestions; thanks to Curt DiCamillo and Dianne Haley for information on specibc obscurities; for support, thanks to Vincent Standley, Tina Wu, Alison McGhee, Leda Schubert, the Cambridge Social Club, and the faculty and students of Vermont College; for a quiet place to retreat, thanks to my parents. Invaluable assistance in my research was rendered by the staff of the Boston Athenæum; thanks are due particularly to Lisa Starzyk, Mary Warnement, Riva Pollard, Sue Terry, Doug Caraganis, and of course Monica Higgins, who supplied the ham sandwiches and harpsichord.

  A NOTE ON THE TYPE

  The font used for the text is a version of Caslon. It is based on the original font designed by William Caslon in England in the 1720s. His type designs were highly regarded there and soon set the standard for printing. The use of Caslon spread to the American colonies, where it was the most frequently used font, from printing fine books to newspapers, and was used to typeset the Declaration of Independance. Of course, your e-reader will format the text in a different typeface anyway — perhaps even something sans serif. Is the loss of this type symbolic of the degeneration of our founding ideals over time, or is it proof of the generous flexibility of democratic values? Or is it just a forgotten footnote on an unread page at the butt-end of history?

  READERS’ GUIDE

  The Pox Party presents a unique treatment of the Revolution, the Patriots, and the Loyalists. How does this treatment challenge our perceptions about this time period and differ from other literary portrayals of the period?

  Evidence Goring is, in one sense, one of the most moral characters in the book — believing fervently, for example, in the emancipation of slaves. What does it mean, then, that he is the one who betrays Octavian?

  Pro Bono’s attitude toward Octavian is often hard to understand, bordering on brutality. How do you think he feels about the boy? What is his attitude toward the experiment?

  Beyond the issue of slavery, what are the moral implications of Octavian’s experimental upbringing? Is there a line that divides moral from immoral conduct on the part of Octavian’s caretaker-­owners? Where do you see that line?

  How much of Cassiopeia’s pre-slavery background do you believe she fabricated? Was she really a princess?

  If you had been in Boston in 1775 and had the opportunity to participate in the pox party, would you have done so and been inoculated or would you have taken your chances on contracting the disease?

  Consider Mr. Sharpe’s comment that “We shall see a brave new day, Octavian, when the rights of liberty and property are exercised, and when all men are free to operate in their own self-interest.” (located on this page) How do you see Sharpe’s prediction relating to government today? To what extent do we live in that “brave new day”?

  What do you think becomes of Octavian and Trefusis after they get “across the Bay to the lights of the beleaguered city” (located on this page)? To whom, if anyone, will they be loyal? Knowing what you do of Bono, what do you believe might have become of him?

  M. T. Anderson begins the final section with a quotation from Voltaire: “In this world we are condemned to be an anvil or a hammer.” (located on this page) What do you think of this quote? How does it relate to the book?

  Today it is possible, theoretically, for an American child of any background to attend the most prestigious educational institutions. But does race still play a role in the ability of America’s children to succeed? How so?

  Dr. Samuel Johnson is said to have asked, “How is it that the loudest yelps for liberty come from the drivers of slaves?” Discuss Johnson’s comment in light of the novel.

  Discuss the contradictions between the colonists’ propaganda decrying what they called their enslavement by the British government and the colonists’ ownership of slaves, some of whom they sent in their stead to fight the British. Do the colonists’ fears of slave uprisings suggest that they knew slavery was wrong?

  A CONVERSATION WITH M. T. ANDERSON

  Q: What gave you the idea for this book?

  A: I grew up in Stow, Massachusetts, one of the littlest of the little New England villages that first opposed the British troops when they marched out to Lexington and Concord that spring morning in 1775. Some of my earliest memories are of the Bicentennial celebrations in 1975 — Minutemen marching on the green, President Ford delivering a speech from Old North Bridge, and a hippie in striped pants, a metallic hat, and bug wings who claimed that he was a refugee from the coming Tricentennial and that we should watch out for aerosol.

  Growing up in the Boston ex-urbs, my friends and I took the history around us for granted. I got my hair cut in the town that sent the first detachment of militiamen over the hill against the British at the bridge. My orthodontist worked in a faux-Colonial building in the town where Paul Revere was captured by the Redcoats. He inserted my headgear there. The whole stretch of early American history seemed incredi­bly intimate, because the traces of earlier epochs were all around us. When we played in the woods or walked to the li­brary, we could see remnants and ruins of the first settlements of the Puritans, the villages of the Revolution, the flourishing towns of the new Republic, the rise of the mills in the age of cotton. We lived casually in the past. Eighteenth-century houses were given two-car garages. Old textile mills, half run-down, were revived in my childhood and turned into industrial parks. Walden Pond, which Thoreau had written about with such rapture, was just another place to go swimming. We were used to the distant echoes of history.

  Something about that struck me at the 225th anniversary celebration of the Battle of Old North Bridge. It was a huge event: hundreds of reenactors, Patriots and Redcoats, gathered at the site to simulate the battles.

  I went to several skirmishes that day. I was standing in a field, watching several hundred Redcoats approach in neat, cruel lines — and like an inevitable machine, dro
p rank after rank and fire right at me. Then, finally, they rose, screamed, and charged, bayonets out. The effect was terrifying.

  I started to think: What would it be like to be standing here — untrained — facing them with a gun I usually used to shoot turkeys? What would it be like to be standing here, not knowing that we would win? Not knowing that we would — or that we should! — separate from England at all? What would it be like to face that army, thinking of myself as a British citizen and these soldiers as my own country’s army? What would it be like to live through this revolution without the victory preordained? What would it be like to be uncertain again?

  This thought stuck with me. So a couple of years later, I decided to write a book from the point of view of someone who wouldn’t know the outcome of the war and who had to make a hard choice between sides. I wanted to recapture the feeling of the unknown, the unclarity of that decision.

  That’s where the idea for the book came from.

  Q: What is the significance of the main character’s being named Octavian?

  A: Many masters gave their slaves names associated with ruler­ship, and in particular with the heroes and gods of ancient Rome: Cato, Pompey, Augustus, Jupiter, etc. I’m not exactly sure why this fad came about. In some cases, I suspect it was sarcastic, but in most, the slave owners were probably unaware of the irony. Just as the wealthier masters took pride in dressing their slaves in fine clothes and sumptuous livery, they probably took pride in naming their slaves grandly, too, believing that it reflected well on them if even the lowliest figures in their household were named after kings. In many cases, the owners took pride in the fact that their slaves had supposedly been chiefs or nobles in their own nation and were now reduced to humble service.