Time's Convert

by Deborah Harkness

  Cousin Josiah had been suspected of harboring loyalist feelings, and the citizens of Amherst had run him out of town. Marcus’s mother had wept for nearly a week at the family’s disgrace and refused to show her face at meeting.

  “I’m no Tory.” Marcus’s cheeks burned with shame and he moved toward the door.

  “It’s a good thing you have Mr. Paine’s pamphlet, then. You know how people talk.” Anna looked disapproving, as though she were not one of Hadley’s finest gossips.

  “Good day, Anna,” Marcus said, taking the time to make a proper bow in her direction before he headed into the August afternoon.

  When Marcus reached the turn toward home, his feet stilled. His plan had been to go to the farm and hide his copy of Thomas Paine in the grain hopper. It was his job to feed the livestock, and for years Marcus had kept his treasures buried where his father wouldn’t be likely to find them. These prized possessions included the gun he’d taken off the dead New Hampshire soldier at Bunker Hill, his precious collection of newspapers, the medical books Tom Buckland had loaned him, and a small pouch of coins.

  Each item was a piece of his future freedom—or so Marcus hoped. He planned to run away to join the army at the first opportunity. But if what Anna told him was true, and the army wasn’t taking anyone who could contract smallpox, then Marcus might be turned away the moment he arrived.

  Marcus reached into his pocket and found the spool of red thread he’d been carrying around ever since he heard that Zeb was back from the war. He weighed it in his hand, considering his options.

  There was no more farm work at present. It would be a few weeks until the next round of crops was ready to be harvested.

  His mother and Patience were in good health, with plenty of food in the larder.

  His father went to Springfield with the wagon to sell some wood two days ago. Nobody knew what had happened to him, but Marcus suspected Obadiah was spending the proceeds at every tavern between there and Hadley. It might be weeks before he returned.

  With his pamphlet in one pocket and his spool of linen thread in the other, Marcus set off across the river to Hatfield.

  The Marsh homestead was rickety to the point of collapse, set in fields that hadn’t seen a plow for years. Inside, sunshine slanted through the gaps in the rough timber walls and around the empty window frames. The glass panes had long since disappeared, along with the door latch and anything else of value.

  Marcus pushed the door open and located his friend in the gloom. Based on the appearance of the shivering form on the bed, Zeb’s chance of survival wasn’t great.

  “You don’t look good, Zeb.”

  “See. Please.” The skin around Zeb’s s mouth had erupted in pox blisters that had burst and then crusted over, making speech difficult.

  Marcus pulled out his hunting knife and shined the blade on the hem of his shirt. “Are you sure?”

  Zeb nodded.

  Marcus held the knife up to Zeb’s face. Hopefully, it was too small to give his friend a sense of what smallpox had done to disfigure him.

  “‘Nuff.” Zeb’s hair was gone, and his scalp covered with sores. But it was the soles of Zeb’s feet that Marcus couldn’t bear to look at. Oozing and raw, they were covered with maggots that feasted on the dying flesh.

  The door opened, flooding the room with sunlight. Zeb made an inhuman sound and turned his fevered eyes away.

  “Morning, Zeb. I’ve brought food and water, as well as—what the hell are you doing here?” Thomas Buckland looked at Marcus in horror.

  Marcus held up his spool of thread. “I figure I might as well get inoculated.”

  “You know what the people of Hadley think of that.” The town fathers didn’t approve of this newfangled craze. If God wanted you to get smallpox, then you took it like a good Christian, suffered, and died.

  “It’s not against the law. Not anymore,” Marcus replied. “The legislature lifted the ban. Everybody’s doing it.”

  “Maybe in Boston, but not in Hadley. And not with an infected Negro.” Buckland took some powder out of his box and mixed it with water to form a paste.

  “You think if I catch the disease from Zeb it’s going to darken my complexion?” Marcus was amused. “I don’t remember reading that blackness is contagious in those medical books you gave me.”

  “You can’t just get inoculated on a whim, Marcus.” Buckland applied some salve to Zeb’s feet with a gentle touch. “There’s a diet you must follow. Weeks of preparation.”

  “I’ve had nothing but gruel, apples, and vegetables for most of the summer.” Thanks to Tom’s books, and the glimpses he’d had of the newspapers, Marcus knew what doctors advised. A strict diet that avoided rich foods and meat was recommended—and it just happened to be all that Marcus’s family could afford.

  “I see.” Buckland studied Marcus’s face. “Does your father know?”

  Marcus shook his head.

  “And your ma?” Buckland asked. “What does she think of this plan?”

  “She was inoculated when she was a girl.”

  “I know her medical history, Marcus. What I’m asking is whether she approves of you staying here, locked up with Zeb, for the next three weeks?”

  Marcus fell silent.

  “She doesn’t know.” Buckland sighed. “I suppose you’re going to want me to tell her.”

  “I’d be much obliged, Tom. Thank you.” Marcus was relieved. He didn’t want his mother to worry. Marcus would be back—just as soon as he was recovered. “If you could look in on Patience, too, I’d be grateful.”

  Patience was withdrawn and wan. She spent too much time on her own, and seemed scared of her own shadow.

  “All right, Marcus. I’ll do what you ask. But”—Buckland held up one finger in warning—“you must swear you will stay here until your scabs dry up and fall off. You are not to go hunting. Or visit the Porters’ store. Or come to Northampton to borrow a book. I have enough problems treating returning soldiers like Zeb without a full-fledged epidemic on my hands.”

  Because the course of the disease was so much milder when it was contracted through inoculation compared to what happened if you caught it from contagion, some people got complacent and went about their business, not realizing the smallpox was hatching like a chick inside their bodies.

  “I promise. Besides, I’ve got everything I need.” Marcus held up his already much-thumbed copy of Common Sense.

  “You better not let your father catch you reading that,” Buckland said. “Paine’s calls for equality don’t sit well with him.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with fairness.” Marcus sat on the floor next to Zeb’s pallet of folded blankets. He rolled up his shirtsleeve.

  “Folks are always in favor of fairness, until they have to give up something they have to someone else.” Buckland drew a lancet from his medicine box. The double-edged scalpel was narrow and razor sharp. Zeb eyed Buckland warily.

  “Don’t worry, Zeb,” Marcus said with feigned cheerfulness. “The knife is for me.”

  Buckland bit off a piece of thread. Carefully, he drew it through one of Zeb’s open pox sores. Yellow-and-white pus soaked the red linen fiber.

  Marcus extended his left arm. He wanted the left arm inoculated in case things went badly and he lost feeling in it because of the scars. Marcus would still need a working trigger finger to be a soldier.

  Buckland scratched Marcus’s forearm with the lancet. He and Marcus had discussed the Suttonian method of inoculation last summer, after Marcus returned from Bunker Hill and smallpox began its sweep through Boston. It was a new technique, one that carried less risk because the inoculation incisions were far shallower than previous methods.

  Marcus watched his blood well up in crisscross lines. The marks reminded him of the plaid fabric that Patience wove.

  “You’re sure, Marcus? Zeb does
n’t have a mild case of smallpox. And he caught it through exposure.” Ideally, Tom would have administered pus taken from someone who had also been inoculated. But this was a risk Marcus needed to take.

  “Do it, Tom.” Marcus was quivering inside, but his voice was steady.

  Buckland drew the thread through the incisions on Marcus’s skin until the red thread darkened with blood, indicating that the smallpox-soaked linen had done its work.

  “Lord help us all if this goes wrong,” Buckland said, his forehead shining with perspiration.

  * * *

  —

  OVER THE NEXT SEVEN DAYS, the smallpox advanced under Marcus’s skin with the deliberation the British army had shown in Boston, changing everything in its path.

  The first sign that the inoculation was working had been a crushing headache. Then his kidneys started to ache, the pain spreading across his back. Marcus had vomited up the crust of bread and cup of ale he’d forced down at breakfast. Now the fever overtook him. It felt like the worse ague Marcus had ever experienced.

  Marcus knew that the fever would drop temporarily, maybe for a day or even just a few hours. He looked forward to that brief lull in the storm of infection before the disease rallied once more and erupted through the skin in painful blisters. Until then, he was trying to distract himself with Common Sense.

  “Here’s the part I told you about, Zeb.” Marcus’s head swam with fever, and he had to concentrate to keep the words from squirming all over the page.

  “‘In the early ages of the world, according to the scripture chronology, there were no kings,’” Marcus continued. Sweat ran into his eyes, the salt stinging. He wiped at his nose, and his fingers came away bloody. “Imagine that, Zeb. A world without kings.”

  The water had run out hours ago. Usually it was Marcus who went outside to fetch the fresh pails left by Tom Buckland. Just the thought of cold, clear water made Marcus run his dry tongue over his parched lips. His throat was painfully constricted, and when he swallowed there was a foul taste in his mouth.

  Weary and thirsty, Marcus dropped the book and slid to the floor. Every part of him ached, and he didn’t have the energy to find a more comfortable position.

  “I’m just going to rest my eyes for a few minutes,” Marcus said.

  * * *

  —

  THE NEXT THING MARCUS was aware of was Joshua Boston’s dark face floating over him. Marcus blinked.

  “Thank God,” Joshua said. “You gave us a fright, Marcus.”

  “You’ve been senseless for two days,” Zeb said. His feet were healing, and though the sores on his face had left scars, he was recognizable now. “Dr. Buckland thought we might lose you.”

  Marcus tried to sit up, tamping down the nausea that resulted from this simple movement. He studied his left arm. What been a crisscrossing set of red lines was now a large, oozing sore. He would never have to fear smallpox again—but the disease had almost taken his life. Marcus felt as weak as one of Patience’s kittens.

  Joshua held a dipper to Marcus’s lips. Water stung his cracked skin, but the cool liquid washed down his throat like manna.

  “What’s the news?” Marcus croaked.

  “You are. Everybody in town knows you’re here,” Joshua said. “They’re all talking about it.”

  Marcus knew it would be another five days—four if he was lucky—before the scab fell off.

  “Where’s my book?” Marcus’s eyes searched the barely furnished room.

  “Here it is.” Joshua handed him the copy of Common Sense. “From what Zeb’s been saying, it sounds like you’ve read the whole thing.”

  “It was a way to pass the time,” Marcus said, comforted by the familiar feeling of the slim pamphlet in his hand. It was a solid reminder of why he had subjected himself to inoculation, and why he was risking his father’s wrath to follow the cause of liberty. “Besides, Zeb had a right to know we’re a democracy now, and people want freedom and equality.”

  “Some, perhaps. But I don’t think the majority of people in Hadley, patriot or not, would ever sit down and sup with me,” Joshua said.

  “The declaration made in Philadelphia said all men are created equal—not some men,” Marcus said, in spite of his misgivings.

  “And it was written by a man who owns hundreds of slaves,” Joshua replied. “You better get your head out of the clouds, Marcus, or you’re going to have a hard landing when you come back to earth.”

  * * *

  —

  IT TOOK SEVEN MORE DAYS for the scab to fall off, days during which Marcus read and reread Common Sense, debated politics with Joshua, and began to teach Zeb how to read. Finally, Tom Buckland pronounced him fit to go home.

  It was a Sunday, and the meetinghouse bells pealed over the countryside. Marcus stepped out into the crisp autumn air, naked as the day he was born. Joshua and Zeb were waiting for him by the washtub with clean clothes.

  There was a tang of woodsmoke in the air, and the soft smell of leaf mold. Zeb tossed him an apple, and Marcus ate it in four bites. After weeks of thin gruel and ale, Marcus had never had anything that tasted so clean and fresh. Everything he saw, everything he felt, and everything he tasted seemed like a gift after the weeks he’d spent in the grip of smallpox. The army would have to take Marcus now, once he ran away to join the fight.

  For the first time, Marcus felt that freedom was in his grasp.

  Tom came out of the house, bearing a pot with a lid clamped on top.

  “I believe this is yours.” Buckland held out the pot. The aroma of toasted paper filled the air. Tom had wanted to burn Common Sense, but Marcus would not allow it. Tom fumigated the pamphlet instead, lining the old pot with moss and pine needles before putting it in the embers.

  “Thanks, Tom.” Marcus slipped the pages in his pocket. Paine’s words would help to keep him warm on the way back to the farm, just as they had kept Marcus sane during the period of quarantine.

  Marcus left Zeb and Joshua to burn the blankets, bedding, and clothing before abandoning the Marsh homestead to prevent the smallpox from spreading to anyone who might use the place for temporary shelter on the cold autumn nights. Tom and Marcus crossed the river to Hadley and parted ways on West Street, outside the gate to the MacNeil farm.

  “Take care, Marcus,” Tom said. “Someone said Obadiah is back in town.”

  Marcus felt a trickle of worry enter his blood.

  “Thanks again, Tom. For everything,” Marcus said, pushing the gate open. The hinge was bad, and the gate hung heavily on the post. He would have to fix that, now that he was home.

  Marcus went around to the back of the house to check on the cows. He thought he would bring in some eggs while he was at it. His mother would fry them up in bacon drippings when she returned from meeting, and Marcus could mop them up with some bread—if there was any to be had. His stomach gurgled in anticipation of the feast to come.

  A crash came from the direction of the rickety lean-to his father had built on the rear of the house to serve as a storeroom back when he hoped the farm would be prosperous. Either the Kelloggs’ hog had escaped again and had broken into the kitchen in search of food, or Obadiah was home and searching for the spirits his mother hid in the eaves. The badly hung door was ajar, and Marcus pushed it open a bit more with his toe. Surprise would be an advantage, be the intruder pig or patriarch.

  “Where’s the rum?” His father’s voice was slurred and angry. Another piece of crockery fell to the floor.

  “There’s none left.” Catherine’s voice was low, but there was a tremor of fear in her voice.

  “Liar,” Obadiah shouted.

  His mother cried out in pain.

  Marcus turned and set off at a run for the barn. He pulled the long flintlock rifle out of the grain hopper, along with the powder and balls needed to fire it.

  An ancient elm stood t
wo hundred yards from the kitchen door. Marcus hid behind the massive trunk and loaded the gun. He had been practicing with it out in the woods. What he had discovered about the gun was that it was slow to load but astonishingly accurate, even at a distance.

  “Father!” Marcus called to the house. He looked down the barrel of the gun and aimed it at the door. “Come out here.”

  Silence fell.

  “Marcus?” Obadiah laughed. “Where are you hiding, boy?”

  Someone kicked open the door.

  Obadiah came out, gripping his mother with one hand and pulling Patience along by the shoulder with the other.

  “We thought you’d run off for good this time,” Marcus called.

  “And where have you been?” Obadiah’s eyes searched for Marcus, but didn’t find him. “Up to no good, I hear—holed up with Zeb Pruitt at the Marsh place.”

  Patience’s sobs grew louder.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” Obadiah warned his daughter.

  “Take whatever food you want and go, Obadiah.” His mother’s voice shook. “I want no more trouble.”

  “You don’t tell me what to do, Catherine.” Obadiah snatched her closer, shouting into her face. He had momentarily forgotten Marcus. “Ever.”

  “Let her go!” Patience lunged at her father, her fists landing on his back in a futile effort to interrupt his attention.

  Obadiah turned toward Patience with a snarl. He shook his daughter and then pushed her to the ground. Patience cried out in pain, her leg twisting underneath her.

  Marcus fired.

  The sound of the gunpowder catching light reached his father before the ball did. Obadiah MacNeil’s face registered surprise moments before the shot struck him between the eyes. He fell backward.

  Marcus dropped the gun and ran toward his mother and sister. His sister was unconscious. His mother was trembling like a birch tree.