Quarantine

by John Smolens

  Enoch went to a spyglass on a tripod and peered through it. “I will take you, my half-brother, into my confidence.” He turned the glass until it was pointed at Giles. “But you must promise me you will not divulge what I’m about to tell you to anyone.”

  “Does this have to do with a broken law?”

  Enoch straightened up and laughed. “I believe there is a sort of person who is meant to be beyond the law.”

  “Don’t you mean above?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “You’re talking about royalty, of course.”

  “No common law applies to the blood of kings.” Enoch came around the spyglass and stood very close to Giles; as he exhaled the doctor took a step backward and held his breath. “Perhaps the future of France lies here in my humble home.”

  “This—?”

  “This delightful girl, yes. What would you say if I told you that her father was the king himself?”

  “King Louis? The sixteenth?”

  “Of France.”

  “I’d say you’d have a hard time proving it.”

  Enoch smiled. “Why are men of science such cynics?”

  “They believe in evidence.”

  “But, Doctor, I have evidence.”

  “In what form?”

  Enoch turned away and moved to one of the windows. Giles took a deep breath.

  “Perhaps I’ll show you,” Enoch said, “another time.” He took a swig from his wine bottle. “What hasn’t been determined with absolute certainty is who her mother is—it’s possible it was Marie Antoinette, but it’s more plausible that it might have been some other woman, one of the king’s favorites in court. But who? He had so many, of course.”

  “Of course. King’s prerogative.”

  “Precisely. Whoever the mother was, she’s most likely dead now—those peasants and their guillotine, you know. But she made arrangements to have her daughter spirited out of Paris. Surely you’ve heard such rumors. And she’s been in hiding for several years, first in Havre, then in the Caribbean—and now, finally, she’s here, safe and sound.”

  “And only slightly waterlogged.”

  Enoch gazed through the spyglass toward the river. “I know you’re busy with this fever that seems to be gripping Newburyport, but I would appreciate it if you would find the time to examine our guest periodically.” He looked over his shoulder now. “And, Doctor, please, don’t give our mother any more of your potions or pills. She hoards them. And with my son returned from France as well—I have no doubt that he is conspiring with her against me. They’ve always been … allies.”

  “Conspiring? In what way?”

  “If I knew that,” Enoch smiled weakly, revealing his putrid brown teeth, “it wouldn’t be much of a conspiracy.”

  When Leander finished eating, he went to the kitchen door and let himself out into a courtyard. The last light of day cast a glow like burning coals on the undersides of towering clouds. Mosquitoes danced in the humid air, which smelled of manure. Several boys watched him from the open doors of the stable. They slouched on bales of hay, their arms folded. But they looked as though they were ready to attack upon a moment’s notice, and to defend their territory to the death. Leander walked around the corner of the house and a guard let him out a side gate.

  He wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to go to the pest-house, to see if he could get news about his mother and sister, but it was late and his father would wonder what had happened to him. And there was the skiff, which he had left tied to Sumner’s Wharf. He decided that first he must return the boat to Colin Thurlow in Joppa Flats. So he walked down to the wharf, boarded the skiff, and began rowing along the south bank of the river, making good speed as he was moving with the outgoing tide. He kept watching the water about him, half expecting to see something—some sign of his grandfather. But there was nothing but the gentle lapping against the hull, the splash of his oars, and the reflection of distant shore lights off the water.

  He leaned sideways and farted. It was a rich, resonant fart. Not a clam fart, but, still, a deep fart. This was one of Papi’s great talents. He believed the proof of a good quart of clams was in the fart, and suddenly, drifting on the dark Merrimack, Leander began to laugh. He leaned the other way and farted again. He couldn’t stop himself—laughter coming out of one end, farts from the other—and he was filled with a childish glee until he began to cry because he suddenly understood his grandfather’s logic. Papi had run away, bounding down the hill, stark naked, and waded into the river in an attempt to protect his grandson—Leander was certain of this, he knew not how, but in his heart he understood that his grandfather believed he posed a threat to the boy, and he used his last moments of strength and reason to get out into the river current, where his burden would once and for all be carried away. There was no place Papi would rather be buried than in the waters of the Merrimack, where the river meets the ocean. His life had been so beholden to the ebb and flow of the tides that it was only fitting that this would be his final place of rest. Leander cried as he drifted on the dark river. And he knew that when he reached his destination, when he pulled the skiff up on Joppa Flats, he would cry no more. Ever. That, he was certain, was his grandfather’s desire.

  The second floor was now lit by candle sconces on the wall. Giles returned to Marie’s room and, upon opening the door, found Samuel leaning over the girl in the bed; startled, Samuel straightened up, holding his hands behind his back. Giles hadn’t seen Samuel in several years—he was heavier and now a tousled forelock hung down over his eyes.

  “Well, Samuel.”

  Giles looked at the girl, who was sound asleep. He went to the bed and Samuel backed up.

  “What have you got in your hand?” Giles asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Come now,” he said as though to a recalcitrant child, “let me see.”

  Samuel took several more steps backward, until he bumped into the wall, causing something to drop on the floor. He turned his head away and winced, as though he expected a severe reprimand.

  Giles looked at the floor and saw something glistening in the candlelight. “Move aside.”

  Samuel tried to stand his ground, though he appeared on the verge of whimpering.

  “Samuel, did you hear me?” Giles said, taking a step forward, and Samuel shuttled along the wall.

  Giles picked up the shining object off the floor—a small locket on a fine silver chain. He went over to the bed and placed his medicine bag on the nightstand; Marie’s nightgown had been untied at the neck. He opened the locket; inside was a tiny portrait of a man in a long wig.

  “It’s him,” Samuel whispered. “King Louis.”

  “It’s a man in a wig.”

  “She’s his daughter. She as much as admitted it to me.”

  “When?”

  “In St. Barts.”

  “Before the Miranda set sail for Newburyport?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you offered to help her get to America?”

  Samuel straightened, affronted. “It was the noble course.”

  “I’m sure.” Giles closed the locket and fastened the chain about Marie’s slender throat; then he tied up her nightgown. “Go on. Get out of here, and don’t bother her.”

  Samuel hurried to the door, glaring at his uncle as he let himself out into the hall.

  Ten

  LEANDER WAS AWAKENED BY A POUNDING NOISE. BUT THEN IT stopped. He listened for a moment but heard nothing unusual. Perhaps he had been dreaming.

  Then the pounding came again, this time accompanied by a weak, desperate voice.

  He got up out of bed and went to the small front window. Across the street, Mr. Sears stood outside his own door, knocking with his fist. He was wearing a nightshirt and cap, and he cried out in a hoarse voice, “Please, Miriam, let me in!”

  Mrs. Sears’s voice came from within the house. Leander couldn’t understand what she was saying, but it was clear she was refusing her husband’s reque
st. Mr. Sears lifted his arm and slammed his fist against the door again, and when there was no reply, he turned and staggered out into the street. The front of his nightshirt was stained black. He fell to his knees and collapsed on his side.

  Leander could hear his father stirring downstairs, so he dressed quickly and climbed down the ladder. His father had already opened the front door. “What is it?” Leander asked.

  “Must have the fever, and Miriam has put him out for fear that he’ll pass it on to the children.” His father walked out into the street and leaned over Mr. Sears. “John, you have been ill in the night?” Mr. Sears did not move but groaned helplessly. Even from the doorway, Leander recognized the smell. He could see that the stain on the man’s nightshirt was vomit. “All right, John, you stay put,” his father said. “We’ll get you up to the pest-house.” Turning toward the house, he said, “Bring round the wheelbarrow.”

  Leander rushed into the dooryard and got the wheelbarrow, which was standing up against the side of the outhouse. He brought it around to the street and helped his father get Mr. Sears up off the ground. Carefully, they sat him in the wooden box—the effort seemed to take the last of the man’s strength, and he groaned constantly and complained of burning skin—and his father began rolling the wheelbarrow down Orange Street. Up ahead, Mrs. Ludlow was beating a rug on her front stoop. When she saw them coming, she stepped back inside and slammed the door shut.

  As they turned up Fruit Street, his father said, “You walk in front of us.”

  “In front?”

  “Something wrong with your ears?” His father’s voice was impatient, and he was sweating heavily from the effort of carrying Mr. Sears, who easily weighed over two hundred pounds. “I don’t want you to pass through his air.”

  They didn’t speak again as they rattled along High Street toward the Mall. When the smoke above the pest-house came into sight, they could hear voices—a large group of people stood outside the gates, singing “My Soul Doth Magnify the Lord.” By the time the last verse was finished, Leander and his father reached the Mall. Reverend Cary, a stout man with thick side-whiskers, stood on a crate addressing the crowd. He pointed at Leander’s father and bellowed, “Come noooo closer with thy burden!”

  His father stopped and put the wheelbarrow down.

  “There!” the reverend shouted at the crowd. “There comes another sinner! Bear witness, my children, this is a reckoning, a long, long overdue reckoning. Oh, Satan, he hath spoken, and there lies John Sears, laid prostrate by his ways because he, he hath turned his back on the Lord! You see his guilt! You see his shame! You see—”

  Leander’s father picked up the wheelbarrow by its handles and proceeded toward the gate. Fearfully, the crowd parted for him.

  “Halt!” Reverend Cary cried. “I say bring this sinner noooo closer!”

  Leander’s father stopped when he reached the gate, where he again set the wheelbarrow down. Two guards opened the gate. They helped Mr. Sears to his feet and walked him toward the row of tents. There was a great deal of activity there, people coming and going, carrying pails and pulling carts piled with bundles of linen. And there were agonized voices—coughing, crying, groaning, pleas for help. Leander’s father turned the wheelbarrow around and began to push his way back through the crowd.

  Leander remained at the gate, staring in at the tents.

  “Come, Leander,” his father said.

  “But Mother and Sarah—”

  “Don’t make me say it again, son.”

  Slowly, Leander turned and followed his father, and as they crossed the Mall toward the Frog Pond, the Reverend Cary continued to shout imprecations at them.

  When Leander began to look over his shoulder, his father said, “Don’t, you hear me? Don’t even look back.”

  By the evening of the second day, over sixty people had been admitted to the pest-house. More tents had been raised and the grass between them was becoming trodden. Giles was with Sarah when the girl’s convulsions finally ceased. Amanda looked on from her cot, half delirious herself, speechless as he carefully wrapped the child in her linens. He carried her out to one of the carts and laid her with three other corpses that were destined for the pit.

  He returned to the tent and sat on a stool next to Amanda’s cot. Pink tears streaked the sides of her face, but she looked more alert than only a few minutes earlier.

  “I’m ashamed,” she whispered.

  “You needn’t be,” he said.

  “But I am, because I’m feeling much better.” She opened her eyes and stared up at him. “Do you suppose I could have something to eat?” She turned her head away. “I’m so ashamed.”

  He took her hand, which was warm and dry now, but he couldn’t speak so he only nodded his head. Then he got up and went out of the tent.

  Dr. Bradshaw was standing by the cart, which now contained a fourth body, wrapped in linen. “Tell them,” he said to the driver, “to make the pit bigger—make it bigger and deeper—and then go to my house. My wife has been organizing the gathering of linen from around town. Bring back what you can.”

  The driver took the reins and walked ahead of the mule toward the gate.

  “At least the Reverend Cary and most of his crowd are gone home for their evening supper,” Dr. Bradshaw said.

  “The peace and quiet is welcomed,” Giles said.

  They walked down the row of tents and entered the one that had been established as their office. Dr. Bradshaw unbuttoned his stiff waxed coat and sat at the desk, which was two pine boards laid across sawhorses. He opened a flask and poured two drams of whiskey.

  “That’s eleven today.” He took up the quill pen, dipped it in the ink well, and began writing in his ledger.

  “Amanda Hatch has requested food,” Giles said, picking up his glass. He went to the front of the tent and stared out through the open flap. He could see the cart moving up the hill into the cemetery. “I doubt she’ll make it through the night.” He tossed back his whiskey. “When I was in the Caribbean during the war, I saw this response sometimes. It’s so strange how a person will be violently sick, and then suddenly the fever lifts—the pain is gone, their appetite returns, and then.…”

  “It’s rarely a good sign.” Dr. Bradshaw continued to scratch away at the ledger. “You saw plenty of this, during the war?”

  “Yes.”

  “I did, too, though I was in Florida and New Orleans. You had a bout of it?”

  Giles lowered the tent flap. “Yes.”

  “We’re immune perhaps, though I’ve seen instances where someone is stricken a second time and dies. These fevers, they’re not all the same. When I had my bout, I wanted to die.” Bradshaw laid down his quill, took a pinch of sand from the dish, and sprinkled it on the ledger pages. “This is only the beginning. I spoke to the high sheriff today. We must take measures regarding sanitation. Throughout the town there is much foul water, standing water. And the disposal of dead animals, they are often left to rot. The live ones, too. Pigs, cows, chickens—they roam at will in many neighborhoods. There are regulations, and Thomas Poole needs to enforce them. And I sent word to Dr. Strong, begging his assistance.”

  Giles came back and sat in the chair on the other side of the desk. “He won’t come.”

  “I know.” Dr. Bradshaw shook his head. “I’ll tell you who will: the black folk from the Caribbean. Two more came into the camp today to help. They’ve seen this—they understand what we’re up against.”

  “I saw them assisting in the tent with the men.”

  “Mrs. Heath, one of the women working in the laundry, questioned their presence, and I told her that we needed their assistance. But I’ll wager she’ll be gone by morning. The Negroes, they will stay, and they’ll get little thanks for it.”

  “Reverend Cary’s congregation outside the gates—you know what they’ll say about it.”

  “Yes, I know.” Dr. Bradshaw leaned over the desk and blew the sand off the page, and then closed the ledger. “Now, shall
we attend to Amanda Hatch?”

  Giles put his glass on the desk. “Not another bleeding.”

  Bradshaw looked sternly at Giles, as though he were a schoolmaster preparing to reprimand a pupil. “You don’t believe in this method, but I maintain it’s the only way to bring about equilibrium in the humors. If I am right—and I believe there is strong evidence that I am—”

  “I know, but think about it, Doctor. Impurities released from the earth—in faraway places such as a volcano in Sicily? Can this really be the cause of these epidemics that have struck American cities?”

  “You must understand, Giles, the earth’s atmosphere is a complex thing. If I am right,” Dr. Bradshaw said forcefully, “if Noah Webster is right, then you had best become expert with the lancet, for you will be obliged to employ the instrument often.”

  “I suspect that the cause of this fever is closer than Italy,” Giles said. “And I submit—respectfully—that when it comes to medicine, Mr. Webster is not the final, authoritative word.”

  “So be it. But as I am the chief practicing physician here,” Dr. Bradshaw said, “it is my determination that Mrs. Hatch will be bled.”

  “Of course, Doctor.” Giles got to his feet. “And if that’s the case, would you have any objection to my performing the procedure?”

  “No.” Dr. Bradshaw studied him for a long moment. “You need the practice.”

  Giles bowed slightly and went to the front of the tent, but paused before ducking out through the flap. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “What have you got against Noah Webster?” Bradshaw asked. “He’s one of the finest minds in America.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” Giles said. “I only wish he would apply that mind to other endeavors—defining words, for instance. Dictionaries.”

  This drew the faintest smile from Dr. Bradshaw. “It is a pity that we live in a time when a man with such broad curiosity, such Renaissance sensibilities, can go so unappreciated.”