by John Smolens
“We did not come out here to reminisce,” Enoch said. “We wish to proceed.”
“Certainly,” Martins said. “Don’t stay no longer than one must needs, sirs.”
Enoch gestured to his four rowers, who pulled on, bringing the skiff along Miranda’s starboard side. Giles climbed a rope ladder up to the deck, his sea-bag full of linen and medical supplies slung over one shoulder. Enoch followed, moving slowly and needing assistance over the rail at the ship’s waist. They were greeted by a man who was so short that his soiled white coat hung almost to his feet. Standing behind him was a tall, gaunt sailor with a monkey perched on his shoulder.
“That coat,” Giles said. “It belonged to Captain Frothingham, and then Captain Delacourte. What’s happened to Delacourte?”
“He quit command of the ship,” the tall sailor said. “And Mr. Love here has now assumed the duties of captain.”
“Love?” Enoch said.
“Henri Love, yes, sir,” the sailor replied. “He cannot speak being that his tongue was cut out by some savages, but he’s a first-rate sailor. I’m Mr. Juneau, First Mate, sir.” He made a bow toward Enoch.
“But where is Delacourte?” Giles insisted.
Juneau seemed perplexed. “I reckon he went over the side,” he said apologetically. “That’s what happens to most of them. The ones that die go overboard, and some that don’t simply disappear during the night to avoid your sheriff’s boats. I suspect they attempt to swim ashore, though with the current in this river they go with my prayers, sir. There’s but a handful of us left on board. Some of us have been through the fever before and seem unaffected. Still, it is a hardship being kept so long aboard an idle vessel. The rest of the crew is below decks—very ill—and they don’t tend to last long.”
“And those that die of the fever,” Giles said, “you say they go overboard, too?”
“Aye,” Juneau said. “But we wait for the ebb tide to ensure that the bodies travel downriver and out to sea. A proper resting place for a sailor, the sea.”
“The doctor here,” Enoch said, “will conduct his inspection.” He leaned on the rail, as though he would have nothing more to do with these proceedings. “And I’ve come for my horses.”
“Of course, sir,” the first mate said. “Please accompany me, Doctor.”
“I know the way, Mr. Juneau,” Giles said.
Reluctantly, Juneau stepped aside, allowing Giles to cross the deck.
He descended the companionway to the fo’castle, where he met with air dense with the smell of excrement and bile. In the dim light he could see men lying in hammocks, coughing and moaning. He moved among them, inspecting the condition of each man. They all had symptoms of the fever. There was little that could be done. Provide a drink of water. Clean the dried vomit and blood from a man’s chin. He removed his coat and opened up his sea-bag, found a barrel of fresh water, and set to work.
Leander slept in the chair by the kitchen door, his head against the lower pantry shelf. When he awoke, his neck was stiff. He found that his parents’ bed had not been slept in and, half asleep, he went out into the dooryard, where he stripped to his waist and washed himself in the cold water from the barrel behind the outhouse.
Inside, he put on the clean shirt his mother had ironed, and he felt a pang of guilt: he had always taken those shirts, the labor of love involved, for granted. Suddenly he realized he was on his own. He could no longer expect to be told what to do. He had been told—ordered—not to leave the house until his father returned, but now in this morning light such a command had no more weight than the cold ashes that he stirred in the fireplace.
He pulled on his jacket, took the last of the bread in the kitchen, and went out the front door. As he started walking toward Market Square, seagulls clustered on shingled roofs looked down on his passage, smug and, perhaps, curious. Orange Street was empty and most of the houses were boarded up. It was as though time had stopped.
After about an hour, Giles returned to the skiff, which then stood off from the ship as two horses were hoisted up out of the hold and lowered into the water. Enoch, his hands on his waist, bellowed commands. When the horses were in the river, they were tethered to the stern of the skiff. As the rowers began to pull, the horses swam behind, their nostrils flaring with the effort of keeping pace.
“They have been too long aboard ship,” Enoch said. “They’ve grown fat. Such exercise will be good for them.”
“Provided they don’t drown,” Giles said. They were, indeed, handsome animals, and their long powerful necks rising out of the boat’s wake gave the impression that some mythical two-headed sea monster was in pursuit.
“You know where these horses come from?” There was a note of pride in Enoch’s voice. “Monticello. They are a gift from Mr. Thomas Jefferson. We’ve conducted business over the years—everything from lumber to molasses to slaves—and this is a gesture of appreciation from the great man himself.” Enoch glanced at Giles, his eyes sly, even conspiratorial. “He is a gentleman, even if he is a Virginian. But I’ll wager that he won’t prove to be any friend to New England commerce.”
“Particularly if we engage in hostilities with Britain again someday,” Giles said.
“On that we agree. But politics bores me.” Enoch pressed close and looked him in the eye—it was a crazed, addled stare, riveting and determined. “Tell me, you have seen horses copulate?”
“Of course. Why?”
“I’m curious. From a medical standpoint, that is. The stallion’s member, when it is unsheathed and fully erect, it is a most considerable instrument, no?”
Giles tried to look away, but Enoch’s face only came closer, seeking an answer. “Is there a point to this?”
“A point, yes.” Enoch folded his arms and gazed with satisfaction toward the two horses as they swam in the skiff’s wake. Then he scratched his cheek, shooing away a fly, and his brow furrowed. “You’ve heard the stories about the late Catherine the Great, queen of Russia?”
“What stories?”
“About her amorous adventures. Certainly you’ve heard that her blood was not only royal but hot—unusually so. The woman had an insatiable appetite in the boudoir. There was a line of counts and dukes outside her door. By God, I would love to have met such a woman. And it went beyond the bedroom, apparently.”
“It did?”
“My dear half-brother, really.” Enoch nodded toward the horses, which were now snorting with great effort as they swam after the boat. “You must have heard that she was fond of some rather unorthodox practices, some of which took place in the royal stables.”
Giles now turned and looked back at the two stallions. The sound coming from them was rhythmic and bestial, sensual in its own way; it suggested the enormous capacity of their lungs, their prowess and stamina.
His brother removed his cocked hat, almost as a reverential tribute, and whispered, “Honestly, does it not stir the imagination?”
Leander spent the morning walking through the North End. Looking downhill, he could see the shipyard, closed due to the quarantine, where several unfinished hulls sat on the blocks, their exposed ship’s knees resembling the skeletons of some ancient beasts that seemed to have washed up on the riverbank.
On Broad Street he found a group of men filling in a swampy culvert. The constable in charge sat in the shade of a willow, fanning himself with his tricorn hat.
“I’m looking for my father, Caleb Hatch,” Leander said.
“Ain’t seen him,” the constable said.
One of the men stopped pulling at the mud with a hoe. “He was in Market Square this morning. Took a team of men to work—a block over on Tyng Street.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Miranda came out into the courtyard when the coach arrived. Enoch ignored her, as he often did, and gave orders to the stable boys regarding the horses. The two new stallions were stunningly handsome, and she approached one as it was being led into the stable, until Enoch said, “Please, Mother, e
xercise a little restraint.” His laugh had always irritated her.
She wheeled around, clutching her skirts, and started back toward the kitchen door, but stopped when she saw Giles climb down from the coach. “My dear Doctor,” she said. “You look exhausted. If you do not rest, you too will be a victim of this epidemic.” She turned to Cedella, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, and said, “Well, prepare him a bath.”
There was no work crew on Tyng Street, though there were clear signs that they had filled in culverts of standing water. Leander found a pewter cup lying in the middle of the road. A little farther on, a candle snuffer. And then a plate. A girl’s poppet, with no head. A broken glass goblet. He followed this trail for a block until it went off the road, through a broken wooden gate, and up the steps to a front door, which was standing wide open. An old woman sat on the threshold, holding what appeared to be a chair leg in her lap. The side of her face was red and swollen.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
She straightened up, raising the chair leg as though it were a club. “Don’t you come near,” she called. “There’s nothing left worth taking anyhow.”
“Can’t I help?”
“Help?” Now she lowered the chair leg, snorting. “Oh, that’s fine. Where were you when them boys was here?” She nodded toward the house next door. “Last night they cleaned out Betsy’s dining room next door and had the gall to come back for more early this morning.”
“How many?”
“Four, five.”
“You know who they are?”
“They’re not from the North End, I can tell you that. North Enders do not pillage in times of misfortune.” She studied him a moment. “You’re not from round here.”
“No, I’m not.”
“From across the river, Amesbury or Salisbury?”
“No, Ma’am. Orange Street.”
“Below Market Square—that’s bad enough.” She waved him away with her hand. “Move on. If my husband were still alive, your arse would be full of birdshot, but they stole his gun, too. Now leave me be.” Wearily, she got to her feet, went into the house, slamming the door behind her.
Giles had dozed off in the iron tub, so he was startled when the door opened and Marie entered the small, steamy room.
“Monsieur,” she said, closing the door behind her. “I wish only to say merci for your most kindness earlier.”
“You’re most welcome,” he said as he shifted his legs so that his knees were beneath the suds and water. “You look as though you’re feeling better.”
“I am, how you say, feet as the feed-dle?”
“Fiddle,” he said.
“Fid-dle. Better?”
“Much.”
“I wish to know how I must to repay you.”
“No compensation is required.”
Marie came toward the tub, pushing up the sleeves of her dress. “I might to wash your back and shoulders, no?” She picked up the washcloth draped over the side of the tub.
“Now, there’s fair compensation.” Giles leaned forward as she knelt behind the tub and began to run the hot cloth over his shoulders. “I paid a visit to the Miranda this morning,” he said. “The crew is very ill.”
“I had this fever, in the Caribbean.” Her hands were gentle yet thorough. “The first winter after I leave France I nearly die from the chills. It is most horrible, no?”
“It is. More will die here before it passes.”
“Your hair,” she said. “I must to wash it.”
“I would be most grateful.”
As her fingers began kneading his scalp, she said, “You have been to the Caribbean?”
“During the war,” he said. “The air—I recall how it could be hot and moist, like this steam, and it has the power to open up the skin.”
“Yes, and the country was so green and loosh.”
“Lush.”
“Lash.” She laughed as she picked up a small bowl from the floor next to the tub; she dipped it in the suds as though she were going to scoop up his genitals. “Close eyes, s’il vous plaît.” Which he did as she poured hot water over his head, rinsing his hair. “The sheep, Miranda,” she said. “It will stay at the anchor in the river?”
“As long as it’s under quarantine.” He opened his eyes and looked at her through long strands of wet hair clinging to his face. Her face was coated with the slightest sheen of moisture, and her skin had turned a pleasant rose color. “Why?”
She looked away, taking a towel off the chair beside the tub. “This sheep, it is very stronge. The crew, they.…” She stood up and draped the towel over his head.
“What about the crew?” He lifted the towel off his face so he could see her.
“There was the captain—Captain Frothingham—he was a good man, but he has many enemies on board.” She stood with her hands on her hips, gazing down at him with an assessing eye. “Tell me, Doctor, will you inspect the sheep again?”
“Most likely. What is it about the ship?”
She turned her head toward the light from the window and seemed to have come to some conclusion. “Nothing,” she said. “I am joost curious, and I think I remain here too long. Someone might think it is, how do you say, in pro-pear for me to see a man in a tub of the bath?”
“The word is ‘improper.’”
“Oui,” she said as she went to the door. “And this is a very improper houz.”
“It’s my brother’s doing.” He began toweling his hair. “But you have had some experience in bathing men, no?”
“Doctor, I have washed the royalty in France.” As she raised the door latch, she looked over her shoulder, offering a complicit smile. “And I have to make this great discovery. They have heads and backs, and even the derrière—just the same as you.”
“Welcome to America, Marie.”
Leander heard a scream, the voice of a girl coming from behind the house to his right. He ran into the yard, down the side of the house, and entered the yard, where several boys were standing outside a shed, looking in the open doorway. They were all younger and smaller than he was, and when they saw him they scattered, some scrambling over the fence into the next yard. There was one boy inside the shed, and a girl of about twelve struggled in his arms. She wore a soiled nightgown that was torn away at one shoulder. She screamed again when she saw Leander, who reached through the door and pulled the boy out into the yard by his shirt. Leander vaguely recognized the boy, though he couldn’t remember from where, some game perhaps that had been played up on the Mall. The boy had been drinking—the smell of rum came off him—and he wasn’t very steady on his feet. Plus, his trousers were unbuttoned and they began to fall down about his hips. He took a swing at Leander, which was easy to dodge. Leander shoved him hard with both hands, and he fell to the ground. The boy got to his feet, a rock in one fist, and held up his pants with his other hand.
“All right, come on,” Leander said.
The boy seemed to reconsider and, backing away, dropped the rock. He pointed at Leander, saying, “You’re Hatch, ain’t you? We’ll remember you.” He retreated toward the back fence and climbed over with difficulty, his pants falling enough to expose his pale buttocks.
Leander listened to the boys run off, shouting and cursing at him, and then he turned to the girl, who was crouched inside the doorway of the shed. “You all right?”
She was crying, her tears streaking the dirt on her cheeks. “My ma and pa, they sent me here to my aunt’s, but she’s gone—they’ve all gone to the pest-house.”
Leander went to the door and reached inside, but the girl withdrew, clutching her torn nightgown to her shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said. He removed his jacket and offered it to her. “Put this on, and we’ll go to the pest-house. See what we can find out about them.”
The girl eyed him warily, but then she took the jacket and pulled it on as she stepped outside the door. She was barefoot, and as they walked out to the street her thin fingers took hold of his right han
d.
After being bathed and fed, Giles took his leave from his brother’s house in the late afternoon. He went out the front gate and saw Leander walking up High Street, holding the hand of a young girl.
“We are going to the pest-house,” Leander said, “to see if we can locate her family. And my father, he did not return home last night. I’ve been searching for him all day.”
Giles looked at the girl, who would not return his stare. “What is your name?”
It was as though he had not spoken.
“She says nothing,” Leander said. “Some boys—they frightened her.”
“I see,” Giles said. “Well, let’s get ourselves to the pest-house.”
They walked down High Street and found that hundreds of people were gathered around the pond at the Mall. They stood in clusters, staring toward smoke rising above the pest-house. A crowd—larger than the day before—was gathered just outside the gates, and Reverend Cary was again going on about the sins of the afflicted. But today he was not alone on his small wooden stage. Dr. Wilberforce Strong was next to him, his hands clasped over his girth, nodding agreement to everything the reverend shouted at his audience.
A woman came away from the crowd and approached the girl standing between Giles and Leander. “Louisa?” the woman gasped, as she squatted down in front of the girl. “Louisa, we thought you were in there with your family. You’ve been saved.” She stood up and turned toward Reverend Cary. “Look, she’s been saved!”
The crowd cheered and applauded, and the reverend raised his arms to the sky. “Let us give thanks!” he shouted. He fell to his knees, as did the crowd, and they began to pray. The woman took Louisa by the hand—looking scornfully at Giles and Leander—and led the girl toward the stage. Though the girl looked over her shoulder, the woman drew her on, until they were absorbed into the crowd. As they got to their feet, they began to sing a hymn, and there were women in the crowd who were weeping with joy.
Giles touched Leander on the upper arm and they approached the pest-house gate.