by John Smolens
“You can’t come in,” he said to the boy. “I will inquire about your father. You go on home and I’ll let you know if we have any word of him.” Leander looked toward the pest-house, uncertain. “Go on now,” Giles said. “Go on home.”
Reluctantly, Leander started back across the Mall toward High Street. Giles went to the gate, which one of the guards opened, and as he was admitted inside the pest-house, the hymn ended.
And then Dr. Strong bellowed, “Yes, Giles Wiggins, go to them! Give alms to the sinners! Offer them false salvation!”
Giles paused and looked back across the top of the wooden gate. He recognized many of the people in the crowd; they were tradesmen and shopkeeps, and many of the women had often greeted him on the streets or from their yards as they hung laundry or tended their gardens. In the past they had sought his assistance, urged him to come into their homes and care for someone in the family who was injured or ill, but now their faces seemed transformed by a self-righteous hostility.
PART IV
Love and Larceny
Fourteen
WHILE A GREAT FEAST WAS BEING SERVED IN THE DINING ROOM, Miranda and Samuel slipped down the back stairs and into the courtyard. Music—a fiddle, a cello, and the harpsichord—poured from the open windows of the house. Miranda didn’t know how many times she’d insisted that her harpsichord not be touched, but tonight she was too distressed by the heat to confront the revelers.
“Fewer people are attending these festivities,” Samuel said.
“And what’s his response? More sumptuous meals, more extravagant occasions.”
“Demented and defiant,” Samuel said, taking her arm. “As though there were no epidemic.”
“Imagine the cost of tonight’s festivities.” She pulled her arm free from his grasp and left the courtyard, walking out into the vast garden that ran off beyond the stable. The full moon cast a milky blue light on the path. “If it keeps up, he will spend everything. His guests think your father’s wealth is limitless. And well they should, the way he carries on. But I have seen the counting-house books. He has substantial debts, and now, with this quarantine, the shipyard’s closed and the cargo he has sitting at anchor cannot be off-loaded. Other than what slips ashore by stealth—French ‘royalty,’ I’m sure! And stallions from Mr. Jefferson!”
Samuel was trying to keep up. He was breathing heavily as he stumbled behind her; branches that she easily pushed aside swung back in the path, striking him full force in the face. When she sat on the small marble bench by the fish pond, he collapsed beside her, winded. He unfurled a handkerchief and mopped his face and neck.
“If you were a real man, you would challenge your father’s aberrant behavior.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Something traditional and honorable would be appropriate. Perhaps umbrage taken at some small insult, leading to a duel.”
“A duel? With my own father?”
“Why not? Does he not challenge your honor daily?”
“Well, yes, but a duel—to the death? With what?”
“If I were a man, the rapier would be my choice. It’s dignified, and it has great tradition. Though it would require fitness and finesse.” Samuel was silent. “But you do have some experience with firearms, my dear, so I expect pistols would have to do. Besides, your father is a terrible shot, thanks to a near perpetual state of inebriation.”
Samuel folded up his handkerchief and tucked it away inside his frock coat. “So you would like me to challenge Father to a duel, at dawn.”
“His sorry condition at dawn would be your best insurance.”
“It would be simpler if he contracted this damned fever.”
“In this house, where every surface is scrubbed?” Miranda asked. “I doubt it. This is High Street, not some waterfront hovel.”
“I suppose you have a point,” Samuel said meekly.
Laughter came across the garden, and they saw in the moonlight a woman running through the apple orchard, chased by a man. The couple disappeared in the grape arbor, amid the rustling of bushes.
“This wanton behavior, it’s detestable.” Samuel looked as though he was preparing himself for another scolding. “At your age,” she said, “a certain deviance is natural. Your father should have gotten over the need for such diversions long ago. But no, and the result is that our family is in jeopardy.” She glanced at Samuel, who was clearly relieved that her wrath wasn’t directed at him. “One has to learn to view a situation objectively, Samuel. Even when it comes to members of one’s own family—indeed, it’s all the more important when it comes to that, to the survival of family. That man is a threat. He’s willing to squander everything for the sake of his petty bacchanalian pleasures.”
Samuel nodded in whole-hearted agreement.
“Don’t deceive yourself—you’re very much your father’s son. You’re headed down the same path, which will only lead to your own demise and familial oblivion. Do you understand me?”
Again, he nodded, though this time with grave intent. “I’m the future,” he said.
She patted his hand, but only briefly. “I’m afraid you’re all we’ve got.”
They sat together in silence for some time, until Miranda stood up and began walking back toward the house. “The ideal situation would be if your father were the one to insist on a duel. And for that, we would need … we need a cause. An incident. Something that he simply could not tolerate.”
“What could that be?” Samuel asked.
There was another giggle from the grape arbor.
Miranda gathered up her skirts and walked more vigorously toward the house. “Oh, I suppose something like a duel is out of the question, or maybe I should say out of character—meaning that it’s not a viable solution to men who possess none.”
“None what?”
“Character, dear. Character.”
Leander was walking down Fruit Street when he first noticed a column of smoke angling into the evening sky. After a moment he began to realize its source, and he started to run. Turning the corner into Orange Street, he found several of the constables trying to control a crowd that had gathered to watch as flames engulfed his house. There was no effort to douse the flames—it was too far gone—but neighbors had formed lines where buckets were passed so that water could be thrown on the houses nearby, in an effort to keep the fire from spreading.
Within an hour, the fire leveled the house. At one point Leander saw a flock of chimney swifts, small birds that tended to dart about in the last light of day, burst into flames as they glided high above the burning house. Dozens streaked across the sky, their flapping wings aglow, as they descended in an arc toward the ground. When the post and beam structure collapsed in on itself, there were gasps from neighbors, while children applauded with delight. Finally, once there was nothing left but a smoking pile of charred timbers around a brick chimney, the crowd began to disperse. Some looked at Leander with wary, accusing eyes, as though he were somehow responsible for the fire. No one offered him assistance.
Then Mr. Poole and several more constables arrived on horseback. They searched through the rubble, putting out the last flames with leather buckets of water. There was suddenly great confusion, several of the men talking and yelling to one another. Leander wanted to approach the house, but one of the constables held him by the arm, almost as though he were a prisoner. Repeatedly, he would say things like, “You don’t wants to be goin’ in there, boy,” and “Easy, there’s nothing to be done now.”
But there was something about the fire that had caught the constables by surprise, and for a long time they huddled about Mr. Poole, until he finally walked over to Leander, looking solemn and grim.
“I’ve got bad news, son,” he said, taking Leander by the arm and walking him farther away from the house. Two of the constables were right behind them. “I understand you’ve been looking for your father all day.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Poole stopped and looke
d back toward the house. “I’m afraid he was in there.”
Leander took a step toward the house, but the constables caught him by both arms.
“No use,” Mr. Poole said. “He’s gone.”
“You can’t hardly recognize him,” one of the constables said. “The smoke, it must have overtaken him, and he just couldn’t get out in time.”
After this various men talked to Leander. They tended to hold him by an arm. At one point he was offered a drink of water. Suddenly he became nauseous and so dizzy that he sat down on the ground.
When his father’s body was carried out of the smoldering house, it was placed in a wagon. Leander got to his feet. The body was small and black, and it gave off a powerful charred smell. There were teeth visible in the skull. After a moment, Leander backed away. No one touched him now. They just stared at him.
“He gave me instructions,” he said. “Before he left the house he said I was to stay and tend to the fire. But he didn’t return. I waited, but he didn’t return. So in the morning I went looking for him, only to find him … here.”
Mr. Poole stepped toward him.
“How did this fire start?” Leander was hoarse from all the smoke. “Tell me that!”
“Newburyport is built of wood, son. You know how often we have fires.”
“But the ashes in the fireplace, they were cold when I left the house.”
“It only takes one ember sometimes.”
“I’m certain they were cold. I stirred them to be sure.”
Mr. Poole himself seemed at a loss, until he said, “Because of this fever, many houses are being smoked. Whether it really wards off the fever, I can’t say. It could have been an ember, just a single ember come adrift in the air. Lord, there’s no reason to this—to any of this. I wish I could tell you otherwise, Leander.” Cautiously, he took another step closer. “But I can assure you of one thing. We will find you a place to stay.”
Leander shook his head.
“You don’t have to be all on your own,” Mr. Poole said.
The constable reached out and took hold of Leander by the shoulder, a kindly gesture. Leander shrugged the hand off and backed away. “Just leave me be.”
When Mr. Poole stepped closer this time, it was as though he were approaching a wary animal.
Leander shouted, “No!”
He sprinted down Orange Street and ran all the way to Joppa Flats, where he let himself into his grandfather’s house. He sank into the rocking chair by the window and stared out at the Merrimack, its dark currents running swiftly down to the sea.
Toward midnight, Giles found Dr. Bradshaw in his tent, hunched over his ledger.
“Giles, please,” Dr. Bradshaw said, gesturing toward the empty stool. He poured some rum into a glass and placed it on the edge of the desk. “You look as exhausted as I feel.” He drank down the contents of his own glass, refilled it, and picked up his quill once again. “As of this evening,” he said, studying his ledger, “we have admitted seventy-eight people to the pest-house. We have buried thirty-one souls. Nine men, twelve women, and ten children. And tomorrow, who knows? Perhaps another dozen?”
“More, I suspect,” Giles said. “And my medicine bag is depleted. I’m nearly out of anything that might prove useful.”
“Yes, we’re almost out of emetics.” Dr. Bradshaw straightened up, removing his reading glasses, looking perturbed. He took a slip of paper from the pocket of his waistcoat and dropped it on the corner of the desk. “A messenger delivered this earlier this evening.”
Giles picked up the paper, unfolded it, and read:
Sirs, it has come to our attention that certain medicines and supplies are required by the pest-house. It is our desire to assist you in your courageous efforts as best we can. Therefore, we propose to discuss with you the means by which you may be provided with some necessary and sundry items. Our humble representative would be pleased to entreat with you tomorrow evening. Wolfe Tavern, seven o’clock.
Yours, Concerned Citizens of Newburyport
“Same as during the war, you see?” Bradshaw said. “Public disasters always bring out the profiteers.”
“We could inform the high sheriff,” Giles said, “but that would only scare our ‘concerned citizens’ off, and we’d be left with nothing. I’ll wager that some of the constables are behind the thefts at those apothecaries.”
Bradshaw nodded. “If they didn’t do it themselves, it’s probable that such activities were condoned. Everybody gets a cut. So I’ve already sent word to Jeremiah Storrs, hoping that he, and perhaps some of the other wealthy High Street shipbuilders, might be willing to finance a transaction for the public benefit.”
“That’s assuming they’re aren’t behind this scheme themselves.”
“True.” Bradshaw drank off his rum. “Much of the wealth of this town was earned from privateering during the war—activities which we now treat with all due patriotic respect. But the fact is that Letters of Marque was nothing more than piracy, underwritten by the government of these United States.” He smiled; a rare thing. “Odd, but that phrase still doesn’t roll off the tongue with grace or conviction: the United States.”
“Maybe it will, someday, though I’m skeptical.” Giles finished his rum and placed his glass on the desk. He began to get to his feet, but Dr. Bradshaw fixed him with a stare that caused him to settle on the stool once again. “There’s something else, Eli?”
Bradshaw cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t suppose you heard about the fire.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It was on Orange Street. The Hatch place. Evidently, Caleb was inside. He didn’t make it out.” Dr. Bradshaw pursed his lips by way of apology. “I would have informed you earlier, but, well, we’ve both been hard at it.”
Giles had to lean forward and place his elbows on the desk for support, while a vile tremor coursed through his intestines. Caleb Hatch. Giles’s connection to the man had always been tenuous, yet curiously intimate—strange to know things that are essential to another man’s life, dark knowledge that could never be shared. Giles inhaled deeply, and as he breathed out, “What about the boy, Leander?”
“No, he’s all right, I hear,” Bradshaw said.
“You’re sure?”
“Hm, yes. Remarkable. He’s the only one left in that entire family. Makes you wonder whether he’s blessed or cursed.”
Fifteen
THE TIDE WAS OUT, AND JOPPA FLATS GLISTENED IN THE moonlight as Leander rolled his trousers above his knees and walked toward the river, his bare feet sinking up to his ankles into cold muck, and when he was a good ways from the beach he stood still because there was no wind and it was perfectly silent, so he listened carefully, as his grandfather had taught him, You can hear them breathing and that’s how you find them, while chimney swifts flew overhead, looking like cigars with short wings, until out over the river they burst into flames and dropped into the water with a hiss that accompanied the soft whistles and sighs rising up out of the muck, causing him to fall to his knees and dig frantically with his hands, the smell of the mud deep and rich, but there were no hard clamshells, even though he could hear them, their voices becoming louder, and he crept forward, raking his fingers through the muck, and as water pooled about his knees eels slithered past his forearms while in the distance dogfish barked, but directly below him there was still the sound of breathing, getting louder, calling his name, it seemed, and he dug faster, until he was up to his elbows and something grabbed him, Sarah’s tiny hands, her surprisingly strong, cold fingers entwined with his, pulling him down into the muck.
Leander opened his eyes with a scream. He watched Dr. Wiggins, who had been standing over him, take a step backwards.
“You must have been dreaming,” the doctor said.
“Where are they?”
“They?”
Leander couldn’t answer.
“Nightmares, I should say.” The doctor went to the window; the sun was rising above Plum Island, spreading gol
d across the river basin. “After I saw what happened to your house, I knew you’d come down here. I’m sorry about your father.” He turned around, but Leander didn’t want to look at him—it was asking too much.
Leander got up from the rocking chair, annoyed. “I’ve nowhere else to go.”
“You can’t stay here.”
“Papi did. I’ll work the flats at low tide, sell my haul from door to door.”
“It’s a pretty thought, but it wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“You aren’t yet twenty. You have a life to live.”
“For how long? My mother and sister are gone. My grandfather. My father now. I’ll live by the tides and dig clams out of Joppa until it’s my turn. Lots of Newburyporters live by the tides. You know it’s an honorable life.”
The doctor looked tired, as though he hadn’t slept all night.
“Do you know my grandfather never owned a clock?” Leander said. “A fact he was proud of, too. He said he lived only by the tides. High and low water here on the Merrimack—that was true time. It was all he needed.” Leander stared out the window a moment, watching the light on the river. “If only this fever would pass. Few people will buy clams now—they’re afraid to open their doors.”
“It will pass,” the doctor said.
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s like time has stopped,” Leander said. “The water rises and falls, but it doesn’t matter. These are quarantine tides. Water moves, but nothing changes. But I will stay here, where I belong.”
“No, it won’t do, not for you. Listen to me, I borrowed a horse,” he said. “Come with me. I have an idea.” He turned to Leander and appeared to have suddenly hit upon a great realization. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.”
Leander didn’t answer, and it seemed a concession which satisfied the doctor, who went outside and mounted his horse. Leander followed him but paused in the doorway. “Where will you take me?”
“My brother’s house. I’ll arrange things. I’ll talk to my mother—she runs the house. You’ll start working in the stable, or perhaps the garden. You’ll have a place to sleep and plenty to eat. There may be an opportunity for advancement. This is what your mother would want. I don’t know what to tell you except you’ve got to take care of yourself.” The doctor shifted in his saddle, causing leather to creak. “Eventually, if you’d prefer, you might apprentice yourself to one of the tradesmen. Or perhaps go to sea, though I wouldn’t recommend that.”