by John Smolens
After dinner the hands scattered, some sitting outside to smoke and play cards. Leander walked the grounds, which included a vast garden, a fish pond, several outbuildings, a grape arbor, and an apple orchard. The air was still, the heat unbearable. At this hour of a summer evening, he would often take his sister Sarah down to Joppa Flats so they could sit outside Papi’s clam shack as the sun set. It was always cooler by the river. Their grandfather usually had licorice hidden in his pockets, and Sarah would search him with glee until she found the sweet treasure. After sunset it was Sarah who led her brother home through the dark—she knew her way around the South End by a combination of sound, smell, and the feel of the changing path beneath her feet: Mr. Tuttle’s chicken coop on Bromfield Street, Lucy Arnott’s barking hounds on Milk Street, Marlowe’s Bakery on the corner of Federal and Prospect, the bare tree root on Orange Street. Before going to bed, they drank a glass of warm milk while their mother read from the Bible and their father sat by the fire, smoking his pipe. Such a routine now seemed an illusion. Leander feared that he had dreamed his entire family, every one of them. Suddenly, it seemed, he’d awakened in this strange place, with its gardens and daily rituals, and he wasn’t sure who he was—his name, even, now seemed meaningless. Here, he wasn’t Leander Hatch. In the fields others referred to him as “you” or “boy.” No one had even asked if he had a name. When handing him his clothes, Mr. Penrose said with a black-toothed smile, “You the new boy? Ain’t you a tall one?”
When he reached the far end of the orchard, Leander sat in the grass, resting his back against the high fence. As the sun set, the west-facing windows of the Sumner house, an enormous white clapboard structure with a grand cupola atop its hip roof, were lit up with reflected fire. Flies and mosquitoes flitted about his face, but he was too exhausted to brush them away. Somewhere a fiddler was scratching out a reel.
While Dr. Bradshaw paid calls to some of his High Street patients, seeking funds, Giles returned to the pest-house. Sitting at Bradshaw’s desk, he looked at the sheet of paper Uriah Clapp had given them. The medical supplies were listed in the left-hand column: salts, quinine, mercury, castor oil, vinegar, Peruvian bark, ipecac, potassium nitrate, camphor, laudanum. In the middle column the quantities of each were neatly itemized, and then in the right-hand column their respective value, grossly inflated. In some cases, these quantities were quite substantial for a city of approximately eight thousand, but then this was a major port in a neutral country during a conflict between England and France; most likely a good portion of these supplies had been intended for shipment to other cities, other countries. At the bottom of the sheet of paper, Uriah Clapp had scrawled (he had the precise hand of an accounts clerk) the total: 4, 950 £.
Giles tucked the sheet inside the ledger. Since morning, four new names had been added to the list of the dead.
James Parsons, seaman, 28, Water Street.
Edith Saltonstall, charwoman, 42, Bromfield Street.
Mary O’Rourke, scullery maid, 21, Boardman Street.
Miles Pepperill, esq., schoolmaster, 58, Harris Street.
Giles had been a student of Master Pepperill’s for six years until he quit school when he was fourteen. Master Pepperill had read law, but for some reason he elected to teach children instead. He patrolled the aisles of the schoolroom, admonishing pupils who failed in their attempts to recite from memory Alexander Pope’s translation of The Odyssey of Homer. The man was as convinced of Pope’s genius as he was of his pupils’ stupidity. A day hardly passed when he wouldn’t at some point raise his voice and say, “Perverse humanity!” He was liberal only with the switch, and there were few children in Newburyport who hadn’t at some point wished some horrific death to be visited upon him; however, they could all read and write, and they could do accurate sums. During the war with Britain, while in the middle of surgery at sea, Giles often found himself suddenly, to the astonishment of his assistants, and sometimes even his patients, spouting lines from The Odyssey of Homer.
In the back of the ledger were Bradshaw’s notes. Giles skimmed through the pages, feeling guilty that he had not entered his own contributions—to date, he had only listed the dead.
I find Calomel to be the most effective Purgative. It diverts the Fever away from Internal Organs. However, persistent & violent Evacuation inflames the Bowels. To Correct the vomits I have offered a Julep of Salt of Tartar & Laudanum, & to counter the effects thereof I have offered an anti-emetic of Milk & Lime-water in equal parts.
Dr. Benjamin Rush, that great and patriotic Physician of Philadelphia, has claimed that he has not lost one Patient to whom he has administered Mercury to the salivary glands. Mercury, alas, was in short supply at the outset of our Epidemic & I quickly depleted what little stores I possessed.
The two strongest medications, Laudanum & Opium, we are now without—there was little Laudanum at the outset & I have not seen Opium in years. Both are instrumental in alleviating pain; without them, our Citizens have no choice but to suffer these horrific symptoms to their fullest, without mitigation or relief.
Castor oil purges are highly effective on some Patients, particularly children. A dry tongue is not a good sign. Sometimes also a dry, hoarse Throat. Many Patients suffer from frequent, uncontrollable bouts of the Hiccups. Profuse hemorrhages are common, from the bowels, the mouth, the nose, the eyes, the ears & the gums. In the case of women, also from the vagina.
Some Patients have exhibited the unusual reaction Dr. Rush refers to as “a want of delicacy.” I have Witnessed this in two female Patients. One was elderly, well beyond the childbearing years; the other a girl of perhaps 17. In both cases these Patients suddenly & dramatically became amorous in Nature. They shed their clothing, resisting all attempts to maintain Decency and Propriety, and then they behaved in the most wanton fashion. The older woman, foul-smelling & rancid with the stench of Fever, tried to force herself upon me. The child addressed me in the most Abject terms, spreading her legs & probing her nether Regions. With great Effort & the assistance of two orderlies, the girl was restrained, her hands and feet bound. Though we have used extreme heat with most Patients here, in this unusual case I opted for Cold Treatment, which, despite the child’s vociferous Protestations, eventually brought about the desired calming Effect.
In some instances, the sudden & total disappearance of Pain can be the most dangerous Sign. Some Patients lose all faculties of Reason. Others have the opposite reaction & they will converse about All manner of topics with great Pleasure (& in some cases demonstrating considerable Knowledge and Erudition) & then suddenly fall into violent Convulsions and Expire in a matter of minutes.
Giles paused to pour himself a glass of whiskey, and then he continued to flip through the pages, until he came to a place that was marked with the word “Venesection” written in a heavy hand and underlined.
Venesection
Said treatment, along with Purgation, is the most reliable Cure for this bilious Fever. I am not even certain what name to give this vile malady. In texts I have read it has been called Yellow Fever, Black Vomit, Scarletina, Bilious Pleurisies, Typhous Fever, all of which seem to be the result of Dramatic changes in the Earth’s atmosphere, Eruptions of internal gasses & foul exhalations from places where water stagnates—cisterns, gutters, standing ponds, cellars, sluices & culverts—may, over time, alter the Miasma to the point where Human Life will cease to Exist. I have found that Venesection & Purgation are the most reliable Cures for this most terrible Maladay. This too is consistent with the findings of Dr. Benjamin Rush, who has practiced this Method with the greatest Diligence.
In the first week of the Outbreak here at Newburyport I have applied the lancet to some three-hundred individuals. In most cases I will draw between twelve and sixteen ounces, often in two or three sessions. The amount is determined by the General Health of the Patient: Sex, Age, Weight, Height, Constitution & etc. In a few Extreme Cases I have withdrawn as much as twenty ounces from the arm or leg of a given Patient. Upon
examination the Blood is often sizy, giving the impression that the internal Organs have been exposed to extreme Heat by the Fever, thus the appearance that the blood is approaching a boil. It is my firm Belief that removing a specific amount of Blood reduces the pressure on said Organs and allows the agents of the Fever to be evacuated, with the assistance of a Purgative.
My colleague, Giles Wiggins, Surgeon, is not so impressed by the Method of Venesection. He has not the proper medical training, but instead the experience gained from conducting surgery in conflict. Tho’ he is admirably enthusiastic & energetic in his attentions to our fair port’s Dilemma, he prefers to Purge through Sweat, wrapping Patients in hot, wet linens & placing hot bricks or stones on their Suffering Bodies. Said practice of course has not met with great Success.
Giles slammed the ledger shut and left the tent, the neck of the whiskey bottle tight in his hand. The night air outside was cooler, heavy with mist, tinged with the foul smell of the camp necessary. There were now more than fifty tents in the pest-house; most glowed from within with lamplight. The sounds of coughing and retching were constant, as were soft moans, pleas for water. Since the war, Giles had not heard such orchestration from so many. He went down the path between the tents, and at the gate he found a guard who was fast asleep. Beyond the fence it was quiet now except for the crackle of the fire that the gravediggers had built up on Old Burying Ground Hill.
Giles opened the gate and stepped outside the fence—the guard never stirred from his slumber—but then the doctor hesitated when he saw someone approaching from the direction of the Frog Pond, a lantern swinging in his hand. Giles sat on the edge of the small wooden stage that had been constructed by the Reverend Cary’s zealous congregation. He uncorked the bottle and took a long drink of whiskey. The pendulum arc of the lantern continued toward him. At this hour it must be Dr. Bradshaw. Giles took another deep pull on the bottle, bracing himself for confrontation. “I am but a mere surgeon,” he muttered to himself, “improperly educated, but—what was it?—‘enthusiastic and energetic.’ No, ‘admirably enthusiastic and energetic.’ My methods are not very successful, and therefore I will leave you, dear Dr. Bradshaw, to your own methods of venesection and purgation. Take up your lancet and bleed them, drain them dry, while I, your humble assistant, will take his leave from this pest-house.”
But it was not Dr. Bradshaw—the man who approached was not tall enough, and as he came nearer Giles sensed that there was something uneven, perhaps impaired about his gait. The man’s stride was lame, or perhaps inebriated.
Suddenly, Giles got to his feet and said, “Emanuel? Is that you?”
“Aye, Doctor, I believe that it is.” Emanuel Lunt stopped and held up his lantern, gazing at the bottle in Giles’s hand. “I am like the horse drawn to water. I fortified myself for the trek up here from the waterfront, for it is a most warm and humid night, and by the time I reached High Street I realized that I was in need of rejuvenation. I’m dead on my feet, Doctor. Heal me!” And then, deftly, he hung the lantern from the hook that protruded from his right sleeve, and held out his left hand. “Heal me!”
Giles gave him the bottle of whiskey.
Emanuel took a drink, tilting his head back, and then gasped, “Halleluiah! Saved.”
“It’s my most successful method,” Giles said, taking the bottle back. “You are among the fortunate few.” He began walking toward the Frog Pond.
Emanuel caught up, the lantern casting an oscillating light on the ground before them. “You are leaving?” Giles didn’t answer. “You have the walk of a man who doesn’t intend to return.”
“You are drunk,” Giles said, “but a perceptive drunk. I have always valued such qualities in a man.”
“Such a compliment humbles me. But I am slow—you walk so fast.”
Giles did not alter his pace; if anything, he walked faster.
“Does this mean your work is finished here?” Emanuel asked, struggling to keep up.
“My work, such as it is, is finished.”
“I see—so everyone is cured, and they have been sent home?”
“Anyone who is ‘cured’ gets a ride up the hill to that pit.”
Suddenly, Emanuel took a few hasty, awkward steps, turned, and stood in front of Giles, forcing him to stop. “But there are still others, back there, waiting to be healed.”
“Healed?” Giles attempted to go around his friend, but Emanuel’s hand grabbed his arm by the shoulder. Giles said, “You have a very strong grip.”
“It’s the only hand I have, so it must be twice as strong.”
Giles tried to continue on, but Emanuel only pulled him closer. “What are you doing, Mister?”
“My exact question, Doctor.”
“Is it any of your business?”
“I’m curious, just curious. You have healed me, so why can’t you heal the others?”
“That is the question, indeed.”
Emanuel let go of Giles’s shoulder and held out his hand. Giles gave him the bottle again and watched him take a drink. As he returned the bottle, Emanuel smiled. “I came all the way up here to help, you pathetic sawbones.” He leaned forward and spoke slowly, as though speaking to someone hard of hearing. “I want to lend a hand—I only have the one, you know, so, please, lead the way, and show me what I can do.” Emanuel’s face, illuminated from below by the lantern, seemed ghostly, haunted.
“Damn you, Mr. Lunt.” Giles began walking back toward the pest-house gate, slower, so that Emanuel had no difficulty keeping up. “We are nearly out of medical supplies,” Giles said, “so our methods are very primitive. We use linen and blankets, soaked in hot water to wrap each patient, and stones—hot bricks and stones—to be laid down on the torso of each patient.”
“You try to sweat the fever out of them,” Emanuel said. “Brilliant. That’s often what they did in the Caribbean, if I remember correctly.”
“Exactly.”
“It was easier to practice medicine, I gather, when we were at sea and men were wounded by grapeshot and flying chain. The worst were those splinters that flew when the hull of a ship was struck by cannon ball—those splinters, they’d go right through a man like a sword.”
“True, it was easier,” Giles said as they reached the pest-house gate. “You could at least see a man’s wounds.”
“And in most cases you’d just—” Emanuel held his hand out and made a sawing motion. “It was simple. In a minute you’d cut off the wounded limb, leaving your patient healed—unless of course you’d cut off his leg. Then the man was un-heeled.”
“Precisely.” Giles opened the gate.
“Did I ever tell you that I appreciated the fact that you elected not to cut off my wounded leg, only my hand?”
“You tell me every time you’re drunk, which means too often.”
“Well, I just want to show my appreciation.”
They stepped inside the pest-house fence, and Giles pulled the gate closed behind him. The click of the latch startled the sleeping guard, who quickly got to his feet.
“It’s all right,” Giles said to the guard. “I’ve just conscripted a new recruit.”
Leander slept on the dewy grass in the apple orchard. Occasionally his slumber was disturbed by distant voices—song, laughter, a toast that was followed by a chorus of huzzahs—but it wasn’t until the early morning hours, when the revelry in the Sumner house had ended, that he was awakened with a start. A man stood over him, leaning to one side as though pushed. He wore an enormous cockade hat, and a small, pudgy dog sat next to him, panting desperately. In one hand the man held a wine bottle, and in the other a pistol.
He said something that was totally incomprehensible, and when he spoke he moved his arm back and forth, sloshing a sweet-smelling beverage on Leander’s face.
Leander hastened to his feet. “Excuse me, sir?”
“I said what are you doing sleeping in my orchard.”
“Beg your pardon, sir, but you may recall that I am the new stable boy.�
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“Recall? Are you an honest lad?”
“I—I believe so, sir.”
“Very well, then you may remain my stable boy and you’re welcome in my orchard.” Mr. Sumner took Leander’s forearm and used it for support as he eased himself down on the grass. “I want you to do me a small service.”
“What is that, sir?”
Mr. Sumner held out the bottle. “Drink.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me.”
Reluctantly, Leander took the bottle and raised it to his mouth. He sipped the contents—some kind of wine, he assumed, and it made him wince.
“More,” Mr. Sumner commanded.
Leander took another drink of the wine, which proved not that unpleasant.
“S’alright?”
“Yes, sir, it’s fine.”
“You sure now?” Mr. Sumner took back the bottle. He raised his other hand, and pointed the short silver barrel of the pistol at his left temple, then pushed his cocked hat back so that he could scratch his forehead. “Y’know they’re trying to kill me?”
“Who is, sir?”
“They—oh, they know who they are. I think they mean to poison me.” He took another drink of wine and wiped his chin with the ruffled sleeve of his shirt. “But this, it didn’t kill you, did it?”
“No, sir.”
“Good, because if it kilt you we’d both be dead now.” As he lay back on the ground, his cocked hat fell off, and he immediately began to snore. The dog curled up in the crook of his arm.
Leander waited for a good while, expecting Mr. Sumner to be revived, but finally, as the first light of day was beginning to paint the eastern sky, he left the orchard. On a fence behind the stable, he found several horse blankets that were being aired out for the night. He took one blanket, returned to the orchard, and draped it over Mr. Sumner, causing the dog to grunt its approval. He went to the service quarters, where he made his way up the dark stairs to his cot.