by John Smolens
Giles went to the crates that had been stacked against the stable wall. He lifted the hasp of one crate and raised the lid. The box was filled with bottles, each bearing apothecary labels. He opened one bottle and sniffed the contents: calomel.
“Of course,” Clapp said as he tucked the packet in the side pocket of his coat. “Do feel free to conduct an inspection.”
“It’s rather dark for that.” Giles returned the bottle. “There is laudanum?”
Clapp came over and he tapped one of the crates with his cane. Giles opened the lid and found the box filled with quart bottles, which had been corked and sealed. Then he went to the next crate and removed a jar; he took out several white pills.
“Satisfied?”
“That’s hardly the word, Mr. Clapp.”
He moved toward the old man, but both sailors stepped forward quickly. Bradshaw grabbed Giles’s arm, and there was a moment where no one did anything.
“Right, then,” Clapp said pleasantly. “We’ll be on our way.” One of the sailors helped him climb up into the wagon.
“You do that!” Giles yanked his arm free of Bradshaw’s grip. “You hasten back down to Boston, Mr. Clapp, if you think it’s safe.”
The sailor standing next to the wagon took a step toward Giles. His grin was inviting, though his broad hand came up and pressed against Giles’s chest.
“All right now, Giles!” Bradshaw again took his arm, firmly this time, and guided him away from the sailor. “I’ve no time to waste treating you for injuries sustained in an alley. I will go into the tavern and arrange for a cart so we can get these supplies up to the pest-house,” he said. “You just wait here.”
Mr. Clapp motioned with his hand and the sailors climbed aboard the wagon; one took the reins and slapped them on the horses’ haunches, and as the wagon moved down the alley, the clop of their hooves echoed off the stable walls. When the rig turned the corner at the end of the building, Mr. Clapp looked back at Giles and touched his hat brim in farewell.
PART V
Sand and Salt Water
Nineteen
MIRANDA SAT IN THE DINING ROOM EATING BREAKFAST ALONE, except for Cedella, who stood by the pantry door awaiting instructions. But then the door to the front hall opened, and Fields admitted Marie. This morning she was wearing her own dress, blue with lace trim.
“Bonjour, Madame,” she said. Fields held the chair for her at the far end of the table.
Ignoring her, Miranda said, “More coffee, Cedella.” As the maid refilled her cup, she said to Fields, “Where is the beloved master of the house this morning? It was unusually quiet last night. No poetry, no song, no carousers keeping me up till all hours. Is he still asleep?”
Fields, retreating to the door, cleared his throat. “I’m not sure, Ma’am.”
Miranda put her butter knife down on a dish, the clatter stopping Fields before he could escape. “I asked if he was in the house.”
“I’m afraid I don’t rightly know, Madame.”
“Well, find out,” she said firmly. “Search the rooms, climb up to his hideout in the cupola, inspect all the outbuildings, probe the stacks out in the hayfields—but find him.” She cleared her throat and said quietly, “And if you happen across my grandson, tell him I want to see him immediately.”
“Of course, Ma’am.” Fields let himself out of the room, pulling the door shut.
Marie was now being served by Cedella, and she kept her head lowered as she buttered a scone. Miranda turned and looked out the window at the garden. It was a perfect summer’s morning, but it was already too warm for her liking. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” She spoke quite loudly, as though addressing an audience. She glanced down the table; Marie had raised her head, and Cedella stood at attention by the hutch. “I fear I must inform you that you’ll have to seek other arrangements for your lodgings.”
Marie held a forkful of scrambled eggs before her, which she considered a moment before putting it down on her plate. “Madame?”
“You are no longer welcome in this house.” Miranda could feel the pulse on the side of her forehead. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, but, Ma’am, Monsieur Sumner—”
“Even Mr. Sumner’s hospitality is not infinite.”
“You speak with him about this?”
“Are you—” Miranda pushed back her chair, the legs scraping loudly on the floor. “Are you questioning me about matters pertaining to my own house?” She moved down alongside the table, causing Cedella to take a hasty step backward until she bumped into the hutch. “Careful, there’s good china in there that my grandmother brought over from England.” Miranda stood next to Marie and waited for her to raise her head. “You are to leave this house, today, as soon as you’ve finished your breakfast.”
“But Madame—” Now Marie got up from her chair and went to one of the front windows. “This is so sudden very. Where will I find to go?”
“That is not my concern.”
Marie turned from the window, flushed. “But why?”
Miranda looked down at the plate; there was but a spoonful of scrambled egg and a scone nibbled at the corner. Ever since she’d arrived, this woman had shown disdain for the fare offered her—she barely ate, and when she did she assumed an attitude that suggested that she was only doing so out of the necessity. “My grandmother’s china,” she said, picking up the plate, “brought here under great duress. No one should be expected to eat off this plate ever again, now that’s been sullied by your insulting French manners.”
“Madame!”
“Worthless, utterly worthless.” Miranda threw the plate at the door to the kitchen; it shattered, the pieces of china raining down on the floor, sounding like an intricate chime. “You’ve had your breakfast, now get out.” She turned to Cedella, who was shaking. “You accompany her—no assistance, mind you, but you don’t take your eyes off her until she’s out the front door. Be sure that she packs only what belongs to her and nothing more.”
“Oh!” And then Marie released a rapid spray of French.
“Don’t you dare speak that foul language in my presence,” Miranda shouted as she approached Marie. “English is spoken in this house!”
Marie retreated to the corner of the room, still sputtering in French.
“I saw you,” Miranda said, closing in. “I saw you run out of the stable yesterday. I saw you, and I saw Dr. Wiggins—my son.” She now turned again to Cedella. “Isn’t that right, Cedella? They were together in the stable, weren’t they?”
“Ma’am, I—” The maid backed up quickly. “I—” Her head struck the hutch, causing the china to rattle on the shelves, and she slumped to the floor.
Miranda picked up a small embroidered cushion from the nearby wingback chair. She took a step toward Cedella, who looked dazed. Instead Miranda turned and swung the pillow at Marie, hitting her full on the side of the head. It felt good, swinging her arm like that, so she swung again, and again, though now Marie was able to defend herself with her arms. “See what you’re doing to my house, to my family!” Miranda continued to flail away until Marie grabbed the pillow, and as they both pulled and tugged a seam split, sending white feathers into the air, which drifted around them like snow. They both screamed repeatedly, and now Marie was fighting back, swinging her arms and once her palm caught Miranda’s cheek.
The door opened and Fields peered in, but he was too stunned, and perhaps frightened, to act. Marie escaped then, pushing past the butler and running up the front hall stairs.
Miranda took hold of the back of chair and tried to catch her breath. After a moment, she noticed Cedella, who was lying on the floor, her hand on her forehead. “Never have I seen such an accident-prone maid,” Miranda said in disgust. Turning to Fields, who was standing at attention in the doorway, she shouted, “You get that French whore out of this house at once!”
“Ma’am?” Fields said.
Something was clinging to Miranda’s face, and when she brushed her cheeks pil
low feathers floated about her head. “I said get her out! If no one can bring this house to order, I’ll do it myself!” She rushed out of the dining room, past the cooks and maids who had gathered in the hall.
Giles had just finished changing the hot linens on several children when he was summoned to Dr. Bradshaw’s tent, where the crates which had been delivered from Wolfe Tavern were stacked along the back wall.
“Look.” Dr. Bradshaw had a jar in his hand; he removed the cork and poured the contents out on his desk. Several dozen white pills bounced on the wood, followed by sand. Bradshaw opened another jar and dumped its contents on the desk—also mostly sand. “Every one of them, I venture, is like this.” He reached into another crate, taking out several brown bottles. “And these? The bottles on top smell like they contain something—calomel here, most likely diluted. But the bottles underneath: salt water.” He collapsed heavily in the chair behind the desk. “Five thousand pounds, and I’ll bet that when we go through all the crates we won’t have but a few hundred worth of supplies.”
Giles sat on the stool across from Bradshaw and stared at the piles of sand. Bradshaw placed both elbows on the desk and slowly massaged his temples, his eyes closed. Neither man spoke until, finally, Giles leaned forward and with his finger separated one pill from the sand and pushed it to the side. He found another, and then another. Bradshaw did the same. As though they were children idly whiling away their time, their fingers sifted through the sand, separating out pills, which they gathered at one end of the desk.
Leander was the last to arrive at the noon meal. He had spent the morning greasing carriage wheels and his shirt was soaked with sweat. Reluctantly a gardener made room for him on the end of the bench. Maids carried pots around the table, ladling out fish chowder. Cedella’s forehead was bandaged and wrapped in a piece of yellow linen. When she stopped behind Leander, there seemed to be the slightest hesitation in her hand as she filled his bowl.
After the women left, the blacksmith’s son everyone called Horseshoe repeatedly thumped the underside of the table with his knee. “Fucking on your hands and knees will do that, ye know,” he said. “And them fine headboards can be hard on the noggin, even a mahogany one.”
There was laughter amid the slurping of chowder.
Leander put his spoon down in his bowl, the clatter enough to bring silence to the table. He stared at Horseshoe, who after a moment smiled, revealing large, crooked teeth. “What, the new boy find a fish bone? In his trousers, would it be?”
Again, there was laughter, but it was different this time, nervous, constrained.
Leander stood up.
Mr. Penrose’s son Benjamin said, “Horseshoe is always looking for a fight with a new boy.” His voice was oddly matter-of-fact, friendly. “It gives him a sense of worth, I believe.”
“If he wants a fight, he’s got one,” Leader said.
Horseshoe appeared pleased and was getting to his feet, when Mr. Penrose said, “Not until we’ve finished our dinner. Then both you take it outside.”
He resumed eating, as did everyone else.
Leander went out the back door and waited in the yard between the stable and the hen house. After a few minutes the men began to come out into the yard and gather along the paddock fence. When Benjamin passed by Leander, he said quietly, “Mind those teeth—he likes to bite.”
Mr. Penrose moved along the fence, taking bets.
“All right,” Horseshoe said, walking in a slow circle in the center of the yard. “Let’s see what you’ve got, new boy.”
He crouched down, raised his arms, and moved toward Leander. The first swing missed, but the second found Leander’s ribs and he fell down in the dirt, the wind knocked out of him. The men applauded. Leander was getting to his knees when Horseshoe kicked him—though he fended off the blow with his arm, he was knocked to the ground again.
Horseshoe turned toward the fence and held out his hands to the men, as though he weren’t responsible for such a sorry exhibition, causing them to laugh.
Leander got to his feet and he and Horseshoe circled each other, until the blacksmith struck with a quick series of jabs to the face. Leander was dazed and blood ran from his nose down into his mouth, tasting of salt. The men were now cheering. Horseshoe landed a few more punches, one causing a deafening ringing in Leander’s ear. The next time Horseshoe tried to kick, Leander caught his boot with both hands, twisted his leg until he fell to the ground, which brought an explosion of shouts along the fence.
Leander jumped on Horseshoe, and they rolled in the dirt, wrestling and trying to land punches. Horseshoe was older—he might have been in his mid-twenties—and he was heavier. His girth was substantial but hard. There was a great deal of clutching and grabbing, and at one point Horseshoe squeezed Leander so hard he thought his ribs would crack. Then Horseshoe bit Leander, his teeth sinking into the thick muscle around his left shoulder.
After that Leander wasn’t sure what happened. Somehow they were on their feet again and he was so angry he became reckless, swinging wildly. Horseshoe landed many punches, but it only made Leander madder. Then he realized that Horseshoe was tiring—he was probably used to defeating his opponents quickly. He was gasping for air and his soaked shirt clung to his chest. Leander’s right fist caught him square on the jaw, which snapped his head back, and he pounded the stomach, until Horseshoe doubled over and threw up fish chowder. Horseshoe now swung desperately, but Leander was able to dodge and circle, occasionally landing another blow. When he caught Horseshoe on the cheek with his right fist, the blacksmith dropped to his knees. Leander waited. Horseshoe stared up at him, looking both dreamy and baffled, before he fell forward into the dirt.
Most of the men along the fence were quiet, disappointed. However, a few, including Mr. Penrose, gathered coins in their hats. Leander held his bleeding shoulder as he turned away from them and walked out into the orchard.
Late afternoon Giles rode in the wagon up Old Hill Burying Ground. There were two diggers who wore bandannas over their noses and mouths, giving them the appearance of highway robbers. They took the three cadavers off the wagon and swung them into the pit.
“You see, the pit is getting full, Doctor,” one of them said as he shoveled lime down on the new bodies. “But before we make it bigger, we wants to get paid first, don’t we, Timothy? We ain’t been paid like Dr. Bradshaw said.”
“Paid? Paid in corpses, yes sir,” Timothy said. “We been here three days—since the others quit—but we ain’t seen not a penny.”
Giles looked down the hill toward the pest-house. Thick columns of smoke billowed from the laundry vats, and outside the fence the vendors’ stalls were doing a fair business. Someone was playing a hand organ.
“All right, I’ll talk to Dr. Bradshaw and you’ll get your money tonight. But first you need to make the grave larger—” and taking long strides, he walked away from one end of the pit, and then stopped—“at least to here.”
“How long’s this thing going to last?” the wagon driver asked.
“I don’t know,” Giles said. “The weather’s hot, there’s frequent rain, and our medical supplies are running out, so my guess is we’re a long way from out of it. You open up the ground to here—and deep, you must go deep. Then come down for your wages.”
Both the diggers stood with their hands folded on top of their shovels.
“Look,” Giles said. “You think I’m getting paid? You think all those people down there helping out are getting paid? They volunteered, every one of them.”
“Many of them’s dark-skinned,” Timothy said, “and from their accents you can tell they’re from some island down south there.”
Giles walked over and stood in front of Timothy. Above the bandanna the man’s eyes were weary, bloodshot. “They volunteered, most of them, because they’ve had the fever. They know what it’s like, what it can do to a community. I’ll wager that every one of them has lost family.”
Timothy didn’t move.
“Dammit, man.” Giles took the shovel out of his hands and went to the edge of the pit, where he began digging. He worked furiously without looking up, until Timothy came over to him. Giles was sweating heavily and he was out of breath.
“All right, we’ll dig your hole,” Timothy said, taking his shovel back. “And then we come down the hill for our pay.”
The two men began to stab their shovels into the ground.
The wagon driver said, “Come on, Doctor, you’ve made your point, now climb aboard and I’ll take you back.”
“No. I’ll walk, thank you.”
Giles started down the hill, brushing his hands off on his pants. When he reached level ground he passed through the small village of stalls and tents. Hawkers bellowed and the air was heavy with the smell of cooking. People standing in his way saw something in his face that caused them to move aside quickly.
When he reached the pest-house gate he found Dr. Wilberforce Strong with the Reverend Cary. They were overseeing the erection of a banner above the stage, which read: Ye Must Trust in Him. Only the Hand of God Will Save You.
Giles climbed up on to the stage and took hold of Dr. Strong’s lapels. People began shouting. Dr. Strong’s eyes, shaded by thick white eyebrows, gazed defiantly at Giles, until he finally let go of the old man.
Dr. Strong tugged at his coat and then fussed with his wig. “God witnesses all.”
“Indeed, He does, Doctor,” Giles said. “Indeed, He does.”
Giles stepped down off the stage, and the guard opened the gate for him. He walked quickly through the pest-house and entered Dr. Bradshaw’s tent. The air was stifling inside, full of flies and mosquitoes.
He stopped short, letting the canvas flap drop behind him.
Marie was sitting on the stool in front of the desk.
“There you are, Giles,” Dr. Bradshaw said pleasantly. “We have a new recruit.”