by John Smolens
“Then it seems that the bolt passed down the wire through the meeting-house.”
“Yes, it was conducted.”
Leander clucked his tongue and slapped the reins on the bay’s haunches. “But …”
“But what?” Giles looked at the boy again. His brow was furrowed, knotted like a fist. “What do you suppose Dr. Franklin concluded?”
Leander sat upright on the bench, and his expression changed from concentration to concern. Ahead, there were two men standing beneath an elm tree by the side of the road.
“Guards,” Leander said. “They are supposed to keep people from entering or leaving Newburyport, though Benjamin Penrose and I managed to get through before. I recognize the boy, but the man—he wasn’t here the last time.”
“It’s Penuel Somerby,” Giles said. Leander glanced at him. “I’m a surgeon,” he explained. “I know most everyone from here down to the Parker River.”
As the wagon approached the elm, Somerby stepped out to greet them and Leander halted the team. Somerby was a stout man in a leather tricorn, and his side-whiskers reminded Giles of a pair of jug handles. He smiled up at Giles, revealing the gap where his front teeth had been. “Afternoon, Doctor.”
“Penuel.”
“I’m afraid no one’s allowed farther south on this road. The fever, you understand.” Penuel looked over his shoulder at the boy who remained leaning against the tree trunk. “My nephew there says this lad with you came through yesterday. They shouldn’t a let them go by. We have very strict orders.”
“I know, Penuel. Doctor Bradshaw and I issued them ourselves. It’s essential that the population not be allowed to travel freely until this epidemic has passed.” Somerby nodded heavily, relieved that he and the doctor were in agreement. “But you see, Penuel, I must get to Simon Moss’s farm.”
“Simon Moss? There be a problem?”
“Can’t say until I have a look-see, can I?”
Somerby took a step closer to the wagon and lowered his voice. “Is it the fever? You think it’s got out this far from Newburyport?”
“I sincerely hope not, Penuel.”
Somerby’s calculations were in his eyes. “If it is, what will you do? Bring the sick back to the pest-house?”
“Perhaps,” Giles allowed. “And we might have to ask you to help extend the quarantine down as far as the Parker—if it comes to that.”
Somerby took a step back from the wagon now. “My God, will it have no end?”
“All things come to an end.”
“Yes, we must have faith. But if you bring the ill back through this way.…”
“Be assured that we’ll give you fair warning so you can stand well off to the side of the road. Now, Penuel, we haven’t time to waste.”
Somerby removed his hat, almost as a gesture of apology. “Of course, Doctor.”
“Thank you,” Giles said. “Tell me, having any more trouble with your teeth?”
“No.” Somerby placed his hat back on his head and pulled it down snug. “They’re working just fine since you pulled that last one.”
“Glad to hear.”
Leander shook the reins and the team began to walk on.
When they reached the dooryard at Moss’s farm, Leander drew the team to a halt. The sky was very dark and the thunder was getting closer, making the horses skittish. “The crates were in the barn,” he said, “in a stall toward the back.”
“Well, I’m going to the house to pay a visit to Simon.” Dr. Wiggins climbed down off the wagon. “Why don’t you get the team and rig into the barn before this weather breaks, and wait for me there.” He looked up at Leander with an odd expression, one that suggested a kind of formality meant to disguise collusion.
“Yes, sir,” Leander said. “I’ll be in the barn.”
“Good.”
The doctor walked up to the back of the house and rapped the iron door knocker. After a moment, an elderly woman let him into the house.
Leander drove the wagon through the open barn doors, climbed down, and led the horses to a water trough. Then he walked into the back of the barn, which was dark—the rear doors were closed today. Overhead, mourning doves cooed in the rafters, and rain began to patter on the roof. When he reached the stall where he had seen the crates, he took another look toward the front of the barn. The rain started suddenly, teeming on the packed earth in the yard. There was a crack of lightning, followed immediately by a deep roll of thunder, which caused animals throughout the barn to stir.
Leander opened the stall gate, went inside, and found nothing—only straw flattened on the ground. As he turned around there came another bolt of lightning, and for a moment he saw a face illuminated by the bright blue light. It startled him so that he cried out. At first he thought it might have been his imagination—the face was lovely, with wild blond tresses—but then he saw the faint image of her step through the open gate.
“You were here before,” she said. “With Benjamin.”
He remembered—the girl that had let Benjamin into the shed. “Yes. And there were—”
“Gone.”
“The crates.”
“Yes, they took them all away,” she said. “Early this morning.”
“Where’d they take them?”
The girl came closer. “I don’t know.”
“Who were they?”
Though he could barely see her face, he was under the impression that she was afraid. But she stepped even closer, and for a moment—to his surprise—she took hold of his hand. “Benjamin,” she asked. “Do you see him?”
“Yes.”
“Does he speak of me?”
The rain was making a loud racket on the roof now. Leander nodded his head.
“You tell him I must speak to him. You tell him.…” She let go of his hand, and for a moment Leander thought she was about to cry. She went to the gate, but paused. “You tell him we must speak.” She wrapped her shawl about her shoulders—it seemed a regal gesture, dignified but also hopeless—and she left the stall.
Giles was perturbed during the ride back to Newburyport. The rain had let up, but he and Leander were both drenched to the skin. The thunderstorm had been so swift and fierce that Penuel Somerby and the boy had abandoned their post beneath the elm tree.
Leander seemed afraid to disturb Giles’s ruminations, but finally he asked, “What did you learn from Simon Moss, sir?”
“Nothing, really.” Giles tugged on his broad-brimmed hat, causing water to run off and splatter on his knees. “His wife offered me cider, and Simon wanted to know what brought me so far out from Newburyport. I said I’d heard rumors that there were cases of the fever showing up in Newbury. But he knew nothing of it.” He turned to Leander. “These crates, you’re sure—”
“They contained the medicine, yes.”
“And this girl says they were removed from the barn this morning.”
“Yes,” Leander said. “Who is she? Their daughter?”
“No. They have four sons, no daughters. If she was married to one of the sons, I’d know it. Must be a hired girl.” Giles hesitated a moment. “And you believe her.”
“Yes, sir. She was … troubled.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Just troubled, the way only women can be.”
“Oh,” Giles said. “That.”
They entered Newburyport, and when they reached Federal Street, Giles indicated that they should turn. “We’ll go down to the wharfs. We can get a change of clothes and something to eat on Emanuel Lunt’s boat, then you can return to my brother’s house.”
“I’m in no hurry, sir.”
“Your position there does not suit you?”
Leander shook his head.
Giles was oddly gratified—on the ride out to the Moss farm Leander, it seemed, would not have made such an admission to him. “You can’t go home, I’m afraid. There’s nothing there, Leander. It’s just charred timbers collapsed about the chimney.”
“I know.�
�� He inhaled deeply. “But I miss the river—the smell of low tide. I find myself thinking often of my grandfather’s house down to Joppa Flats.”
“I understand.” Giles wanted to explain to Leander about his mother, about years ago when the colonies were at war with the British, and how he’d been a young man then, and what that meant. He wanted to tell the boy that he really did understand longing and loss, and that it was something that would be carried in the heart for life, and that in some ways that was the measure of a man—how he bore such things. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know where to begin, and it made him feel insufficient and cowardly.
“So tell me, Leander,” he said finally, in an attempt break the silence. “Have you given any thought to Dr. Franklin’s conclusion regarding the lightning that struck the meeting-house?”
“I have given it some thought, yes,” Leander said. He slapped the reins on the bay’s haunches, and the team picked up the pace. “But I have yet to reach my own conclusion.”
After a moment, they both laughed.
“Be sure to inform me of it when you have.”
“You’ll be the first to know, sir.”
In the evening, Miranda left her room and went downstairs. She found Cedella standing outside the library door. “How is he?”
“Seems to be resting comfortably, Ma’am.”
“Has he asked for anything? Something to eat? Tea?”
“Nothing, Ma’am.” Cedella kept her eyes on the floor.
“What is it?”
“He’s grieving, Ma’am.”
“How so?”
“Well, Ma’am, it’s his dog.” Cedella glanced up; she was near tears. “You see, it died not an hour ago.”
Miranda had to restrain herself from clapping her hands in delight.
“It seems Mr. Sumner has been giving a portion of his food to the dog, and—”
Miranda released a long, appropriate sigh. She opened the door without knocking. The curtains were drawn, so the library was very dark. “Darling,” she said quietly. There was no response. She peered toward the daybed but could not see clearly. Then she heard a sound—a whimper. “Enoch?” she whispered. Her son sniffed loudly.
Miranda approached the daybed. Her eyes were adjusting to the dark and she could now see him, lying on his back and holding something on his chest—it was Bowsprit, its plump, motionless body wrapped in a tablecloth. “Really, Enoch,” Miranda said. “We must remove that dog before he starts to smell—” She paused when she saw that there was something in Enoch’s hand, which glinted faintly in the near dark. “Would that be a pistol?”
Enoch moved his arm, aiming the weapon at her. “I suppose it would be.” His voice was hoarse, deeply sorrowful. There was movement at the door, but he said, “Cedella, you stay here and pull that door shut.”
The girl did as she was told.
Enoch continued to sniffle, until Miranda said, “Oh, will you stop that.”
She went over to a window and drew back a curtain, admitting a weak shaft of light. The thunder and lightning had passed, and the evening sky was filled with pink and lavender clouds.
“You’ve been trying to poison me,” he said. “Both you and Samuel.”
She looked at him, the pistol still aimed at her. “This is all because of that dog.”
He was on the verge of tears. “That dog saved my life.”
“Such remorse over a dog, when people are dying of this dread fever! Well, you can get another dog, if you want.”
“I don’t want another dog.”
“This is intolerable,” she said. “It’s beginning to stink in here.”
“All right,” Enoch said. “Come,” he said to Cedella, “take Bowsprit and put him outside, somewhere safe until I can give him a proper burial in the mausoleum.”
Reluctantly, Cedella came to the daybed, enfolded the dog in the tablecloth, and held it against her chest like an infant as she left the room.
“I’ve sent word to Jonathan Bream that he’s to compose an ode to him.”
“Fine,” Miranda said. “A few lines of verse would be most appropriate. In the meantime, put the gun down.”
Enoch regarded her for a long moment. He did not lower the gun. “You thought you’d kill me so you would have my money?”
“Nonsense.” She cleared her throat. “But you must admit we are headed for ruin.”
“Don’t you understand?” he pleaded. “It’s my son who will impoverish me. How much has that wastrel lost over there in Paris? Do you have any idea?”
“Enoch, you’re the one—it’s you who have put us in this position.” She gestured toward his desk, which was strewn with paper. “Just look at all these bills and letters from solicitors demanding collection of overdue funds.”
“They’re paid to hound me.”
“Thousands in arrears—thousands—and we only get deeper every month. We are living well beyond our means here. You know that.”
“These are my affairs,” he said.
“I’ll not die an old woman in the almshouse.”
He laughed, though it immediately caused him some intestinal distress, and he winced as he clutched his swollen stomach with his other hand. “Then I best shoot you now, before all the money is gone.”
“Enoch, really. I do hope we might arrive at a more equitable solution.”
“When one has slain another’s beloved hound, one relinquishes the possibility of any equitable solutions. It becomes a time for decisive action.”
“Well, what do you have in mind?”
“Go,” he said impatiently as he pointed toward the door with the barrel of the gun. “Go and fetch that son of mine.”
“You’re mistaken, dear. Your mother doesn’t fetch.” If anything, Enoch looked more peevish as he again aimed the pistol in her general direction. He was a notoriously bad shot, but then he had shot that crow through the dining room window. “Besides,” she said, “Samuel is not in the house.”
“Where is he?” Enoch asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“You seem concerned,” he said, studying her carefully, “genuinely concerned.”
“Do I? Then I suppose I am. The truth is I was told that Samuel went down to Water Street hours ago.”
“Well, if he’s gone off whoring—”
“But now I’m not so sure.”
“Mother, you have suspicions? What are you not telling me?”
“I’m afraid I do not know. That’s what I’m telling you. I fancy that I know everything, but now I’m not so sure.” She took a couple of steps toward him. “Except like you, he tends to rush into things and get in over his head.” She held out her hand. “Just give that to me before it goes off.”
“If I were going to pull the trigger,” he said, looking glum and submissive as he handed the pistol to her, “I should have done so by now.”
PART VII
Crimes of Fate
Twenty-Five
THE AIR WAS WASHED CLEAN AFTER THE RAIN, AND SUNSET CAST the river basin in pastels of pink and blue, an evening to dine on the deck of The Golden Hand, quarts of steamed clams, followed by haddock served on a bed of rice and beans spiced with onions and tomatoes. There had been a time when colonial ministers would preach against the tomato, denouncing it as the Devil’s fruit, its lascivious seeded chambers to be avoided by the devout and God-fearing. Now the tomato plant grew in kitchen gardens all about Newburyport. After dinner, Giles and Emanuel smoked dudeens, while the children played a game of Hide and Seek, and below in the galley Sameeka and Marie talked animatedly in French. There was laughter and the sound of bare feet running on the deck, and Giles realized that for an hour it had been possible to forget the epidemic and the horrors of the pest-house.
“Father, look!” Francois shouted. Suddenly, the children were silent and still as he pointed downriver. “The quarantine ship!”
Giles stood up and gazed eastward. It was nearly dark; the calm surface of the river had softened to pearl gray.
“She’s drifting?”
Emanuel, standing at the wheel, peered through his spyglass. “They’ve raised anchor and are approaching the river mouth on the falling tide.”
“What happened to the constable’s boats that were standing guard?” Giles asked.
They scanned the river basin. The women came up on deck, and Sameeka pointed toward Woodbridge Island and the marshes inside of Plum Island. “Is that them?”
“Yes, I think so,” Emanuel said. “Two boats.”
“What are they doing there?” Sameeka asked. “Can you see the men?”
“No, too dark now,” Emanuel said. He held the end of the spyglass against the leather sheath covering his forearm and pushed it closed.
“Curious,” Giles said. “She shows no lights.”
“I know what you’re thinking, Giles. The medicine.”
“Right. Somehow they got the crates on board.”
“All right,” Emanuel said with a barely audible sigh. He surveyed the ship’s deck and suddenly bellowed, “Make ready to cast off!”
The Lunt family proved an efficient crew. Everyone had duties. Halyards, sheets, and dock lines were handled in a precise sequence. Emanuel Lunt stood at the helm delivering orders in a deep voice that carried easily across the deck, and soon The Golden Hand fell away from the wharf. Upon command, Leander helped Francois raise the main, while Giles hauled up the jib. Once set, the sails flapped listlessly in the still air, but the tide carried the schooner downriver easily, the hull creaking as though relieved to at last be unfettered.
It was three miles across the river basin to the mouth of the Merrimack, and halfway across they spoke the constable’s boats. There were eight men in the lead boat, and in the other there were six who pulled weakly at the oars. One of them was leaning over the gunwale, puking into the river.
“That you, Thomas Poole?” Emanuel Lunt called down to the lead boat.
“Aye, it is, Emanuel,” the tillerman said.
“What happened?”
“Don’t know for sure,” Poole said. “Another boat came out this afternoon and loaded food and supplies on board the ship, and when they were done they sent over some wine. The boredom, y’know. We sit out here, watching this vessel night and day, and we become quite friendly with the crew—though we never once went on board. So some of the boys drank a spot of wine,” he said, nodding toward the other boat, “and all of a sudden like everybody’s hurlin’ his guts over the side.”