by John Smolens
“It is Master Samuel, he is tryin’ ta kill his own father, he is.”
“You have seen this?” she said. “With your own eyes?”
“Not me own eyes. No one would believe an old hand such as me, they’d just say t’was the drink inflamin’ his imagination.”
“No surprise in that, Mr. Penrose.”
“It be Benjamin who brung me this bottle. And no one ever doubts his word.”
Miranda considered this a moment. “So true, Mr. Penrose. Your son is much respected in this house. But how did he come by this information, and by this bottle?”
“I cannot say exactly, as it might affect an innocent party. But I knows that this bottle was from them stolen goods.” He dared to take a step closer and she held her breath. “He was in on it from the start, Samuel was, the theft of the medicine from the apothecaries, and the plan to sell it to the doctors at the pest-house—and the rest—”
“The rest of what?”
“Where is he now?” Penrose said. “Where is your grandson at this very moment?”
“What business is that of yours?”
“It is my business, and it is the business of all Newbreepoat. People is dying ’cause them medicines have gone missing and it has this town stirred up, I tell you. You don’t know what goes on here in your own kitchen, let alone out they-yah in that stable. Well, I’ll tell you: people’s scared. And mad. Death is visitin’ so many houses in this poat, and all the while the nightly festivities continue here under this roof.” Mr. Penrose was nearly out of breath, and he placed one hand on the butcher block for support.
Fields held the bottle out in his hand. “What do you plan on doing with this?”
“I can go to the high sheriff. Benjamin and I. We can go to Thomas Poole—he be a good man, who will not throw in with the likes of Ellsworth and them other constables. Them’s a crooked lot, they are.”
Now Fields took a step forward. “What are you talking about, man? You’re not—”
Miranda touched Fields on the forearm, which quite surprised him. “Enough, Fields,” she said calmly. “I believe I understand. Mr. Penrose is deeply concerned for the well-being of this town, as well we all should be. These are, certainly, difficult times. There is much suffering and anguish.” She looked at Penrose, who was slack-jawed now. Kindly, she said, “Sir, do tell me what you want and I’m sure the appropriate accommodation can be made.” When Penrose didn’t respond immediately, she smiled and added, “In your loyalty to this house, which you’ve served so well all these years, you elected to come to me and inform me of this dire situation, when you could have just as easily gone straight to the high sheriff. I owe you my gratitude, Mr. Penrose, for placing such faith in me, so please, do tell, what is it I can do for you?”
“Right.” Penrose took his hand off the butcher block and tugged on the front of his leather vest. “I do have a request, Ma’am.”
“Pray tell,” she said.
“It be regardin’ me own son.” Now he seemed uncertain as to how to continue.
“Benjamin?” she asked. “There is some difficulty?”
Penrose stared at the floor. “There is this girl that works out to Moss Farm in Newbree. She—well, she be in a predicament.”
“I see.”
“And Benjamin has promised to do right by her, and they plan to marry, Ma’am.”
“Of course.”
“But she is in need of a situation. She can’t stay no longer out there on the farm—for the reason that she knows about this here poison business, and the fact that she’s in her way now. So I was wonderin’ if she might not find a position here.”
“In this house?” Fields demanded.
Penrose glanced at him, and then back at Miranda. “Under the circumstances, yes.”
Fields said, “This … this is nothing but—”
“No,” Miranda said. “No, Fields. Mr. Penrose is being most reasonable. This is really a touching demonstration of loyalty, to this house, as well as to young Benjamin.” She smiled at Penrose. “What is this girl’s name?”
“Rachel.”
“When is Rachel due?”
“She figures four months, by the end of October, Ma’am.”
“Well then, Fields, I guess we had better make room for her on our staff. Mr. Penrose, I pray that theirs will be a long and fruitful union.” Miranda offered Penrose a complicit smile as she headed for the door, which Fields held open for her. As she led him down the hallway, she whispered over her shoulder, “Well?”
“Cedella, Ma’am.”
Miranda stopped outside the library door and took in a slow breath, and upon exhaling said, “I think so, yes. Besides, she tends to be accident prone.”
“I’ll see to it at once.” Fields opened the door for her.
Miranda entered the library, where, thankfully, Jonathan Bream had just concluded the recitation of his ode. Enoch, still prostrate on the daybed, was overcome with tears.
“Such a pity, Mr. Bream,” she said, “that I was called away and had to miss your latest literary effort.” Bream bowed, and tossed back the remainder of his wine. “I’m curious,” she added. “In the first stanza, what word did you find to rhyme with ‘creature’?”
“Oh, Madame, that would be—”
“‘Seizure,’” Enoch wailed. “It was so true! My poor little … creature collapsed of a seizure!” He buried his face in his handkerchief and blew his noise.
“Mr. Bream,” Miranda said, “how delightfully musical!”
Leander and Francois had been told to remain in the crow’s nest.
“I wish we were armed,” Francois said.
“I think your father knows that,” Leander said, “and that’s why you’re kept up here.” He turned to Francois, who looked eagerly down upon the deck of the Miranda. “Have you ever shot anything?”
After a moment, Francois said, “Seagulls.”
“Well, we have the view of seagulls.”
They stared silently down upon the deck of the Miranda. There seemed to be a formality to the negotiations. Emanuel had spoken briefly—Leander had heard English and French drift across the water—and the captain had taken Dr. Wiggins below.
There was only the sound of water rushing alongside the hulls, the groan of taut rigging, the occasional snap of sailcloth. Leander hated the waiting, and the heat caused sweat to run down out of his hair and sting his eyes. The men on both decks hardly moved, and it seemed possible that they might remain as they were for an eternity, all of them beneath this relentless sun, staring across the water at each other, waiting.
Twenty-Seven
PAIN MAKES ONE FORGETFUL.
Giles knew this. During the war, men lay wounded upon his surgeon’s table, not knowing where they were, or having any recollection of the battle that was still raging overhead on deck.
And now he lay on his back, gasping from the searing pain in his left leg, and he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened. He knew he was on board ship; the gentle, rhythmic pitch and yaw caused the lantern to oscillate above the table, while standing about him Emanuel, Marie, Poole, and Leander all talked at once. The confusion and something about the way they spoke reminded him of the war. On board naval ships in the middle of engagement, yes, there was the sound of men shouting and moving about on deck, while below in the hot bowels of the vessel he labored over the wounded. And as he treated them, he often spoke in this same absurdly informal, jocular way. It was intended to keep the wounded from panicking, especially those that he knew wouldn’t live but a few minutes. Keep them calm. Keep them thinking of something else. He often recited poetry, passages from Homer’s Odyssey, which he’d had to memorize years earlier in Master Pepperill’s classroom. Strange how verses would just come to him while he was stitching a wound or sawing a limb.
But Emanuel wasn’t reciting poetry. He was telling Leander to make it tighter. And the boy turned the screw handle, which tightened the tourniquet around Giles’s left thigh—that sound,
of the screw tightening the leather strap, was all too familiar—and the pain only became more intense.
“Compliments of Dr. Petit,” Giles said through his teeth, causing Leander to glance up from his efforts.
“The machine,” Emanuel said to the boy. “It was invented by a Dr. Petit. How many times during the war he said ‘Compliments of Dr. Petit,’ for making the job easier: we have got to stop the blood, understand, Leander?”
The boy nodded, lowered his head, and applied himself to the screw handle.
Giles nearly screamed—instead, he gasped, “There was never enough sand.”
Poole and Marie looked down at him in surprise.
“We always needed more sand for the floor.”
“Yes, I remember,” Emanuel said. “Buckets of sand—to keep your feet from slipping on the blood.” He glanced over at Marie. “He was very insistent.”
Marie refolded the towel and continued to mop the sweat from Giles’s face.
And Leander tightened Petit’s damned tourniquet again, which was exactly what had to be done.
Leander hated the sound of the leather strap as it tightened, and he feared that the machine would break, but suddenly the blood stopped pulsing from the doctor’s leg. There was raw muscle, torn and shredded. There was bone. There were splinters of wood embedded everywhere.
Even though he’d watched everything from the crow’s nest, he wasn’t certain how it had all started. Doctor Wiggins had gone below with the captain of the Miranda and they remained there for what seemed an eternity, while the crew stood about on deck, glaring at the constable’s men, who were all armed with pistols. Finally the captain and the doctor came topside, accompanied by two men—an old man Leander had never seen before, and Samuel Sumner. And then it was as though a spell was broken. One moment everything seemed orderly, and the next all hell broke loose. Leander couldn’t tell if something had been said, or if there had been some kind of a signal, but several of the crewmen rushed the constables, some wielding knives or belaying pins. Then, complete mayhem. Shots were fired. Men shouted and screamed. Smoke enveloped both decks and the water between them, making it difficult to see. A constable was thrown overboard. Men aboard the Miranda fell to the deck, writhing in pain, their shirts and heads bloodied. Viewed from above, the fighting was chaotic, urgent, but strangely graceful. Then one of the carronade fired from the bow of the Golden Hand and the ball smashed through the railing on the Miranda and shattered the base of the foremast. This brought screams from the men as splinters sprayed the deck, and canvas and a yard came tumbling down through tangled rigging. There was coughing amid the smoke, and the shouting was replaced by moans and pleas for help. It was difficult to distinguish the men on the deck of the Miranda. The ship foundered in the waves, and finally Emanuel Lunt appeared at the railing and waved his good arm. “Cease firing!” he called. “Send over another boat!”
Now, it took all of Leander’s strength to turn the screw a bit more, but it seemed to stop the flow of blood from the doctor’s leg. Aside from Leander’s horror, there was a certain fascination. He had never seen exposed muscles, how they surrounded the bone, how they were attached by tissue that was both elastic and strong.
Suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, Doctor Wiggins managed to raise himself up on his elbows, just enough so he could gaze down at his wounded leg. He looked sleepy, though his eyes seemed cold and assessing. When he laid his head down, Marie cradled the back of his skull in her hands. “It must come off,” he whispered.
“Giles,” Emanuel said. “The bleeding, it’s stopped—”
“No,” the doctor said. “There’s too much damage.” For a moment, no one said anything. “My bag, didn’t I bring it on board—somewhere? Hurry, you must be quick about it. There are other men to attend to.” And for the briefest moment Leander thought the doctor attempted a smile. “There are always others.”
“I’ll get the bag,” Marie said, staring down at Giles. “We put it in the galley.”
“Emanuel,” Giles said.
“I can’t,” Emanuel said, turning to Poole. “Not with one hand.”
Marie went out for the medical bag, and for a long moment no one spoke. Giles studied the beams overhead, the grain, the knots in the wood. There was suddenly such clarity and he remembered everything now. The tourniquet was so tight that his leg had begun to lose feeling.
Marie returned and gave the black leather bag to Poole. Giles watched Poole’s hands as they undid the clasps and opened the bag. They were strong hands, the kind of hands that were familiar with heavy labor. Sawing would not be difficult for such hands. But there was something also blunt and brutal about them. The knuckles were too large and protuberant. The fingers lacked a certain delicacy, a necessary precision.
Giles raised his eyes, until he could see Marie standing above and behind him. Upside-down, her face was still beautiful, though peculiarly lined about the mouth. Her breasts rose and fell, and it occurred to him that they might drop out of her blouse. She lowered her eyes—wide, beautiful ovals—and met his stare. Her brows turned in on themselves, almost as a sign that she understood what he was thinking. And her lips, thick and full, turned down at the corners, which he understood to be an attempt at a smile.
Poole removed the saw from the bag.
With great effort Giles raised his head again. Marie’s hands supported the back of his skull, her fingers gently kneading his matted hair. “No,” he said. “I want you to do it.”
They were all still.
“Me?” The boy stared at Giles and shook his head.
“Yes, Leander. You.”
“But, Doctor—”
“Listen to me,” Giles said. “It’s like cutting a sapling, no different.”
“Sir, I—”
“You have to do it. The others must hold me still, and it will take all three of them.”
Something in the boy’s eyes revealed that he recognized the necessity of this curious logic. His mouth moved, as though he was trying to form words, but he remained silent, helpless. Finally, he asked, “Where?”
“Just below the knee. Take long, even strokes. And listen to me: no matter what happens, once you start you cannot stop. You must finish it. Understand?” After a moment, the boy nodded. “Believe me, it won’t take but a minute.”
Poole put the leather bag on the floor, removed the saw, and handed it to Leander. The blade was not long and the wood handle was worn smooth.
“I’ve had it since the war,” Dr. Wiggins said. Leander looked at the doctor, who was staring at the ceiling. “The finest steel, made in England. Its teeth hold a good edge.”
Leander turned to Emanuel, who merely nodded, and he bent over until his chest lay across the doctor’s torso. He gripped the table with his good hand and said, “Poole, the other leg must keep still.”
The constable nodded solemnly and placed a hand on the doctor’s right thigh, and the other on his shin.
Marie came to the side of the table, where she wrapped her arms about the doctor’s head, drawing his head to her bosom.
“All right,” Emanuel said.
Leander looked at the saw in his hand, and placed the blade on Dr. Wiggins’s shin, just below the knee. There was no skin there, only shredded muscle, and his other hand, which gripped the doctor’s thigh, felt the entire leg go stiff.
“This is the moment, Leander,” Dr. Wiggins said with remarkable calm. “The moment of hesitation—you must avoid it. It does the patient no good. You simply commence. Like one who is hungry, you commence.”
Still, Leander could only stare at the bloody tissue, but then he drew the saw back and began to work. The blade cut through muscle quickly, and when he reached the bone he put his shoulder into each stroke. He was afraid to stop. The sound was oddly dry. Yet he could feel the spray of warm blood on his hands and face.
Then the doctor spoke, startling Leander, causing the slightest hesitation in his stroke. Pressed firmly to Marie’s breast, the doctor’s voice
was muffled but forceful. “Perverse mankind,” the words burst from his lungs, “whose wills, created free, charge all their woes on absolute degree!”
And then Emanuel joined in as they both recited loudly: “All to the dooming gods their guilt translate, and follies are miscall’d the crimes of fate.”
Leander increased the pace of his strokes.
The south wind had turned lazy in the afternoon heat. Leander stood at the taffrail and stared out at The Golden Hand’s wake as the ship cruised north, abreast of the Miranda, which was now under the command of Thomas Poole. Leander’s mind felt empty; he only seemed able to absorb colors—so many shades of blue, in the water, in the sky, a brilliant blue world beneath a hot, relentless sun. Then he recalled how often his sister asked him about colors, how important it was for her to know whether the Merrimack was blue or gray. And Cedella had taken his hand and placed it on her cheek, not just to ask him what color her skin was but whether its color mattered to him. It did matter—it mattered as much to him as his color mattered to her. It would be a part of them, for the rest of their lives, and once joined they would never separate. He could not imagine it otherwise.
In the late afternoon he went below once again. Dr. Wiggins was still asleep. Marie had remained at his side, wiping his face with a damp cloth. The sheet covering his legs had been draped over a small stool so that it formed a flat-topped tent. Though the floor had been scrubbed, there still was a hint of blood in the stifling heat.
“Is there anything I can do?” Leander whispered.
She looked as though she hadn’t slept in days. Her hair was tied back in a thick braid, and her face glistened with sweat. She picked up the bucket from the floor and handed it to him. “More fresh water, s’il vous plaît.”
“We have raised Plum Island,” he said. “Soon we will enter the Merrimack, and we’ll be tied up at the wharf by nightfall.”
Twenty-Eight
MIRANDA WAS AWAKENED BY THE SOUND OF HORSES’ HOOVES and carriage wheels down in the courtyard. There were voices, alarmed voices. Agitated, she climbed out of bed, pulled on her robe, and went to the window. Benjamin Penrose, who had been driving the chaise, helped Fields climb down, assistance that the butler accepted begrudgingly. He spoke curtly to Benjamin and then entered the house by the kitchen door.