by John Smolens
Miranda left her room and went down the back stairs, and when she stepped into the kitchen, she found Fields removing his black coat. “What is it?” she demanded.
“Ma’am,” Fields said, officious but reluctant, “I have news … which I should divulge to both you and Mr. Sumner.”
Miranda sighed dramatically and was about to reprimand Fields, but the door behind her swung open and Enoch came into the kitchen in his nightshirt. He was stooped over as though injured, and he used both arms to support himself as he leaned against the large work table in the center of the room. Overhead, there came the squeak of floorboards, the soft thump of bare feet, familiar enough sounds made by the staff as they went about their duties, but here in the middle of the night—what time was it?—Miranda wasn’t sure, but it was indeed early morning—this was a matter of maids and cooks scurrying like so many mice, trying to get to the back stairs or the front hall, where they might be within earshot of the kitchen.
“You did not inform me you were leaving the house,” Enoch said.
“No, sir.” Fields cleared his throat, perhaps by way of an apology, though Miranda thought it more of a subtle rebuke—Fields was long past requesting permission in his movements to and from the house. He was reluctant to look directly at her or Enoch, not necessarily unusual, but it was clear that he was hesitant to divulge whatever information he had acquired.
“Damn it, Fields, speak up,” Enoch said. “Where did you go this late at night?”
Fields spoke in a voice that was soft yet deep, seeming to rumble from the depths of his lungs. “It’s Samuel, sir, and—”
“Samuel?” Miranda said.
Fields regarded her with somber eyes. “That high sheriff has clapped him in jail, Ma’am. He’s been accused of some scheme to steal medicine. It’s all to do with this fever. He was captured aboard the Miranda, which was loaded with this medicine and bound for Boston.”
Miranda took a step toward Enoch. “You and he planned this.”
Enoch tried to straighten up. “No!”
“It’s your scheme, your ship,” she said. “You must be behind this. Your son isn’t capable of such a thing—certainly not on his own.”
“You’re the one who’s in league with Samuel. You’re both determined to ruin me.” Enoch took hold of her upper arm and pulled her close. He reeked of Madeira. “Or kill me.”
Miranda yanked her arm free. She went to the kitchen door, behind which she heard the rustle of skirts as the staff scurried for safety. “Ma’am,” Fields said with uncharacteristic urgency.
“What, Fields?” She kept one hand on the door, but after a moment turned and looked across the kitchen. She’d never seen Fields look so rigid, so worrisome.
“There’s more news that I should report to both of you,” Fields said, “regarding Dr. Wiggins and the new stable boy, Leander Hatch.”
“What about them?” Enoch demanded.
Fields seemed baffled and didn’t know how to proceed. “They was on that other ship. It’s a coasting schooner called The Golden Hand. They chased the Miranda in the fog and boarded her outside of Boston harbor. They brought her back to Newburyport tonight.”
“They?”
“The high sheriff and some of his constables, the captain Emanuel Lunt, Dr. Wiggins, and the new boy Leander.” Fields waited until she looked at him. “Apparently, there was fighting on board the Miranda, and, Ma’am, Dr. Wiggins was seriously wounded by cannon fire.”
“Wounded, how?”
“One of his legs required amputation below the knee.”
She inhaled sharply.
“Apparently,” Fields said, “it was the boy who performed the surgery.”
Miranda watched as Enoch eased himself down on a stool next to the work table. He leaned over and appeared to be inspecting the scars that were the result of years of chopping vegetables and butchering meat. He smiled faintly as he ran his fingers over the rutted grain. As though he knew she was watching him, he slowly turned his head and stared at her. “If my half-brother had not survived, you might not be so eager to do away with me, would you, Mother?”
Quickly, she turned and opened the door to the front hall, but she paused and without looking at Enoch said, “The way you live, you’re determined to bring this house to ruin.”
“So you act in the family’s best interest?”
“Somebody has to.”
She waited.
Enoch said nothing.
“Fields,” she said. “Dr. Wiggins and the boy, where are they now?”
“Still aboard The Golden Hand, Ma’am.”
“Thank you, Fields.”
She left the kitchen, aware that the darkened rooms to either side of the hall concealed her audience, and she felt its approval as though they were giving her a round of applause.
Leander watched as Dr. Bradshaw inspected Dr. Wiggins’s leg. Emanuel Lunt, Sameeka, and Marie all stood outside the cabin in the companionway. No one spoke, though the children, Francois and Dominique, could be heard whispering overhead on deck.
Dr. Wiggins had been unconscious much of the time since The Golden Hand had returned to Newburyport. He often spoke, however, usually in a delirious fashion, and his bedclothes were soaked with sweat. The few times he awoke, he was clearly gripped by intense pain, and Marie would give him a dose of laudanum mixed with water.
Without looking up, Dr. Bradshaw asked, “You have been changing the dressing regularly?”
“Often,” Marie said.
“Good. This must be kept clean.” The doctor leaned over the amputated leg again.
While sawing, Leander had not really thought about what he was doing. He knew that was what Dr. Wiggins had meant, that was how you got through the bone: you don’t think, you just saw. But since then he had kept thinking about it, and seeing it, the bloody teeth of the saw cutting through the muscle and bone. He thought about how tense the doctor’s body had become, and he couldn’t imagine enduring such pain. He knew he was hurting the doctor, but he also realized that it was the only way to save him. And that’s why he kept thinking about it, over and over, so he could come to understand it: pain was necessary to survival.
Dr. Bradshaw went to a side table, where he washed his hands in a bowl of water. As he toweled off, he looked over the top of his spectacles at Leander. “Am I to understand you performed the surgery?”
Something in the doctor’s voice suggested that he didn’t approve, and Leander glanced out at the others in the companionway, but they only gazed at him blankly. Turning back to the doctor, Leander said, “Yes, sir, upon Dr. Wiggins’s instructions.”
“And he instructed you to turn the flap of skin from the calf up and sew it over the stump?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dr. Bradshaw nodded solemnly as he folded up the towel and laid it on the table. “Ever have occasion to use a surgeon’s saw before, young man?”
“No, sir.”
“How old are you, Mr. Hatch?”
“Almost twenty.”
“Really? Well, you have steady hands.”
The doctor moved toward the door, but paused when Sameeka asked, “Will you stay for a bite to eat, Doctor?”
“I’d love to, but the medical supplies are being offloaded and delivered to the pest-house, and I’m terribly shorthanded.” He glanced back at Dr. Wiggins. “This mid-August heat has only made the situation worse—we’ve lost a lot of people in the last day or so, and we’ve admitted several dozen more cases. It’s like watching the tide rise.”
Emanuel said, “I helped Giles in the pest-house earlier. I can again.”
Dr. Bradshaw nodded his appreciation and started to climb the companionway.
“I’ll come, too,” Leander said.
The doctor paused and turned around. “Hasn’t your entire family been lost since this fever began?”
“Yes,” Leander said.
“Then you should stay away from the pest-house.”
As he began to turn and
climb the companionway, Leander said, “No, I want to help.”
This time the doctor continued to climb the companionway, his legs taking each step slowly. “Very well, then,” he said with resignation.
There was a smell, hot and familiar, a good smell. Giles opened his eyes and looked up at Marie. Strands of hair curled down across her cheek. She was holding a bowl of clam broth. He raised his arm and with his fingers drew her hair back from her face.
She smiled. “You must try to eat.”
Before he could speak, she brought a spoonful of broth up to his lips—the heat, the taste of the sea. He swallowed, though his throat was dry and sore. “Where’s Emanuel? Leander?” he whispered.
“Gone to the pest-house,” she said.
He tried to sit up but couldn’t—and he looked down at the sheet over his legs.
Marie offered another spoonful of broth, which he took reluctantly before settling back into the pillows. “Dr. Bradshaw was here?”
“This afternoon.”
He turned his head and looked toward the porthole. The small circle of sky was a cobalt blue. “It’ll be night soon.”
She put the bowl on a table and picked up a small brown bottle.
“No more laudanum,” he said. “Not now.”
He looked at her until she said, “What?”
“Samuel and that Boston man, Mr. Clapp—what’s happened to them?”
“Emanuel says they have been placed under arrest.” She glanced away. “More broth?”
He shook his head. “You’re not telling me something.”
Her eyes turned back on him, sad and wounded. “Word about this medicine it goes through Newburyport. A mob. They stand outside the jail, very angry.” She held her fist up to the side of her neck. “They want to hong these men.”
“Hang. We don’t use the guillotine here.”
“And others, too.”
“Ellsworth, the constable.”
“Oui. And a farmer.”
“Simon Moss.”
“They cannot decide what to do with these men—the court it is closed because of the fever, so they sit to rot on the jail.”
Giles gazed up at her for a moment. “Is there any more of that broth?”
In the morning Miranda rode in an open carriage down to Lunt’s Wharf. Benjamin drove and accompanied her aboard The Golden Hand. Emanuel Lunt’s wife took them below to the cabin where Giles lay in a sleeping berth. To Miranda’s surprise, Marie was there, rinsing out towels in a bowl of soapy water. Marie gave her a sidelong glance and continued with her work. By her dress and her manner, both severe and utilitarian, she was hardly recognizable.
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t stand up, Mother,” Giles said. Though his face was pale and gaunt—more so than usual—his eyes were bright.
“Strange,” she said, her lips trembling. “How often have you visited my bedside? Is this your way of avoiding such duties?”
“I’m afraid it may be some time before I can provide you service as a physician again.”
The bed sheet was draped over something square, a stool perhaps, to keep it off his amputated leg. “Your condition may inspire me to remain healthy.”
“Then this might be construed as a form of prevention,” he said, smiling weakly.
“I’m still in need of your services, however, if only in an advisory capacity.”
“At the moment, that’s the only capacity I’m capable of—please, sit?”
Emanuel Lunt’s wife brought a chair from the corner.
“Thank you.” Miranda sat down and took a moment to arrange her skirts about her before looking at her son. “You know of Samuel’s fate?”
“I’m aware that he’s in jail.”
“That’s bad enough,” Miranda said, “but I’m more concerned about the outcry all this has caused. Last night I’m told a mob gathered outside the jailhouse.”
“They’re afraid, Mother, and they’re very angry.” Marie came to the bed and laid a damp, folded towel across his forehead. “I’ve been giving this some thought,” he said. “In a few hours it will prove to be another hot day, and I would like to get out of this cabin—out where the air is fresh. Perhaps you might assist me?”
“How so?” Miranda asked.
“Could you send down several of your stable hands in a wagon—not one of your fine carriages, but that wagon I drove to Newbury. It will take at least four strong lads to carry me up in this bed.”
“This might be arranged,” Miranda said. “But why a wagon?”
“It’s to transport me to the pest-house.”
Marie paused in her work as she rinsed more towels.
“Are you mad?” Mrs. Lunt asked.
“Thank you, my dear,” Miranda said.
“Sameeka, my mother is always seeking beneficial alliances. Take caution.”
“Sameeka?” Miranda said, and Mrs. Lunt nodded warily. “I’ve heard that you’re one of the most beautiful women in this port, but you also possess an ample portion of common sense—something my son does not have. In this condition, he should not be moved.”
“I’m of no use, lying here,” he said.
“But what has this to do with Samuel’s plight?”
He closed his eyes a long moment. “Just get me up to the Mall, and we shall see.”
Miranda sighed, getting to her feet. “If I do not help, you’ll find another way to get there, won’t you? So I will send a wagon.”
As she turned to leave the cabin, Marie said, “I must to do everything I can for him, Madame.”
Miranda said, wearily, “Yes, I believe you will.” She paused at the cabin door, which Sameeka held open for her. Brilliant sunlight came through the open hatch at the top of the companionway stairs. The air was extremely close and there was the faint smell of blood. For a moment Miranda closed her eyes against the heat, the light. “We are not a common family,” she said, though she didn’t seem to be talking to anyone in particular. “I may be accused of many things, and perhaps rightfully so, but I am not common.” She opened her eyes, and turning she studied Marie’s peasant’s clothes and the unkempt hair that clung to her forehead, which glistened with sweat. “I knew you were not royalty,” she said, “but I didn’t realize that you are something far more substantial.”
Marie appeared confused, but then Sameeka said something in French, and Marie looked at Miranda and bowed her head.
Several hours later, four stablehands came aboard The Golden Hand. They tied Giles to his bed so he could be hoisted up to the deck, a slow, elaborate procedure that took place in the rising heat of the afternoon. Sameeka was by turns horrified and outraged. Marie took charge of the operation, giving orders to the men. Once Giles was aboard the wagon, she climbed up next to him.
“Don’t do this, please,” he said. “Stay here with Sameeka and the children.”
“I work at the pest-house before, and you need help,” she said. “Besides, you can’t stop me.”
“No, I suppose I can’t.”
The wagon, pulled by two drays, moved off the wharf, and Giles could feel every bump and jolt in his leg. He was facing backwards, and Sameeka and her children, Francois and Dominique, waved as they stood in the bow of The Golden Hand. It was a slow, painful journey through Market Square, up State Street, to High Street. When they entered the Mall, Giles could smell the smoke from the pest-house fires. He could not see forward, but as the wagon approached the gate he looked back at the trampled grass surrounding the Frog Pond.
“It’s gotten worse,” he said to Marie, who was leaning against the side rail of the wagon. “The vendors have closed up their booths and moved away. Even Reverend Cary and his congregation have abandoned this place.”
“They are to be afraid.” Marie looked up toward the burying hill, where a wagon climbed slowly toward its summit.
Dr. Bradshaw led a group of orderlies out through the pest-house gates, giving them instructions as they carried Giles and his bed inside the grounds. Volunteers
walking between the tents, many carrying bundles of bedclothes or pushing small carts loaded with supplies, paused to watch him pass. Their faces were weary, their eyes woeful but also curious. One old woman said, “God bless you, Doctor,” before she continued down the path.
Giles was brought into the tent next to the one that Dr. Bradshaw used as the office. Though the side flaps had been raised, it was stifling beneath the canvas top, and flies constantly buzzed about Giles’s face. While Marie went to find water, Bradshaw changed the dressing on Giles’s leg.
“Eli,” Giles said. “We have the medicine here now?”
“Yes, we’re starting to use it again, though we have so many cases now. It’s just too early to tell if it will make any difference.” Bradshaw glanced up from his work, and leaned over Giles’s leg again. “But we don’t know what happened to the money we gave to Uriah Clapp—it wasn’t found aboard the Miranda, and he refuses to say what he’s done with it.”
“Have them brought here.”
“Here?”
“Yes, all of them. There was a riot outside the jail last night?”
Bradshaw nodded.
“Have Thomas Poole bring them up here.”
“In one respect, they will be safer than in the jail,” Bradshaw said. “I understand that crowd very nearly broke in last night. No mob is likely to try and break in here, eh?”
Marie returned with a pitcher of water. Giles drank two tumblers quickly, and closed his eyes, sweat stinging his lids. He drifted off to sleep to the sounds from the other tents, the moans and cries of the afflicted. Somewhere a child was shrieking.
Part VIII
As Water Spilt on the Ground
Twenty-Nine
THAT AFTERNOON LEANDER WAS PUT TO WORK IN THE PEST-house. An old woman named Esther L’Amour gave him a wax-coat and took him to the fire pit behind the laundry vats where, using leather gloves and a pair of long steel tongs, he filled a pushcart with hot stones. She trained him to wrap patients in fresh linen and lay on the stones so that the heat would penetrate certain internal organs. In an hour he was working on his own.