by John Smolens
He was walking his empty cart back to the fire pit when he noticed the cloud of dust rising up from the direction of the Frog Pond. The volunteers working at the laundry vats were all looking in that direction, too, and soon there was a sound that seemed to come from the cloud—voices. Some were chanting, while some merely shouted threats.
Leander left his cart by the fire pit and walked to the fence that enclosed the pest-house—it was over six feet high, but he could climb up on a stack of rocks and see over the top. A hay wagon, surrounded by an angry crowd, approached the gates of the pest-house. There were several men standing in the wagon, all of them with their hands tied together at their waists. Leander recognized Mr. Ellsworth, Simon Moss, and Samuel Sumner, but there was also the frail old man with white hair and a beard who had been aboard Miranda. The crowd shouted at the men, and a few threw things at them, a head of cabbage, a tomato, and what was either a rock or a quahog shell. The gates opened, admitting the wagon, but the crowd showed no intention of entering the grounds. As the gates closed, they put up a series of loud huzzahs.
Leander jumped down off the rocks and ran through the maze of tents until he reached the wagon as it came to a halt in front of Dr. Wiggins’s tent. Several orderlies helped the four men down off the wagon, while others collected around the open-sided tent, and Leander had to push his way through so that he could see. The four prisoners were lined up before Dr. Wiggins, Dr. Bradshaw, and Emanuel Lunt. There followed a long moment when no one spoke, and three of the prisoners looked about at the orderlies as though they expected to be attacked—the old man, however, stared at the ground and didn’t seem aware of anyone else.
“Thank you for coming,” Dr. Wiggins said pleasantly. “These good volunteers have worked tirelessly, and they could use some help—”
“This is not right,” Mr. Ellsworth said. “We have not received due process.”
“True,” Dr. Wiggins said. “But you see, the epidemic has closed the court.”
“We must have due process,” Ellsworth insisted. “I know the law.”
“Indeed you do,” Dr. Bradshaw said, “which makes your actions all the more culpable.”
“In time,” Dr. Wiggins said, “you may have your day in court. But in the meantime, your assistance has been deemed necessary.”
“How can you say it’s necessary?” Simon Moss said.
“Necessary for your own good, your own protection,” Wiggins said. “We understand that that mob out there nearly got to you in jail last night.” Samuel Sumner, who appeared on the verge of tears, nodded his head. “That crowd out there may be angry, but they’re not about to come in here and get you.”
One of the orderlies said, “They ain’t fools, you know,” and the others laughed.
“This amounts to a death sentence,” Samuel Sumner said, his voice breaking.
“One without due process,” Ellsworth added. “Without a proper finding of the court.”
Dr. Wiggins looked about at the orderlies. “I suppose we could set you free, just open the gates and let you walk out.” This brought more laughter.
Simon Moss asked, “What will you have us do?”
“That can be decided by the volunteers,” Dr. Wiggins said. “They’ll put you to good use, I’m sure. So go ahead and let them get you started—all of you, except our friend from Boston, Mr. Clapp. We have something further to discuss.”
The crowd broke up. They took Ellsworth, Moss, and Sumner away, quite cheered by the prospect of teaching them their new duties. Leander remained near the side of the tent. The Boston man, Mr. Clapp, had not once looked up from the ground the whole time.
Dr. Bradshaw said, “Mr. Clapp, I understand that the money we gave you for the medicine has not been found aboard the Miranda. What have you done with it?”
The old man refused to reply. Emanuel Lunt held his hook under the old man’s beard until he raised his head. “The doctor is addressing you, sir.”
“Emanuel,” Dr. Wiggins said.
Reluctantly, Lunt backed away. “I could get it out of him with one stroke.”
The doctor looked at Mr. Clapp. ““That won’t be necessary, will it, sir?”
“I will tell you if you let me out of here,” the old man said. “If you release me with a proper escort to protect me from that mob.”
“Incredible,” Dr. Bradshaw said. “Ellsworth wants a proper trial and this one wants a proper escort.”
“You’re in no position to bargain now,” Dr. Wiggins said, “let alone dictate terms.”
“You’ve got your medicine,” Clapp said. “The little good it’ll do.”
“Very well,” Dr. Wiggins said. “We’ll put you to work and see if that doesn’t change you mind. And in a while we’ll have a talk with my nephew Samuel.”
“That young fool won’t be able to help you find the money,” Clapp said.
“We’ll see.” Dr. Wiggins turned his head and spoke to Leander. “What have your duties been since coming here?”
“I gather hot stones and cart them to the tents and—”
The doctor smiled. “At least Dr. Bradshaw hasn’t got you bleeding patients.”
“Not yet,” Bradshaw said. “But he’s so handy with a saw, I should see what he can do with a sharp lancet.”
Dr. Wiggins hadn’t taken his eyes off of Leander. “I think Mr. Clapp should assist you. It might prove edifying.”
Fields came to Miranda’s room and informed her that a constable had brought news regarding Samuel: he had been removed from the jail and put to work in the pest-house. He added that Enoch had ordered that a horse be hitched to the two-wheeled chaise for the ride to the Mall. Miranda immediately went downstairs and said she would accompany him. At first Enoch refused, but she was insistent, and in the late afternoon the two of them rode out on High Street.
“You really didn’t know he was involved in this sordid business?” Enoch asked.
“No.” The air was exceedingly humid and she waved a fan before her face.
“I find that hard to believe, Mother. You two are so thick. Yet I’ll admit this is so unlike him—it shows real initiative.”
“It’s a matter of greed,” she said, “which is something we all have in common.”
“True enough.” Her son removed a silver flask from the inside pocket of his coat and took a sip, then another. As he put the flask away, he said, “But then he never succeeds at anything. He can’t properly bump off his old man—I’m beginning to feel so much better since he’s left the house—and he can’t pilfer these medical supplies without getting caught.”
“Perhaps you should just admit that this notion of being poisoned was an illusion,” Miranda said.
“You’d find that convenient.”
“But this is no illusion: he and the medicine were found aboard your ship, bound for Boston,” she said. “Tell me you had no knowledge of this.”
“None. And if anybody is going to reprimand him, it’s me.”
“Oh, my,” Miranda said with a snort. “The mantle of parental responsibility so well suits your broad shoulders.”
Enoch pulled the chaise up before the pest-house gates, and as he climbed down one of the guards ran off into the compound behind the fence, while Miranda remained in her seat.
“I’m here for my son,” Enoch said, speaking loudly, as though addressing a crowd.
The other guard at the gate was a corpulent man with a gray beard streaked with tobacco juice. He cleared his throat nervously, and said, “No one is to enter without doctor’s orders, sir.”
“Then I shall speak with the doctor.”
Relieved, the guard looked back toward the pest-house tents and saw that Dr. Bradshaw was hurrying toward the gate, accompanied by the other guard. Miranda had nothing but disdain for Bradshaw, despite the fact that he had a sound reputation in Newburyport. She found him uninteresting, and that he possessed the demeanor of an accounting clerk.
“You are to bring my son here immediately,” Enoch
said.
“We can’t do that,” Bradshaw said. “He’s under custody—for his own protection.”
“Dr. Wiggins,” Miranda said, gazing past him toward the tents. “He’s here now?”
“At his own insistence, Ma’am,” Bradshaw said.
Enoch now rapped his cane on the wooden gate. “I don’t care if George Washington is in there, I want my son brought out. Immediately.”
Miranda climbed down from the chaise and approached the gate. “I will see Dr. Wiggins. He will exercise some compassion and common sense. Now open up.” When the guards and Dr. Bradshaw began to protest, Miranda said, “Open up, I say. Dr. Wiggins is my son and my physician, and I will see him about this matter.”
Reluctantly, Dr. Bradshaw nodded his consent, and the fat guard unlatched the gate and swung it back, allowing Miranda to step inside.
“What are you doing?” Enoch said. “Mother, you shouldn’t go in there.”
She ignored him and began walking quickly toward the tents. The men followed her, and she could hear her son trying to keep up. When she looked about, she saw that he was holding a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. “Don’t be such a coward,” she said, and turning to Bradshaw, who was at her side, she demanded, “Where is he?”
“This way, please,” the doctor said.
He led her down a path between two rows of tents. People came out from the tents to watch this small entourage pass. They were old people mostly, and a number of them were dark-skinned. They wore waxed coats and aprons that were soiled with blood and vomit. Finally, Bradshaw stopped before a tent with all sides rolled up. Giles lay on a cot and Marie sat on a stool at his side.
“Two visits in one day,” he said. “I should be honored.”
“You know why I’m here,” Miranda said.
“I suppose I do,” Giles said.
“I want to see him,” Enoch demanded. “Bring Samuel now.”
“But your son’s making a real contribution here, aiding the sick,” Giles said. “I’m sure the court will take this into account when it considers his case.”
“He’ll be infected and die,” Enoch said.
“Possibly,” Giles said. “But that’s true for many. Whether you sit shut up in your fine house on High Street or work here among the afflicted, there’s an equal chance that you’ll contract this fever.”
“Nonsense,” Miranda said.
“I wish it were, Mother,” Giles said.
Enoch stepped closer to the cot and studied the sheet over Giles’s legs. “I am told my ship sustained considerable damage on account of your escapade. Privateering days are over, Doctor.”
“Do you not know what your own ship was about, sir?” Giles asked. “This too might be a matter to be take up in court, once it reopens.”
“Your implication?”
“You know very well my implication.”
“I had nothing to do with this,” Enoch said.
“Your ship, your son,” Giles said.
Enoch stalked out of the tent and stumbled along the path, calling out for Samuel.
Miranda took a step toward the cot but stopped when Marie got to her feet and rinsed out a cloth in a pan of water. Miranda held out her hand and said, “May I?” When Marie hesitated, Miranda said, “He has cared for me so many years.”
Marie placed the damp cloth in Miranda’s hand. “He eats almost nothing,” she said, and she began to leave the tent. “I must to bring some broth.”
Miranda approached the cot and laid the cloth on her son’s forehead. He seemed to have aged years. Gently, she mopped his face and neck. It was extremely warm beneath the tent, and there was the persistent sound of buzzing flies. In the distance she could hear Enoch hollering for Samuel as he wandered through the camp. “The fool,” she said quietly. “But in this case I really believe he had no knowledge of this business of the medicine.”
“You’re sure?”
“A mother knows these things—you may find this peculiar, coming from me, but I know my sons and grandson well, too well.” She went to the basin, rinsed out the cloth, and continued to mop his face. “Samuel is every bit the scoundrel his father was when he was young. Even more unprincipled, in his own way. Enoch never lacked enterprise. Samuel is always looking for the short route, the easy way.”
“He’s not finding this so easy now,” Giles said.
“No. Samuel is an utter fool, like his father. But if he dies, or if he is sent to prison, it will destroy me.”
Giles gazed up at her. “Without medicine we’ve been helpless. People have died because of what he’s done.”
“You must help me,” she said quickly. “I’ve got to get Samuel out of here.”
He lifted his arm and took the cloth from her hand. “Mother, you can be hot and cold, and ruthlessly arbitrary, much like this.…”
Involuntarily she stepped back from the cot. “Like this fever? Perhaps, but you have a better chance of understanding this disease than your own mother.” Somewhere in the camp Enoch was still shouting, but Miranda also heard Samuel’s voice, pleading. She turned and began to leave the tent but stopped and looked back at the cot. “In your attempt to be fair and impartial, you only end up sacrificing your own family.”
“This gives me no pleasure, Mother.” Giles placed the cloth over his eyes.
She moved through the camp, walking faster as she neared the sound of Enoch and Samuel’s voices.
Leander and Mr. Clapp were loading the pushcart with hot stones when the shouting began. Clearly, it was the voice of Enoch Sumner, high-pitched and raspy, and he slurred his words as though he were inebriated.
“Shall we have a look?” Mr. Clapp asked. “This might prove entertaining, at least.”
“All right,” Leander said.
They left the pushcart and walked toward the gate, where they found Enoch Sumner trying to strike several guards with his cane. His son, Samuel, who was being restrained by the guards, cried like a child.
“Sir,” one of the guards shouted, “you must leave the premises immediately.”
Mr. Sumner swung at him with his cane, but missed. “Release him! I’m ordering you!”
“We don’t take orders from you here,” the guard said.
Again, Mr. Sumner swung his cane. He missed, but this time he lost his balance and stumbled, causing his wig to shift over on one side of his head.
Two of the guards approached him from behind and took him by the upper arms. They hustled him—his feet barely touched the ground—toward the front gate, which was being opened by another guard.
Suddenly, Mrs. Sumner rushed down the path, screaming, and when she struck one of the guards with her fists, he let go of her son. There was a struggle that resembled a drunken dance, until Mrs. Sumner was holding her son away from the guards. “You would never dare to touch him outside this place!” she shouted. The guards seemed both baffled and frightened by this woman. She took her son’s cane and held it out before her, as though it was a saber, and then she pulled him with her through the open gate. Mr. Sumner climbed up into his chaise, followed by his mother. Orderlies who had gathered by the gate cheered. As the carriage pulled away, Mr. Sumner had difficulty holding the reins while at the same time trying to keep his wig on his head.
The younger Mr. Sumner, Samuel, had been pleading and crying throughout all this, and now he was on his knees in the dirt. The guards decided to leave him be—the gate was shut and the orderlies began to return to their duties. Still Samuel clawed the earth with his bare hands. He only stopped when Mr. Clapp approached and helped him to his feet and brought him over to Leander.
“He can help with the stones,” Mr. Clapp said. “It might prove therapeutic.”
Samuel appeared in a daze, overwrought.
“All right,” Leander said. “But both of you are to do as I say. Is that understood?”
Obediently, Mr. Clapp took Samuel by the arm. “Come, we shall perform our penitential duties together.”
Mr. Clap
p and Samuel did what they were told, loading bricks and stones in the cart, which they then pushed along the path to the tents. The old man often seemed distracted, but there was a humor and understanding in his eyes that Leander found disconcerting. When they were in the tents laying stones on patients, Samuel was quite useless and paralyzed with fear.
They worked steadily into the evening. After they laid hot stones on two children, a brother and sister who weren’t more than eight or nine years old, Mr. Clapp muttered in disgust, “Neither of those children will survive the night. All this ‘doctoring’ amounts to a little quinine water or a concoction of powders learned from some superstitious old hag.”
“All that’s missing is the frogs in a boiling pot,” Samuel said.
They arrived at the fire pit and, using the tongs, began loading the cart again. “And these hot stones and bleedings,” Mr. Clapp said. “They’re no more likely to provide a cure than any of the medicines taken off that ship.”
“What this place needs is not medicine but a larger hole for the dead.” Samuel looked up from his work, staring at Leander. “No one should understand that better than you, boy.”
“What do you mean?” Mr. Clapp asked.
“He comes to work at my father’s house after his entire family dies.”
The old man paused and gazed curiously at Leander. “So why are you here?”
“To help,” Leander said.
“Help?” Mr. Clapp said. “This place is hopeless. The sooner these people are dead and buried the better. Tell me, how do you benefit from being here?”
“Benefit?”
Mr. Clapp dropped his tongs in the cart and came over to Leander. “That’s the only question you should ever ask yourself: ‘How do I benefit from this?’” He waited, and when Leander didn’t answer, he said, “You don’t know—you don’t know because there is no benefit. Your entire family’s gone. You’re all alone in this world. It owes you nothing, nothing but what you can take from it.”