A sudden awful stillness settled up and down the length of King Street.
Dr. Mather raised his voice in triumph. “I would have you know that the Faithful Ministers of Christ in this place are as honest and useful men as the ancient Levites were, and are as dear to their Glorious Lord. If, sir, you resolve to go on in serving their Great Adversary as you do, you must expect the consequences. Good day.” With that, Dr. Mather strode quickly away.
Zabdiel smiled ruefully as he told Jerusha the story in the parlor that evening, as she sewed, and he toyed with a book; Zabby was reading a Bible story to the younger children, drawn around the table. “He has a good heart, Jer. And he means to do well. Only he gets himself so balled up with rage that he does himself and his cause more harm than good. Little boys chased him home taunting, Loin-smiter.”
“It’s not funny, Zabdiel, not in the least,” she said, her forehead crinkling.
A rumble in the street below made everyone look up.
“Papa,” said Jerusha, walking to the window, “there’s—”
Shards of glass and a scream cut her words short. Several rocks hit the floor, and then, in slow motion, something heavier and harder arced through the window, spitting fire. It hit the chair where Zabdiel had been sitting moments before and fell against the floor with a heavy thud. The brightness slithered across the floor to the wall, filling the room with acrid smoke.
In a single motion Zabdiel threw his coat on the line of fire, scooped up his screaming daughter, and herded everyone else back into the hall. Tommy rushed over and stamped another bit of fire out, before being hauled out by Zabby. Even as he was dragged out, he bent and picked something up.
Jerusha was scratched and hysterical, but not badly cut. They heard more glass, and more rocks.
“Papa,” said Tommy in an odd little voice, “it’s an iron ball. Are they shooting cannon?”
“Tommy,” croaked Zabdiel, “gently, now. Give me that.” His hands shook as his son set the metal, still warm, into his hands.
Jack and Moll ran up the stairs, carrying Jackey. Downstairs, more glass shattered, and then a regular thudding began slamming against the door to the shop. Raw Head and Bloody Bones! screeched a tangle of voices.
Zabdiel and Jerusha looked at each other; they had discussed this, had rehearsed it once, but he had never believed it would come to this.
Her skirts suddenly seemed made of clinging children.
“Go,” she said. “They will not dare to touch me or the children.” But she handed the musket to Zabby to load, in any case.
“Go.”
10
JUST RETRIBUTION
Dock Square, Boston
November 13, 1721
TO turn from his family, slink down the stairs, and into the shadows was the hardest thing Zabdiel had ever done. But he and Jerusha had gone over this possibility again and again. They were looking for him, not her or the children.
If he got away in time, they would never find him; if he stayed, he was one man against a mob: and that kind of heroism was not heroism, she said. It was foolishness, to put your children into the position of watching you torn from their arms and strung up in the street.
Jack opened the back door and walked out before him; it was clear. Odd, Zabdiel thought with clarity, how single minded and stupid a mob could be, even when consisting of intelligent men.
He crunched across the icy ground to the stables. Talking softly, he stepped into Prince’s stall, and squeezed around the stallion. There in the back corner he found the latch to the door obscured behind Prince’s feeding bag. It opened on a cupboard that had not been meant for a person, but would hold one, just. Zabdiel was not sure what it had been meant for: it was an odd nook in the barn’s space, and someone long ago had made use of it. Probably to store valuables. Where safer, than behind the iron hooves of a stallion?
Lately, he and Jack had been keeping fresh water in there, along with blankets and some food; Jack had been changing it every day, when he fed Prince. Zabdiel had added a Bible, too, though it would be too dark to read. He slipped in and shut the door.
Only then did he realize that he was still holding the missile. He could not see it, but he knew what it was; he had seen it with terrible accuracy as it arced through the window. It was no cannon ball, as Tommy had thought. It was a grenade. The fuse had been knocked loose in its fall, or it would have exploded in his son’s hands.
Zabdiel began to shiver, and then to shake. He set the grenade down in haste before he could drop it, and curled himself into a ball. It took every ounce of his strength to keep rage from exploding through him with all the force that had failed the grenade.
From down the street, on the other side of the mob, Dr. Douglass rapped on the carriage for his man to stop. He sat at the window watching the mob engulf the inoculator’s house. It was not how he would have chosen to win; but really, the man had brought it on himself.
What could one do, one man against a mob?
He heard a thundering of hooves, and a company of men rode up on horses, tossed themselves off, and waded into the fray with their whips. The crowd began streaming in the other direction.
Up ahead, the shattering and wrenching, the yelling and screaming, gradually stopped.
Dr. Douglass stepped down from his carriage and into the house. Possibly, he could be of some help.
In the house, Jerusha, too, heard the pounding of horses, followed by the thud and crack of bullwhips. Harsh men’s voices, and a sudden scuffling and quiet.
Then she heard a clomping on the stairs. There was a knock on her chamber door. The children all ducked behind the bed, and she lowered her musket. “Who is it?”
“Elisha Cooke, madam,” said a deep voice. The door slowly opened, pushed in from the outside. She saw him glimpse the musket, and then look up at her face. “At your service,” he said, with a deep bow.
He was not alone; by his side stood Captain Durell, and behind them crowded several constables. She grimaced as she saw Dr. Douglass, who inclined his head. But she let the musket tip up toward the ceiling.
Mr. Cook took a step into the room; behind her, the children edged their noses over the bed. “We should like a word with your husband.”
“He is not here.”
“He is not safe in this house, madam. We are offering him safe escort.”
“Where?” Her voice, she thought, sounded harsh as a crow’s.
“To the Town House. It is the strongest building in town.”
So you can accidentally let the mob have him on the way there—or give them the key? She did not say it aloud. “Unfortunately for you, he is not here.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” It was, carefully, quite true. Of course, she had a mighty fine guess. But she did not know.
“You will pardon us, madam, if we ascertain his absence for ourselves.”
“You will no doubt ascertain it, whether I pardon you or not, so perhaps you will pardon me if I don’t waste my breath.”
Mr. Cooke smiled at her. “We will also be looking for illegal inoculees.”
“By all means search,” she said. “You will not find any.”
She led the way to the guest chamber, where they kept sick patients who needed round-the-clock care. From there, they checked every room, every closet, even the attic and cellar. They searched the stable and the hay loft. Prince snorted in warning as they drew near, and gave one good kick to the outside wall of his stall. They steered a wide course around him.
“As I said,” she said icily. “He is not here.”
“Let us hope, madam, that he may come home safely.”
“No doubt he will, if you control the rioting in the streets. Good night, gentlemen.”
She closed the outer door, banging it back into place where it was loose. Then she picked her way through the shop, icy air knifing through the windows, and shut the door that separated it from the house. Sliding the bolt across, she turned and leaned b
ack against it, and then she slid down on her haunches and sobbed.
After a few minutes, she dried her eyes and went upstairs. The girls were sitting wide eyed in the bed; Jack and Moll had made pallets for the boys and for Moll and Jackey on the floor.
“Where will you sleep?” she asked Jack.
“Don’t you mind me, missus,” he said. He took the musket and went downstairs. Zabby went with him.
Jerusha dropped into the bed, led the children in brief prayers, and lay staring at the ceiling with her three girls pressing themselves around her.
Come back to me, she thought.
The screaming pierced his dreams first, followed by showers of glass. Thomas Walter awoke to the smell of burning, and a billowing of smoke. He and his companions leapt out of bed.
Pox on your house! Someone cried in the night. Dogs, horses, and roosters awoke as footsteps scattered through neighboring yards.
Dr. Mather was pounding at the chamber door. Somewhere outside, a bell was tolling 3:00 A.M.
They stamped the fire out, and examined the missile. It was not a rock, it was a bomb. A grenade. But the fuse had hit the casement on its way in and fallen loose.
Wrapped around the metal was a strip of paper with rough writing on it: COTTON MATHER, you Dog, Dam you: I’l inoculate you with this, with a Pox to you.
Very nearly, the night had cost him his life, thought Dr. Mather, wrapped in a blanket and a dressing gown, his fingers like needles of ice despite the gloves.
He rubbed his hands until his fingers warmed up enough to write. G. D. This night there stood by me the Angel of the GOD, whose I am and whom I serve.
He did not return to bed. He wrote till daylight, welcoming the glorious martyrdom for which the Lord was preparing him. Then he rang for his chocolate early and took himself off to the ferry for Cambridge, to harangue the governor into revenge.
At dawn, Zabdiel opened the door to the cupboard. Prince snorted and shifted his weight, twitching his tail in greeting. Zabdiel gave him a rub down the neck, and slipped out.
The entire world seemed silent and deserted in the gray light. As he drew nearer the house, he saw that Moll had already laid the fire and begun breakfast; she handed him a hot cup of chocolate as he walked through the door.
“Jack’s sweeping up in the shop,” she said. “Missus still sleeping.”
Zabdiel put his finger to his lips and crept up the stairs. In their bed, Jerusha was coiled around the girls. He stood for a long time, watching them. Felt eyes on him, and turned to see Jackey, bright eyed, sucking his thumb and watching.
The family woke and prayed together in the bedroom, and then Zabdiel went downstairs to take stock of the damage. Jack had finished sweeping up the big pieces and was setting overturned things to rights. Moses Pierce was already there, replacing the broken windows.
Mrs. Bath, the poor widow of a needlemaker, appeared in the doorway, open mouthed, with her fifteen-year-old Mary firmly in tow.
“We had a bit of excitement in the night, Mrs. Bath,” said Zabdiel. “But everything is fine now. May I help you?”
“I want you to inoculate my Mary,” she said. “I have sold my wedding ring,” she added hurriedly, as if he might send her packing on the assumption she could not pay. “I have the five pounds.” She picked her way across the crunchy floor and laid the coins proudly on the counter. “I would like it as soon as is ever convenient, if you please.”
“Now is convenient, madam,” said Zabdiel.
As soon as the women had left, he tried to give the money straight across to Mr. Pierce, but he would not take it.
“My Liza that you inoculated, she’s alive, and my two other children nursed through their sickness by her,” he said without stopping. “My sweet youngest, our baby Lizzy, died where she ought, in her mother’s arms. If anything, I ought to be paying you the privilege of replacing these windows.”
Later, a delegation from the governor stopped in to speak with Zabdiel about the disturbance. They looked around at the new sparkling windows and the neat shop, and were confused. “Was there not a riot in your street last night?”
“Boys,” said Zabdiel with a shrug. “A drunken sailor or two. That is all.”
“If you will not help us, sir, we cannot press charges.”
He was tempted; he was sorely tempted. But had already taken his measure of revenge; he had resumed inoculating. “Charges for what?” asked Zabdiel.
In Cambridge, the General Court voted £1,000 to be paid out of the public treasury for the relief of families nearly reduced to gnawing leather.
The following afternoon, the governor and council coaxed the House into issuing a reward of £50 for discovering “the Author and Actor” of the wicked attack upon Dr. Mather’s person and property. They did not mention Dr. Boylston.
Crane Court, off Fleet Street, London
November 16, 1721
Just east of Fetter Lane, on the north side of Fleet Street, coaches lined up near the entrance to the narrow courtyard of Crane Court. Like an immense ornate egg, each coach in its turn rolled to the entrance, shed lines of footmen in silver lace, and then popped open with a click, hatching gentlemen with luxuriant plumes of hair into the glow of lamplight. One by one, they unfolded themselves to proud stands, retrieved walking sticks and gloves from impassive servants, stowed hats under their arms, and stalked across the courtyard, disappearing up the fanned stairway and into the pale stone house. Emptied of its treasure, each coach pulled away to the crowded coach-house and full stables, and the next coach drew up.
In the foyer, gruff laughter and the long, leaning snorts of snuff-taking mingled briefly with the clink of glasses full of fine old Madeira, but the men soon drifted into the grand meeting hall. Irascible old Sir Isaac Newton limped his way to the president’s chair, rapped upon the table, and the meeting of the Royal Society came to order.
Dr. Alexander Stuart waited impatiently through run-of-the-mill reports and ho-hum everyday business. At last, he judged the restlessness to indicate a certain willingness for fireworks, and he rose. “I have here a letter dated September twenty-fifth, from Dr. William Douglass, who writes from Boston, in New England, upon the subject of the smallpox.” He cleared his throat. “On inoculation for the smallpox, to be precise.”
The fidgeting stopped and heads turned. One or two men who had been dozing snorted awake.
“We trained together in Leiden. I can vouchsafe for the man’s education and intellectual capacity.” He read the letter through, reveling in the dropped jaws and raised brows certain sentences elicited. “A thousand people ill in the month of September,” for instance. He knew what they were thinking: Why, London goes years at a time without so many ill of a single distemper in one month—and London must be fifty, maybe sixty times the size of Boston!
He continued: “Above sixty persons of all ages, sexes, and conditions have there been inoculated—”
A collective gasp swept the room. Sixty! Under the leadership of Sir Hans, the Royal College of Physicians had lobbied hard for permission to inoculate six prisoners at a go—and the doctors had thought themselves daring.
Dr. Stuart, a Scottish Tory who disliked Sir Hans and the Whig ministry, purred his way through the end of his sentence: “... of which several had the confluent sort, and one or two have died.”
There was a drumming of feet on the floor, an outburst of hollering, as the Tories faced the Whigs with conquest in their eyes.
Sir Hans sniffed and stood to face Dr. Stuart. “Perhaps now might be an opportune moment to give a report of our own trials of inoculation, at Newgate.” Dr. Stuart sat down, and Sir Hans turned to smile at Dr. Freind and Dr. Wagstaffe, who were looking smugly at nothing.
“They have been an unmitigated success,” Sir Hans continued smoothly. “All those who were inoculated had the distemper communicated thereby in a very gentle degree.”
Dr. Wagstaffe’s attention snapped back into focus. “So gentle,” he cried, “that it must be doub
ted whether what you communicated was indeed the true smallpox!”
“Do stop speaking of ‘the true smallpox’ as if it were the true cross, Wagstaffe,” grumbled someone in the back, and a dangerous silence enveloped the room.
“Facetiousness aside,” sniffed Dr. Freind, “you cannot deny that the operation presents grave risks whose nature and consequences you do not understand. What assurance do you have that it works?”
Angry voices and local quarrels erupted across the space. Sir Hans raised his voice above it all. “The question, gentleman, the question has been put whether the inoculated smallpox indeed secures a person from any future return of the infection.” The very walls of the room seemed to hunch in tighter around him.
“I am happy to report that one of the women who suffered the experiment in Newgate has since undertaken to nurse other persons down of the distemper. Mr. Maitland assures me that she has been put to bed with two different patients for six weeks now, without any ill consequence whatsoever.”
More gasps crossed the room, along with some significant oh-ho’s and a little satisfied chortling as well: the tussle over inoculation appeared to be heating into a royal battle with room for all.
“As for Boston,” said Sir Hans as he sat down, “I am expecting further news imminently.”
He had been well prepared for such boisterous nonsense. Only a few days earlier, he had drafted his report for the princess and translated it into French. One can assuredly communicate the infection to suitable subjects, without danger of any relapse or recurrence. The entire operation is not only absolutely without danger, but also very easy and practicable.
He had also caught wind of the Boston controversy from Mr. Jeremiah Dummer, who had a letter—no, a treatise—from Dr. Mather.
He sighed. Dr. Mather wrote incessantly and voluminously about American oddities to various Fellows of the Royal Society. That he had chosen this particular moment to approach the Society sideways, through the roundabout door of the provincial agent—and demand anonymity, no less—was vexing indeed. Sir Hans had done his best to persuade Mr. Dummer to ignore that demand, in light of necessity. Surely royal urgency counted for something. The lawyer had promised to consider it.
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