“No.” Linc looked down.
“Something else going on, Linc.”
“What?”
“For one, my sense tell me that those two white boys traipsing through here was lacking the fervor of Robinson’s kin. Surely they not the ones who broke down my door. I passed by them just before I come up on you and Vergilina in that shack. The whole of what is going on here is not in my line of sight just yet—”
Nevada had just stepped through the door to the outside. “But my my my, look at what is in my line of sight,” Buddy said, and Linc watched everything about Buddy change. It was as if Buddy was no longer operating under his own strength. His characteristic lean to one side that marked him as a tough guy had vanished, replaced with perfectly balanced shoulders; the muscles in his face softened, and even his bad eye seemed fully opened. “The sun is right now breaking through the storm clouds of my life,” Buddy said. And Nevada unleashed a smile and Buddy had already left Linc’s side, had already opened his arms wide, Nevada already laughing as she fell into them.
Linc walked past them to return to the house. He was happy for Buddy. Though he was sad for himself. Missing Meda all over again, missing Bram. He was thinking he would go inside and find Vergie and say his goodbyes. Sneak back to Philadelphia on the next ferry out of here and pay Mrs. Benin a visit. She’d always had affection for Bram, at least. Might give him assistance if it meant it would help Bram.
29
THEY HAD JUST completed dinner. Vergie had convinced Linc to remain for the meal and promised that she would walk with him to locate Sylvia and find out when the next transport out would leave. Linc and Buddy pretended to size each other up the way two men who’d just met likely would. And Splotch whispered to Buddy that he did not favor Linc at all. Buddy asked him why, and Splotch replied that something about Linc just did not sit right with him. To which Buddy said, “Well, nothin’ about you sits right with me, Splotch, so if it is just somethin’ about him, he appear to be a length or two ahead of you.”
Then they heard the gong. Everyone turned at the same time, it seemed, looking up, then around, and the movement and the noise seemed even to sway the chandelier in the dining room. Kojo announced, “I work here day in and day out, and that gong means that trouble is all around us.” Which elicited near hysteria as they began to call out, What is happening? . . . Mercy. I knew I should not have come to this godforsaken place. I’m leaving. . . . Where is that big white fellow in charge of our bags?
Nevada banged a pan to get their attention. “That gong also mean to keep calm until we determine the status of the situation. Kojo also knows that, but he left that part out.”
Then the front door opened and the two white men entered, more like were pushed in by Son, followed by Sylvia. Buddy stood and positioned himself so that he was standing in front of Linc, shielding Linc from being seen from the parlor. Then he tilted his head ever so slightly in the direction of the kitchen, and edged himself in that direction with Linc moving in lockstep behind him until he was at the archway of the kitchen door. Linc quickened on through to the outside and stood along the side of the house. He picked up his satchel that he’d left out here earlier. Now he was looking down, at the square of wood that was the cellar door. He lifted it, and descended the ladder into sweet darkness.
SYLVIA HAD MET first with the two constables and explained to them the situation of the quarantine. They’d huffed and barked that they were exempt from any order that they remain on the Lazaretto. She heard in the one’s speech, saw in his demeanor, felt in his essence, which seemed to ooze from his pores, that his resistance superseded a normal resistance that anyone would display when told they could not leave a place. His resistance was magnified, she knew, because a black woman was looking him in the eye and telling him that he was not free to leave this place. She steadied her voice; she was nervous. She’d been in the position before when she’d had to detain entire vessels skippered by powerful, wealthy mariners. Though it was part of Ledoff’s official duties as the quarantine master to verbalize such orders, Ledoff would cede that authority to Sylvia because he maintained that was the direction of the world and the world needed to get used to a black person in charge. Sylvia would handle such assignments with aplomb, knowing that Ledoff was always on hand to back her up. Who should back her up now? Son, who stood next to her, simply waited to be told what to do; and Spence had left the room because his hatred and fear of white people was so large that he pretended to be illiterate in their presence. “I am empowered to enforce the order of quarantine by any and all means, including use of physical restraints if necessary,” she said, directing her words at the one she sensed was the leader of the pair. When they’d stormed the office earlier, flashing a warrant with an official seal and she hastily read the description of the person they sought and assured them such a one was not in their midst, one of them had accused her of lying; the other had raised his hand to stop him, had politely asked Sylvia if they could take a look around. That one cleared his throat now and replied that physical restraints would not be necessary. And Sylvia spoke only to him when she said that confidentially, they had information that the potentially infectious matter that prompted the order of quarantine was on the other side of the creek, so after they sat through the meeting that would be held once the gong was sounded, they could help best protect themselves from contamination by returning to and remaining on this side of the compound, and that they should find comfortable quarters at Ledoff’s residence. The part about the infectious matter wasn’t true, but she reasoned Spence had been correct when he’d said that Sylvia must also manage the emotional well-being of everyone now trapped here. In this situation, keeping white men with billy clubs, particularly the one with the air of superiority, confined to this side of the Lazaretto would help.
After she met with the constables, she sounded the gong, and then went to the house where the (hysterical) wedding guests were assembled. She began by complimenting them for their refreshing attire. She was sorry, she said, that she was not similarly dressed. “I feel like a weed among lilies,” she said, knowing that would disarm the best of them. She turned serious then as she apologized for all that they’d endured, the boat ride over, the lack of a wedding ceremony, both certainly outside her sphere of influence, she said, “but as second in charge by the power vested by the seal of the mayor, and governor, and since the doctor is currently indisposed, I am the chief authority here.” She went on to tell them that Carl was stable, and to please keep him in their prayers. Then she cleared her throat. “I must now deliver news that may bring you displeasure.”
She told them about the missing crate. Everybody listened raptly trying to determine what this had to do with them. “The reason we did not know that the crate was delivered is because the courier delivering it did not follow protocol and informed not a single person here that he was depositing said crate.”
She breathed in deeply again. She questioned her ability to manage this crisis absent Ledoff. Though she had received a telegraph from him finally. If I should be allowed, I would be there. Since I cannot, there is no one better suited than you, Nurse Sylvia, to take the helm. She’d wanted to cry when she’d read it. If there were ever a white man that she loved, she thought it would be Ledoff.
She picked up the eyes of the people gathered here as she scanned the room and explained that the missing crate was at the heart of the most unpleasant news she was pained to have to convey right now. “The crate may have contained infectious content,” she said. She was determined that “infectious content” was as specific as she would get. She would not mention yellow fever. However, she herself was not given to hysterics over the spread of the disease since Ledoff had shared with her a paper that theorized that the disease was spread by mosquitoes, not by person-to-person contact. Prevailing thought did not embrace that theory, and the folks in this room surely would not, either. “As a result,” she continued, “the Lazaretto has been declared under quarantine, and that
quarantine extends to every person here. Those now here, must remain here. Those not here, will be barred from entering.”
She stopped talking then to allow the impact of what she’d just said to settle in. She glanced at her notes. She’d written down the likely progression of their reactions. There would be a stunned silence, she knew, followed by a collective gasp. After the initial shock, calls of For how long? would crowd the room and would range from whispered murmurs to shouts, some begging, some demanding. Then the other questions would surely begin to mix in. What was in the crate? How was it lost? Have we now been exposed to it? Is it the fever? Yellow fever? Will we all succumb to yellow fever? That would be the loudest, most sustained outburst, until the smaller, more practical concerns would break through the hysteria as they began to consider the lives they needed to lead come Monday morning: teaching at Bible school; spreading fabric at the shop on Fourth Street; opening doors for the rich on the Square; writing copy for the pamphlet on improving Negro life; unloading crates at the waterfront; midwifing; serving as notary public; setting up the night’s card game; preparing the lecture to be delivered at the Institute for Colored Youth; caring for the arthritic elder; rocking the colicky baby; keeping house; scrubbing steps; making hats to be sold at the milliner’s shop; making soap to be packaged with an exotic French name; baking bread; clipping hedges; cutting leather for shoes; embalming a corpse; dressmaking; planning lessons for September’s start of classes.
Sylvia checked off her sheet as each phase presented itself. Next they’d try to come up with alternate ways of getting out: sneaking out under the cover of night; swimming away; trekking to the river through the backside of the woods. After Sylvia described how surrounded they now were with vessels meant to enforce the quarantine, there would be one more spate of angry outbursts. Miss Ma would surely laugh, others would surely cry, more crying, more cursing, accusations that Sylvia knew more than she was letting on. Then finally they’d give in to the circumstance they were in. It would be a craggy yielding, Sylvia knew.
She allowed them time to vent, understanding as she did the importance of letting a thing run its course. She listened to it all unflinchingly, answered what she could, promised only what she could deliver: that they would be fed, and kept as comfortable as possible; that she would communicate the critical messages they needed to send home by way of telegraph, starting with the most urgent, and that they should decide among themselves which was the most pressing and present her with a list; that she would update them as soon as she knew more. She got up to leave. Said that Carl’s condition and the need to stay in communication with the city required her to hurry back to the hospital.
She glanced at her paper. It had all happened just as she’d sketched it out, except for one detail, which arose now as she felt Lena’s voice at her back. “Can you tell us the status of things with Spence, please.” It was more a demand than a question.
“As you can imagine, Lena, the sudden extraordinary circumstance of the quarantine has rearranged everything, including, obviously, Spence’s wedding plans. Though he can explain to you better than I about that. Right now he is working to keep Carl comfortable, as we had every intention of getting him back to Philadelphia today.”
She addressed the whole room then and said again how sorry she was that they all had to endure this situation. She glanced at Nevada, who winked her approval at how well Sylvia had handled this awful situation. Then she left. Vergie ran behind her and caught her as she was about to cross the creek. “Is it a corpse they are looking for?” she asked.
“This matters to you why, Vergilina?”
“Just tell me, Sylvia. Please. I promise not to breathe a word. Is it Lincoln’s brother? It is. I know it is. I could fill in the detail by your expression.”
“We cannot say for sure who it is until the corpse is located. So, yes, it is a corpse. Do I think it is the young man’s brother? My intuition tells me so. Why are you so concerned? Has he not already left? I arranged transport for him on the last ferry before we were quarantined. I only wish I had arranged a way for everyone out of here before this. But who could have predicted?”
“Who indeed?” Vergie said.
“So, has he?”
“Has he what?”
“Departed. I did not see him among the stunned faces in there.”
“He has,” she said, as she hugged Sylvia to hide her own face. “When will you be back to get some rest? I worry that you are not getting enough sleep.”
“As soon as I can get back, I shall be back.”
LINC COULD HEAR the footsteps gathering upstairs as he rummaged through his sactchel for his safety matches, then lit the lamp that had rested at the foot of the ladder. He held the lamp high and was struck by the mountain of bags and boxes and suitcases and furniture stacked in the middle of the floor, reaching almost to the ceiling. Now he heard the cellar door crunch open. He put the lamp on the floor behind him, allowing most of darkness to return. He listened to the sound of wood creaking as someone descended the ladder. The frazzle of light that he could not manage to obstruct barely illuminated a man’s boots, large boots, and now his hands came into view and Linc could see that this was a white man. In a quick move, he reached for the lamp and held it high to blind whoever this was. The man let out a yelp and started to cry. Linc lowered the lamp some, confused. He recognized the man to be Son; he’d seen him earlier when he was with Sylvia, had heard Sylvia giving him instructions; had thought the instructions strangely drawn out, as if she were talking to a child, but he’d not given it much thought, in view of his larger concerns. Still, he felt his muscles uncoil as he watched Son sobbing, Son’s face smeared with cake crumbs. Linc realized right now what he should have guessed earlier if he’d given it any thought, that Son was but a child in a man’s body.
“Do not tell on me, please do not tell,” Son managed to say between his sobs. Linc nodded and looked down, out of respect for this display of emotion from a man.
“What am I not to tell?” Linc asked, trying to find a soothing tone of voice and coming up short.
“I was not supposed to have more cake,” he said.
“Well, I am pretty sure that that’s forgivable. What’s your name?” Son told Linc his name, and Linc told him his. Then he asked Son if he wanted to play a game with him, told Son that he was down here playing hide-and-seek and he needed to get a message to someone.
Son nodded and Linc asked him if he knew which lady Vergie was.
“Yes,” he said. “The one with white skin.”
“Can you whisper to her where I am?” Linc asked. “But only to her. I will keep your secret if you will keep mine.” Son said that he would.
He climbed back up the ladder. But he was disappointed because he had wanted to check on Bram. He’d crept down here after he’d delivered Spence’s note and had seen a thin stream of liquid shining along the side of Bram’s face. He’d thought at first that something was dropping from the ceiling, but then traced it to Bram’s nose and gently wiped it. He’d talked to Bram and told him what he was doing, the way people would talk to him when he was strapped to a bed. “I am wiping your nose,” he’d said. “Do you think you can blow for me?” Bram did not blow, but he did open his eyes and stare straight ahead. “I am over here,” Son had said, trying to get Bram to look at him. He figured out then that Bram could not drink, lying flat on his back, so he’d propped him up and tilted his canteen to his lips and watched the ball in his throat move. He heard a sound then, as if Bram was trying to cough. He wondered if Bram had a cold. Bram’s eyes were wide open again. They were the color of the river when it was its bluest blue. Son could tell that Bram was really looking at him. “You can cough now,” he said. Bram tried to cough but seemed to choke instead. Son quickly leaned him over and slapped his back. A rope of black fluid spilled onto the sheet and Son said, “You spit like a frog.” He eased his head back down, then asked him if he wanted water. Bram lowered his chin slightly, which Son took to mean ye
s, so he opened his canteen and sat him up straight again and helped him sip. “You thirsty,” Son said as Bram continued to sip the water. “And you sleep a lot.” Bram practically emptied the canteen, and Son lowered his head again; Bram’s eyes were closed, and Son wondered again if he had died. He used the hem of the sheet to wipe Bram’s mouth, then folded it under so that the blackened mucus didn’t show. He patted his head and told him to get some sleep, he would come by later. But now he could not, because Linc was in the cellar. He did not want any part of Linc’s hide-and-seek game. But he played anyhow. He found Vergie and whispered to her what Linc had told him. He was happy to, because maybe then Linc would find another place to hide and he could go back down to look after Bram.
30
BY EARLY THE next morning, Sylvia and Spence had done all that they could to stem the advance of dead tissue in Carl’s leg. They’d cleaned the wound, drained it, wrapped and rewrapped it; they’d consulted and fretted and prayed and even applied maggots. They’d watched the flesh go blacker still. Nothing left to do but what they’d dreaded doing.
The doctor was in the room and Sylvia wanted to slap his useless face. He was sitting in the chair next to Carl’s bed, head all the way back, as if pondering the ceiling; his mouth was wide open. She kicked the leg of his chair. He let go a loud snort and then sat up, suddenly awake. His pupils were dilated like a cat’s eyes.
“So is it your opinion that the leg cannot be saved?” she asked him, the senselessness of asking him anything at all brutally apparent to her. She’d tried to inform him of the quarantine, and he smiled and started humming.
“He’ll lose them both, for sure. Legs are sympathetic,” the doctor blurted to the mix of apprehension and disdain spreading across Sylvia’s face that he would suggest something so preposterous. “One goes, the other quickly follows. Didn’t they teach you that at that fancy colored nursing school you attended?”
Lazaretto Page 24
