by John Smolens
As everyone gathered around the wagon, Enoch gave instructions while the driver and one of the livery boys untied the ropes that secured the cask. Jonathan Bream, Enoch’s personal bard, spread out his arms and bellowed, “Ode to the mighty task of lifting so heavy a cask!” Delighted, the inebriated members of the entourage applauded. They consisted of the usual fools and fops who gathered most nights in the Sumner house, and, of course, they were accompanied by ladies of easy virtue, with gay voices, pinched waists, and powdered, overripe bosoms.
It took several men to lower the cask to the cobblestones. Enoch then removed his cocked hat and the others fell silent with bowed heads. He was not wearing a periwig, and she could see the bald crown of his head as he murmured a prayer. A solemn prayer made in jest, for it was all in jest, night after night, the food, the beverage, the women, all in the perpetual pursuit of what Enoch called Diversion. And as long as he paid for it, he would have company to help him seek these nightly entertainments.
When he finished his prayer, Fields, the butler, came out of the house with a drill and a tap. He set the drill in the top of the cask and began to turn the handle, boring down into the wood. Two of the servants arrived with pewter goblets on silver serving trays, which they distributed to members of the entourage. A kind of frenzy overtook the audience. Ladies turned and swirled their skirts. A man walked around the courtyard on his hands. Bowsprit yapped madly. And Jonathan Bream, standing next to the cask, with great drama cried, “This must be the finest rum to be made by man. God bless our dear departed Captain Frothingham!”
Amid the frivolity, Enoch turned and glanced up at the house. She quickly stepped back from the window. Suddenly her lungs seemed to have collapsed and she couldn’t breathe. She feared that she might faint. Her skin prickled; she could feel the heat rising in her face. The laughter in the courtyard seemed to invade her room, and when she closed her eyes it felt as though she were turning slowly. This too had come upon her before, here in her room, where she was so often confined—a self-imposed imprisonment, one of necessity, or so she believed. It was said that Enoch Sumner was mad, a semi-literate imbecile (though this never stopped him from publishing broadsides in the local newspapers), but she knew otherwise. He was indeed addled, frequently inebriated, and perpetually randy, but beneath this outrageous veneer was concealed a shrewd, calculating instinct that had brought him his fortune.
When she caught her breath, she went out into the hallway, startling one of the maids, the Jamaican girl, Cedella, who quickly curtsied. Ignoring the girl, she descended the stairs, moved down the hall, pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen, and burst in on the cooks who were cleaning up the kitchen after the night’s dinner.
“Ma’am?” Miriam asked, wiping her hands on her apron. “Would you be in need of something? I can still prepare you a plate—you must be famished, as you did not come down for dinner.”
She picked up a cleaver, causing Miriam to take a step backwards. The girl scrubbing the stove dropped her brush in fright.
She put down the cleaver and went to the fireplace. There, leaning against the brick, was an axe for splitting kindling. When she picked up the axe, the girl began sobbing.
“Ma’am,” Miriam said, bravely stepping forward, though her voice was fretful. “Might I assist you in some way? Because you certainly needn’t—”
She placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and pushed her aside. She went through the mudroom, threw open the back door, and stepped out into the courtyard. The revelers stopped their festive gyrations and stared at her in awe.
After a moment, Enoch said, “Ah, Mother, so glad you decided join us.”
“Not a drop!” she cried as she crossed the courtyard, the axe raised above her head. She brought the blade down on the unopened cask, splintering wood and splashing herself with rum. She swung again, breaking the boards down one side. Rum poured out of the cavity, drenching her feet, her shoes, her fine silk dress. The physical release was welcome—and with several more blows of the axe she continued to demolish the cask.
Then she stopped, again breathless and overcome with exhaustion. The courtyard was silent, except for the sound of rum trickling along the cracks between cobblestones.
And there was movement—it came from inside the cask, as first a hand, followed by an arm, appeared in a gap in the boards.
The ladies shrieked, clutching at men for protection.
Then a sound came from inside the cask, a tumbling of something heavy, until Captain Frothingham appeared in the hole, his face grossly swollen, his eyes still open, his tongue thick and black.
Three
LEANDER WAS AWAKENED AT DAWN BY THE BROWNES’ ROOSTER. His bed was in the attic, and outside he could also hear the neighborhood’s pigs and chickens stirring in their pens and coops. Mourning doves, lined up along the roof peak, cooed gently. He got up, dressed in yesterday’s britches and a clean shirt, which was stiff from washing. The deep smell of clams filled the house. He climbed down the ladder to the hallway and went into the kitchen. His mother was at the stove, cutting into a clam pie. She put a slice on a plate and brought it to the table.
“You came home much too late last night,” she said as she sat across from him.
At the end of the table his sister Sarah nibbled on a piece of bread, her eyes looking straight ahead. When their mother spoke to him sharply, Sarah often became quiet and curious.
“I was with Father,” he said. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“He sent me to find Doctor Wiggins.”
“At that hour the doctor couldn’t have been much sober.” Then there was a moment when her eyes moved away as though she were trying to recall something. Leander had seen this in his mother before—a moment when her mind seemed to wander away. Her expression became quizzical, distracted, but then she turned back to him and asked, “You did find him?”
Leander nodded. “And we rowed out to a ship anchored off Joppa Flats.” He cut into his clam pie with his fork, but it was so hot he had to hold his mouth open and exhale before he could start to chew. “There’s sick men on board and—”
The back door opened, admitting bright sunlight. Leander’s father stepped inside, pulling the door shut. He went to the sideboard and dunked his hands in the water bucket, and then toweled them off.
“What about these sick men?” Leander’s mother asked.
Leander had long ago realized that it was common for his father to not tell her things, and he wondered if he would be giving away a secret. But as his mother looked across the table, he knew he could neither lie nor deceive. “The ship must remain at anchor in the basin,” he said, “and the men are to stay on board.”
“Why?” his mother asked.
Leander cut another piece of pie but hesitated before putting it in his mouth. “He said the ship was under—can’t remember the word. They must fly a yellow flag.”
His mother picked up her mug of tea, but then put it down. “Quarantine?”
“That’s it,” Leander said.
For the first time his mother turned to consider his father, who was staring out the small window above the sideboard. His mother and father rarely looked directly at each other. They maintained long silences, and when they did speak to each other it was usually about matters concerning the children or the house or work. Sarah was old enough to notice this as well, and she had asked Leander what it meant. He was twice her age and Sarah often sought explanations from him. He wasn’t always certain he had the right answer, but he felt it was important to make her believe he did. He had told his sister that their mother and father understood each other too well, that words were seldom necessary. In fact, he wasn’t sure what that meant, but Sarah seemed to accept it as the truth.
Neither of his parents spoke. His father continued to stare out the window. Finally, his mother leaned over and picked up Sarah and held her in her lap.
His father went to the door and took his leather satchel do
wn off the peg, which he slung over his shoulder. He said to Leander, “You stay off the wharves now, hear?”
Leander nodded. “But I must go down to Joppa while the tide’s low.”
His father’s eyes seemed to reconsider—a rare thing. He bore hard resentments that Leander didn’t understand, but he was the harbormaster, and formerly the high sheriff—both difficult, respected positions in Newburyport, and he believed in work and responsibility. “All right, you can go to the flats. Fill your dreeners with clams, but don’t dawdle.” He opened the front door and stepped out into the street.
Leander stared at his plate as he chewed the last piece of clam pie. His mother was braiding Sarah’s hair, but when her hands stopped he raised his eyes. “That’s what Doctor Wiggins told your father—that the ship had to be placed under quarantine?” She didn’t wait for an answer, and whispered, “Dear God.”
It was no surprise that Giles was summoned to his mother’s bedside. Though he had no formal education in medicine, Newburyporters had bestowed the title of doctor upon him since his service during the war with Britain. When he was nineteen, he had been a surgeon’s assistant at the start of the conflict, serving on the Essex, and later on a number of privateers that sailed from Newburyport. His half-brother Enoch, who was eight years his senior, had served as captain of some of those privateers, which had escorted many a captured ship back to Newburyport. Supply ships for the British army, mostly, and several times vessels with gold and silver in their holds. The bounty from such prizes brought Enoch great profit during the war, and once the hostilities with England ceased he invested his money in the construction of a fleet of ships that now traded throughout the world.
Giles’s visits to his mother were frequent. She had long ago become a reclusive scold, with a temper that was as volatile as it was unpredictable. She often spent days—sometimes weeks—confined to her room with ailments both real and imaginary. Giles supplied her with a variety of pills, powders, and potions; some eased her misery, if only temporarily. What ailed his mother was beyond medicine. There were indeed times when she seemed thoroughly addled—no surprise considering that for years Enoch had been methodically driving her to distraction with his assorted excesses and vices. Yet too often Giles had also been witness to her remarkable powers of insight and perspicacity.
He arrived on foot at the front gate of Enoch’s High Street mansion, where he was admitted by a uniformed guard. One of the maids, a dark-skinned girl with a Jamaican accent, led him upstairs to his mother’s room. He placed his medicine bag on the floor and pulled a straight-back chair next to the canopy bed. His mother wore a lace sleeping cap tied under her double chin. Her face was as white as the bed linen. She had an enormous bosom and a neck thick with goiter. As was his custom, Giles examined her eyes, and then untied the top of her gown and put an ear to her sternum. Her heartbeat was strong today, but he thought too rapid. She did not look at him as he examined her, but stared at the canopy draped above her.
“You seem quite well today,” he ventured.
“Better than your cousin,” she whispered.
“My cousin? Which one?”
“He’s—” she began, but hesitated.
“He is ill?”
“He is pickled.”
“Pickled?”
She turned her head on the pillow. Her eyes were hazel and had a fierce light in them. “Did you know you were related?”
“Mother, it seems we are related to everyone north of Boston.”
“I suppose it does,” she said, smiling faintly. “Best to assume someone is your relation until you know otherwise.”
“Your predilection for speaking in riddles, it can be maddening.” But she only gazed at him, unmoved. “Which cousin are you speaking of?”
“Daniel Frothingham.”
“Captain Frothingham, of the Miranda?”
“Yes, he was the son of your father’s cousin Amelia. She married a seaman and moved across the Merrimack to Amesbury, which is often as good as severing ties with the family.” She paused for one of her dramatic sighs, and then said, “But salt air was in the boy’s blood as well, and eventually he went to sea, and in recent years has been in the employ of your brother. Until …” She looked away in an effort to emphasize that what she was about to say was most difficult. “Until they brought him here last night, packed in a cask of rum.”
Giles rose from his chair involuntarily. “Unbelievable.” He walked to the window. “That explains it.”
“Now who’s talking in riddles.”
Giles returned to her bedside and sat down again. “Last night the harbor master asked me to inspect the Miranda. There’s some sort of fever running through the crew. I ordered the ship quarantined. Nothing, not even a cask, is supposed to have been brought ashore—and certainly not a cask containing the body of the captain.”
“You want to quarantine one of your brother’s ships?” She looked at him as though he were a boy spinning some fantastic and implausible yarn. “Really, Giles.”
“I had no choice. That ship, potentially it’s a threat—”
“The Miranda,” she said, quite blissfully, “it’s the finest ship in your brother’s fleet. I was delighted that he named her after me.”
“He did so upon your suggestion.”
“Mine?”
“Please, Mother, you’re missing the point.”
She gazed at him, hurt. “ I don’t recall making any suggestion.”
“I should examine his body.”
“Enoch’s?”
“The captain’s,” he said, exasperated. “Our cousin’s body.”
“Examine it? Why?”
“For cause.”
“It’s a little late. He’s dead.”
“Precisely. I need to know how he died.”
“Does it matter? Now?”
“It matters greatly.”
She busied herself by tying up her gown. “Well, you are too late for that, as well,” she said with sudden vehemence. “They buried him in that stand of trees beyond the north pasture. I told him that Daniel was family and deserved a proper funeral. But no, our cousin had been packed in a cask of rum—for the sake of preservation until the ship returned to Newburyport—and thus he was guilty, in your brother’s eyes, of spoiling the rum. For such an offense, no proper burial would be granted. Just a deep, eternal hole in the shade overlooking the salt hay meadow. Guilty, indeed.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t bury him at sea. A number of the crew aboard the Miranda died too, and they were put over the side, which is proper for a seaman.”
“A very good point, Giles.” She gazed up at him, her eyes suddenly curious. “You want to know why?” He nodded. “Well, I have a theory, which like all theories is hard to prove. I suspect—no, more than suspect—I believe that when the Miranda set sail all the way back in France, certain members of the crew left with specific orders from Enoch here in Newburyport: that the ship return with a dead sea captain.”
“Foul play? That’s your theory?”
“Well, Enoch’s ships come and go between here and Europe constantly, and it would have been easy to convey such a message to someone aboard the Miranda. But why—why, that’s what we don’t know.”
“Enoch had his own captain murdered aboard ship.”
She shrugged. “You know how vindictive your brother can be. And he wanted hard evidence of the death, thus the pickled proof.”
“Mother, I believe—no, I’m certain, that Captain Frothingham died of a fever.”
“How convenient.”
Giles leaned back in his chair. It was pointless to go on, but then he asked, “You’ve seen the body?”
“Oh my, yes.” She nodded toward the window. “Down there in the courtyard, last night.” Then, proudly she added, “I rather liberated him from his cask, the contents of which he was obliged to spoil. Revenge of the dead—I hope, at least, that one day my passing will reap such meager consolation.” And smiling, she added, �
��Certainly you’ve noticed that a vindictive streak tends to run through the family.”
“What did he look like?”
“Captain Frothingham? Dead—bloated and dead. How is a body packed in rum supposed to look?” Then she laughed. “Preserved, after a fashion!”
“I understand that Enoch can be vindictive,” Giles said. “But why would he give such orders regarding the captain of his own ship?”
“Jealousy, perhaps. Yes, I think jealousy—it springs from one’s passions, cuts to the heart of what really matters.” His mother gave him a knowing, even seductive smile, as though she possessed a rare secret.
“Enoch,” he said slowly, and her eyes widened in anticipation. “He was always very keen on our relations.”
“Certainly more than you ever were,” his mother urged.
“Perhaps Enoch knows that our cousin was—” He didn’t dare complete his thought.
“Yes! Daniel was another of your father’s moments of impetuosity,” she said. “Both of my husbands had a tendency to dally, and for their efforts they had the decency to expire at an early age. Your father, Herbert, he used to spend a lot of time across the river in Amesbury, and then I learned that he was sending money to his cousin Amelia.”
“To support the boy, Daniel.”
“Herbert, at least, showed a modicum of restraint. Daniel was the only hard evidence of his indiscretions. My first husband, Abajah, he was more prolific. And your brother, he’s very much like his father was—sometimes I think half the boys that work out in the stable and the fields are the fruit of his loins. I see resemblances everywhere—the eyes, the nose, the mouth. By way of compensation to their mothers, he takes the boys in and puts them to work. Girls too, but less often—unless they are unusually comely. And then you know where that will lead.…”
Giles studied his mother’s withered hands, folded on the counterpane.
“Have you never been so impetuous and reckless, Doctor?”
