by John Smolens
“Are you suggesting we take a vote?” Simon Moss asked.
“Nothing,” Storrs said, “could I find more repugnant.”
“Perhaps you might buy mine?” Emanuel Lunt added.
The men laughed, and then they began to sputter and jabber, until the octogenarian again pounded his cane on the floor. “I do think, gentlemen, we must needs obtain some facts. What are the facts?”
There followed a moment of silence, and then Caleb Hatch cleared his throat. “The fact is we have two long boats full of constables standing watch over one ship that’s under quarantine out in the basin. This, after consultation with Dr. Wiggins, who found evidence of disease among her crew. I have met with the ship’s owner, Enoch Sumner, and despite his protestations, told him that the quarantine of this vessel will be upheld until we are assured that there is no threat to the safety of this seaport.”
There was again silence, and Giles knew that all four men had turned to him, but for the moment he remained at the window, gazing across Market Square toward the sea.
“Well,” Emanuel said finally. He was Giles’s closest—and perhaps only true—friend. They had attended school together, played at the Frog Pond in the Mall together, and during the war they had shipped out together. “What ails these sailors, Giles?”
“I can’t say for certain.” Giles clasped his hands behind his back. “It could be some fever that will in a short time run its course.”
“Can’t you give it a name?” Moss asked.
“It could be yellow fever,” Giles said. The others began to murmur. “Or it could be something else,” he added. “Throat distemper, for instance.”
“Well,” Storrs said. “I think it’s sensible to determine what you’re dealing with before you go and take some precipitous action that will affect the economy of the entire port.”
“I wish it were that simple,” Giles said.
“The fact is,” Hatch said, “by the time we do make a positive determination, it will be too late to contain it—whatever it is. We know some of the crew slipped ashore before we posted constables in boats about the ship. Where those men have gone is anyone’s guess.”
“The groggeries and whorehouses would be my guess,” Emanuel said.
“No doubt,” Hatch said. “And if they have the fever—you know how disease festers and spreads in such places.”
No one spoke.
“This, I’m afraid, is true,” Giles said finally. “And if this is yellow fever, or smallpox—well, the results would be devastating. We need to take precautions now.”
“Fine,” Simon Moss said. “Shut the entire port down, and we’ll all survive the fever while we starve to death.”
“Giles, my boy,” Storrs coaxed. “You need assistance. I’ve sent word to Wilberforce Strong.” He cleared his throat. “His expertise could be of great assistance.”
Giles nodded his head. “The good doctor’s great learning and experience would be welcomed, certainly.”
“Nonsense,” Emanuel said. “Doctor Strong couldn’t diagnose a hiccup, unless a healthy fee were in the offing. Look at what he did to Miles Gookin’s wife.” There was the briefest murmur of assent.
“He is a doctor,” Storrs said. “Harvard-educated, that is.”
“A man who prescribes powders and pills for female ailments,” Emanuel said, “isn’t necessarily practicing medicine.”
“You, sir—” Storrs began, but Hatch wisely cut him off.
“Listen,” the harbormaster said. “Second opinions are all very well and good, but we are beyond the point of deliberation. We have gathered here to determine what measures to take. Now, I appreciate everyone’s opinion, but I’m telling you that it’s my duty to take whatever action is deemed necessary.”
“What we don’t need right now is some political speech,” Simon Moss said. “I don’t believe you’re running for election at the moment.”
The other men laughed.
Giles turned around and faced them until they fell silent. “The facts are these,” he said. “It’s not just a question of keeping the crew of the Miranda in quarantine. We’re beyond that. Sailors that have already managed to come ashore could have infected any number of people already.”
“Well,” Jeremiah Storrs said, looking at Mr. Hatch, “we’ll have them arrested.”
“I’m telling you it’s too late for that,” Giles said.
Storrs sat up in his chair. “It’s never too late to exercise the law.”
“What do you mean, Giles?” Simon Moss asked.
“Last night,” Giles said, “during that storm I was first called out to Madame Juniper’s Hotel, where one of her girls was ill—and not with one of the maladies you might expect. She was running a terrible fever. And there was a sailor there who was also sick, worse off, really.” Storrs was about to speak, but Giles held up his hand and continued: “He wouldn’t admit to being a mate on the Miranda—the fact is, he was so far gone that he couldn’t say anything intelligible at all. Completely delirious.” Giles came around his desk and rested a haunch on the corner. “And that’s not all. When I returned here last night, Jotham Poe’s daughter was waiting at the door. I went to his house and found him in the same state as the two at Juniper’s Hotel.”
There was a stunned silence, until Caleb Hatch said, “Jotham was on the boat with us two nights ago when we went out to inspect the ship.”
“He was indeed,” Giles said.
“It must be on the air,” Hatch said, the slightest note of pleading now entering his voice. “Whatever it is, it comes through the air—and we took great care to remain upwind of the vessel.”
“That may be the case,” Giles said, “but I don’t think that matters here.”
“Then how did Jotham—” Hatch began.
“I asked him where he’d been since the night before,” Giles said, “and he admitted paying a visit to the madam’s establishment.”
“Which proves it’s not a matter of the air,” Storrs said. “It’s a question of morals.”
Emanuel took his pipe from his mouth and said, “It’ll spread quickly along the waterfront—where morality is rarely, if ever, an impediment.”
Storrs glared at him and leaned forward in his chair.
“Gentlemen,” Giles said quickly, “we have a lot to do. It’s not just a matter of prohibiting a crew and cargo from entering the port. We have to put guards on every road so we can control who comes and goes to and from town. We have to determine the most appropriate medical procedures. We have to sequester the sick, establish a place where they can—”
“A place?” Simon Moss asked.
“Yes, we’ve dealt with this sort of thing before. I can’t with certainty give it a name—there are so many fevers. But I know this: we’ll need to establish a place where the afflicted may be treated—a pest-house.” Giles suddenly felt defeated and exhausted. “And we’ll have to dig a pit.”
Sarah wouldn’t finish her potato soup. This was not unusual. She often refused to eat, and it made Leander resentful because their mother would try to coax her. For such behavior, he would receive a slap on the head. But his sister’s reluctance to eat also made him hopeful.
Eventually, after Mother had taken Sarah onto her lap, she pushed the bowl across the table. “We waste not a morsel in this house. Leander, you finish that before it turns stone cold.”
Sometimes this ploy would inspire Sarah to eat. But tonight she seemed unmoved, and he picked up his spoon before she might change her mind. His father watched him as he smoked his pipe.
“She’s burning up,” his mother said, her hand spread across Sarah’s forehead.
Sarah shook her head. “Cold,” she whispered. “I’m so cold.”
And Leander could hear her teeth chattering. Then suddenly her body began to convulse. She made a sound as though she’d been kicked in the stomach, and she vomited on to the table. His mother stood up, holding the girl by her underarms. Shit and blood ran down her legs.
His mother laid Sarah on the floor. “Towels, Caleb,” she cried.
Sarah gagged as black vomit and bits of potato continued to issue from her mouth.
Some imbecile was playing the harpsichord.
Badly.
Fragments of a melody amid dissonant chords.
Miranda sat at her writing desk, listening to the hands pound on the keys, and it created a physical reaction, a revulsion that she could not control. The shouts, the screams, the laughter, the glasses smashed in the fireplace—she could tolerate all of that, but not that harpsichord.
She got up and crossed her bedroom, and when she opened the door the sound of the harpsichord became louder, even more vulgar, echoing from the parlor. She went down the front stairs and found a woman’s red shoe on the vestibule floor. The parlor doors were closed, and when she threw them back everyone turned and looked at her—there must have been eight or nine people in the room, but Enoch wasn’t among them. Jonathan Bream’s periwig was askew, tilted down over his left ear. One of the girls was lying on her back on the divan, her legs kicking in the air, so that her skirts had fallen below the tops of her stockings. Her thighs were creamy white, her pantaloons pink satin. But it was another girl at the harpsichord, her cheeks dimpled with the effort, and she was so intent on playing that she didn’t notice Miranda as she crossed the parlor.
“Enough.” Miranda slammed the lid down on the keyboard—and the girl just managed to get her fingers out of the way. She looked up at Miranda, petrified.
Miranda turned away and started back toward the vestibule. Jonathan made an attempt to intercept her, but he must have seen something in her expression because he stepped out of the way and let her pass. She rushed down the hall and yanked open the library door. A girl was bent over the top of the wing-backed chair, her skirts thrown up on to her back. Enoch stood behind her, his pants bunched about his feet, and he gazed at his mother with a pained, helpless expression as he continued to thrust away, moaning woefully.
“They are not to touch that instrument,” Miranda said. “Do you hear me?”
A long strand of spittle descended from Enoch’s gaping lower lip and the girl was gasping in some apparent agony.
“Do you hear me?” Miranda repeated, louder.
She didn’t wait for a reply but stepped out into the hall, pulling the door shut so hard that the framed paintings clattered against the plaster wall.
It was after dark when there came a knock on Giles’s door. He descended the narrow stairs and found Caleb Hatch standing in the alley.
“The missus wants me to fetch you. It’s Sarah. She’s taken some vile fever. Came on all of a sudden at supper, and it only seems to be getting worse.”
“All right,” Giles said. “I’ll just get my bag.” He turned to go back up the stairs, but paused and looked back at Caleb. “I’m surprised you didn’t send Leander for me at Wolfe Tavern.”
“I was headed there, when I saw the light in your window,” Caleb said. “Besides, Amanda says I’m to bring a block of ice back from Mulgrew’s.”
During the afternoon meeting, as the discussion about imposing the quarantine became heated, Caleb had seemed robust and assertive, as usual, but now he appeared startled, frightened, and even humbled. He was a man with a sick child, taking orders from his wife, and Giles almost envied him that. “Yes,” he said. “Get some ice. Sarah may need it.”
Caleb went up the alley toward Market Square, and Giles returned to his rooms, where he gathered up his coat and leather bag. He had been sorting through his supply of medicine, confirming what he had already known: it was insufficient.
When Amanda opened the front door and looked out at Giles, her brow was pinched with anxiety and dread. Yet she was still fair, if weary. As always when he saw her, Giles had to steel himself against an overwhelming sense of regret.
“Thank you for coming out at this hour,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“I came as quickly as I could, of course.” He stepped inside, and for the briefest moment he couldn’t resist placing his hand on hers before she pushed the door closed. “May I have a look at Sarah?”
Amanda’s eyes had always been large, dark, and expressive. They used to baffle him. Now they sought from him some hope, some assurance. She led him into the kitchen, where the girl was lying under blankets on a ticking-covered mattress by the fireplace. Her face was deeply flushed, though she was shivering uncontrollably. Giles knelt down and placed his leather bag beside him on the floor. “Sarah,” he said. “It’s only Doctor Wiggins.”
The girl’s eyes were wide open and they moved toward the sound of his voice. She gave off a powerful odor.
“Has she issued blood?” he asked.
“Yes,” Amanda said. “I’ve cleaned her, but it doesn’t stop.”
Giles placed his hand on the girl’s forehead, which was hot and slick with perspiration. He took hold of the blanket and said, “Sarah, I need to listen to your heart.” But the girl clutched the blanket tighter. The chattering of her teeth was audible. “Sarah, please.”
“Doctor Wiggins must examine you,” Amanda said. “Now do as you’re told.”
Sarah appeared confused as she turned her head in the direction of her mother’s voice. Her blond curls, glistening in the firelight, reminded Giles of Amanda when they were in school together.
With both his hands he took hold of Sarah’s tight fists and carefully pried the fingers open. “That’s better,” he said. “I just need a moment, and then we will bundle you up again.”
Sarah’s nightshirt was soaked, and the doctor quickly unfastened the wooden buttons. He lowered his head to the girl’s chest, the skin hot and damp against his ear. There was a pronounced rattle to her breathing, and her heart thumped rapidly against her narrow rib cage. Straightening up, he said, “I would wash her again and keep her in dry clothes.”
“I have been trying,” Amanda said. “She has soiled all of her own, and now I’m using her brother’s.”
“Of course.” Giles got to his feet and stepped aside. “Where is Leander?”
“I sent him up to the loft and he is not to come downstairs.”
“Good.”
Amanda got down on her knees, leaned over her daughter, and began to remove her damp clothing.
Giles went out into the dooryard, the evening air a relief after the heat from the fireplace. Chickens stirred in the coop, and there was the smell of wood smoke throughout the neighborhood. He sat on the step and removed the bottle from the inside pocket of his frock coat. He worried out the cork and took a pull of rum.
After a few minutes the kitchen door opened behind him and Amanda sat beside him on the step. He could feel her weariness now—it seemed to penetrate him. “Would that be rum I smell?” she asked.
“It would be.”
She took the bottle from him and raised it to her mouth. “I should be ashamed. But this fever came on so quick, and I’ve hardly slept myself. During the storm yesterday, Leander and Sarah went into the Poes’ stable to get out of the rain. He says he believes it was Jotham there, in the barn.”
“Jotham has come down with fever as well.”
She turned and looked at him now, and he could not return her stare. “Caleb says there’s to be a pest-house established on the Mall.”
“Yes, tomorrow we will begin.”
“Remember when this happened before, when we were children?” she asked. “I must have been ten or eleven—odd how I can’t be sure anymore.”
“I was thirteen. It was the winter my father died.”
“Ice,” she said as though it were a revelation. “I forgot. Your father was out on the Artichoke River, cutting ice.”
“Everything went in—the wagon, the horses, my father. All drowned. It
almost seemed merciful, compared to the way people were dying of the fever.”
“I remember lying in bed at night with my sisters,” Amanda said. “There were cries and screams throughout the neighborhood. I thought Newburyport was being visited by one of the plagues of Egypt. My imagination—I envisioned the Merrimack running red with blood.”
“There was the sound of the carts in the streets, collecting corpses.”
Suddenly her hand was on his forearm. “She will die?”
“She’s quite strong, Amanda.”
“I want to keep her here, where I can look after her.”
“You know you can’t do that.”
“There was a time—” She removed her hand. “There was a time when you said you would grant me anything.”
“There was,” he whispered. “Please accept my apology.”
“You are not at fault.” She raised a hand to her face, but in the dark he could not tell whether she was wiping a tear from her cheek. “I believed—I was certain I would never see you again. So many men who had gone off to fight the British had been killed. When you returned on that ship, which had been so damaged, with so many dead and wounded. And then, only days later you said you were leaving on another ship.”
“They needed surgeons. I had no choice. We were at war, and I didn’t return for over a year. When I learned you had married, I couldn’t—and you had a son. What was I to think?”
“We cannot talk of this.” She got up off the step. “Not ever, Giles. It is not right.” She opened the back door. “I must tend to Sarah.”
“Of course.”
He followed her into the kitchen and took out a vial from his bag and placed it on the kitchen table. “This should help her sleep.” He looked at the girl once more, curled up so that she was facing the fire. “I will have someone come for her tomorrow. It is for your own protection, for all of you. We must isolate the stricken.”
