by John Smolens
Amanda stared into the fire, her arms folded. “We will deliver her to the pest-house.”
Six
CEDELLA CAME TO MIRANDA’S ROOM, SLIGHTLY WINDED FROM running up the stairs. “Begging your pardon, Ma’am, but it be Master Samuel.”
Miranda had been dozing in the high heat of mid-afternoon and she didn’t quite comprehend what the girl had said.
“Samuel, Ma’am—coming down the road on a horse.”
“My grandson? Here now?” Miranda got up from bed and stepped into her slippers. She went into the hall and looked out the window at the top of the main stairs. The street was empty, but she could hear the clop of hooves. She rushed downstairs, where the butler and several of the maids were gathered at the front door. They parted hastily, allowing her out onto the steps. The house and grounds were protected on all sides by a fence, but here at the front there was a tall iron gate facing High Street. She saw the horse, its black coat glistening in the afternoon sun, and her grandson Samuel bouncing helplessly in the saddle. Even from this distance she could tell that he’d put on more weight.
The maids had crowded behind her, and Miranda said, “Where is Mr. Sumner?”
“Gone out, Ma’am.”
“Where?” she demanded.
“To the warehouse, Ma’am,” Fields said.
“The whorehouse, more likely,” Miranda said.
Fields cleared his throat. His length of service in the house allowed him some privilege. “Word came this morning, Missus, of a problem down on the wharves. People are taking with some bilious fever.”
“I see—it’s from the filth they live in. You understand why I insist upon a clean house. Well, he’ll be back soon enough, so there’s still time.” Miranda clapped her hands and said loudly, “All right, everyone, back to your duties—except Fields.” She watched her grandson approach. He had little skill in the equestrian arts, evident in the way he bounced upon his saddle. “Fields, you know what you must do immediately?”
“The guns,” he with appropriate gravity.
“Lock every one up and hide the key.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Fields withdrew to the house. He had been her second husband’s butler and remained with Miranda through all these decades of widowhood. He was painstakingly loyal, obedient, discreet, and possessed an uncanny sense of anticipation (the guns, of course he too would immediately think of the guns). Never once had he questioned her motives, because that’s not what a butler did, and over the years she had come to believe that he tacitly understood those motives and sought to see her designs carried to fruition. Utterly devoted and requiring no personal maintenance, he would have been the perfect third husband.
Miranda went down the steps, and one of the gardeners opened the front gate for her. Samuel pulled up on the reins, but the horse was high-spirited and reluctant to heed, until the gardener took hold of the bridle. With great difficulty, Samuel dismounted, one boot remaining caught in the stirrup, causing him to hop on his other leg. Miranda grabbed his heel and pulled it out of the stirrup; free of the horse, Samuel lost his balance and threw his arms around his grandmother for support. There was applause from staff, who had gathered at the front windows of the house.
“Dearest,” Samuel said, as he tried to kiss her cheek. He was sweating heavily from the ride, and his high collar pinched under his soft jowls.
She pushed him away. “It’s too bloody hot for this,” she said. “What on earth are you doing, arriving unannounced?”
“I thought you would be pleased.” He turned and bowed toward the house, as though acknowledging an audience. “I had the worst time getting here.”
“Fortunately, your father isn’t home.” She picked up her skirts and started back through the gate. Samuel tried to keep up but was having difficulty as he limped along behind her. “He’s been infuriated by all your letters demanding more and more money. Have you gambled it all away?”
“I’m afraid I have hit on a bad streak. So I sailed from France to the West Indies, where it was my good fortune to find the Miranda preparing for the journey home. I have been confined to a small cabin for days, and then so many of the crew fell ill that when we arrived the ship was placed under quarantine. Early this morning before sunrise, I managed to bribe a sailor, who lowered a small boat. I tried to row upriver to the wharves, but the current was so strong.”
“On the Merrimack one must be mindful of the tides.”
“Yes, well it was quite hopeless, and I was afraid of being swept downriver and out to sea, until a fisherman towed me into Ring’s Island. From there I had to take the ferry across, and then, exhausted, I obtained the services of this animal from Staley’s Livery. I had expected to arrive in a coach—”
“Enough, child. You’re home, at least.”
“So you’ve missed me?”
“Hardly given you a thought,” Miranda said. But the fact was she had missed him—inexplicable, really, but then he was her only grandchild. He watched her carefully for some breakdown in her demeanor. She turned to the gardener, who was holding the gate open. “See that this pathetic horse is returned.”
She led her grandson into the house. The staff had collected in the front hall, and the women curtsied while the men bowed. Miranda shouted, “Enough! Back to your chores. Hurry!”
“But at least bring me something to drink,” Samuel said. “I’m fairly parched.”
They went into the dining room, where Samuel sat in a chair and struggled to get his riding boots off.
Finally, she called out, “Cedella!”
The maid rushed into the room and assisted Samuel; the first boot came off with little effort, but the second wouldn’t budge, and he howled. “Easy!” he cried.
Cedella turned her back to Samuel, leaned over, and took hold of the boot. He placed his right foot on her backside and pushed with his leg. There was a moment when they seemed tensely joined in the most intimate fashion, and then he screamed as his bent leg thrust forward, propelling the girl across the room, where her forehead struck the mahogany highboy. She fell to her knees, stunned, and then collapsed on the floor, clutching the boot to her chest.
Miranda sighed with exasperation. “Look what you’ve done.”
“It appears she’s unconscious.” Samuel carefully peeled off his white silk stocking. “How inconvenient.”
“Really, Samuel. When you were a child, you were constantly breaking things, expensive things, valued things. Vases, and that crystal bowl my mother had brought over from England.” She sighed again, though it didn’t have the desired effect. Samuel was regarding the stocking, which he held at arm’s length, as though it were some venomous reptile, and then he summarily dropped it on the floor. “And then,” she added, “there’s what you did to the portrait of my great-grandfather.”
“I didn’t care for his mustache. He needed a beard.”
“So you gave him one.”
“Call it an artistic impulse.” Cautiously, he touched his big toe, which was plump and red. “This has been sore for days. Do you suppose I’m developing gout, like father?”
“You seemed determined to destroy everything this family holds dear—”
“Dishes and bowls, Grandmother.” He must have realized how dismissive he sounded, because he glanced up from his foot, trying to appear contrite. “I concede my embellishments of my great-great-grandfather’s portrait might have been in poor taste.” He leaned over for a closer inspection his ailing toe.
“Stop toying with your foot,” she demanded, and when he looked up this time, startled and perhaps even alarmed, she glanced at Cedella. “When you got older, destroying family heirlooms wasn’t enough.”
Samuel nodded amiably, relieved that they could finally come to agreement. “True, but often a maid’s virtue was offered so willingly I couldn’t resist.”
“Which was why your father thought sending you to France might curtail such impulses—”
“He said it would ‘broaden my horizons,’ and it did,
indeed.” He studied Cedella with disinterested curiosity. “Grandmother, it’s only a maid, not an heirloom.” The girl’s hand moved ever so slightly, causing Samuel to raise his arms as though salvation had been delivered by divine intervention. “Look, she lives! No harm done. She’s going to make a full recovery.” He smiled at Miranda, his eyes lit with boyish delight.
Miranda folded her arms. “Miss you?” she said almost to herself. “I, miss you?” There was the sound of a carriage, pulling up in front of the house, and Samuel suddenly appeared helpless and afraid.
“Yes, that’ll be your father,” Miranda said as she stepped around the maid, whose skirts had risen up her legs, exposing her calves. “He may well render you unconscious, as well. But I’m confident, my dear, you’ll make a full recovery.”
There was the sound of hobbling footsteps and a tapping cane coming up the front walk, and then the door was thrown open against the wall, causing the china to rattle in the cabinet.
“Where is he?” Enoch shouted.
He came down the hall and entered the dining room. Samuel got up from the chair but could barely put his weight on his swollen left foot.
“I met your repeated demands for money,” Enoch said, “but it wasn’t enough—so you come back here for the rest?”
He lifted his cane and brought it down on Samuel’s shoulder. Samuel waddled barefoot around the dining room table, his hands raised to protect his head. His father, who was often plagued by gout, limped after him, swinging his cane, the stick making a whooshing sound as it passed through the air, and they went around the table in this manner several times. Miranda was screaming and father and son were shouting. At one end of the room, they had to negotiate around the maid, who still lay unconscious on the floor. Finally, both men were so winded that they paused at opposite ends of the long table, gasping for air.
Fields arrived with a pitcher of Madeira and glasses on a silver tray. Enoch served himself, his hands shaking. “Fields,” he said, “bring me the key to the gun cabinet.”
Fields said, “I’m afraid it’s been misplaced, sir.”
“The hell it has.” Enoch drained his glass. “My beloved mother put you up to this.”
“They’ll be no bloodshed in this house,” Miranda said. “Not without my say-so.”
Enoch seemed to notice Cedella for the first time. With the tip of his cane he pushed her skirt up until her knees were exposed. “Such fine, shapely legs,” he mused.
Miranda approached her son, causing him to retreat instinctively, despite the fact that he was the one armed with a cane. With her foot she pulled the maid’s skirt down until the girl was fairly decent.
“Well,” Enoch said. “I’m famished from my morning’s labors. Might one get a morsel in his own house?”
“Certainly, sir,” Fields said as he served Samuel a glass of wine.
“I am, too,” Samuel said. “That ship left France with little more than salt cod and hardtack. What have you got, Fields?”
“Yes,” Enoch said. “Go see what is being prepared in the kitchen.”
Disgusted, Miranda went to the dining room door. “Fields, see if you can manage to revive the maid. Otherwise, you’ll have to serve luncheon yourself.”
Giles walked out on Sumner’s Wharf with Dr. Eli Bradshaw and Dr. Wilberforce Strong. Though there were perhaps a dozen ships tied up, there was no activity—no crew, no stevedores, no hoisting of cargo and livestock.
“The only thing that spreads faster than an epidemic is word of one,” Dr. Strong said. He was the eldest physician in Newburyport, and he primarily confined his practice to the great houses in the High Street vicinity. He was a short, obese man in a blue silk coat and a tricorn hat sporting a yellow plume. His slow waddle dictated the pace of all three men. “It’s so quiet here on the wharf, as though everyone has gone to Sunday meeting—and well might they pray, as it will be their only salvation.”
Dr. Bradshaw was tall, and he walked with his long arms clasped behind his back. He stared at the worn boards in front of him, as though he were carefully considering his every step. “The cause of this fever is so apparent. It’s the composition of the air, the air and the soil, and their inherent putrefaction. This sort of thing has been building up for years, and now it’s being released with greater frequency. It will continue until our world is forever changed. I suspect it may eventually eliminate humanity from the face of the earth.”
“The seeds of this fever,” Dr. Strong insisted, “come from within. It’s simply a question of behavior. Look at the Irish—look at these dark folk from the Caribbean and Africa. How do they live? In sin—sin, which ultimately manifests itself in the form of disease. It’s the Lord Almighty calling them to accounts, pure and simple. How often does the Bible mention plague, epidemic, and pestilence? These people must abandon their profligate ways if they wish to survive. You’re much too wedded to scientific notions, Eli. Scripture first. There lies your answer: drunkenness and fornication—eliminate them and you will have a healthy population.”
Giles had been reluctant to meet with his two colleagues, but he knew that he could not refuse; to do so would constitute a professional insult, and it would jeopardize any attempt on his part to work with them should an epidemic occur. As they strode along the wharf, he looked out across the Merrimack toward the salt marshes that formed a green apron around Ring’s Island. He waved a hand in front of his face and asked, “Have you noticed the mosquitoes since the weather has turned warm and humid?”
Bradshaw and Strong ignored his comment. They usually did. He was not a true physician, but a ship’s surgeon with no formal medical education who was given to drink. It was only out of some vague remnant of patriotism that they acknowledged his efforts at all. Strong had once said, “I hear you proved to be a good man with a saw.”
When they reached the end of the wharf, Dr. Bradshaw drew in a deep breath. “Smell it. The air is much fresher out here over the water, whereas back in Market Square one is exposed to the most unhealthy vapors.”
“God gave us all the same air to breathe,” Dr. Strong announced, as though there was no purpose in further discussion.
“Wilberforce,” Dr. Bradshaw said with a note of condescension in his voice, “you must needs read something other than the Bible.”
“Careful, Doctor,” Strong said. “You’re prone to blasphemy.”
“There is research,” Bradshaw said. “There are men of science, of medicine who are applying all of their powers of logic to this and other conditions that threaten the human endeavor. All of our major cities—Philadelphia, New York, Baltimore, Boston—all of them have in recent years suffered a marked increase in fever epidemics. Everything—symptoms, the weather, the various kinds of treatments—all must be duly observed and recorded so that a rational assessment may be ventured.”
Bradshaw was perhaps ten years Giles’s senior. His long, clean-shaven face was turned toward the sun, which illuminated his pale blue eyes. “What have you read, Doctor?” Giles asked.
“Oh, many first-hand accounts by the men who have treated the diseased in these cities. It’s fascinating, really. The symptoms of the fever can vary tremendously from one victim to the next. Blood may issue from every orifice—the mouth, the nose, the ears, the anus, the vagina. One common element is the occurrence of black vomit.”
“All the result of lewd and lascivious tendencies,” Dr. Strong said.
Bradshaw ignored him. “What’s interesting is that the symptoms not only come on quickly, but they can often turn a perfectly rational person into a raging lunatic.”
“These first-hand accounts,” Giles pressed, “do the authors arrive at any conclusions regarding the source of these outbreaks?”
Bradshaw nodded his head slowly. “Indeed they do. Just a few years ago, Noah Webster wrote a two-volume tome on the subject, and after gathering considerable evidence he came to the opinion that these diseases are obviously caused by earthquakes and volcanoes.”
“B
eg your pardon?” Giles asked.
“Absolutely,” Bradshaw said. “It’s all very logically established. Webster suggests, for instance, that the recent eruption of Mount Etna on the island of Sicily may have a severely detrimental effect upon the earth for years to come. You see, such catastrophic events alter the earth’s composition—they open up the ground, so to speak, releasing a vile combination of noxious miasma. It travels on the wind, and perhaps through the oceans’ currents.” He gestured toward the Atlantic beyond Plum Island. “Look where we live, gentlemen. Ours is a latitude of pestilence. The climate is only beginning to produce such devastating scourges. I expect Noah Webster will long be remembered for his dire prognosis.”
“Oh, enough of this nonsense, Eli,” Dr. Strong said. “You’ll look the world over for your causes and fail to see that it’s right before your eyes.”
Dr. Strong began to hobble back up the wharf.
“Doctors, please,” Giles said. “This is not the time for philosophical debate. The fact is we don’t know the cause of such outbreaks of fever, and worse, we don’t know of any cure.”
Strong hesitated and turned around, while Bradshaw rested a haunch on a bollard.
“You know that I’m a simple surgeon,” Giles said. “I haven’t your learning, and only a fraction of your experience. Frankly, I’d prefer dealing with the ailments that beset a ship-of-the-line in the heat of battle. There’s no question of cause when dealing with wounded sailors and soldiers. Their ‘diseases’ are the sort one can see—grapeshot and broken bones. There are proven cures for torn flesh and pulverized limbs. But something like this—this fever, whatever it is—it is invisible and, with all due respect, Dr. Strong, I don’t see any evidence that it confines itself to people of a particular color or nationality, or that it has anything to do with their morals.”
“Jotham Poe!” Dr. Strong shouted. “You both know about him—he’s one of those constables, a bunch of paid ruffians, if you ask me. You yourself said that he visited one of the houses of assignation here along the waterfront—”
