Quarantine

by John Smolens

  Mr. Clapp shrugged. “I’d appreciate it if you’d just let me go home.”

  “Put you on a horse and send you down the turnpike—”

  “A horse, Madame, in this weather? I’d prefer that you spirit me away in a dry coach.”

  “I’m sure you would, and avoid the mob that wants to get ahold of both of you.” She looked around her. Horseshoe and two of the men who worked in the blacksmith shop were standing back in the shadows. “No, I’ll have to think on what to do with you, Mr. Clapp,” she said. “First, I must get my grandson out of Newburyport, so until that is assured we’ll keep you right here, safe from any mob.”

  “Under the circumstances,” he said with a slight bow, “I accept your hospitality.”

  She turned away from him. Looking at the two men next to Horseshoe, she said, “I’ll leave them to see to your every comfort.” Then she started back through the dark warehouse to the door. “Horseshoe, you return to the house.”

  Slowly, the nature of the pain changed. It deepened, and something about the heat from the stones seemed to open him up, allowing the pain to radiate through his bowels and in his chest, where his lungs felt heavy and sodden. He lay perfectly still, breathing very carefully, fearful of drowning. His joints were inflamed and his ribs felt crushed. The linens wrapped tightly around his body were soaked through with sweat.

  Marie gave him sips of water. They didn’t speak—to do so would require too much effort. He knew the fever had reached a point where it would either continue in its effort to claim his body, or it would begin to recede. The next few hours would tell. By dawn he would either be dead, or he would begin to push the fever back.

  Marie understood this, too. It was in her eyes, the set of her mouth. At times her lips moved and she whispered prayers in French. It was a beautiful sound, her prayers, while above them the rain beat relentlessly on the canvas tent.

  He closed his eyes and tried to think only of the sound of the rain, of Marie’s prayers.

  As Leander left the Mall, he saw someone rushing along High Street in the pouring rain. It was Horseshoe. Leander walked across a wide puddle and stopped in front of him.

  “How’d you do it?”

  “A few coins changing hands, that’s all.”

  “Where’d you take them?” Leander said.

  Horseshoe grinned.

  Leander punched him in the nose and he went down in the mud. As he tried to get up, Leander hit him again. Dropping to his knees, Leander took hold of Horseshoe’s head and shoved his face down into the puddle. Horseshoe struggled, and Leander finally lifted his head up. “You tell me or I will drown you here and now.” He pushed Horseshoe’s face into the water again until he began choking—and again yanked his head up by the hair.

  Horseshoe’s face was covered with mud. He coughed, blood running from his nose and mouth. “The warehouse,” he whispered. “Sumner’s Wharf.”

  Leander punched him again, this time in the stomach. As he got to his feet, Horseshoe curled up on his side in the mud gasping for air.

  The carriage halted at the gate before the Essex-Merrimack Bridge. One of the guards bearing a lantern came to the window. Rain poured off the brim of his hat. “We have a horse waiting on the other side, Ma’am,” he said. “I have two men who will escort Mr. Sumner up to Portsmouth harbor.”

  Fields removed a small leather pouch of coins and held it up to the window.

  The guard hesitated before he took the pouch and then opened the door.

  “Grandmother?” Samuel said.

  “Stop puling like a dog,” she said without looking at him. “Save it for Paris.”

  “But I don’t want to go,” he said. “Can’t I stay in Newburyport?”

  “I’ve always hated this pleading tone of yours.” She nodded to Fields, who took another pouch from inside his cloak and handed it to Samuel.

  “Please.” Samuel leaned toward her but she still would not face him.

  “If I’m fortunate,” she said, “I will not live long enough to see you again in this world.”

  Samuel climbed out and the guard led him away. After a moment, Miranda looked out the window toward the bridge and watched the swinging lantern slowly disappear in the rain.

  The rain had stopped.

  There was the sound of water, dripping off the canvas tent, and there was Marie’s voice, whispering close to his left ear. He could not open his eyes—it would take too much effort, too much concentration.

  And there was the penetrating heat, the weight of the stones.

  As he walked through Market Square, Leander found a pile of brush near a butcher’s stall, to be used for the fires to smoke meat. He pulled a good heavy stick from the pile and continued on across the square toward the waterfront. The stick was fairly straight—like the tithing stick Goodman Boylston had used at the meeting-house services during the collection. If a man didn’t produce a coin for the basket, his shoulder would be prodded with the stick. It was an embarrassment his father and mother would never suffer, no matter how hard the season. And Sarah, blind Sarah, she was always alert to the sound of Goodman Boylston’s stick, tapping on the floor of the meeting-house. She had once told Leander that she saw the tithing man in her dreams, and that he had a large mole on his cheek. Startled, he said that this was true. When he asked her if she feared Goodman Boylston, she said, “No, in my dreams the sun shines great warmth upon us in our pew, and father always has enough money that we fear not of the tithing stick.”

  When he reached the warehouse, Leander tapped the end of the stick on the door. Inside, there was the shuffle of footsteps, and when the door opened one of Horseshoe’s helpers, a boy named Timothy, peered out in the alley. His movements were uncertain with rum. Leander raised the stick and struck him once on the side of the head, and he fell in the doorway. Leander took hold of him by one arm and dragged him outside and left him in the muddy alley; then he entered the warehouse, closing the door behind him. He walked toward the lantern light at the far end of the building, where two men were seated on barrels—one was another of Horseshoe’s blacksmiths, a large, simple boy named Nicholas. He was brutal with the horses, and he leered at the young women at the Sumner house. He was drinking rum and talking quietly with Mr. Clapp.

  Both men turned when they heard Leander. Nicholas got to his feet. He stood a good hand taller than Leander and seemed pleased to see him. “What you got there?” he asked.

  “This is my tithing stick, like Goodman Boylston used during Saturday meeting.”

  Nicholas walked toward Leander. “Come to collect, have you?”

  “I have.”

  “Here’s payment.” Nicholas cocked his big right fist.

  Leander held the stick with both hands. When Nicholas threw his punch, Leander swung, catching him square on the fist. Nicholas howled, and he stared at Leander with fierce eyes. When he stepped forward, Leander swung again, hitting Nicholas on the shoulder. And again, on the head. Two, three times, each blow causing the big boy to crouch lower and cry out. When Leander swung a fourth time, Nicholas sprawled on the dirt floor, silent.

  Leander turned toward the lantern. Uriah Clapp was standing now. He appeared neither amused nor frightened. If anything, he was curious. “Tithing stick?” he asked. “You think you are taking up collection in meeting-house?”

  “I am thinking of my congregation,” Leander said. “My family, my neighbors who lie in the pit on the hill overlooking the Mall. With the medicine you stole, they might have been saved.”

  “We’ll never know.”

  “But you will find out. They will tell you. My sister, she will tell you.”

  Clapp glanced down at Nicholas, who had not moved. “You will beat me with that stick, and they will find me, and you will be punished. It’s the law. They have not proven that I have broken any law—you heard Ellsworth.”

  “Mr. Ellsworth may have his day in court,” Leander said. “But you will come with me.”

  “Where?”

&nb
sp; “Bring the lantern and lead the way,” Leander said.

  Clapp picked up the lantern. The light cast upward upon his withered face, and his eyes were in deep shadows. “Where, may I ask?”

  “No, you may not. I will show you.”

  Thirty-Two

  MARIE WAS LEANING OVER GILES WHEN HE OPENED HIS EYES. “You have been telling the lie,” she whispered. “You never have this fever before. You are not immune.”

  “A lie, yes,” he said.

  Even when confused, her eyes were beautiful. “Why this one?”

  “I always fancied myself a doctor, though I don’t have the formal training.”

  “You are not a doctor?”

  “I am a surgeon.”

  “I am most upset with you.”

  “Accept my apology, please.”

  “You must have to keep away from this pest-house.”

  “Hide? Is that what you would have me do?”

  She began to straighten up, looking distraught and perhaps disgusted, but he took hold of her forearm. She leaned down to him again. “You are like the child who will not listen, and now you fall out of the tree.”

  “Yes, I am falling out of the tree,” he said, smiling.

  “This is funny?”

  “It may as well be.”

  “It does not make me laugh.” She looked away.

  “I want to know something,” he said, and he waited until she looked at him again, her eyes round with hurt and fear, but also with curiosity. “What will you do? After, I mean.”

  She shook her head. He did not think her eyes could be so large.

  “Do you want to stay here, here in Newburyport?”

  “I do not know. Where else is there to go for me? I cannot go back to France.”

  “No, I hope you remain here.” She stared at him for a long time. “Please do that,” he said. “Stay here. Live here. There are people who will help you—Emanuel and Sameeka. And the boy, Leander.” She ran a finger under one eye, trying to keep the tears from running down her cheek. “Will you think about that?”

  She nodded, and then she took her hand away from her face and let her tears flow.

  “All right,” he said. “Then will you grant me one other request?”

  “Oui.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Will you marry me?”

  She stood up straight and looked about the tent desperately. Her mouth trembled as she said, “But—”

  “Please.”

  “But you do not understand. I have not been always the honorable woman.”

  “Now you are being funny.”

  “No, I am most serious.”

  “All right,” he said. “So am I. You must go and find a minister—ask Dr. Bradshaw to help. He’ll send someone for a minister. Not Reverend Cary, though. He won’t come in here.”

  “No,” she said. “I will not be married by him. Is there a priest?”

  “In Newburyport? No, no priests.”

  Marie’s shoulders settled in resignation, until suddenly her eyes became bright, hopeful. “When I was aboard the ship from France to the islands, the captain he married a man and woman.”

  “Emanuel—that’s perfect,” Giles said. “He’s captain of The Golden Hand and he can marry us. It will be an officially recognized marriage, making it easier for you to remain here.”

  “But Giles, you cannot to be moved, not now. And there is only the cart used to carry the dead away.”

  “Enoch,” he said. “Send him a message. He will bring a carriage.”

  “Monsieur Sumner—your brother?”

  “Yes, he is my brother, and I need to speak with him. Hurry, please. I haven’t got far to fall.” She looked alarmed but she nodded. He reached out and took her hand, so warm in his, and said, “Marie, before he arrives, please ask Doctor Bradshaw to have someone come and help remove these linens.” He smiled up at her. “I must bathe and dress for our wedding.”

  “Hear that?” Uriah Clapp said, looking back over his shoulder.

  Walking behind him, Leander continued to tap his stick on the ground.

  “It’s a mob,” the old man said. His voice was now stripped of any authority. “They are roaming the streets, looking for me and for Samuel Sumner.”

  “Can you blame them?”

  “I did not cause this fever—I did not bring it upon this town.”

  “Who did?”

  “Who knows? God? Fate?” Clapp seemed curious suddenly. “Do you think it is random, this fever, or is it earned somehow? Is it retribution?”

  Leander shook his head. “It doesn’t really matter now.”

  “That mob—they want blood, and you’re going to deliver me to them.”

  They both stopped at the sound of voices, the tread of feet coming closer. Ahead, Leander could see a string of torches passing through Market Square. He took Clapp by the shoulder and drew him back into the darkness of a shop doorway. He watched as the mob entered Middle Street, heading into the South End.

  “Now we can go,” Leander said, pushing the man out into the alley.

  “I insist on knowing where you are taking me,” Clapp said.

  “To the law.”

  “There is no law here. Not now. That’s what this fever has done to your neighbors. They only want revenge.”

  “Just keep walking.” Leander followed behind the old man, tapping the stick on the ground. They crossed Market Square and climbed State Street, which was muddy though the rain had stopped. When they reached the corner of Pleasant Street, Leander saw a couple of men standing in the doorway of the apothecary.

  “You there,” one of them called. “Is that Caleb Hatch’s boy?”

  “It is,” Leander said.

  The men stepped out into the street. They were Robert Trumbull and Elisha Blake—both constables who had been his father’s associates. Leander always felt uneasy around Trumbull, who usually arrived for Sunday dinner already much in the drink. He had a habit of laughing at his own jokes, which Leander’s mother suffered in polite silence. Elisha Blake she simply refused to admit to her house.

  “What have we here?” Trumbull asked. “This be the man from Boston everybody’s been searching for?” He was flush with drink—they both were—and he placed a hand on Leander’s shoulder. “You’ve done well, lad, capturing such a scoundrel as this. We’ll take him into custody.”

  Leander stepped back, shrugging the hand off his shoulder. “Thank you, but I think it would be best if I deliver him myself to Mr. Poole.”

  “Ah, hear that, Blake?” Trumbull said with delight. “He wants to take his prisoner directly to the high sheriff.”

  Blake, who was stout and appeared to be having difficulty standing up straight, chuckled and said, “The high sheriff, yes. But I don’t believe he’s at the jail. I mean we was just there and he warn’t in.”

  “There, you see?” Trumbull said. “So, really it would be wise to turn him over to us.”

  Clapp said to Leander, “You cannot hand me over to these men.”

  “Why?” Leander asked.

  “It will be the same as giving me to that mob,” Clapp said. “There are some constables—these men included—who do not want me to see the inside of a courtroom.”

  “Because you will testify—” Leander hesitated. “You will testify against them for their part in the robberies.”

  “Precisely,” Clapp said.

  Both men moved toward Clapp but stopped when Leander stepped in the way, holding up his stick. Mr. Trumbull smiled. “What’s this, young Mr. Hatch? You’re going to listen to this Boston man? You’re going to take his word?”

  “I’m going to deliver him to the high sheriff,” Leander said.

  “Well then,” Trumbull said. “It’s our duty to accompany you.”

  “Right,” Blake said. “To make certain your prisoner doesn’t try to escape again.”

  Leander nodded to Clapp, indicating that they were to continue
up State Street. They set out, their boots sinking deep in the mud, the two constables following them.

  “If Mr. Poole ain’t in the jailhouse,” Mr. Blake asked, “where you going to take your prisoner?”

  “I will try Wolfe Tavern,” Leander said.

  “See, Blake?” Mr. Trumbull said. “There’s a wise lad. Always with a plan.”

  “And if he’s not there?” Blake asked.

  Leander continued walking. The going was very hard in the mud. “There’s always the pest-house,” he said.

  “Know what I think, Blake?” Trumbull asked pleasantly.

  “What’s that?”

  “I think we might propose to Mr. Poole that young Mr. Hatch join us constables. We be short a man now that his father, you know, has passed on, and it seems right appropriate that Leander here take his place, especially after he’s done this brave deed, capturing the escaped Mr. Clapp, and all. Would you be willing to second such a motion?”

  “Indeed I would,” Blake said.

  When they reached Wolfe Tavern, Leander saw Roger Davenport in his usual place, seated on a stool just outside the open door. “Sir,” Leander said. “Would the high sheriff be in your establishment?”

  Davenport got up off his stool and came to the porch railing. “Mr. Poole is at the bar.”

  “Would you mind asking him to come out here?” Leander said.

  Davenport looked at the four men, nodded, and ducked inside the door. After a moment, Mr. Poole came outside, followed by Davenport, who remained in the doorway.

  “This is a fine parade,” Mr. Poole said. Clearly he was with the drink, but not so much as the constables.

  Trumbull stepped forward and said, “This young fellow here captured the escaped prisoner all by himself, Mr. Poole, and we accompanied him up State Street to ensure his safe delivery.”

  Mr. Poole considered this a moment, and said, “Well done, Leander. Where did you find him? And what about the other—Samuel Sumner?”

  “I found this man in a warehouse down on the wharves,” Leander said, “but I don’t know what happened to the other man.”

  Mr. Poole walked up to Clapp. “Where is he?”