Quarantine

by John Smolens

  Clapp didn’t answer.

  Mr. Poole shoved Clapp hard on the shoulder. “Where?”

  “I don’t know,” Clapp said. “He was taken away earlier in the evening.”

  “Who took him away?” Mr. Poole asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clapp said.

  Mr. Poole clasped his hands behind his back and walked away a bit, looking down the street toward the river. He stood there for quite some time, deep in thought. “All right,” he said finally. “We’ll take him now and return him to the jail.” Then he nodded to Trumbull and Blake, who moved to each side of Clapp and the three men began to walk back down State Street.

  “You’ve done a fine job, son,” Mr. Poole said, and he looked at Roger Davenport, standing in the doorway. “See that this man gets something to eat and put it on my account, will you?” Then Mr. Poole started down the street, following the constables and their prisoner.

  “You come inside now,” Roger Davenport said. “We’ll fix you up something to eat.” He stepped back inside the doorway. “And I think it’s time you might be allowed a mug of ale.”

  But Leander hesitated, remaining out on the porch. “The last time I stood in this doorway,” he said, “I had been sent to fetch Dr. Wiggins. It was the night the fever was arrived aboard the Miranda.”

  “Much has happened to Newburyport since then,” Roger Davenport said.

  “It feels like a lifetime ago, not several weeks.”

  Leander looked down the street again. The men were barely visible now, and it was beginning to rain again.

  “Well,” Davenport said, “you done your duty. Now get yourself inside out of the rain.”

  “Thank you,” Leander said. He was hungry, and he could smell meat cooking on the spit inside the tavern. But he thought of Cedella, waiting alone in his grandfather’s house. “Thank you, Mr. Davenport, but I must be getting down to Joppa.”

  He began walking back toward the river, leaning into the rain.

  After Giles had been washed and dressed, several orderlies carried his cot through the camp toward the gate. Marie and Eli Bradshaw led the way through the rain. Orderlies paused in their duties to watch in silence as he passed. Some of the sick tried to sit up on their cots, and many raised a hand in farewell. Esther L’Amour stood by the gate, tears streaming down her face. Gently, she placed her arms about his shoulders and kissed his cheek.

  Outside the gate, Enoch stood in front of his carriage. When Giles looked at the two white stallions, his brother said, “I thought you might like to ride in the diligence, drawn by Mr. Jefferson’s fine horses.”

  “This is very kind of you, Enoch.”

  With great care, Giles was lifted from the cot and laid on the bench inside the carriage, where he was covered with a blanket. Enoch and Marie sat across from him.

  Bradshaw leaned in the open door and took Giles’s hand. “I would attend your wedding, but there’s work to do here.” He looked at Marie. “You both have my best wishes.”

  “Eli,” Giles said, and then he let go of Bradshaw’s hand.

  The doctor stepped back and the footman closed the door. When the driver slapped the horses’ reins, the coach began to roll across the Mall. Each jolt sent shooting pains through Giles’s leg.

  Enoch took a flask from inside his coat and offered it, but Giles shook his head. Marie also declined. “So, you are to be married to this lovely lady.” He took a sip of rum, and put the flask away. “I envy you that.”

  “She will be your sister-in-law,” Giles said. “So I expect that you will do what you can to assist her.”

  “Of course,” Enoch said.

  “Did you tell Mother?”

  “No. We had an argument, a terrible argument. She—she is exhausted, and Fields says she refuses to allow anyone into her room.”

  They reached High Street, where the ride was smoother. “Samuel and Mr. Clapp escaped from the pest-house,” Giles said. “That was her doing?”

  “Completely,” Enoch said. “I just don’t understand what’s happening to our mother.”

  “You’ve both been cooped up in that house of yours too long.”

  “I give her everything she wants.”

  “And you think that’s enough? She wants to be the one who gives, not takes.”

  “The woman grieves for one son, while she tries to kill the other.”

  “There’s a logic at work—”

  “Logic? Really, Giles, a maternal logic where a mother eats her young?”

  “—that’s based on firm conviction.”

  “Some conviction.” Enoch stared at Marie. “First, she takes her in, and then she throws her out—out of my own house, without asking me.” He turned and placed his hand on Giles’s shoulder. “Now she says that she’s sending Samuel back to Europe, and she’s distraught, believing she will never see him again. I suspect this is true.” Enoch hesitated a moment, and then said, “He will be safe from this mob.”

  “That is all she cares about,” Giles said. “Samuel is the future of the family.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Doctor.” Enoch gently squeezed his shoulder. “She wants to order the world, and that’s what has been driving me mad all these years.” Enoch laughed before taking another drink from his flask. “But everything’s in chaos. There are reports of looting and fires as these mobs roam the streets. One group stood in front of my house earlier this evening, banging sticks on the fence and throwing rocks into the garden. I may survive this fever, but it has ruined me, I fear.”

  “The scheme to sell the medicine in Boston,” Giles said. “That was entirely Samuel’s notion?”

  Enoch stared out the window at the rain.

  “I suspected as much,” Giles said. “You will survive, Enoch.”

  “If only just,” his brother said without looking away from the window. The carriage turned down State Street, and the roof was lashed by rain that swept up from the river.

  Giles placed his hand over his brother’s. “You must take care of Mother.”

  “She will remain in my house, as always, but we will never speak to each other again. She told me so—through Fields, of course. Never, not a word. And when our mother makes up her mind—”

  “You won’t have to endure more of her logic,” Giles said.

  “True, but her silence will be worse.” Enoch smiled faintly. “It will be my punishment. Worse than poison.”

  Miranda opened her bedroom door, startling the new girl Rachel, who was sitting on the top step of the front stairs. She got to her feet hastily, looking frightened, holding a candle in her hand. “Where’s Fields?” Miranda asked.

  “He instructed me to wait on you, Ma’am.”

  “I didn’t ask you that, did I?”

  “No. Ma’am.”

  “Why isn’t he here?” Miranda didn’t know whether this girl was simply shy or slow, but it seemed to take her a long time to understand the question. “I asked you a question.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’m not sure but I believe he had to go out.” The girl glanced down the stairs, as though that way might lay her salvation. “Something about a relative falling ill.”

  “The fever?”

  “Perhaps, Ma’am. A messenger came, and Mr. Fields left quickly, he did.”

  “Yes. That’s loyalty for you.” Miranda stepped out into the hall, pulling the bedroom door closed behind her. “There’s been a great deal of commotion about tonight. I heard my son take a carriage out earlier and don’t believe he’s returned. Tell me, would you say there’s an element of fear in the house tonight?”

  “Fear? Ma’am?”

  “You know the meaning of the word?”

  “Of course, Ma’am.” As a sign that she was weighing the question, the girl puffed out her cheeks. “Fear—well, yes, I suppose there is something.”

  “I have no doubt. This fever will drive those of us mad that it doesn’t kill.” Miranda turned and began walking down the hall toward the back of the house. “Well, come on,
bring that candle,” she said over her shoulder.

  Rachel followed as Miranda went to the back stairs and began to climb the dark, narrow steps to the servants’ quarters on the third floor. Every step was an effort, and at the first turn, Miranda had to stop, her hands against the walls, to catch her breath. “I have not been up here in years,” she whispered.

  On the third floor, she paused once more until her breathing eased; then she began to climb the stairs—they were really almost a ladder—that ascended to the cupola.

  “Ma’am, are you sure.…”

  “Quiet—and stay close with that candle.”

  She had to pause after each step. Her legs burned with the effort of climbing, and there seemed to be so little air. Finally, when she made it to the top of the ladder, she nearly fell as she stepped up into the cupola. Fortunately, it was cooler here in the small octagonal room, and the girl’s candle was reflected—multiplied, it seemed—in the window glass. Rain pelted the roof.

  “This has been my son’s sanctuary, you see, the one place where he knows I cannot find him.” She went to the telescope, seated on its wooden tripod. “And this—have you ever seen one of these?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “A remarkable invention, really.” Miranda looked toward the river and the South End. “It’s not a clear night, and look how the sky glows.” She peered into the lens, turning the knob that adjusted the focus. “There—now take a look.”

  Miranda stepped back and took the candle from Rachel. The girl reluctantly went forward and leaned down to look in the telescope. She straightened up, startled. “Fire!” she gasped, and then she put her eye to the lens again. “Two, no three fires, in the South End.” She placed her hands on the smooth metal shaft of the instrument, moving it slightly to her left. “And there are … torches. It seems there’s a crowd moving through the streets.”

  “Madness, you see,” Miranda said. “This is the result of this fever. They are burning the houses of the dead, believing that that might drive the fever away.” Miranda went over to the couch. Rachel came and took her arm, helping her sit down.

  “Ma’am, are you all right?”

  “I feel … faint. Just let me rest. There, is that a bottle of wine on the table? Pour me a glass. And then I want you to observe what you see below. I want you to tell me what is happening down there. Tell me what this fear looks like.”

  As Leander walked along Water Street, the air in the South End became thick with smoke. The overcast sky glowed with a fire somewhere to his right. At Federal Street he passed an old man, carrying a squirming chicken in his arms. “They’re burning the houses,” he said. “One on Purchase Street. One on Bromfield. And it looks like a barn’s caught fire, too.”

  Leander hurried on toward Joppa Flats. Despite the heavy rain pounding the muddy street, he could hear the sound of crowds several blocks away, sometimes angry and chanting, sometimes cheering. There was the crackle of burning timber, of walls and roofs collapsing. At the next block, two boys emerged from Lime Street, carrying burlap sacks over their shoulders—the contents rattled—pewter, or perhaps even silver. A candle holder fell out on the ground, causing one boy to stop and pick it up before he followed the other on into the dark.

  At the next corner, Leander came upon a woman sitting on the stoop in her nightgown, soaking wet, her head buried in her arms as she wept. He was about to speak to her, when he heard a loud shrieking sound. Looking around the corner of the house, he saw a horse on fire sprinting down Neptune Street. Its screams were shrill, horrified, and the flames engulfed its neck and back as it veered from one side to the other, until it finally collapsed, writhing in the mud. A man ran up to the horse, aimed a pistol at its head, and fired a shot. The animal’s legs kicked once, and then it was still. The air was filled with the smell of manure, burnt hair, and cooked meat. Leander looked back at the woman on the stoop, who still keep her head buried in her arms, her shoulders quivering as she cried.

  “Ma’am,” he said. “You should get inside out of this rain.”

  She lifted her head but didn’t look directly at him. Slowly she got to her feet, and as she stepped inside the front door she said, “Bastards stole my last pig.”

  Leander ran the rest of the way to his grandfather’s house. The door was locked, but Cedella must have seen him coming because she opened it immediately. It was dark inside—she had not even lit a candle. As he closed the door behind him, she flung her arms around his shoulders. She was shivering and he hugged her tightly, while out the window the clouds above the river glowed from the distant fires.

  Once Giles’s cot was on deck, The Golden Hand cast off its dock lines and drifted away from the jetty. When they were well out in the basin, Emanuel ordered Francois to drop anchor. From the river, Newburyport appeared to be under siege. There was looting all along the waterfront. The sounds, the smoke, the fires illuminating the lowering clouds—it was as though some foreign army had invaded the seaport.

  “This rain,” Emanuel said, “we can rig up a canopy to protect you.”

  “No,” Giles said. “I will miss the rain, but I will miss the Merrimack fog even more.” He looked at Emanuel. “Have you ever done this, married anyone?”

  “No. I have no idea how to proceed.”

  “The bible,” Sameeka said, and turning to Dominique, “Go fetch it.”

  The girl went below decks and while they waited, Giles closed his eyes. He seemed to drift. He felt the warm rain on his face, and Marie was holding his hand. The vessel rocked gently on the river’s incessant current, and for the first time since the amputation the pain in his leg was gone. He wondered if he might not stand up now. It was time. The weight and searing heat of the stones was gone, the sharp scent of vinegar had been washed away, and it was time to rise up off this cot. He was eager to walk to the prow of the ship, where he could look down at the water. It was the water: Newburyport was defined by water. It cradled all of them, the tides, rising and falling every six hours, day after day, creating weeks, months, years, lifetimes, and generations where the water never ceases to run out to sea, only to return upriver, moving, constantly moving as though blood through his veins.

  And then he thought he opened his eyes. They were all standing around him, their faces illuminated by a flickering lantern. Emanuel was reading from a bible. “And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.” Marie was holding Giles’s hand tightly now. He tried to squeeze her fingers but was unable to do so—it was as though his hand was also separated from his body. Someone was crying, perhaps the little girl, perhaps his brother Enoch, who looked away as his shoulders quaked with fear. Or so it seemed. Giles said something to him, something he’d kept to himself for years, but Enoch didn’t seem to hear, or perhaps he couldn’t understand. And then Marie leaned down, whispering her Catholic prayer in French, her face wet with rain, and her lips against his, salty and warm. It was that taste of brine that carried him downriver, over the bar at Plum Island, and out into the ocean, where he drifted effortlessly lower and lower into the cold dark water.

  Leander opened his eyes and looked out the window at Water Street. It was just first light and the rain had stopped. He was sitting in his grandfather’s rocking chair, his rifle across his lap. Turning his head, a blanket that had been draped about his shoulders—vaguely he remembered her hands in the middle of the night—fell to the floor. In the other room, Cedella was sleeping in his grandfather’s bed. She lay curled on her side, facing the wall, the sheet pulled up over a sculpted hip, her black hair spilled across the pillow. He could hear her breathing.

  And outside he could hear the sound of waves, the morning chatter of seagulls. He stood up, his legs stiff, and leaned the rifle against the rocking chair. He went to the door and opened it to the smell of salt water. He stepped out into the dooryard, loosening his trousers and relieving himself in a bush. Downhill, the tide was in and water lap
ped the beach just below the row of clam shacks. Clam digging wouldn’t begin on the flats until late morning.

  As he fastened his buttons, he saw something move on the beach. Something rolling gently in the waves. There was not enough light to see. He started down the path, as though drawn, gazing at the water. The tide had brought something in, a log, or perhaps a large dead fish. Its movement in the waves was mesmerizing, beckoning, and as he descended the hill Leander walked faster, until he broke into a run when he reached the sand. From behind him he heard Cedella’s voice. “Leander, what is it?” He’d never heard her call out before, and the force and clarity of her voice seemed to chase him down the beach. “What is it?”

  It was a body. Leander waded out into the cold water, his bare feet sinking into the muck. He could see a shoulder, the side of the head above the water, and an arm that rose and fell with each small wave. It was a man, his naked back to Leander, his hair white.

  Papi?

  Leander tried to run, lifting his feet up and out of the water, but he only managed to trip, falling forward and landing on his hands and knees.

  “Who is it?” Cedella’s voice was closer. He looked ashore and watched her run down the path to the beach. “Who is it?”

  He got to his feet, his clothes heavy now with water, and waded out farther.

  “Papi?” he said as he grabbed the shoulder, the flesh cold, hard, and rolled the body on to its back, bringing the face up out of the water and revealing a gash in the forehead. The deep wound had been washed clean by water, and the unmoving eyes stared at the early morning sky in disbelief.

  Leander heard Cedella coming up behind him in the water. Turning, he went back to her and took her in his arms and she clutched him tightly, her face buried against his chest.

  “It’s the Boston man,” he said.

  “It is revenge, for this fever.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “A sacrifice,” she said. “I believe this to be true.”

  “My grandfather,” Leander said, “he might think so, too.”