by James Haley
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The sun was well up when they awakened and washed, and in the dining room downed a gloomy breakfast of eggs, ham, porridge, and apple pie. Bliven ate sparingly, and was still weak, and before the front door Meriden offered his hand to help him up into the barouche. He took it. “Well, this is a hell of a thing. I am too young to be invalided.”
“Oh, I know you, Captain, you will be right as rain in no time.”
They settled back in the rear of the coach, Bliven relaxing with an arm extended behind Clarity, enjoying the fine summer morning before the heat could settle. Freddy drove the horses northwest up High Street, up which they had run the night before, toward Benedict Hill. “Freddy,” asked Bliven, “what are we doing? Did you wish to have a look at what is left of the nunnery?”
“Not especially. I thought you might enjoy to see some new countryside on our way home. We can rest the horses in Framingham and then go on to spend the night in Worcester. Would you rather I turn back to the usual route?”
“No.” He settled back, feeling a discomfort in his stomach but determining that it did not merit mention. “Not at all; well done. Do you remember the old days of Mr. Strait’s coach? He went all the way down to Long Island Sound and then over. This more direct route will likely save us more than a day.”
Very shortly they reached the Neck, where High Street converged with Charlestown’s other principal lanes. One route split to the north and the twin bridges over the Charles River, the other to the west, past Benedict Hill. High upon it they saw the ruin of the convent, its three-story shell still standing but hollow within, a pall of smoke still wafting above it. Around it they saw four nuns in Ursuline habits, poking through the cinders and occasionally picking out and wiping off some object too small for them to see what it might be.
Clarity rose a bit from her seat as they passed. “Such an awful sight. Dearest, do you wish to stop and speak with them again?”
“No.” He hesitated. “No, the Mother Superior appeared highly competent. I have no doubt they will find a way to overcome all this. She loves your books, by the way. Let us see this new scenery, Freddy.” Lulled by the clip-clop of the horses, Bliven barely noticed one sign as they passed it. “What? Did that indicate a lending library?”
Clarity turned her head before it slipped from sight. “Mr. Baker’s, yes.”
“I thought the lending library was in Warren Hall.”
Clarity looked back to the front and settled comfortably against him. “Oh, it is still there. Mr. Baker decided there must be enough people in Charlestown who would pay to borrow books that he would open a second one. I hear he has been whispering allurements to persuade people to switch their allegiance, or at least patronize both, as he has taken pains to acquire volumes that the Warren Hall library does not have.”
“Oh, my tired soul,” Bliven muttered. “It seems like everything is competition anymore. Did you know, last night we went to help at the fire and we saw—did you notice them?—there are now two toll bridges across the river. They span it in parallel, and so close you could throw a stone from one to the other. Is that not a frivolous waste of resources and effort?”
Clarity smirked and pulled his arm down around her. “Not a waste entirely. The lawyers are profiting, at least. You would not have heard: the proprietors of the first bridge hired the great Mr. Shaw to sue the owners of the new one to put them out of business.”
“Hm! And how did they fare?”
“They lost.”
“Well, perhaps both will have to lower their tolls now to compete. That will be of some public benefit, anyway.”
“Oh, it’s not over. Now they have hired Daniel Webster himself to take their case to the Supreme Court.”
“Lucky me!” Fred Meriden looked back suddenly at them. “I suppose you could be charging me to borrow books from your library at home. But then, most of them fly far above my poor head.”
“Ha!” Bliven reached forward and clapped him on the back. “Yes, old Mr. Marsh was somewhat rarified in his studies, was he not?” He settled back. “Still, my love, I am not certain that there is a call for two lending libraries.”
“Well,” she allowed, “the town is burgeoning, after all. More than ten thousand now just in Charlestown, one hears.”
“Mostly poor laborers, from the look of things. The Catholics and those rich Unitarians, they might support a second lending library, but these people are mostly of Beecher’s flock. Who needs books when they have him to tell them what is holy or profane?”
Clarity sensed a renewal coming of his eruption from the previous night. “Now, dearest, let us not reexamine it all. I want you to rest. I am certain that he means well.”
“Yes,” he said wearily, “but I swear, if your Reverend Beecher were any more full of horse manure, we should have to throw him on our garden. What do you think, Freddy?”
By degrees they had left the town behind for an open country lane. Meriden snapped the reins lightly onto the horses’ rumps and they broke into an easy trot. “I would say, bless the libraries for at least trying to bring learning to those that need it.”
“Dearest, when we reach Worcester to stay the night, Freddy neglected to tell you that I have made the friendly acquaintance of several of the ladies there.”
“Oh? A reading club? Devotees of your novels?”
“It started that way, I confess, but as I got to know them, I discovered them to be ladies of formidable intellect. In fact, whenever they convene, the conversation usually turns to the subject of women and how we deserve the franchise that is now denied us.”
“That women should be allowed to vote, you mean?”
“Precisely.”
“Oh, fine. So now you have fallen in with a nest of seditionists?”
She looked up at him with some concern but found his eyes merry. “Wholeheartedly. Do you believe that if women could vote, the country would have been saddled with Mr. Jackson as president?”
“Lord, don’t get me started on that man.”
“Besides, I must have something for adventure, as I can’t keep you at home.”
Gently he pulled Clarity’s head into the crook of his neck and spoke softly. “Well, we shall see about that, in future. We did not have much of a reunion last night, did we, my love? May we make amends tonight?”
She stretched up and kissed the bottom of his chin. “Good news, at last.” Concerned, she kissed him a second time, ascertaining a slight heat radiating from his skin. “Dearest, I believe you have a fever. Do you not feel well yet?”
“Not entirely, no. I have a turning in my stomach, and my bones and my joints seem to ache.”
“Freddy?”
“Ma’am?”
“When we reach Framingham, may we rest the horses only as long as necessary to reach Worcester without exhausting them?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“We can use the time to buy some bread, and cheese, and ham. We can eat on the road. My friend Mrs. Allison, in Worcester, her husband I judge to be the best doctor within a hundred miles. When we reach town, drive straight to the inn on Grafton Common where I stay. Once we get the captain settled in bed, I will show you where to find Dr. Allison.”
Bliven found the road and the countryside new to him, alternately wooded and settled, of the most restful prospect and a welcome antidote for the previous night’s mayhem. They crossed the Sudbury River into Framingham, where they bought food and fresh milk, and Meriden rested and watered the horses at the Harmony Grove. There, a blanket spread under a chestnut tree gave them at least as welcome a rest as the horses, for Meriden had to rouse them in an hour to resume the journey.
Grafton, he learned, was a village three miles southeast of Worcester proper and connected to it by a road along the Quinsigamond River. The inn that reposed on the east side of its common Bliven
found one of the most symmetrical of buildings: five windows broad, three stories high, white clapboards with black shutters, a chimney at each of the four corners, and a hipped roof beneath a large glass cupola. At first sight he thought it one of the most beautifully designed buildings he had ever seen. He stood to dismount from the coach but quickly sat back down. “Freddy, I’m afraid you will have to help me again. I am dizzy.”
With Freddy at one arm and Clarity at the other, they got Bliven’s feet on the ground, and he took a moment to glance around the common. He inclined his head to a church on the west side of it. “Let me guess: That would be the Congregationalists there opposite?”
“It would indeed,” said Clarity.
“Ah, well, that will explain your choice of lodging, but it appears most convenient. If I expire during the night, you won’t have to go far to stage my funeral.”
“Don’t you even joke about such a thing. You die on me, husband, and I’ll beat the living hell out of your body.”
Bliven laughed suddenly and helplessly. “My Lord, when did you start swearing?”
“Well, I have heard it often happens to women who marry sailors. Have you got him, Fred? I am going to run in and change my usual room for one on the ground floor. I don’t want him going up any stairs.”
From the time they got him into bed, Bliven slept deeply. The next he knew, there entered a man of soft edges without being fat, who had thinning brown hair above clear brown eyes, and the most fitting expression of interest and kindness. “William Allison, physician,” he introduced himself. “Captain, how are you feeling?” He reached down and took Bliven’s hand as though in greeting, but then turned it over and measured his pulse.
“In truth, I have been better.”
“Your wife tells me that you suffer chills, and fever.”
“Yes.”
“Are they constant or periodic?”
“They have set on, but mildly until now, every two or three days.” Allison nodded, and Bliven took it that he nodded gravely. “Does that signify?”
“Perhaps. Where have you been in the past months? Anywhere in the tropics?” He lifted Bliven’s eyelids and peered beneath.
“Yes, quite constantly, in fact. Jamaica, and Haiti, the Bahamas, and then Fort Fisher, in the interior of Florida.”
“Oh, dear, that does sound steamy.” From his bag Allison removed a thin tube of wood, with one end flared like a speaking trumpet. “Raise your shirt, please. Now lie very still and breathe normally. My God! That is quite a scar across your belly.”
“Yes. I was a very young lieutenant in the Barbary War.”
Allison felt along it and could tell that it extended deep beyond the skin. “This would have been a very dangerous wound.”
“Yes, but it was expertly treated. You have heard of the eminent Dr. Cutbush?”
“What? The same who wrote the treatise on military medicine? Yes, of course.”
“He was the surgeon on my ship. He gave me a silver dollar to bite on while he sewed me up, which I still have to this day.”
“Oh, I envy you his acquaintance. Have you heard where he is now?”
“Still retired, I presume. I hope he has not died.”
“Ho, far from it. It was just recently in the papers that at his age, when a man has earned the right to do nothing, he has removed to Geneva, in New York, to be professor of chemistry at the new college there.”
“I am not surprised, for he so esteemed being useful.” Bliven’s voice grew wistful. “What happened to him in the Navy was a disgrace and a scandal.”
Allison pressed his fingers into Bliven’s stomach and lower belly. “There is no tightness or distension; that is good. You refer to his being forced out by Jackson’s people?”
“I do—one of many offenses to hang upon his administration.”
“Well, comfort yourself, Captain, for Dr. Cutbush is a hero to every physician I know in these parts. But look, now, we must proceed. Lie quietly.” He placed the flared end of the tube against Bliven’s chest and listened intently by putting his ear on a small bulb at its narrow end. “Do you ever have chest pain?”
“No, never.”
“Does your family have any history of diseases of the heart?”
“No.”
“No, your heart is quite sound.” Allison lowered the shirt again and pressed his fingertips into Bliven’s throat and neck. He pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down. “Well, now, Captain. I believe that you have returned home with a case of swamp fever; some doctors now call it malarial fever.”
Clarity drew near and listened intently.
“Yes,” said Bliven, “I have heard of it. I am not surprised, for the swamps were quite utterly miserable.”
“Its name is from the Italian, meaning bad air, because in former times it was prevalent in the marshes around Rome.”
Bliven laughed softly. “Now you even sound like Cutbush. Great one for ancient history, he was. He loved citing the works of Galen. I hope that this is not anything that I can pass to my wife?”
“No, I have never heard of such an occurrence.”
“Can it be treated?”
“Yes. Do you drink?”
Bliven barked suddenly into a loud laugh that dissolved into a hard cough. “Doctor, if you treat maladies with whiskey, every sailor in the Navy would be as skilled as you.”
“Hm! Well, be that as it may, there is a medicine, and it is effective, but it has such a foul and bitter taste that you could never get it down without mixing it with something more palatable.”
“What is it?”
“It is called Peruvian bark. It is obtained from a tree in the forest there. I have a small quantity in my bag that you may have, and there is some more in my apothecary that I will send over to you.”
Bliven held up a hand. “I often have some rum in my tea in the evening. Would that be a suitable medium?”
“Indeed, yes. Just stir a small spoon of the shaved bark into a cup of tea and rum, and some additional sugar, for I tell you it is very bitter. Let it steep a few moments to draw the medicine out of the bark, and then drink it. In fact, we may start this instant. Mrs. Putnam, can you send for some tea and rum?”
“Yes, right away. Fred?”
“I’ll get it. I’ll be gone only a moment.”
“Also, I will send to Boston, for there is a skilled druggist there who stocks Peruvian bark already drawn into a tincture. It is called quinine water. I will obtain some of that for you.”
“For how long must I take it?” asked Bliven.
“If your symptoms abate and you stop taking it, they will return. I would suggest three times a day, with a meal to get the taste out of your mouth. Continue this until I see you again. Perhaps three or four weeks after you feel completely well, we will suspend the treatment and see how you do. That is the devil of the malarial fever—if you continue to treat it, it is not that dangerous, but the spells may recur for many years. Now, listen carefully. While you are taking it, be alert for any chest pain, or if you begin to have trouble with your vision or have any other unfamiliar difficulty. If that happens, stop taking it at once and send for me.”
Allison rose to leave, but Clarity caught him by the arm. “Doctor, will you do something for me?”
“If I can, ma’am, most happily.”
“I wish you to write to the commandant of the Navy Yard at Charlestown. Tell him that Captain Putnam is most seriously ill with a disease acquired during his last cruise, and he is to be excused from further duty until he should learn otherwise.”
“My dear wife!” Bliven roared suddenly from the bed. “The commandant is not a schoolmaster! The situation does not call for a note from home.”
“Ease your mind, Mrs. Putnam.” Allison laid his hand over hers. “I have written many such letters; I will know how to phrase it.”
“Give my very affectionate greetings to Amy.”
“I will do so, and I thank you. I will look in on our captain again tomorrow.”
3
Highly Important from Texas
It had been many years since Bliven had been home for the entirety of the apple season, from late summer as they swelled on their branches, to early fall as they began to turn, and then daily sampling to determine the right moment to begin the harvest. Then there was the matter of hiring pickers; in previous years they could depend on Beecher’s tribe of children, who were happy to work for a wage, but since their departure Fred Meriden had cultivated his own source of seasonal labor.
It was not an easy summer for Bliven. The swamp fever retained its grip on him through the hot weather, one of the fiercest sieges of dry heat that anyone could remember—enough to make him fear for the apples hanging in the orchard. When the heat finally broke with sweeps of cool rain, the apples seemed to race to catch up. Their flavor was not as affected as he feared they would be, but as any winemaker could testify, not every year produced a fine vintage.
For Bliven himself, Dr. Allison and his quinine water did their office; the malarial fever abated by degrees, until by harvest time he was keen to begin rebuilding his strength. The harvest provided equal measures of growing effort: first by observing the pickers at their work and occasionally scolding one who he saw pick up some windfalls and toss them into the basket. Nothing would ruin cider faster than using apples from the ground after the fruit wasps had gotten to them. Bliven found himself enjoying washing the apples and, when he felt up to it, taking a turn grinding them into the pomace and ultimately operating the great screw press. Newspapermen, he thought, believe they have such a physical job at their printing presses; let them try their hand at this for a while.
By the time the first succession of frosts had silenced the fields, he was himself again. Since the death of his mother, they had converted his parents’ former bedroom into a library, paneled in the finest walnut and supplied, as they had long intended, with the best books from old Marsh’s library. Clarity’s mother had lasted doggedly into an extended dotage, emerging from her seclusion on enough occasions to retain her position as one of Litchfield’s last connections to its earlier days, the last Marsh who could recall much of the revolutionary days and the town’s rise to social and cultural prominence. As those days receded, both of the town’s former bulwarks of education, the Pierce sisters and their female academy, and Mr. Justice Reeve’s celebrated law school, passed from the scene the previous year. Sarah Pierce was now nearing seventy and retired from public life with a sense of accomplishment, and a long roster of women who knew very well that they were among the best educated of their sex in the nation. Old Tapping Reeve passed away soon after their return from the Sandwich Islands, and the law school was kept going by his associate Mr. Gould for another decade. Clarity judged that Reeve had left a far more mixed legacy than the Pierce sisters: two of his graduates, John Calhoun and Aaron Burr, who was also his brother-in-law, she regarded as scoundrels of such ability that they could damage the fabric of the Republic itself. On the other hand, Reeve had set the engine in motion to free the slaves in New England by taking on the cause of “Mum Bett” Freeman of Massachusetts. Even as the revolution was at its most fierce, he won his case by cleverly and successfully citing the words of that rebellious state’s daring constitution, that “all men are created free and equal.” Sometimes when you stage a revolution, Clarity realized, people will hold you to your rhetoric, and either you acquiesce or you become known as a hypocrite. Then, too, it was old Reeve who had convinced Reverend Beecher to relocate from Long Island to Litchfield. Although she was acquainted with him only through Beecher, she judged his life sufficiently meritorious that when he died at an advanced age back in 1823, she and Bliven attended his funeral respectfully in the rear rank of mourners.
