Quarantine: A Novel (13 page)

medicine bag on the nightstand; Marie’s nightgown had been

untied at the neck. He opened the locket; inside was a tiny portrait of a man in a long wig.

“It’s
him,”
Samuel whispered. “King Louis.”

“It’s a man in a wig.”

“She’s his daughter. She as much as admitted it to me.”

“When?”

“In St. Barts.”

“Before the
Miranda
set sail for Newburyport?”

“Yes.”

“And you offered to help her get to America?”

Samuel straightened, affronted. “It was the noble course.”

“I’m sure.” Giles closed the locket and fastened the chain about Marie’s slender throat; then he tied up her nightgown. “Go on.

Get out of here, and don’t bother her.”

Samuel hurried to the door, glaring at his uncle as he let him-

self out into the hall.

97

Ten

Leander was awakened by a pounding noise. But then it

stopped. He listened for a moment but heard nothing unusual.

Perhaps he had been dreaming.

Then the pounding came again, this time accompanied by a

weak, desperate voice.

He got up out of bed and went to the small front window.

Across the street, Mr. Sears stood outside his own door, knocking with his fist. He was wearing a nightshirt and cap, and he cried out in a hoarse voice, “Please, Miriam, let me in!”

Mrs. Sears’s voice came from within the house. Leander

couldn’t understand what she was saying, but it was clear she

was refusing her husband’s request. Mr. Sears lifted his arm and slammed his fist against the door again, and when there was no

reply, he turned and staggered out into the street. The front of his nightshirt was stained black. He fell to his knees and collapsed on his side.

Leander could hear his father stirring downstairs, so he dressed quickly and climbed down the ladder. His father had already

opened the front door. “What is it?” Leander asked.

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“Must have the fever, and Miriam has put him out for fear that

he’ll pass it on to the children.” His father walked out into the street and leaned over Mr. Sears. “John, you have been ill in the night?” Mr. Sears did not move but groaned helplessly. Even from the doorway, Leander recognized the smell. He could see that the stain on the man’s nightshirt was vomit. “All right, John, you stay put,” his father said. “We’ll get you up to the pest-house.” Turning toward the house, he said, “Bring round the wheelbarrow.”

Leander rushed into the dooryard and got the wheelbarrow,

which was standing up against the side of the outhouse. He

brought it around to the street and helped his father get Mr.

Sears up off the ground. Carefully, they sat him in the wooden

box—the effort seemed to take the last of the man’s strength, and he groaned constantly and complained of burning skin—and his

father began rolling the wheelbarrow down Orange Street. Up

ahead, Mrs. Ludlow was beating a rug on her front stoop. When

she saw them coming, she stepped back inside and slammed the

door shut.

As they turned up Fruit Street, his father said, “You walk in

front of us.”

“In front?”

“Something wrong with your ears?” His father’s voice was

impatient, and he was sweating heavily from the effort of carrying Mr. Sears, who easily weighed over two hundred pounds. “I don’t

want you to pass through his air.”

They didn’t speak again as they rattled along High Street

toward the Mall. When the smoke above the pest-house came

into sight, they could hear voices—a large group of people stood outside the gates, singing “My Soul Doth Magnify the Lord.” By

the time the last verse was finished, Leander and his father reached the Mall. Reverend Cary, a stout man with thick side-whiskers,

stood on a crate addressing the crowd. He pointed at Leander’s

father and bellowed, “Come
noooo
closer with thy burden!”

His father stopped and put the wheelbarrow down.

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j o h n s m o l e n s

“There!”
the reverend shouted at the crowd.
“There
comes an
other
sinner! Bear
witness,
my children, this is a reckoning, a long,
long
overdue reckoning. Oh, Satan, he hath
spoken,
and there lies John Sears, laid
pros
trate by his ways because he,
he
hath turned his back on the Lord! You
see
his guilt! You
see
his shame!

You
see—”

Leander’s father picked up the wheelbarrow by its handles and

proceeded toward the gate. Fearfully, the crowd parted for him.

“Halt!”
Reverend Cary cried. “I say bring this sinner
noooo
closer!”

Leander’s father stopped when he reached the gate, where he

again set the wheelbarrow down. Two guards opened the gate.

They helped Mr. Sears to his feet and walked him toward the row

of tents. There was a great deal of activity there, people coming and going, carrying pails and pulling carts piled with bundles

of linen. And there were agonized voices—coughing, crying,

groaning, pleas for help. Leander’s father turned the wheelbarrow around and began to push his way back through the crowd.

Leander remained at the gate, staring in at the tents.

“Come, Leander,” his father said.

“But Mother and Sarah—”

“Don’t make me say it again, son.”

Slowly, Leander turned and followed his father, and as they

crossed the Mall toward the Frog Pond, the Reverend Cary con-

tinued to shout imprecations at them.

When Leander began to look over his shoulder, his father said,

“Don’t, you hear me? Don’t even look back.”

R

By the evening of the second day, over sixty people had been

admitted to the pest-house. More tents had been raised and

the grass between them was becoming trodden. Giles was with

Sarah when the girl’s convulsions finally ceased. Amanda looked

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q u a r a n t i n e

on from her cot, half delirious herself, speechless as he carefully wrapped the child in her linens. He carried her out to one of the carts and laid her with three other corpses that were destined for the pit.

He returned to the tent and sat on a stool next to Amanda’s

cot. Pink tears streaked the sides of her face, but she looked more alert than only a few minutes earlier.

“I’m ashamed,” she whispered.

“You needn’t be,” he said.

“But I am, because I’m feeling much better.” She opened her

eyes and stared up at him. “Do you suppose I could have some-

thing to eat?” She turned her head away. “I’m so ashamed.”

He took her hand, which was warm and dry now, but he

couldn’t speak so he only nodded his head. Then he got up and

went out of the tent.

Dr. Bradshaw was standing by the cart, which now contained a

fourth body, wrapped in linen. “Tell them,” he said to the driver,

“to make the pit bigger—make it bigger and deeper—and then

go to my house. My wife has been organizing the gathering of

linen from around town. Bring back what you can.”

The driver took the reins and walked ahead of the mule toward

the gate.

“At least the Reverend Cary and most of his crowd are gone

home for their evening supper,” Dr. Bradshaw said.

“The peace and quiet is welcomed,” Giles said.

They walked down the row of tents and entered the one that

had been established as their office. Dr. Bradshaw unbuttoned his stiff waxed coat and sat at the desk, which was two pine boards

laid across sawhorses. He opened a flask and poured two drams

of whiskey.

“That’s eleven today.” He took up the quill pen, dipped it in

the ink well, and began writing in his ledger.

“Amanda Hatch has requested food,” Giles said, picking up

his glass. He went to the front of the tent and stared out through 101

j o h n s m o l e n s

the open flap. He could see the cart moving up the hill into the cemetery. “I doubt she’ll make it through the night.” He tossed

back his whiskey. “When I was in the Caribbean during the war,

I saw this response sometimes. It’s so strange how a person will be violently sick, and then suddenly the fever lifts—the pain is gone, their appetite returns, and then. . . .”

“It’s rarely a good sign.” Dr. Bradshaw continued to scratch

away at the ledger. “You saw plenty of this, during the war?”

“Yes.”

“I did, too, though I was in Florida and New Orleans. You

had a bout of it?”

Giles lowered the tent flap. “Yes.”

“We’re immune perhaps, though I’ve seen instances where

someone is stricken a second time and dies. These fevers, they’re not all the same. When I had my bout, I wanted to die.” Bradshaw laid down his quill, took a pinch of sand from the dish, and sprinkled it on the ledger pages. “This is only the beginning. I spoke to the high sheriff today. We must take measures regarding sanitation.

Throughout the town there is much foul water, standing water. And the disposal of dead animals, they are often left to rot. The live ones, too. Pigs, cows, chickens—they roam at will in many neighborhoods. There are regulations, and Thomas Poole needs to enforce

them. And I sent word to Dr. Strong, begging his assistance.”

Giles came back and sat in the chair on the other side of the

desk. “He won’t come.”

“I know.” Dr. Bradshaw shook his head. “I’ll tell you who

will: the black folk from the Caribbean. Two more came into

the camp today to help. They’ve seen this—they understand what

we’re up against.”

“I saw them assisting in the tent with the men.”

“Mrs. Heath, one of the women working in the laundry,

questioned their presence, and I told her that we needed their

assistance. But I’ll wager she’ll be gone by morning. The Negroes, they will stay, and they’ll get little thanks for it.”

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“Reverend Cary’s congregation outside the gates—you know

what they’ll say about it.”

“Yes, I know.” Dr. Bradshaw leaned over the desk and blew

the sand off the page, and then closed the ledger. “Now, shall we attend to Amanda Hatch?”

Giles put his glass on the desk. “Not another bleeding.”

Bradshaw looked sternly at Giles, as though he were a school-

master preparing to reprimand a pupil. “You don’t believe in this method, but I maintain it’s the only way to bring about equilib-rium in the humors. If I am right—and I believe there is strong

evidence that I am—”

“I know, but think about it, Doctor. Impurities released from

the earth—in faraway places such as a volcano in Sicily? Can this really be the cause of these epidemics that have struck American cities?”

“You must understand, Giles, the earth’s atmosphere is a com-

plex thing. If I am right,” Dr. Bradshaw said forcefully, “if Noah Webster is right, then you had best become expert with the lancet, for you will be obliged to employ the instrument often.”

“I suspect that the cause of this fever is closer than Italy,” Giles said. “And I submit—respectfully—that when it comes to medicine, Mr. Webster is not the final, authoritative word.”

“So be it. But as I am the chief practicing physician here,” Dr.

Bradshaw said, “it is my determination that Mrs. Hatch will be

bled.”

“Of course, Doctor.” Giles got to his feet. “And if that’s

the case, would you have any objection to my performing the

procedure?”

“No.” Dr. Bradshaw studied him for a long moment. “You

need the practice.”

Giles bowed slightly and went to the front of the tent, but

paused before ducking out through the flap. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“What have you got against Noah Webster?” Bradshaw asked.

“He’s one of the finest minds in America.”

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“I have no doubt of that,” Giles said. “I only wish he would

apply that mind to other endeavors—defining words, for instance.

Dictionaries.”

This drew the faintest smile from Dr. Bradshaw. “It is a pity

that we live in a time when a man with such broad curiosity, such Renaissance sensibilities, can go so unappreciated.”

“Certainly that is the case, Doctor, and that it is a crucial

failure on my part.”

Giles stepped outside the tent, into the cooler evening air,

which was filled with voices, pleading voices rising from the tents.

R

That evening Leander and his father boarded up the windows.

It was being done throughout the neighborhood. The sound

of hammers and saws echoed through the streets. His father

cut the pine boards, which Leander fastened to the window

frames with square-head nails. He had been cautioned against

using too many nails. Nails were precious things and his father

always treated them like money. He went through each board

without pausing, his strokes long and even, the pitch of the

blade rising as he neared the end of the cut. There was music to the sawing, rhythm to the hammering, and they barely spoke

as they worked.

It was nearly dark when they put away the ladder and tools.

They went into the house and heated a barley soup his mother had made. His father hung a pot of water and vinegar over the fire,

and then adjusted the chimney damper so that the room began

to fill with smoke.

“I’ve heard say that this will help ward off the fever,” he said, sitting at the table.

“The smoke,” Leander said, “it stings my eyes.”

“I know.” His father would not look up from his soup bowl.

“There’s another precaution I’ve taken. The rifle, it’s loaded with 104