Quarantine: A Novel (18 page)

Leander walking up High Street, holding the hand of a young girl.

“We are going to the pest-house,” Leander said, “to see if we

can locate her family. And my father, he did not return home last night. I’ve been searching for him all day.”

Giles looked at the girl, who would not return his stare. “What

is your name?”

It was as though he had not spoken.

“She says nothing,” Leander said. “Some boys—they fright-

ened her.”

“I see,” Giles said. “Well, let’s get ourselves to the pest-house.”

They walked down High Street and found that hundreds of

people were gathered around the pond at the Mall. They stood

in clusters, staring toward smoke rising above the pest-house. A crowd—larger than the day before—was gathered just outside

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the gates, and Reverend Cary was again going on about the sins

of the afflicted. But today he was not alone on his small wooden stage. Dr. Wilberforce Strong was next to him, his hands clasped over his girth, nodding agreement to everything the reverend

shouted at his audience.

A woman came away from the crowd and approached the

girl standing between Giles and Leander. “Louisa?” the woman

gasped, as she squatted down in front of the girl. “Louisa, we

thought you were in there with your family. You’ve been saved.”

She stood up and turned toward Reverend Cary. “Look, she’s

been
saved!”

The crowd cheered and applauded, and the reverend raised

his arms to the sky.
“Let us give thanks!”
he shouted. He fell to his knees, as did the crowd, and they began to pray. The

woman took Louisa by the hand—looking scornfully at Giles

and Leander—and led the girl toward the stage. Though the girl

looked over her shoulder, the woman drew her on, until they

were absorbed into the crowd. As they got to their feet, they

began to sing a hymn, and there were women in the crowd who

were weeping with joy.

Giles touched Leander on the upper arm and they approached

the pest-house gate.

“You can’t come in,” he said to the boy. “I will inquire about

your father. You go on home and I’ll let you know if we have any word of him.” Leander looked toward the pest-house, uncertain.

“Go on now,” Giles said. “Go on home.”

Reluctantly, Leander started back across the Mall toward High

Street. Giles went to the gate, which one of the guards opened,

and as he was admitted inside the pest-house, the hymn ended.

And then Dr. Strong bellowed, “Yes, Giles Wiggins,
go
to them! Give
alms
to the
sinners!
Offer them
false
sal
va
tion!”

Giles paused and looked back across the top of the wooden

gate. He recognized many of the people in the crowd; they were

tradesmen and shopkeeps, and many of the women had often

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greeted him on the streets or from their yards as they hung laundry or tended their gardens. In the past they had sought his assistance, urged him to come into their homes and care for someone in the

family who was injured or ill, but now their faces seemed trans-

formed by a self-righteous hostility.

138

Fourteen

While a great feast was being served in the dining room,

Miranda and Samuel slipped down the back stairs and into the

courtyard. Music—a fiddle, a cello, and the harpsichord—poured

from the open windows of the house. Miranda didn’t know how

many times she’d insisted that her harpsichord not be touched, but tonight she was too distressed by the heat to confront the revelers.

“Fewer people are attending these festivities,” Samuel said.

“And what’s his response? More sumptuous meals, more

extravagant occasions.”

“Demented and defiant,” Samuel said, taking her arm. “As

though there were no epidemic.”

“Imagine the cost of tonight’s festivities.” She pulled her arm

free from his grasp and left the courtyard, walking out into the vast garden that ran off beyond the stable. The full moon cast a milky blue light on the path. “If it keeps up, he will spend everything.

His guests think your father’s wealth is limitless. And well they should, the way he carries on. But I have seen the counting-house books. He has substantial debts, and now, with this quarantine,

the shipyard’s closed and the cargo he has sitting at anchor cannot 141

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be off-loaded. Other than what slips ashore by stealth—French

‘royalty,’ I’m sure! And stallions from Mr. Jefferson!”

Samuel was trying to keep up. He was breathing heavily as

he stumbled behind her; branches that she easily pushed aside

swung back in the path, striking him full force in the face. When she sat on the small marble bench by the fish pond, he collapsed beside her, winded. He unfurled a handkerchief and mopped his

face and neck.

“If you were a real man, you would challenge your father’s

aberrant behavior.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Something traditional and honorable would be appropriate.

Perhaps umbrage taken at some small insult, leading to a duel.”

“A
duel?
With my own
father?”

“Why not? Does he not challenge your honor daily?”

“Well, yes, but a duel—to the
death?
With
what?”

“If I were a man, the rapier would be my choice. It’s digni-

fied, and it has great tradition. Though it would require fitness and finesse.” Samuel was silent. “But you do have some experience with firearms, my dear, so I expect pistols would have to do.

Besides, your father is a terrible shot, thanks to a near perpetual state of inebriation.”

Samuel folded up his handkerchief and tucked it away inside

his frock coat. “So you would like me to challenge Father to a

duel, at dawn.”

“His sorry condition at dawn would be your best insurance.”

“It would be simpler if he contracted this damned fever.”

“In this house, where every surface is scrubbed?” Miranda

asked. “I doubt it. This is High Street, not some waterfront hovel.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Samuel said meekly.

Laughter came across the garden, and they saw in the moon-

light a woman running through the apple orchard, chased by a

man. The couple disappeared in the grape arbor, amid the rustling of bushes.

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“This wanton behavior, it’s detestable.” Samuel looked as

though he was preparing himself for another scolding. “At your

age,” she said, “a certain deviance is natural. Your father should have gotten over the need for such diversions long ago. But no,

and the result is that our family is in jeopardy.” She glanced at Samuel, who was clearly relieved that her wrath wasn’t directed

at him. “One has to learn to view a situation objectively, Samuel.

Even when it comes to members of one’s own family—indeed, it’s

all the more important when it comes to that, to the survival of family. That man is a threat. He’s willing to squander everything for the sake of his petty bacchanalian pleasures.”

Samuel nodded in whole-hearted agreement.

“Don’t deceive yourself—you’re very much your father’s son.

You’re headed down the same path, which will only lead to your

own demise and familial oblivion. Do you understand me?”

Again, he nodded, though this time with grave intent. “I’m

the future,” he said.

She patted his hand, but only briefly. “I’m afraid you’re all

we’ve got.”

They sat together in silence for some time, until Miranda

stood up and began walking back toward the house. “The ideal

situation would be if your father were the one to insist on a duel.

And for that, we would need . . . we need a cause. An incident.

Something that he simply could not tolerate.”

“What could that be?” Samuel asked.

There was another giggle from the grape arbor.

Miranda gathered up her skirts and walked more vigorously

toward the house. “Oh, I suppose something like a duel is out of the question, or maybe I should say out of character—meaning

that it’s not a viable solution to men who possess none.”

“None what?”

“Character, dear. Character.”

R

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Leander was walking down Fruit Street when he first noticed a

column of smoke angling into the evening sky. After a moment

he began to realize its source, and he started to run. Turning

the corner into Orange Street, he found several of the constables trying to control a crowd that had gathered to watch as flames

engulfed his house. There was no effort to douse the flames—it

was too far gone—but neighbors had formed lines where buckets

were passed so that water could be thrown on the houses nearby,

in an effort to keep the fire from spreading.

Within an hour, the fire leveled the house. At one point

Leander saw a flock of chimney swifts, small birds that tended to dart about in the last light of day, burst into flames as they glided high above the burning house. Dozens streaked across the sky,

their flapping wings aglow, as they descended in an arc toward

the ground. When the post and beam structure collapsed in on

itself, there were gasps from neighbors, while children applauded with delight. Finally, once there was nothing left but a smoking pile of charred timbers around a brick chimney, the crowd began

to disperse. Some looked at Leander with wary, accusing eyes, as though he were somehow responsible for the fire. No one offered

him assistance.

Then Mr. Poole and several more constables arrived on

horseback. They searched through the rubble, putting out the

last f lames with leather buckets of water. There was suddenly

great confusion, several of the men talking and yelling to one

another. Leander wanted to approach the house, but one of

the constables held him by the arm, almost as though he were

a prisoner. Repeatedly, he would say things like, “You don’t

wants to be goin’ in there, boy,” and “Easy, there’s nothing to

be done now.”

But there was something about the fire that had caught the

constables by surprise, and for a long time they huddled about Mr.

Poole, until he finally walked over to Leander, looking solemn

and grim.

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“I’ve got bad news, son,” he said, taking Leander by the arm

and walking him farther away from the house. Two of the con-

stables were right behind them. “I understand you’ve been looking for your father all day.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Poole stopped and looked back toward the house. “I’m

afraid he was in there.”

Leander took a step toward the house, but the constables caught

him by both arms.

“No use,” Mr. Poole said. “He’s gone.”

“You can’t hardly recognize him,” one of the constables said.

“The smoke, it must have overtaken him, and he just couldn’t

get out in time.”

After this various men talked to Leander. They tended to hold

him by an arm. At one point he was offered a drink of water.

Suddenly he became nauseous and so dizzy that he sat down on

the ground.

When his father’s body was carried out of the smoldering

house, it was placed in a wagon. Leander got to his feet. The body was small and black, and it gave off a powerful charred smell.

There were teeth visible in the skull. After a moment, Leander

backed away. No one touched him now. They just stared at him.

“He gave me instructions,” he said. “Before he left the house

he said I was to stay and tend to the fire. But he didn’t return. I waited, but he didn’t return. So in the morning I went looking

for him, only to find him . . . here.”

Mr. Poole stepped toward him.

“How did this fire start?” Leander was hoarse from all the

smoke. “Tell me that!”

“Newburyport is built of wood, son. You know how often

we have fires.”

“But the ashes in the fireplace, they were cold when I left the

house.”

“It only takes one ember sometimes.”

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“I’m certain they were cold. I stirred them to be sure.”

Mr. Poole himself seemed at a loss, until he said, “Because

of this fever, many houses are being smoked. Whether it really

wards off the fever, I can’t say. It could have been an ember, just a single ember come adrift in the air. Lord, there’s no reason to this—to
any
of this. I wish I could tell you otherwise, Leander.”

Cautiously, he took another step closer. “But I can assure you of one thing. We will find you a place to stay.”

Leander shook his head.

“You don’t have to be all on your own,” Mr. Poole said.

The constable reached out and took hold of Leander by the

shoulder, a kindly gesture. Leander shrugged the hand off and

backed away. “Just leave me be.”

When Mr. Poole stepped closer this time, it was as though he

were approaching a wary animal.

Leander shouted,
“No!”

He sprinted down Orange Street and ran all the way to

Joppa Flats, where he let himself into his grandfather’s house.

He sank into the rocking chair by the window and stared out

at the Merrimack, its dark currents running swiftly down to

the sea.

R

Toward midnight, Giles found Dr. Bradshaw in his tent, hunched