Quarantine: A Novel (20 page)

tableaux, while from outside came the sound of metal implements

turning the garden soil. When Marie moved again he felt a barely perceptible lifting against his fingers. He kept perfectly still. He was both frightened and elated. Her breathing became audible and her hand became painfully tight about his arm. She let out a groan so suddenly that it startled him, and then a series of small, restrained convulsions overtook her entire body. She gasped for breath now, and finally she released a protracted moan, a sound that seemed to emerge from the depths of her being, painful but also liberating. She then relaxed, settling back into the feather bed, the tension going out of her completely.

When she let go of his arm, he removed his hand. Her moist

scent was on his fingers, cooling in the air.

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He cleared his throat. Turning toward her, he saw that her

face was flushed.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I am overworked, and I—”

“Merci,”
she whispered. “I am much better, Doctor.”

He stood up and placed the chair in the corner. His legs were

shaking.

“Please to come back again,” she said.

“If that is your desire.”

She nodded her head as she closed her eyes.
“Oui.”

R

Samuel entered the garden, causing Miranda to look up from the

rose bush she had been pruning. He walked with an awkward

urgency and said something in French which she didn’t under-

stand, but it wasn’t necessary. He gazed down at Cedella, who

was pulling up weeds.

When Giles came into the yard, Samuel wandered off toward

the apple orchard, whistling “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

“You have discovered the problem?” Miranda said, snipping

a thorny vine.

“I think so. It isn’t anything serious.”

“And you’ve administered the cure?”

“Hardly,” Giles said, and then he coughed into his fist. He

sounded chagrined, distracted. Miranda sat back on her haunches

and looked up at him. “But for the moment she’s comfortable,”

he said, “and I think she should sleep now. Perhaps for dinner, no meat. Some fish, if possible.” The way he gazed about the garden he might have been looking for a place to hide. Perspiration glistened on his forehead.

“Doctor, you look . . . exhausted. Are
you
all right?”

After clearing his throat again, he said, “I must return to the

pest-house.” It was more of an announcement, as though the rows

of flowers and the maids tending to them awaited his decision.

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j o h n s m o l e n s

Miranda wanted to smile: so many flowers and so much femi-

ninity renders a man powerless, spent. “I trust you’ll look in on our patient again?” she asked.

“If need be. And I will bring my medicine bag.”

“Very well.” Miranda dropped her pruning shears in the

pocket of her gardening apron and peeled off her gloves. “And

don’t worry about the boy. We’ll put him to work. He looks like

he has a strong back.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“These are difficult days in Newburyport,” she said. “It’s the

least we can do for one who has been visited by such misfortune.”

She started across the yard. “Now, I’ll talk to the cooks about

fish for dinner, and perhaps you’ll pay a visit to your dear, aging mother again soon?” She didn’t wait for a reply.

156

Sixteen

Roger Davenport sat, as usual, on his stool just inside

the doorway at Wolfe Tavern. “I’m to inform you two kind sirs

that you are expected upstairs.”

“Thank you, Roger,” Dr. Bradshaw said, and he led Giles

through the tavern. The low-beamed room wasn’t as crowded

as it ordinarily would be on an early summer evening. The men

who were standing along the bar and seated at tables and in booths all regarded the two doctors with expressions that were wary at

best, fearful at worst. They were merchants and farmers mostly,

men who had known Bradshaw and Giles their entire lives. Some

nodded cordially, but they all shared a reluctance to venture

beyond a formal greeting. These were, after all, doctors, and too often the clergy in Newburyport had railed from their pulpits

about the unholy contrivances of such men: scientists tampered

with fate; they conspired to thwart God’s hand. And yet there

was in the eyes of some of the men a look of guilt because many

of them would, if so induced, confess that there had been occa-

sions when they had sought the services of one of these doctors, 157

j o h n s m o l e n s

when a baby was suffering from the ague, or a pregnant wife was

feeling poorly.

Bradshaw and Giles climbed the creaking, winding stairs to the

second floor and entered the first room off the narrow hallway.

The man seated at a scarred oak table was about sixty years old, with an enormous white beard and eyes that were a piercing china blue. He was dressed as though to attend Sunday meeting—black

frock coat, white shirt, waistcoat of a rather elegant gray, and a broad-brimmed felt hat. One hand held the bowl of a long-stemmed pipe, the other a glass of rum. There was on the table

a decanter of rum and two tumblers. He did not offer his hand,

but proceeded to pour rum into both glasses.

As they sat down across from him, Bradshaw glanced at

Giles, his expression confirming that he too did not recognize

the man.

“Gentlemen,” the man said as he placed a glass in front of each

of them, his voice soft yet direct. “My name is Uriah Clapp and I have been asked to represent a certain party which, for reasons of privacy and decorum, wishes to remain anonymous.”

“You’re not from Newburyport, Mr. Clapp,” Bradshaw said.

“No, Doctor, at the behest of my clients I traveled up from

Boston.”

Giles said, “And little trouble getting through the guards sta-

tioned out on the turnpike.”

“They wanted to turn me away,” Mr. Clapp said, smiling

around the stem of his pipe, “but I managed to persuade them

with the import of my mission.”

Giles began to pick up his tumbler, but then reconsidered.

Clapp watched his hand as he put the glass back on the table and pushed it toward the decanter. “You represent thieves,” Giles said.

Next to him Bradshaw shifted, causing his chair joints to creak.

“And local thieves, at that,” Giles insisted. “Men who don’t have the nerve to meet us face to face. Men who will let their own

neighbors suffer and die until they make their profit.”

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“Giles,” Bradshaw said. “We’ve come to hear this man’s

proposal.”

“No,” Giles said. “They bring in this, this
Boston
man and they expect us to sit and drink with him in a civil fashion as though we were discussing the going price of fluke and flounder. I say we should take Mr. Clapp straight to the high sheriff’s office. Or perhaps it might be more appropriate to simply drag him downstairs and introduce him to the men drinking in the bar—Newburyporters whose

families are frightened, whose friends, relatives, and neighbors have already been carted off to the pest-house, whose businesses and

farms have suffered greatly from the ravages of this epidemic. I say we tell them why this Mr. Uriah Clapp has traveled all the way up the turnpike from Boston and see what they want to do with him.”

Giles leaned forward and gazed directly into the man’s eyes, which showed no sign of retreat. “You know, there was a time when I

saw a man tarred and feathered, right out there in State Street. He was marched down to the river, placed in a skiff, and set adrift on the outgoing tide—without any oars. He was a Tory and his crime

was remaining loyal to King George. Your crime, I suggest, sir,

and that of your ‘clients,’ would be perceived to be a worse form of treason.” In disgust, Giles got up from his chair and went to the window, where he could look out at State Street. It was, ironically, a gorgeous evening, and the last light of day was spreading deep pink and lavender hues in the eastern sky.

“Dr. Bradshaw,” Mr. Clapp said, his voice calm and perhaps

even slightly amused, “your young associate’s eloquence is equal to his passion, but you and I both understand our purpose here.

I make no judgment upon the causes or circumstances that have

brought us together, and, indeed, you and your kind townfolk

have my deepest sympathies. I am merely a representative, whose

intention is to facilitate an arrangement that will help you resolve your difficulties with this terrible scourge.”

Dr. Bradshaw cleared his throat. “I share Dr. Wiggins’s pas-

sion, believe me, though not such eloquence. So I’ll put it to you 159

j o h n s m o l e n s

simply. We need to know what you have to offer, and what you’re

asking as compensation. And how quickly we can complete this

transaction.”

Giles regretted that Bradshaw had raised the issue of time—a

sense of urgency did not strengthen their suit.

Mr. Clapp reached inside his frock coat and withdrew a sheet

of paper, which he unfolded and placed on the table. Eli Bradshaw opened his reading spectacles and fitted them on his nose. Giles was curious to see what was written on the paper, but remained

at the window.

“You can provide all this, in these quantities?” Bradshaw

asked. “Including quinine?”

“Yes,” Clapp said.

“How much?” Giles asked.

Clapp ignored him. He reached across the table and tapped the

bottom of the sheet of paper. His fingernails were so long they

curled down over the ends of his fingers like talons.

Bradshaw exhaled slowly. “This is a . . . a very substantial

figure.”

“You’ll agree, Doctor,” Clapp said, “that under the circum-

stances it is fair?”

Dr. Bradshaw removed his reading spectacles and took his time

tucking them away in the outside pocket of his coat. “It may take some time to raise this much. Perhaps we could purchase a portion of your supply tonight, and—”

“Doctor,” Mr. Clapp said as he picked up his glass of rum. “This fever is threatening ports up and down the Atlantic seaboard. As you well know, it’s been doing so with increased frequency in recent years. There is speculation that such epidemics will only become more common, more fearsome in the future. Why, no one knows.

I assure you that these supplies will be used to ease the suffering of those most in need. It’s simply a question of where.”

Giles came back to the table now. “You’re saying we haven’t

much time.”

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“I’m saying that these supplies will be delivered to the party

that demonstrates its sincerity in the most expeditious manner.”

Clapp drank down his rum, placed the glass on the table, and got to his feet. “I have been instructed to tell you that an answer is required by tomorrow night. Therefore, I’ll return here, at nine o’clock, and if you are so disposed will be glad to complete this transaction.”

“And we can get these supplies right then?” Bradshaw asked.

“Arrangements will be made to ensure everyone’s satisfac-

tion.” As Mr. Clapp moved toward the door, he used a cane and

favored one leg.

Now Dr. Bradshaw stood up, his long face flushed with anger,

the legs of his chair scraping loudly on the wide pine floorboards.

“And what about the people who suffer, Mr. Clapp, the people

who will die between now and then?”

The elderly man paused in the doorway but did not look back

at either of them. “They will, of course, be in my prayers.” As he stepped out into the hallway, he said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

R

The first day at the Sumner house, Leander was shown both ends

of the business. He spent the morning shoveling manure, cleaning it out of the horse stalls, and carting it to a pit at the back of the garden, where it was mixed with the kitchen garbage for fertil-izer. In the afternoon he rode in a wagon with the other stable

boys out to the marshes to gather salt hay. By evening, he was

sunburned and his muscles ached. But he was able to wash at the

cistern behind the stable and don a clean shirt and pair of britches that had been issued by the stablemaster, Mr. Penrose. Leander

was also assigned a cot on the third floor of the service quarters, which was stifling hot beneath the roof eaves.

Downstairs in the common room he sat at the long table while

maids ladled out a thick stew of chicken, potatoes, carrots, onions, 161

j o h n s m o l e n s

and parsnips. Over two dozen men and boys ate hastily—gar-

deners and stable grooms, and several uniformed men who

were treated with deference and referred to as sentries. No one

acknowledged Leander as they ate, concentrating on their bowls,

which they wiped clean with torn chunks of black bread. The

maids moved around the table, refilling bowls, and Leander tried not to give away the fact that he couldn’t take his eyes off the girl they all called Cedella. He wasn’t the only one.

After dinner the hands scattered, some sitting outside to

smoke and play cards. Leander walked the grounds, which

included a vast garden, a fish pond, several outbuildings, a grape arbor, and an apple orchard. The air was still, the heat unbear-able. At this hour of a summer evening, he would often take his

sister Sarah down to Joppa Flats so they could sit outside Papi’s clam shack as the sun set. It was always cooler by the river. Their grandfather usually had licorice hidden in his pockets, and Sarah would search him with glee until she found the sweet treasure.

After sunset it was Sarah who led her brother home through the