Quarantine: A Novel (33 page)

very dark. “Darling,” she said quietly. There was no response. She peered toward the daybed but could not see clearly. Then she heard a sound—a whimper. “Enoch?” she whispered. Her son sniffed loudly.

Miranda approached the daybed. Her eyes were adjusting to

the dark and she could now see him, lying on his back and holding something on his chest—it was Bowsprit, its plump, motionless

body wrapped in a tablecloth. “Really, Enoch,” Miranda said.

“We must remove that dog before he starts to smell—” She paused

when she saw that there was something in Enoch’s hand, which

glinted faintly in the near dark. “Would that be a pistol?”

Enoch moved his arm, aiming the weapon at her. “I suppose

it would be.” His voice was hoarse, deeply sorrowful. There was

movement at the door, but he said, “Cedella, you stay here and

pull that door shut.”

The girl did as she was told.

Enoch continued to sniffle, until Miranda said, “Oh, will you

stop
that.”

She went over to a window and drew back a curtain, admitting

a weak shaft of light. The thunder and lightning had passed, and the evening sky was filled with pink and lavender clouds.

“You’ve been trying to poison me,” he said. “Both you and

Samuel.”

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j o h n s m o l e n s

She looked at him, the pistol still aimed at her. “This is all

because of that dog.”

He was on the verge of tears. “That dog saved my life.”

“Such remorse over a dog, when people are dying of this dread

fever! Well, you can get another dog, if you want.”

“I don’t
want
another dog.”

“This is intolerable,” she said. “It’s beginning to stink in here.”

“All right,” Enoch said. “Come,” he said to Cedella, “take

Bowsprit and put him outside, somewhere safe until I can give

him a proper burial in the mausoleum.”

Reluctantly, Cedella came to the daybed, enfolded the dog in

the tablecloth, and held it against her chest like an infant as she left the room.

“I’ve sent word to Jonathan Bream that he’s to compose an

ode to him.”

“Fine,” Miranda said. “A few lines of verse would be most appro-

priate. In the meantime, put the gun down.”

Enoch regarded her for a long moment. He did not lower the

gun. “You thought you’d kill me so you would have my money?”

“Nonsense.” She cleared her throat. “But you must admit we

are headed for ruin.”

“Don’t you understand?” he pleaded. “It’s my son who will

impoverish me. How much has that wastrel lost over there in

Paris? Do you have any idea?”

“Enoch, you’re the one—it’s you who have put us in this posi-

tion.” She gestured toward his desk, which was strewn with paper.

“Just look at all these bills and letters from solicitors demanding collection of overdue funds.”

“They’re paid to hound me.”

“Thousands in arrears—thousands—and we only get deeper

every month. We are living well beyond our means here. You

know that.”

“These are my affairs,” he said.

“I’ll
not
die an old woman in the almshouse.”

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He laughed, though it immediately caused him some intes-

tinal distress, and he winced as he clutched his swollen stomach with his other hand. “Then I best shoot you now, before all the

money is gone.”

“Enoch, really. I do hope we might arrive at a more equitable

solution.”

“When one has slain another’s beloved hound, one relinquishes

the possibility of any equitable solutions. It becomes a time for decisive action.”

“Well, what do you have in mind?”

“Go,” he said impatiently as he pointed toward the door with

the barrel of the gun. “Go and fetch that son of mine.”

“You’re mistaken, dear. Your mother doesn’t fetch.” If any-

thing, Enoch looked more peevish as he again aimed the pistol in her general direction. He was a notoriously bad shot, but then he had shot that crow through the dining room window. “Besides,”

she said, “Samuel is not in the house.”

“Where is he?” Enoch asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“You seem concerned,” he said, studying her carefully, “genu-

inely concerned.”

“Do I? Then I suppose I am. The truth is I was told that Samuel

went down to Water Street hours ago.”

“Well, if he’s gone off whoring—”

“But now I’m not so sure.”

“Mother, you have suspicions? What are you not telling me?”

“I’m afraid I do not know. That’s what I’m telling you. I fancy

that I know everything, but now I’m not so sure.” She took a

couple of steps toward him. “Except like you, he tends to rush

into things and get in over his head.” She held out her hand. “Just give that to me before it goes off.”

“If I were going to pull the trigger,” he said, looking glum

and submissive as he handed the pistol to her, “I should have done so by now.”

263

Twenty-Five

The air was washed clean after the rain, and sunset cast

the river basin in pastels of pink and blue, an evening to dine on the deck of
The Golden Hand,
quarts of steamed clams, followed by haddock served on a bed of rice and beans spiced with onions and tomatoes. There had been a time when colonial ministers would

preach against the tomato, denouncing it as the Devil’s fruit, its lascivious seeded chambers to be avoided by the devout and God-fearing. Now the tomato plant grew in kitchen gardens all about

Newburyport. After dinner, Giles and Emanuel smoked dudeens,

while the children played a game of Hide and Seek, and below in

the galley Sameeka and Marie talked animatedly in French. There

was laughter and the sound of bare feet running on the deck, and Giles realized that for an hour it had been possible to forget the epidemic and the horrors of the pest-house.

“Father, look!” Francois shouted. Suddenly, the children

were silent and still as he pointed downriver. “The quarantine

ship!”

Giles stood up and gazed eastward. It was nearly dark; the calm

surface of the river had softened to pearl gray. “She’s drifting?”

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Emanuel, standing at the wheel, peered through his spyglass.

“They’ve raised anchor and are approaching the river mouth on

the falling tide.”

“What happened to the constable’s boats that were standing

guard?” Giles asked.

They scanned the river basin. The women came up on deck,

and Sameeka pointed toward Woodbridge Island and the marshes

inside of Plum Island. “Is that them?”

“Yes, I think so,” Emanuel said. “Two boats.”

“What are they doing there?” Sameeka asked. “Can you see

the men?”

“No, too dark now,” Emanuel said. He held the end of the

spyglass against the leather sheath covering his forearm and pushed it closed.

“Curious,” Giles said. “She shows no lights.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Giles. The medicine.”

“Right. Somehow they got the crates on board.”

“All right,” Emanuel said with a barely audible sigh. He sur-

veyed the ship’s deck and suddenly bellowed, “Make ready to

cast off!”

R

The Lunt family proved an efficient crew. Everyone had duties.

Halyards, sheets, and dock lines were handled in a precise sequence.

Emanuel Lunt stood at the helm delivering orders in a deep voice that carried easily across the deck, and soon
The Golden Hand
fell away from the wharf. Upon command, Leander helped Francois

raise the main, while Giles hauled up the jib. Once set, the sails flapped listlessly in the still air, but the tide carried the schooner downriver easily, the hull creaking as though relieved to at last be unfettered.

It was three miles across the river basin to the mouth of the

Merrimack, and halfway across they spoke the constable’s boats.

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There were eight men in the lead boat, and in the other there

were six who pulled weakly at the oars. One of them was leaning

over the gunwale, puking into the river.

“That you, Thomas Poole?” Emanuel Lunt called down to

the lead boat.

“Aye, it is, Emanuel,” the tillerman said.

“What happened?”

“Don’t know for sure,” Poole said. “Another boat came out

this afternoon and loaded food and supplies on board the ship, and when they were done they sent over some wine. The boredom,

y’know. We sit out here, watching this vessel night and day, and we become quite friendly with the crew—though we never once

went on board. So some of the boys drank a spot of wine,” he

said, nodding toward the other boat, “and all of a sudden like

everybody’s hurlin’ his guts over the side.”

“You say they loaded food and supplies,” Giles said. “Was it

in crates?”

“Mostly,” Poole said. “A lot of crates, and some barrels. We

joked that they was plannin’ a fair feast onboard there.”

“And who exactly brought these supplies out?” Giles asked.

Poole didn’t answer right away. When he spoke, his voice was

much chagrined. “That’s the thing of it, Doctor. We knew some

of them, of course. Constable’s men such as ourselves, but there were others—”

“Farmers?” Giles asked.

“Aye, a couple of Simon Moss’s boys from Newbury. Good

lads, them.”

“Any strangers?” Giles asked.

“Strangers?”

“Yes,” Giles said angrily. “You know what I’m saying.”

“Well, there were a gentleman, yes.”

“An old man?” Giles asked.

“Aye, they helped an old man aboard,” Poole said. “So, you’re

going out after them?”

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“We are,” Emanuel said. “You want to come along?”

“Indeed,” Poole said. “I’ll send them that’s sick ashore, and the rest of us will come aboard.”

R

Emanuel Lunt steered
The Golden Hand
through the river mouth despite the dark, holding a course south of the bar, which was

exposed now at slack tide. Once they were clear of Plum Island,

the sails filled with a light easterly breeze and the bow rose and fell through easy swells. The ocean horizon was black, unblemished.

They ran without any lights other than the small lantern on the

binnacle, which allowed Emanuel to hold a southeasterly course.

It was a guess. If the
Miranda
was carrying the crates taken from Simon Moss’s barn, Giles assumed they must be headed for Boston, where Uriah Clapp could sell the medicine for a substantial profit.

Giles stood on the quarterdeck peering ahead, looking for some

sign, some speck of light on the water. But it was a dark night, and the moon wouldn’t rise until early morning hours.

They held course past midnight. The dark presence of Cape

Ann could be seen perhaps a dozen miles to the west off the starboard rail. Emanuel had sent Francois and Leander aloft to the

crow’s nest, and every few minutes the boys reported that they

could still see nothing ahead.
The Golden Hand
was smaller and faster, and if Giles’s guess was correct, eventually they should be able to catch up to
Miranda.
Emanuel was more concerned that they might pass the ship in the dark without even knowing it.

R

Leander liked being up in the crow’s nest. The mast swung with

the roll of the swells; looking down, he could barely see the deck of the ship in the dark. Water breaking on the prow looked like

white lace.

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Some time after one o’clock, Francois straightened up. “What’s

that?”

Leander stared dead ahead: there was a pale, luminous wall

of light.

“Father,” Francois called down. He said something in French.

“Moon’s rising,” Emanuel said. “Shining through a fogbank.”

No one spoke for a while, until Francois said quietly, “Once

we’re in it we’ll have to hold our course southeast. Can’t turn

west for Boston till we’re clear of the fog. Don’t want to end up on some rocks in Nahant, do we?” He laughed, though it seemed

more out of nervousness.

When the schooner entered the fog, sounds were muffled, and

the air was cool and damp. Emanuel called Francois down to the

deck. Before climbing out on the ratlines, he asked Leander if he was getting chilled.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Strange. I’m freezing.”

Francois climbed down, disappearing into the fog. His father

issued a series of commands and Leander heard movement about

the deck. Soon there was the sound of rope running through

block and tackle, and he figured that the constable’s men were

hauling something up from the hold. This took considerable time, and the process repeated itself, accompanied by much grunting.

Eventually there was the sound of wheels rolling across the deck.

Leander peered down into the fog but he couldn’t make out what

they were doing. His shirt was light and he was now shivering

with the chill. There was very little wind and the ship was barely making headway.

When Francois returned to the crow’s nest, he brought a

leather jacket. Leander said nothing as he put it on.

“Mother wants you to go below,” Francois says. “She’s got

something to eat. She’s also afraid if you hold it much longer you’ll piss all over everybody.”

“This has crossed my mind,” Leander said.

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Francois laughed, but his father whispered.
“Quiet up there.”

Leander started down the ratlines, not sure how much longer