Quarantine: A Novel (16 page)

river to Joppa Flats, he had cried, and he had sworn he would

never do so again. Now he realized he was through with prayer,

as well. This frightened him a little. For prayer was sustenance.

His grandfather had often quoted the Bible as they dug clams in

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Joppa Flats, his mother had insisted that they read the Bible every night, and it was always the time of day Sarah looked forward to most, for she could not go to sleep without a story.

Leander sat on the stoop staring into the dooryard until the

light faded from the sky. When it was dark, he went into the

kitchen and cooked the potatoes and carrots, and one fillet in

butter and salt. He ate at the table, barely able to see the food on his plate for the smoke. After cleaning up, he returned to the back stoop again and watched as the first stars appeared in the night sky.

He would not cry.

And he could not pray.

But at least he could still look at the stars, the one thing his sister said she had always wanted to do.

He wondered if she could see them now.

R

That night, Giles climbed the stairs to his rooms overlooking

Market Square, exhausted. He and Dr. Bradshaw agreed that

they would work alternate night shifts at the pest-house, which

was growing in size and complexity at a startling rate. New tents, made from old sailcloth, were filling up with patients as soon as they were erected. More than two dozen people had been carted

up the hill to the pit. Medicine was running low, and word of

the burglaries in all three apothecaries had spread through the

seaport. Clearly, these thefts were a concerted effort, suggesting a sinister intent that aroused fear and suspicion. In the late afternoon, Giles had walked downhill to the high sheriff’s office on Green

Street, but no one was there except a clerk, who claimed all the constables were out working with the clean-up crews. Mr. Poole

himself had gone into the North End to oversee the removal of a

dead mule from a cistern.

When he returned to Market Square, Giles found an envelope

under his door; it contained a single folded sheet of paper.

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My Dearest Doctor Wiggins,

I respectfully request your Presence when I make a Visita-

tion to my ship Miranda, lying at anchor under the Yellow

Flag. It is my purpose to determine the Condition of my cargo,
my new Horses, and the crew aboard said vessel. Please be

prepared for the arrival of my Coach shortly after dawn on

the morrow.

Yours, Enoch Sumner

Giles sat down at his desk, with the thought to open the bottom

right-hand drawer, where he kept the bottle of rum and several

glasses. But he was so tired that he merely sat there, staring down at the note, until he finally laid his head down upon his folded arms.

R

Miranda lay in her bed listening to the floorboards. It was still dark out—she guessed it was another hour before dawn—and this

was often the time of night when she heard stirrings about the

house, as though giant mice were making mischief. The floor-

boards and stair treads told all. They creaked, they groaned, no matter how softly someone stepped. By ear she could chart the

movements of her son, his frequent guests, and the house staff, as they moved about in the dark like some barefooted game of chess.

Bed frames, too—they often protested beneath their occupants,

whose passions, no matter how muted, how muffled, could not

avoid expression by worrying fine joinery.

Miranda threw back her covers, knowing she could not sleep

now. She donned her robe and slippers and went down to the

kitchen, where she brewed a cup of tea. She arranged herself on

the settle so that her feet were warmed by the last smoldering

embers in the fireplace. From this vantage point she could look out a window at the courtyard. The whorls in the glass panes provided 122

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interesting distortions in the orderly pattern of cobblestones, and as dawn approached, the stable door began to change from gray to white. The courtyard was as still as a still life. If she were a painter (something she had fancied for herself when she was young), this would be her subject: courtyard cobblestones, the whitewashed

boards of a stable door, all suffused with that predawn light that suggests the possibilities of a new day. And that would be her

theme: anticipation. She would paint her courtyard so that the

viewer would feel the quiet but powerful sense of anticipation

inherent in such a scene. The horses are just beginning to awaken in their stalls, eager to be harnessed; the mourning doves lining the eaves are starting to coo; and any minute the cock will crow, formally announcing the new day. What was lacking, what kept

her awake half the night, listening for the patter of clandestine footsteps, was the fact that each day seldom offered her much

sense of anticipation anymore. Her daily routines were as similar as the worn cobblestones, and useless and transparent as the faded whitewash that revealed the knots in the wide pine boards of the stable door. For years she had told herself that her duty, her role, was to oversee the proper operation of the household, but the

simple fact was that if she were not to do so, the Sumner manor

would continue to run with relentless if imperfect efficiency.

And then she heard movement, her son’s uneven stomp as he

descended the front stairs, accompanied by his hand gliding first along the banister and then the wainscot in the hall. When he

pushed open the swinging kitchen door, he paused, startled to

find his mother on the settle with her tea.

“Yes, well,” he announced, and cleared his throat. “Aren’t we

up early.”

Miranda nodded toward the window. “I was admiring the

still life of dawn.”

“Were you now? The still life.” His eyebrows tilted inward,

two partners bowing in a quadrille. He gazed stupidly at the

window as if he expected something, or someone, to suddenly

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appear there. Then, confused and a little agitated, he said, “You’re never awake at this hour.”

Her laughter rang off the iron pots hanging above the fireplace.

“How would you know?”

He cleared his throat again. “Well, Mother,” he said, “you

rarely make an appearance until Fields rings the bell for break-

fast, and even then you often insist on having a tray brought up to your room.”

“On such days I cannot make it down the stairs—” and dra-

matically, she leaned back and placed a wrist across her forehead—

“because I have been so thoroughly exhausted by my nocturnal

passions.”

“Your
what?”

“Dear, if you didn’t drink yourself into a stupor every night,

you might have some idea of what goes on beneath your own

vast roof.” She lowered her arm and put her teacup down beside

her on the settle. “For all your revelry, you miss so much of the entertainment.”

“Entertainment?”

“Midnight assignations. Early-morning trysts. Lovers, scur-

rying along the hallways, ducking in and out of bedrooms. It’s

transparent and, in its own way, quite innocent—like children at play.” She got to her feet, taking one more look out the window

as the cock crowed.

“You
duck in and out of bedrooms?”

She moved in his direction, causing him to retreat a step in

defense. “Oh, no,” she said. “I find that too . . . prosaic. They need the poetry of the night.”

“The what?”

“It’s the maid’s folly, the cook’s compensation, this nocturnal

poetry. But this is not to say that I approve. Such behavior is not to be tolerated, yet it does go on. And for the participants it’s all the sweeter for its clandestine nature.” She nodded toward the

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window, the courtyard now cast in the first ambient glow of

sunrise. “No, I prefer more bestial entertainments.”

“Still life?”

“In my heart, there’s nothing still.” She turned and smiled up

at his shocked face. “You know, like that Russian queen who has

copulated with every stallion in St. Petersburg. Catherine—that’s why she’s ‘the Great.’”

Miranda lowered her head and moved forward. Enoch stepped

aside, and like a matador, he swung his arm out, pushing the door open, and stood erect so that she might pass without his being

gored.

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Thirteen

As promised, Enoch’s coach picked up Giles shortly after

sunrise, and they proceeded to Sumner’s Wharf, where a skiff

conveyed them downriver and into the wide basin. The
Miranda
sat at anchor, perched on its own image in dawn glass, her sides streaked and fouled. The constables’ two boats stood watch, one

off her bow, the other off her stern.

“Sirs,” Junior Martins called from the nearest boat, “what be

your purpose?”

“We are here,” Enoch answered, his voice booming across the

water, “to inspect the conditions on board my ship.” When he

spoke, the tassels at the ends of his enormous cocked hat danced on their golden threads.

Martins was another one of Giles’s wartime amputees—there

were perhaps a dozen between Newburyport and Salisbury, to

the north—and he looked at the doctor as though seeking rational explanation. “You wants to board her, sir?”

“You object, Junior?” Giles asked.

Martins glanced fearfully up at the ship. “Not iffen you think

it be necessary, Doctor.”

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“Has there been anything amiss?” Enoch asked.

“Amiss?” Baffled, Martins scratched the stubble on his chin

with his remaining hand. “We hear barely a peep out of them all

day, though at night some of them take up song. It appears they

have plenty of grog on board. Doctor, remember how we used to

sing when we was fightin’ the Brits?”

“I do.”

“A sweet, sad music it was.”

“We did not come out here to reminisce,” Enoch said. “We

wish to proceed.”

“Certainly,” Martins said. “Don’t stay no longer than one must

needs, sirs.”

Enoch gestured to his four rowers, who pulled on, bringing

the skiff along
Miranda
’s starboard side. Giles climbed a rope ladder up to the deck, his sea-bag full of linen and medical supplies slung over one shoulder. Enoch followed, moving slowly and needing

assistance over the rail at the ship’s waist. They were greeted by a man who was so short that his soiled white coat hung almost

to his feet. Standing behind him was a tall, gaunt sailor with a monkey perched on his shoulder.

“That coat,” Giles said. “It belonged to Captain Frothingham,

and then Captain Delacourte. What’s happened to Delacourte?”

“He quit command of the ship,” the tall sailor said. “And Mr.

Love here has now assumed the duties of captain.”

“Love?” Enoch said.

“Henri Love, yes, sir,” the sailor replied. “He cannot speak

being that his tongue was cut out by some savages, but he’s a

first-rate sailor. I’m Mr. Juneau, First Mate, sir.” He made a bow toward Enoch.

“But where is Delacourte?” Giles insisted.

Juneau seemed perplexed. “I reckon he went over the side,” he

said apologetically. “That’s what happens to most of them. The

ones that die go overboard, and some that don’t simply disap-

pear during the night to avoid your sheriff’s boats. I suspect they 127

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attempt to swim ashore, though with the current in this river

they go with my prayers, sir. There’s but a handful of us left on board. Some of us have been through the fever before and seem

unaffected. Still, it is a hardship being kept so long aboard an idle vessel. The rest of the crew is below decks—very ill—and they

don’t tend to last long.”

“And those that die of the fever,” Giles said, “you say they go

overboard, too?”

“Aye,” Juneau said. “But we wait for the ebb tide to ensure

that the bodies travel downriver and out to sea. A proper resting place for a sailor, the sea.”

“The doctor here,” Enoch said, “will conduct his inspection.”

He leaned on the rail, as though he would have nothing more to

do with these proceedings. “And I’ve come for my horses.”

“Of course, sir,” the first mate said. “Please accompany me,

Doctor.”

“I know the way, Mr. Juneau,” Giles said.

Reluctantly, Juneau stepped aside, allowing Giles to cross the

deck.

He descended the companionway to the fo’castle, where he

met with air dense with the smell of excrement and bile. In the

dim light he could see men lying in hammocks, coughing and

moaning. He moved among them, inspecting the condition of

each man. They all had symptoms of the fever. There was little

that could be done. Provide a drink of water. Clean the dried

vomit and blood from a man’s chin. He removed his coat and

opened up his sea-bag, found a barrel of fresh water, and set to work.

R

Leander slept in the chair by the kitchen door, his head against the lower pantry shelf. When he awoke, his neck was stiff. He found

that his parents’ bed had not been slept in and, half asleep, he went 128

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out into the dooryard, where he stripped to his waist and washed himself in the cold water from the barrel behind the outhouse.

Inside, he put on the clean shirt his mother had ironed, and

he felt a pang of guilt: he had always taken those shirts, the labor of love involved, for granted. Suddenly he realized he was on