Quarantine: A Novel (2 page)

stretched taut across his belly. “We arrive on the morning tide and wait for the pilot to come and guide us to port. This pilot, he will not take us up to harbor. You must replace this man.”

There was a faint cough from somewhere below.

“What’s your cargo?” Giles asked.

Delacourte cleared his throat. “Molasses and sugar, mostly.

Lumber. Livestock. And horses, fine stallions for Mr. Sumner,

the owner of this ship.”

“I wish to go below,” Giles said.

Delacourte straightened up, as though determined to refuse

this request.

“I am Dr. Wiggins, Captain. Enoch Sumner’s my half-brother,

and Mr. Hatch down there in that skiff is the harbormaster, along with Mr. Poole, the high sheriff, and I have the authority to

inspect this ship. Do you understand?”

Delacourte considered this a moment, then said, “I will accom-

pany you myself—”

“I’d prefer to go on my own, Monsieur. It sounds like you

have a sick man down there.”

Delacourte hesitated a moment before he said, “Indeed. Any-

thing for my crew.” He turned to one of them, an older man in a

cook’s apron. “Mead, take the good doctor below.”

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Mead nodded obediently and led the doctor astern to the

companionway. Giles descended and paused at the bottom of the

stairs—the air below was close. Mosquitoes hovered around the dim lanterns that hung from the low deck beams. There was an odor of something fetid that had turned days ago in the heat. He looked up at Mead, who remained up on deck. “What’s that smell?”

“Don’t know, Doctor. Just me cookin’?”

Giles went below. He had to stoop as he moved forward in the

ship. There were perhaps two dozen hammocks strung from the

ceiling beams, ghostly shapes in the near-dark. Farther below, in the ship’s hold, he could hear pigs grunting, the heavy knock of horse’s hooves. Forward of the mainmast there were two hammocks. He took a lantern from a ceiling hook and approached

the first hammock, which was occupied a boy who couldn’t have

been more than eighteen. His eyes were closed, and his face and

shirt were soaked with sweat. Giles hung the lantern from a nearby hook and placed his hand on the boy’s forehead; he was burning

with fever. Startled, he opened his eyes, confused and fearful.

“It’s all right, son,” Giles said. “I’m a doctor.” With his thumb he rolled up the boy’s left eyelid. Even in the flickering lamplight he could see that the eyeball had a yellow tinge to it, as did the boy’s skin. “What’s your name?”

“Joseph, sir. Joseph Eagan.”

“How long have you been like this, Joseph?”

“Can’t say. Four, five days at least.”

“How many crew have you lost?”

There was a moment of clarity in the boy’s eyes. “Four.” With

effort he lifted his head so he could look toward the bow, where a man lay in the other hammock. “I haven’t heard nothing from

Pellatier there. He’s been groaning something awful, but now

he’s stopped.”

Giles went over to the other hammock, stepping round a pool

of black vomit on the floor. Pellatier’s mouth and beard were

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covered with dried blood. Giles felt his neck for a pulse but there was none.

“Are we in Newburyport, sir?”

The doctor returned to the boy. “Yes, Joseph.”

“Can I go ashore?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

“Then I’ll die here, too.”

“We can’t let any crew off the ship until we know what we’re

dealing with.”

After a moment the boy closed his eyes and nodded his head.

“I’m very thirsty.”

“You’re a brave fellow, Joseph. I’ll see that you get water.” Giles began to turn away, but then looked at the boy again. “Tell me,

the other crewmen who died, they were buried at sea?”

“They were,” the boy said. “Captain Frothingham was very

swift about it.”

“What is his name?”

The boy’s eyes opened and he appeared puzzled. “Captain

Frothingham, sir.”

“Wears a white frock coat?”

“Yes.”

“Delacourte wears it now.”

“The first mate.” Joseph nodded weakly. Then he suddenly

tried to raise his head, and Giles took hold of his shoulders to help him. A fierce heat came through his damp shirt and his lips were cracked and parched. “Then the captain’s took ill, too, has he?” the boy asked.

“I suspect so.”

Joseph’s eyes grew wide and perhaps fearful.

“What is it, son?”

“Delacourte. After dark he sent boats ashore.”

“I know,” Giles said. “We saw them.”

The boy shivered as he eased back in the hammock.

“I’ll have water brought immediately.”

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q u a r a n t i n e

“Thank you, sir.”

The doctor made his way back through the ship and climbed

the companionway. Mead was sitting on the top step, and he

got to his feet. He wouldn’t look directly at the doctor. “You go down and give that boy water, plenty of water, Mead. And put a

blanket over him—and broth in small portions, so he might have

a chance to keep it down.” The cook looked terrified as he stared down into the companionway.
“Now,
Mead.”

Reluctantly, the man descended into the bowels of the ship,

murmuring to himself. Giles went to the port rail, where Dela-

courte stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Awful business, isn’t it, Doctor?”

“That’s the captain’s coat you’re wearing,” Giles said.

“I am the captain.”

“You are the first mate, who put the captain’s coat on after

he died.”

Delacourte lifted his chin and would not return Giles’s gaze.

“You have sent boats ashore—we saw them. This is in direct

contradiction to orders issued by the harbormaster. No one else

on this ship is to go ashore.” The doctor looked at the crew,

who now appeared ready to rush at him. “None of you,” he

said loudly, “is to leave this ship. I will advise the harbormaster that this vessel should be placed under quarantine until further notice. Mr. Delacourte, you are to f ly the yellow f lag.”

“We are under quarantine?” Delacourte turned to the doctor

now.

“Until further notice.”

“But we are nearly out of fresh water, and our provisions are

low—”

“They will be sent out to you. And under the circumstances,

I will recommend that the harbormaster have some of our con-

stables stand guard.”

“We are under arrest?”

“They will not come aboard but will remain in their boats.”

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Delacourte folded his arms. “This is an outrage.”

“Their purpose is to see that you and the rest of your crew

remain on this ship until further notice.” Giles climbed over the rail to the ladder and descended to the skiff.

12

Two

She heard the wagon coming up High Street, and when

it turned into the drive she laid down her book and pushed her-

self up out of her chair. Her bedroom windows looked down on

the courtyard and the stable in back. She watched the driver halt the team, the sound of hooves and harnesses reverberating off

of the cobblestone. Two stable boys came out and tended to the

horses. There was also much commotion downstairs, and soon

her son Enoch emerged from the back door, leading this evening’s entourage into the courtyard. As usual, he wore an enormous

cocked hat and was accompanied by his nuisance of a small dog,

Bowsprit. He walked with a cane, favoring his right foot, which

was prone to gout. He hobbled toward the wagon and the large

wooden cask tied in the bed.

As everyone gathered around the wagon, Enoch gave instruc-

tions while the driver and one of the livery boys untied the ropes that secured the cask. Jonathan Bream, Enoch’s personal bard,

spread out his arms and bellowed, “Ode to the mighty task of

lifting so heavy a cask!” Delighted, the inebriated members of the entourage applauded. They consisted of the usual fools and fops

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who gathered most nights in the Sumner house, and, of course,

they were accompanied by ladies of easy virtue, with gay voices, pinched waists, and powdered, overripe bosoms.

It took several men to lower the cask to the cobblestones.

Enoch then removed his cocked hat and the others fell silent

with bowed heads. He was not wearing a periwig, and she

could see the bald crown of his head as he murmured a prayer.

A solemn prayer made in jest, for it was all in jest, night after night, the food, the beverage, the women, all in the perpetual

pursuit of what Enoch called Diversion. And as long as he paid

for it, he would have company to help him seek these nightly

entertainments.

When he finished his prayer, Fields, the butler, came out of

the house with a drill and a tap. He set the drill in the top of the cask and began to turn the handle, boring down into the wood.

Two of the servants arrived with pewter goblets on silver serving trays, which they distributed to members of the entourage. A

kind of frenzy overtook the audience. Ladies turned and swirled

their skirts. A man walked around the courtyard on his hands.

Bowsprit yapped madly. And Jonathan Bream, standing next

to the cask, with great drama cried, “This must be the finest

rum to be made by man. God bless our dear departed Captain

Frothingham!”

Amid the frivolity, Enoch turned and glanced up at the house.

She quickly stepped back from the window. Suddenly her lungs

seemed to have collapsed and she couldn’t breathe. She feared that she might faint. Her skin prickled; she could feel the heat rising in her face. The laughter in the courtyard seemed to invade her

room, and when she closed her eyes it felt as though she were

turning slowly. This too had come upon her before, here in her

room, where she was so often confined—a self-imposed imprison-

ment, one of necessity, or so she believed. It was said that Enoch Sumner was mad, a semi-literate imbecile (though this never

stopped him from publishing broadsides in the local newspapers), 14

q u a r a n t i n e

but she knew otherwise. He was indeed addled, frequently inebri-

ated, and perpetually randy, but beneath this outrageous veneer

was concealed a shrewd, calculating instinct that had brought

him his fortune.

When she caught her breath, she went out into the hallway,

startling one of the maids, the Jamaican girl, Cedella, who quickly curtsied. Ignoring the girl, she descended the stairs, moved down the hall, pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen, and burst in on the cooks who were cleaning up the kitchen after the night’s dinner.

“Ma’am?” Miriam asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Would you be in need of something? I can still prepare you

a plate—you must be famished, as you did not come down for

dinner.”

She picked up a cleaver, causing Miriam to take a step back-

wards. The girl scrubbing the stove dropped her brush in fright.

She put down the cleaver and went to the fireplace. There,

leaning against the brick, was an axe for splitting kindling. When she picked up the axe, the girl began sobbing.

“Ma’am,” Miriam said, bravely stepping forward, though her

voice was fretful. “Might I assist you in some way? Because you

certainly needn’t—”

She placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and pushed her

aside. She went through the mudroom, threw open the back door,

and stepped out into the courtyard. The revelers stopped their

festive gyrations and stared at her in awe.

After a moment, Enoch said, “Ah, Mother, so glad you decided

join us.”

“Not a
drop!”
she cried as she crossed the courtyard, the axe raised above her head. She brought the blade down on the

unopened cask, splintering wood and splashing herself with rum.

She swung again, breaking the boards down one side. Rum

poured out of the cavity, drenching her feet, her shoes, her fine silk dress. The physical release was welcome—and with several

more blows of the axe she continued to demolish the cask.

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Then she stopped, again breathless and overcome with exhaus-

tion. The courtyard was silent, except for the sound of rum trickling along the cracks between cobblestones.

And there was movement—it came from inside the cask, as

first a hand, followed by an arm, appeared in a gap in the boards.

The ladies shrieked, clutching at men for protection.

Then a sound came from inside the cask, a tumbling of some-

thing heavy, until Captain Frothingham appeared in the hole, his face grossly swollen, his eyes still open, his tongue thick and black.

16

Three

Leander was awakened at dawn by the Brownes’ rooster.

His bed was in the attic, and outside he could also hear the

neighborhood’s pigs and chickens stirring in their pens and

coops. Mourning doves, lined up along the roof peak, cooed

gently. He got up, dressed in yesterday’s britches and a clean

shirt, which was stiff from washing. The deep smell of clams

filled the house. He climbed down the ladder to the hallway

and went into the kitchen. His mother was at the stove, cut-

ting into a clam pie. She put a slice on a plate and brought it

to the table.

“You came home much too late last night,” she said as she sat

across from him.

At the end of the table his sister Sarah nibbled on a piece of