Quarantine: A Novel (3 page)

bread, her eyes looking straight ahead. When their mother spoke

to him sharply, Sarah often became quiet and curious.

“I was with Father,” he said. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“He sent me to find Doctor Wiggins.”

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j o h n s m o l e n s

“At that hour the doctor couldn’t have been much sober.”

Then there was a moment when her eyes moved away as though

she were trying to recall something. Leander had seen this in his mother before—a moment when her mind seemed to wander

away. Her expression became quizzical, distracted, but then she

turned back to him and asked, “You did find him?”

Leander nodded. “And we rowed out to a ship anchored off

Joppa Flats.” He cut into his clam pie with his fork, but it was so hot he had to hold his mouth open and exhale before he could

start to chew. “There’s sick men on board and—”

The back door opened, admitting bright sunlight. Leander’s

father stepped inside, pulling the door shut. He went to the

sideboard and dunked his hands in the water bucket, and then

toweled them off.

“What about these sick men?” Leander’s mother asked.

Leander had long ago realized that it was common for his father

to not tell her things, and he wondered if he would be giving away a secret. But as his mother looked across the table, he knew he

could neither lie nor deceive. “The ship must remain at anchor in the basin,” he said, “and the men are to stay on board.”

“Why?” his mother asked.

Leander cut another piece of pie but hesitated before putting it in his mouth. “He said the ship was under—can’t remember the

word. They must fly a yellow flag.”

His mother picked up her mug of tea, but then put it down.

“Quarantine?”

“That’s it,” Leander said.

For the first time his mother turned to consider his father, who was staring out the small window above the sideboard. His mother and father rarely looked directly at each other. They maintained long silences, and when they did speak to each other it was usually about matters concerning the children or the house or work.

Sarah was old enough to notice this as well, and she had asked

Leander what it meant. He was twice her age and Sarah often

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q u a r a n t i n e

sought explanations from him. He wasn’t always certain he had

the right answer, but he felt it was important to make her believe he did. He had told his sister that their mother and father understood each other too well, that words were seldom necessary. In

fact, he wasn’t sure what that meant, but Sarah seemed to accept it as the truth.

Neither of his parents spoke. His father continued to stare out

the window. Finally, his mother leaned over and picked up Sarah

and held her in her lap.

His father went to the door and took his leather satchel down

off the peg, which he slung over his shoulder. He said to Leander,

“You stay off the wharves now, hear?”

Leander nodded. “But I must go down to Joppa while the

tide’s low.”

His father’s eyes seemed to reconsider—a rare thing. He bore

hard resentments that Leander didn’t understand, but he was

the harbormaster, and formerly the high sheriff—both difficult,

respected positions in Newburyport, and he believed in work

and responsibility. “All right, you can go to the flats. Fill your dreeners with clams, but don’t dawdle.” He opened the front door and stepped out into the street.

Leander stared at his plate as he chewed the last piece of clam

pie. His mother was braiding Sarah’s hair, but when her hands

stopped he raised his eyes. “That’s what Doctor Wiggins told your father—that the ship had to be placed under quarantine?” She

didn’t wait for an answer, and whispered, “Dear God.”

R

It was no surprise that Giles was summoned to his mother’s

bedside. Though he had no formal education in medicine, New-

buryporters had bestowed the title of doctor upon him since his

service during the war with Britain. When he was nineteen, he

had been a surgeon’s assistant at the start of the conflict, serving 19

j o h n s m o l e n s

on the
Essex,
and later on a number of privateers that sailed from Newburyport. His half-brother Enoch, who was eight years his

senior, had served as captain of some of those privateers, which had escorted many a captured ship back to Newburyport. Supply ships

for the British army, mostly, and several times vessels with gold and silver in their holds. The bounty from such prizes brought

Enoch great profit during the war, and once the hostilities with England ceased he invested his money in the construction of a

fleet of ships that now traded throughout the world.

Giles’s visits to his mother were frequent. She had long ago

become a reclusive scold, with a temper that was as volatile as it was unpredictable. She often spent days—sometimes weeks—

confined to her room with ailments both real and imaginary.

Giles supplied her with a variety of pills, powders, and potions; some eased her misery, if only temporarily. What ailed his

mother was beyond medicine. There were indeed times when

she seemed thoroughly addled—no surprise considering that

for years Enoch had been methodically driving her to distrac-

tion with his assorted excesses and vices. Yet too often Giles

had also been witness to her remarkable powers of insight and

perspicacity.

He arrived on foot at the front gate of Enoch’s High Street

mansion, where he was admitted by a uniformed guard. One of

the maids, a dark-skinned girl with a Jamaican accent, led him

upstairs to his mother’s room. He placed his medicine bag on the floor and pulled a straight-back chair next to the canopy bed. His mother wore a lace sleeping cap tied under her double chin. Her

face was as white as the bed linen. She had an enormous bosom

and a neck thick with goiter. As was his custom, Giles examined

her eyes, and then untied the top of her gown and put an ear to

her sternum. Her heartbeat was strong today, but he thought too

rapid. She did not look at him as he examined her, but stared at the canopy draped above her.

“You seem quite well today,” he ventured.

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“Better than your cousin,” she whispered.

“My cousin? Which one?”

“He’s—” she began, but hesitated.

“He is ill?”

“He is pickled.”

“Pickled?”

She turned her head on the pillow. Her eyes were hazel and

had a fierce light in them. “Did you know you were related?”

“Mother, it seems we are related to everyone north of Boston.”

“I suppose it does,” she said, smiling faintly. “Best to assume

someone is your relation until you know otherwise.”

“Your predilection for speaking in riddles, it can be mad-

dening.” But she only gazed at him, unmoved. “Which cousin

are you speaking of?”

“Daniel Frothingham.”

“Captain Frothingham, of the
Miranda?”

“Yes, he was the son of your father’s cousin Amelia. She mar-

ried a seaman and moved across the Merrimack to Amesbury,

which is often as good as severing ties with the family.” She paused for one of her dramatic sighs, and then said, “But salt air was in the boy’s blood as well, and eventually he went to sea, and in

recent years has been in the employ of your brother. Until . . .” She looked away in an effort to emphasize that what she was about to say was most difficult. “Until they brought him here last night, packed in a cask of rum.”

Giles rose from his chair involuntarily. “Unbelievable.” He

walked to the window. “That explains it.”

“Now who’s talking in riddles.”

Giles returned to her bedside and sat down again. “Last night

the harbor master asked me to inspect the
Miranda.
There’s some sort of fever running through the crew. I ordered the ship

quarantined. Nothing, not even a cask, is supposed to have been

brought ashore—and certainly not a cask containing the body of

the captain.”

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“You want to quarantine one of your brother’s ships?” She

looked at him as though he were a boy spinning some fantastic

and implausible yarn. “Really, Giles.”

“I had no choice. That ship, potentially it’s a threat—”

“The
Miranda,”
she said, quite blissfully, “it’s the finest ship in your brother’s fleet. I was delighted that he named her after me.”

“He did so upon your suggestion.”

“Mine?”

“Please,
Mother, you’re missing the point.”

She gazed at him, hurt. “ I don’t recall making any suggestion.”

“I should examine his body.”

“Enoch’s?”

“The captain’s,” he said, exasperated. “Our cousin’s body.”

“Examine it? Why?”

“For cause.”

“It’s a little late. He’s dead.”

“Precisely. I need to know how he died.”

“Does it matter? Now?”

“It matters greatly.”

She busied herself by tying up her gown. “Well, you are too

late for that, as well,” she said with sudden vehemence. “They

buried him in that stand of trees beyond the north pasture. I told
him
that Daniel was family and deserved a proper funeral. But no, our cousin had been packed in a cask of rum—for the sake

of preservation until the ship returned to Newburyport—and

thus he was guilty, in your brother’s eyes, of spoiling the rum.

For such an offense, no proper burial would be granted. Just a

deep, eternal hole in the shade overlooking the salt hay meadow.

Guilty, indeed.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t bury him at sea. A number of the

crew aboard the
Miranda
died too, and they were put over the side, which is proper for a seaman.”

“A very good point, Giles.” She gazed up at him, her eyes sud-

denly curious. “You want to know why?” He nodded. “Well, I

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have a theory, which like all theories is hard to prove. I suspect—

no, more than suspect—I believe that when the
Miranda
set sail all the way back in France, certain members of the crew left with specific orders from Enoch here in Newburyport: that the ship

return with a dead sea captain.”

“Foul play? That’s your theory?”

“Well, Enoch’s ships come and go between here and Europe

constantly, and it would have been easy to convey such a message to someone aboard the
Miranda
. But why—why, that’s what we don’t know.”

“Enoch had his own captain murdered aboard ship.”

She shrugged. “You know how vindictive your brother can be.

And he wanted hard evidence of the death, thus the pickled proof.”

“Mother, I believe—no, I’m certain, that Captain Frothingham

died of a fever.”

“How convenient.”

Giles leaned back in his chair. It was pointless to go on, but

then he asked, “You’ve seen the body?”

“Oh my, yes.” She nodded toward the window. “Down there

in the courtyard, last night.” Then, proudly she added, “I rather liberated him from his cask, the contents of which he was obliged to spoil. Revenge of the dead—I hope, at least, that one day my

passing will reap such meager consolation.” And smiling, she

added, “Certainly you’ve noticed that a vindictive streak tends to run through the family.”

“What did he look like?”

“Captain Frothingham?
Dead
—bloated and dead. How is a

body packed in rum supposed to look?” Then she laughed. “Pre-

served, after a fashion!”

“I understand that Enoch can be vindictive,” Giles said. “But

why would he give such orders regarding the captain of his own

ship?”

“Jealousy, perhaps. Yes, I think jealousy—it springs from one’s

passions, cuts to the heart of what really matters.” His mother gave 23

j o h n s m o l e n s

him a knowing, even seductive smile, as though she possessed a

rare secret.

“Enoch,” he said slowly, and her eyes widened in anticipation.

“He was always very keen on our relations.”

“Certainly more than you ever were,” his mother urged.

“Perhaps Enoch knows that our cousin was—” He didn’t dare

complete his thought.

“Yes!
Daniel was another of your father’s moments of impetu-osity,” she said. “Both of my husbands had a tendency to dally,

and for their efforts they had the decency to expire at an early age. Your father, Herbert, he used to spend a lot of time across the river in Amesbury, and then I learned that he was sending money

to his cousin Amelia.”

“To support the boy, Daniel.”

“Herbert, at least, showed a modicum of restraint. Daniel was

the only hard evidence of his indiscretions. My first husband,

Abajah, he was more prolific. And your brother, he’s very much

like his father was—sometimes I think half the boys that work

out in the stable and the fields are the fruit of his loins. I see resemblances everywhere—the eyes, the nose, the mouth. By way

of compensation to their mothers, he takes the boys in and puts

them to work. Girls too, but less often—unless they are unusually comely. And then you know where that will lead. . . .”

Giles studied his mother’s withered hands, folded on the

counterpane.

“Have you never been so impetuous and reckless, Doctor?”

It bothered him when his mother called him Doctor. Both she

and Enoch did so in a way that made him feel inconsequential and fraudulent. “Excuse me?”

“You have never married,” she said; “and you have never . . .