Quarantine: A Novel (35 page)

“Poison?” Miranda asked. He nodded. “And how do you

know this?”

“Master Sumner’s been right ill, ain’t he?” Penrose ventured

the briefest smile. “You think we are all so dumb we don’t notice such things, we don’t see what goes on here?”

“I asked how you know this is poison?”

“It is Master Samuel, he is tryin’ ta kill his own father, he is.”

“You have seen this?” she said. “With your own eyes?”

“Not me own eyes. No one would believe an old hand such

as me, they’d just say t’was the drink inflamin’ his imagination.”

“No surprise in that, Mr. Penrose.”

“It be Benjamin who brung me this bottle. And no one ever

doubts his word.”

Miranda considered this a moment. “So true, Mr. Penrose.

Your son is much respected in this house. But how did he come

by this information, and by this bottle?”

“I cannot say exactly, as it might affect an innocent party.

But I knows that this bottle was from them stolen goods.” He

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dared to take a step closer and she held her breath. “He was in

on it from the start, Samuel was, the theft of the medicine from the apothecaries, and the plan to sell it to the doctors at the pest-house—and the rest—”

“The rest of what?”

“Where is he now?” Penrose said. “Where is your grandson

at this very moment?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“It is my business, and it is the business of all Newbreepoat.

People is dying ’cause them medicines have gone missing and it

has this town stirred up, I tell you. You don’t know what goes on here in your own kitchen, let alone out they-yah in that stable.

Well, I’ll tell you: people’s scared. And mad. Death is visitin’ so many houses in this poat, and all the while the nightly festivities continue here under this roof.” Mr. Penrose was nearly out of

breath, and he placed one hand on the butcher block for support.

Fields held the bottle out in his hand. “What do you plan on

doing with this?”

“I can go to the high sheriff. Benjamin and I. We can go to

Thomas Poole—he be a good man, who will not throw in with

the likes of Ellsworth and them other constables. Them’s a crooked lot, they are.”

Now Fields took a step forward. “What are you talking about,

man? You’re not—”

Miranda touched Fields on the forearm, which quite surprised

him. “Enough, Fields,” she said calmly. “I believe I understand.

Mr. Penrose is deeply concerned for the well-being of this town, as well we all should be. These are, certainly, difficult times.

There is much suffering and anguish.” She looked at Penrose,

who was slack-jawed now. Kindly, she said, “Sir, do tell me what you want and I’m sure the appropriate accommodation can be

made.” When Penrose didn’t respond immediately, she smiled and

added, “In your loyalty to this house, which you’ve served so well all these years, you elected to come to me and inform me of this 281

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dire situation, when you could have just as easily gone straight to the high sheriff. I owe you my gratitude, Mr. Penrose, for placing such faith in me, so please, do tell, what is it I can do for you?”

“Right.” Penrose took his hand off the butcher block and

tugged on the front of his leather vest. “I do have a request,

Ma’am.”

“Pray tell,” she said.

“It be regardin’ me own son.” Now he seemed uncertain as

to how to continue.

“Benjamin?” she asked. “There is some difficulty?”

Penrose stared at the floor. “There is this girl that works out

to Moss Farm in Newbree. She—well, she be in a predicament.”

“I see.”

“And Benjamin has promised to do right by her, and they plan

to marry, Ma’am.”

“Of course.”

“But she is in need of a situation. She can’t stay no longer out there on the farm—for the reason that she knows about this here

poison business, and the fact that she’s in her way now. So I was wonderin’ if she might not find a position here.”

“In this house?” Fields demanded.

Penrose glanced at him, and then back at Miranda. “Under

the circumstances, yes.”

Fields said, “This . . . this is nothing but—”

“No,” Miranda said. “No, Fields. Mr. Penrose is being most

reasonable. This is really a touching demonstration of loyalty, to this house, as well as to young Benjamin.” She smiled at Penrose.

“What is this girl’s name?”

“Rachel.”

“When is Rachel due?”

“She figures four months, by the end of October, Ma’am.”

“Well then, Fields, I guess we had better make room for her

on our staff. Mr. Penrose, I pray that theirs will be a long and fruitful union.” Miranda offered Penrose a complicit smile as she 282

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headed for the door, which Fields held open for her. As she led

him down the hallway, she whispered over her shoulder, “Well?”

“Cedella, Ma’am.”

Miranda stopped outside the library door and took in a slow

breath, and upon exhaling said, “I think so, yes. Besides, she tends to be accident prone.”

“I’ll see to it at once.” Fields opened the door for her.

Miranda entered the library, where, thankfully, Jonathan

Bream had just concluded the recitation of his ode. Enoch, still prostrate on the daybed, was overcome with tears.

“Such a pity, Mr. Bream,” she said, “that I was called away and

had to miss your latest literary effort.” Bream bowed, and tossed back the remainder of his wine. “I’m curious,” she added. “In the first stanza, what word did you find to rhyme with ‘creature’?”

“Oh, Madame, that would be—”

“‘Seizure,’”
Enoch wailed. “It was so true! My poor little . . .

creature collapsed of a seizure!” He buried his face in his handkerchief and blew his noise.

“Mr. Bream,” Miranda said, “how delightfully musical!”

R

Leander and Francois had been told to remain in the crow’s nest.

“I wish we were armed,” Francois said.

“I think your father knows that,” Leander said, “and that’s

why you’re kept up here.” He turned to Francois, who looked

eagerly down upon the deck of the
Miranda.
“Have you ever shot anything?”

After a moment, Francois said, “Seagulls.”

“Well, we have the view of seagulls.”

They stared silently down upon the deck of the
Miranda.
There seemed to be a formality to the negotiations. Emanuel had spoken briefly—Leander had heard English and French drift across the

water—and the captain had taken Dr. Wiggins below.

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There was only the sound of water rushing alongside the hulls,

the groan of taut rigging, the occasional snap of sailcloth. Leander hated the waiting, and the heat caused sweat to run down out of

his hair and sting his eyes. The men on both decks hardly moved, and it seemed possible that they might remain as they were for an eternity, all of them beneath this relentless sun, staring across the water at each other, waiting.

284

Twenty-Seven

Pain makes one forgetful.

Giles knew this. During the war, men lay wounded upon his

surgeon’s table, not knowing where they were, or having any

recollection of the battle that was still raging overhead on deck.

And now he lay on his back, gasping from the searing pain in

his left leg, and he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened.

He knew he was on board ship; the gentle, rhythmic pitch and

yaw caused the lantern to oscillate above the table, while standing about him Emanuel, Marie, Poole, and Leander all talked at once.

The confusion and something about the way they spoke reminded

him of the war. On board naval ships in the middle of engage-

ment, yes, there was the sound of men shouting and moving about

on deck, while below in the hot bowels of the vessel he labored

over the wounded. And as he treated them, he often spoke in this same absurdly informal, jocular way. It was intended to keep the wounded from panicking, especially those that he knew wouldn’t

live but a few minutes. Keep them calm. Keep them thinking of

something else. He often recited poetry, passages from Homer’s

Odyssey,
which he’d had to memorize years earlier in Master 285

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Pepperill’s classroom. Strange how verses would just come to him while he was stitching a wound or sawing a limb.

But Emanuel wasn’t reciting poetry. He was telling Leander

to make it tighter. And the boy turned the screw handle, which

tightened the tourniquet around Giles’s left thigh—that sound, of the screw tightening the leather strap, was all too familiar—and the pain only became more intense.

“Compliments of Dr. Petit,” Giles said through his teeth,

causing Leander to glance up from his efforts.

“The machine,” Emanuel said to the boy. “It was invented by a

Dr. Petit. How many times during the war he said ‘Compliments

of Dr. Petit,’ for making the job easier: we have got to stop the blood, understand, Leander?”

The boy nodded, lowered his head, and applied himself to the

screw handle.

Giles nearly screamed—instead, he gasped, “There was never

enough sand.”

Poole and Marie looked down at him in surprise.

“We always needed more sand for the floor.”

“Yes, I remember,” Emanuel said. “Buckets of sand—to keep

your feet from slipping on the blood.” He glanced over at Marie.

“He was very insistent.”

Marie refolded the towel and continued to mop the sweat

from Giles’s face.

And Leander tightened Petit’s damned tourniquet again, which

was exactly what had to be done.

R

Leander hated the sound of the leather strap as it tightened, and he feared that the machine would break, but suddenly the blood

stopped pulsing from the doctor’s leg. There was raw muscle, torn and shredded. There was bone. There were splinters of wood

embedded everywhere.

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Even though he’d watched everything from the crow’s nest,

he wasn’t certain how it had all started. Doctor Wiggins had gone below with the captain of the
Miranda
and they remained there for what seemed an eternity, while the crew stood about on deck, glaring at the constable’s men, who were all armed with pistols.

Finally the captain and the doctor came topside, accompanied

by two men—an old man Leander had never seen before, and

Samuel Sumner. And then it was as though a spell was broken.

One moment everything seemed orderly, and the next all hell

broke loose. Leander couldn’t tell if something had been said, or if there had been some kind of a signal, but several of the crewmen rushed the constables, some wielding knives or belaying pins. Then, complete mayhem. Shots were fired. Men shouted and screamed.

Smoke enveloped both decks and the water between them, making

it difficult to see. A constable was thrown overboard. Men aboard the
Miranda
fell to the deck, writhing in pain, their shirts and heads bloodied. Viewed from above, the fighting was chaotic, urgent, but strangely graceful. Then one of the carronade fired from the bow of the
Golden Hand
and the ball smashed through the railing on the
Miranda
and shattered the base of the foremast. This brought screams from the men as splinters sprayed the deck, and canvas and a yard came tumbling down through tangled rigging. There was

coughing amid the smoke, and the shouting was replaced by moans

and pleas for help. It was difficult to distinguish the men on the deck of the
Miranda.
The ship foundered in the waves, and finally Emanuel Lunt appeared at the railing and waved his good arm.

“Cease firing!” he called. “Send over another boat!”

Now, it took all of Leander’s strength to turn the screw a bit

more, but it seemed to stop the flow of blood from the doctor’s leg.

Aside from Leander’s horror, there was a certain fascination. He had never seen exposed muscles, how they surrounded the bone,

how they were attached by tissue that was both elastic and strong.

Suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, Doctor Wiggins managed to

raise himself up on his elbows, just enough so he could gaze down 287

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at his wounded leg. He looked sleepy, though his eyes seemed cold and assessing. When he laid his head down, Marie cradled the

back of his skull in her hands. “It must come off,” he whispered.

“Giles,” Emanuel said. “The bleeding, it’s stopped—”

“No,” the doctor said. “There’s too much damage.” For a

moment, no one said anything. “My bag, didn’t I bring it on

board—somewhere? Hurry, you must be quick about it. There

are other men to attend to.” And for the briefest moment Leander thought the doctor attempted a smile. “There are always others.”

R

“I’ll get the bag,” Marie said, staring down at Giles. “We put it in the galley.”

“Emanuel,” Giles said.

“I can’t,” Emanuel said, turning to Poole. “Not with one

hand.”

Marie went out for the medical bag, and for a long moment no

one spoke. Giles studied the beams overhead, the grain, the knots in the wood. There was suddenly such clarity and he remembered

everything now. The tourniquet was so tight that his leg had

begun to lose feeling.

Marie returned and gave the black leather bag to Poole. Giles

watched Poole’s hands as they undid the clasps and opened the

bag. They were strong hands, the kind of hands that were familiar with heavy labor. Sawing would not be difficult for such hands.