Quarantine: A Novel (36 page)

But there was something also blunt and brutal about them. The

knuckles were too large and protuberant. The fingers lacked a

certain delicacy, a necessary precision.

Giles raised his eyes, until he could see Marie standing above

and behind him. Upside-down, her face was still beautiful, though peculiarly lined about the mouth. Her breasts rose and fell, and it occurred to him that they might drop out of her blouse. She

lowered her eyes—wide, beautiful ovals—and met his stare. Her

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brows turned in on themselves, almost as a sign that she under-

stood what he was thinking. And her lips, thick and full, turned down at the corners, which he understood to be an attempt at a

smile.

Poole removed the saw from the bag.

With great effort Giles raised his head again. Marie’s hands

supported the back of his skull, her fingers gently kneading his matted hair. “No,” he said. “I want you to do it.”

They were all still.

“Me?” The boy stared at Giles and shook his head.

“Yes, Leander. You.”

“But, Doctor—”

“Listen to me,” Giles said. “It’s like cutting a sapling, no

different.”

“Sir, I—”

“You have to do it. The others must hold me still, and it will

take all three of them.”

Something in the boy’s eyes revealed that he recognized the

necessity of this curious logic. His mouth moved, as though he

was trying to form words, but he remained silent, helpless. Finally, he asked, “Where?”

“Just below the knee. Take long, even strokes. And listen to

me: no matter what happens, once you start you cannot stop. You

must finish it. Understand?” After a moment, the boy nodded.

“Believe me, it won’t take but a minute.”

R

Poole put the leather bag on the floor, removed the saw, and

handed it to Leander. The blade was not long and the wood handle was worn smooth.

“I’ve had it since the war,” Dr. Wiggins said. Leander looked

at the doctor, who was staring at the ceiling. “The finest steel, made in England. Its teeth hold a good edge.”

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Leander turned to Emanuel, who merely nodded, and he bent

over until his chest lay across the doctor’s torso. He gripped the table with his good hand and said, “Poole, the other leg must

keep still.”

The constable nodded solemnly and placed a hand on the doc-

tor’s right thigh, and the other on his shin.

Marie came to the side of the table, where she wrapped her

arms about the doctor’s head, drawing his head to her bosom.

“All right,” Emanuel said.

Leander looked at the saw in his hand, and placed the blade

on Dr. Wiggins’s shin, just below the knee. There was no skin

there, only shredded muscle, and his other hand, which gripped

the doctor’s thigh, felt the entire leg go stiff.

“This is the moment, Leander,” Dr. Wiggins said with remark-

able calm. “The moment of hesitation—you must avoid it. It does

the patient no good. You simply commence. Like one who is

hungry, you commence.”

Still, Leander could only stare at the bloody tissue, but

then he drew the saw back and began to work. The blade cut

through muscle quickly, and when he reached the bone he put

his shoulder into each stroke. He was afraid to stop. The sound

was oddly dry. Yet he could feel the spray of warm blood on

his hands and face.

Then the doctor spoke, startling Leander, causing the slightest

hesitation in his stroke. Pressed firmly to Marie’s breast, the doctor’s voice was muffled but forceful. “Perverse mankind,” the

words burst from his lungs, “whose wills, created free, charge all their woes on absolute degree!”

And then Emanuel joined in as they both recited loudly: “All

to the dooming gods their guilt translate, and follies are miscall’d the crimes of fate.”

Leander increased the pace of his strokes.

R

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The south wind had turned lazy in the afternoon heat. Leander

stood at the taffrail and stared out at
The Golden Hand
’s wake as the ship
cruised north, abreast of the
Miranda,
which was now under the command of Thomas Poole. Leander’s mind felt empty; he

only seemed able to absorb colors—so many shades of blue, in the water, in the sky, a brilliant blue world beneath a hot, relentless sun. Then he recalled how often his sister asked him about colors, how important it was for her to know whether the Merrimack was

blue or gray. And Cedella had taken his hand and placed it on her cheek, not just to ask him what color her skin was but whether

its color mattered to him. It did matter—it mattered as much to

him as his color mattered to her. It would be a part of them, for the rest of their lives, and once joined they would never separate.

He could not imagine it otherwise.

In the late afternoon he went below once again. Dr. Wiggins

was still asleep. Marie had remained at his side, wiping his face with a damp cloth. The sheet covering his legs had been draped

over a small stool so that it formed a flat-topped tent. Though

the floor had been scrubbed, there still was a hint of blood in the stifling heat.

“Is there anything I can do?” Leander whispered.

She looked as though she hadn’t slept in days. Her hair was

tied back in a thick braid, and her face glistened with sweat. She picked up the bucket from the floor and handed it to him. “More

fresh water,
s’il vous plaît.”

“We have raised Plum Island,” he said. “Soon we will enter

the Merrimack, and we’ll be tied up at the wharf by nightfall.”

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Twenty-Eight

Miranda was awakened by the sound of horses’ hooves

and carriage wheels down in the courtyard. There were voices,

alarmed voices. Agitated, she climbed out of bed, pulled on her

robe, and went to the window. Benjamin Penrose, who had been

driving the chaise, helped Fields climb down, assistance that the butler accepted begrudgingly. He spoke curtly to Benjamin and

then entered the house by the kitchen door.

Miranda left her room and went down the back stairs, and

when she stepped into the kitchen, she found Fields removing his black coat. “What is it?” she demanded.

“Ma’am,” Fields said, officious but reluctant, “I have news . . .

which I should divulge to both you and Mr. Sumner.”

Miranda sighed dramatically and was about to reprimand

Fields, but the door behind her swung open and Enoch came

into the kitchen in his nightshirt. He was stooped over as though injured, and he used both arms to support himself as he leaned

against the large work table in the center of the room. Overhead, there came the squeak of floorboards, the soft thump of bare feet, familiar enough sounds made by the staff as they went about their 292

q u a r a n t i n e

duties, but here in the middle of the night—what time was it?—

Miranda wasn’t sure, but it was indeed early morning—this was

a matter of maids and cooks scurrying like so many mice, trying

to get to the back stairs or the front hall, where they might be within earshot of the kitchen.

“You did not inform me you were leaving the house,” Enoch said.

“No, sir.” Fields cleared his throat, perhaps by way of an

apology, though Miranda thought it more of a subtle rebuke—

Fields was long past requesting permission in his movements to

and from the house. He was reluctant to look directly at her or

Enoch, not necessarily unusual, but it was clear that he was hesitant to divulge whatever information he had acquired.

“Damn it, Fields, speak up,” Enoch said. “Where did you go

this late at night?”

Fields spoke in a voice that was soft yet deep, seeming to

rumble from the depths of his lungs. “It’s Samuel, sir, and—”

“Samuel?”
Miranda said.

Fields regarded her with somber eyes. “That high sheriff has

clapped him in jail, Ma’am. He’s been accused of some scheme to steal medicine. It’s all to do with this fever. He was captured aboard the
Miranda,
which was loaded with this medicine and bound for Boston.”

Miranda took a step toward Enoch.
“You
and he planned this.”

Enoch tried to straighten up. “No!”

“It’s
your
scheme,
your
ship,” she said. “You must be behind this.

Your son isn’t capable of such a thing—certainly not on his own.”

“You’re
the one who’s in league with Samuel. You’re both determined to ruin me.” Enoch took hold of her upper arm and

pulled her close. He reeked of Madeira. “Or kill me.”

Miranda yanked her arm free. She went to the kitchen door,

behind which she heard the rustle of skirts as the staff scurried for safety. “Ma’am,” Fields said with uncharacteristic urgency.

“What,
Fields?” She kept one hand on the door, but after a moment turned and looked across the kitchen. She’d never seen

Fields look so rigid, so worrisome.

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“There’s more news that I should report to both of you,” Fields

said, “regarding Dr. Wiggins and the new stable boy, Leander

Hatch.”

“What about them?” Enoch demanded.

Fields seemed baffled and didn’t know how to proceed. “They

was on that other ship.
It’s a coasting schooner called
The Golden
Hand.
They chased the
Miranda
in the fog and boarded her outside of Boston harbor. They brought her back to Newburyport

tonight.”

“They?”

“The high sheriff and some of his constables, the captain

Emanuel Lunt, Dr. Wiggins, and the new boy Leander.” Fields

waited until she looked at him. “Apparently, there was fighting

on board the
Miranda,
and, Ma’am, Dr. Wiggins was seriously wounded by cannon fire.”

“Wounded, how?”

“One of his legs required amputation below the knee.”

She inhaled sharply.

“Apparently,” Fields said, “it was the boy who performed the

surgery.”

Miranda watched as Enoch eased himself down on a stool next

to the work table. He leaned over and appeared to be inspecting

the scars that were the result of years of chopping vegetables and butchering meat. He smiled faintly as he ran his fingers over the rutted grain. As though he knew she was watching him, he slowly

turned his head and stared at her. “If my half-brother had not

survived, you might not be so eager to do away with me, would

you, Mother?”

Quickly, she turned and opened the door to the front hall, but

she paused and without looking at Enoch said, “The way you live, you’re determined to bring this house to ruin.”

“So you act in the family’s best interest?”

“Somebody has to.”

She waited.

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Enoch said nothing.

“Fields,” she said. “Dr. Wiggins and the boy, where are they

now?”

“Still aboard
The Golden Hand
, Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Fields.”

She left the kitchen, aware that the darkened rooms to either

side of the hall concealed her audience, and she felt its approval as though they were giving her a round of applause.

R

Leander watched as Dr. Bradshaw inspected Dr. Wiggins’s leg.

Emanuel Lunt, Sameeka, and Marie all stood outside the cabin in

the companionway. No one spoke, though the children, Francois

and Dominique, could be heard whispering overhead on deck.

Dr. Wiggins had been unconscious much of the time since

The Golden Hand
had returned to Newburyport. He often spoke, however, usually in a delirious fashion, and his bedclothes were soaked with sweat. The few times he awoke, he was clearly

gripped by intense pain, and Marie would give him a dose of

laudanum mixed with water.

Without looking up, Dr. Bradshaw asked, “You have been

changing the dressing regularly?”

“Often,” Marie said.

“Good. This must be kept clean.” The doctor leaned over the

amputated leg again.

While sawing, Leander had not really thought about what he

was doing. He knew that was what Dr. Wiggins had meant, that

was how you got through the bone: you don’t think, you just saw.

But since then he had kept thinking about it, and seeing it, the bloody teeth of the saw cutting through the muscle and bone. He

thought about how tense the doctor’s body had become, and he

couldn’t imagine enduring such pain. He knew he was hurting

the doctor, but he also realized that it was the only way to save 295

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him. And that’s why he kept thinking about it, over and over, so he could come to understand it: pain was necessary to survival.

Dr. Bradshaw went to a side table, where he washed his hands in a bowl of water. As he toweled off, he looked over the top of his spectacles at Leander. “Am I to understand you performed the surgery?”

Something in the doctor’s voice suggested that he didn’t

approve, and Leander glanced out at the others in the compan-

ionway, but they only gazed at him blankly. Turning back to the

doctor, Leander said, “Yes, sir, upon Dr. Wiggins’s instructions.”

“And he instructed you to turn the flap of skin from the calf

up and sew it over the stump?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dr. Bradshaw nodded solemnly as he folded up the towel and

laid it on the table. “Ever have occasion to use a surgeon’s saw before, young man?”

“No, sir.”

“How old are you, Mr. Hatch?”