Quarantine: A Novel (38 page)

“This is not right,” Mr. Ellsworth said. “We have not received

due process.”

“True,” Dr. Wiggins said. “But you see, the epidemic has

closed the court.”

“We must have due process,” Ellsworth insisted. “I know the

law.”

“Indeed you do,” Dr. Bradshaw said, “which makes your

actions all the more culpable.”

“In time,” Dr. Wiggins said, “you may have your day in court.

But in the meantime, your assistance has been deemed necessary.”

“How can you say it’s
necessary?”
Simon Moss said.

“Necessary for your own good, your own protection,” Wig-

gins said. “We understand that that mob out there nearly got to

you in jail last night.” Samuel Sumner, who appeared on the verge 306

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of tears, nodded his head. “That crowd out there may be angry,

but they’re not about to come in here and get you.”

One of the orderlies said, “They ain’t fools, you know,” and

the others laughed.

“This amounts to a death sentence,” Samuel Sumner said, his

voice breaking.

“One without due process,” Ellsworth added. “Without a

proper finding of the court.”

Dr. Wiggins looked about at the orderlies. “I suppose we

could set you free, just open the gates and let you walk out.” This brought more laughter.

Simon Moss asked, “What will you have us do?”

“That can be decided by the volunteers,” Dr. Wiggins said.

“They’ll put you to good use, I’m sure. So go ahead and let them get you started—all of you, except our friend from Boston, Mr.

Clapp. We have something further to discuss.”

The crowd broke up. They took Ellsworth, Moss, and Sumner

away, quite cheered by the prospect of teaching them their new

duties. Leander remained near the side of the tent. The Boston

man, Mr. Clapp, had not once looked up from the ground the

whole time.

Dr. Bradshaw said, “Mr. Clapp, I understand that the money

we gave you for the medicine has not been found aboard the

Miranda.
What have you done with it?”

The old man refused to reply. Emanuel Lunt held his hook

under the old man’s beard until he raised his head. “The doctor

is addressing you, sir.”

“Emanuel,” Dr. Wiggins said.

Reluctantly, Lunt backed away. “I could get it out of him with

one stroke.”

The doctor looked at Mr. Clapp. ““That won’t be necessary,

will it, sir?”

“I will tell you if you let me out of here,” the old man said. “If you release me with a proper escort to protect me from that mob.”

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“Incredible,” Dr. Bradshaw said. “Ellsworth wants a proper

trial and this one wants a proper escort.”

“You’re in no position to bargain now,” Dr. Wiggins said, “let

alone dictate terms.”

“You’ve got your medicine,” Clapp said. “The little good it’ll do.”

“Very well,” Dr. Wiggins said. “We’ll put you to work and

see if that doesn’t change you mind. And in a while we’ll have a talk with my nephew Samuel.”

“That young fool won’t be able to help you find the money,”

Clapp said.

“We’ll see.” Dr. Wiggins turned his head and spoke to Leander.

“What have your duties been since coming here?”

“I gather hot stones and cart them to the tents and—”

The doctor smiled. “At least Dr. Bradshaw hasn’t got you

bleeding patients.”

“Not yet,” Bradshaw said. “But he’s so handy with a saw, I

should see what he can do with a sharp lancet.”

Dr. Wiggins hadn’t taken his eyes off of Leander. “I think Mr.

Clapp should assist you. It might prove edifying.”

R

Fields came to Miranda’s room and informed her that a constable

had brought news regarding Samuel: he had been removed from

the jail and put to work in the pest-house. He added that Enoch

had ordered that a horse be hitched to the two-wheeled chaise

for the ride to the Mall. Miranda immediately went downstairs

and said she would accompany him. At first Enoch refused, but

she was insistent, and in the late afternoon the two of them rode out on High Street.

“You really didn’t know he was involved in this sordid busi-

ness?” Enoch asked.

“No.” The air was exceedingly humid and she waved a fan

before her face.

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“I find that hard to believe, Mother. You two are so thick. Yet

I’ll admit this is so unlike him—it shows real initiative.”

“It’s a matter of greed,” she said, “which is something we all

have in common.”

“True enough.” Her son removed a silver flask from the inside

pocket of his coat and took a sip, then another. As he put the flask away, he said, “But then he never succeeds at anything. He can’t properly bump off his old man—I’m beginning to feel so much

better since he’s left the house—and he can’t pilfer these medical supplies without getting caught.”

“Perhaps you should just admit that this notion of being poi-

soned was an illusion,” Miranda said.

“You’d find that convenient.”

“But this is no illusion: he and the medicine were found

aboard your ship, bound for Boston,” she said. “Tell me you had

no
knowledge of this.”

“None. And if anybody is going to reprimand him, it’s me.”

“Oh, my,” Miranda said with a snort. “The mantle of parental

responsibility so well suits your broad shoulders.”

Enoch pulled the chaise up before the pest-house gates, and

as he climbed down one of the guards ran off into the compound

behind the fence, while Miranda remained in her seat.

“I’m here for my son,” Enoch said, speaking loudly, as though

addressing a crowd.

The other guard at the gate was a corpulent man with a gray

beard streaked with tobacco juice. He cleared his throat nervously, and said, “No one is to enter without doctor’s orders, sir.”

“Then I shall speak with the doctor.”

Relieved, the guard looked back toward the pest-house tents

and saw that Dr. Bradshaw was hurrying toward the gate, accom-

panied by the other guard. Miranda had nothing but disdain for

Bradshaw, despite the fact that he had a sound reputation in Newburyport. She found him uninteresting, and that he possessed the demeanor of an accounting clerk.

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“You are to bring my son here immediately,” Enoch said.

“We can’t do that,” Bradshaw said. “He’s under custody—for

his own protection.”

“Dr. Wiggins,” Miranda said, gazing past him toward the tents.

“He’s here now?”

“At his own insistence, Ma’am,” Bradshaw said.

Enoch now rapped his cane on the wooden gate. “I don’t care

if George Washington is in there, I want my son brought out.

Immediately.”

Miranda climbed down from the chaise and approached the

gate. “I will see Dr. Wiggins. He will exercise some compassion

and common sense. Now open up.” When the guards and Dr.

Bradshaw began to protest, Miranda said, “Open
up,
I say. Dr.

Wiggins is my son and my physician, and I will see him about

this matter.”

Reluctantly, Dr. Bradshaw nodded his consent, and the fat

guard unlatched the gate and swung it back, allowing Miranda

to step inside.

“What are you doing?” Enoch said. “Mother, you shouldn’t

go in there.”

She ignored him and began walking quickly toward the tents.

The men followed her, and she could hear her son trying to keep

up. When she looked about, she saw that he was holding a hand-

kerchief over his nose and mouth. “Don’t be such a coward,” she

said, and turning to Bradshaw, who was at her side, she demanded,

“Where is he?”

“This way, please,” the doctor said.

He led her down a path between two rows of tents. People

came out from the tents to watch this small entourage pass. They were old people mostly, and a number of them were dark-skinned.

They wore waxed coats and aprons that were soiled with blood

and vomit. Finally, Bradshaw stopped before a tent with all sides rolled up. Giles lay on a cot and Marie sat on a stool at his side.

“Two visits in one day,” he said. “I should be honored.”

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“You know why I’m here,” Miranda said.

“I suppose I do,” Giles said.

“I want to see him,” Enoch demanded. “Bring Samuel now.”

“But your son’s making a real contribution here, aiding the

sick,” Giles said. “I’m sure the court will take this into account when it considers his case.”

“He’ll be infected and die,” Enoch said.

“Possibly,” Giles said. “But that’s true for many. Whether

you sit shut up in your fine house on High Street or work here

among the afflicted, there’s an equal chance that you’ll contract this fever.”

“Nonsense,” Miranda said.

“I wish it were, Mother,” Giles said.

Enoch stepped closer to the cot and studied the sheet over

Giles’s legs. “I am told my ship sustained considerable damage on account of your escapade. Privateering days are over, Doctor.”

“Do you not know what your own ship was about, sir?” Giles

asked. “This too might be a matter to be take up in court, once

it reopens.”

“Your implication?”

“You know very well my implication.”

“I had nothing to do with this,” Enoch said.

“Your ship, your son,” Giles said.

Enoch stalked out of the tent and stumbled along the path,

calling out for Samuel.

Miranda took a step toward the cot but stopped when Marie

got to her feet and rinsed out a cloth in a pan of water. Miranda held out her hand and said, “May I?” When Marie hesitated,

Miranda said, “He has cared for me so many years.”

Marie placed the damp cloth in Miranda’s hand. “He eats

almost nothing,” she said, and she began to leave the tent. “I must to bring some broth.”

Miranda approached the cot and laid the cloth on her son’s

forehead. He seemed to have aged years. Gently, she mopped

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his face and neck. It was extremely warm beneath the tent, and

there was the persistent sound of buzzing flies. In the distance she could hear Enoch hollering for Samuel as he wandered through

the camp. “The fool,” she said quietly. “But in this case I really believe he had no knowledge of this business of the medicine.”

“You’re sure?”

“A mother knows these things—you may find this peculiar,

coming from me, but I know my sons and grandson well, too

well.” She went to the basin, rinsed out the cloth, and continued to mop his face. “Samuel is every bit the scoundrel his father was when he was young. Even more unprincipled, in his own way.

Enoch never lacked enterprise. Samuel is always looking for the

short route, the easy way.”

“He’s not finding this so easy now,” Giles said.

“No. Samuel is an utter fool, like his father. But if he dies, or if he is sent to prison, it will destroy me.”

Giles gazed up at her. “Without medicine we’ve been helpless.

People have died because of what he’s done.”

“You must help me,” she said quickly. “I’ve got to get Samuel

out of here.”

He lifted his arm and took the cloth from her hand. “Mother,

you can be hot and cold, and ruthlessly arbitrary, much like

this. . . .”

Involuntarily she stepped back from the cot. “Like this fever?

Perhaps, but you have a better chance of understanding this disease than your own mother.” Somewhere in the camp Enoch was still

shouting, but Miranda also heard Samuel’s voice, pleading. She

turned and began to leave the tent but stopped and looked back

at the cot. “In your attempt to be fair and impartial, you only end up sacrificing your own family.”

“This gives me no pleasure, Mother.” Giles placed the cloth

over his eyes.

She moved through the camp, walking faster as she neared the

sound of Enoch and Samuel’s voices.

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R

Leander and Mr. Clapp were loading the pushcart with hot stones

when the shouting began. Clearly, it was the voice of Enoch

Sumner, high-pitched and raspy, and he slurred his words as

though he were inebriated.

“Shall we have a look?” Mr. Clapp asked. “This might prove

entertaining, at least.”

“All right,” Leander said.

They left the pushcart and walked toward the gate, where

they found Enoch Sumner trying to strike several guards with his cane. His son, Samuel, who was being restrained by the guards,

cried like a child.

“Sir,” one of the guards shouted, “you must leave the premises

immediately.”

Mr. Sumner swung at him with his cane, but missed. “Release

him! I’m ordering you!”

“We don’t take orders from you here,” the guard said.

Again, Mr. Sumner swung his cane. He missed, but this time

he lost his balance and stumbled, causing his wig to shift over on one side of his head.

Two of the guards approached him from behind and took him

by the upper arms. They hustled him—his feet barely touched

the ground—toward the front gate, which was being opened by

another guard.

Suddenly, Mrs. Sumner rushed down the path, screaming, and

when she struck one of the guards with her fists, he let go of her son. There was a struggle that resembled a drunken dance, until

Mrs. Sumner was holding her son away from the guards. “You

would never
dare
to touch him outside this place!” she shouted.