Quarantine: A Novel (7 page)

murmur. “Or it could be something else,” he added. “Throat

distemper, for instance.”

“Well,” Storrs said. “I think it’s sensible to determine what

you’re dealing with before you go and take some precipitous action that will affect the economy of the entire port.”

“I wish it were that simple,” Giles said.

“The fact is,” Hatch said, “by the time we do make a posi-

tive determination, it will be too late to contain it—whatever it is. We know some of the crew slipped ashore before we posted

constables in boats about the ship. Where those men have gone

is anyone’s guess.”

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j o h n s m o l e n s

“The groggeries and whorehouses would be my guess,”

Emanuel said.

“No doubt,” Hatch said. “And if they have the fever—you

know how disease festers and spreads in such places.”

No one spoke.

“This, I’m afraid, is true,” Giles said finally. “And if this is yellow fever, or smallpox—well, the results would be devastating.

We need to take precautions now.”

“Fine,” Simon Moss said. “Shut the entire port down, and we’ll

all survive the fever while we starve to death.”

“Giles, my boy,” Storrs coaxed. “You need assistance. I’ve sent

word to Wilberforce Strong.” He cleared his throat. “His expertise could be of great assistance.”

Giles nodded his head. “The good doctor’s great learning and

experience would be welcomed, certainly.”

“Nonsense,” Emanuel said. “Doctor Strong couldn’t diagnose a

hiccup, unless a healthy fee were in the offing. Look at what he did to Miles Gookin’s wife.” There was the briefest murmur of assent.

“He
is
a doctor,” Storrs said. “Harvard-educated, that is.”

“A man who prescribes powders and pills for female ailments,”

Emanuel said, “isn’t necessarily practicing medicine.”

“You,
sir—”
Storrs began, but Hatch wisely cut him off.

“Listen,” the harbormaster said. “Second opinions are all very

well and good, but we are beyond the point of deliberation. We

have gathered here to determine what measures to take. Now, I

appreciate everyone’s opinion, but I’m telling you that it’s my duty to take whatever action is deemed necessary.”

“What we don’t need right now is some political speech,”

Simon Moss said. “I don’t believe you’re running for election at the moment.”

The other men laughed.

Giles turned around and faced them until they fell silent. “The

facts are these,” he said. “It’s not just a question of keeping the crew of the
Miranda
in quarantine. We’re beyond that. Sailors that 50

q u a r a n t i n e

have already managed to come ashore could have infected any

number of people already.”

“Well,” Jeremiah Storrs said, looking at Mr. Hatch, “we’ll

have them arrested.”

“I’m telling you it’s too late for that,” Giles said.

Storrs sat up in his chair. “It’s never too late to exercise the law.”

“What do you mean, Giles?” Simon Moss asked.

“Last night,” Giles said, “during that storm I was first called

out to Madame Juniper’s Hotel, where one of her girls was ill—

and not with one of the maladies you might expect. She was run-

ning a terrible fever. And there was a sailor there who was also sick, worse off, really.” Storrs was about to speak, but Giles held up his hand and continued: “He wouldn’t admit to being a mate

on the
Miranda
—the fact is, he was so far gone that he couldn’t say anything intelligible at all. Completely delirious.” Giles came around his desk and rested a haunch on the corner. “And that’s

not all. When I returned here last night, Jotham Poe’s daughter

was waiting at the door. I went to his house and found him in the same state as the two at Juniper’s Hotel.”

There was a stunned silence, until Caleb Hatch said, “Jotham

was on the boat with us two nights ago when we went out to

inspect the ship.”

“He was indeed,” Giles said.

“It must be on the air,” Hatch said, the slightest note of

pleading now entering his voice. “Whatever it is, it comes through the air—and we took great care to remain upwind of the vessel.”

“That may be the case,” Giles said, “but I don’t think that

matters here.”

“Then how did Jotham—” Hatch began.

“I asked him where he’d been since the night before,” Giles

said, “and he admitted paying a visit to the madam’s establishment.”

“Which proves it’s not a matter of the air,” Storrs said. “It’s a question of morals.”

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j o h n s m o l e n s

Emanuel took his pipe from his mouth and said, “It’ll spread

quickly along the waterfront—where morality is rarely, if ever,

an impediment.”

Storrs glared at him and leaned forward in his chair.

“Gentlemen,” Giles said quickly, “we have a lot to do. It’s not

just a matter of prohibiting a crew and cargo from entering the

port. We have to put guards on every road so we can control who

comes and goes to and from town. We have to determine the most

appropriate medical procedures. We have to sequester the sick,

establish a place where they can—”

“A place?” Simon Moss asked.

“Yes, we’ve dealt with this sort of thing before. I can’t with

certainty give it a name—there are so many fevers. But I know

this: we’ll need to establish a place where the afflicted may be treated—a pest-house.” Giles suddenly felt defeated and exhausted.

“And we’ll have to dig a pit.”

R

Sarah wouldn’t finish her potato soup. This was not unusual.

She often refused to eat, and it made Leander resentful because

their mother would try to coax her. For such behavior, he would

receive a slap on the head. But his sister’s reluctance to eat also made him hopeful.

Eventually, after Mother had taken Sarah onto her lap, she

pushed the bowl across the table. “We waste not a morsel in this house. Leander, you finish that before it turns stone cold.”

Sometimes this ploy would inspire Sarah to eat. But tonight

she seemed unmoved, and he picked up his spoon before she

might change her mind. His father watched him as he smoked

his pipe.

“She’s burning up,” his mother said, her hand spread across

Sarah’s forehead.

Sarah shook her head. “Cold,” she whispered. “I’m so cold.”

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q u a r a n t i n e

And Leander could hear her teeth chattering. Then suddenly

her body began to convulse. She made a sound as though she’d

been kicked in the stomach, and she vomited on to the table. His mother stood up, holding the girl by her underarms. Shit and

blood ran down her legs.

“It’s the same smell,” Leander said, standing, moving away

from the table. “The horrible smell in Jotham Poe’s barn. I got

it on my hand, my boots, and washed it off in a puddle after the storm passed yesterday.”

His mother laid Sarah on the floor.
“Towels, Caleb,”
she cried.

Sarah gagged as black vomit and bits of potato continued to

issue from her mouth.

R

Some imbecile was playing the harpsichord.

Badly.

Fragments of a melody amid dissonant chords.

Miranda sat at her writing desk, listening to the hands pound

on the keys, and it created a physical reaction, a revulsion that she could not control. The shouts, the screams, the laughter, the glasses smashed in the fireplace—she could tolerate all of that, but not that harpsichord.

She got up and crossed her bedroom, and when she opened

the door the sound of the harpsichord became louder, even more

vulgar, echoing from the parlor. She went down the front stairs

and found a woman’s red shoe on the vestibule floor. The parlor

doors were closed, and when she threw them back everyone

turned and looked at her—there must have been eight or nine

people in the room, but Enoch wasn’t among them. Jonathan

Bream’s periwig was askew, tilted down over his left ear. One of the girls was lying on her back on the divan, her legs kicking in the air, so that her skirts had fallen below the tops of her stockings. Her thighs were creamy white, her pantaloons pink satin.

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But it was another girl at the harpsichord, her cheeks dimpled with the effort, and she was so intent on playing that she didn’t notice Miranda as she crossed the parlor.

“Enough.”
Miranda slammed the lid down on the keyboard—

and the girl just managed to get her fingers out of the way. She looked up at Miranda, petrified.

Miranda turned away and started back toward the vestibule.

Jonathan made an attempt to intercept her, but he must have seen something in her expression because he stepped out of the way and let her pass. She rushed down the hall and yanked open the library door. A girl was bent over the top of the wing-backed chair, her skirts thrown up on to her back. Enoch stood behind her, his pants bunched about his feet, and he gazed at his mother with a pained, helpless expression as he continued to thrust away, moaning woefully.

“They are
not
to touch that instrument,” Miranda said. “Do you hear me?”

A long strand of spittle descended from Enoch’s gaping lower

lip and the girl was gasping in some apparent agony.

“Do you hear
me?” Miranda repeated, louder.

She didn’t wait for a reply but stepped out into the hall, pulling the door shut so hard that the framed paintings clattered against the plaster wall.

R

It was after dark when there came a knock on Giles’s door. He

descended the narrow stairs and found Caleb Hatch standing in

the alley.

“The missus wants me to fetch you. It’s Sarah. She’s taken some

vile fever. Came on all of a sudden at supper, and it only seems to be getting worse.”

“All right,” Giles said. “I’ll just get my bag.” He turned to

go back up the stairs, but paused and looked back at Caleb. “I’m surprised you didn’t send Leander for me at Wolfe Tavern.”

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“I was headed there, when I saw the light in your window,”

Caleb said. “Besides, Amanda says I’m to bring a block of ice back from Mulgrew’s.”

During the afternoon meeting, as the discussion about imposing

the quarantine became heated, Caleb had seemed robust and asser-

tive, as usual, but now he appeared startled, frightened, and even humbled. He was a man with a sick child, taking orders from his

wife, and Giles almost envied him that. “Yes,” he said. “Get some ice. Sarah may need it.”

Caleb went up the alley toward Market Square, and Giles

returned to his rooms, where he gathered up his coat and leather bag. He had been sorting through his supply of medicine, confirming what he had already known: it was insufficient.

R

When Amanda opened the front door and looked out at Giles, her

brow was pinched with anxiety and dread. Yet she was still fair, if weary. As always when he saw her, Giles had to steel himself

against an overwhelming sense of regret.

“Thank you for coming out at this hour,” she said, her voice

barely a whisper.

“I came as quickly as I could, of course.” He stepped inside, and for the briefest moment he couldn’t resist placing his hand on hers before she pushed the door closed. “May I have a look at Sarah?”

Amanda’s eyes had always been large, dark, and expressive.

They used to baffle him. Now they sought from him some hope,

some assurance. She led him into the kitchen, where the girl

was lying under blankets on a ticking-covered mattress by the

fireplace. Her face was deeply flushed, though she was shivering uncontrollably. Giles knelt down and placed his leather bag beside him on the floor. “Sarah,” he said. “It’s only Doctor Wiggins.”

The girl’s eyes were wide open and they moved toward the

sound of his voice. She gave off a powerful odor.

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“Has she issued blood?” he asked.

“Yes,” Amanda said. “I’ve cleaned her, but it doesn’t stop.”

Giles placed his hand on the girl’s forehead, which was hot

and slick with perspiration. He took hold of the blanket and said,

“Sarah, I need to listen to your heart.” But the girl clutched the blanket tighter. The chattering of her teeth was audible. “Sarah, please.”

“Doctor Wiggins must examine you,” Amanda said. “Now

do as you’re told.”

Sarah appeared confused as she turned her head in the direction

of her mother’s voice. Her blond curls, glistening in the firelight, reminded Giles of Amanda when they were in school together.

With both his hands he took hold of Sarah’s tight fists and

carefully pried the fingers open. “That’s better,” he said. “I just need a moment, and then we will bundle you up again.”

Sarah’s nightshirt was soaked, and the doctor quickly unfas-

tened the wooden buttons. He lowered his head to the girl’s chest, the skin hot and damp against his ear. There was a pronounced

rattle to her breathing, and her heart thumped rapidly against her narrow rib cage. Straightening up, he said, “I would wash her

again and keep her in dry clothes.”

“I have been trying,” Amanda said. “She has soiled all of her

own, and now I’m using her brother’s.”

“Of course.” Giles got to his feet and stepped aside. “Where

is Leander?”

“I sent him up to the loft and he is not to come downstairs.”

“Good.”

Amanda got down on her knees, leaned over her daughter,

and began to remove her damp clothing.

Giles went out into the dooryard, the evening air a relief after the heat from the fireplace. Chickens stirred in the coop, and there was the smell of wood smoke throughout the neighborhood. He