Quarantine: A Novel (9 page)

screaming and father and son were shouting. At one end of the

room, they had to negotiate around the maid, who still lay unconscious on the floor. Finally, both men were so winded that they

paused at opposite ends of the long table, gasping for air.

Fields arrived with a pitcher of Madeira and glasses on a silver tray. Enoch served himself, his hands shaking. “Fields,” he said,

“bring me the key to the gun cabinet.”

Fields said, “I’m afraid it’s been misplaced, sir.”

“The hell it has.” Enoch drained his glass. “My beloved mother

put you up to this.”

“They’ll be no bloodshed in this house,” Miranda said. “Not

without my
say-so.”

Enoch seemed to notice Cedella for the first time. With the tip

of his cane he pushed her skirt up until her knees were exposed.

“Such fine, shapely legs,” he mused.

Miranda approached her son, causing him to retreat instinc-

tively, despite the fact that he was the one armed with a cane.

With her foot she pulled the maid’s skirt down until the girl was fairly decent.

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“Well,” Enoch said. “I’m famished from my morning’s labors.

Might one get a morsel in his own house?”

“Certainly, sir,” Fields said as he served Samuel a glass of wine.

“I am, too,” Samuel said. “That ship left France with little

more than salt cod and hardtack. What have you got, Fields?”

“Yes,” Enoch said. “Go see what is being prepared in the

kitchen.”

Disgusted, Miranda went to the dining room door. “Fields,

see if you can manage to revive the maid. Otherwise, you’ll have to serve luncheon yourself.”

R

Giles walked out on Sumner’s Wharf with Dr. Eli Bradshaw and

Dr. Wilberforce Strong. Though there were perhaps a dozen ships

tied up, there was no activity—no crew, no stevedores, no hoisting of cargo and livestock.

“The only thing that spreads faster than an epidemic is word of

one,” Dr. Strong said. He was the eldest physician in Newbury-

port, and he primarily confined his practice to the great houses in the High Street vicinity. He was a short, obese man in a blue silk coat and a tricorn hat sporting a yellow plume. His slow waddle

dictated the pace of all three men. “It’s so quiet here on the wharf, as though everyone has gone to Sunday meeting—and well might

they pray, as it will be their only salvation.”

Dr. Bradshaw was tall, and he walked with his long arms

clasped behind his back. He stared at the worn boards in front of him, as though he were carefully considering his every step. “The cause of this fever is so apparent. It’s the composition of the air, the air and the soil, and their inherent putrefaction. This sort of thing has been building up for years, and now it’s being released with greater frequency. It will continue until our world is forever changed. I suspect it may eventually eliminate humanity from the face of the earth.”

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j o h n s m o l e n s

“The seeds of this fever,” Dr. Strong insisted, “come from

within. It’s simply a question of behavior. Look at the Irish—look at these dark folk from the Caribbean and Africa. How do they

live? In sin—sin, which ultimately manifests itself in the form of disease. It’s the Lord Almighty calling them to accounts, pure and simple. How often does the Bible mention plague, epidemic, and

pestilence? These people must abandon their profligate ways if they wish to survive. You’re much too wedded to scientific notions, Eli.

Scripture first. There lies your answer: drunkenness and fornication—eliminate them and you will have a healthy population.”

Giles had been reluctant to meet with his two colleagues, but

he knew that he could not refuse; to do so would constitute a

professional insult, and it would jeopardize any attempt on his

part to work with them should an epidemic occur. As they strode

along the wharf, he looked out across the Merrimack toward the

salt marshes that formed a green apron around Ring’s Island. He

waved a hand in front of his face and asked, “Have you noticed

the mosquitoes since the weather has turned warm and humid?”

Bradshaw and Strong ignored his comment. They usually did.

He was not a true physician, but a ship’s surgeon with no formal medical education who was given to drink. It was only out of

some vague remnant of patriotism that they acknowledged his

efforts at all. Strong had once said, “I hear you proved to be a good man with a saw.”

When they reached the end of the wharf, Dr. Bradshaw drew

in a deep breath. “Smell it. The air is much fresher out here over the water, whereas back in Market Square one is exposed to the

most unhealthy vapors.”

“God gave us all the same air to breathe,” Dr. Strong

announced, as though there was no purpose in further discussion.

“Wilberforce,” Dr. Bradshaw said with a note of condescen-

sion in his voice, “you must needs read something other than the Bible.”

“Careful, Doctor,” Strong said. “You’re prone to blasphemy.”

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“There is research,” Bradshaw said. “There are men of science,

of medicine who are applying all of their powers of logic to this and other conditions that threaten the human endeavor. All of our major cities—Philadelphia, New York, Baltimore, Boston—all

of them have in recent years suffered a marked increase in fever epidemics. Everything—symptoms, the weather, the various kinds

of treatments—all must be duly observed and recorded so that a

rational assessment may be ventured.”

Bradshaw was perhaps ten years Giles’s senior. His long, clean-

shaven face was turned toward the sun, which illuminated his pale blue eyes. “What have you read, Doctor?” Giles asked.

“Oh, many first-hand accounts by the men who have treated

the diseased in these cities. It’s fascinating, really. The symptoms of the fever can vary tremendously from one victim to the next.

Blood may issue from every orifice—the mouth, the nose, the

ears, the anus, the vagina. One common element is the occur-

rence of black vomit.”

“All the result of lewd and lascivious tendencies,” Dr. Strong

said.

Bradshaw ignored him. “What’s interesting is that the symp-

toms not only come on quickly, but they can often turn a perfectly rational person into a raging lunatic.”

“These first-hand accounts,” Giles pressed, “do the authors

arrive at any conclusions regarding the source of these outbreaks?”

Bradshaw nodded his head slowly. “Indeed they do. Just a

few years ago, Noah Webster wrote a two-volume tome on the

subject, and after gathering considerable evidence he came to the opinion that these diseases are obviously caused by earthquakes

and volcanoes.”

“Beg your pardon?” Giles asked.

“Absolutely,” Bradshaw said. “It’s all very logically established.

Webster suggests, for instance, that the recent eruption of Mount Etna on the island of Sicily may have a severely detrimental effect upon the earth for years to come. You see, such catastrophic events 67

j o h n s m o l e n s

alter the earth’s composition—they open up the ground, so

to speak, releasing a vile combination of noxious miasma. It

travels on the wind, and perhaps through the oceans’ currents.”

He gestured toward the Atlantic beyond Plum Island. “Look

where we live, gentlemen. Ours is a latitude of pestilence. The

climate is only beginning to produce such devastating scourges.

I expect Noah Webster will long be remembered for his dire

prognosis.”

“Oh, enough of this nonsense, Eli,” Dr. Strong said. “You’ll

look the world over for your causes and fail to see that it’s right before your eyes.”

Dr. Strong began to hobble back up the wharf.

“Doctors, please,” Giles said. “This is not the time for philo-

sophical debate. The fact is we don’t know the cause of such outbreaks of fever, and worse, we don’t know of any cure.”

Strong hesitated and turned around, while Bradshaw rested a

haunch on a bollard.

“You know that I’m a simple surgeon,” Giles said. “I haven’t

your learning, and only a fraction of your experience. Frankly, I’d prefer dealing with the ailments that beset a ship-of-the-line in the heat of battle. There’s no question of cause when dealing with wounded sailors and soldiers. Their ‘diseases’ are the sort one can see—grapeshot and broken bones. There are proven cures for torn

flesh and pulverized limbs. But something like
this
—this fever, whatever it is—it is invisible and, with all due respect, Dr. Strong, I don’t see any evidence that it confines itself to people of a particular color or nationality, or that it has anything to do with their morals.”

“Jotham Poe!” Dr. Strong shouted. “You both know about

him—he’s one of those constables, a bunch of paid ruffians, if

you ask me. You yourself said that he visited one of the houses of assignation here along the waterfront—”

“Come now, Wilberforce,” Bradshaw said.

“—and,” Strong continued, “there’s word that some of these

harlots have fallen ill.”

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“Not to mention the harbormaster’s daughter, Sarah, a blind

child—what is her sin?” Giles asked, and before Dr. Strong could muster his rebuttal, he continued, “Listen, gentlemen, please, a pest-house is to be constructed on the Mall. Our first duty is to manage its operation. We’re going to have to determine who

should be admitted and who should not. We’re going to have to

separate the sick from the healthy, and try to do so without causing outright panic.” He looked at Dr. Bradshaw. “If you’ve read the

newspaper accounts, Eli, you know that’s been one of the greatest dangers in places like Philadelphia and New York—when people

fear for their lives, panic ensues. Lawlessness prevails.”

Reluctantly, Dr. Bradshaw nodded his head.

But Dr. Strong said, “Nonsense. You cannot arrest God’s

hand—no man stays His will.” And again he began to walk back

up the wharf.

Giles started after him, but Bradshaw caught him by the arm.

“Leave him be.”

“He’s the most respected physician in Newburyport—we’re

going to need him.”

“True,” Eli said. He let go of Giles’s arm and slapped at a

mosquito on his neck. “But right now he’s just a frightened old

man, and perhaps the most sensible of us all. We should all pray for God’s mercy.”

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Seven

Leander watched as his father carried Sarah out the

kitchen door and placed her in the wheelbarrow, which he had

lined with a blanket. His mother removed her shawl from the wall peg and pulled it about her shoulders.

“I want to go too,” he said.

His mother went out the door but paused on the stoop. In the

morning sunlight she was very pale. “You are to stay down in

Joppa with your grandfather, understand?” she said. “Don’t look at me like that.” Her eyes were enormous and she was on the verge

of tears. “You do not come home. You do not go near the Mall.

We will send for you.” She reached out and touched his cheek,

then slammed the door behind her.

After they left, Leander walked back through the South End

toward Joppa Flats. There were many carts and wagons rattling

along the streets—it had been this way throughout the night as

Newburyporters headed up the Merrimack valley toward Haver-

hill and Lowell or took the Carr’s Island ferry across the river and into New Hampshire, three miles to the north. He passed

the Hammonds, a family with six children and a tethered cow,

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and Manasseh Cowles with his old mother lying on her bed in a

wagon. Houses on every street were shuttered as though awaiting

a nor’easter.

When he reached his grandfather’s house, Leander knocked

on the kitchen door, which was freshly painted a deep green. As

he waited, he gazed out at the river. The tide was high and the

flats were still covered with water. Seagulls were everywhere,

cawing. They wheeled above the river in search of fish. Nearer to shore they found crabs, which they took into the sky and dropped repeatedly on rocks until the shells broke open, and then the birds would alight on the rock and pick away at the exposed meat. There was much flourishing of wings as they protected their quarry.

After knocking on the door a second time, Leander consid-

ered walking down to his grandfather’s clam shack on the beach.

Though it would be a few hours before the water was low enough

for clamming, Papi often spent the high tide hours at the shack, mending his dreeners, honing his shucking knives on the stone.

Leander was about to take the path down to the beach, when he

heard a sound from inside the house. A thump, as though some-

thing heavy had fallen on the floor.

He opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. The house

was small, and since his grandmother had died the rooms had

lost their sense of tidiness and order. Dirty plates and dishes were stacked in the iron washtub, and there was a foul smell—some

meat, perhaps, that had gone to rot.

“Papi?” Leander went to the fireplace, which was cold, the

ashes spilled out on to the hearthstones. “Papi? You still sleeping?”

There was a creak of a floorboard from the other room, where

his grandfather slept. Leander walked toward the door, but stopped when Papi stepped into the room, stark naked. He held a stick in his right hand and raised it like a club. His eyes were wild, and his beard was encrusted with something black. Blood trailed from both nostrils as well, and the insides of his legs were covered with shit and blood.