Bunker Hill by Howard Fast

bastard!”
    “Hey, Doctor. Hold on!”
    They were
a wretched-looking lot to Feversham’s eyes, four of them, unshaven, barefoot,
their shirts stained and dirty. When Church would have ridden by, one man
grabbed his bridle while another caught him by the arm and tumbled him into the
dust. For all of Feversham’s dislike, he felt pity for the fat little man lying
face down in the road. Other men and women came running to see what the
excitement was all about, and by the time Feversham had reached Church and
helped him to his feet, there was quite a crowd around them. The man who had
tumbled Church off his horse grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and began
to shake him violently.
    “Let go of him!” Feversham snapped.
    “He put death’s touch on my brother.”
    Church
tried to speak, but he had lost his breath, and he could not get a word out.
“The devil you say!” cried Feversham. “No one puts death’s touch on anyone.
Suppose you talk sense.”
    “Who are you?”
    “He’s a
limey, that’s who he is,” said the man who was still hanging on to the bridle
of Church’s horse.
    “I’m Dr. Feversham. Now what’s all this about your
brother?”
    Church
found his voice and remembered. He had been called there the day before and had
given the boy medicine. He had a bit of fever and vomiting.
    “What kind of medicine?” Feversham demanded.
    “Salts.”
    “No one dies of salts.”
    “Are you a
real doctor?” the man asked him. Feversham simply stared at him. At the
coldness of his look, the crowd quieted.
    “Is your
brother dead or alive?”
    “Alive.”
    “Where is
he?”
    The man
pointed to the shack. Feversham started for the hut, and the four men stood
still, watching him silently. Then, when Feversham reached the door, the man
with the brother ran after him, grasped his arm, and whispered into his ear,
“Smallpox.”
    Feversham
took a deep breath. “How do you know?”
    “ I seen it plenty. Don’t go in. Make that little bastard go
in. He give it to him.”
    “ Don’t be an ass ,” Feversham muttered, and went on into the
shack. It was hot, dark, and airless inside. A boy of fourteen or fifteen lay
on a blanket, and as Feversham bent over him, he began to whimper.
    “I got the
pox, mister. Don’t you come near me. ”
    “Sit up,” Feversham told him brusquely.
    “I be sick nigh to death.”
    “Sit up!”
    He sat up,
and Feversham peered at his face. From outside, Church whispered hoarsely, “Get
out of there, Feversham. It’s the pox.”
    “Look,
son,” Feversham said gently, “I want you to get up and come out into the
light.”
    “I can’t.
I’m dying.”
    “You’re
not dying. Now do as I say!”
    The boy
groaned, climbed to his feet, and then followed Feversham out of the shack. By
now almost a hundred men and women had gathered around from the sprawl of tents
and lean-tos. Feversham looked at the boy’s face and touched one of the sores
with his finger.
    “Church!”
    The doctor
hung back, just in front of the crowd that was carefully keeping its distance.
Now a tall, lean man, who had an old sword slung over his shoulder, pushed
through the crowd and made his way over to Feversham.
    “I’m
Captain Hawkins,” he declared. “What’s all this? Has the lad the smallpox? If
he has, it’s sure enough hell in store for us.”
    “Goddamn
you, Church,” Feversham said. “Will you come over here and look at this boy, or
must I drag you over?”
    Church
came with slow steps, stared, and then smiled.
    “Chicken pox?” asked Feversham.
    “Chicken pox,” Church agreed. “Plain
as the nose on his face.”
    “Chicken pox!” Hawkins
yelled to the crowd. “Chicken pox!”
    “Ignorant
louts,” said Church as they mounted their horses. Feversham made no comment.
“Connecticut,” Church went on. He was thick-skinned. His feelings were not to
be hurt, or else they had been hurt so often that it no longer mattered.
“There’s the most benighted place on earth, and