Quarantine: A Novel by John Smolens

its
    course.”
    “Can’t you give it a name?” Moss asked.
    “It could be yellow fever,” Giles said. The others began to
    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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    “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,