Time's Convert

“I’ve had nothing but gruel, apples, and vegetables for most of the summer.” Thanks to Tom’s books, and the glimpses he’d had of the newspapers, Marcus knew what doctors advised. A strict diet that avoided rich foods and meat was recommended—and it just happened to be all that Marcus’s family could afford.

“I see.” Buckland studied Marcus’s face. “Does your father know?”

Marcus shook his head.

“And your ma?” Buckland asked. “What does she think of this plan?”

“She was inoculated when she was a girl.”

“I know her medical history, Marcus. What I’m asking is whether she approves of you staying here, locked up with Zeb, for the next three weeks?”

Marcus fell silent.

“She doesn’t know.” Buckland sighed. “I suppose you’re going to want me to tell her.”

“I’d be much obliged, Tom. Thank you.” Marcus was relieved. He didn’t want his mother to worry. Marcus would be back—just as soon as he was recovered. “If you could look in on Patience, too, I’d be grateful.”

Patience was withdrawn and wan. She spent too much time on her own, and seemed scared of her own shadow.

“All right, Marcus. I’ll do what you ask. But”—Buckland held up one finger in warning—“you must swear you will stay here until your scabs dry up and fall off. You are not to go hunting. Or visit the Porters’ store. Or come to Northampton to borrow a book. I have enough problems treating returning soldiers like Zeb without a full-fledged epidemic on my hands.”

Because the course of the disease was so much milder when it was contracted through inoculation compared to what happened if you caught it from contagion, some people got complacent and went about their business, not realizing the smallpox was hatching like a chick inside their bodies.

“I promise. Besides, I’ve got everything I need.” Marcus held up his already much-thumbed copy of Common Sense.

“You better not let your father catch you reading that,” Buckland said. “Paine’s calls for equality don’t sit well with him.”

“There’s nothing wrong with fairness.” Marcus sat on the floor next to Zeb’s pallet of folded blankets. He rolled up his shirtsleeve.

“Folks are always in favor of fairness, until they have to give up something they have to someone else.” Buckland drew a lancet from his medicine box. The double-edged scalpel was narrow and razor sharp. Zeb eyed Buckland warily.

“Don’t worry, Zeb,” Marcus said with feigned cheerfulness. “The knife is for me.”

Buckland bit off a piece of thread. Carefully, he drew it through one of Zeb’s open pox sores. Yellow-and-white pus soaked the red linen fiber.

Marcus extended his left arm. He wanted the left arm inoculated in case things went badly and he lost feeling in it because of the scars. Marcus would still need a working trigger finger to be a soldier.

Buckland scratched Marcus’s forearm with the lancet. He and Marcus had discussed the Suttonian method of inoculation last summer, after Marcus returned from Bunker Hill and smallpox began its sweep through Boston. It was a new technique, one that carried less risk because the inoculation incisions were far shallower than previous methods.

Marcus watched his blood well up in crisscross lines. The marks reminded him of the plaid fabric that Patience wove.

“You’re sure, Marcus? Zeb doesn’t have a mild case of smallpox. And he caught it through exposure.” Ideally, Tom would have administered pus taken from someone who had also been inoculated. But this was a risk Marcus needed to take.

“Do it, Tom.” Marcus was quivering inside, but his voice was steady.

Buckland drew the thread through the incisions on Marcus’s skin until the red thread darkened with blood, indicating that the smallpox-soaked linen had done its work.

“Lord help us all if this goes wrong,” Buckland said, his forehead shining with perspiration.

* * *

—

OVER THE NEXT SEVEN DAYS, the smallpox advanced under Marcus’s skin with the deliberation the British army had shown in Boston, changing everything in its path.

The first sign that the inoculation was working had been a crushing headache. Then his kidneys started to ache, the pain spreading across his back. Marcus had vomited up the crust of bread and cup of ale he’d forced down at breakfast. Now the fever overtook him. It felt like the worse ague Marcus had ever experienced.

Marcus knew that the fever would drop temporarily, maybe for a day or even just a few hours. He looked forward to that brief lull in the storm of infection before the disease rallied once more and erupted through the skin in painful blisters. Until then, he was trying to distract himself with Common Sense.

“Here’s the part I told you about, Zeb.” Marcus’s head swam with fever, and he had to concentrate to keep the words from squirming all over the page.

“‘In the early ages of the world, according to the scripture chronology, there were no kings,’” Marcus continued. Sweat ran into his eyes, the salt stinging. He wiped at his nose, and his fingers came away bloody. “Imagine that, Zeb. A world without kings.”

The water had run out hours ago. Usually it was Marcus who went outside to fetch the fresh pails left by Tom Buckland. Just the thought of cold, clear water made Marcus run his dry tongue over his parched lips. His throat was painfully constricted, and when he swallowed there was a foul taste in his mouth.

Weary and thirsty, Marcus dropped the book and slid to the floor. Every part of him ached, and he didn’t have the energy to find a more comfortable position.

“I’m just going to rest my eyes for a few minutes,” Marcus said.

* * *

—

THE NEXT THING MARCUS was aware of was Joshua Boston’s dark face floating over him. Marcus blinked.

“Thank God,” Joshua said. “You gave us a fright, Marcus.”

“You’ve been senseless for two days,” Zeb said. His feet were healing, and though the sores on his face had left scars, he was recognizable now. “Dr. Buckland thought we might lose you.”

Marcus tried to sit up, tamping down the nausea that resulted from this simple movement. He studied his left arm. What been a crisscrossing set of red lines was now a large, oozing sore. He would never have to fear smallpox again—but the disease had almost taken his life. Marcus felt as weak as one of Patience’s kittens.

Joshua held a dipper to Marcus’s lips. Water stung his cracked skin, but the cool liquid washed down his throat like manna.

“What’s the news?” Marcus croaked.

“You are. Everybody in town knows you’re here,” Joshua said. “They’re all talking about it.”

Marcus knew it would be another five days—four if he was lucky—before the scab fell off.

“Where’s my book?” Marcus’s eyes searched the barely furnished room.

“Here it is.” Joshua handed him the copy of Common Sense. “From what Zeb’s been saying, it sounds like you’ve read the whole thing.”

“It was a way to pass the time,” Marcus said, comforted by the familiar feeling of the slim pamphlet in his hand. It was a solid reminder of why he had subjected himself to inoculation, and why he was risking his father’s wrath to follow the cause of liberty. “Besides, Zeb had a right to know we’re a democracy now, and people want freedom and equality.”

“Some, perhaps. But I don’t think the majority of people in Hadley, patriot or not, would ever sit down and sup with me,” Joshua said.

“The declaration made in Philadelphia said all men are created equal—not some men,” Marcus said, in spite of his misgivings.

“And it was written by a man who owns hundreds of slaves,” Joshua replied. “You better get your head out of the clouds, Marcus, or you’re going to have a hard landing when you come back to earth.”

* * *

—

IT TOOK SEVEN MORE DAYS for the scab to fall off, days during which Marcus read and reread Common Sense, debated politics with Joshua, and began to teach Zeb how to read. Finally, Tom Buckland pronounced him fit to go home.