The Lazarus Curse (16 page)

F
irst light found Thomas in his laboratory. He had identified some leaves from a plant Mr. Bartlett captioned
Fevillea cordifolia,
apparently a popular herbal remedy among the Negroes. Also known as antidote cocoon, a small amount, according to Dr. Perrick, opened up the body and produced an appetite, whereas a large dose induced both stools and vomit. Infused with wine, the ground seeds of the plant could be given as an antidote to various poisons. So he had pounded the kernels and steeped them in wine for two hours, before straining the liquid.

As he worked, he battled with his own conscience. There was no question in his mind that Mistress Carfax was being poisoned, in all probability by one of the household slaves, the same one, perhaps, who tried to blind the dog. Yet if he informed Carfax of his suspicions, there would be no chance of justice for the accused. He simply hoped that this formula worked quickly and that Cordelia Carfax would be fully restored in a day or two. He poured the reddish liquid into a bottle and braved the snow once more.

If, as he suspected, Mistress Carfax was being poisoned by Phibbah, then the girl must not be allowed anywhere near her mistress. Yet if he told Carfax, she would be beaten to within an inch of her life and, most probably, hanged for attempted murder. He found himself torn between natural justice and his duty. He only hoped that the matron had not worsened overnight.

Cordelia Carfax remained weak and feverish but her abdominal pains seemed to have lessened and she had held down a cup of sweetened water. Heartened to find his patient in less pain, Thomas offered Venus the bottle of physic and instructed it be given at regular intervals until she was better.

The slave girl, Phibbah, was, once again, in the room, mending the fire. He moved closer to her, just to make sure that his memory was not playing tricks on him. He saw her place the poker back in the stand and focused his attention on her hand. He had not been imagining her thumbnail. It was inordinately long compared with her other nails. He resolved to speak with Venus.

As soon as Phibbah left the room, he turned to the housekeeper. “I think it best that you take sole charge of your mistress’s care,” he told her.

Venus’s flawless complexion suddenly wrinkled. “Sir?”

She would not make this any easier for him, he could see that. “It is important that she be given the correct dose of the physic and I believe you are best able to do that,” Thomas told her earnestly. He was looking at her intently, watching for a flicker of understanding, before he added: “You are more capable than Phibbah. Do you understand?”

Venus nodded, but in such a way that Thomas remained unsure as to whether she had taken his meaning.

She returned an odd, inscrutable look. “I understand, Dr. Silkstone,” she replied.

It was early afternoon when the carriage dropped Thomas back in Hollen Street, but already the shadows were lengthening and the northerly wind blew stiffly down the narrow street. He turned to ascend the front steps of his house. As he did so, however, he happened to glance up and saw two gentlemen, dressed in sombre clothes, standing on the opposite side of the street looking at him. As their eyes met, one of them stepped backward into the shelter of a wall. The other quickly followed. Thomas faltered for a second. Should he ignore them and go into his house or should he cross the street and address them? He decided on the former course of action. His unpleasant encounters with hooligans and cutpurses in this great city had taught him to look out for his own safety on the streets. He would not tempt fate again.

Striding upstairs, he went immediately to check on his patient. Between them, he and Helen had managed to stretcher the injured Negro, still unconscious, into the second floor guest room, much to Mistress Finesilver’s displeasure. The temperature in the room was only a little more agreeable than the landing. The blinds had been left up all day and a fearful draft blew through a gap in the ill-fitting window. Helen had lit a fire in the grate, but it had not been properly tended. Thomas suspected that Mistress Finesilver had instructed the maid to enter the room only on her orders, and, judging by her sour manner toward their guest, that would not be often.

Edging closer to the bed Thomas heard his patient breathing, the air rattling in his chest. He checked his pulse. It was remarkably strong, and the fever seemed to have disappeared, giving him cause to believe he may recover consciousness. He did not have to wait long. His ministering seemed to have alerted the young man who, just as soon as Thomas had turned to open his case, suddenly let out a low groan.

Whirling ’round the doctor saw his patient’s unharmed eyelid slowly open. It swiveled in its socket, taking in its new surroundings. Then, after a few moments, the young man’s mouth tightened, not in a smile but in a look of fear. Bending low, Thomas quickly tried to reassure him.

“Do not worry,” he soothed. “You have been badly hurt, but I am a surgeon. My name is Dr. Silkstone.”

Thomas saw the young man push his legs away from him, as if to ease the act of sighing, which came next in a long and painful breath.

“Doc-tor Silk-stone,” repeated the young man. He spoke as if each syllable stabbed his tongue like a dagger, but Thomas also detected a glimmer of recognition; as if his name was already known to him.

The doctor drew up a chair and carefully unwound the bandage that swathed the slave’s head wound. Reaching for a candle, he inspected it closely. It was deep, but it seemed to be scabbing over. He would let the yellow crust continue to develop. There was a school of thought that propounded that scabs should not be allowed to form and should be knocked off. However, he was of the opinion that scabbing was a necessary part of the healing process to be encouraged.

“You are doing well,” he told his patient. But he had wasted his breath. The young man’s eyes were again closed. He had lost consciousness once more.

Returning down the stairs, Thomas heard the bell ring and arrived in the hallway in time to see Mistress Finesilver open the door, an arctic blast flooding inside as she did so.

Two men stood on the front step; both were equally tall, but the older one had a concave face and a large nose, whereas the other was younger and generally more rounded. They each wore heavy dark coats with expressions on their faces that were every bit as funereal.

“May I help you gentlemen?” asked Thomas before Mistress Finesilver could launch into her usual tirade. Dr. Silkstone should not be disturbed after the hour of eight o’clock unless their business was of an extremely urgent nature, she would say, although she never couched her meaning so delicately.

The taller man stepped forward a pace, whipping off his hat despite the cold, to reveal a gray wig. His face was angular and the chill had rendered his complexion as mottled as a map, all red blotches and blue veins.

“Dr. Silkstone?” he asked, giving a shallow bow.

“I am he,” acknowledged Thomas.

“We should like to speak with you on a matter of great import,” he began. His demeanor was intense, almost grave, but not threatening.

The doctor gestured the strangers inside. “The study, please,” he said, ushering them toward the door. “I am afraid there is no fire in our drawing room.”

Thomas introduced Dr. Carruthers, who had been dozing by the hearth, and bade them sit.

“What is it that I can do for you gentlemen?” he asked, seating himself opposite them.

Again, the taller man spoke. “Let me introduce ourselves, sir. This is Mr. Clarkson and I am Granville Sharp.”

“Sharp?” repeated the old anatomist.

The man shot a glance at Dr. Carruthers. “I am known to you, sir?”

Carruthers chuckled and shifted in his chair excitedly. “Your reputation as a champion of the oppressed precedes you, sir, and I am most honored to welcome you into my home.” Turning to Thomas he explained: “This, young fellow, is the gentleman who sponsored the case of the slave I was telling you about.”

“Jonathan Strong?” queried Thomas.

“The very same!” exclaimed Carruthers excitedly.

Thomas smiled broadly. “Then you are indeed most welcome, sirs,” he reiterated. “But how can we help you?”

Sharp nodded and leaned forward in his seat, as if he were about to impart a secret. “We are but a small group of men that finds slavery in all its forms to be against the law of both god and nature. We are therefore committed to work for its abolition.”

Thomas nodded sympathetically. “An admirable ideal, gentlemen,” he said. “And one that has my full support.” Yet there was a slight catch in his voice. “How does this concern me?”

Sharp’s brows knitted into a frown. “Forgive me if you believe we are intruding into your affairs, sir,” he began. “But we have reason to believe that you have recently given quarter to a”—he fumbled for the appropriate word—“stranger.”

Thomas suddenly tensed as he wondered how they knew he was harboring a runaway slave. He felt his heart beat faster and his mouth go dry.

Seeing the young doctor’s reaction, Sharp responded by raising his hands. “It is true, sir. I confess we have been surveying your movements.”

“My movements?” queried Thomas, growing increasingly alarmed.

The younger man intervened. “There is an inn, sir, the Crown, where Negroes gather. Our Quaker friends distribute pamphlets there and try to help them. That is how we heard, sir, of your charity, at the Carfax household.”

“We only followed you to affirm our purpose,” Sharp tried to assure him.

“And what might this purpose be, sir?” asked Thomas, warily.

The older man, after taking a deep breath, continued. “If you have shown charity to an injured stranger, sir, then we commend you, but I am afraid we also come to warn you.”

Thomas cocked his head. “To warn me?” he repeated. “Against what, pray?”

Sharp and Clarkson exchanged nervous glances.

“It is not our way to disguise the truth, Dr. Silkstone. We believe in speaking plainly,” the latter pointed out.

Thomas nodded. “That is a quality I much appreciate,” he replied.

Clarkson pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his small nose. “We are here,” he continued, “because we have heard of your reputation for good works, sir; and believe that you champion the poor and the vulnerable.”

The doctor gave a flat smile. “I do what I can.”

Sharp took up the running. “We also believe, Dr. Silkstone, that you are caring for a slave who has run away by the name of Jeremiah Taylor.”

“And if I am, sir?”

Sharp took a deep breath. “If you are, sir, I am afraid you must know that it is not an end to the matter.”

In his fireside chair Dr. Carruthers grunted. “I feared as much,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Thomas shot a look at his mentor. What was it he had said? He had known he was taking a risk by caring for a slave. He knew he had to accept any consequences.

“Gentlemen, I am a surgeon and a physician. If I care for a man it is because it is my duty to do so, regardless of whether he is free or a slave, white or black,” he told them.

The bespectacled man nodded sympathetically. “We do understand that, sir, and we admire your compassion,” he began.

Thomas detected a caveat. “But?”

Sharp resumed his warning. “But we are here to tell you that the slave’s master will want him back,” he said in a way that needled the doctor.

Thomas felt the anger swelling in his chest and he broke in suddenly. “Then the slave’s master will have to deal with me first,” he replied.

Clarkson’s features tightened. “That is what we fear, Dr. Silkstone. By protecting the slave you are putting yourself at risk.”

Thomas nodded. “I am aware of that, gentlemen,” he replied, suppressing his mounting sense of outrage. “But that man upstairs was left for dead. If I had not found him, he would be buried by now. What right does one man, whoever he is, have to own another?”

At these words, Dr. Carruthers clapped his hands together. “Bravo, young fellow!” he exclaimed.

Sharp wore the wearied look of a seasoned campaigner. “Your sentiments are, indeed, admirable, sir, but the slave’s master is looking for him. There are posters, leaflets . . . There is even a reward.” He reached into his leather bag and pulled out a handbill offering ten guineas for the safe return of a slave known as Jeremiah.

Thomas studied the leaflet. It described the runaway as almost six feet tall and wearing a dark blue coat. It matched the description of the young Negro upstairs. He flung the paper down on a nearby table in disgust.

“If his master comes calling I shall deny all knowledge of this person, gentlemen,” he said.

Sharp gave a wry smile. “I admire your principled stand, Dr. Silkstone. I am thankful that all Englishmen are born free, but those who are merely brought here from the Colonies deserve our protection, too, and I am afraid they do not get it. That is why we are trying to spread the word among them in taverns and coffeehouses and the like.”

“And you do a marvelous job!” interjected Dr. Carruthers.

Sharp shrugged. “Thank you, sir. That may be so, but what I am saying, Dr. Silkstone, is if you should need to fight this case in the courts, then please feel free to contact me.” With these words he rose, walked over to Thomas, and held out his calling card.

Thomas rose, too, and took it. “Thank you, Mr. Sharp,” he said, looking first at the card, then at his guest. He knew he would be a valuable ally if, or when, the young slave’s master came calling.

W
hite snow was falling on the white man’s land. It was a sign, as if a sign were needed, thought Cato, that this was a place where he did not belong. His Coromantee name was Cudjoe. He had been born on a ship bound for Jamaica, but his mother had died shortly after his birth and his father had committed suicide, jumping overboard at the first opportunity rather than submit to the whip. At first he had been gifted to a white mistress who was kind to him, but as he grew, he seemed to lose the charm he had held and other, younger boys, slipped into his buckled shoes. He had worked in the Carfax household for fifteen years and now he had run away. It was not a decision he had taken lightly. Yes, there had been the odd beating at the hands of Mr. Roberts, the occasional withdrawal of food, but in general, his treatment, certainly compared with that of his fellows on the sugar plantations that he’d heard and seen, was bearable.

No, the reason he had slipped out of the back door of his master’s house one night with the intention of never returning was because he had a plan. Under cover of darkness he had made his way to the Crown Inn. A new life, a free life in Africa awaited him. That is what was promised them on the pieces of paper handed out at the inn. Tonight he would be freed from bondage and liberated, forever.

The African brother with the gold tooth ushered him into a back room where the obeah-man sat on his mat, a goatskin draped around his bony shoulders. The room was dimly lit and all manner of strange creatures leered out at them from shelves: a squirrel monkey, its teeth bared, and a small crocodile, its jaws agape. A strange scent lingered on the smoky air and made Cato feel a little light-headed, as if he had drunk a quart of rum.

It was only when he was seated cross-legged on the floor that he saw the obeah-man’s face, like half-eaten offal chewed by hungry dogs. A sound ushered from the old man’s mouth that made him cock his head closer so as to understand what he was saying. He felt as nervous as a fledgling waiting on a window ledge before it took the first leap into flight. He leaned forward, eagerly anticipating the old man’s instructions.

“You want be free?” he asked.

Cato nodded.

“Then drink this.” He lifted a skull that sat by him; it looked like a human skull, and it was full of liquid.

“Then what?” he asked, almost breathless in anticipation.

“Then you sleep and when you wake . . .” The obeah-man’s voice trailed off, taking Cato with him to a land of languor and plenty.

“I shall be free?”

The old man’s tone suddenly sharpened. “You will be on a ship bound for Africa and when you wake you will be a free man.”

Questions flew into Cato’s mind like starlings swirling in winter twilight.

“A free man,” he echoed. He reached for the skull, but the obeah-man swatted his hand as if he were a troublesome fly. The slave knew why and he delved into the pocket of his breeches. Pulling out a shiny sixpence, he laid it in front of him. He had found it in the master’s pocket when his topcoat was put out for the laundry earlier in the month and kept it safe, knowing it might mean his salvation one day. Today was that day.

“ ’Tis all I could find,” he said apologetically.

The old man took it, laid it in his palm that quivered like a leaf, and with the other hand lifted it to the side of his mouth where a few blackened teeth remained. Biting into it, he seemed satisfied, and gave a reassuring nod before pushing the skull into the centre of the ring.

“Drink tonight and tomorrow freedom,” he said, slamming down his palm on his thigh.

He began to chant. Through toothless gums his words were hard to follow, but Cato repeated what he said, then, tilting his head back, drank from the skull. The liquid inside tasted bitter and he shook his head as if trying to rid himself of the flavor that lingered on his tongue. After a few moments, however, it did not taste so bad after all; quite pleasant in fact. He asked for more and the obeah-man obliged.

In fact, Cato drank so much that when the old man told him to rise and drink the contents of a phial that he was offered, he did that, too. He even whirled himself ’round and ’round at his bidding, spinning wildly until he collapsed to the ground, clutching his belly. Within the hour, he was still.