The Lazarus Curse (5 page)

T
he large round fish floated serenely in the jar with unseeing eyes, its spikes a warning that it was not to be trifled with. Next to it on the shelf sat a large chunk of red coral, which, according to its label, was said to be efficacious in the treatment of the bloody flux. Thomas recognized Dr. Carruthers’s handwriting. Next to that was a case containing an array of small birds with bright plumages.

Clouds of dust billowed as soon as Thomas began to remove them. The shelves had been their home since Dr. Carruthers brought them back from his own trip to Jamaica, almost fifty years ago. Now they needed to be moved to make way for new and potentially even more curious Caribbean residents. Thomas was expecting scores of them, not just small mammals and insects, but shellfish and other sea creatures, as well as dozens of plants. He was about to take delivery of a treasure chest of exotica. It would be his mission to order them, label them, and subsequently work on them. It would be his job to help unlock the mysteries that these treasures held. He had heard of corals that stemmed hemorrhages, of plants whose sap soothed burns. Just what other miracles might be waiting to be uncovered was almost unimaginable.

Unable to sleep he had entered the laboratory early that morning. Such was his excitement and apprehension at being entrusted with the important task that he had worked by candlelight. He had cleared the shelves of their old inhabitants and had placed them carefully, according to their classification, into sturdy crates, ready for transportation to the cellar.

Despite so many distractions, the words of Sir Joseph Banks kept ringing in Thomas’s ears.

“I have great faith in you, Silkstone. Play your cards right and you will go far.”
He had winked as he said the last sentence, as if he were delivering an understanding between gentlemen.
“Play your cards right.”
What could he mean, Thomas asked himself as he wiped the shelves with a damp cloth.

Sir Joseph had been most helpful, answering his many and varied questions. How many specimens were there? Of what nature ? Where would they be stored before they were catalogued? And afterward? How much time did he have for study? Would there be regular meetings to discuss his progress? All these pressing questions were answered to his satisfaction. It was just this peculiar phrase that niggled him. He understood there was a protocol for such research; certain scientific rules and procedures that must be followed strictly. And yet he was under the impression that Sir Joseph’s words were almost a warning. It was as if the president of the Royal Society was taking a personal risk on this young American, as if he were an untried and an untested maverick on whom Sir Joseph was staking his own, very considerable, reputation. It was as if Thomas were being told that he had to conform to establishment thinking or suffer the consequences—ironically, he mused, as if he were in chains.

He thought of the poster advertising a reward for the return of the runaway slave and felt the bile rise in his throat. He had heard talk in the coffeehouses about the treatment of slaves in the Caribbean colonies, but he had dismissed them as businessmen’s bravado, tales told by merchants wanting to impress their fellows. Sugar was a necessary luxury. The foundations of all of London’s fine new buildings were bedded in the white gold of the West Indies. But someone needed to plant the cane, someone needed to cut it in the scorching sun, someone needed to drag it to the cane sheds and boil it in the great vats that bubbled and spat like the infernos of hell itself. It was the devil’s work, too hard for white men; make the Negroes do it under threat of the lash and when they buckled and died under such a treacherous yoke, there would be more plundered from Africa. Like wax softened in the heat, it seemed white men melted easily into barbarous practices and customs, thought Thomas. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to such stories, but he chose to dismiss them. A profound feeling of shame seeped through his veins and he had almost surrendered himself to melancholy when he heard the familiar tap of Dr. Carruthers’s stick on the flagstones.

“Good morning, sir,” he greeted the elderly gentleman as he entered the room. The first shards of daylight were cutting through the window high up in the wall.

“I thought I would find you here already,” replied William Carruthers. The anatomist was Thomas’s mentor and friend. The young doctor had spent the last ten years with him since his arrival in England as a student from his native Philadelphia. Four years ago the old man had been dealt a cruel blow when he lost his sight. Thomas had become his eyes and the bond between them had grown even stronger. Carruthers was his professional rock—not a mere sounding board for new ideas and hypotheses, but a fount of knowledge and expertise upon which Thomas frequently drew. His health may have been failing and his joints stiffening, but his brain was most certainly as sharp as a surgeon’s knife. Thomas greatly valued his knowledge and his judgment and sought his advice on many weighty matters.

The old anatomist sniffed at the dusty air.

“So you have been clearing the shelves?”

Thomas smiled. Nothing managed to get past his mentor, whose other senses seemed to have sharpened since he had been deprived of his sight.

“Indeed, sir,” he replied, clamping the lid on yet another crate. “Most of the specimens are to be stored at the Royal Society, but Sir Joseph says that I may work on the ones of particular interest to me here, so I have made room for them.”

Carruthers nodded his head. “Oh, that I could see them,” he murmured forlornly.

Thomas sensed his sadness and frustration. “But we shall work on them together, sir.” There had been several occasions when his mentor’s sense of smell had proved vital in solving scientific quandaries and his eagerness to engage him in the important work was genuine.

“I would like that very much,” he replied, smiling and easing himself onto a high stool at the workbench.

Lifting a jar full of a dark-colored bark, Thomas nodded. “Your knowledge of Jamaica will be invaluable,” he said.

The old anatomist looked thoughtful; his filmy eyes were fixed into the distance. “ ’Tis many years ago, now, and ’twas a time I would rather forget.”

Thomas knew that his mentor’s experience of the island had been a harrowing one. He had assisted a physician who advised on the purchase of slaves at the dockside. It was clear from his manner that he cared not to talk of it and Thomas knew he still bore the mental scars of it. He had seen men separated from their women, mothers from their children, floggings and unspeakable tortures. Even so, he anticipated Dr. Carruthers’s understanding of the climate, culture, and diseases of the godless colony would be indispensable during his work.

No sooner had the old anatomist settled himself down, however, than more footsteps could be heard on the flagstones. Mistress Finesilver, the pinched-faced housekeeper, appeared at the open door. It usually took a dose of laudanum to solicit a smile from her and this morning was no exception. She handed Thomas a message as if it were a soiled bandage.

“This just came for you, Dr. Silkstone.”

Thomas thanked her and read the letter. He glanced up. “The
Elizabeth
has been sighted in the Thames and will dock on the morrow. I am to meet her,” he said, his voice rising in his excitement.

Dr. Carruthers tapped the floor with his stick and nodded. “This is, indeed, the start of a great adventure, young fellow,” he declared.

L
ydia found dinner agreeable enough. Nicholas Lupton’s trunk had been fetched from the Three Tuns in the village and he had quickly settled into his room at Boughton. He had presented himself sporting a gray wig and wearing a green frockcoat. A faint whiff of sandalwood swathed him. Seated at the opposite end of the long table he and Lydia had dined on pork from the estate’s finest Gloucester Old Spots and a good blackberry tart.

Conversation had centred on Boughton and the problems that it faced. It emerged that Mr. Lupton had been in Yorkshire during the time of the Great Fogg, and had not been badly affected, so Lydia had informed him of the havoc it had wrought to man, beast and vegetation. She told him how there was much work to do to remedy the devastation it had left in its wake.

Lupton had listened attentively, asking pertinent questions when deemed necessary. He seemed sensitive to the welfare of tenants, asking about their conditions and terms of tenure.

“I hope you won’t think me impolite if I say it was clear from the way they regarded you this afternoon that your workers have much affection for you, your ladyship,” he said, pushing his empty dessert plate away from him.

Lydia hoped that in the candle glow her guest could not see her blush. She glanced at Howard, who was hovering attentively by the sideboard.

“My father instilled in me the fact that we are mere custodians of this land. We are looking after it for future generations and must treat those who assist in that task with due respect,” she replied.

Lupton nodded his approval of the sentiment.

“So will you be joined by Mistress Lupton in the cottage?” she asked as Howard and another manservant cleared their plates.

At this question, however, the new steward looked grave. “I am afraid my wife is deceased,” he replied.

Lydia felt awkward. “I am sorry. I did not mean . . .” The color rose in her cheeks once more.

Lupton shook his head. “ ’Tis my fault, your ladyship. I should have made my state plain. My wife died in childbirth less than a year ago.”

“My condolences,” said Lydia solemnly.

Lupton gave a tight smile, as if remembering his late wife. “She was giving birth to our first child, a boy.” He paused, then added: “I lost them both.”

In the candlelight, Lydia thought she saw Mr. Lupton’s eyes moisten. She averted her gaze for a moment to allow him to compose himself.

“It is hard, being on one’s own,” she said gently. Her tone sounded knowledgeable, and he recognized she spoke from experience.

Lupton took a deep, juddering breath. “That it is, your ladyship.” His large shoulders heaved, as if he was trying to shrug off a great sadness. “But you have your son, I believe.” His mood lightened.

Lydia nodded and played with the stem of her wineglass. Howard filled it without being asked. “Indeed, I do, and a great comfort he is to me.”

Lupton smiled as Howard filled his glass. “I am looking forward to meeting him. Perhaps he would come for a ride, with your permission, your ladyship.” His bewigged head gave a slight reverential bow.

“I am sure Richard would like that very much,” she replied, smiling.

An hour later they had both retired to their separate chambers. Lydia lingered a little longer than normal and did not call for Eliza, her maid, until after eleven o’clock. The girl unlaced Lydia’s stays, helped her off with her gown, then brushed her long chestnut hair. She noted her mistress was smiling at her reflection in the mirror.

“ ’Tis good to see you looking cheery, your ladyship,” she said, speaking out of turn, then realizing her mistake to her own embarrassment.

Lydia nodded. “I spent a pleasant evening,” she replied, adding: “I have engaged Mr. Lupton as the new steward.”

Eliza continued brushing her mistress’s hair unthinkingly. “ ’Twill be good to have a man around again.”

Lydia arched a brow and shot back at her maid, “Mr. Lupton is a steward, not a suitor, Eliza.”

The girl curtsied awkwardly. “Begging your pardon, my lady. I did not mean . . .” The hairbrush flapped in her hand.

A smile crossed Lydia’s lips. “You are right, Eliza. It will be good to have the support of a man who knows what he is about and understands business.”

There was an awkward silence as both women’s thoughts turned to the man who they knew should be rightfully heading the household by now. It was Lydia who spoke her mind.

“I am sure Dr. Silkstone will agree with my choice,” she said, as if seeking approval for making the engagement.

Eliza looked slightly taken aback, as if her mistress deemed it necessary to emphasize her unwritten commitment to Thomas. Nevertheless she nodded. “I am sure, your ladyship,” she replied.

P
hibbah slipped out of the house as night fell, her heart pounding in her chest. The cook, Mistress Bradshaw, was more kindly than the usual English woman. She had heard her talk with some of the other white servants in the household, saying it was not right for the blacks to be enslaved and that every man and woman in England should be free to come and go as they pleased. But the others had laughed at her and told her it was none of her business and that as long as the Negroes were around they wouldn’t have to do as many dirty jobs like take out the slops, so they would not complain. She had shrugged her shoulders and tutted, but she had still shown a little kindness, although if she guessed the reason for her excursion, Phibbah knew Mistress Bradshaw would not be so forgiving.

The slave girl had still not fully recovered from yesterday’s punishment. Twenty lashes, the mistress had ordered, and Mr. Roberts, the footman, had relished delivering every stroke. Each crack of the whip was music to his ears. Each yelp, each sob, each cry of pain was a symphony to him. Patience had rubbed ointment on the wounds last night, but the cuts still wept and her back would remain raw as butcher’s meat for the next few days. In Jamaica, in the sun, the welts attracted the flies. Here, in London, she was forced to cover them with coarse clothes that chafed at her skin just like the manacles ’round her ankles on board the ship all those years ago.

She steadied herself by the back gate. Her head was light and sometimes her sight blurred. Ghosts would appear from nowhere, swimming across her vision, shrieking in her ears. They were the spirits of her ancestors, the ones who had not been buried according to tradition, the ones who had lived and died under the white man’s rules and not been accorded the right and proper ritual. They would roam this earth forever.

She unlatched the gate and slid through it, then slipped down the lane. High brick walls rose on either side, overhung by leafless trees. She did not like English trees in winter. Their black branches were arms, their spindly twigs fingers. A carriage passed. She kept her head down and quickened her pace. Not far now.

At the end of the lane she turned left. A church bell tolled nearby. Almost there. She rounded the corner and came to the lych-gate. Passing through it she found herself in the graveyard, an Englishman’s churchyard, with its cold mossy stones and its fine statues of women with wings. How strange, she thought, to honor the dead in this way. She had heard they were buried without their cooking pots and their jewelry. How would they eat? Did they not want to look their best when they rejoined their ancestors? Worse still, their graves were often sealed, so that robbers could not take their corpses. She had heard that the churchmen might sometimes set spring guns to ward off the sack-’em-up men. Sometimes they put cages over the graves and locked them with padlocks as big as coconuts. So how would the dead eat? How would they find their way home? It was all a puzzle to her. These places were strange and baffling and frightening. She would not loiter.

A lone woman stood praying by a new grave. She wore a black veil that covered her face. Hurrying over to the wall of the churchyard, where thick thorn bushes grew, their berries red as blood, Phibbah crouched low to watch her. The shadows were melding into the blackness as the first stars appeared in the sky. The widow would be gone soon. Only the evil ones would stay in a place like this after dark, she told herself.

Sure enough, after one or two minutes Phibbah saw the woman’s head bow reverentially and she retreated through the lych-gate and into the encroaching darkness. Now she was alone, apart from the hundreds of spirits that surrounded her. Scurrying forward, she reached the grave where the earth had been newly smoothed and saw worms writhing blindly in the soil. A garland of holly and ivy had been placed on the mound.

Quickly she took out her bag, knelt down, and began to scoop up handfuls of the damp dirt. It came up easily, in sticky clumps, clawing ’round her fingernails. She was doing well; a few more handfuls and she would have enough. Just then a bird swooped overhead. It was huge and called to her with a voice that was shrill and trembling. She looked up. An ancestor, she thought, but then something caught her eye in the far corner of the churchyard. A man in a long black robe was approaching her. He was waving a stick. Now he was shouting. She must go. What was it the obeah-man said? Enough to fill a goat’s horn. She looked at her bag, whose sides now bulged. What she had was sufficient. Scrambling to her feet, she headed for the lych-gate. The man was coming closer. She broke into a run. She winced with pain as the cuts on her back reopened.

“You! Stop!” cried the man. But from his gait she could tell he was old and from his robes a priest, perhaps. He thought she was disturbing the dead. He did not understand that they were all around; that they never stayed in the ground, unless their burial chambers were locked or sealed.

She ran on until she joined the path leading to the lych-gate, but just as she slowed down at the entrance, her foot caught a jagged stone and she tripped, dropping her bag and spilling some soil. A gasp escaped her lips as the man approached. She turned her back to him. He must not see the color of her skin. Grabbing at the bag, she made off once more, down the path, through the gate and out onto the lane.

Running as fast as if Mr. Roberts himself were in pursuit with his whip, she soon reached the end of the lane and turned left to the road that would take her back to the big house. It was only then that she stopped momentarily to look inside her bag. Almost half its contents had spilled out when she fell, but there should still be enough for her obeah-bag—still enough grave dirt for the curse to work.