The Lazarus Curse (7 page)

I
t was after midday when Thomas finally arrived at the quay where the
Elizabeth
was berthed. She had docked with the afternoon tide. The ferry had dropped him at the King’s Stairs a few hundred yards away and he had cut his path through the throng to the berth where he had been directed. The wharf was still busy, but not too busy. There was room to turn about and peer, even though one still had to weave around the handcarts and trolleys that plied up and down.

The tang of smoke from the braziers mingled with the smell of salt fish and rotting vegetables. There were no French perfumes or other luxury goods here. Or if there were, they were packed under cod or sacks of coal to escape the customs officers’ eagle eyes. Ships that berthed at this wharf were there “under sufferance.” They did not have to pay a high duty, if any at all, on their cargoes. The
Elizabeth
was exempt and the papers to prove it were already lodged with His Majesty’s Customs.

Thomas could see she was indeed a fine ship, dainty and well preserved. He spotted a gentleman he assumed to be an officer standing on the quarterdeck. He appeared to be supervising the ticket porters who were unloading barrels and crates from the vessel. He seemed to be checking boxes against a long manifest in his hand.

Up above the great jib was in full swing. Seamen were fixing a devilish-looking hook to the roped crates. At a signal they rose from the deck and swung through the air to be deposited on the quayside. Below, men were stacking the crates onto waiting wagons. Thomas scanned the crowd looking for someone in authority : someone who was supervising the whole operation. Of the artist Matthew Bartlett there seemed no sign.

He paused for a moment as the large box swung over the deck and onto a waiting wagon with a loud thud. The horses that were hitched to the cart shifted a little, nodding their heads violently as if in protest. Watching to see if anyone might chastise the dockers, or inspect any damage that might have been done, Thomas found himself unable to discover who might be in charge. Disappointed, he decided to intervene himself.

“Gently, men,” he cried, striding forward to the cart to check on the crate.

His protests met with surly grunts from the men, who carried on regardless, seemingly unsupervised.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Thomas hollered to a sailor on deck.

“I wish to speak with your captain,” he shouted.

The mariner looked at him suspiciously, then climbed up to alert the officer on the quarterdeck. A moment later Thomas found himself on board the
Elizabeth,
being shown below deck into the captain’s cabin.

Bobbing low through the doorway, he could see the captain’s table, covered with maps and charts. Most of the remaining floor space was, however, set aside for a large number of pots that contained plants.

“Dr. Silkstone, welcome aboard,” greeted the florid-faced man, who rose behind the table. He wore the sea-weary expression of a sailor newly returned from a punishing voyage. His leathery skin was pulled taut across his cheekbones, his brows were unruly, and his lips were flaking.

“At your service, sir,” replied Thomas. “I am sent by Sir Joseph Banks.”

The captain’s face broke into a smile. “Then you are even more welcome aboard the
Elizabeth,
sir,” he said in an affable Scottish brogue. He gestured to a seat.

“I see you have returned with a large cargo,” said Thomas. He surveyed the smaller crates and barrels piled up in every available space.

The captain shrugged. “Och, our children, we call them, Dr. Silkstone,” he said with a grin. “These are the delicate things; small mammals, insects, that sort of creature.”

“You have clearly done an excellent job in very tragic circumstances,” said Thomas, thinking of the dead doctors Welton and Perrick. He, himself, had seen many a man die of the yellow fever on his own voyage from Philadelphia to London all those years ago, and the memory of it would never leave him.

A forlorn look scudded across the captain’s well-worn face.

“They were good men,” he replied thoughtfully.

“And only one remains, I am told.”

The captain looked Thomas in the eye.

“The artist. A Mr. Bartlett, l believe.”

“You are correct, sir.”

“I am to liaise with him regarding the specimens. Is he not on board?”

The captain sat back in his chair and shook his head.

“I am afraid you have just missed him, Dr. Silkstone.”

Thomas looked puzzled and waited to be enlightened.

The captain’s expression hardened. “There was an issue with some of the cargo, I believe, and an officer asked if Mr. Bartlett would accompany him to the Customs House. He’ll be back presently.”

“But papers were sent by Sir Joseph Banks himself,” said Thomas. A note of anxiety crept into his tone.

Seeing his concerned reaction, the Scotsman’s face split into a smile again and he shook his head. He was clearly unfazed by the artist’s absence.

“Dunni worry yoursen, Dr. Silkstone. He’ll turn up soon enough and in the meantime your precious specimens of flora and fauna will be unloaded safely.”

The plan was to store most of the cargo in the Royal Society’s own warehouses, and the plants at Kew Gardens.

Thomas nodded in reply. This Mr. Bartlett was, by all accounts as Sir Joseph had indicated, someone who took his duties most seriously. If there was a problem with His Majesty’s Customs, then he would know to contact the great man directly.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said. “I am sure you are right.”

McCoy slapped the desk as he rose, as if trying to draw a line under the slight hitch.

“I expect you would like to inspect the cargo, Dr. Silkstone,” he said as he began fastening the buttons on his jacket. It seemed rather too big for him after his voyage.

Thomas nodded. “Naturally I must take receipt of Dr. Welton’s papers, too. I need them before I can start to catalogue the specimens.”

The captain stopped by the low cabin door. “I have possession of most of them. They are in my chest.”

“Most of them?” queried Thomas.

Still hovering on the threshold, the captain nodded. “All except for Dr. Welton’s private journal. That is in the safekeeping of Mr. Bartlett. He was most insistent that he should take charge of it. He told me he swore on his own life, as the doctor lay dying, that he would see it was delivered into Sir Joseph’s hands himself, so you’ve no need to worry on that score, either,” added McCoy.

Thomas’s concern was aroused. He wished he could have as much confidence in this Mr. Bartlett as his superiors seemed to.

“So the journal is on his person?” Thomas tried to hide the disquiet he was feeling.

“Aye. In his satchel. Carries it with him everywhere,” came the captain’s reassurance.

Thomas remained concerned, although he tried to mask his feelings with a smile and allowed the captain the last word.

“He’ll be here soon, or with Sir Joseph. Either way, Dr. Silkstone, Mr. Bartlett is a most dependable young man.”

C
ordelia Carfax’s small eyes followed her husband as he flopped into a chair by the fire. His normally ruddy face was rendered even ruddier by a day spent in the biting wind on the golf course. She could tell by his expression that all was not well and she suspected it was not his game that had put him in a sour humor.

“Your arm is worse?” she inquired tersely as Cato, looking resplendent in a fine lace ruff and scarlet waistcoat, removed his master’s boots.

Her husband nodded. “The devil it is!” His reply was unequivocal, but he turned his face away from her, signifying he did not wish to dwell on his discomfort. She clicked her tongue and sat down opposite him, smoothing her skirts as she did so, ready to receive the dog that waited eagerly at her feet.

“You will call a physician?”

Carfax propped his right arm on a cushion. “I will have to,” he replied with a resigned sigh.

His wife rolled her eyes. “We all need a physician in this English winter,” she countered peevishly. She held out her thin hands toward the fire. “It escapes me why this visit could not have waited until spring,” she added, her thin lips curling in a sneer.

Carfax, who normally parried such jibes with avuncular ease, was in no mood for an argument. “You did not have to come with me, my dear,” he countered, knowing that the prospect of new gowns was too much for her to resist. “You were aware my business was pressing.”

Cato, meanwhile, had poured his master a glass of rum and now presented it to him on a tray. Despite the fact that the slave bent down low, the effort of reaching for it clearly pained Carfax and he was forced to take it in his left hand.

Ignoring her husband’s obvious distress, Cordelia Carfax continued: “The slaves are falling like flies in this cold.” The dog was now on her lap and she was stroking him.

Carfax shrugged his broad shoulders. “Still fewer than those lost on the estates in as many days, I’ll wager.” He smirked, knowing the number insignificant compared with that on the sugar plantations, where slaves died daily, due to illness or brutality or both.

His wife’s back stiffened. “You know as well as I do, Samuel, that domestics live longer as a rule.”

Her husband sipped his rum thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should give them warmer clothing while they are here?” he ventured.

Cordelia Carfax blinked and looked askance. “You would waste our money on such trifles?” The very thought of kitting out her slaves in warmer clothing to suit the English climate was clearly an anathema to her.

Carfax gulped down the rest of his rum. “ ’Tis up to you, my dear, but can we afford to let them die of cold? A trained one can fetch upward of twenty-five pounds, but you won’t find many for sale in London.”

His wife nodded, as if acknowledging the notion that it was better to return to Jamaica with slaves that were already accustomed to the tropical climate and a planter’s strict regimens.

“And we can always rely on the servants here,” added her husband, leaning his head against the back of his chair. The Carfaxes’ London household employed a skeleton staff of white servants to maintain the property in their master’s absence. There was Mason, the butler, Mistress Bradshaw, the cook, three housemaids, two footmen, and a gardener and general factotum, Mr. Roberts. Their housekeeper, Venus, always traveled with them, on the master’s insistence, together with half a dozen slaves from the Jamaican estate.

Just then, one of the white maids by the name of Bateson entered carrying a kettle of hot water. She set it down on the table nearest her mistress, next to the open tea caddy. Mistress Carfax, however, seemed slightly agitated and craned her neck toward the door. “But where is Sambo?” she asked indignantly. She liked the boy to bring her the hot water for her afternoon tea.

The maid bobbed a curtsy. “Begging your pardon, madam, but he is very ill.”

Her mistress sucked in her cheeks and took a deep breath. “What did I tell you, Samuel?” she said sharply. “The blacks are falling like flies! It is most inconvenient.”

Carfax shot her an exasperated look and shifted in his chair but the movement obviously pained him. He winced and bit his lip. “Most inconvenient,” he replied unenthusiastically, as he reached into his waistcoat pocket.

“What are you doing, Samuel?” she chided, as she watched him produce a small card and begin waving it in the air.

“Bateson,” he called to the maid. His forehead shone with sweat in the fire’s glow.

“Sir?”

Handing her the card he said, “Tell Mason to send for this gentleman, will you?”

The girl took the card and curtsied. “Yes, sir.”

Clutching his arm, he tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a cry.

“ ’Tis time I saw a physician,” he muttered.

A number of small crates and barrels had been left piled high in the middle of the laboratory floor. Thomas was standing by them, a copy of the ship’s manifest in his hand, trying to make sense of their contents. Dr. Carruthers sat on a stool nearby. He tapped the floor with his stick impatiently.

“Well?” he chuntered.

Thomas knew the old anatomist was anxious that he open the crates. He, too, was keen to see what treasures they held, although he knew that without Dr. Welton’s papers they would mean little.

Picking up a hammer, he prized the lattice off the lid of the first crate. There were no surprises. Inside it was fitted with shelves and the top layer held six plants in pots.

“And?” pressed the old anatomist.

Thomas sighed. “It is as I thought, sir,” he replied, obviously frustrated. “Pots containing green-leaved plants with red flowers. But what they are I cannot say.”

One by one, he began unloading them and ranging them on a shelf opposite the high window that caught the direct sunlight.

Dr. Carruthers sniffed the air. “Will you give me a leaf, young fellow?” he asked. Thomas handed him a pot.

“Is it familiar to you, sir?” he asked, watching the old anatomist inhale the scent.

He tilted his bewigged head in thought, as if trying to recall a place or a landscape where the plant might have grown. After a moment he nodded.

“
Hibiscus elatus,
I think you’ll find,” he said, adding cheerfully, “Also known as Blue Mahoe. But the journal will tell us all.”

Thomas smiled in admiration at his mentor’s knowledge, but had to agree. “The sooner Mr. Bartlett chooses to present himself with Dr. Welton’s journal, the better,” he muttered. A note of uncharacteristic annoyance had crept into his tone.

He had returned to the crate and was just about to embark upon unloading the second tier of plants when he noticed that Helen, the housemaid, was standing at the threshold of the laboratory.

“Dr. Silkstone, sir, a carriage has been sent for you to take you to the house of Mr. Samuel Carfax. He is unwell and requests that you attend him, sir,” she related, without pausing for breath.

Carruthers arched a brow. “Samuel Carfax?” he repeated. “Does he not own estates in Jamaica?”

Thomas thought for a moment. He recalled having read in
The Gazeteer and New Daily Advertiser
the previous evening that the plantation owner and his entourage had recently arrived in London for a short sojourn. “I do believe you are right, sir.”

The old anatomist delivered an odd sort of snort from his nostrils that signified dislike, or disapproval, or both.

“He’ll either have caught a good old English cold or brought some tropical ague with him from Jamaica, mark my words,” said Carruthers, raising an arthritic finger.

Thomas nodded. “Either way I had best attend him without delay,” he replied.