Darkness

Samuel Postlethwaite

My brother Henry has joined me for dinner at the club, and we are sitting at our customary table. A couple of the usual men are missing from the crowd, and I believe it is because they have come down with yellow fever. I wonder how my nephew is doing, managing the infirmary.

To my surprise, he walks in the door just as I am thinking of him. “My boy!” I tell him, “sit down!”

He drops into a chair at our table. “You look done in, Samuel,” Henry tells him sympathetically. He does look exhausted.

Samuel quickly places his order for dinner with the server who comes to the table, then tells us, “It’s been another busy day.”

“Tell us,” I encourage him.

He reaches over to the basket of bread on our table and begins tearing off pieces of it while he waits for his meal. “We’re up to ten patients Under-the-Hill,” he tells us. “One of them is my roommate, Ben.”

We nod soberly. This is an outbreak, for sure.

“So far nobody is critically ill,” he says.

“That’s good to know,” Henry remarks.

“Gregor has been so helpful,” my nephew says, looking around as though wishing his dinner was already here. “He put half a dozen men from his crew at my disposal, and I have definitely kept them busy. I don’t know how I could manage everything without them.”

I nod. Despite what Pastor Colbert has said, Gregor is a good man. At least the sermons about Gregor seem to be dying down. Colbert seems more interested lately in preaching about the brewing war with the British, and the troubles with the Indians.

The server comes back with Samuel’s dinner, and puts the plate down in front of him. He takes a couple of bites quickly, then says, “He’s down there right now. Gregor. He offered to stay with the patients while I come to have a meal and take a little rest.”

“That’s very good of him,” I agree.

I don’t get the chance to ask many more questions, because he is wolfing his food like he’s in a race. In only minutes he has finished, and he stands again. “My apologies,” he says, “but I need to go. I want to get a few minutes of shut-eye before I return to the sick ward.”

“Of course, my boy, get some sleep,” I tell him. He quickly departs, and Henry and I look at each other. We haven’t even finished our own meals yet.

He resumes eating, and says, “I wonder how bad it will get? In Pennsylvania I don’t remember there being this much trouble with yellow fever.”

I nod wisely. He’s only been here about a year, but I have been in Natchez for several. “It comes around most summers,” I tell him. “Something about the warm climate, maybe, seems to attract it. Hopefully it won’t get too bad.”

Other than my nephew’s visit, the club seems quiet this evening, and I head home earlier than usual. I’d like to spend a little time with Ann, anyway. She is expecting our third child, and she has been fatigued and retiring early in the evenings.

When I get home the children have already been put to bed in the nursery by their nursemaid, and Ann is already upstairs in our bedroom. She is sitting at her little vanity table when I enter.

“Well, hello, Samuel,” she says, rising to greet me. “Home a little early?” She is such a good wife to me, so accommodating to my desire to dine at the club most nights. She truly understands the importance of keeping up this social engagement. I hear all the gossip, meet with the other businessmen about town, keep current on all the events of the day, both locally and nationally. Being well-informed is a critical part of my banking business, helping to guide investment decisions for our fairly young bank.

I kiss her on both cheeks. “How are you feeling, my dear?”

She shrugs. “Not bad. I think the morning sickness has passed. I’m actually a bit hungry right now.” She looks at me with a little twinkle. “Want to come raid the cupboard with me?”

I laugh. “Sure,” I say. When was the last time we did something silly together? She puts a dressing gown on over her nightdress, and we steal down the stairs.

No chance of making it into the kitchen and raiding the cupboard unseen, of course, there are too many servants in the house still doing chores before bedtime. One or two slaves straighten up from tasks as we pass, to see if we need anything, but we walk on by. Cook is still in the kitchen, and looks up wide-eyed when we enter.

“May I get you something, Master, Missus?” she asks.

“A bedtime snack for my wife, please,” I say, while Ann huffs out a little laugh.

“Of course,” Cook says, and we sit at the table in the kitchen, perching in this informal atmosphere while she quickly slices up some bread and cheese for Ann.

While she is eating, I tell her the news of the day. “My nephew Samuel came to dinner at the club,” I say, “and he says that they already have ten yellow fever patients at the infirmary.”

“Goodness,” she says. “All we can do is hope for the best.”

I move on to other topics. “The newspapers are saying that Congress is getting closer to a declaration of war.”

She shakes her head, while she layers cheese and bread together. She offers me a bite, which I accept with a smile. “I wish they wouldn’t,” she says. “War is so dreadful.”

I shrug. “It shouldn’t make much difference to us here in Natchez, and the bank is widely diversified enough that our finances should remain sound.”

“Still,” she says, finishing her snack. She brushes off her hands, and stands. “Are you coming to bed?” she asks.

“Not quite yet,” I tell her, “I’ll be in my study for a little while first.” I stand and kiss her cheeks. “I’ll try not to disturb you when I come to bed.”

As we are leaving the kitchen, I see Cook move forward to clear away the dishes.

I’m longer in my study than I had intended. I’ve got some accounts to go over, some calculations to perform, some investment decisions to make. Our bank isn’t that old yet, and I am constantly trying to finesse the management of it, trying to make sure that it remains sound regardless of the circumstances of the day. Gregor’s steamboat venture is already paying off for us all, the revenue adding to the bank’s deposits. I assume that will continue regardless of the situation with the developing war. I can’t imagine river traffic being unduly impacted.

I finally get into bed near midnight, as carefully as I can so as not to disturb Ann. I know how tired being pregnant makes her. The quiet breathing from her side of the bed tells me that I am successful in this. I get comfortable on my pillow and close my eyes, the events of the day running through my head until I grow drowsy.

…

There is a light tap on the door, just enough to rouse me. I must have drifted off. I look over at Ann, see she is still sleeping, so I slip out of bed, trying again not to disturb her. I quickly open the door, and see the nursemaid standing there. I step into the hallway and close the door behind me. “What is it?” I ask.

She is wringing her hands, her dark face filled with worry, as she says, “I am so sorry, Master, but Miss Matilda is feeling poorly, and I thought you and the Missus should know.”

What? My sweet Matilda Rose is ill? My heart is already racing, as I remember my conversation with Samuel at dinner. Yellow fever is spreading, we all know it, and little Matilda is so small, so delicate. At five years old, I think she might be particularly susceptible to the dangerous effects of the disease.

I rush behind the nursemaid into the nursery. The second nursemaid is sitting on the bed with Matilda, holding a cloth to her forehead, and the child is whining miserably. She opens her eyes, and when she sees me coming, whimpers, “Dada.” It breaks my heart.

I brush the nursemaid aside and sit next to her on the bed. “It’s all right, darling, I’m here.” I put my hand to her forehead, and she is so hot that it almost burns my fingers. My god, she is truly very ill. I think for a moment. I would call for the doctor, but the doctor is my nephew, and he is running the infirmary. I’m sure that she must have the same disease as his other patients. I need to get her down to him. The fastest way is to just rush her down there myself.

I see the butler poking his head into the door. “Sir,” he asks quietly, “should I call for the carriage?”

I stand, indecisively for a moment, while my darling child continues whimpering. “Um, no time,” I say. “I will just carry her to the doctor.”

He says, “But sir,” and I shush him.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell the nursemaid, “get her into a coat.” I rush into my dressing room to grab my shoes and a coat for myself, then am back to the nursery in less than a minute.

I lift my little girl into my arms, wearing her coat over a nightgown. I clasp her to me, feeling her burning body against my chest. The butler moves before me, opening the two or three doors between us and the street, and I quickly stride towards town in the dead of night, a half moon lighting my way.

I know it will take about five minutes to walk as quickly as I can, and I am trying to comfort her as we go. I don’t want her to be frightened on top of being ill, by this strange middle of the night journey. “We’re going to see your cousin Samuel, sweetheart,” I tell her, “he can make you feel better.”

I glance down at her, and see that she appears to have dropped off to sleep. Good, I think, let her rest until we arrive at the infirmary.

But then, suddenly her body stiffens in my arms, from the slack posture in which I had been holding her, her limbs and torso straightening until she feels like a board instead of a child. I am shocked, and stop walking, not knowing what to do, when she begins convulsing, her arms and legs vibrating wildly, her head thrown back.

I am filled with utter, unthinking panic, and begin racing towards the hill at the end of town as fast as my feet can take me, the child continuing to seize in my arms, and I scarcely notice when I see a man running towards me. All I can think about is getting Matilda to Samuel, only he will know what to do to help her.

I am going to race straight past whoever this man is, but he stops right in front of me. “Samuel!” he says, putting his hand on my arm to stop me. I suddenly realize that it is Gregor. My mind is already too overwhelmed with panic to even remember why I have felt uneasy around him lately.

“Here, let me take her,” he says, inserting his hands underneath my arms, to lift the child into his own grasp. “I’ll carry her down to Samuel.”

I let her go, not able to think of any reason to object, my mind still swirling with terror. But as he gets hold of her, I see her relax, the seizure apparently over, and again she appears to be merely sleeping. He looks at me with sympathy, keeping a firm grasp on her, and says, “It’s all right, Samuel, she’ll be fine. Your nephew will help her. Let’s get her to the infirmary.”

I can only nod, and accept this surreal development, that Gregor should chance upon me in the middle of the night to help me with my sick little daughter, my beloved Matilda Rose.