The Burying Ground (15 page)

George Brown, editor of the
Globe
was a vocal abolitionist. Thaddeus had read many of his scathing editorials attacking the United States senator Henry Clay, the Fugitive Slave Act, separate schools, and anyone who opposed the Elgin settlement, a black community in the Western District established with the help of the Presbyterian Church. And the anti-slavery citizens of Toronto were galvanized into action when Frederick Douglass, a leading figure in the American abolitionist movement, addressed them at the newly built St. Lawrence Hall, their support demonstrated by a stream of letters to the aforesaid Mr. Brown's editorial page. Still, Thaddeus reflected, it was one thing to be part of a cheering crowd or to write a letter, another to actively intervene in an attempted kidnapping, as Luke had done. Not for the first time, he was filled with admiration for his son. Betsy had done a grand job of raising the boy.

“Mr. Douglass and Mr. Brown are fine for the speechifying,” the man went on, “but the Blackburns are the ones who really help us here. Them and Mr. Abbott.”

Thaddeus wasn't familiar with the names. “Mr. Abbott?”

“He's coloured, like us, but rich. He owns all sorts of buildings around here. The Blackburns own the cabs and they do everything they can to make it easier for the newcomers. They make it easier for everybody.”

There was pride in the man's voice. “The coloureds don't ask for anything,” Christie had said. They didn't need to, Thaddeus realized, because they helped each other.

Thaddeus thanked the men for their time and then he and Morgan walked along Richmond Street. Thanks to Dr. Christie's directions, they soon found the building that housed the dissecting rooms. It was, as Christie had commented, an awkward, squat structure made of brick.

“What are you going to say?” Morgan wanted to know. “You can hardly ask them outright if they've been cutting up stolen bodies.”

“That's one of the reasons I brought you with me, Morgan. You're Keeper at the Burying Ground. I can say that we're trying to locate lost relatives, so the bodies in question can be moved to the Necropolis.”

“Even though it's not the truth?”

Morgan was right. It wasn't the truth, but Thaddeus could think of no other approach. Finally, he said, “Well, if we
could
find their relatives, we could ask them if they want the bodies moved, couldn't we?”

“I suppose,” Morgan said, although he looked skeptical.

“Otherwise, they're apt to shoo us away without telling us anything.”

Morgan nodded, which Thaddeus took to be agreement. He knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he knocked again. After a long interval, the door opened just wide enough for a young man to peer out through the crack.

“Are you the physician in charge?” Thaddeus asked.

“No. I'm just a student.”

“Might we ask you some questions?”

“I don't know anything,” the young man said.

“I'm Thaddeus Lewis and this is Mr. Spicer, who is Keeper at the Strangers' Burying Ground in Yorkville. We're trying to locate some records regarding …”

“Abraham Jenkins and Isaiah Marshall.” Morgan supplied the names, which had momentarily escaped Thaddeus, much to his annoyance.

“Yes. We believe they were … that is, we believe they might have come from here before they made their way to the cemetery.”

“I don't know anything about records,” the student said.

“Could you tell us who might?”

“I don't know,” the student said. “I don't know anything about anything.” And he shut the door.

“Well, he's made his ignorance abundantly evident,” Thaddeus remarked. “At least he admits it. I'm afraid Dr. Christie was correct. We'll get no information here. Well, on to the next place. Let's see if we can find the African Chapel.”

“Why isn't the African Church part of your circuit?” Morgan asked as they walked back along Richmond Street.

Thaddeus sighed. “Because of divisions within the Methodist Church.” It wasn't a pretty history and he disliked telling it. “The American church officially took an anti-slavery stance, but they watered down their opposition in deference to the members who were wealthy southern landowners. Even so, things came to a head and the church split in two, north against south. And in spite of official policy, the northern congregations didn't exactly extend a welcome to its coloured members. There were coloured ministers, but they were allowed to preach only to coloured congregations, things like that.”

“It seems to me the Methodist Church is mighty fussy about who it lets preach,” Morgan said.

“Well, yes,” Thaddeus had to admit, “it is, isn't it? In any event, the coloured congregation got fed up and formed their own Methodist Church.”

“And they brought it here with them?”

“Yes, but a long time ago, when we were all still organized under the American conference. When we established our own governance there was some attempt to include the African Church, but it didn't ever seem to go anywhere and they were left on their own.” As he said this, Thaddeus realized that he didn't really understand why this had happened. Maybe it was the pride of having their own church that kept them separate. Maybe. But given what he knew about people, it was far more likely that they were made to feel unwelcome, just like they had been in the States.

The African Methodist Episcopal Chapel was a small building set well back from the street, and again there were warning posters displayed at each side of the locked door. And again, within a few moments, a tall, grey-haired man appeared behind them, followed by two others, one of them waving a poker.

“Can we help you with something?” the first man asked, the challenge in his voice in contrast to the politeness of his question.

“We are here with an inquiry,” Thaddeus said, tipping his hat, “but I must admit that I've been curious about this church for some time. I am a minister with the Canadian Methodist Episcopal Church and I'm currently stationed on the Yonge Street Circuit. I know that your church is separate from ours, but I can't help but think that we have much in common.”

“And what would that be?” the tall man said. “Other than our names?”

“I know that two unexpected visitors at your door must seem alarming,” Thaddeus replied. “If I show you my appointment book, will you accept that I am who I claim to be?”

The tall man nodded, slightly and just once.

Thaddeus fished the small booklet out of his pocket and handed it over. He hoped it would be enough to gain him entry to the chapel as he had no other means of identification. The man looked it over and handed it back, but he made no move to dismiss the other two men, who continued to watch with suspicion as Thaddeus explained their mission to discover something of Isaiah Marshall.

The man's face relaxed a little at mention of the name. “Isaiah Marshall. He's been dead a long time.”

“He has. That's one of the things we find so puzzling about what has happened. Did you know him?”

“We have never been a large community, although our numbers have grown in recent times, so that I no longer know everyone who lives here. But yes, I do remember Isaiah Marshall. He was a carpenter.”

“Was he a member of this church?”

“No, I don't recall ever seeing him here. He was a private man and kept to himself mostly.”

“Do you know if he had any family?”

The tall man shook his head. “Not that I'm aware of. I don't know where he came from either, whether he was freeborn or a traveller. I do remember that he was a very fine carpenter. A cabinetmaker, really, except that he'd take the rough and ready jobs as well.”

The man gave the information freely enough, but there was a guarded undertone to the response. There was something more that this man did not wish to share. Marshall had “kept to himself,” he said, but offered no reason for it. It seemed an odd thing in such a small, close-knit community. Thaddeus waited, but the silence stretched out unbroken.

“Thank you,” he said finally when it became clear that no more would be forthcoming. “I'm sorry to have bothered you Mr. …?”

“I'm John,” the man said. “John Finch.”

“Thank you, Mr. Finch.”

He turned to go and motioned Morgan to follow. He was curious about this church, but it was clear that their presence was unwelcome. He would impose himself no further.

But as they were walking down the path, the man with the poker asked, “They took this Isaiah's body? Why would someone do that?”

“No,” Thaddeus replied. “They had no interest in the body itself. Whoever did it opened the coffin and threw Isaiah aside.”

The man frowned. “So it doesn't have anything to do with the kidnappers?”

“I don't think so,” Thaddeus replied, “although I admit I hadn't considered that possibility. The first grave that was opened contained a white man. At least we think he was.”

“Oh.” The man thought about this for a moment and then looked shyly at Thaddeus. “I thought maybe they were digging up coloured bones and using them to claim the bounty somehow.”

Morgan spoke for the first time since they had arrived at the church. “I don't see how they could. Once the flesh has worn away, there's no difference between the bones of a coloured man and that of a white man. They're all the same underneath the skin.”

Thaddeus knew that Morgan was speaking literally, his knowledge gained from his experience as a sexton, but the answer seemed to please the man, for he smiled.

“You're right, brother. We're all God's children.”

The exchange seemed to have dispelled the tension entirely, so Thaddeus ventured another question.

“Where do you bury members of your congregation?” he asked. There seemed to be no graveyard attached to the church. Not enough land, he realized.

“Generally, they are laid to rest in the Strangers' Ground,” Finch said. “Not because they are strangers, but because there is nowhere else to take them. The families who can afford it put up marble stones so the souls of their loved ones know they're remembered.”

“The records seem to indicate that Mr. Marshall was indigent. And he had a plain stone marker.”

“So it's unlikely that he was buried with anything of value,” Mr. Finch said. “Is that what you mean?”

“Yes. You see our dilemma. The graves were opened for neither the contents nor the bodies themselves.”

“I wish I could be more help to you, Mr. Lewis, but I remember very little about Mr. Marshall other than his occupation and the fact that he was rather odd. I must admit that I hadn't thought of him for years until you brought up his name. You could ask at the Baptist Church. Someone there might remember more.”

“We've spoken with them already. Unfortunately no one there remembered him at all. We'll have to find some other line of inquiry. Thank you again. And someday I'll come back and see your church, if I may.”

“Of course,” Finch said. “Any Sunday. We welcome everyone.”

As it turned out, Luke had no difficulty finding an excuse to avoid social interaction with Perry and the Van Hansels. The medical practice turned very busy the next week, occupying the full attention of both physicians.

Luke was in the office, his nose buried in a copy of
The Pathfinder
, plucked randomly from the shelves of books in Dr. Christie's parlour. He was delighted to realize that the Inland Sea in Cooper's novel was, in fact, Lake Ontario. He had never before read a story that featured a geography that was so close to home. Ben's shelves had contained mostly English and French titles, classical works, or books translated from German.

When a knock came at the door, he was surprised to open it to find Andrew Holden, the man whose toe he had amputated as the result of an accident with an axe, standing there. He had seen Holden exactly twice since, both times in order to change the bandage on the stump. The man had grumbled and complained on both occasions.

“Why'd you take if off, Doc?” he'd said. “I'll have the devil of a time walking without it. Couldn't you have sewn it back on?”

“No, I couldn't have,” Luke said. “The nerves were completely severed. If I'd tried to put it back it would have turned septic and you'd have lost the entire leg.”

After he deemed that the wound was healing and no further visits were necessary, Luke expected not ever to see the grumbling Holden again.

“You'll want Dr. Christie,” he said.

“I'll take Christie if I have to,” Holden replied, “but I'd sooner have you. It's the youngest. He's got a fever.”

Luke grabbed his satchel and followed the limping man down the street. They were met at the door of the cottage by Holden's wife, who held a mewling three-year-old wrapped in a blanket. The child had been well until the previous week, she said, when he began to run a slight fever. Over the course of the last few days he had become increasingly unwell, lethargic with an occasional nosebleed.

“I thought it was just summer complaint,” the woman said. “Now I'm not so sure.”

Luke left the child in his mother's arms while he made his examination. He could tell by laying a hand on the boy's forehead that he was spiking a high fever, and when he peeled back the blanket, he found rosy splotches on the child's chest. He had hoped that the mother was right and that the boy had contracted one of the many minor intestinal complaints that seemed to rise out of nowhere and subside just as quickly, but as Luke counted up the symptoms he was seeing he became certain that he was looking at a case of typhoid fever. Just to be sure he reached for the trumpet-like stethoscope that would allow him to better hear a heartbeat. There it was — a slow thump, thump, thump — too slow for a three-year-old. And when he moved the trumpet to the child's abdomen, the little boy flexed his knees in pain and batted the instrument away.

“What is it?” the woman asked anxiously when she saw the concerned look on Luke's face.

“I'm afraid it might be typhoid,” he replied. It was the first of the season that he had seen, but he knew it wouldn't be the last. Typhoid fever was the summer scourge of the city and its outlying regions. Many doctors blamed it on the miasma that emanated from the outflow of Toronto's sewer, which emptied its vile, sludgy mess of human waste, animal dung, and butcher's blood into the lake. The vapours, they claimed, spread out over the city whenever the wind blew and contaminated not only the air, but any surrounding water as well.

Yorkville had no reliable water supply of its own, so most of its residents used the city water drawn directly from the lake, in some cases from close to the offending sewer mouth. Odd that water should be such a problem in an area so close to an inland sea, Luke thought, and one that during most of the year was intersected by numerous creeks and one large river.

He reached for his fleam. Typhoid was caused by a congestion of the blood, and by removing some of the offending matter, the patient's veins would run free again. The child screamed when he inserted the instrument, and continued to wail as the blood flowed into the basin Luke held beneath the punctured arm. He removed only a small quantity, no more than a quarter cup. That was enough for so small a body.

“You should make up a broth of beef tea,” Luke instructed Mrs. Holden when he was finished. “See if he will take a little of it. And barley water, as well, as often as you can get him to drink. Don't wrap him in a blanket like that, he's hot enough as it is, and you might sponge him down with a little cool water a few times a day. We need to get his fever down. I'll leave you some calomel as well.”

“Is he going to die?” she asked.

“That I don't know,” Luke said. “If he gets through the next few days, he may do well enough. We'll have to wait and see.”

He knew they were expecting him to say something about the child being in God's hands, and that they should pray for his recovery, but in Luke's limited experience this seldom did much good, and he would not offer false hope.

“I'll come back this evening,” he told them. He could hope that this was an isolated case, but feared that it was only the beginning of the season of misery, and in this he was soon proved correct. He was called to see two more patients with similar symptoms that afternoon, three the next day, and the numbers increased after that until even Dr. Christie was forced to leave the house to help with the workload.

The more patients they saw, the more the disease seemed to spread, until Luke began to feel as though he were back in Kingston, tending to the Irish emigrants who had flooded, sick and starving, into the city. This epidemic, however, could not be blamed on emigrants. It had been a light season for ocean crossings. Timber droghers no longer plied the Atlantic in the same numbers, and the laws regulating shipboard conditions for passengers were tightened. The Irish were no longer streaming into Canada. They chose, instead, to go to the United States, where they thought there was a better opportunity to scramble out of their poverty.

In spite of the severity of the typhoid outbreak, Luke was gratified to find that many patients asked for him personally. He was making a mark, apparently. People had confidence in his skills, although in many cases he wasn't sure why some patients recovered and others succumbed so quickly. He did begin to wonder about the efficacy of bleeding. He generally preferred to be conservative with this treatment. Some physicians drew copious amounts of blood from their patients, but to Luke it had never made much sense to unduly weaken an already weak body. He continued to wield his fleam, but took smaller and smaller amounts when he did so. He could see no discernible difference in the outcome. The broths and teas he prescribed seemed to be a better help.

He and Christie were in constant attendance on their patients for ten days, snatching food when they could, napping for only an hour or two until they were called out again. The pace began to take its toll on the older man.

“Thank heaven you're here, Luke,” he said at one point. “I couldn't have handled this by myself.”

In a hasty conversation over a hurried breakfast, Luke asked Thaddeus if conditions were similar north of the city.

“Not anything like here,” Thaddeus said. “A few cases in Eglington, I hear. One or two in York Mills. Nothing north of there. Or at least I haven't heard about it if there are.”

Luke was puzzled. His father's report more or less supported the theory that a miasma from the city sewer had spread a cloud of contagion through the air, even as far as Yorkville, but had dissipated before it reached much farther. Yet, if contaminated air was the culprit, why weren't there any cases at all in the more northerly villages? And why wasn't everyone in Yorkville sick?

“Where do the villages get their water from?” Luke asked.

“I don't really know for sure,” Thaddeus said. “Daniel Cummer has a lovely spring-fed well in a willow grove and it rarely goes dry, but I don't know if that's true for the rest of the wells at the settlement. And, of course, almost everyone in Thorne's Hill drinks from Holy Ann's well.”

“They don't buy from the city supply?”

“I shouldn't think so. They're much too far away. Why do you ask?”

“I'm not sure. Just trying to figure something out, I guess. You certainly seem to have escaped contagion.”

In fact, now that he had a chance to have a close look at him, Luke realized that Thaddeus seemed hale and fit. He was tanned from his hours on the road and no longer moved with the stiffness that had plagued him in recent years. The air of melancholy that had hung over him for so long had disappeared. All in all, he seemed to be in tremendous spirits.

“Oh me,” Thaddeus said. “I'm a tough old bird. It would take more than fever to get me down. By the way, I'll be staying at the Spicers' for the next couple of nights. I promised to relieve Morgan. He's been trying to keep watch. I expect he could use a good night's sleep for once.”

“None of them have been sick, have they?” Luke asked. He suddenly realized that he hadn't been called to the Spicer house, a fact that might have surprised him if he had noticed it before. Of course, they might rely on some other physician in the area. There was no reason to think that they should suddenly transfer their custom just because Luke's father knew them.

But Thaddeus confirmed that the Spicer family was well in the extreme, except for Morgan's lack of sleep. Luke was even more mystified. The incidences of typhoid were so hit and miss. One household could be struck down while their neighbours remained unscathed. Even within individual families the disease was selective, some members showing no symptoms at all while others were in a state of significant morbidity. Everyone had to breathe. It couldn't be the air.

“Where do the Spicers get their water from?” he asked.

“I have no idea. Why all the questions about water?”

Luke shrugged. “You're not the only one with a puzzle.”

He tried to mentally map the spread of sickness, but could come up with no coherent pattern that would allow him to pinpoint the locus of the disease.

In any event, he had no time to give it any further thought, at least that day. He had at least twenty homes to visit. One of them was the Holden house, where, much to his relief, the three-year-old child seemed to be on the mend. Although still feverish, his temperature was not nearly as high as it had been, he no longer flexed his legs and cried when Luke touched his abdomen, and, best of all, his heartbeat had returned to something more approaching normal. In fact, it was all his mother could do to restrain him from climbing out of bed to play with the small black kitten that chased dust motes around the kitchen.

“I don't think he needs anything more than rest at this point. Keep giving him as much barley water as he will take, and try him with a little porridge tomorrow, but I really think he'll be fine.”

Mrs. Holden burst into tears at the news. “Thank you, Dr. Lewis, thank you,” she said. “We've lost three already. I don't think I could bear losing a fourth.”

Andrew Holden had a big grin on his face. “Well, now, you did a lot better with this than with my toe, didn't you? No lopping things off this time.”

“Andrew! Stop grumbling about your toe!” Mrs. Holden said. Then she turned to Luke. “Pay him no mind. He likes to tease you to your face, but he's been singing your praises to everyone else.”

Luke was pleased to hear this, but he had been getting the measure of Holden anyway. He would talk to him just like he talked to his brothers. Or to the Irish. “This is dreadful,” he said. “I've left you with nothing at all to bury. You'd better let me cut off another toe.”

Holden grinned and waved at him to go away. “Get out, you quack! You've done enough damage already.”

Luke's pleasure at the successful outcome of this case buoyed him as he worked his way through the streets of Yorkville. Some patients were better. Others were still very ill. Only time would tell with most of them, but his efforts appeared to be doing some good.

He was hailed just as he was walking past the cottage where he had treated the old woman with cancer. It was the granddaughter, pallid and sickly looking. The entire Johnson family was ill, she said. Could Dr. Lewis please look at them?

Mrs. Johnson had only a mild case of fever, Luke judged. Her daughter was sicker, but the girl's temperature was starting to come down. The most dramatically afflicted was the young man, Caleb, the boy who had wrestled with his conscience so desperately over the question of his urges. He was delirious, his abdomen was distended, his arms flailed and he kept throwing the blankets off the cot that was set up once more in the parlour. Or maybe it had never been taken away, Luke thought. It hadn't been that long since the old woman had died.

“He's been sick for a while,” Luke commented.

Mrs. Johnson nodded. “I didn't call you right away. I thought it was just a summer fever and we all seemed to be getting over it.” She hesitated for a moment before she disclosed what Luke knew was the real reason she hadn't called him sooner. “We still haven't paid Dr. Christie for my mother's sickness.”

“Don't worry about that right now.” As much as Christie moaned about patients not paying bills, Luke was sure that he would never refuse to see someone because of an unpaid account, and that there were many sums on his books that would likely never be cleared. “What have you given him so far?”

“Just some oriental balsam.”

Oriental balsam was a proprietary medicine readily available to whoever chose to buy it, and in Luke's opinion its purchase was a waste of good money. Its manufacturers claimed efficacy in cases of stomach pain, nausea, chlorosis, pallor, and apathy. Its principal ingredient was alcohol.

“Don't give him any more,” he said to the woman. “I'll leave you some calomel.”