The Hellfire Club(20)



“It threw off the whole rotation,” Margaret said. “When he returned to the mound against the Sox, he was shaky.”

“Great season, though,” Charlie said.

“Can’t argue with the World Series.”

“Anyway, he asked me to look into the history of public sentiment and vaccinations,” Charlie said. “I took a couple detours down some rabbit holes, and one of them was Cotton Mather.”

“But what does that have to do with my ponies?” she finally asked.

Charlie beamed with the satisfaction of someone about to deliver good news and raised a gloved finger. “I’ll show you.” Using tweezers, he carefully opened McClintock’s journal. He turned to Margaret. “When were the ponies first mentioned?”

“The first reference to them anyone has been able to find was in 1752,” she recalled. “On Susquehannock Island, which is closest to the mainland.”

Charlie nodded thoughtfully. “I have a vague memory of McClintock mentioning an island.”

He turned the fragile journal pages. The doctor’s messy script and the eighteenth-century language made for slow going.

“Here it is,” he finally said.

“May I look?” Margaret asked. He glanced up and she smiled.

“Sure, of course.” He stood, removed the white gloves, and handed them to her. She took his seat, put them on, and began delicately perusing the diary. Charlie lingered for a few seconds before he decided to resume his work at the next desk.

The library was dead silent for several minutes until Margaret gasped. “I can’t believe this,” she said.

“What?” said Charlie, rising and walking over to her. “What?”

“So almost as an afterthought, the doctor writes of all these events that took place in the area before he arrived. One of them is a Spanish galleon that wrecked off the coast of Maryland earlier that year. After a hurricane. The wreck of La Galga.”

“‘The Greyhound.’”

“Indeed. And look right here,” she said, pointing at one passage. “The doctor notes that La Galga was believed to have been carrying ponies, because after the storm, a number of them were seen on both the mainland and Susquehannock.”

“Let me see that.” He leaned in. “Incredible!”

“This is going to be huge news among the, oh, at least ten people who care,” she said, but the excitement on her face was genuine.

“By the way, a ship from that same fleet inspired Stevenson to write Treasure Island,” Charlie added. “Everything is connected.”

Margaret looked at him and grinned.

The wind outside the library whistled, and the radiator clanked, and that was that.





Chapter Seven





Wednesday, January 20, 1954


Nanticoke Island, Maryland



Margaret huddled in her coat as she lay on the damp grass, silently watching a string of five ponies wading into a marsh. The beasts bent their necks toward the saltwater cordgrass that grew thick on the west side of Nanticoke Island. The sun rising behind them began to brighten the silhouetted scene, the beach and water emerging like a pale blue and gray canvas behind the dark outlines of the animals. A ray of light landed on the forehead of one of the larger ponies, revealing a white teardrop-shaped spot. He repeatedly snorted and bared his teeth.

“What’s he doing?” Margaret whispered to Dr. Louis Gwinnett, the head of the research team, who lay on his stomach next to her, binoculars in hand and a notepad by his side.

He leaned in closer and put his mouth next to her ear: “Don’t know,” he whispered. She raised an eyebrow at him and he smiled. The grazing ponies remained oblivious to their presence.

“Notice how distended their stomachs are,” Gwinnett whispered. “They all look pregnant, even the two males.”

Margaret blanched at his mention of pregnancy. She knew she didn’t show yet, but she was concerned that news of her condition would prompt some paternalistic impulse on Gwinnett’s part. Men seemed to treat pregnant women like invalids, she’d observed, and she had seven and a half months to go and a lot of work to do before this baby arrived; she was determined to make the most of her time while it was still her own.

“Do you think that’s because of all the cordgrass they eat?” Margaret asked, focusing on the matter at hand. “Its salt content is quite high. So they would have to drink more.”

“That’s likely it,” Gwinnett agreed. Margaret stole a look at him. With his shock of thick, prematurely white hair, deep-set, sky-blue eyes, and a jawline so sharp it could cut wood, he looked more an international captain of industry or a New England governor than a zoologist.

Teardrop, as they’d decided to call him, casually sidled up to one of the mares and began sniffing her front legs, then proceeded down to her ribs, her rear legs, and her tail. The mare looked unbothered by this attention, until, without warning, Teardrop pushed his head forward and bit the mare’s rear end, prompting her to emit a guttural shriek. She backed quickly away and took refuge between the other two mares.

The other stallion in the string, pitch-black and slightly larger than Teardrop, snorted, whinnied, then reared onto his hind legs, briefly almost standing. Roaring, he landed angrily, stomping onto the sand a hair’s distance from Teardrop, who backed up a few steps. The two stallions locked eyes. Teardrop had a decision to make.

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