Excerpt from Morgan's Run by Colleen McCullough, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Looking," said Richard, his cheek against William Henry's, "is quite close enough to ships for me."

"D'ye never yearn for foreign parts? Not even London?"

"Nay. I was born in Bristol and I will die in Bristol. Bath and Bedminster are quite as far as I ever wish to go." He held William Henry out and looked his son in the eye; for such a young babe, the gaze was astonishingly steady. "Eh, William Henry? Perhaps you will end in being the family's traveler."

Idle speculation. As far as Richard was concerned, simply having William Henry was enough.

The anxiety, however, was omnipresent, in Peg as well as Richard. Both of them fussed over the slightest deviation from William Henry's habitual path -- were his stools a little too runny? -- was his brow too warm? -- ought he not to be more forward for his age? None of this mattered a great deal during the first six months of William Henry's life, but his grandparents fretted over what was going to happen as he grew into noticing, crawling, talking -- and thinking! That doting pair were going to ruin the child! They listened avidly to anything Cousin James-the-druggist had to say on subjects few Bristolians -- or other sorts of English people -- worried their heads about. Like the state of the drains, the putridity of the Froom and Avon, the noxious vapors which hung over the city as ominously in winter as in summer. A remark about the Broad Street privy vault had Peg on her knees inside the closet beneath the stairs with rags and bucket, brush and oil of tar, scrubbing at the ancient stone seat and the floor, whitewashing ruthlessly. While Richard went down to the Council House and made such a nuisance of himself to various Corporation slugs that the honey-sledges actually arrived en masse to empty the privy vault, rinse it several times, and then tip the result of all this activity into the Froom at the Key Head right next door to the fish markets.

When William Henry passed the six-months mark and began to change into a person, his grandparents discovered that he was the kind of child who cannot be ruined. Such was the sweetness of his nature and the humility of his tiny soul that he accepted all the attention gratefully, yet never complained if it were not given. He cried because he had a pain or some tavern fool had frightened him, though of Mr. Thistlethwaite (by far the most terrifying denizen of the Cooper's Arms) he was not in the least afraid no matter how loudly he roared. His character inclined to thoughtful silences; though he would smile readily, he would not laugh, and never looked either sad or ill-tempered.

"I declare that he has the temperament of a monastery friar," said Mr. Thistlethwaite. "Ye may have bred up a Carthlick yet."


Five days ago a whisper had surfaced at the Cooper's Arms: a few cases of the smallpox had appeared, but too widely dispersed to think of containment by quarantine, every city's first -- and last -- desperate hope.

Peg's eyes started from her head. "Oh, Richard, not again!"

"We will have William Henry inoculated" was Richard's answer. After which he sent a message to Cousin James-the-druggist.

Who looked aghast when told what was required of him. "Jesus, Richard, no! Inoculation is for older folk! I have never heard of it for a babe barely out of his clouts! It would kill him! Far better to do one of two things -- send him away to the farm, or keep him here in as much isolation as ye can. And pray, whichever course ye choose."

"Inoculation, Cousin James. It must be inoculation."

"Richard, I will not do it!" Cousin James-the-druggist turned to Dick, listening grimly. "Dick, say something! Do something! I beseech you!"

For once Richard's father stood by him. "Jim, neither course would work. To get William Henry out of Bristol -- no, hear me out! -- to get William Henry out of Bristol would mean hiring a hackney, and who can tell what manner of person last sat in it? Or who might be on the ferry at Rownham Meads? And how can we isolate anybody in a tavern? This ain't St. James's on a Sunday, lively though that can be. All manner of folk come through my door. No, Jim, it must be inoculation."

Excerpted from Morgan's Run, copyright (c)2000 Colleen McCullough. Reprinted with permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.