Fever 1793

by Laurie Halse Anderson

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  On the tenth morning, I was visited by a French doctor, Dr. Deveze. He did not carry a lancet or bowl. He seemed most concerned with the color of my eyes and tongue, and the temper of my pulse. He grunted with satisfaction.

  "She will live," Dr. Deveze said. He turned to Mrs. Flagg. "She stays here one more night, then move her to the barn. You have the hunger?" he asked me.

  "Yes," I answered. "I'm famished."

  "Feed this girl," he said with a smile. "It is good to see a patient who eats." He patted my hand and moved on.

  "Excuse me, excuse me, please," I called after him. What would happen to me? Did we have to walk to Gwynedd? How could we get home? My voice was too weak to carry far, and the doctor was already concentrating on the next jaundiced face.

  "What's the trouble, love?" asked Mrs. Flagg as she brought a dinner tray. As I poured out my concerns to her, she tucked a napkin under my chin.

  "Too many questions. You'll make yourself sick again. There is only one thing for you to worry about: finishing this here meal. You won't be leaving here for a few days at least. You can't solve tomorrow's problems today, but you can put some meat on those skinny bones."

  I nodded and dug into my supper. It didn't take long to finish the small portion of mutton and bread. When

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  it was gone, Mrs. Flagg handed me a bowl of rice and boiled prunes.

  "It's got a wee bit of sugar on it," she whispered. "Young ladies need something sweet. And when you're done with that, you'll have a good wash and move to your new bed over in the barn."

  The barn wasn't at all what I imagined. The faint smell of manure was everywhere, but the walls were whitewashed and the dirt floor swept clean. The oak doors stood open to let in sunshine and whatever breeze there was. Thick stone walls kept the inside as cool as a cellar. I preferred the smell of hay and horses to the death stench of the hospital. It was a relief to be around people who had the strength to sit up and didn't cry out in pain.

  Grandfather looked in on me several times a day. I think he was uncomfortable being around the sick. Mrs. Flagg filled me in on his activities: He helped to organize the delivery of food and the burning of filthy mattresses and rags; he sat in on the committee meetings where decisions were made about raising money and caring for the sick. He had pitched a tent in the yard and told me stories about watching the stars at night. I think he secretly enjoyed the commotion. It reminded him of the War again. It gave him something to do.

  I would gladly have joined him, but I was too tired. I spent several days eating mutton that tasted like saw-

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  dust, picking bugs off my blanket, and sleeping. I did not have any more nightmares, but I always woke confused, thinking I was surrounded by people I knew, instead of sick strangers. Once I thought I saw Nathaniel, but it was another nameless orderly. I wondered if I were being haunted by ghosts.

  How had Nathaniel fared? Was he lying in a sickbed thinking of me? Doubtful. He was probably painting flowers for one of Master Peale's daughters who watched him with stupid cow eyes. I couldn't remember where I had put his painting before we left home. Had I shown it to Mother? What if she found it? Would she burn it?

  Thinking of Mother made me twist and turn restlessly. She had not responded to the letters Grandfather sent to the Ludingtons. I could see her ordering the Ludington pigs to march in a straight line, or replanting their corn fields in orderly rows. If I had recovered from the fever, surely she was on her feet again. Unless ... I couldn't think of that possibility. But why hadn't she written?

  Maybe she was glad to be rid of me for a while. Eliza would miss me, but I had no idea how to find her. Some thought that black-skinned people couldn't get yellow fever, but I had seen two sick in the hospital. Eliza lived close to the river, where the disease had started. Who would take care of her if she were sick?

  Every day I felt stronger and had more questions. By

  JOC?

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  the sixth morning, I felt ready to explode with frustration. I left my bed for the first time and walked to the necessary without assistance. This was a sweet victory. After lunch, I was visited by Mrs. Flagg and a frowning clerk with a spotted face who carried an account book, an ink pot, and quill.

  "We have not been able to contact your mother, Miss ...," said the man as he squinted to read the writing on the page.

  "Cook."

  "Miss Cook." He scribbled on the page. "You are well enough to leave. It would be immoral to turn a child out into the streets, so you will be taken to the orphan house."

  "No! I am not an orphan."

  He raised an eyebrow.

  "Where is your father?'

  "He died years ago."

  "Your mother was ill, according to Mrs. Flagg, but you do not know her whereabouts."

  "She was sick, but I'm sure she's better now. She's at home, the Cook Coffeehouse. If you will just send me there."

  "Other relatives?"

  Mrs. Flagg interrupted. "Mattie is the granddaughter of Captain William, the gentleman who has been such a help in the kitchen. I'll fetch him now. He has been waiting for the doctor to release her."

  The clerk did not look pleased that I had a living rel-

  ative. His heart was set on sending me to the orphan house, I could tell. His pen scratched along the page. He blew on it to dry the ink, then closed the book and folded his glasses. He opened his mouth once to say something, but closed it again. He looked like a toad.

  Mrs. Flagg returned with Grandfather in tow. His face was bright red and his shirt was stained, but I thought he looked as handsome as ever.

  "What's this I hear about you being ready to go back into battle?" Grandfather asked.

  The toady clerk answered for me. "Patients who have recovered enough to walk on their own must be discharged, Sir. Provisions can be made to send this child to the orphan house, if you prefer."

  I squeaked a protest. "I am not a child!"

  "She can stay in the orphan house until her mother is found. If she is found," the clerk amended. "She would be cared for quite well, Sir, I can assure you of that. Life will be difficult for us all until these dark times are over. The orphan house may be the safest place for her."

  Grandfather puffed up his chest and crossed his arms. "No kin of mine goes to an orphan house, not as long as I have breath in my body. Your recommendation is insulting, Sir. I served with President Washington himself. I commanded troops that sent redcoats running back across the ocean, and you suggest that I cannot care for this little snippet of a girl? I shall report your impudence to the president."

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  The man pinched the top of his nose and wrinkled his brow.

  "If President Washington is displeased, you may encourage him to come here and speak to me directly," the clerk said. "We have too many lost souls wandering the city streets. I wouldn't want to see this girl join them. But you need not listen to me. My work is done. There is a wagon going into the city tomorrow. You may ride along."

  He gave Grandfather the smallest of nods, gathered his supplies, and hopped off.

  "Foolish, meddling nitwit," grumbled Grandfather. He would have said more, but just then he broke into a fit of coughing. He pulled at his collar and gasped for air. Mrs. Flagg pushed him down to sit on my bed, and I pounded his back in alarm. When the fit passed, he sat motionless for a moment, then opened his eyes.

  "Look at the two of you," he laughed. "What? Did you expect me to expire right here? No such luck. I've got a girl to care for, and," he lifted Mrs. Flagg's hand to his lips, "a lady whom I've promised to take to a ball one day."

  Mrs. Flagg dissolved into giggles that reminded me of the Ogilvie sisters.

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  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  September 24th, 1793

  He who sitteth upon the Pale Horse, He whose name is Death, will be sent through the streets of Philadelphia.

  -Quaker prophecy Philadelphia, 1793

  Mrs. Flagg bl
ew her nose into her kerchief with a loud honk.

  "So much grief packed into one wagon," she said tearfully.

  "Fear not, brave Mrs. Flagg," said Grandfather. He saluted her. "Our deepest thanks for your care and shelter. Please accept my most sincere hopes that we may meet again under healthier circumstances."

  Mrs. Flagg curtsied deeply. "May the Lord keep and preserve all of you." She waved good-bye, and the wagon rolled forward. Soon Bush Hill faded into the horizon.

  Grandfather and I were riding along with five fever

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  orphans who were being sent to the orphan house. Grandfather rode at the front with the driver, a relatively clean man with neatly combed hair and a smooth face. He quietly whistled a tune, one of Grandfather's favorites. They would be good company for the journey.

  I sat on the hardest plank in the back next to a woman named Mrs. Bowles. Two boys huddled together for comfort. They looked like brothers. The other children stared vacantly ahead. One girl looked to be my age. Her neck was dirty and her dress was torn. I wanted to speak to her but couldn't think of what to say. When she saw me looking at her, she turned away.

  Mrs. Bowles was a straight-backed woman dressed in Quaker gray. She was older than Mother, with kind eyes and laughter lines that curled around the sides of her mouth. As we drove away from the hospital, she picked up the smallest crying child and sat him in her lap. The child's sobs kept time with the rhythm of horse hooves on the road. He wiped his nose on the front of her dress and snuggled closer in her arms.

  "Mrs. Flagg explained that you have been through a great deal," Mrs. Bowles said gently.

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "These are trying times. They seem to bring out the best and worst in the people around us." We sat in silence, watching as the slate roofs of the houses on the outskirts of the city came into view. Mosquitoes, gnats, and flies followed the wagon, drawn by the smell of the

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  sweating children and horses. "How old are you, Matilda?"

  "Fourteen, fifteen in December."

  "And are you feeling recovered from your illness? Fully recovered?!"

  I nodded. "My only complaint is that my stomach grumbles all the time."

  She smiled and shifted the child in her arms. "That is normal enough for someone your age. If I may inquire?" she began delicately.

  "Yes?"

  "Have you considered what you might do to help? You have recovered, so you cannot get the fever again. You are young and strong. We have a real need for you."

  "How can I help anyone? I'm just a girl." As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to pinch myself. The first time anyone treats me like a woman and I respond like an infant.

  "You are much more than a girl, let me assure you of that. You are older than Susannah there." She inclined her head toward the girl with the dirty neck. "She has lost her family, but we are not taking her in as an orphan. She will help us with the younger children."

  The child in Mrs. Bowles's lap stirred and whimpered.

  "Shh. Hush," she whispered to the little one. "I know that you have not received any word from your mother yet. It may be better for you to stay with us. We would

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  keep you fed and warm, and you could provide us with a much-needed extra pair of hands."

  The wagon had reached the part of the city where new houses and businesses were under construction. Where there should have been an army of carpenters, masons, glaziers, plasterers, and painters, I saw only empty shells of buildings, already falling into disrepair after a few weeks of neglect.

  "Grandfather would not allow it," I said with confidence. "If Mother is still out in the country, then we two shall care for each other. He doesn't know the first thing about shopping at the market or cooking, and I need him to chop wood and, and ... he will make sure I am well."

  "It is good you have each other," said Mrs. Bowles in the same placid voice. "But you should not leave your house once you arrive. The streets of Philadelphia are more dangerous than your darkest nightmare. Fever victims lay in the gutters, thieves and wild men lurk on every corner. The markets have little food. You can't wander. If you are determined to return home with your grandfather, then you must stay there until the fever abates."

  Grandfather turned to address us. "We may end up at the Ludingtons' farm after all," he said. "Josiah here tells me there's not much food to be found anywhere, Mattie. I'll write to them again as soon as we arrive home."

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  "Won't do you no good," the driver interrupted. "The post office just closed down. It could take until Christmas before they can deliver letters."

  Mrs. Bowles patted my arm. "Don't fret, Matilda. If you like, you may choose to take employment at the orphanage. I'm sure the trustees would approve a small wage if you helped with the cleaning or minding the children. They have for Susannah. She'll help with the laundry."

  Susannah didn't look strong enough to wash a teaspoon, much less a tub full of clothing. "What will happen to her when the fever is over?" I whispered.

  Mrs. Bowles lowered her voice. "She is at a difficult age. She's too old to be treated as a child, but not old enough to be released on her own. Her parents owned a small house. The trustees will sell that and use the money for her dowry. We will hire her out to work as a servant or scullery maid. She's attractive enough. I'm sure she'll find a husband."

  A fly bit the ear of the child on Mrs. Bowles's lap, and his howl cut off the conversation.

  Scullery maid, that was one thing I would never be. I imagined Mother's face when she arrived home and found what a splendid job I had done running the coffeehouse. I could just picture it-I would be seeing the last customers out the door when Mother would come up the steps. She would exclaim how clean and well-run the coffeehouse was. Grandfather would point out the

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  fancy dry goods store I was building next door. I would blush, looking quite attractive in my new dressFrench, of course. Perhaps I could hire Susannah to do the washing up. That would be a way of helping.

  I broke off my daydream to take in our surroundings. Grandfather and the driver had stopped swapping stories. He turned to look back at me anxiously. We were in the center of a dying city.

  It was night in the middle of the day. Heat from the brick houses filled the street like a bake oven. Clouds shielded the sun, colors were overshot with gray. No one was about; businesses were closed and houses shuttered. I could hear a woman weeping. Some houses were barred against intruders. Yellow rags fluttered from railings and door knockers-pus yellow, fear yellow-to mark the homes of the sick and the dying. I caught sight of a few men walking, but they fled down alleys at the sound of the wagon.

  "What's that?" I asked, pointing to something on the marble steps of a three-story house.

  "Don't look, Matilda," said Grandfather. "Turn your head and say a prayer."

  I looked. It appeared to be a bundle of bed linens that had been cast out of an upper window, but then I saw a leg and an arm.

  "It's a man. Stop the wagon, we must help him!"

  "He is past helping, Miss," the driver said as he urged on the horses. "I checked him on the way out to

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  fetch you this morning. He were too far gone to go to the hospital. His family tossed him out so as they wouldn't catch the fever. The death cart will get him soon for burying."

  I couldn't help but stare as the wagon rolled by the stoop. He looked about seventeen and wore well-tailored clothes stained with the effects of the fever. Only his polished boots remained clean. His yellow eyes stared lifelessly at the clouds, and flies collected on his open mouth.

  "Won't there be a burial, a church service?" I asked as the driver turned east onto Walnut Street.

  "Most preachers are sick or too exhausted to rise from their beds. A few stay in the square during the day, that takes care of the praying."

  How could the city have changed so much? Yellow
fever was wrestling the life out of Philadelphia, infecting the cobblestones, the trees, the nature of the people. Was I living through another nightmare?

  "What date is this?" I asked Mrs. Bowles.

  "Today is September the twenty-fourth," she answered.

  "The twenty-fourth? That's not possible." I counted on my fingers. We fled on the eighth. "When we left, there were reports of a thousand dead. Do you know what the total is now?"

  "It's double that at least," she said. "It slowed down those few cool days, but as soon as the temperature rose again, so did the number of corpses."

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  The driver pulled on his reins to stop the horses. The road was blocked by a line of slow-moving carts, each pushed by a man with a rag tied over his face, each holding a corpse.

  "The Potter's Field is ahead," Mrs. Bowles said as she pointed to the front of the line. "That's where they're burying most of the dead. The preachers say a prayer, and someone throws a layer of dirt on top."

  Along one side of the square stretched a long row of mounded earth. The grave diggers had dug trenches as deeply as they could, then planted layer after layer of fever victims. Some of the dead were decently sewn into their winding sheets, but most were buried in the clothes they died in.

  "A field plowed by the devil," I murmured. "They're not even using coffins."

  "I haven't seen a coffin for four, five days now," the driver answered. He flicked the reins and urged the horses on. At Fifth Street, the wagon stopped.

  "Here's the orphan house," said Mrs. Bowles. "We've taken over the home of William Ralston, though we'll soon need more room."

  It was an ordinary-looking house, more expensive than some, but typical of Philadelphia: brick front, windows trimmed in white paint, metal ratlings, and a thick oaken door. The driver helped down Mrs. Bowles and Susannah, then each of the children. Mrs. Bowles put Susannah in charge of shepherding three of the children