Fever 1793

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  "Yes, she was," I protested. "Let me go, please. I'll take some food, you know they need it, and I'll pay my respects to her mother. It's the proper thing to do."

  "I've already paid our respects," Mother said. "You'll just upset her mother more. I'll take a food basket there myself. Tomorrow. Now put on a clean apron, Matilda, and wash your hands. It's time to get to work."

  "I want to see her!"

  "No."

  "What about the funeral?" I asked, blinking back the tears. "You must let me attend that."

  "No. Absolutely not. I forbid it. You'll have nightmares."

  "She was my friend! You must allow me. Why are you so horrid?"

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  As soon as the angry words were out of my mouth, I knew I had gone too far.

  "Matilda!" Mother rose from her chair. "You are forbidden to speak to me in that tone! Apologize at once."

  The sun coming in the south window cast deep shadows under her eyes and cheekbones. She held her jaw tight, her eyes flashing with anger. She looked old, much older than she should. She hadn't always been so pinch-faced and harsh.

  When Mother allowed herself a still moment by the fire on winter nights, I could sometimes see the face she wore when Father was alive. Back then Mother smiled at me with her eyes and her laughter and her gentle hands. But no longer. Life was a battle, and Mother a tired and bitter captain. The captain I had to obey.

  "My apologies," I said.

  *7

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  CHAPTER FOUR

  August i6th, 1793

  Diet Bread: One pound sugar, 9 eggs, beat for an hour, add to 14 ounces flour, teaspoon rosewater, one teaspoon cinnamon or coriander, bake quick.

  -Amelia Simmons American Cookbook, 1796

  By midafternoon the front room of the coffeehouse was thick with customers, pipe smoke, and loud arguments. A ship's captain finished telling a yarn, and the windowpanes rattled with laughter. Mother poured him a cup of coffee with a steady hand. She looked up as I walked by carrying a tray of fresh gingerbread, but she wouldn't meet my eye.

  "Over here, lass!" Grandfather shouted from his corner seat. Above his head hung the cage of King George, the scraggly green parrot won in a card game. "Bring those delectables over here and give us a kiss."

  My Grandfather was Captain William Farnsworth

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  Cook of the Pennsylvania Fifth Regiment. He was a stout man, thanks to Eliza's cooking, and the heart of all gossip and tall tales in the coffeehouse. He had been an army officer his whole life, and was happiest when serving under General Washington. He tried to instill some military training in me, but always sweetened it with candy.

  I held the tray over my head as I squeezed past the crowded tables. Grandfather sat with two government officials, a lawyer, and Mr. Carris, who owned an export business. I set the tray in front of Grandfather, and he patted my hand.

  "Look here, gentlemen, sweets offered by the sweetest filly in the Commonwealth. What will you have?"

  "Can that be little Mattie?" elderly Mr. Carris asked as he squinted through his bifocals. "Why, she's grown into a fine young lady. Much too fine for this type of work. We'll have to find a husband for you."

  "A husband! A husband!" King George squawked.

  My face flushed as the men laughed.

  "Hush, you old thing," I muttered to the bird. It would have been rude to hush Mr. Carris. "I'll feed you to Silas if you don't close that beak."

  Grandfather gave the pest a piece of gingerbread, and Mr. Carris went back to his original subject.

  "It's that heap of rotting coffee beans on Ball's Wharf, I tell you," Mr. Carris said to the other men. "It's the source of a deadly miasma, a foul stench, indeed.

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  There are noxious fumes all around the district. Mark my words, it will be a killer yet."

  Is that what killed Polly? A miasma? I could feel the tears stinging my eyes, but I couldn't escape, not with Grandfather holding my hand. I wanted to tell him what happened; he'd understand. But not in front of all these people.

  The lawyer shook his head in disagreement.

  "It creates an awful stench, yes, but no one dies from a bad smell. If they did, every farmer spreading manure would be long dead and us city-dwellers all hungry!"

  Grandfather roared with laughter and slapped his knee.

  "Hungry," echoed King George.

  "Hold there, Marks, hold there, I say," interjected the government clerk. His left eye blinked with a nervous twitch. "I've heard stories of a fever among the Santo Domingan refugees. They live close to Ball's Wharf, you know."

  A doctor at the next table looked up from his backgammon board and interrupted the conversation.

  "It is not just the refugees," the doctor said. "This morning I spoke with a colleague who was called to the Shewall home. Mary Shewall died soon after of a bilious fever, and one could hardly fault her character. There may well be a disease in the air again. Yellow fever."

  The room grew quiet as the entire company listened in.

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  "A woman dies of some illness and you talk of yellow fever?" the lawyer asked. "We haven't seen yellow fever in Philadelphia for thirty years."

  "It is too early to tell," the doctor agreed. "But I know of some who are sending their wives and children up to the country, to healthful air and cool breezes."

  "You doctors are all alike, scaring us to earn more business. My family will stay right where they are, thank you," the lawyer replied.

  "All the same, a trip to the country sounds refreshing," Mr. Carris said.

  Grandfather thumped his boot on the floor.

  "Balderdash! Bad coffee is a nuisance, but it won't kill anyone. Some poor soul dies of a fever every August. That's why my boy had the good sense to open this fine establishment so far away from the river, away from the smells, filth, and disease. Enough fever talk. Mattie girl, bring us more tea. And who will tell me why Mr. Jefferson wants to quit his job? Isn't being secretary of state good enough for him? Or does he want something more?"

  The men all shouted. They loved to argue about Mr. Jefferson.

  I fetched a fresh pot of coffee from the kitchen. Eliza and Mother didn't say a word to me; there was too much work to do. I poured coffee and tea, served oyster loaf and Indian pudding, carried the dirty dishes back to Eliza, and tried to keep the floor swept clean. I didn't

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  have time to worry about fevers or husbands or rude parrots.

  Eventually the hour struck and the customers donned their hats and said their farewells. Mother called me to help figure the bills and exchange the many kinds of money: pence from Massachusetts, shillings from Virginia, British pounds, and French francs.

  I double-checked the long column of numbers. Taking care of accounts was one territory that Mother conceded to me. If she added the fingers on one hand, she was just as likely to total four as six.

  Grandfather left for his constitutional stroll around the city, but I was not allowed to join him. I had to take Polly's place in the kitchen, washing up, sweeping the floors, dusting the tables, and putting everything back in its proper place so we would be ready to do the same thing the next day.

  My arms felt as heavy as lead from carrying the trays. My shift was sticky with perspiration, and I smelled of tobacco smoke and unwashed strangers. How did Polly do this every day?

  I forced my eyes open to look at Mother putting away the clean china.

  Til help," I said.

  "Don't be ridiculous," she answered. "You're exhausted. Polly wul do it in the morning."

  She stopped. The house was silent for a moment, except for the sound of Matthew down the block still

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  hammering away at his forge. Had anyone told him that Polly was gone?

  "I'll finish it," Mother corrected herself. "Go to bed. I need you up early to clean out the fireplace."

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  CHAPTER FIVE

  August 24th, 1793

  A lo
w voice and soft address are the common indications of a well-bred woman.

  -Hannah More

  The Young Lady Abroad or Affectionate

  Advice on the Social and Moral Habits of Females, 1777

  A week later, sixty-four people had died, though no one seemed quite sure what killed them. Rumors of a fever near the docks snaked through the city. People avoided the shops by the river and came up to our end of High Street, where the air smelled cleaner. They made our strongbox grow delightfully heavy.

  There was little time to mourn for Polly. I slaved from dawn until the stars shone: house chores in the morning, serving coffee in the afternoon, and cleaning after supper. Sleep became more precious to me than food. One night, I fell asleep in the necessary and woke with a fervent prayer of thanks that I had not fallen in.

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  My first chance for escape came eight days after Polly died, as Mother and Grandfather discussed their plans for the day.

  "We need extra eggs, hard cheese, pippin apples, and savory. And lemons. I'll have to go to the market again," sighed Mother. I concentrated on a hoe cake spread thick with honey.

  "You're too tired, Lucille. Send the child to market," Grandfather suggested.

  I quickly swallowed the hoe cake.

  "No, Matilda must stay home. I shall go." Mother fanned herself with her hand. "It is uncommonly warm, isn't it?"

  I jumped to my feet.

  "Grandfather's right, you need the rest. Please let me

  go-"

  Mother tapped her finger on the table, a good sign.

  She was thinking.

  Grandfather tried again.

  "You've fussed for days because you don't like her serving customers. Let her run the market errands. It will clear her head. Young people need the outside air."

  The fingers stopped. A bad sign.

  "I was thinking of sending her to the country, to the Ludingtons at Gwynedd. You encourage her to go deeper into town." Mother frowned.

  The Ludingtons? The Ludingtons had a farm with disgusting pigs and dogs that bit. Any place

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  would be better than the Ludingtons.

  Grandfather fed a cracker to King George.

  "Must you be so gloomy, woman? You see darkness in every corner. Sending her away-your own child? You shock me. The Ludingtons aren't even family. I can't see the wisdom in that. We'll have to consider this at some length," he said, drawing out his pipe.

  The considering could take hours. The sun was growing hotter and the larder stood empty.

  "If I don't go soon, everything will be sold or spoiled," I reminded them. "People don't stop eating eggs whenever there's a fever, do they?" I had to get her attention away from that farm.

  "The child's right, Lucille. She'll be fine. We must accommodate our lives to the fever for a few weeks, but we shan't overthrow our daily routines. It's important that we not lose our heads."

  "But Polly..." Mother started.

  "Whatever took that little imp away, it wasn't a fever, I promise you that," Grandfather said. "It could have been a sudden pleurisy or a weak heart. You worry too much. Always have. The market is the safest place in town, next to our own castle here. Now let the child get some air."

  Mother pursed her lips a moment, then nodded. "I'll write a list for you."

  "I know what we need," I quickly replied.

  "Don't shop at any stalls below Third Street. Stay

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  away from Second Street Market completely. And no rambles today. You go to the market and then you come home. And do not let me hear of you loitering shamelessly in front of the Peale house."

  I turned so she would not see me blush. Why did it matter if I walked past the Peaks'? "I think we should buy extra bread at the Simmons' bakery. We're sure to run out again."

  "Good idea, girl," said Grandfather. "See there, Lucille. The child minds the shop as well as you. You mustn't be so hard on her. Come here, Mattie, give this old soldier a kiss."

  I pecked his cheek and he slipped a piece of hard candy into my hand. I dashed out the door before Mother could change her mind.

  As I crossed Fourth Street, the noise from the market splashed over me like a wave.

  '"Ere's yer lily-white hot corn! Get your nice hot corn!"

  "Fresh fish fit for the pan!" "Raaaaaaspberries! Blaaaaaaackberries!" "Pepperpot! All hot! Makee strong! Makee live long! Come buy my pepperpot!"

  The market stalls stretched for three blocks in the center of the street. West Indian women stood by their pepperpot kettles stirring fragrant stews, while the hot corn girls walked up and down the street. The distant

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  call of the charcoal man's horn sounded at the far end of the market. Chickens clucked and geese honked, customers argued about the price of pears, and children ran everywhere.

  Eggs, pippins, savory, what else did she want? I thought. Cabbage? Crab apples? I rolled the candy in my mouth. It had a piece of tobacco stuck to it from Grandfather's pocket. I spit it out and walked up to the egg sellers.

  "Hello, Miss Matilda Cook!"

  "Good morning, Mrs. Epler."

  Mr. and Mrs. Epler were German farmers who brought their eggs and chickens to market three times a week. Mrs. Epler fluttered in her stall, her tiny black eyes looking this way and that, her chins flapping as she spoke. Mr. Epler was egg-shaped; narrow at the top and bottom, bulging in the middle. He never spoke.

  His wife leaned forward.

  "I was just telling Epler here that your people would be already gone. All the farmers talk, talk, talk of this fever." She waved her arms, scaring the chickens in their wooden pens at her feet. "So much fever talk!"

  "Don't you believe it?" I asked.

  "Them that are sick should the church visit. City folk, sinners at the docks. They don't visit the church, and God gives them the fever. It is a sign from God. The Bible says the soul that sinneth, it shall die."

  Mr. Epler nodded his head solemnly.

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  "Did you to church go last week, Miss Matilda Cook?" Mrs. Epler leaned her beak forward.

  "Yes, Ma'am. Mother never lets me stay home."

  Mrs. Epler's face broke into a wide grin.

  "She's a good woman, your mother. You go to church and you have no worries! How many eggs you want, liebcheri?"

  With the eggs carefully tucked in my basket, I moved on to Mr. Owens's stall. He wrung his hands and apologized for the sorry-looking cabbages.

  "We were lucky to get those, what with this drought and all," he said.

  He was so discouraged about the cabbages, it was easy to talk his price down. He may have lowered it even further, but I felt sorry for him. He had more children on his farm than he could count on two hands. (The extra money was just what I needed to buy a bag of hard candy. Without tobacco specks.)

  The next stall had fresh lemons. I scratched the peel and held one up to my nose. Paris would smell like a lemon peel, far away and wonderful. I bought a dozen and kept one in my hand as I shopped.

  There was no savory to be found, and the apples were small and knobbly. Mrs. Hotchkiss charged an outrageous price for a moldy cheese, but there were no other cheese sellers. I had to use all the hard candy money. I did not bid her good day.

  As I rounded the butcher's stall at the far end of the

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  market, someone grabbed my basket and spun me around. I clenched my fists and whirled to face my assailant.

  Nathaniel Benson.

  My stomach flipped over like an egg in a skillet. I brushed my hands on my apron.

  "Little Mattie is come to market. Are you sure you haven't lost your way?" he teased.

  Nathaniel Benson.

  He looked much more a man and less a boy than he had a few months earlier. He had sprouted up over my head and grown broad in the chest. Stop, I cautioned myself. You shouldn't look at him as if he were a racehorse for sale. But his hair was a beautiful chestnut color....

  I often walked past
the Peaks' house, but rarely had the chance to speak with him. His work as a painter's assistant required long hours. He was known to stroll past the coffeehouse from time to time, but Mother kept me busy when he approached. He wasn't suitable, she said. Had no future, was a scamp, possibly even a scoundrel.

  Last New Year's Day, Nathaniel had rubbed snow in my face and chased me across the ice. I pushed him into a snowbank, and Mother sent me home in disgrace. The following week, he took me to watch Blanchard's balloon fly away. He thought it would be marvelous to visit Paris.

  Nathaniel Benson.

  I cleared my throat.

  jo

  "Good afternoon, Nathaniel. Kindly return my basket."

  "Is that all you have to say? You disappoint me. I thought you would send me sailing into the horse trough at least. I guess you respect my new position as a man of the world."

  "You are not a man of the world, you clean paintbrushes, though for the life of me I don't know why Mr. Peak bothers with you. And you will end up in that trough if you don't give back my basket." I paused. "Your shoe buckle is missing."

  "What?"

  I grabbed the basket as he looked down to inspect his shoe.

  "Very funny," he said.

  "Why are you here?" I asked. "Shouldn't you be working?"

  He snatched an apple from my basket and took a bite. The impudence.

  "Master Peak gave me the day off. He has a committee meeting with the mayor and a visit with a banker. I ruin so much when he's present, he's afraid to let me work unsupervised. The day is mine, so I'm going fishing. Want to come?"

  Fishing. I hadn't been fishing in months. And I'd known Nathaniel since I was a baby, so I could roll my sleeves up above my elbows in his presence. As long as Mother didn't see me do it.

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