Fever 1793

by Laurie Halse Anderson

I had to bury my grandfather, and soon. Hot weather was most unkind to the dead, that was made painfully clear up at Bush Hill. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop the flow of tears. Crying wouldn't help anything. My duty was clear. I understood why the cart man walked so slowly. Death was a heavy companion.

  I wiped my mouth on the hem of my dress. The cart turned down Seventh Street and headed south. I ran to catch up with it. A few minutes later, Grandfather's body was loaded into the death cart.

  When the man realized I would follow him to the park, he treated Grandfather's body with respect. He gave me time to dash upstairs and find Grandmother's portrait. Grandfather had looked upon her face every night before he fell asleep. I tucked it underneath his arm as he lay in the cart. It pained me that he could not be buried next to her in the churchyard. I hoped that taking her image to the grave with him would be a comfort.

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  I nodded to the man. He struggled to push the cart. Grandfathers weight made it hard to manage. I tapped him on the shoulder. He looked me up and down once, then moved to the side. I grasped one of the cart handles with both hands. We both heaved, and the wheels rolled. Together we pushed the cart to the burial ground.

  The funeral procession for Captain William Farnsworth Cook should have been loud and long, crowded with friends exchanging memories of the grand old man. But the streets were ghosted, colorless and hushed. His casket should have been pulled by a fine white horse, not pushed by a girl and a stranger. I shifted my hands on the heavy handle. A sliver bit into my palm and I couldn't stop the tears. He was truly gone.

  The burial square was quiet, yet busy with activity. Thirty, maybe forty men were methodically digging the earth and laying the dead to rest. Two of them picked up Grandfather's body and laid it on a large canvas cloth that reminded me of a sail. They wrapped the cloth around him and quickly sewed the shroud shut with thick curved needles. I stood behind them, silent and numb. They lifted Grandfather's shroud by the top and the bottom and prepared to fling it into the open grave. My voice erupted.

  "Stop!" All heads turned to look at me. I didn't realize what I had done at first. The men set the shroud on the ground.

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  "You can't just toss him in there like a sack of potatoes," I said. "Where's the minister? You're not supposed to bury people without prayers."

  The men looked at each other. The one who stood at Grandfather's feet spoke softly.

  "The minister will come by later today and pray for all the dead, Miss. There are so many people alive who need tending to, the dead have to wait their turn. I'm sure God will understand. Now please, Miss, let us get on with this work."

  He bent over to pick up the shroud.

  "Put him down," I said.

  The men ignored me.

  A spiteful voice hissed in my head. Shut up, Mattie, the voice said. You're a silly child. You have no business ordering these men around. Stop interfering and get out. This is no place for you. Get your sniveling self to the orphan house where they'll feed you and dry your tears.

  My head throbbed to the rhythm of the shovels biting into the earth. My hands decided what to do without consulting the rest of my body. I shoved the man who spoke to me, shoved him so hard he nearly toppled into the grave. He scrambled to his feet, protesting. I ran up to him and clenched the front of his shirt in my blistered hands.

  "This was a great man, Captain William Farnsworth Cook, of the Pennsylvanian Fifth Regiment. He was my grandfather. You will not bury

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  him without a prayer." I spoke slowly, with iron force behind every (word.

  "The lass is right," said the man who pushed the cart. It was the first time he had spoken. He took a slim book from his pocket and offered it to me. "Can ye read?"

  I nodded and took the book from him. It was a copy of the Psalms, the pages worn thin and dirty from frequent use. I stared at the grave diggers. They took off their caps and bowed their heads. Movement in the park stopped, as those watching laid down their shovels and bowed their heads. The book opened to the familiar words. I swallowed, cleared my throat, and began to read loudly, so that all could hear.

  "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..."

  The men around me moved their lips and then gave voice. Our voices rose together as one, proclaiming faith, joining in grief. At the end of the reading, some crossed themselves, others wiped their eyes. I stood straight and tall.

  "Thank you."

  I handed the book back and walked away. There was nothing more for me to do.

  My feet moved, taking me up one street and down the next. I didn't see another person for blocks, not even a grave digger or a physician. The sound of my shoes tapping across the cobblestones echoed down the street like a latecomer sneaking into church. I walked past the

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  homes of people acquainted with my family. They were all deserted. My shift darkened with sweat. Surely I wasn't the only person left in Philadelphia?

  My mind whirled. What to do? What to do? I should find a way to the Ludingtons'. No, that would be impossible. I should go to the orphan house; they would take me in. The compass spun wildly. No, I could care for myself. I was not a child. Bush Hill. Mrs. Flagg would see that I was fed, and I could help care for the sick. But the memories of that place were filled with the sound of Grandfather's voice and the rumble of his laugh. Don't borrow trouble, that's what Eliza would say. Don't borrow trouble. I'd go to the market for some food. Then I'd hole up at home and wait for the frost. No one had a duty to me, and I had no claim on anyone else. But it mattered not. I would see my way through.

  My stomach took control. The first thing was to find a meal. I felt faint and queasy. I stood in the shade of a linden tree, then set out the short distance to the market.

  My steps slowed as I approached the market. No noise greeted me. I checked my bearings twice to make sure I had not taken a wrong turn.

  It was empty.

  A hot wind blew trash and dirt through the abandoned stalls. It looked like an enormous broom had swept away all the people.

  I thought of what Mrs. Bowles had said. Was the fever really keeping the farmers away? But how could

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  city people eat if the market closed? Out of the corner of my eye I saw a dark mass near an overturned basket. It could be potatoes or carrots. I picked up my skirts and hurried over to investigate.

  Rats. Shiny, slippery rats, fat and fast, poured in and out of the basket, twitching their noses and flicking their tails. J had never seen rats so far away from the river. Where were the dogs, the cats that kept them away? And what would I do now? How was I going to eat? A chest of gold wouldn't buy any food here today. A coughing fit overtook me and I felt faint. I stumbled into Mrs. Epler's stall and sat in the stray white feathers that littered the ground.

  Now what?

  Take inventory, check the pack and powder. I was alone; Grandfather was dead and Mother missing. I had survived the fever but still felt weak. There was little food in the garden and no food to buy. Thieves and scoundrels prowled the streets.

  My pack was empty and my powder wet. I had no choice but to walk home, where I could at least lock the doors.

  When I came upon the open windows of the Federal Gazette office, it was a shock. A horse was tethered by the door. I stumbled through the door, eager for a friendly face.

  "Can I help you?"

  "It's me, Mr. Brown. William Cook's granddaughter."

  The printer looked up from his desk. The dark circles under his eyes and lines of worry across his brow made him look as if he had aged years in the course of a month.

  "What do you need, Matilda? I've no time for social calls today."

  I hesitated. What could Mr. Brown do? I couldn't work a press; he couldn't bring Grandfather back from the grave.

  "Please, Sir," I said. "I would like to place an advertisement in your newspaper. I'm searching for my mother. She's gone."

  Mr. Brown pulled a s
tained kerchief out of his trouser pocket and rubbed it over his face and neck.

  "Matilda, there is nothing I'd rather do than run an advertisement for your mother. But look about you." He spread his arms to take in the shop. "There is hardly any paper to be had for a hundred miles. The Gazette is the last paper being printed in the city, and I have to print on half-sheets. Five other newspapers have closed down. I wish I could flee myself."

  He paused and looked out the window. I thought he had forgotten me.

  "But I must stay. This paper is the only method of communication left in the city. I must print physicians' notices, orders from the mayor ..."

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  His face dropped to his hands. The shop was perfectly quiet, save for the sound of the clock ticking on the wall and a fly caught in a spider's web strung across a grimy windowpane.

  "Mr. Brown? Sir?"

  He took a deep breath and looked up.

  "In the beginning of August, this was the largest city in the United States. Forty thousand people lived here. Near as I can tell," he pointed to the jumble of notes and letters on the desk before him, "more than half the city has fled, twenty thousand people."

  "How many dead, Sir?"

  "More than three thousand, enough to fill house after house, street after street."

  "I went to the market, but found no food," I said.

  "Few farmers dare come into town. They charge exorbitant prices for their wares, and get whatever they ask," he said bitterly. "Those who don't die of the fever are beginning to starve. You've seen the rats?"

  I nodded.

  "The rats thrive. I should write that." He dipped a quill into the ink pot and scribbled a note. "The only creatures to benefit from this pestilence are the rats. Go home, Matilda, take my regards to your grandfather, but tell him he must lock all the doors and pray for frost."

  I started to tell him what had happened, but a man burst through the door waving a letter and shouting.

  Mr. Brown shooed me from his shop with a wave of his hand. No matter. Telling him wouldn't bring Grandfather back, and it was clear he couldn't help me.

  I turned the corner and found myself in front of Warner's hat shop. Mrs. Warner knew my mother a bit. Perhaps they would let me stay a day or two, or share some bread. But the hattery was locked up tight. I couldn't even peek inside through the shutters. No sign of the Warner family.

  "Hey there, you! Girlie, by the hatter s!"

  A sharp-eyed woman holding a cloth over her face crossed the street. She was older than Mother, with white wisps of hair escaping a dirty mob cap. Her dress was faded. Her eyes narrowed, watching me with suspicion. She stopped a few paces away from me, her cane slightly raised.

  "What business do you have here? Off with you!" the woman shouted.

  "I mean no harm," I explained. My nose wrinkled at the smell of vinegar coming from the woman. "Do you know where the Warners are?"

  The woman stepped backward.

  "What is your business here?" she demanded.

  "I'm looking for a friend."

  The woman considered me for a moment.

  "They left for Chester in the dark of night. Warner has kin there. There was horrible screaming and carrying on. The youngest girl fell ill after an apprentice

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  died." She spat the word like a wormy seed. "They threw out the body on the way. And you, do you carry this evil blot on your soul as well?"

  "I fell ill, but recovered in the Bush Hill hospital."

  "Get back! Stay away from me!" the woman shrieked as she raised her cane higher. "Leave before I call my man. No fever victims here!"

  She brought the cane down across my back. The blow sent me face-first into the dirt.

  "Leave!" the woman screamed.

  I fought my way to my feet before the cane crashed downward again. I ran blindly, ignoring the pain in my throat and the ache in my side. The sun blazed overhead. I lost my way. The cut on my foot started to bleed again. I walked and walked, trying not to remember or feel.

  I wandered up one street and down the next. The printer s words haunted me.

  Thousands dead.

  I saw Grandfather's empty eyes.

  No food.

  I saw Mother order me to leave her.

  No hope.

  I passed people weeping injloorways and did not stop. I heard the death carts rattling in the street and did not look up.

  A breeze picked up, pushing me eastward, toward the docks, east toward the water, away from the sun. I

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  could see the tops of ships' masts, peeking over the rooftops like trees in the dead of winter. The sodden wharf planks moaned as the tide pulled the river water toward the open sea. My mind floated with dark thoughts.

  What did it feel like to die? Was it a peaceful sleep? Some thought it was full of either trumpetblowing angels or angry devils. Perhaps I was already dead.

  I shook my head. Nonsense. Foolish nonsense. I was being weak and foolish. There was no point in wandering like a lost puppy. I needed to get home and sleep. Grandfather would not be proud if he saw me acting so spineless. I needed to captain myself.

  My foot scuffed something. I looked down to keep from tripping. A china-faced doll wearing a satin dress lay by the curb, her head shattered, her dress coated with dirt. A few steps away, an abandoned satchel still packed with clean shirts lay open.

  I picked up the broken doll and heard a whimpering sound coming from an open doorway. I put my head through the door and waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  A small child cowered in the corner, her blonde hair loose and tangled, her feet bare and black with dirt. She was sucking her thumb and keening to herself. I held out the doll to her. "Is this yours?" I asked.

  "Broken," she said.

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  "Is your mama here? Or your papa? Perhaps they can fix it."

  The little girl whispered something. I stepped closer to hear her.

  "Mama's broken too," she said.

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  September 27th, 1793

  . . . at other places we found a parent dead, and none but little innocent babes to be seen, whose ignorance led them to think their parent was asleep...

  -Richard Allen and Absalom Jones

  A Narrative of the Proceedings of the Black

  People During the Late Awful Calamity in

  Philadelphia in the Year 1793

  Her mother was dead, broken in the eyes of tiny Nell. Her name was the last bit of information I could get from her. Seeing her mother's body, quite clearly a victim of yellow fever, on the bed seemed to make her mute. She stood before me, and before I realized what I had done, I picked her up and cradled her close.

  Now what? I couldn't care for Nell; I could barely care for myself. And her mother needed burying, though I didn't relish another trip back to the public square. I had to find someone to care for her.

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  None of the neighbors who answered their doors knew anything about the family, and they all had enough problems of their own without taking in the child. "You might try Reverend Allen's group," offered one woman. "I seen two women carrying a basket down the alley not long ago. They'll know what to do with the child, and they'll send one to care for the mother."

  "Where do I find them?" I asked.

  "If you can't find any of their members hereabouts, go down Fifth Street, south of Walnut. They hold meetings there, where they're building a church. You'll find someone there to help, I'll wager."

  Fifth Street, south of Walnut. So many blocks to walk, and I'd have to do it with Nell on my hip. But it would be farther to carry her to the orphan house and farther still to the coffeehouse. Nell looked at me. There was no choice. I hoisted her high in my arms and started south.

  I kept my eyes open for anyone who might help, but the only folks in the street were sailors, and most of them were drunk. I was nearing the dockside taverns. I held Nell close and tried
to walk faster. I did not want to delay in this part of town.

  Two black women ahead of me caught the attention of a rowdy group hanging outside a tavern door. They moved swiftly, ignoring the taunts and vicious words the men called after them. I blinked. I rubbed my eyes. There was something about the straight line of the taller

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  woman's back, the color of the cap on her dark head.

  "Eliza?" I whispered. I blinked again. The sunlight on the water had left spots dancing in front of my eyes. The women walked steadily away from me, each holding a large basket over their arms.

  "Eliza?"

  They turned into an alleyway and disappeared.

  "Eliza!" I screamed. My feet found their strength, and I took off at a full run, Nell bouncing painfully and gripping my shift for her life. "Eliza!"

  A filthy man from the group in front of the tavern broke off from his friends and chased after me.

  "Hello, love," he slurred. His breath carried the stench of dockside garbage: whiskey and filth, hardtack and disease. "Come and dance with me."

  He tried to pluck Nell from my arms. "Come dance," he insisted.

  Nell wound her legs tightly around my waist and bit the man's hand. He howled with outrage while his companions collapsed in laughter. I held tightly to Nell and sprinted for the alley, afraid to look over my shoulder.

  "Glad you're on my side," I told Nell. She stuck her thumb back in her mouth as if nothing had happened.

  The women were gone. I walked down the alley to a courtyard. It should have been crowded with playing children, chickens and pigs, but was quiet save for the noises made by a tired woman hanging out laundry. I

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  checked behind me. The drunk had found other sport

  i r and had not followed us. Nell was grower heavier by the minute. I carried her over to the woman hanging out her wash.