Fever 1793

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  "Do you think that's wise? Won't they be chilled?"

  "All the work we've done to cool them down and you're worried they might catch a chill? It's just what they need."

  The bone-grinding fatigue and numbing hunger of the past weeks evaporated as we carried Grandfather's mattress down from the bedchamber and set it in the middle of the yard. Nell, Robert, and William fussed when they were brought outside, but they sat up enough to drink warm water sweetened with the last of the molasses, then fell asleep as their skin cooled gentry.

  A messenger from Joseph arrived at midday bearing fresh eggs, pumpkins, three kinds of bread, and a joint of beef. Farmers had come back into town following the frost, and their prices dropped as quickly as the temperature. The messenger cautioned us to stay away from the center of town for another week. There were sure to be new fever cases until summer's grip was well and truly broken.

  Eliza told me to eat slowly or I would be sick again. For a change, I listened to her. We fed the children small bits of meat and warm cider. Eliza and I shared a loaf of

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  bread at the kitchen table. Never had such a plain meal brought such satisfaction.

  When the children fell asleep after the meal, I took a nap even though it was the middle of the afternoon. I woke to the sound of heavy furniture being dragged across the floor.

  "Eliza, what in the name of heaven?"

  Eliza looked up. She had pushed the chest of drawers half the distance to the kitchen.

  "I've been watching the signs. The way the birch leaves flip in the breeze, the shape of the clouds, and the color of the sun now that it's setting. I predict another frost tonight. We need to get all the furniture outside and expose it to the cold. It's the only way to destroy the pestilence. Come and help me with this chest."

  I thought it was a ridiculous notion, but I helped her carry the furniture we could handle outside. The children watched us as if it were completely normal to set furniture outside. Their fevers were broken and their stomachs full. They slept for hours, woke for food, then went back to sleep.

  Joseph himself arrived the next morning with the news that the market had reopened. The twins and Nell were resting on the mattress under the cherry tree when he strode across the yard and took all three in his arms. Eliza and I let our tears fall without shame.

  Joseph opened the small sack he carried. He took out tops for the boys and a small doll for Nell, toys he had

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  made for them by himself. As the children tried to spin the tops on the lumpy mattress, Joseph joined us on the porch.

  He took both Eliza's hands and mine and held them in his. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you for giving me back my boys."

  "Balderdash," I said. "Nothing could keep those rapscallions down for long."

  "Pour yourself some cider and sit with us," said Eliza.

  We sat down comfortably and watched the children play. I poured a second mug of cider.

  "You'll hear from your mother soon, I wager," Joseph said.

  Eliza shot her brother a warning look, but he ignored it.

  "If I were you, I'd head down to the market," he continued. "That's where all the best gossips in town have gathered."

  I glanced at Eliza. "May I go?"

  "You don't need my permission," Eliza said.

  She was right. I could choose for myself.

  The market seemed like a festival, its stalls overflowing with food and rejoicing. It was noisier than ever before, talk, talk, talk, friends sharing the news, overblown laughter, strong-lunged farmers bellowing their wares. A welcome wave of noise and good cheer.

  I drifted from stall to stall, eavesdropping on good

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  news and bad. Most of the conversations were about lost relatives and friends. Yellow fever had scattered the residents of Philadelphia to the four winds. No one could guess how long it would take until everyone was accounted for.

  "Mattie Cook!" Mrs. Epler cried. "Thanks to Gott you survived. But you are so thin, liebchen. You look just like your mother, she works so hard. Here, two fat hens for you and your family. And have some eggs."

  "Thank you very much, Mrs. Epler," I said pulling out my purse.

  "No, no, no money. My gift," the plump egg seller insisted. "How is Mrs. Cook? Did you go out to the country?"

  I laid the dead hens in my basket. "Mother is missing," I said. "Grandfather is dead."

  Mrs. Epler's hands flew to her cheeks. "You poor child!" She pulled me close and squeezed me hard, her head barely as high as my shoulder. "Little Mattie, little Mattie."

  "It's fine, Mrs. Epler, I'll be fine." I unwrapped her arms from me. "I'm sure Mother will be home soon. But please, ask folks if they've seen her."

  "Of course, of course," Mrs. Epler said, bobbing her head up and down. "I'll ask everyone in the whole city."

  I had to smile at that. The news would be halfway to New York by nightfall if Mrs. Epler had anything to do with it.

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  All the farmers were cheerful and generous. I paid very low prices for peaches, carrots, and beets. Though my basket was full, I found room for a sack of hard candy and a small loaf of sugar. "For the children," I told myself.

  I had to taste the candy, of course, to make sure it was not stale. I was so vigilant that I tasted several pieces. Nell, Robert, and William deserved the best.

  My shopping was done and I had questioned everyone about Mother, but still I lingered, caught between wanting to leave and wanting to stay until I could sort out the thoughts battling in my head.

  What now? Should I travel to the Ludingtons' farm? Wait in town a few more days?

  I looked over a selection of bruised apples. Part of me did not want to know what had happened. If Mother was dead, I'd have to sell the coffeehouse, or have the orphan's court sell it for me. I'd get work as a scullery maid, or move into the orphanage and do laundry.

  I looked past the apple seller to the haberdasher's window behind him. My face looked back at me from the thick glass. Mrs. Epler was right: I was thin. Yellow fever had certainly done away with vanity. I lifted my chin. The shape of my face looked for all the world like Mother's, her nose, her mouth.

  But my eyes were my own. I blinked.

  A scullery maid? Ridiculous. I was Matilda Cook, daughter of Lucille, granddaughter of Captain William

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  Farnsworth Cook, of the Pennsylvania Fifth Regiment. I could read, write, and figure numbers faster than most. I was not afraid of hard work.

  I would set my own course.

  Someone placed a hand on my elbow.

  "I hoped I might find you here," a low voice rumbled in my ear.

  My heart jumped.

  "Nathaniel!"

  I wanted to throw my arms around him, or jump up and down, or ... I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. I wanted to stop blushing. I tried to collect myself.

  "How are you?" I asked. Think of something intelligent, I commanded myself. Don't be a ninny.

  A slow smile spread across his face. Had he grown even taller?

  "Much better now that I've found you," he said. His hand stayed on my elbow. "I'm sorry I didn't bring you flowers."

  "That's all right," I said, a ridiculous smile on my face. "I have your painting on the mantle. It was beautiful. You look... quite well. Did you have the fever?"

  "No. We were most fortunate."

  His hand was still on my elbow, warm and friendly. I liked having it there.

  "Why don't I walk you home?" he suggested.

  We walked slowly. Step, step, stop and talk. Step, step, stop and talk. His voice had a low, sweet note in it

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  like a cello, and his smile lit up every shadow. I stopped worrying about being a ninny.

  "I wanted to jump out the window when I saw you a few weeks ago," he said. "I thought you were safely in the country."

  "I was staying with Eliza and her family," I
explained. "The coffeehouse had been broken into by intruders."

  He lifted my chin. "You look like you need a week's worth of cakes. Didn't Eliza feed you?"

  "There wasn't much food for anyone," I said. "What about you? What did you eat?"

  "You know Mr. Peale. He always does things in a unique way. You've heard of the collection of animals he has?"

  I nodded. Mr. Peale had opened a natural history museum in his house.

  "We ate the specimens he had collected, before they were treated with arsenic and stuffed, of course."

  "No! You didn't!"

  "Yes, we did. And I'll never eat possum again, I promise you," said Nathaniel. "Disgusting. It was as much Master Peale's good humor that kept us going as much as anything."

  He stopped. We were in front of the coffeehouse.

  "Some days felt like we were trapped in a nightmare," he said.

  "It's hard to believe it's really over," I said. "It feels so

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  strange, so sudden. We're supposed to go back to the way we lived before, but everything has changed."

  "The important things haven't changed at all," Nathaniel said. He stole an apple from my basket and took a bite. "I will always snatch apples from your basket, you have my solemn word."

  A carriage turned off High Street and stopped halfway down the block. The door opened and out popped the head of Mrs. Henning, my neighbor, wearing an absurd feathered hat. Her children poured out behind her and rushed the door of their house. It looked like they were returning from nothing more serious than an afternoon's drive in the country.

  "Your mother will be home soon," Nathaniel said confidently. "She'll chase me off the front porch and try to marry you to a lawyer."

  "I won't let her," I said, standing taller.

  Nell squealed in the house and the twins laughed. Nathaniel and I had suddenly run out of things to say.

  "Well, I should go home," he mumbled. "I may stop in from time to time. Make sure you're well."

  "That would be nice," I said.

  "Don't worry. She'll be home soon."

  I tried to smile. No matter how kind he was, it couldn't erase the question that had haunted me all afternoon.

  What if she didn't come home at all?

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  October 3Oth, 1793

  Blessed be God for the change in the weather. The disease visibly and universally declines.

  -Dr. Benjamin Rush Letter, 1793

  Nathaniel was a constant caller that week. Mr. Peale had given him a free rein to wander and enjoy himself after being cooped up in the house. Nathaniel said all of the Peales were outside as much as possible. He predicted that the painting family would soon produce a number of landscapes.

  As word of the frost spread, hundreds of people swarmed into town. The returnees were all well-fed. They called to each other in annoying, bright voices. I wanted to tell them to hush. It felt like they were dancing on a grave with no thought to the suffering they had escaped. Those of us who had remained behind were gaunt and pale. People who were dosed with mercury spat frequently and

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  covered their mouths to hide their blackened teeth.

  Eliza reminded me not to be bitter, but it was hard.

  With every hour that passed, Philadelphia shed the appearance of a ghost city and looked more and more like the capital of the United States. Like a wilted flower stuck in a bowl of water, it drew strength and blossomed. Nathaniel talked about painting the rebirth of the city. I thought he would do a grand job.

  Nathaniel and I walked outside together as often as possible. My favorite time was just before sundown, when the dinner dishes were washed and the children ready for bed. Nathaniel would pass by the front door at just the right time. I would pretend to be surprised to see him, and he would feign shock that a busy girl like me had time for a stroll.

  The first few walks only took us a few blocks and back. Then we went as far as the giant burial ground where Grandfather rested. The dirt had been smoothed over and grass had already started growing in patches. I tried to remember exactly where he lay, but it looked different without the confusion of grave diggers and heaps of earth.

  "Don't fret," Nathaniel said. "We know he's here. He wouldn't want you to fuss about a headstone anyway."

  I nodded. "Maybe it's better that he's buried here. He would want to be in as large a crowd as possible. I bet there are more of his friends here than in the cemetery."

  "And he'll hear better stories," he said.

  We turned to walk home.

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  "Any news?" he asked.

  I shook my head. "I've written several letters, but they're useless until the post office opens. The newspaper won't run any advertisements before the end of the year."

  "Don't give up hope."

  It was Eliza's idea to have a small feast of thanksgiving with Joseph and the boys. I suggested Mother Smith, too. We didn't need to discuss Nathaniel. Of course he would come.

  Keeping the children out of the kitchen while we were cooking reminded me of trying to catch fish in my petticoat. No matter how I tried to get hold of the giggling twins, they always slipped away. Nell was the sneaky one. She waited until my hands were full with the boys, then stole a bite from the table. I finally filled the butter churn and set it on the back porch. I told them they would get a wonderful treat just as soon as they turned that milk into butter. That kept them busy for a while.

  At long last we sat down to a table filled with food.

  Mother Smith blessed the meal. "Dear Lord, we give thanks for your blessings. For bringing us through these days of pestilence, we thank you. For saving our children, we thank you. For restoring us, for watching over us, for giving us this bounty, we thank you. Watch over those who have passed, Lord."

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  "Watch my Betty," Joseph said, his voice cracking. The twins looked on as their father fought to control his grief. Though we were all healed of the fever, some wounds were inside the heart and would mend slowly.

  "Keep them close until we are ready to join them," Mother Smith concluded. "Blessed be Thy name. Amen."

  We were solemn and quiet for a moment, but three hungry children soon distracted us. It was time to feast.

  "I had forgotten what it felt like to sit down to a proper meal," said Joseph as he cut the beef on William's plate. "This is a mighty spread."

  "You set a good table, for a girl," said Mother Smith.

  "Hardly a girl anymore," remarked Eliza.

  "I couldn't have done it without your help," I said. "I've been very lucky."

  "You made your luck," corrected Mother Smith.

  "Ummmh," mumbled Nathaniel. I thought he was agreeing, but his mouth was so full it was hard to tell. He reached for more potatoes and winked at me.

  "Any news from your mother?" asked Joseph. "Seems to me that..."

  Eliza shoved a bowl of beans at Joseph to cut him off. I knew what he was about to say. He thought Mother had died. So did Eliza.

  "She'll be back soon," said Mother Smith as she spooned more carrots onto her plate. "I can feel it in my bones and they never lie. Stop fretting and pass me the butter."

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  A contented silence settled over the table as everyone ate their fill. It wasn't until I set out the pies for dessert that Joseph spoke again.

  "Have you decided your price, Matilda?"

  "What price?"

  "The price for the coffeehouse. You've got a good spot here. You sell this place, you'll get enough money to set you up nice."

  "Joseph!" Eliza scolded her brother.

  "What?" he protested. "She has to be practical. What's she going to do?"

  "She could work with Mrs. Peale," suggested Nathaniel.

  "The Lord will work it out," Mother Smith said.

  "The Lord helps those who help themselves," Joseph said. "It's no use pretending. This business needs to be
sold for Mattie's dowry, and Eliza here has to find a new job."

  "Eliza could work for Mrs. Peale, too," said Nathaniel. "They are in desperate need of a good cook. The other one quit after the possum."

  "Mind your own business, boy," Eliza snapped.

  "He's just trying to help," Joseph said. "We're all trying to help."

  Everyone thought they knew what was right for me. It was just like listening to Mother and Grandfather making the decisions while I stood to the side. I put down my knife. This would not do. It was time to bring

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  out the plan that had hatched days earlier when I saw my face in the window.

  "I'm not selling," I said loudly.

  The argument stopped and everyone looked at me.

  "I'm going to open the coffeehouse for business. Tomorrow."

  "More the fool you, then," replied Joseph. "You'll never run it on your own."

  "I don't have to," I answered. "I'm taking on a partner."

  "A partner? Who?" asked Eliza. She glared at Nathaniel, who shook his head.

  "Not me," he said quickly.

  "What do you know about taking on a partner?" Eliza asked.

  "Plenty," I said. "My partner has to be someone I can trust. Someone who knows how to run a coffeehouse and isn't afraid to give me a kick in the backside every now and then to keep me on the right path."

  Eliza set her fork down. "Speak plainly, child. I'm not fond of riddles."

  I swallowed.

  "Eliza, I want you be my partner. There's no one better suited to it, no one I can trust. Or who will put up with me."

  Even Nell sat quietly.

  "Mattie, I don't have the money to buy a partnership from you. It's kind of you to ask, but I can't."

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  "No, oh no, you don't understand. I couldn't take your money. I'm sharing it with you. It's the right thing to do, and it's good business."