Fever 1793 (14 page)

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I shook my head mutely. No. No. This would not happen. No. Please God. Anything but this.

He nodded once. "My time. Too early. So sorry."

I covered my mouth to hold in the scream and rocked back and forth. After all he had been through, to die like this. Don't die. I couldn't hold the words back. "Don't die, Grandfather. Please don't die. I love you. Please, please. Oh dear God, please don't die."

My face was wet, my tears splashing onto his cheeks.

"Strong," he whispered. "Beautiful. Clever. My sweet Mattie." His eyes closed.

I bent down to kiss his forehead. I thought I heard his last words.

"Love you."

Dead? Grandfather couldn't be dead. My grandfathercandy-giving, wood-chopping, tobacco-smelling grandfather. Who carried me through Philadelphia like a princess. Who knew every politician, printer, carpenter, and captain. Who fed stray dogs. Who curbed Mother's tongue. Who carved me a doll's cradle. Who dried my tears.

Dead.

I held my breath and waited for the earth to stop spinning. The sun need not rise again. There was no reason for the rivers to flow. Birds would never sing.

The sound came straight from my heart, as sharp as the point of a sword. I shrieked to the heavens and pounded the floor with rage. "Nonono! Don't take him! Nonono!"

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I picked up the sword and attacked a chair as if it were Death itself. When the chair was a pile of firewood and the sword dull, I fell to my knees by the side of my grandfather's body.

Dead. Growing cold.

I straightened his arms and legs so he might lay with dignity. What should I do next? There was no one to ask. I felt like a baby girl just learning to walk, only the ground under my feet was shaking and I had no one to hold on to.

Silas padded in and rubbed himself along Grandfather's hand. He lay down beside me. I took a shaky breath and looked at the face that had loved me so much. The light was gone from his eyes, blown out. I gently closed his eyelids with my fingertips. I was not afraid to touch him. There were other things to do. Think now. I tried to remember the funerals I'd seen. I dimly remembered seeing an elderly woman's body during a wake when I was younger. There was a bandage round her jaw to keep her mouth closed.

I pulled myself from the floor and marched to the clothespress. I took out a few of our finest napkins and a linen tablecloth. A small package thumped to the floor, but I didn't bother to examine it. I used the napkins to bind up Grandfather's jaw.

I hesitated before moving him onto the tablecloth. Would he want to be buried in his nightshirt? A smile skirted across my face before I could stop it. I thought I

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heard him chuckle, but his body was as still as ever. He once told me that death is the eternal sleep. What could be more fitting than his nightshirt? Might be more comfortable than forcing him to wear tight clothing for eternity. He'd understand.

I covered him with the tablecloth, but it sent an icy chill through me. I was supposed to cover his face. That's what people would expect. But I couldn't force
myself
to do it. He had such a kind face. I folded the tablecloth down below his chin. It looked like he was asleep.

An owl hooted outside. I wondered where King George was, if he knew that Grandfather was gone. Maybe that's why King George had left us, to prepare a place for this old soldier. I sniffed and wiped a tear from my face. Silly to cry about a dead parrot, I told myself.

The first tear gave way to another, and then another. I passed the night kneeling by the side of the finest man I had ever known, praying that the morning would not come.

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CHAPTER TWENTY

September 27th, l£93

Doctors raving and disputing, death's pale army still recruitin.

-Philip Freneau

Pestilence: Written During the Prevalence of a Yellow Fever,
1793

Bring out your dead!" What was that?

"Bring out your dead!" The hoarse voice echoed off the cobblestones and brick houses.

I opened the shutters a crack and peered out. A man dressed in rags pushed a large cart that already contained two corpses-a child and young woman, their skin tinted a pale yellow. The cart was not heavy, but the man walked slowly, as if he were pushing the weight of the world. My hands shook against the window frame. A cold wind from my nightmare blew through my mind. I had to remember something.

"Bring out your dead."

Grandfather. I whirled. His body still lay on the floor. My stomach clenched. I ran outside and threw up what little was in my stomach on the side of the road. It wasn't a nightmare. It truly happened, all of it. The sour taste burned my mouth, and my hands would not stop shaking.

There could be no running from this. Hiding from death was not like hiding from Mother when she wanted me to scrub kettles, or ignoring Silas when he begged for food. I was the only one left.

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 stained 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 ..."