Fever 1793 (2 page)

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I dropped the bucket into the well to fill it with water, then turned the handle to bring it back up again. Little Mattie, indeed. I was big enough to be ordered around like an unpaid servant. Big enough for mother to grumble about finding me a husband.

I carried the water to the potato patch and poured it out too fast. Big enough to plan for the day when I would no longer live here.

If I was going to work as hard as a mule, it might as well be for my own benefit. I was going to travel to France and bring back fabric and combs and jewelry that the ladies of Philadelphia would swoon over. And that was just for the dry goods store. I wanted to own an entire city block-a proper restaurant, an apothecary, maybe a school, or a hatter's shop. Grandfather said I was a Daughter of Liberty, a real American girl. I could steer my own ship. No one would call me little Mattie. They would call me "Ma'am."

"Dash it all." I had watered a row of weeds.

As I returned to the well, Mother came through the garden gate.

"Where's Polly?" I asked as I dropped the bucket down the well. "Did you pass by the blacksmith's?"

"I spoke with her mother, with Mistress Logan," Mother answered softly, looking at her neat rows of carrots.

"And?" I waved a mosquito away from my face.

"It happened quickly. Polly sewed by candlelight after dinner. Her mother repeated that over and over, 'she sewed by candlelight after dinner.' And then she collapsed."

I released the handle and the bucket splashed, a distant sound.

"Matilda, Polly's dead."

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CHAPTER THREE

August 16th, 1793

Oh then the hands of the pitiful Mother prepared her Child's body for the grave...
-Letter of Margaret Morris Philadelphia, 1793

Dead? Polly's dead?" I couldn't have heard her properly. "Polly Logan?" The sweat on my neck turned to ice and I shivered. "Our Polly? That can't be."

I tried to remember the last time we had played together. It was before she started working for us. Last Christmas-no, well before that. Her family had moved to Third Street at least two years ago. She had been a cradle friend, the girl I played dolls with. We sang nonsense songs together when we churned butter. I could see it then, my small hands and Polly's together on the handle of the churn. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

Mother led me inside by the elbow and I sat heavily on a chair. She quickly told Eliza what happened.

"There was no doctor in attendance," Mother

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explained. "She shook with fever briefly, three quarters of an hour, cried out once, and died in her own bed. They don't know what it was."

"It could have been anything. There are so many fevers at summer's end," Eliza said. "Is anyone else in the house sick?"

"Sick with grief," Mother said. She poured herself and Eliza each a mug of coffee. "It's a large family, she still has seven children under ten years, one a babe in her arms.

"We'll pray they don't take sick," Eliza said as she took the mug. "Are any neighbors ill?"

Mother blew in her cup and nodded. "An old man who lives across the alley is rumored to be sick in bed, but you know how these stories catch fire. It's strange though. She was a healthy girl, robust. Never saw her so much as sneeze before."

I kept my eyes closed, trying to see Polly happy, joking, maybe stealing a kiss with Matthew, then bursting through the door to tell me. It couldn't be real. How could Polly be dead?

"Matilda, are you well?" asked Mother. "She looks peculiar, don't you think, Eliza? Are you feverish?" She laid her hand on my forehead. Her fingers were rough but cool, and smelled faintly of lavender. I wanted to lay my head on her shoulder, but that would have been awkward.

Mother slipped her hand to the back of my neck.

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"She did not suffer, Matilda. We must be grateful for that." She removed her hand and peered into my eyes. "This heat is not healthy. You must tell me straight away if you feel peckish."

I waited for her to say something more about Polly. She did not.

"We should send along something for the family," suggested Eliza. "Her mother is in no condition to cook. Mattie could take a ham over."

"No," Mother said quickly. She set the coffee mug on the table with a thump. "I don't want her near there, not with a sickness in the air. Besides, she hasn't played with Polly for years. The girl was our servant, not a friend."

"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.

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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 low 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