Page 21 - Fever 1793

Silas’s tail shot up like a warning flag. He had sighted the enemy—a squirrel. It scampered down the cherry’s trunk and ran between Grandfather and Eliza.
Silas leapt to the chase. They raced twice around the garden and under the mangle. The squirrel scrambled up the side of the necessary to the roof. Silas slowed for a heartbeat, then leapt to the fence to gain access to the roof and his furry meal. The squirrel jumped to the ground, and dashed back across the yard, intent on his cherry tree.
“Who wants to wager against the cat?” asked Grandfather. “I say he’ll have squirrel soup for his supper.”
Silas closed in on the bushy tail. The squirrel lurched left and made a desperate leap up onto my clean laundry. Silas followed. The clotheshorse collapsed under the weight of the stupid beast, sending angry cat and white linen into the red dust.
“Hey!” I hollered.
Silas yowled. Eliza and Grandfather burst into laughter. “Very droll,” I said.
The midday meal was near over by the time I had rewashed the tablecloths. Cold chicken, crisp pickles, butter biscuits, and peach pie were laid out on the table. Mother and Grandfather were on their second mugs of apple cider when I finally sat down.
“What do you think we should do with our extra earnings, Mattie?” Grandfather asked.
“I beg your pardon, Sir?”
“Your grandfather has the foolish notion that we should go into trade,” explained Mother. “Open a
regular store for the hordes of people who are going to settle at this end of the city any day now.”
“No need for a mocking tone, Lucille. We should use our windfall to improve our prospects. If it were
up to you, we’d bury the money in the backyard to benefit the worms.”
Mother pressed her lips together tightly and set a second piece of chicken on my plate. “Eat,” she
instructed. “You’ve worked hard. I don’t want you getting sick.”
I pushed the chicken to the side. I had plenty of ideas about running the coffeehouse, all of them
different from Mother’s.
“First we should buy another coffee urn, to serve customers with more haste,” I said. I pointed a
pickle toward the north wall. “Next is to expand into Mr. Watson’s lot. That way, we could offer proper meals, not just tidbits and rolls. You could serve roasts and mutton chops. And we could have an upstairs meeting room for the gentlemen, like the coffeehouses by the wharves.”
I took a bite of the pickle.
“And we could reserve space to sell paintings, and combs, and fripperies from France.”
“Paintings? Fripperies?” asked Grandfather.
“There is no use talking of expansion, either of you,” Mother said. “Our custom improves because
business by the docks declines. It’s the talk of fever. People are afraid to venture out by the river.” “Philadelphia suffers fevers every August,” said Grandfather. “This season its those cursed refugees.
They brought it, just as the ships from Barbados brought it thirty years ago. The mayor should quarantine them on Hog Island for a few weeks and the fever would pass.” He lifted his mug to King George. The parrot drank.
“Must you encourage that creature?” Mother asked. “Perhaps we should leave, just until the weather breaks. Elizabeth Bachel’s family left this morning.”
“I say we keep our heads and turn a tidy profit,” Grandfather continued. “Let others flee. We Cooks are made of stronger stuff!”
“Be that as it may, the increased profits are temporary,” said Mother. “The fever will pass and these