Page 28 - Fever 1793

CHAPTER EIGHT September 2nd, 1793
[I] smelled the breath of death for the first time since all this hardship began, [and] was scared.
—Diary of J. Henry C. Helmuth Philadelphia, 1793
From the time that Colette Ogilvie collapsed, the church bells of Philadelphia tolled without cease. Guns were fired on the street corners, and a cannon blasted in the public square to purify the air. On top of that, we suffered the constant buzz of mosquitoes, blowflies, and hornets. The din was maddening.
The day after our ill-fated tea party, Mother sent a note to the Ogilvies inquiring about Colette’s health, but received no response. They had disappeared. She also sent a note to the Ludingtons. No word from them either, thank heavens.
Many of the wealthy families were fleeing. We were lucky to get four or five customers a day. Mother worried even more than usual, but I was too hot to care. A violent thunderstorm on Sunday cleared the air for a few hours, but when the sun came out Monday, it baked the streets until the rainwater rose in ghostly plumes of steam. I felt like a noodle over-boiled in the stewpot. And the bells continued to toll.
“I’m going to climb the church tower and cut the tongues out of those bells myself,” Eliza grumbled as she beat a dozen eggs. “Hand me the nutmeg, child.”
I passed her the small grater.
“Don’t you have something to do?” she asked. “It’s hot enough in here without an extra body breathing on me. What did your mother say before she left?”
“I’m waiting for Grandfather to finish his business in the necessary. He said I could go with him to the newspaper office.”
Eliza scowled and waved a towel at the flies buzzing above the bowl. “Pick me some fresh asparagus grass. These pests are a plague.”
The bright sun blinded me as I stepped outdoors. The garden looked distressingly poor, even with all the watering I had done and the brief rain. It was a good thing we were able to buy at the market.
The asparagus grass grew along the back fence. I gathered a handful of fronds, cut them at the base, and tied the bunch tightly with a piece of twine. Back in the kitchen, I stood on a chair and hung them from an iron hook in the center ceiling beam.
“There,” I said, pushing the chair back against the wall. “That should discourage the flies.” “Thank you. Taste this pudding and tell me if it’s right.”
I chewed and pondered.
“It needs more sugar.”
“You think everything needs more sugar.” Eliza wiped the sweat off her face with a handkerchief. “I think that tea with the Ogilvie sisters affected you. Maybe you would be right for their Edward.” She stirred the fire and lay on more wood. “Wasn’t that long ago folks didn’t have any sugar. No coffee or tea, either.”
“Please, Eliza, not another history lesson. I’ll scream.”
Eliza harrumphed and set the pudding over the fire. “Don’t know which is worse, you moaning or your mother staring out the window, hoping someone will walk in and lay a shilling on the table. We have ugly days ahead of us. No sugar for anyone, rich or poor, no-no.”