Page 32 - Fever 1793

He’s the best physician that knows the worthlessness of most medicines.
CHAPTER NINE September 2nd, 1793
I stood dumbly while Grandfather knelt by Mother’s side.
“She’s alive!” he said. “Take her feet, Mattie. We must get her inside.”
Eliza screamed as we carried Mother through the front door. She dropped a clay pitcher on the floor.
It shattered into bits.
“Is she . . . ?”
“She was overcome by the heat,” said Grandfather. “She’ll be fine after a short rest. That’s all she
needs. A short rest.”
Mother didn’t open her eyes until we tucked her into bed. She looked around in confusion.
“You fainted,” Eliza explained.
“It’s what you get for working too hard,” added Grandfather.
I waited for Mother to throw off the quilt and scold us. Instead, she shivered.
“I’ll sleep a few moments, then I’ll feel better,” she said patting my hand. “Go downstairs, Matilda.
Be useful.”
Something was desperately wrong. Mother was sleeping in the middle of the day. I wanted to stay and
watch over her, but Eliza and Grandfather shooed me out of the room. There was no time to argue; a customer banged through the front door and called for something to drink.
Nothing went right that afternoon. The coffee urn leaked. The biscuits burned in the oven. I dropped an entire drawer of tea leaves on the floor. The gentlemen were all quarrelsome and fractious. I snuck upstairs once, but Mother still slept. Eliza gave me what-for when she caught me.
As I cleared the dirty mugs off the last table, Grandfather stood deep in conversation with Mr. Rowley. I motioned to Eliza.
“Isn’t he a doctor?” I asked.
Eliza shook her head.
“Not a proper physician, but he sees sick folk and prescribes medicines. All the real doctors are down
on Water Street. It’s been a terrible day there. They say bodies are piling up like firewood.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Shush,” said Eliza. “I heard it at the Society. If Reverend Allen said it, you can believe it’s the truth.
Here they come.”
Grandfather introduced Mr. Rowley. I curtsied.
“Mr. Rowley here has vast experience treating female complaints,” said Grandfather. “He’ll get
Lucille back on her pins in no time.”
I had my doubts. His hands were uncommonly dirty, and he smelled of rum.
It seemed immodest to let a strange man into our bedchamber, but Grandfather and Eliza showed him
in to see the patient. I followed close behind.
He first took Mother’s pulse, then felt the skin on her ankles and wrists, then peered down her throat
and under her eyelids. He worked without a word, grunting occasionally, and making a tsking sound with his tongue. Mother did not wake. I wanted to throw a bucket of water in her face. It was against the laws
—Benjamin Franklin Poor Richard’s Almanac, 1733