Page 38 - Fever 1793

CHAPTER ELEVEN September 7th, 1793
Great numbers of the citizens have shut up their houses and fled into the country...
With only one half-starved horse pulling us, it took nearly an hour to be clear of the city line. The dry road was rutted from the wagons and carriages which had fled before us. The insects were vicious. I smacked them on my arms and legs until my skin stung. Grandfather took out his handkerchief and mopped sweat off his face and neck. I waved away a mosquito that buzzed in my ear.
“It’s the smell of that baby,” I said. “His drawers are full, and it’s attracting every bug for miles.”
Grandfather chuckled. The laughter caught in his throat and made him cough. I watched with alarm as his face reddened. I pounded his back until he raised his arm in protest.
“I’m fine, child, I’m fine. No need to beat me senseless.”
The farmer turned around in his seat and glared at them.
“He ain’t sick, is he? Γ11 not have fever victims in my wagon.”
“Take care you don’t drive off the road. Were fine back here. Mind your horse,” I snapped. Grandfather raised an eyebrow.
“You’re turning into a regular scold, Mattie Cook. You sound like your mother, ordering menfolk
around.”
“Some menfolk need ordering.”
“That they do.” He straightened his legs as best he could between the baskets and clothing bundles. “I
propose we enjoy our carriage ride in the country. It would hardly be proper to remove my coat, but if I can beg my lady’s indulgence, I will unfasten a button or two.” His stiff fingers fumbled with the pewter buttons until they released and he could breathe with ease.
“There,” he sighed. “That’s better. It’s time to review your soldiering lessons.”
I groaned. From my crawling days, Grandfather had taught me all the tricks of the American and the British armies, and quite a few from the French. Again and again and again. It would do no good to argue. I was his captive.
“A soldier needs three things to fight,” he continued. He held up three fingers and waited for my response.
“One, a sturdy pair of boots,” I said. “Two, a full belly. Three, a decent night’s sleep.” Grandfather thunked his boots on the floorboards.
“Hey,” protested the farmer.
“My boots are sound.”
Grandfather belched.
“Tsk, tsk,” said the farmer’s wife.
“Eliza fed me breakfast enough for two blacksmiths.”
He pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and settled back against a rolled-up mattress.
“And now I’m going to get some sleep before our coachman delivers us unto the joys of the Ludington
family barnyard and their odiferous pigs.”
“Pigs,” echoed King George.
I settled in alongside him so my head rested on his chest. The rhythmic turning of the wagon wheels,
—Letter of Ebenezer Hazard Philadelphia, 1793