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“They aren’t my family,” the farmer said as he motioned for his wife to climb aboard. “They only rode in back the last mile or so. They was walking and we picked them up.”
“He’s lying!” I shouted.
“I don’t have no fever,” the farmer continued. “My wife and baby are healthy. Let me just drive through so I can get to Bethlehem by nightfall. We won’t stop for nothing.”
The doctor nodded to the leader of the group.
“Go ahead,” the man said. “Make haste.”
The farmer brought the whip down with all his strength, and the wagon lurched forward. I stared,
mouth open, as the wagon disappeared into a cloud of dust. Our food, our clothing—gone. This couldn’t be happening.
“Go back to Philadelphia,” the doctor advised. “There are physicians there who will treat you. You can’t stay here.”
“We can’t walk!” I protested. “It’s miles!”
“Have you no mercy?” asked Grandfather.
The leader of the group looked down on him.
“We have to take care of our own, Sir.”
Grandfather glared at the man. I had never seen him so angry. He looked as if he wanted to run the man
through with his sword. But he just stared.
“And I shall look after mine,” Grandfather vowed. “I shall look after mine.”