Page 43 - Fever 1793

CHAPTER THIRTEEN September 10th, 1793
American ladies require a peculiar mode of education.
—Dr. Benjamin Rush Speech to the Young Ladies Academy of Philadelphia
The mockingbird whistled and I woke with a start. I laid my hand on Grandfather’s chest. His heart beat like a battle drum. My throat was parched, but the canteen was empty. I set off for the stream, King George fluttering behind me. I hoped Grandfather would sleep a while.
“Pretty Mattie, pretty Mattie,” the creature called.
“What do you want?” I muttered. How could I get Grandfather to a doctor? If only I could send word to Eliza, she could arrange for a carriage. A carriage with a doctor, and food, and a clean shift.
A breeze rattled through a corn field, lifting the leaves like outstretched arms. King George landed on my shoulder.
“Tea, Mattie! I need tea!”
I brushed him off. “Hush, you foolish creature, or Γ11 make a pillow out of you.”
Mother thought I was safe at Gwynedd, slopping the pigs and hoeing the fields. Would she worry
when Grandfather didn’t return? I kicked a rock down the road.
Why couldn’t I have acted strong and calm like Eliza instead of blubbering like a baby? I disgusted
Mother. She knew I was weak. I bet she wanted sons. Instead she got a backward, lazy girl child. I kicked the rock deep into the brambles.
I shook my head to rid it of the dark thoughts. I would only consider the good. Mother was surely getting stronger with every hour. Grandfather and I would find a carriage or wagon that would give us a ride to the Ludingtons’. When we arrived, we would find a letter from Mother telling us that all was well and we could go home. I took a deep breath. It felt better to think about pleasant things.
“Mattie child! Mattie child! Buy me rum!” King George landed on a wild rosebush.
“Go on with you, fleabag. Find us a pot of porridge or an apple pie.”
I worked my way around a patch of thistles. The sun burned off the haze, and the dew vanished. My
stomach rumbled. If only that blasted farmer had left our food hamper! Along with cinnamon buns, Eliza had packed hotcakes and ham, a crock of cherry preserves, another of garlic pickles, and a hard ball of cheese carefully wrapped.
I reached the stream hungry, hot, and tired. With no prying eyes around, I slipped off one of my petticoats, washed it in the water, and hung it over a willow branch to dry. I waded in up to my knees and stood until my toes felt as if they were in a snowbank. What would Nathaniel think if he saw me like this? Would he think me a finer catch than any trout?
When the cold became unbearable, I climbed out of the water to pick berries. It was hard not to think of our kitchen table with bowls of oyster stew, or corn soup, a platter of duck, sweet potatoes and buttered beans, Indian pudding with molasses—or better yet, apple brown betty with extra sugar on top . . .
The sound of fish leaping from the water interrupted my fantasies. I turned in time to see scales reflecting the sunlight as the fish slid downstream.
Fish! But how to catch one with neither line nor hooks? Where was Nathaniel Benson and his fishing