Page 44 - Fever 1793

pole when I needed him?
My wet petticoat swayed in the breeze. It would have to do.
I tried to rip open the seam with my teeth, but the tiny stitches that Mother had sewed would not yield.
Another fish wiggled to the top of the water to gulp down a water bug.
If I had sewn the skirt, it would have been easy to tear apart. Instead, I would have to use it whole. I
pulled the drawstring at the waist tightly until I could barely poke my thumb through the opening. I would hold open the hem and pray an unusually stupid fish would swim into the trap.
“I bet no soldier ever thought of this one,” I said, wading back in the water with my improvised net.
My feet iced right away, and it was hard to find a comfortable position. I had to bend over at the waist, wave the petticoat in the water to make it float, then stand without moving. I wiggled my toes to bring some feeling back in them. How could my feet be so cold while my head was so hot?
A bee buzzed in front of my face. In the distance, I heard a carriage escaping from Philadelphia. Food first, rescue second. I blew the bee away. Where was that stupid parrot? He could be useful and feast on this pest. A fish brushed against my ankle.
“Come little fishy, come down,” I murmured. My arms shook from the effort of holding the petticoat open. The fish paused at the edge of the net.
“Just a few more inches. That’s it. Keep swimming.”
The bee landed on my mob cap just above my eyebrows. I concentrated on the fish.
“You’re almost there, my little fried breakfast. Don’t stop now.”
I prepared to close the petticoat and trap the fish inside.
“One, two...”
“Tea, Mattie!”
King George swooped straight at my head and snatched the bee. The explosion of feathers in my face
sent me crashing into the water. I came up sputtering and saw the trout flick his tail and head downstream, where there were no girls with petticoats and no parrots.
“I’ll roast you!” I shouted at the king, shaking my dripping petticoat in his direction.
“Fresh thing,” he replied.
There was no time to try for another fish. Grandfather was alone and without water. I filled the
canteen, scoured the bushes for the last berries, and hurried back.
Grandfather’s eyes were still clear, but his nose was red and his throat raspy.
“Cold,” he said.
“Cold? Are you cold?” How could he be cold? The sun had nearly dried my wet skirts.
He shivered.
“Shall I make a fire?”
He closed his eyes and nodded. Even the effort of speaking a few sentences had exhausted him.
At home, I would borrow a burning twist of paper from a neighbor when all the fires in the house
were cold. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw a fire started with flint and tinder. I didn’t even have flint and tinder.
Grandfather shivered and moaned. I washed his face and neck with the damp petticoat that didn’t catch fish. It seemed to comfort him.
“Is there anything to eat?”
I coughed and shook my head.
“All we have are these berries, Grandfather.”
“Of course, I forgot.” He ate a few. “We need food.”
I thought about telling him how close I had been to capturing that trout, but I hated to admit defeat.
Grandfather struggled to remove a pouch from his vest.
“There must be a farm hereabout. Pay for a meal and the loan of a few blankets.”