Page 46 - Fever 1793

CHAPTER FOURTEEN September I2th-20th, 1793
Hot, dry winds forever blowing,
Dead men to the grave-yards going:
Constant hearses, Funeral verses;
Oh! what plagues—there is no knowing!
Pestilence: Written During the Prevalence
Is she dead?”
“Go away, Barney. She’s not ready for you.”
“I’ve got to take the bodies to the pit before I’ll get my soup. If she’s dead, hand her over. I’m hungry.” I opened my eyes to see who was talking. A large woman holding a candle bent over me, and a man
waited in the shadows. The light from the candle burned my eyes. I heard moans on both sides of me, and the sound of hammers and saws in the distance.
Where am I? I thought. I was so cold. Colder than New Year’s Day. I closed my eyes.
“She looks dead,” Barney said. His voice faded away.
I slept and the fever fired my dreams with terror. I was back by the chestnut tree. Dust billowed. As I
breathed, dirt caked my throat and settled in my lungs. The road was crowded with carriages pulled by wild-eyed horses that crashed into each other as everyone fought to escape.
“What am I supposed to do?” I cried to people rushing by. “I don’t know what to do!”
I ran across the meadow and came upon a troop of soldiers marching, with a drummer boy and flag bearer in front.
“Look at me,” I called, holding Grandfather’s watch. “Tell me what to do.”
“Arrêtez-vous!” shouted a soldier. “Arrêtez-vous!
“I don’t understand you,” I said. “I don’t speak French.” I walked toward the men.
Grandfather appeared by the flag bearer. He wore a bloody shirt. He did not recognize me, and he
shouted to his troops.
“Ready,” Grandfather drew his sword from the scabbard and held it in the sky. He looked at me and
narrowed his angry eyes. “Aim.”
The men aimed their muskets at me. Grandfather slashed the sword through the air.
“Fire!”
“Noooo!”
I jolted awake. Moonlight spilled in through the open windows. I rubbed my eyes, trying to sort out
where the nightmare stopped and the waking world began. My sheets and shift were soaked through with sweat, blood, and the foul-smelling black substance that marked a victim of yellow fever.
Yellow fever.
There were beds on either side of me. To my left slept a young woman, her hair in two dirty braids. To my right lay a figure covered with a sheet. A corpse.
Who was dead and who was alive? Was it Grandfather? Was it Mother?
I reached for the sheet, but stopped. My head spun as if I were on a rope swing, twisting dizzily. I
—Philip Freneau of a Yellow Fever, 1793