Page 52 - Fever 1793

CHAPTER SIXTEEN September 24th, 1793
He who sitteth upon the Pale Horse, He whose name is Death, will be sent through the streets of Philadelphia.
Mrs. Flagg blew her nose into her kerchief with a loud honk.
“So much grief packed into one wagon,” she said tearfully.
“Fear not, brave Mrs. Flagg,” said Grandfather. He saluted her. “Our deepest thanks for your care and
shelter. Please accept my most sincere hopes that we may meet again under healthier circumstances.” Mrs. Flagg curtsied deeply. “May the Lord keep and preserve all of you.” She waved good-bye, and
the wagon rolled forward. Soon Bush Hill faded into the horizon.
Grandfather and I were riding along with five fever orphans who were being sent to the orphan house.
Grandfather rode at the front with the driver, a relatively clean man with neatly combed hair and a smooth face. He quietly whistled a tune, one of Grandfathers favorites. They would be good company for the journey.
I sat on the hardest plank in the back next to a woman named Mrs. Bowles. Two boys huddled together for comfort. They looked like brothers. The other children stared vacantly ahead. One girl looked to be my age. Her neck was dirty and her dress was torn. I wanted to speak to her but couldn’t think of what to say. When she saw me looking at her, she turned away.
Mrs. Bowles was a straight-backed woman dressed in Quaker gray. She was older than Mother, with kind eyes and laughter lines that curled around the sides of her mouth. As we drove away from the hospital, she picked up the smallest crying child and sat him in her lap. The child’s sobs kept time with the rhythm of horse hooves on the road. He wiped his nose on the front of her dress and snuggled closer in her arms.
“Mrs. Flagg explained that you have been through a great deal,” Mrs. Bowles said gently.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“These are trying times. They seem to bring out the best and worst in the people around us.” We sat in
silence, watching as the slate roofs of the houses on the outskirts of the city came into view. Mosquitoes, gnats, and flies followed the wagon, drawn by the smell of the sweating children and horses. “How old are you, Matilda?”
“Fourteen, fifteen in December.”
“And are you feeling recovered from your illness? Fully recovered?!”
I nodded. “My only complaint is that my stomach grumbles all the time.”
She smiled and shifted the child in her arms. “That is normal enough for someone your age. If I may
inquire?” she began delicately. “Yes?”
“Have you considered what you might do to help? You have recovered, so you cannot get the fever again. You are young and strong. We have a real need for you.”
“How can I help anyone? I’m just a girl.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to pinch myself. The first time anyone treats me like a woman and I respond like an infant.
“You are much more than a girl, let me assure you of that. You are older than Susannah there.” She
—Quaker prophecy Philadelphia, 1793