Page 58 - Fever 1793

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN September 25th, 1793
I think the malady is becoming more alarming, more than one-half [of Philadelphia] has emigrated.
—Letter of John Walsh, clerk Philadelphia, 1793
Silas woke me the next day by purring next to my head. I rose and stretched, enjoying the coolness brought by the night. Grandfather snored across the room. We had survived one day and one night.
I crept downstairs. I wanted Grandfather to get as much rest as he could. My skin was crusty with filth, and I itched. No doubt I looked a fright and smelled worse. I made my first decision of the day. I needed a bath.
“Much as I hate to start a fire on a day like this, we have to boil water,” I told Silas. I fumbled with the flint and tinder until a spark jumped, and I built a respectable blaze. It was a shame there was no one to boast to but Silas.
I didn’t bother putting a skirt or bodice over my shift to haul water from the well. It felt too good to walk across the garden unburdened by heavy skirts.
“Nobody can see me,” I told Silas, who watched with disapproval. “There isn’t another soul for blocks.”
I dumped bucket after bucket of water into Eliza’s biggest pots and swung them over the fire. As the water heated, I scavenged in the garden again. Gardening at dawn in a thin shift and with loose hair was nearly fun. I felt like a sprite or a hungry leprechaun, turning over leaves in search of a treat, looking under weeds for a pot of gold, or perhaps a turnip. Gardening in nightclothes could become a new fashion, I thought. Imagine plump Mrs. Ogilvie planting radishes in a red-striped nightcap. That would be a sight to turn Philadelphia on its ear!
The bubbling pots of water made the air in the kitchen thick and hard to breathe. I dragged the bathing tub into the front room and filled it with boiling water. When the tub was half full, I added cold water straight from the well until the temperature was comfortable. I closed the shutters, bolted the front door, and closed the door to the kitchen. Assured of privacy, I removed my shift and settled into the warm water.
It felt strange to take a bath like this—the house so quiet, no sound from the street, alone except for a nosy orange cat. I usually bathed once a month, or for special occasions. I stuck my leg up in the air and rubbed it with soap. This felt like a special occasion.
The water soon turned brown with weeks of dirt and sweat. I held my breath and dunked my head under the water. I scrubbed my hair with soap and dunked again, over and over until my hair was free of blood and filth. I rubbed the soap on a rag and scrubbed my skin until it burned. When even the soles of my feet were clean, I dried myself by the kitchen fire.
My skin crawled at the thought of putting on my dirty clothes again. The only other clothes that fit me were someplace in the Pennsylvania countryside with the farmer who had abandoned us. I slipped on my shift and went up to my bedchamber.
I eyed Mother’s trunk. I was nearly as tall as she, even if I didn’t fill out a bodice the way a grown woman did. I swallowed. “I promise I won’t wear any of your clothes to go fishing or climb trees,” I said aloud as I opened the latch.