Page 66 - Fever 1793

CHAPTER TWENTY September 27th, 1793
Doctors raving and disputing, death’s pale army still recruitin’.
Pestilence: Written During the Prevalence of a Yellow Fever, 1793
Bring out your dead!”
What was that?
“Bring out your dead!” The hoarse voice echoed off the cobblestones and brick houses.
I opened the shutters a crack and peered out. A man dressed in rags pushed a large cart that already
contained two corpses—a child and young woman, their skin tinted a pale yellow. The cart was not heavy, but the man walked slowly, as if he were pushing the weight of the world. My hands shook against the window frame. A cold wind from my nightmare blew through my mind. I had to remember something.
“Bring out your dead.”
Grandfather. I whirled. His body still lay on the floor. My stomach clenched. I ran outside and threw up what little was in my stomach on the side of the road. It wasn’t a nightmare. It truly happened, all of it. The sour taste burned my mouth, and my hands would not stop shaking.
There could be no running from this. Hiding from death was not like hiding from Mother when she wanted me to scrub kettles, or ignoring Silas when he begged for food. I was the only one left.
I had to bury my grandfather, and soon. Hot weather was most unkind to the dead, that was made painfully clear up at Bush Hill. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop the flow of tears. Crying wouldn’t help anything. My duty was clear. I understood why the cart man walked so slowly. Death was a heavy companion.
I wiped my mouth on the hem of my dress. The cart turned down Seventh Street and headed south. I ran to catch up with it. A few minutes later, Grandfathers body was loaded into the death cart.
When the man realized I would follow him to the park, he treated Grandfather’s body with respect. He gave me time to dash upstairs and find Grandmothers portrait. Grandfather had looked upon her face every night before he fell asleep. I tucked it underneath his arm as he lay in the cart. It pained me that he could not be buried next to her in the churchyard. I hoped that taking her image to the grave with him would be a comfort.
I nodded to the man. He struggled to push the cart. Grandfather’s weight made it hard to manage. I tapped him on the shoulder. He looked me up and down once, then moved to the side. I grasped one of the cart handles with both hands. We both heaved, and the wheels rolled. Together we pushed the cart to the burial ground.
The funeral procession for Captain William Farnsworth Cook should have been loud and long, crowded with friends exchanging memories of the grand old man. But the streets were ghosted, colorless and hushed. His casket should have been pulled by a fine white horse, not pushed by a girl and a stranger. I shifted my hands on the heavy handle. A sliver bit into my palm and I couldn’t stop the tears.
He was truly gone.
The burial square was quiet, yet busy with activity. Thirty, maybe forty men were methodically digging the earth and laying the dead to rest. Two of them picked up Grandfather’s body and laid it on a large canvas cloth that reminded me of a sail. They wrapped the cloth around him and quickly sewed the
—Philip Freneau