Page 67 - Fever 1793

shroud shut with thick curved needles. I stood behind them, silent and numb. They lifted Grandfather’s shroud by the top and the bottom and prepared to fling it into the open grave. My voice erupted.
“Stop!” All heads turned to look at me. I didn’t realize what I had done at first. The men set the shroud on the ground.
“You can’t just toss him in there like a sack of potatoes,” I said. “Where’s the minister? You’re not supposed to bury people without prayers.”
The men looked at each other. The one who stood at Grandfathers feet spoke softly.
“The minister will come by later today and pray for all the dead, Miss. There are so many people alive who need tending to, the dead have to wait their turn. I’m sure God will understand. Now please, Miss, let us get on with this work.”
He bent over to pick up the shroud.
“Put him down,” I said.
The men ignored me.
A spiteful voice hissed in my head. Shut up, Mattie, the voice said. You’re a silly child. You have no
business ordering these men around. Stop interfering and get out. This is no place for you. Get your sniveling self to the orphan house where they’ll feed you and dry your tears.
My head throbbed to the rhythm of the shovels biting into the earth. My hands decided what to do without consulting the rest of my body. I shoved the man who spoke to me, shoved him so hard he nearly toppled into the grave. He scrambled to his feet, protesting. I ran up to him and clenched the front of his shirt in my blistered hands.
“This was a great man, Captain William Farnsworth Cook, of the Pennsylvanian Fifth Regiment. He was my grandfather. You will not bury him without a prayer.” I spoke slowly, with iron force behind every word.
“The lass is right,” said the man who pushed the cart. It was the first time he had spoken. He took a slim book from his pocket and offered it to me. “Can ye read?”
I nodded and took the book from him. It was a copy of the Psalms, the pages worn thin and dirty from frequent use. I stared at the grave diggers. They took off their caps and bowed their heads. Movement in the park stopped, as those watching laid down their shovels and bowed their heads. The book opened to the familiar words. I swallowed, cleared my throat, and began to read loudly, so that all could hear.
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...”
The men around me moved their lips and then gave voice. Our voices rose together as one, proclaiming faith, joining in grief. At the end of the reading, some crossed themselves, others wiped their eyes. I stood straight and tall.
“Thank you.”
I handed the book back and walked away. There was nothing more for me to do.
My feet moved, taking me up one street and down the next. I didn’t see another person for blocks, not even a grave digger or a physician. The sound of my shoes tapping across the cobblestones echoed down the street like a latecomer sneaking into church. I walked past the homes of people acquainted with my family. They were all deserted. My shift darkened with sweat. Surely I wasn’t the only person left in Philadelphia?
My mind whirled. What to do? What to do? I should find a way to the Ludingtons’. No, that would be impossible. I should go to the orphan house; they would take me in. The compass spun wildly. No, I could care for myself. I was not a child. Bush Hill. Mrs. Flagg would see that I was fed, and I could help care for the sick. But the memories of that place were filled with the sound of Grandfather’s voice and the rumble of his laugh. Don’t borrow trouble, that’s what Eliza would say. Don’t borrow trouble. I’d go