Page 68 - Fever 1793

to the market for some food. Then I’d hole up at home and wait for the frost. No one had a duty to me, and I had no claim on anyone else. But it mattered not. I would see my way through.
My stomach took control. The first thing was to find a meal. I felt faint and queasy. I stood in the shade of a linden tree, then set out the short distance to the market.
My steps slowed as I approached the market. No noise greeted me. I checked my bearings twice to make sure I had not taken a wrong turn.
It was empty.
A hot wind blew trash and dirt through the abandoned stalls. It looked like an enormous broom had swept away all the people.
I thought of what Mrs. Bowles had said. Was the fever really keeping the farmers away? But how could city people eat if the market closed? Out of the corner of my eye I saw a dark mass near an overturned basket. It could be potatoes or carrots. I picked up my skirts and hurried over to investigate.
Rats. Shiny, slippery rats, fat and fast, poured in and out of the basket, twitching their noses and flicking their tails. I had never seen rats so far away from the river. Where were the dogs, the cats that kept them away? And what would I do now? How was I going to eat? A chest of gold wouldn’t buy any food here today. A coughing fit overtook me and I felt faint. I stumbled into Mrs. Epler’s stall and sat in the stray white feathers that littered the ground.
Now what?
Take inventory, check the pack and powder. I was alone; Grandfather was dead and Mother missing. I had survived the fever but still felt weak. There was little food in the garden and no food to buy. Thieves and scoundrels prowled the streets.
My pack was empty and my powder wet. I had no choice but to walk home, where I could at least lock the doors.
When I came upon the open windows of the Federal Gazette office, it was a shock. A horse was tethered by the door. I stumbled through the door, eager for a friendly face.
“Can I help you?”
“It’s me, Mr. Brown. William Cook’s granddaughter.
The printer looked up from his desk. The dark circles under his eyes and lines of worry across his
brow made him look as if he had aged years in the course of a month.
“What do you need, Matilda? I’ve no time for social calls today.”
I hesitated. What could Mr. Brown do? I couldn’t work a press; he couldn’t bring Grandfather back
from the grave.
“Please, Sir,” I said. “I would like to place an advertisement in your newspaper. I’m searching for my
mother. She’s gone.”
Mr. Brown pulled a stained kerchief out of his trouser pocket and rubbed it over his face and neck. “Matilda, there is nothing I’d rather do than run an advertisement for your mother. But look about
you.” He spread his arms to take in the shop. “There is hardly any paper to be had for a hundred miles. The Gazette is the last paper being printed in the city, and I have to print on half-sheets. Five other newspapers have closed down. I wish I could flee myself.”
He paused and looked out the window. I thought he had forgotten me.
“But I must stay. This paper is the only method of communication left in the city. I must print physicians’ notices, orders from the mayor . . .”
His face dropped to his hands. The shop was perfectly quiet, save for the sound of the clock ticking on the wall and a fly caught in a spider’s web strung across a grimy windowpane.
“Mr. Brown? Sir?”