Page 69 - Fever 1793

He took a deep breath and looked up.
“In the beginning of August, this was the largest city in the United States. Forty thousand people lived here. Near as I can tell,” he pointed to the jumble of notes and letters on the desk before him, “more than half the city has fled, twenty thousand people.”
“How many dead, Sir?”
“More than three thousand, enough to fill house after house, street after street.”
“I went to the market, but found no food,” I said.
“Few farmers dare come into town. They charge exorbitant prices for their wares, and get whatever
they ask,” he said bitterly. “Those who don’t die of the fever are beginning to starve. You’ve seen the rats?”
I nodded.
“The rats thrive. I should write that.” He dipped a quill into the ink pot and scribbled a note. “The only creatures to benefit from this pestilence are the rats. Go home, Matilda, take my regards to your grandfather, but tell him he must lock all the doors and pray for frost.”
I started to tell him what had happened, but a man burst through the door waving a letter and shouting. Mr. Brown shooed me from his shop with a wave of his hand. No matter. Telling him wouldn’t bring Grandfather back, and it was clear he couldn’t help me.
I turned the corner and found myself in front of Warner’s hat shop. Mrs. Warner knew my mother a bit. Perhaps they would let me stay a day or two, or share some bread. But the hattery was locked up tight. I couldn’t even peek inside through the shutters. No sign of the Warner family.
“Hey there, you! Girlie, by the hatter’s!”
A sharp-eyed woman holding a cloth over her face crossed the street. She was older than Mother, with white wisps of hair escaping a dirty mob cap. Her dress was faded. Her eyes narrowed, watching me with suspicion. She stopped a few paces away from me, her cane slightly raised.
“What business do you have here? Off with you!” the woman shouted.
“I mean no harm,” I explained. My nose wrinkled at the smell of vinegar coming from the woman. “Do you know where the Warners are?”
The woman stepped backward.
“What is your business here?” she demanded.
“I’m looking for a friend.”
The woman considered me for a moment.
“They left for Chester in the dark of night. Warner has kin there. There was horrible screaming and
carrying on. The youngest girl fell ill after an apprentice died.” She spat the word like a wormy seed. “They threw out the body on the way. And you, do you carry this evil blot on your soul as well?”
“I fell ill, but recovered in the Bush Hill hospital.”
“Get back! Stay away from me!” the woman shrieked as she raised her cane higher. “Leave before I call my man. No fever victims here!”
She brought the cane down across my back. The blow sent me face-first into the dirt.
“Leave!” the woman screamed.
I fought my way to my feet before the cane crashed downward again. I ran blindly, ignoring the pain in
my throat and the ache in my side. The sun blazed overhead. I lost my way. The cut on my foot started to bleed again. I walked and walked, trying not to remember or feel.
I wandered up one street and down the next. The printer’s words haunted me. Thousands dead.
I saw Grandfathers empty eyes.
No food.
I saw Mother order me to leave her.