Page 70 - Fever 1793

No hope.
I passed people weeping in doorways and did not stop. I heard the death carts rattling in the street and did not look up.
A breeze picked up, pushing me eastward, toward the docks, east toward the water, away from the sun. I could see the tops of ships’ masts, peeking over the rooftops like trees in the dead of winter. The sodden wharf planks moaned as the tide pulled the river water toward the open sea. My mind floated with dark thoughts.
What did it feel like to die? Was it a peaceful sleep? Some thought it was full of either trumpetblowing angels or angry devils. Perhaps I was already dead.
I shook my head. Nonsense. Foolish nonsense. I was being weak and foolish. There was no point in wandering like a lost puppy. I needed to get home and sleep. Grandfather would not be proud if he saw me acting so spineless. I needed to captain myself.
My foot scuffed something. I looked down to keep from tripping. A china-faced doll wearing a satin dress lay by the curb, her head shattered, her dress coated with dirt. A few steps away, an abandoned satchel still packed with clean shirts lay open.
I picked up the broken doll and heard a whimpering sound coming from an open doorway. I put my head through the door and waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom.
A small child cowered in the corner, her blonde hair loose and tangled, her feet bare and black with dirt. She was sucking her thumb and keening to herself. I held out the doll to her. “Is this yours?” I asked.
“Broken,” she said.
“Is your mama here? Or your papa? Perhaps they can fix it.” The little girl whispered something. I stepped closer to hear her. “Mamas broken too,” she said.