“Good of your family to always think of others before yourselves.” John didn’t like Baldwin’s sanctimony any more than Marcus did, but where Marcus was expected to remain silent and obedient, John was free to speak his mind. Sadly, Baldwin had no ear for sarcasm and took his words as a genuine compliment.
“Indeed,” Baldwin replied. “Your mail is on the table, Marcus. Gallowglass brought some newspapers for you, as well as a letter that looks as though it was written by a madman.”
Marcus picked up a copy of the Federal Gazette from the last days of August.
“Gallowglass usually makes better time coming from Philadelphia,” Marcus noted, flipping through the pages.
“He stopped in Providence on the way here to take in supplies,” Baldwin said, “on account of the fever.”
Marcus began flipping through the paper.
. . . services at this alarming and critical period . . .
Words leaped out at him from the smudged newsprint.
Nothing so good to stop the progress of the yellow fever as the firing of cannon.
“Christ, no,” Marcus said. Yellow fever was a terrible disease. It spread like wildfire in the city, especially in summer. People turned jaundiced, and spit up black and bloody vomit as the fever poisoned their bellies.
The College of Physicians having declared that they conceive FIRES to be very ineffectual, if not dangerous means of checking the progress of the prevailing fever . . .
Marcus scrambled through the rest of the mail looking for a later Philadelphia paper, but that was the only one. He did, however, locate a copy of Providence’s United States Chronicle that bore a later date, and scoured it for an update on the situation to the south.
“We are all much alarmed by the rapid progress a putrid fever is making in this city,” Marcus read aloud. “There is no accounting for it.”
Marcus had grown up under the shadow of smallpox, had fought cholera and typhus in the army, and had grown accustomed to the febrile perils of urban life in Edinburgh and London. As a vampire, he was immune to human disease, which made it possible for him to treat the sick and observe the progress of an epidemic even after his warmblooded colleagues had sickened, abandoned their charges, or died. These accounts in the American newspapers marked the beginning of a cycle of death with which Marcus had grown familiar. There was little chance that matters in Philadelphia had improved. The city would have been ravaged by yellow fever between late August and the present moment.
He picked up the letter. To Doc, in England or France. The letters bobbed up and down like the waves.
It was from Adam Swift, and contained only one line.
I’ve left you my books, so don’t let those bastards take them for taxes.
“Which way did Gallowglass go?” Marcus said, gathering up the newspapers and the letter.
“To Dover, of course. Here, take these, too.” Baldwin held out some ledgers. “You’ll need them in Hertfordshire.”
“I’m not going to bloody Hertfordshire,” Marcus said, halfway out the door. “I’m going to Philadelphia.”
* * *
—
PHILADELPHIA’S STREETS WERE QUIET when Marcus arrived in early November. As usual, the westward crossing took far longer than the voyage from America to England. Marcus had driven Gallowglass and his crew mad with constant questions about speed and distance, and how much longer it was going to take.
When they arrived, Gallowglass ordered all the warmbloods to remain on the ship, and left the ship itself anchored well outside the harbor. It had been months since Gallowglass had last been in Philadelphia; there was no telling in what state they would find the city. Gallowglass rowed the distance from where he’d dropped anchor to the Old Ferry Slip between Arch and Market Streets. The wharves were empty, the only ships barren of crew and sails.
“This doesn’t look good,” Gallowglass said darkly as they tied up the skiff. As a precaution, his cousin took one of the oars and slung it over his shoulder. Marcus had a pistol and a small bag of medical supplies.
“Jesus and his lambs,” Gallowglass said, pinching his nose shut as they turned down Front Street. “What a stench.”
This was Marcus’s first time back in Philadelphia since he had become a vampire. The city had always smelled bad. But now—
“Death.” Marcus gagged. The odor of rotting flesh was everywhere, replacing the more familiar fumes from the tanneries and the everyday filth of urban life. There was a strange, sharp tang in the air as well.
“And saltpeter,” Gallowglass said.
“Please.” A waif approached them wearing nothing but a smock and one shoe. It was impossible to tell whether the child was male or female. “Food. I’m hungry.”
“We have none,” Gallowglass said gently.
“What’s your name?” Marcus asked.
“Betsy.” The child’s eyes were huge in a face that was miraculously pink and white, with no sign of yellow fever. Marcus put his pistol in his belt and picked up the child. There was no scent of death on her.
“I’ll get you some,” Marcus said, heading toward Dock Creek.
Like the area around the wharves, the busy streets were strangely empty. Dogs ran wild, and there was the occasional snuffle of a pig. Piles of manure rotted on corners, and market stalls were abandoned. It was so quiet that Marcus could hear the creaking of the rigging on the masts of the ships. There was a steady clop of horses’ hooves on cobbles. A wagon came into view. The driver had pulled his hat low, and wore a kerchief over his nose and mouth. He looked like a highwayman.
The wagon carried dead bodies.
Marcus turned the child away from the sight, though he suspected she had seen worse.
As the driver came closer, Marcus saw that his skin was black and his eyes weary.
“Are you sick?” the man called out, his voice muffled.
“No. We’ve just arrived,” Marcus said. “Betsy needs food.”
“They all do,” the man said. “I’ll take her to the orphanage. They’ll feed her there.”
Betsy clung to Marcus.
“I think I’ll take her to German Gerty’s instead,” Marcus said.
“Gert’s been gone for years.” The driver’s eyes narrowed. “You seem to know a lot about Philadelphia for someone who just arrived. What did you say your name was?”
“He didn’t,” Gallowglass replied. “I’m Eric Reynold, captain of the Aréthuse. This is my cousin, Marcus Chauncey.”
“Absalom Jones,” the driver said, touching his hat.
“Is the fever gone?” Marcus asked.
“We thought so. There was some frost a few days ago, but the weather turned warm again and it’s back,” Jones said. “The shops were just opening and people coming back to their houses. They even flew the flag over Bush Hill to show there weren’t any more sick people in it. There are now.”
“The Hamilton estate?” Marcus dimly remembered the name of the mansion outside the city.
“Been vacant for years,” Jones replied. “Mr. Girard took it over when the fever struck. This is one of his wagons. But these folks aren’t going to the hospital. We’re headed to potter’s field.”
Marcus and Gallowglass sent him on his way. They settled Betsy down on the street, each taking one of her small hands. She skipped between them, crooning a song, a testament to the resilience of children.
The tavern that Marcus had known as German Gerty’s was still on the corner of Front and Spruce Streets. Dock Creek, however, had been paved over and was now a narrow, twisting alleyway that jutted off at an angle across Philadelphia’s regular street plan.
The door was open.
Gallowglass gestured to Marcus to stay where he was and stuck first his oar, then the rest of him, inside the dark interior.
“It’s all right,” Gallowglass reported, sticking his head out a window. “Nobody here but some rats and someone who died long before August.”
To Marcus’s astonishment, the skeleton was still sitting in the front window, though he had lost his left radius and ulna. His left hand was perched rakishly atop his head.
They searched high and low for food, but found none. Betsy’s lips started to quiver. The child was famished.
Marcus heard a snick.
“Stop there.”
He turned, his hands up in the air.