Scattered Seeds (14 page)

Chapter 24

Henry’s stomach growled painfully. “We need food.”

They rested their backs against the cool bricks of the wiggery. Father pulled Sarah’s wig out of their sack and tried to tidy it.

“Ye’ve made it worse,” Henry said.

“I know. Come on.” Father pulled him to his feet.

The combination of hunger and persistent sea legs toyed with Henry’s balance. “Wait, I’m dizzy.” He braced himself on his father’s arm until the wooziness passed. “I’m ready now.”

A bell tinkled above the door as they staggered into the wiggery. Henry steadied himself at the counter, careful not to brush against the wigs displayed on blockheads.

“How do you do?” a woman behind the counter asked. Her hands were a blur as she added strands of hair to a tressing frame.

“I do well.” Father flopped the wig onto the counter.

“Am I fixing it or buying it?” She lifted shocks of hair off her lap and set them aside.

“Buying, I hope.”

“Let’s have a look at it, then.” Her stool scraped against the floor as she stood. She covered her nose with her hand.

Henry wished they’d bathed before trying to sell the wig.

“It is French-made, by the looks of it. I will give you five shillings.”

“My good woman, it is worth a guinea at the very least.”

“It is a mop of sailor’s oakum and crawling with lice. I will need to wash it, repair it, and curl it. Thankfully, it is large enough to allow for alteration. You would not believe the number of small wigs I must turn away.”

“Will ye go no higher than five shillings?” Henry asked. At this rate, he would have no choice but to sell the torc.

“I will give you seven and six. That is all.”

“Ten,” Father said. “It is French-made,
n’est-ce pas
?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Agreed. Ten.”

Henry was relieved to see the coins pressed into his father’s palm.

“You speak French?” the woman asked.

“Only a few words,” Father replied.

“I assume by your stench you are newly arrived.”

“Our humble apologies.”

“I should warn you to keep your few French words to yourself. You are probably unaware that the French are stirring up trouble in the backcountry with the Indians, killing and scalping settlers, burning cabins. Have you not heard of Braddock’s defeat? No, I suppose you would have been at sea when it happened. General Braddock led an expedition against the French and Indians camped at Fort Duquesne. He was soundly defeated and lost his life at the Monongahela River.”

“Where is this river?”

“In the Ohio country.”

Henry felt faint. Were they to survive a long journey only to lose their lives, and their scalps, in the backcountry of Penn’s woods? Where would that leave Mary?

“How recent is this news?” Father asked. “I have a brother in the Ohio country.”

Guilt tugged at Henry’s conscience for thinking only of himself. Uncle William could be in danger, or dead.

“A month back. The traders from Cumberland and Lancaster Counties keep us informed of the atrocities. The harvest is on now. Plenty of them are in the city. Ask around at the wharves and you will find someone with the latest news.”

They thanked the wigmaker and left the shop.

Father asked, “How are men to farm under the constant threat of attack?”

“Mayhap we should stay here until things settle.”

“If we stay on, we will spend all we have on lodging and end up indenturing oursel’ just to survive the winter.”

Henry patted the torc beneath his shirt. “We could sell this.”

“And wipe oot our kin?”

“Sounds to me like if we go, the French and Injuns will do that very thing themselves. Come now, Father, do ye really believe—”

“I do, Henry, aye, I do. My luck fell at my feet the moment I buried that thing. Your mother, God rest her, is in the ground because of my recklessness.”

“Father, I’m wearing it, and my luck is no better than yours.”

“Ye do nae know that, Henry, ye do nae know that.” He shook his head. “Are ye willing to sell it and find oot whether this is as bad as it gets? Mayhap the torc kept ye from dying at sea?”

“Mayhap the credit for that goes to our nettles and Thomas’s raisins.”

He found the shock on his father’s face difficult to bear.

Father crossed a grassy yard and stood in the shadows between a chandlery and a store.

A lump rose in Henry’s throat as he joined him in the shade. “Father, I . . .”

Father slid down the chandlery wall to the ground. “I canny believe what I just heard. Centuries of keeping that thing in our hands . . . my father, his father, and his father afore him. I might as well have gi’n the thing to Sorley for the rent, and all of this”—he made a sweeping motion with his arm—“could have been avoided.” His voice turned monotone. “Well, it’s yours now. Do wi’ it what ye will. I’ll not stop ye.”

Henry fiddled with his torn breech bottoms. “I’ll keep it for a while yet, until we see if we can earn the money wi’oot selling it.”

The silence stretched between them until Donald pranced up the street whistling a happy tune.

“Ye’re in a fine mood,” Father said.

“Shade at last.” Donald sat next to him. “It’s bloody hot in that sun. Here.” He pulled an oddly shaped fruit from his haversack. “Can you believe it? The fruit is free for the picking.”

“Canny be.” Father turned the fruit over in his hand. “Are ye sure? The last thing we need is to be jailed for theft.”

Henry sniffed the oblong fruit Donald handed him and wondered how he could eat without knowing whether Mary had anything in her belly.

“I can guess what you’re thinking,” Donald said. “You must eat and stay strong for her. You’ll feel better when I tell you that I asked about the pesthouse. Folk are well cared for there.”

Henry took a bite of the fruit. It was gritty, but delicious. “Tell me all ye know.”

“The place is clean and well run. The merchant cannot dispute the health officer’s decision, and he’s required to pay for the expenses of passengers sent there, so they take all means necessary to ensure patients are restored to health as quickly as possible. The merchants even send in tonics and the best of food. I suppose the general idea is to invest in a patient’s care to avoid a hefty bill for a protracted recovery.”

“That is a relief.” Father took a bite of the fruit. “What a fine fruit.” Juice dripped from the stubble shadowing his chin. “Probably shite like a duck later.”

Donald grinned. “I have something that will help.” He pulled sweet cakes from his haversack and handed one to Father, who stared at it as though Donald offered a gold brick.

“Where the devil did ye . . . Hear me, Donald, I will tolerate no thievery, no matter how much I may like ye.”

“They are not stolen. You will not believe me when I tell you how I came by them, as I can hardly believe it myself. The Quakers, those dour-faced men in black, are a charitable lot. Obsessively so!

“I was returning from the orchard near the battery when I saw a number of them gathered at a grand house. One acknowledged me and asked if I was hungry. I saw no point in lying, and the next thing I knew, they were stuffing food into my haversack and pockets. It was the strangest thing I ever beheld.

“They told me they were celebrating a wedding and dispensing charity to the poor. Indeed, many indigent souls wandered up to their door. Not a one left without an armful of food. And then there’s this.” He opened his hand to reveal a shilling. “They give out money.”

“Ye’re lying,” Henry said.

“I tell the truth, they hand out money. It is a competition with them, to see who is most generous.”

“Are they mad? Does money come to them that easily that they do nae value it?” Father asked.

“There’s more. There is a shortage of our coins here, which means those we have in our pockets are worth more here than at home. We have more than we thought!”

Henry knew by his father’s piercing gaze and cocked eyebrow what he was thinking: perhaps the torc’s luck was good after all.

Chapter 25

The day ended the way it began, with an argument concerning the physician’s horse, which poked its head into Mary’s room through the open window.

“Out, you!” Mistress Shippen whirled her hands in front of the horse’s head. “Out, I say! Really, Doctor Currie, can you not tether that filthy animal to something other than the shutter’s turnbuckle?”

Mary smiled as the physician strode toward her bed, one of four butted against the western wall of the pesthouse. “She is
merely
”—he winked at Mary—“concerned for your patients, Mistress Shippen.” He wore a splendid black waistcoat with deep pockets and matching breeches with brass buttons.

“She brings a cloud of flies with her concern.” Mistress Shippen closed the window with a bang. “And the stench of manure.”

The horse’s head vanished for a moment, then reappeared with a mouthful of grass, which it sawed in its jaws while looking through the windowpanes.

Doctor Currie walked to the table next to Mary’s bed. There, he slid an idle candlestick out of the way and laid down some papers.

“Has she been using the chamber pot?”

“Regularly, and drinking plenty of water.”

Mary felt alive again, thanks to superior care and a sanitary environment. Her roommates had already been released, one of them the boy from Tyrone. His new master, a cordwainer, would not only train him in the art and mystery of making fine shoes, like the doctor’s, but also provide him with a formal education. A child in Ireland would never aspire to such a wonderful thing. Mary hoped the boy would one day use his education to write home and put his father at ease, for that man’s torment must be mighty.

“And how is my prettiest patient today?” Doctor Currie sat on the edge of Mary’s bed. He had a sharp nose and a round face, framed by a white, full-bottomed periwig.

“Much improved, thank ye.”

“Mistress Shippen tells me she had you outside today.” He flattened his warm palm on her forehead. “The air seems to have done you good. Your cheeks are rosy.”

She nodded. They’d walked under the immense trees shading the graves of the less fortunate.

“And did you eat today?” He pressed two fingers against her wrist.

“Aye, I did, lovely soup wi’ big lumps of chicken in it.” Her mouth watered thinking about the soup she’d enjoyed with a slab of buttered bread.

The physician leaned closer and whispered, “Mistress Shippen’s soup is better than my wife’s, a dangerous admission for any man.” He tapped Mary’s nose.

“Has anyone inquired about me?” Mary asked, certain the letter found in her pocket conveyed Henry’s promise to come soon.

“Indeed, they have. You have a visitor.”

She craned her neck to see past the physician and into the hallway. “Now? Is he here now?”

“He is,” the physician said, “and if my examination of you goes as I expect it will, I shall recommend your release to him.”

Och, thanks be to God.

“Where is he?” She started to climb out of the bed. “May I see him?”

“Now hold on, hold on. First things first. Mistress Shippen, a taper, if you please.” When the nurse brought him the candle, he held it up to Mary’s face. “Follow the flame without moving your head.”

Mary watched the flame trail soot as Doctor Currie moved the taper from side to side.

“Good, good. Now open your mouth and say, ‘Ahh’.”

“Ahh.”

“Very good. And you have no dizziness or weakness?”

“Some weakness, but each day sees me much improved.” She heard muffled voices in the hall and smiled. Henry was probably fidgeting with his sleeves, something he always did when nervous.

“I am confident of your restoration to health.” Doctor Currie patted her head and rose, then made his way to a desk. He plucked a quill from an inkwell to sign something. “This is your health certificate.” He flipped it around to show it to her. “They tell me you will be heading to the backcountry. I pray you have a long and fulfilling life there, my dear.”

“My thanks, doctor.” She pressed her hands against her chest in an attempt to subdue the thundering there, but it was useless. This night would see her with Henry, and her heart refused to be checked.

“It was my pleasure, child.”

“Mistress Shippen, a pitcher and bowl, if you please. And some clean linens. I am releasing this patient, who would no doubt like to freshen up before greeting her visitor.” His fine shoes hammered the floor as he left her room and made his way down the hall.

The nurse brought the requested items quickly.

Mary slid out of bed.

“Isabail hemmed your petticoat,” Mistress Shippen said.

Mary liked Isabail, a Welsh servant of three-and-twenty.

“It should fit better now.” She lifted Mary’s folded clothes out of a dresser drawer and laid them on the bed while Mary stripped out of her shift and washed herself.

“There now.” Mistress Shippen dried Mary’s back. “Put your drawers on, and your new shift. I’ll help you with the stays and stomacher. Lands, you are trembling, child.” She laid her wrist against Mary’s forehead. “Don’t tell me you are falling into fever again.”

“I am only beside mysel’ wi’ excitement.” She laughed, giddy at being reunited with loved ones.

Mistress Shippen helped her don her Osnaburg gown. She fussed with the shoulder seams and brushed the back of it with her hands. “There you are, the very image of perfect health. I’ll go and get your visitor.”

Mary sat on the edge of the bed and then stood again, thinking it a better image. Henry was surely tired of seeing her in a recumbent state. She smoothed her petticoat and felt the hardness of the rooster in her pocket.

Footsteps amplified in the hallway. She was about to rush into Henry’s arms when a stranger ducked into the room and doffed his peculiar hat. She gasped and took a step backward.

“Who are ye?” Her eyes scanned his hunting frock. A sweat-stained, checked neckerchief drooped at his throat, and he carried a haversack and a carved powderhorn, which rested against the wide belt at his midriff.

“I am Gibson, George Gibson, your new master.”