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.”