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.
“We’re not here to rob you,” Marcus said. “We just need some food for the girl.”
“Doc?” The man standing before them holding a musket in his trembling hands looked like something out of a cartoon, a caricature of a human being with yellow skin, blackened lips, and red-rimmed eyes.
“Vanderslice?” Marcus lowered his hands. “Christ, man. You should be in bed.”
“You came. Adam said you would.” Vanderslice dropped the gun and began to weep.
* * *
—
THEY GOT VANDERSLICE UPSTAIRS, where they found stale bread that had not yet gone moldy, a bit of cheese, and some beer. They settled Betsy in a corner as far away from Vanderslice’s bed as possible. It was covered with vomit and flies. Marcus stripped the bed and tossed the sheets and blanket out the window.
“He’s better off on the floor,” Marcus said tersely when Gallowglass started to lower Vanderslice onto the mattress.
Gallowglass and Marcus used their coats to make a pallet, and Marcus cleaned up his friend as best he could.
“You look good, Doc,” Vanderslice said, his eyes rolling around with fever. “Death suits you.”
“I’m not dead, nor are you,” Marcus replied. He held some of the beer up to Vanderslice’s lips. “Drink. It will help with the fever.”
Vanderslice turned his head. “Can’t. It burns going down, and it burns worse coming up.”
Gallowglass shook his head at Marcus. This is hopeless, his expression read.
But Vanderslice had been the first to make room for Marcus beside a campfire when he was frozen and starving and on the run from his ghosts. It was Vanderslice had shared food with him, and his blanket, at Trenton. Vanderslice had whistled Christmas songs when he was on patrol duty, no matter the season, and told bawdy jokes when Marcus’s spirits were low. When Marcus had been utterly alone in the world, afraid and without kith or kin, Vanderslice had accepted him like a member of his family.
Marcus might have killed his own father, but he had no intention of losing Vanderslice. He’d lost enough—his home, his mother and sister, countless patients, Dr. Otto, and now Veronique.
Marcus wanted someone to belong to again. Someone who would restore his faith in family after Obadiah and the de Clermonts had made him doubt the bonds of blood and loyalty.