Marcus knew that the fever would drop temporarily, maybe for a day or even just a few hours. He looked forward to that brief lull in the storm of infection before the disease rallied once more and erupted through the skin in painful blisters. Until then, he was trying to distract himself with Common Sense.
“Here’s the part I told you about, Zeb.” Marcus’s head swam with fever, and he had to concentrate to keep the words from squirming all over the page.
“‘In the early ages of the world, according to the scripture chronology, there were no kings,’” Marcus continued. Sweat ran into his eyes, the salt stinging. He wiped at his nose, and his fingers came away bloody. “Imagine that, Zeb. A world without kings.”
The water had run out hours ago. Usually it was Marcus who went outside to fetch the fresh pails left by Tom Buckland. Just the thought of cold, clear water made Marcus run his dry tongue over his parched lips. His throat was painfully constricted, and when he swallowed there was a foul taste in his mouth.
Weary and thirsty, Marcus dropped the book and slid to the floor. Every part of him ached, and he didn’t have the energy to find a more comfortable position.
“I’m just going to rest my eyes for a few minutes,” Marcus said.
* * *
—
THE NEXT THING MARCUS was aware of was Joshua Boston’s dark face floating over him. Marcus blinked.
“Thank God,” Joshua said. “You gave us a fright, Marcus.”
“You’ve been senseless for two days,” Zeb said. His feet were healing, and though the sores on his face had left scars, he was recognizable now. “Dr. Buckland thought we might lose you.”
Marcus tried to sit up, tamping down the nausea that resulted from this simple movement. He studied his left arm. What been a crisscrossing set of red lines was now a large, oozing sore. He would never have to fear smallpox again—but the disease had almost taken his life. Marcus felt as weak as one of Patience’s kittens.
Joshua held a dipper to Marcus’s lips. Water stung his cracked skin, but the cool liquid washed down his throat like manna.
“What’s the news?” Marcus croaked.
“You are. Everybody in town knows you’re here,” Joshua said. “They’re all talking about it.”
Marcus knew it would be another five days—four if he was lucky—before the scab fell off.
“Where’s my book?” Marcus’s eyes searched the barely furnished room.
“Here it is.” Joshua handed him the copy of Common Sense. “From what Zeb’s been saying, it sounds like you’ve read the whole thing.”
“It was a way to pass the time,” Marcus said, comforted by the familiar feeling of the slim pamphlet in his hand. It was a solid reminder of why he had subjected himself to inoculation, and why he was risking his father’s wrath to follow the cause of liberty. “Besides, Zeb had a right to know we’re a democracy now, and people want freedom and equality.”
“Some, perhaps. But I don’t think the majority of people in Hadley, patriot or not, would ever sit down and sup with me,” Joshua said.
“The declaration made in Philadelphia said all men are created equal—not some men,” Marcus said, in spite of his misgivings.
“And it was written by a man who owns hundreds of slaves,” Joshua replied. “You better get your head out of the clouds, Marcus, or you’re going to have a hard landing when you come back to earth.”
* * *
—
IT TOOK SEVEN MORE DAYS for the scab to fall off, days during which Marcus read and reread Common Sense, debated politics with Joshua, and began to teach Zeb how to read. Finally, Tom Buckland pronounced him fit to go home.
It was a Sunday, and the meetinghouse bells pealed over the countryside. Marcus stepped out into the crisp autumn air, naked as the day he was born. Joshua and Zeb were waiting for him by the washtub with clean clothes.
There was a tang of woodsmoke in the air, and the soft smell of leaf mold. Zeb tossed him an apple, and Marcus ate it in four bites. After weeks of thin gruel and ale, Marcus had never had anything that tasted so clean and fresh. Everything he saw, everything he felt, and everything he tasted seemed like a gift after the weeks he’d spent in the grip of smallpox. The army would have to take Marcus now, once he ran away to join the fight.
For the first time, Marcus felt that freedom was in his grasp.
Tom came out of the house, bearing a pot with a lid clamped on top.
“I believe this is yours.” Buckland held out the pot. The aroma of toasted paper filled the air. Tom had wanted to burn Common Sense, but Marcus would not allow it. Tom fumigated the pamphlet instead, lining the old pot with moss and pine needles before putting it in the embers.