Then Marcus remembered where he’d seen that wolfish face before.
It was the dead New Hampshire rifleman from Bunker Hill. Except this man was alive. And dressed like he came from Virginia, not New England.
Their eyes met.
“Well, well. I know you.” The man cocked his head slightly. “You stole my rifle. At Bunker Hill.”
“Cole?” Marcus whispered. He blinked.
The man was gone.
The Pennsylvania Packet
August 26, 1777
page 3
SIXTEEN DOLLARS REWARD.
WAS STOLEN out of the pasture of the subscriber, in North Milford Hundred, Cecil County, Maryland, on the night of the 3d of July last, a light dun Mare, about fourteen hands high, black mane and tail, a natural trotter, newly shod, has a small ace on her forehead, and a remarkable white piece of hair above her foretop which extends across to the root of her ears. Whoever takes up the mare and thief, so that the owner may have his mare and the thief be brought to justice, shall have the above Reward, and for the mare only, EIGHT DOLLARS paid by
PETER BAULDEN
TWENTY DOLLARS REWARD.
DESERTED last night from Capt. Roland Maddison’s company, the 12th Virginia regiment, commanded by Col. James Wood, in General Scott’s brigade, JOSEPH COMTON, eighteen or nineteen years of age, five feet eight inches high, brown complexion; and WILLIAM BASSETT, of the same age, five feet six inches high, fair complexion, has two of his foreteeth. They carried with them a blanket and other clothing usual for soldiers to wear, and a quantity of cartridges. Whoever takes up said Deserters and takes them to camp at Head Quarters, or secures them in any of the States gaols and gives information thereof, shall have the above Reward and all reasonable expences, or TEN DOLLARS for each.
Rowland Maddison, Captain
Freehold, Monmouth County, New Jersey, Aug. 11
TEN DOLLARS REWARD.
DESERTED from Capt. John Burrowe’s company, in Col. David Forman’s regiment of Continental troops, on the 6th of July last, a certain GEORGE SHADE, about twenty-four years of age, five feet eight inches high, has light coloured hair and blue eyes, one of his legs thicker than the other occasioned by it being broke. It is supposed he is on one of the vessels of war in the Delaware river. Whoever will apprehend the said deserter and secure him, so that he might be had again, shall receive the above Reward and all reasonable charges.
JOHN BURROWES, Captain
16
Lame
AUGUST–SEPTEMBER 1777
Gerty’s tavern was quiet now that the merchants had finished their midday trading, and the men had not yet come off the Philadelphia docks at the end of work to share a drink with friends. It was sweltering at the busy intersection of Spruce and Front Streets, the strong sun casting shadows of the masts of the ships at the wharves. The temperatures would not peak until three o’clock. By then, Marcus suspected Gerty would be able to fry bacon on her doorstep, and the city would be uninhabitable due to the stench coming from the tanneries and the filth in the streets.
He sat in the corner by the open, deeply casemented window next to the articulated skeleton of a man that Gerty had won from the medical students in a game of cards. It had been propped up in the front room ever since, festooned with broadsides and notices tied to his ribs, a pipe clamped between his teeth, clutching used tickets to the anatomy lectures in his bony fingers.
Marcus was reading the Pennsylvania Packet. It had become a part of his routine to thumb through the papers Gerty kept on hand and scour them for news from Massachusetts. At first, he had done so out of fear, looking for mention of Obadiah’s murder. But nearly a year had passed and there was still no accusation against a blond young man answering to the name of MacNeil. Now he did so out of a more nostalgic hunger for news of home. But there was little of it. These days the papers were filled with rewards for anyone who would turn in an army deserter or return a lost or stolen horse, and news of the latest British maneuvers off the coast.
“Afternoon, Doc.” Vanderslice plopped himself on the bench opposite and stacked his feet on the windowsill. “What’s going on in the world?”
“Everyone’s running away,” Marcus said, scanning the columns of print.
“I’d run from this heat if I could.” Vanderslice mopped his forehead with the tail of his coarsely woven shirt. Even for Philadelphia, it had been a prodigiously warm summer. “Why hasn’t Dr. Franklin invented a way to stop it? I hear he can devise a way around anything.”
“Franklin’s still in Paris, probably eating iced berries from a spoon,” Marcus replied. “I don’t think he has any time to worry about us, Vanderslice.”
“Iced berries. I feel cooler just thinking about them.” Vanderslice plucked a card from the skeleton’s hand and fanned himself. “And that spoon is probably held by a fine French lady.”
A blowsy woman of indeterminate age with pockmarked skin and orange hair that defied nature came to the table. Her dress was parrot green, stained with wine, and strained over her bosom.
“You’ll need to be spoon-fed yourself if you don’t get your filthy boots off my wall,” Gerty said, knocking Vanderslice’s feet to the ground.
“Aw, Gert.” Vanderslice gave her a piteous look. “I just wanted to see if I could feel a breeze on my legs.”
“Give me a shilling and I’ll blow on them for you.” Gerty pursed her lips, ready to do just that, but Vanderslice didn’t take her up on her offer. “When do you get paid, Claes? I am owed money.”
“You’ll get it,” Vanderslice promised. “You know I’m good for it.”
“Hmph.” Gerty knew no such thing, but she liked the young Dutchman. “I have windows to fix. If I’m not paid by Friday, you will be up on ropes and working off your beer.”
“Thanks, Gert.” Vanderslice resumed his fanning. “You’re a gem.”
“And thanks from me as well, Gerty.” Marcus put a copper token on the table. “I have to get back to the hospital. Did you get extra provisions in? Water and fuel? In case the British do come?”
“Och, you worry too much.” Gerty dismissed his words with a wave. “Now that General Washington has all these handsome Frenchmen to help him, the war will be over before Christmas.”
The ladies of Philadelphia were all in love with the Marquis de Lafayette, a nineteen-year-old beanstalk with red hair and a minimal grasp of English.
“Your marquis brought only a dozen men with him.” Marcus didn’t think that would be enough to turn away the king’s troops based on what he’d seen on the battlefield.
“La.” That was Gerty’s answer to anything annoyingly factual. “The marquis is so tall we could divide him in two and still be left with someone more fit for battle than most of my customers.”
“Just remember what I told you. Keep your patriotic opinions to yourself if the British come. Serve anyone who has proper money. Survive.” Marcus had been trying to drum this message into Gerty since the Trenton barracks had been emptied of their inoculated troops and Dr. Otto and his staff removed to Philadelphia.
“I will, I will. Now give Gerty a kiss and be on your way.” Gerty pursed her rouged lips and waited. Marcus gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek instead.
“Tell Dr. Otto that Gerty is always here for him, if he is lonely,” Gerty continued, unfazed by the lack of enthusiasm in Marcus’s embrace. “We will speak our mother tongue and remember old times.”
Marcus had met Mrs. Otto, a buxom woman who spoke little and commanded the entire family and medical staff with nothing more than frowns and her heavy step on the wards. Dr. Otto would no more seek solace from German Gerty—even if he was sorely in need of it—than impale himself on a bayonet.
“I’ll pass that along.” Marcus clapped his hat on his head, waved his farewell to Vanderslice, and headed out into the summer sunshine.
Marcus’s route to the hospital took him across most of the crowded, chaotic city. In only a few months he had grown to love Philadelphia and its inhabitants, in spite of the filth and the noise. The brick market house was filled with produce from nearby farms and rivers, even in wartime. Every tongue was spoken in the coffeehouses and taverns, and the whole world seemed to pass through her docks.