A man in buff breeches and a blue tunic rode toward them on a horse that was probably worth as much as the MacNeil farm. A long Kentucky rifle—the kind used by woodsmen on the frontier—was jammed through a loop on his saddle, and a fur-trimmed helmet was strapped to his head. Marcus thought his brains must be baking inside it on such a warm day.
“I am the chevalier de Clermont, servant to the Marquis de Lafayette. State your business.” De Clermont motioned Marcus to stay behind him.
“I am here to see Mr. Hancock,” the man replied.
“He’s at the inn.” De Clermont jerked his head toward the ford. “In town.”
“Doc?” a voice cried out across the clearing. “That you?”
Vanderslice was in one of the wagons, perched atop a pile of hay. He waved.
“What are you doing here?” Marcus said as he approached the wagon.
“We’ve brought the bells from Philadelphia so that those British bastards don’t melt them down and make bullets out of them,” Vanderslice explained, launching himself from the pile of hay with a mighty leap. He landed on his feet, like a cat. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Still with that French kakker and his friend, I see?”
“Washington sent the marquis here to recover—and the rest of the army with him, it seems,” Marcus replied. He looked over at de Clermont, who was deep in conversation with a knot of cavalry officers. The chevalier wanted information, and Marcus had pledged to help him. Marcus had to at least try to keep his bargain. “Where are you all headed?”
“Some town west of here,” Vanderslice said vaguely. “We’ve brought along everything we could haul out of Philadelphia. Even Gerty.” He looked up at the town of Bethlehem and whistled. “What kind of place is this, Doc? It seems awfully grand to be filled with religious folk. I hear the women are all unmarried and the men live in one big room, together.”
“It’s like nowhere else I’ve ever been,” Marcus replied honestly.
“Is the food good?” Vanderslice asked. “Are the girls pretty?”
“Yes,” Marcus replied with a laugh. “But Congress has ordered us not to disturb the women, so you best keep your fingers in the pies.”
* * *
—
THAT EVENING, John Ettwein led Marcus and Vanderslice on a tour of his town. Instead of starting with the large, imposing stone buildings in the center of Bethlehem, John headed straight for the warren of structures that were built along the Monocacy Creek.
“This is where our people first settled,” John explained, standing before a small, low structure made of logs. The land sloped down to the water, giving a clear view to the west over the Moravians’ mills, tanneries, butchers, and waterworks. Ettwein pointed at one of the buildings. “There’s the springhouse. The water never freezes. Not even in winter. And it turns the wheel that sends the water up the hill and into the town.”
Marcus had been amazed to discover that water flowed into the apothecary’s stillroom, and that he didn’t have to run up and down the hill to fetch clean water for the marquis’s medicine.
“I’d show you inside,” John continued, “but your guards have taken it over.”
Some of the colonial soldiers quartered there were congregating outside and watching while stores of ammunition were unloaded into the nearby oil mill.
John showed them the millworks instead. As they neared the workshop, a black couple came into view, climbing the hill from the river. They were about Brother Ettwein’s age, and their arms were linked at the elbows. Both wore the dark, simple clothing of the Moravian Brethren, and the woman wore one of their crisp white caps, this one unadorned with ruffles and tied with a blue bow—the sign of a married woman. Marcus regarded the pair with curiosity, as did Vanderslice.
“Good evening, Brother Andrew and Sister Magdalene,” John called to them. “I was showing our visitors the millworks.”
“God sends us too many visitors,” Sister Magdalene said.
“God sends us only what we can handle,” Brother Andrew said, giving her a comforting smile. “You must forgive us. Sister Magdalene has been hard at work for many hours, washing the sick soldiers’ clothes.”
“They were crawling with vermin,” Sister Magdalene said, “and worn nearly to shreds. There is nothing to replace them with. If God wants to help us, He should send us breeches.”
“We must be thankful for his mercies, wife.” Brother Andrew patted her hand. He opened his mouth to speak again, but his body was racked with a deep cough.
“That sounds like asthma,” Marcus said with a frown. “I know a tea made of elderflower and fennel that might help your breathing.”
“It is only the hill,” Brother Andrew replied, stooped over with the effort to clear his lungs. “It always brings on my cough. That, and the cold mornings.”
“Doc can fix you up,” Vanderslice said. “He healed all of the Associators last winter, when we were fighting together.”
Sister Magdalene looked at Marcus with interest. “My Andrew’s back aches after a coughing fit. Do you have something that might ease it?”
Marcus nodded. “A liniment, applied with warm hands. The ingredients are all in the apothecary’s shop.”
“There is no need to concern yourself with me, when you have so many patients already,” Brother Andrew said. “All I need is rest.”
Brother Andrew and Sister Magdalene preceded them through the open door into the millworks. The scent of wood shavings filled the dusty air, and Brother Andrew’s coughing resumed.
“You shouldn’t be sleeping here,” Marcus protested. “This air will make the cough worse.”
“There is nowhere else,” Sister Magdalene said, sounding weary. “They took our house from us to accommodate the prisoners. I could go to the sisters’ house, but that would mean leaving Andrew, and we are used to being together now.”
“Magdalene does not trust the visitors across the river, or the guards in the waterworks,” Brother Andrew explained. “She fears they will take me from the Brethren and sell me to a new master.”
“You are not free, Andrew,” Sister Magdalene said fiercely. “Remember what happened to Sarah. The Brethren sold her quick enough.”
“She was not a member of the congregation, as I am,” Andrew said, still wheezing. “That was different.”
Sister Magdalene did not look convinced. She helped her husband to a chair by a tiled stove. A small mattress was in the corner behind the stove, neatly covered with a clean blanket. A few personal items—a cup, two bowls, a book—were placed nearby.
“I will take care of my husband, Brother John,” Sister Magdalene said. “Go back to the hospital, to the sick soldiers.”
“I will pray for you, Brother Andrew,” John said.
“I am already in God’s care, Brother John,” Brother Andrew replied. “Pray for peace instead.”
* * *
—
MARCUS WAS WORKING alongside Bethlehem’s apothecary, Brother Eckhardt, in the small laboratory behind his shop facing the town square known as der Platz. Today the army’s wagons were moving from their riverside camp and through the town to their next destination, transforming an already busy thoroughfare into a public highway.
When he returned last night from the mill, Marcus had been told he would be staying with the Ettweins and sharing a room with John. De Clermont and Dr. Otto had undertaken a lengthy negotiation with Brother Ettwein to get Marcus removed from the Single Brothers’ House and away from the soldiers so that he did not unwittingly carry some contagion to the marquis’s bedside. Marcus’s new hosts were a pious family, and Brother Ettwein was not only the chief intermediary between the Moravians and the colonial army but also the town’s minister. This meant that the rafters echoed with both prayers and complaints. Marcus found the peace and quiet of the apothecary’s house soothing in comparison.
He stood at a clean wooden table with an array of pottery jars before him. Each one was labeled with its contents—mallow and almond oil and sal ammoniac. A bottle of spirit of lavender was at his elbow.