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engineered a sort of roof by laying densely leaved ash and oak branches over the beams. I covered the far corner of the hovel with pine needles and dry leaves and then spread a blanket on top of it all so Ruth could lie in a spot both soft and dry.
    She did not notice. The fever had pulled her down to insensibility. She lay like a rag doll, not moving at all if pinched.
    After some discussion we left Aberdeen to keep watch over her whilst Curzon and I scouted a bit farther afield, both to measure the safety of the place and to look for food. He looped around and around the hovel in ever-growing circles and found no sign of other people. I moved back and forth between the stream and the hovel, bringing water, wild grapes, and a handful of grubs for Nancy Chicken.
    On the last trip I ranged as far upstream as I dared and was rewarded with the blessed sight of a willow tree. Willow bark could bring down a fever and strengthen the sick.
    Thank you, Lord , I prayed as I cut the slim branches. Thank you for your protection and wisdom and guidance. Thank you for this wonderful tree and that remarkable shack. Please forgive my . . . well, forgive me for everything that I’ve done wrong, including ending this prayer in haste. Ruth needs me. Amen.
    Aberdeen had a fire going by the time I returned.
    â€œAny change?” I asked as I scraped the bark from the twigs.
    He shook his head sorrowfully. “She hasn’t even moved.”
    â€œAre you feeling feverish?” I asked him. “Pain in the belly? Does your head hurt?”
    â€œDon’t worry about me,” he said. “I can take care of myself.”
    He watched as I brewed a pot of willow bark tea, then tried to get some of it into Ruth. She would not wake enough to swallow. I dared not pour it into her mouth for fear she would choke.
    â€œSeems like we might be here awhile,” he said.
    â€œNay,” I lied, trying to mask my fear. “She’ll be on her feet again tomorrow.”
    He looked at me for a long moment without speaking. A fever that came on this hard and fast could be fatal; everybody knew that. I might lose her again. I might lose her for good.
    â€œA wash-down always makes a sick person feel better,” I said hoarsely. “Can you fetch more wood for the fire?”
    Soon as Aberdeen left, I tore a strip off the bottom of my shift, dunked it in the cooling tea, then gently washed Ruth’s face. The rag was quickly stained with weeks of dirt and sweat. I rinsed the rag, then cleaned her neck. Heated more water, then washed her arms and her hands.
    Aberdeen returned, built up the fire, and fetched more water. Once it was ready, I untied and pulled off her left boot. Her foot smelled hideous. It was so filthy that it required another two pots of water to clean it proper.
    Curzon looked in. “Wouldn’t it be easier if we carried her to the stream and washed her there?”
    I shook my head. “The shock of the cold would harm her. Sick bodies require comfort and moderation in all things.”
    Sick bodies require proper bed rest , I thought, covered with clean blankets and under a proper roof.
    I pulled on the reins in my brainpan to stop the progress of my thoughts. It would do no good to stray into melancholy or to fuss about the things we did not have or could not do. I set a fresh pot of water on the fire to warm, then unlaced Ruth’s right boot. It refused to slip off as easily as its mate had. In fact, it was necessary to fully loosen the laces and tug hard as I could. Before I could wonder at the cause of this, the boot finally came off.
    I dropped it with a gasp and clapped my hand over my mouth in horror. The stench of death filled the air.

CHAPTER XII

Sunday, August 26–Monday, August 27, 1781
    W HEN A WOUND IS GREATLY INFLAMED, THE MOST PROPER APPLICATION IS A POULTICE OF BREAD AND MILK, SOFTENED WITH A LITTLE SWEET OIL OR FRESH BUTTER.
    â€“ D OMESTIC M EDICINE , B Y D R . W ILLIAM B