In Fever 1793, 14-year-old Matilda (“Mattie”) Cook faces the devastation of Philadelphia’s yellow fever epidemic. Mattie has dreamed of the day she can escape her work in the family coffeehouse, and especially her demanding mother, Lucille Cook. When the epidemic forces her to fend for herself, however, Mattie learns that “freedom” isn’t quite what she had pictured, and she ultimately achieves independence by saving the family business and providing for her mother. Through Mattie’s fight for survival and renewed appreciation for her family, Anderson shows that independence requires hard work and transformation, not mere escape, and that independence is often built on familial bonds, not by severing them.
At first, Mattie longs to grow up and escape her family’s demands and expectations. The novel opens with Mattie’s mother lecturing her about laziness and responsibility while Mattie daydreams about a different life: “A few blocks south […] Blanchard had flown that remarkable balloon […] a yellow silk bubble escaping the earth. I vowed to do that one day, slip free of the ropes that held me.” Mattie imagines freedom as something like the famous hot-air balloon that had sailed from Philadelphia earlier that year—when she “slips free,” she will be disconnected from the unwanted ties of family and obligation.
Mattie also resents being regarded as a child and having to do what the rest of the household, including her mother’s employee, Eliza, tells her: “Little Mattie, indeed. I was big enough to be ordered around like an unpaid servant […] Big enough to plan for the day when I would no longer live here […] [Someday] [n]o one would call me little Mattie. They would call me ‘Ma’am.’” Mattie feels the tension between being young enough to be subject to her family, yet old enough to have her own opinions about her future; as a result, she imagines that freedom entails being able to do exactly as she wishes.
The yellow fever epidemic forces Mattie to take charge in ways she never expected in her daydreams, thus forcing her to reframe her notions of independence as the ability to freely step up and help others, rather than to run from responsibility. When Mattie and her grandfather (a Revolutionary War veteran) find themselves lost on the outskirts of the fever-stricken city, Mattie’s sick grandfather defers to her for the first time: “‘We must form our battle plans, both for this skirmish and the rest of the war.’ I waited for his advice. It did not come. That scared me more than anything. He was waiting for me to decide what to do.” Used to being directed, Mattie must draw on her skills and intelligence in order to find food and shelter for them both. Her first independent steps, it turns out, are about ensuring the wellbeing of others, not about fulfilling her own wishes.
After Mattie and her grandfather survive and return home, robbers break in and threaten their lives. Without waiting for her grandfather to come to their defense, Mattie takes the initiative to drive the intruders off: “I picked up [Grandfather’s] sword, holding it with two hands. […] I swung the sword and gashed the thief’s shoulder. He howled and rolled to the side, grasping at the bloody wound.” As fighting for survival has forced Mattie to learn more about her own strength, her view of independence has correspondingly shifted. She no longer frets about others’ expectations of her or yearns for an unfettered freedom, but instinctively uses her strength to protect those she loves.
After her grandfather dies, Mattie realizes how lonely independence can be: “There could be no running from this. Hiding from death was not like hiding from Mother when she wanted me to scrub kettles, or ignoring [the cat] when he begged for food. I was the only one left.” Technically, Mattie is now free to do as she wishes, but this “freedom” is much different from her idealized daydream. Fending for herself is a burden, not a joy.
The experience of taking charge prepares Mattie to stay in Philadelphia, take over the family business, and provide for her remaining family—a form of independence she never envisioned. When Mattie considers what will become of her if she’s orphaned, she figures she can always get a job as a maid. Catching her reflection in a window, however, she’s reminded of her mother and quickly reconsiders: “A scullery maid? Ridiculous. […] I could read, write, and figure numbers faster than most. I was not afraid of hard work. I would set my own course.” Mattie still wants to determine her own path, but in contrast to the restless, untested girl at the beginning of the story, she is now confident in her abilities. However, she has come to see her strengths as tied to her family identity, not as a means of breaking free from it.
When adults speculate that Mattie should sell the family coffeehouse, Mattie stands up for herself: “Everyone thought they knew what was right for me. It was just like listening to Mother and Grandfather making the decisions while I stood to the side […] This would not do. It was time to bring out the plan that had hatched days earlier when I saw my face in the window. ‘I’m not selling,’ I said loudly.” Again, Mattie’s assertion of independence is now an embrace of her family inheritance and a desire to sustain it—which wouldn’t have been the case if she hadn’t gained independence through fighting for her family’s survival.
When Mattie is reunited with her mother, she finds Lucille Cook much different after having barely survived yellow fever: “Her hands lay in her lap, withered and limp. I had never seen her hands stay still before […] I had a sudden sense of what was to come and I blinked away the tears.” In a stark reversal from the beginning of the book, Mattie must now care for her weakened mother and run the coffeehouse herself. While Mattie’s realization of independence looks much different from freely sailing away like a balloon, as she’d once imagined, Anderson shows that it’s more genuine, because Mattie has learned to use her abilities to care for those she loves.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Freedom and Independence ThemeTracker
Freedom and Independence Quotes in Fever 1793
A few blocks south lay the Walnut Street Prison, where Blanchard had flown that remarkable balloon. From the prison’s courtyard it rose, a yellow silk bubble escaping the earth. I vowed to do that one day, slip free of the ropes that held me. Nathaniel Benson had heard me say it, but he did not laugh. He understood. Perhaps I would see him at the docks, sketching a ship or sea gulls. It had been a long time since we talked.
Like most blacks in Philadelphia, Eliza was free. She said Philadelphia was the best city for freed slaves or freeborn Africans. The Quakers here didn’t hold with slavery and tried hard to convince others that slavery was against God’s will. Black people were treated different than white people, that was plain to see, but Eliza said nobody could tell her what to do or where to go, and no one would ever, ever beat her again.
If I was going to work as hard as a mule, it might as well be for my own benefit. I was going to travel to France and bring back fabric and combs and jewelry that the ladies of Philadelphia would swoon over. And that was just for the dry goods store. I wanted to own an entire city block—a proper restaurant, an apothecary, maybe a school, or a hatter’s shop. Grandfather said I was a Daughter of Liberty, a real American girl. I could steer my own ship. No one would call me little Mattie. They would call me “Ma’am.”
“Nonsense,” Grandfather said. “There’s nothing wrong. . . .” He broke off coughing again. I stared in horror, first at Grandfather, then at the doctor.
“You must help him,” I cried. “If he is sick, you must help him.”
The farmer grabbed me under the arms, pulled me from the wagon, and threw me onto the road. He and the doctor lifted Grandfather and deposited him beside me. King George squawked and circled above the commotion.
“They aren’t my family,” the farmer said as he motioned for his wife to climb aboard. “They only rode in back the last mile or so. They was walking and we picked them up.”
“He’s lying!” I shouted […] I stared, mouth open, as the wagon disappeared into a cloud of dust. Our food, our clothing—gone. This couldn’t be happening.
“I am concerned for your future,” he said. “We must form our battle plans, both for this skirmish and the rest of the war.”
I waited for his advice. It did not come. That scared me more than anything. He was waiting for me to decide what to do.
“We’ll move camp tomorrow,” I finally said.
He nodded. “Whatever you say, Captain.”
My wet petticoat swayed in the breeze. It would have to do.
I tried to rip open the seam with my teeth, but the tiny stitches that Mother had sewed would not yield. Another fish wiggled to the top of the water to gulp down a water bug.
If I had sewn the skirt, it would have been easy to tear apart. Instead, I would have to use it whole. I pulled the drawstring at the waist tightly until I could barely poke my thumb through the opening. I would hold open the hem and pray an unusually stupid fish would swim into the trap.
“I bet no soldier ever thought of this one,” I said, wading back in the water with my improvised net.
I fumbled with the tread of the hollow stair, then threw it to the side and lifted out the metal box. I opened the lid. It was still there, pence and shillings. Thank heaven for that.
I returned the box to its hiding place. It could be worse, I thought. The house is still standing. We’re alive. Mother and Eliza must be somewhere safe, I had to believe that. The fever would soon be over, and our lives would return to normal. I just had to stay clever and strong and find something to eat.
A tear surprised me by rolling down my cheek. “None of that, Mattie girl,” I whispered to myself as I scrubbed the tear away. “This is not the time to be childish.”
I held my breath and waited for the earth to stop spinning. The sun need not rise again. There was no reason for the rivers to flow. Birds would never sing.
The sound came straight from my heart, as sharp as the point of a sword. I shrieked to the heavens and pounded the floor with rage. “Nonono! Don’t take him! Nonono!”
I picked up the sword and attacked a chair as if it were Death itself. When the chair was a pile of firewood and the sword dull, I fell to my knees by the side of my grandfather’s body.
I stared at the grave diggers. They took off their caps and bowed their heads. Movement in the park stopped, as those watching laid down their shovels and bowed their heads. The book opened to the familiar words. I swallowed, cleared my throat, and began to read loudly, so that all could hear.
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...” The men around me moved their lips and then gave voice. Our voices rose together as one, proclaiming faith, joining in grief. At the end of the reading, some crossed themselves, others wiped their eyes. I stood straight and tall.
Rev. Allen said this was a chance for black people to show we are every bit as good and important and useful as white people. The Society organized folks to visit the sick, to care for them and bury them if they died […] The Africans of Philadelphia have cared for thousands of people without taking notice of color. If only the doctors had been right, we could look to these days of suffering as days of hope.
“Don’t love her,” warned Mother Smith.
“Pardon me?”
“I said, don’t you fall in love with that baby girl. She’s not yours. You can’t keep her. You had any sense, you’d take her right down to the orphan house tomorrow and hand her over. Don’t look back […] She stays with you, you feed her, wash her, sing to her, mother her, then give her away. How’s that going to make her feel? You’re the cruel one.”
If Mother was dead, I’d have to sell the coffeehouse, or have the orphan’s court sell it for me. I’d get work as a scullery maid, or move into the orphanage and do laundry.
I looked past the apple seller to the haberdasher’s window behind him. My face looked back at me from the thick glass. […] The shape of my face looked for all the world like Mother’s, her nose, her mouth.
But my eyes were my own. I blinked.
A scullery maid? Ridiculous. I was Matilda Cook, daughter of Lucille, granddaughter of Captain William Farnsworth Cook, of the Pennsylvania Fifth Regiment. I could read, write, and figure numbers faster than most. I was not afraid of hard work.
I would set my own course.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Shh. Please don’t cry. Everything is better now. I’m home, you’re home. You don’t have to worry anymore.” I drew up a chair next to her, and she leaned against my shoulder. I cradled her head in my arms until her sobs quieted […] Her hands lay in her lap, withered and limp. I had never seen her hands stay still before.
Early morning was the only time I felt as if there were ghosts nearby, memories of the weeks of fear. That’s when I found myself listening for Polly’s giggle or Grandfather’s voice. Sometimes they felt so close. Close enough to tell me I should stop dawdling and get to work.
I smiled as the mist faded. The yellow sun rose, a giant balloon filled with prayers and hopes and promise. I stood and shook the idleness out of my skirts.
Day was begun.
