He supposed it was a small malady. Abigail thought so too. Mercy was not feverish. She went about her daily life as usual. In recent years she had liked to rest a little in the afternoons. But several times she remarked to Abigail, “I think I’ll rest a little longer this afternoon.” As the November days grew shorter, the declining light seemed to sap her energy further. But whenever her husband came in, she would rouse herself from her lethargy, and made him tell her all that he had been doing. And when he inquired tenderly if she was unwell, she would answer: “Why no, John. I think it is the weather that is making me feel a little quiet today.” And if he suggested, as he several times did, that he should stay at home with her for the day, she would not hear of it.

Her paleness they ascribed to the weather. Whenever the sun was out in the morning, Abigail would persuade her to walk with her to the Bowling Green, or even to the waterfront, and her mother said these walks were a pleasure to her. In the middle of the day, Ruth and Hannah would serve her hot broth, or cutlets, in the hope that these would give her more strength—a regime the doctor commented on with favor when once or twice he called. “A glass of red wine at midday, and brandy in the evening,” he also recommended.

At the end of November, since there was a ship crossing to London despite the winter weather, John sent his son a letter telling him that, though there was no cause for alarm, his mother was down in spirit and that it was more than time that he should come.

But it was not until mid-December, when he was just about to make his first public speech, in the upper room of a tavern, that Solomon appeared at the door and came quickly to his side.

“You’d better come quickly, Boss,” he whispered. “The mistress is sick. She’s real bad.”

There had been some blood. Then she had fainted. She was lying in bed and looking very drained. It seemed she had bled before, but concealed the fact. The doctor was summoned. He was noncommittal.

For nearly a month, John thought that Mercy was going to get better. Perhaps because she said she was, perhaps because he wished to believe it. She was going to get better. But when another vessel left for England at the end of December, he sent a letter to James. “Your mother is dying. I cannot tell you how long she will last, but I urge you, if you can, to come now.”