Conceived in Liberty by Howard Fast

him.
    â€œAny day now.”
    â€œI’ll stay here,” the Jew said, his smile curious.
    The doctor looked at him oddly. He seemed to be really regretful. “I thought we’d talk,” the doctor said. “You can go mad, not having anyone to talk to.”
    â€œYou won’t go mad,” the Jew said.
    Then they looked at each other; there seemed to be a sort of understanding between them.
    We sit, now, waiting for the Jew to die. We fear his death, more than he does himself. Of that I’m certain. We know it won’t be long. He bled for a long time through his nose and mouth, and after that he lay quiet, hardly breathing. His face is like yellow parchment, old skin stretched over bones. But he can’t be very old.
    I ask Ely what guess he’d make of the man’s age.
    â€œThere’s no age to him,” Ely says slowly.
    â€œHe ain’t seen thirty winters,” Jacob guesses.
    â€œHe never spoke of wife or children. He’s a strange, silent man.”
    I say, fretfully: “Why won’t he die? He’s been a week dying.”
    â€œA black magic that struck me,” Smith says. “The scurvy comes from the heathen Jew.”
    I crawl into my bed, and Bess asks me: “He’s dead?”
    â€œNo—not yet.”
    â€œAllen, I can’t stand any more of this. I tell you, I can’t. Only take me away, Allen. It’s better to die outside than to die here. I wake up in the night, sweating—thinking that the place has closed in on me. Only take me away.”
    â€œThere’s no fear,” I tell her, “no fear.”
    â€œBut take me away, Allen.”
    â€œIt’s a long, weary five hundred miles to the Mohawk,” I say. “It’s a road we could never travel. And the British hold all the country in between.”
    â€œWe don’t have to go to the Mohawk, Allen.”
    â€œThen where?”
    â€œThe British in Philadelphia pay a price and keep for information, Allen. Food and housing——”
    â€œChrist, you slut!” I cried. “You turning, crawling slut. You’d have me sell Ely—you’d have me sell them all.”
    â€œOnly for you, Allen, only for you—only for my love of you, Allen. Only for my deep, abiding love of you.”
    â€œYou’re not a fit woman to love a man—to be loved by a man. You’re not a fit woman to hold a man’s body——”
    â€œAllen, what are you saying?”
    â€œI’m saying the truth! Clark Vandeer put his curse on me when he lay dying. He predicted true. You’re a little filthy slut, and you’re not a fit woman for a man.”
    â€œNo, Allen—only my love of you to make me say it. Only my love that put thoughts in my mind. Loving and sleeping, sleeping half the day and night from weakness, dreaming all the time, you dream fancies, Allen. Like I dream I’m not here, but in a place where men and women are real. God forgive me, I think of a dress, Allen, almost go crazy making a dress in my mind, a dress of fine white flax, spun. I spin it myself, Allen. Day and night, I spin the flax. I can spin; I can card and weave and spin. I’m a fair, decent woman, Allen, and no bad woman could card and weave and spin. I make the cloth and cut a dress for myself, and sew it. With yellow thread, a cloth as white as snow. Like the snow outside, Allen—a dress of snow, clean and spotless. No marks on it, Allen—all over it not even a mark. To make me good, Allen, and I’m not a bad woman. Not a bad woman, Allen, only a dress of white to make me good. You wouldn’t have to tell them truth, Allen. It’s said the British are fair stupid beings. They’ll believe you, Allen, whatever you tell them. They’ll give us food and shelter to keep the winter——”
    â€œYou’re no fit woman—let me go!”
    â€œAllen, I’m good—stay by me, Allen. Allen,