The Great Trouble Page 11

  Pa had been a respectable man, a clerk in an office, though I wasn’t sure where it had been or exactly what he did. I’d only been nine when he died, and now Mum wasn’t here to ask.

  Still, it felt good to remember that I was the son of a clerk.

  I can do this, I thought as I found the first name on the ledger and took up my pen. And so I began.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Following the Trail

  It took more than two hours to make the list of dead people. My hand was cramped by the time I made my way back to Soho. The muscles in my back ached. I had a headache and my stomach was growling. Writing was hard work.

  I found Dr. Snow standing in front of the Broad Street pump with his arms folded, Dilly napping at his feet. “Ah, here’s my assistant!” he greeted me cheerily. “Do you have the list?”

  I handed it to him, my heart beating hard. I’d tried my best, thinking of my father and glad that Mum had taught me well.

  Someone else had come to mind as I’d worked on the list: Mr. Edward Huggins from the Lion Brewery. He’d had faith in me too. Now he probably believed I’d stolen from the business. I hadn’t seen him since that horrible day. If I ever did again, maybe I could get up enough courage to tell him the truth.

  Dr. Snow scanned the list. “Excellent. Looks complete. Let’s get to it.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Knock on doors.”

  We stopped before a house at the corner of Broad and Berwick. Dr. Snow pulled a small notebook and pen out of his pocket and handed them to me.

  “We’ll start here. You write down the particulars while I conduct the interviews,” he instructed. “Once you see what to do, we can separate and get more done. Now, what information do you think we shall want to record about those who died?”

  “Well, I guess we should start by making sure the list is right and the name of the victim and the age are correct,” I ventured.

  “Yes, very good,” approved Dr. Snow. “Age is a clue to help us learn who is dying from the cholera. Are children and young people affected more than older ones? Asking these questions can help us find a pattern.”

  I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants. I was starting to feel jittery. I remembered how hard it had been to carry the victims away in coffins. Now I would be going back into the same houses, talking to people who’d lost sons and daughters, husbands and wives.

  “What are some of the other questions we need to ask?” Dr. Snow was saying.

  “Well, we have a list of the days the people died,” I began slowly, trying to remember the Five W’s. “But it doesn’t tell us when they got sick.”

  Another thought occurred to me. “We should ask about symptoms, and what caused each person’s death. We want to be sure it was the blue death.”

  Dr. Snow nodded his encouragement. “Very good, Eel.”

  I wasn’t sure if the Five W’s had to be in a certain order, but Dr. Snow didn’t seem to mind my rambling. “And we should ask where they worked or went to school.”

  “And what else?” Dr. Snow prompted.

  What else? I didn’t know. All that writing had worn me out. Maybe because I’d recognized so many of the victims’ names. They were my neighbors, and kids like me that I’d seen on the street every day. Dr. Snow should just tell me the answers to all his questions.

  “Take your time, Eel,” he said. “It will come to you. We want to know where people …”

  “… get their water!” I finished. This, I realized, was the most important thing.

  “But I can warn them not to drink the water from the Broad Street pump?”

  “Yes, we should warn them. But be prepared: most people won’t listen,” Dr. Snow cautioned. “They believe what they can smell and taste. The air is foul; the water from Broad Street tastes good. It looks clear, and it’s certainly less murky than the water from some of the other wells nearby.”

  “Even Dr. Farr doesn’t believe your theory,” I said.

  “Someday he will,” said Dr. Snow with fierce determination.

  “How will we show all this on the map?” I wondered.

  Dr. Snow spread out the map Florrie and I had made. “As we visit each family, we need to ask not just about the person you have on the list, but about every person who has died in that household.”

  “You mean, in case other people have died since Saturday?”

  “Yes. Then, on the spot on the map where the house is, we will make a little black mark, a rectangle, for each victim.”

  “A mark in the shape of a coffin,” I said softly.

  “Exactly.” Dr. Snow nodded.

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Take this house in front of us,” Dr. Snow said. “For each death at this address, we make a mark on the map. Some addresses will end up with three or four marks beside them; others, one or two. Or none.”

  I nodded. “But … how will this help us convince the committee and prove your theory?”

  “Ah, well, if my hypothesis is correct and there is one source of contamination causing the disease, I believe that when we are done, our map will show that most of the deaths are clustered around a single point. I think you can guess what that is.”

  I could. “The Broad Street pump.”

  By late afternoon, I’d been doing interviews on my own for several hours. Every time I knocked on a door, my heart pounded. I never knew what I might find behind those shuttered windows and closed doors. The neighborhood might be almost deserted now, but there were still folks fighting for their lives.

  Maybe it was easier for Dr. Snow, who had done this work before in different parts of London, in other epidemics. He was also a grown-up and a physician. He didn’t know the families the way I did either. I might not remember everyone’s name, but I recognized faces. And those faces were full of sorrow and fear.

  My first interview without Dr. Snow was one of the hardest. I knocked nervously, half hoping no one would answer. The door swung open and a boy of about four stood there. He reminded me of Henry, with large, dark eyes and pale skin.

  “Hullo there,” I said. “Is your mum in?”

  From behind him, a woman called out in an angry voice, “What do you want? We’ve trouble enough, if you’ve come begging.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m helping Dr. John Snow,” I explained. “He’s got some questions he’d like me to ask you about the cholera outbreak.”

  I took a breath. This next part was harder. “I’m … sorry to hear your family has been struck with it.”

  She sighed heavily and glanced behind her, where a young girl lay on a pallet on the floor.

  “Milly’s resting now, so you better be quick,” she said in a low voice. “I lost my husband, Jack, on Saturday. Milly … she’s been holding on since Sunday night.”

  “It won’t take long, ma’am,” I said, making notes in my book. “Could you tell me where your family gets water?”

  “Why, from the Broad Street pump, of course,” she said at once. “It’s just round the corner. Milly usually fetches it.”

  “Did your husband … that is to say, has anyone in your family been drinking water from the pump lately?”

  “Yes …,” she began, and then she stopped. A frown creased her brow. “Now, why are you asking about water? I thought the cholera was caused by bad air.”

  “Most people do think that. But Dr. Snow believes it might be from the water. That’s why what you’re telling me will help,” I said. I repeated my question. “Do you recall whether you all drank from the pump last week?”

  She glanced back at the still form behind her. “I expect Milly did, and Jack, my husband. But I was gone a good part of the week. My sister lives in Southwark, and she’s been feelin’ poorly since her youngest was born.”

  “And you went to see her?” I prompted. The woman nodded and pulled the little boy toward her. He hid his head in her skirts.

  She continued, “I took my boy with me and left Milly to keep hous
e for her pa. She’s a responsible girl for twelve. We come back Friday night to find Jack struck. He was gone the next day. And then Milly got it.

  “The little one and I, we’re not sick. And here you are, asking about the water,” she said thoughtfully. “Was the pump water poisoned, then? It looks so clear, compared to what we get in the pipes.”

  “Dr. Snow believes the water from the Broad Street pump may be the cause,” I said. “That’s what he’s trying to prove. So please don’t drink it for a while.”

  At the door, I dug into my pocket. I found a halfpenny and handed it to the boy. Henry had been about his age when Pa died.

  We had good shoes when Pa was alive, and whenever my feet got too big, Mum would carefully oil the leather on my old shoes and wrap them in brown paper. “Henry, you’ll have these to wear to school one day. So eat your porridge up so your feet will grow, grow, grow!”

  But after Pa died, there wasn’t much money for shoes. At first Mum tried to keep us by doing fine sewing. We had to move from two rooms into one. We sold her pianoforte and all of my father’s books. But she still scrimped to send us to school.

  I remember she had a little trunk that she kept linen in, with plain brown sides and a top decorated with yellow tulips and pink roses and purple lavender, painted by hand. I’d always imagined that she’d painted it herself, and I liked to think of her as a girl, making her paintbrush into a tiny point to capture the delicate petals.

  One day we came home from school and found her kneeling before the trunk, tears staining her cheeks. She was holding a faded cotton pillowcase.

  “See these stitches?” Mum whispered. “I used to be able to make stitches this tiny, almost invisible. But now my eyes have gotten so weak that Mrs. Kingsbury says there are too many mistakes.”

  After that Mum took to doing laundry for a while. It made her hands red and raw. She cried a lot. And then one day she brought Fisheye Bill Tyler home.

  It was evening by the time Dr. Snow and I headed back to Sackville Street. He was frowning and silent as we made our way through the crowds on Regent Street. I thought he was probably worried about not having enough evidence for the committee. He wanted to convince them to take the pump handle off on Thursday. Waiting could mean more deaths.

  “No one can predict how long the cholera poison will last,” said Dr. Snow. “It may already be disappearing from the water. Or there could be a new contamination any day. We just don’t know.”

  That night, Dr. Snow and I compared notes. It was a wonder to see how his mind worked. At first I was afraid all my interviews with families would be a jumble. But after looking at my notes and taking stock of his own, Dr. Snow leaned back and tapped his pen on his desk.

  “You did well, Eel. I think there can be little doubt that the Broad Street pump is the culprit,” he began. “The list you copied at the General Register Office shows us that most of the people who died on Friday and Saturday lived just a short distance from the pump.

  “There were only ten deaths in houses near pumps on other streets,” he went on. “But five of those families told us they didn’t drink water from the pump closest to their house. No, instead they preferred the Broad Street well, and so they always got their water from there.”

  “What about the other five, sir?” Had we really found out so much?

  “Ah, it seems that three were children who went to school near the pump on Broad Street. Their parents think they probably stopped to drink from it,” he said. “As for the others, well, they could have drunk the water without even knowing it.”

  “How could that be?”

  “Water from the Broad Street pump is used for mixing with spirits in the Newcastle upon Tyne and other public houses in the neighborhood. And then there’s the coffee shop. The woman who runs it told me she sometimes uses water from the pump. She has heard that at least nine of her customers are dead.”

  That gave me another idea. “What about Italian ice?”

  “Italian ice? What about it?”

  “There are carts that sell a sweet drink made of a flavored powder and water, what we call Italian ice. I visited a family today who had lost a son,” I explained. “They didn’t know if he had drunk water from the pump. But I know who he was. I often saw him buying Italian ice. Maybe the water from Broad Street was used to make it.”

  “Good point.” Dr. Snow made a note on his paper.

  “Will this be enough for the meeting on Thursday?” I wanted to know.

  He looked thoughtful. “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

  Dr. Snow rose and began pacing, his hands clasped behind him. “Everyone in this neighborhood relies on the Broad Street pump. Taking the handle off won’t be a popular decision. The committee won’t want to do it.”

  He stopped and shook his head. His shoulders slumped a little, and for a minute he looked beaten.

  “Maybe there’s something else we can show the committee,” I suggested.

  “It will have to be something decisive,” Dr. Snow replied. “Let me think more about it. Tomorrow we must keep looking.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Unexpected Case

  Wednesday, September 6

  Dr. Snow wanted me to be up early. While he breakfasted and worked on his case notes, I cleaned the cages and fed the animals.

  I liked working with the small creatures, who had their own tiny wants and troubles. I couldn’t help smiling as I watched them, and smiles had been rare since the Great Trouble had come upon us. And when two rabbits began a tug-o’-war over a piece of lettuce, I found myself laughing. I guess it’s hard for folks never to laugh, even in the midst of bad times.

  Dr. Snow stopped at the shed on his way out. “I’m afraid I can’t come to Broad Street this morning. I’ve got several urgent cases to attend to, including a dentist who needs my help. He has an elderly patient with the stumps of five teeth to extract.”

  I shuddered. It sounded horrible. “Should I keep knocking on doors and asking questions, Dr. Snow? I haven’t finished Berwick Street.”

  “Yes, lad. Just carry on.” Suddenly Dr. Snow slammed his hand on the side of a cage, making the four guinea pigs inside squeal. “I wish we had more time to find the evidence we need.”

  “We’ve talked to lots of families who say the people who died drank water from the Broad Street pump,” I put in. “I think what we’ve found should be enough.”

  “I agree, Eel. But as we discussed last night, changing people’s minds isn’t easy. This committee is made up of men who are set in their ways. They can see things one way, but not another. They only know the miasma theory,” he said.

  I’d finished all the cages except for the ones with the guinea pigs. I filled a small bowl with clean water and placed it inside. “I wish I knew what it will take to convince them.”

  Dr. Snow didn’t answer. He was staring intently into the guinea pigs’ cage. I followed his gaze. Three guinea pigs had crowded round the fresh water, while one sat in the corner, chewing on a piece of fruit, his little jaws working fast.

  “The odd one out,” said the doctor softly.

  He turned to stare at me, his eyebrows raised, as if I should have understood something from his words. As if they meant something.

  I looked at the guinea pigs again. At first all I could come up with was that Dr. Snow was a bit daft. That would certainly fit with what Mrs. Weatherburn had told me about the doctor giving himself doses of gas. Maybe the chloroform had gone to his head?

  But then I focused on the one guinea pig that was far away from the others. Was that it? The odd one out. Guinea pigs around a bowl of water. One in a corner. What was Dr. Snow thinking?

  All at once a sound escaped me.

  “Have you got it, then, Eel?”

  “I … I think so.… If these here guinea pigs all lived by the pump and drank from it and it had the cholera poison in it, then they’d get sick,” I said, my words tumbling out quickly, though I was trying to put it in a scientific sort o
f way as best I could.

  I paused to lick my lips, which were dry from the sun. “But there could be other reasons too—like living close to one another and catchin’ it that way, or maybe, like the reverend and other folks say, from the miasma, from bad air on one street.…”

  “Go on.” Dr. Snow folded his arms and watched me.

  “Since there could be so many different explanations, it’s hard to make a clear case that will convince folks. That’s where this other guinea pig comes in—the one over there, all by himself. Suppose he was nowhere near the water. Nowhere near it at all.” I spoke slowly, puzzling it out.

  “Yet suppose this faraway guinea pig somehow got hold of the water and fell ill,” I said. “Maybe someone brought the water to him. But he never got close to the area. And he never breathed the same air as the rest of them that died.”

  “I think you’ve got it,” Dr. Snow urged me on.

  “So if we can prove that the only thing this here guinea pig has in common with the others that died is that he drank the exact same water, then, it’s …” I searched for a word. “It’s odd. It’s unexpected.”

  “That’s precisely it,” exclaimed Dr. Snow. “Unexpected. What we need is an unexpected case of cholera.”

  He pulled his watch out and glanced at the time. “That’s our task for tomorrow, when I am free. It could be the last piece of the puzzle.”

  “Do you think we can find one?”

  “Maybe.” Dr. Snow picked up his bag and turned to go. “Maybe not. But if it does exist and if we can find it, history may be made this week.”

  After Dr. Snow left, I finished up my work and whistled for Dilly. “C’mon, girl. Let’s keep investigating. Dr. Snow needs us to find the unexpected.”

  By noon, as I walked up and down the cobblestoned streets—first Broad, then Poland, then Dufours—knocking on doors and asking questions, I hadn’t come close to finding an unexpected case of the cholera.

  “Maybe Florrie has an idea, Dilly,” I said finally. “We haven’t seen her since we made the map on Monday afternoon. I need to tell her everything that’s happened.”